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care. Mason found herself lying back along the length of the seat, Richard’s raging erection still inside. He moved like a shot and he was on her, never ceasing his delivery of each delicious thrust.
    She clung to him now, sinking into a whirlpool that sucked her down, down, until he sent her spiraling once more. He caught her cries in his mouth this time, tasting them, the proof of her elation at his hands.
    â€œWhat are you doing to me?” he rasped in her ear.
    And she answered, like a woman possessed, “What are you doing to me ?”
    Some remnant of cognizance swam to the surface of her mind. I’d like to paint him. I’d like to put on canvas the way he makes me feel.
    As if he’d divined her wish and understood, he took her face in his two large hands and gave her a deep, poignant kiss.
    They spoke no more, except with moans and groans and sighs. But she opened her eyes and found him watching her wondrously as if he, too, were rocked to the foundation of his being. Their eyes met and a spark of something raw and real passed between them. She felt her spirit soar staring into the mystery and mastery of his eyes.
    In that instant, all pretense vanished. She lay beneath him as her true self, feeling that they looked, not into each other’s eyes, but into their very souls as they came together now, unflinchingly naked and revealed.
    In the hushed and intimate aftermath as their breathing slowed, they held one another close, neither wanting to let the magic end. Mason’s heart was beating as it never had before. She felt riveted by an emotion she couldn’t comprehend.
    But it had to end. It was inevitable that they’d slowly, painfully, become aware of their surroundings, of the swaying of the coach, of the heated sheen of their skin. Of the silence that was so dense that it seemed a new and previously unheard sound.
    Richard moved away too soon, standing stiffly, assembling his clothing as he looked down at her with a stirring affection in his eyes. “Where are you stopping?”
    He asked the question as if he could think of nothing profound enough to say. She had to think what he meant. She had to pull herself together, to recall the outside world. Once again, she had to remember the role she was playing.
    â€œThe Jockey Club, on Rue Scribe,” she croaked, as if she hadn’t spoken for a year.
    He arched a brow. “The Jockey Club? Isn’t that a private hotel?”
    She eased up into a sitting position, righting her now badly wrinkled skirt. “Falconier keeps a suite there. He offered it to me while I’m in Paris.”
    â€œThen we’re neighbors. My hotel is directly across the street.”
    Their eyes met and she breathed softly, “Yes, I know.” Then added, “I saw the hotel’s name on the door of the coach.”
    He rapped on the ceiling, lowered the window, and called to the driver to tell him where to go.
    Then, with great solicitation, he busied himself in tidying her up, grinning sheepishly—endearingly—as he attempted to replace the pins in her hair, putting her bonnet gently on her head, watching as she awkwardly stepped into her undergarments as the coach shimmied from side to side.
    When they finally stopped, he said, “We’ll meet tomorrow, shall we? To…continue your education.”
    She smiled bashfully, delighted by the prospect.
    He gave her a mock frown. “In art, I mean. I can show you Montmartre. We can walk through Mason’s world.”
    â€œI’d just as soon take this enchanted coach.”
    He laughed, a deep, rich, rumbling sound that made her feel all tingly inside. “I have some business in the morning, but I’ll have a coach pick you up and bring you to meet me. Shall we say one o’clock?”
    She nodded. She couldn’t seem to stop smiling.
    He bent to kiss her forehead, then opened the door and handed her down in front of her hotel. “Until