than heard his ragged breathing at the same time as she was aware of a powerful stirring against her. Oh, God, she thought, I shouldn't let—
"Erin, aren't you ready yet?" Melanie called shrilly from downstairs.
Erin and Lance jumped apart. Erin tried to compose herself as she answered unevenly, "I . . . yes, I'll be right down."
"Okay, I'll wait in the car," Melanie shouted back.
Color stained Erin's cheeks and she was unable to meet Lance's eyes as she mumbled to the carpet, "Thank you."
Conspiratorially he leaned down, placed his lips against her ear, and whispered, "It was my pleasure."
She all but ran down the stairs.
ANY OTHER TIME , Erin would have delighted in the pulsating, cosmopolitan excitement of Fisherman's Wharf.
She and Melanie strolled along the piers taking in the unique sights, sounds, and smells. Melanie pointed out the major points of interest. Erin shuddered when she saw the deserted island of Alcatraz. Its bleak, ominous walls rose out of the blue water of the bay like some gruesome, concrete leviathan. The Golden Gate Bridge, even at this distance, was awesome in its proportions. Melanie rattled off statistics about it like a tour guide.
They succumbed to the tantalizing smells of the sidewalk vendors and bought paper cups of shrimp fresh out of the vats of seasoned boiling water. They ate hungrily, decided they hadn't had enough, and ordered another serving each. They bemoaned their overindulgence, but it had just begun.
Melanie practically dragged Erin up the steep sidewalk to Ghirardelli Square . They strolled through the pic turesque shops and, though they were still full from the shrimp, treated themselves to a hot fudge sundae at the Old Chocolate Manufactory.
Erin could barely breathe, she felt so stuffed. Too many more weeks in San Francisco and she'd return home roly-poly.
"Do you think I should go back and buy that dress?"
Melanie asked as she scooped up the last syrupy spoonful of her sundae. Erin had persuaded her to try on a dress that had caught her eye in one of the boutiques they had shopped in.
"I think it was made for you, my dear," Erin parrotted the sales clerk in a high falsetto voice, and they were reduced to a fit of giggles.
"Okay," Melanie said, standing up from the small round table in Ghirardelli's. "I'll go get it. You talked me into it."
They traipsed back through the throng of shoppers and sightseers toward the boutique. A company of sidewalk comedians caught Erin's attention and she said to Melanie, "If you don't mind, I'll wait out here for you and watch the performance."
"Sure. I'll be back in a jiffy," Melanie said before being swallowed up by the crowd.
Erin was so engrossed in the talented antics of the per-formers that she didn't really notice the man standing next to her before he said, "They're quite good, aren't they?"
She looked up into a friendly face, unmistakably British with its ruddy complexion. "Yes they are," she said, smiling.
"Are you a native of San Francisco?" he asked conversationally in his clipped, short phrases.
"No. I live in Houston, Texas. You are apparently a tourist just as I am," she said.
He chuckled. "I plead guilty. We're frightfully obvious, I'm afraid."
"Where do you live?" Erin asked him.
"Kent. Actually this is my second trip to the . . . colo-nies." He grinned engagingly, and Erin laughed. "This is my first trip to California, however, and I—"
He was rudely interrupted when someone elbowed his way between them and grasped Erin's arm painfully. "Excuse us, old chap," Lance said in a voice that was anything but neighborly.
Erin didn't have time to wish the English gentleman a pleasant trip before Lance dragged her away through the crowd. She murmured apologies as they shoved through the press, noticing that several people gave them withering looks. Lance's actions weren't exactly mannerly, but he seemed impervious to the crowd and his rudeness.
When he had gotten her out of the flow of traffic, he demanded
"Erin, aren't you ready yet?" Melanie called shrilly from downstairs.
Erin and Lance jumped apart. Erin tried to compose herself as she answered unevenly, "I . . . yes, I'll be right down."
"Okay, I'll wait in the car," Melanie shouted back.
Color stained Erin's cheeks and she was unable to meet Lance's eyes as she mumbled to the carpet, "Thank you."
Conspiratorially he leaned down, placed his lips against her ear, and whispered, "It was my pleasure."
She all but ran down the stairs.
ANY OTHER TIME , Erin would have delighted in the pulsating, cosmopolitan excitement of Fisherman's Wharf.
She and Melanie strolled along the piers taking in the unique sights, sounds, and smells. Melanie pointed out the major points of interest. Erin shuddered when she saw the deserted island of Alcatraz. Its bleak, ominous walls rose out of the blue water of the bay like some gruesome, concrete leviathan. The Golden Gate Bridge, even at this distance, was awesome in its proportions. Melanie rattled off statistics about it like a tour guide.
They succumbed to the tantalizing smells of the sidewalk vendors and bought paper cups of shrimp fresh out of the vats of seasoned boiling water. They ate hungrily, decided they hadn't had enough, and ordered another serving each. They bemoaned their overindulgence, but it had just begun.
Melanie practically dragged Erin up the steep sidewalk to Ghirardelli Square . They strolled through the pic turesque shops and, though they were still full from the shrimp, treated themselves to a hot fudge sundae at the Old Chocolate Manufactory.
Erin could barely breathe, she felt so stuffed. Too many more weeks in San Francisco and she'd return home roly-poly.
"Do you think I should go back and buy that dress?"
Melanie asked as she scooped up the last syrupy spoonful of her sundae. Erin had persuaded her to try on a dress that had caught her eye in one of the boutiques they had shopped in.
"I think it was made for you, my dear," Erin parrotted the sales clerk in a high falsetto voice, and they were reduced to a fit of giggles.
"Okay," Melanie said, standing up from the small round table in Ghirardelli's. "I'll go get it. You talked me into it."
They traipsed back through the throng of shoppers and sightseers toward the boutique. A company of sidewalk comedians caught Erin's attention and she said to Melanie, "If you don't mind, I'll wait out here for you and watch the performance."
"Sure. I'll be back in a jiffy," Melanie said before being swallowed up by the crowd.
Erin was so engrossed in the talented antics of the per-formers that she didn't really notice the man standing next to her before he said, "They're quite good, aren't they?"
She looked up into a friendly face, unmistakably British with its ruddy complexion. "Yes they are," she said, smiling.
"Are you a native of San Francisco?" he asked conversationally in his clipped, short phrases.
"No. I live in Houston, Texas. You are apparently a tourist just as I am," she said.
He chuckled. "I plead guilty. We're frightfully obvious, I'm afraid."
"Where do you live?" Erin asked him.
"Kent. Actually this is my second trip to the . . . colo-nies." He grinned engagingly, and Erin laughed. "This is my first trip to California, however, and I—"
He was rudely interrupted when someone elbowed his way between them and grasped Erin's arm painfully. "Excuse us, old chap," Lance said in a voice that was anything but neighborly.
Erin didn't have time to wish the English gentleman a pleasant trip before Lance dragged her away through the crowd. She murmured apologies as they shoved through the press, noticing that several people gave them withering looks. Lance's actions weren't exactly mannerly, but he seemed impervious to the crowd and his rudeness.
When he had gotten her out of the flow of traffic, he demanded
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