Julianna opened the door and Richard stepped into her apartment. He closed and locked it behind him, then turned and met her eyes. They were both adults; they knew exactly what they were doing-why he had run right over, first lying to his wife, then kissing her three times before leaving.

They didn't speak. Julianna moved into his arms and pressed herself against him. Through her sheer gown he felt every curve and hollow of her body. He dropped his hands to her backside and pulled her closer, wanting her to feel how desperately and completely he wanted her.

At the contact, the breath shuddered past her lips. She rubbed herself against his erection, clinging to him, trembling.

He stripped off her gown; she his clothes. Naked they sank to the floor. She took him first in her hands, then her mouth, doing things to his body he had only dreamed of before.

Gasping, he rolled onto his back, lifted and impaled her. She thrust her hips forward and back, driving him to a fever pitch. And when she arched her back and screamed, he orgasmed violently.

Still shuddering with his release, realization set in. He'd fucked another woman, had broken his wedding vows, every promise he had ever made to his wife.

Only this time he couldn't blame his actions on booze or Kate's inattention; he couldn't blame Luke Dallas. What he had done had been with a clear head and full awareness of the consequences.

The consequences. He sucked in a choked breath.

Dear God, he'd ruined his picture-perfect life. He'd thrown it away. On a woman, on a quick, sweaty roll in the hay.

Julianna purred and rubbed herself against him, and he felt sick. At what he'd done. That, God help him, he wanted to do it again. Now. Tomorrow. The day after that.

His body cooled. He tightened his arms around her. Even as he scrambled for a way out of what he'd done, a way to return to the honorable man he had been a minute before he'd succumbed, he realized he couldn't go back. That he didn't want to.

Now that he'd had Julianna, he couldn't imagine not having her again. She was in his blood now.

John stood at the center of Julianna's tiny apartment. He smiled. With satisfaction. In anticipation of their reunion. It would be good, he decided, unable to suppress a shudder. Very good.

He moved his gaze over the room, curious yet repelled. There were no signs of a baby here, no toys or playpen or crib, no cloying smell of formula or powder. As he had known she would once she'd had time to consider her options, she had seen things his way and aborted it.

After all, Julianna was spoiled. She was accustomed to being taken care of, to having her way, to having nice things. Caring for a howling infant night and day, changing soiled diapers and messy bibs was not her style.

Not that one would know it from this hovel of an apartment, he thought, disgusted. Or the jobs she had taken in the past months. He shook his head. He supposed nothing she had done, no depths to which she had sunk since leaving his care, would surprise him anymore.

She would already be home with him if not for her mother and Russell. They had frightened her. They had told her things about him that weren't hers to know; she was confused and afraid. By what they had said. And by her own disobedience. Her disloyalty.

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep, cleansing breath.

His angel had fallen from grace. She had paid the price, living like this. But only part of the price. The rest was to come.

At his loving hands.

John crossed to the desk, shoved into a corner of the living room, and began leafing through the pile of mail on its top. Sale circulars and advertisements, the utility and phone bill. He opened the latter and scanned the register of long distance calls. There were several to New Orleans, all to the same number, two charges for long distance information and one call to Langley, Virginia.

The Agency. John frowned, staring at the familiar number. Why had she called CIA headquarters?

John slipped the bill into his pocket, the call a reminder of the other reason he had tracked Julianna here. His book. It contained information that was important to him. Names and dates. Places. Amounts. He had kept the record as a bargaining chip, a sort of "Get Out of Jail Free" card.

Quite a number of people would love to get their hands on it, including his former buddies at the Agency. He wanted it back.

When he had discovered the book missing, his fury had known no bounds. He'd been furious at her for her willfulness and at himself for underestimating her. For trusting her too much.

He wouldn't make that mistake again.

John began his search, starting with the desk and living room, then moving on to the kitchen and bathroom. He worked methodically, checking both the obvious places and those she might consider clever. He inched along the baseboards, looking for one that was loose, the same with the floorboards; he went through the contents of her freezer, the pantry; he checked the toilet's water tank and between the stack of bath towels on the rack above it.

He finally reached her bedroom. He searched from one end to the other, saving the dresser for last. He worked from the bottom up; he opened the top drawer and froze. It contained sheer nighties and skimpy underwear. He stared at them, disoriented, light-headed. He lifted a pair of the thong panties. Made of black nylon and polyester lace, they were the type worn by a woman who fucked freely, indiscriminately. The kind of woman who's soul had been fouled, her light extinguished.

Not his Julianna. Not the sweet girl he had loved so well and for so long.

He curled his fingers into the fabric, the blood pounding, drumlike in his head. It made him sick, the thought of her, his special girl, in these whore's clothes. And if she wore them, who did she wear them for?

Rage swelled inside him, stealing his breath, his ability to reason, to think. One by one, he destroyed the offensive garments, using his teeth and hands to snap elastic and lace, to tear flimsy nylon.

She had not learned from his lesson that last night. He would have to give her another. He would show her the error of her ways. Every child chafed under the restraints of the older and wiser. This was her rebellion.

He drew a calming breath, flexing his fingers, steadying himself. He would punish her and they would go on as before. Better than before.

He would wait. Bide his time. Toy with her; rock the safe little world she had created for herself.

But first, a gift.

He went to the bed and pulled back the coverlet and top sheet. He knelt on the edge, unzipped his pants and took himself in his hand. Closing his eyes, he stroked himself, imagining, remembering-skin, as smooth and white as new silk; tiny buds of breasts, pink-tipped and tender, a pubis as smooth and moist and new as the rest of her. He stroked faster, harder, his breath coming in pants. With a groan, he ejaculated on her sheets.

He fastened back up, then extracted a folding knife from his pocket. He swung open the blade, honed to a razor sharp edge. Without flinching, he ran the blade across the top of his hand. The skin parted, a line of red chased the tip of the blade.

Satisfied, he held his hand out, watching the blood trickle from his hand to the bed-blood meeting sperm, mingling with it. Life. And death. Beginnings and endings. Now and forever.

She would understand.