Fever Moon by Carolyn Haines Page A

doubt of it. She also knew that to express those three words would end their nights together. It wasn’t that she was a whore. Her occupation had nothing to do with it. Raymond’s aversion to love went much deeper. He would never allow himself to admit his feelings for her, and he would never accept the responsibility that came if she revealed what her heart felt for him.
    As she smiled and led him to the bedroom, she felt the familiar stab of pain in her heart. She would satisfy herself with this moment, with this night, which was more than many women ever knew—based on her experiences with their clumsy husbands. Even if this were their last night together, she had truly loved.
    She finished unbuttoning his shirt and slid it from his body, and then unbuttoned his slacks. He stepped out of his shoes and pants in one fluid motion, and as she knelt to remove his shorts, she let her fingers trace the purple scar that covered his lower back and right buttocks and made an S down the outside of his thigh. Her probing fingers felt the metal still there, and she leaned to kiss it.
    “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he said, and she knew he lied. She kissed it lightly and then turned her attention to things that wouldn’t remind him of the war or the parts of himself he’d lost in Europe.
    His fingers gripped her hair, massaging her scalp, and she felt true joy as she heard his moan of pleasure. This night would be enough for her. She would make it so.
    Kay-ie!
    Raymond awoke beside Florence, his heart pounding. He’d been dreaming of Antoine. He pulled the sheet over Florence’s taut hip, glad that he hadn’t awakened her. The night had grown chill, and Florence liked to sleep against him nude. At first he’d resisted staying the night, but the only sleep he achieved was beside Florence. Her warm body and the soft movement of her chest gave him more comfort than he cared to acknowledge. But not even Florence was a barrier against the past, against the man he was.
    In his dream Antoine had been standing by the bed. Raymond had reached out to him to beg forgiveness, but Antoine had faded into the night. Then Raymond had heard the hawk’s cry. He sat up and in the moonlight from the window he saw that blood had soaked Florence’s pillowcase. His eardrum was bleeding. Again. She never complained, never asked, and each time he came to her, the bed linens were ironed white perfection.
    He watched the rise and fall of her chest. Her breasts were lush, heavy. Made for a man. Her dark hair spread over the pillow, a froth of curls. The small scar on her face heightened her beauty. He held his hand a millimeter from her cheek, desperate to touch her. Yet he restrained himself. Sometimes, when he looked at her, he imagined he could see her as a child, a perfect, untainted beauty before life had put the pain he sometimes saw in her green eyes.
    He’d known brave men, but none more courageous than Florence. She met life with a smile and a tender touch. Those were her weapons, and she used them as a warrior. He didn’t have to protect her, because her strength was greater than his.
    A wolf’s howl came through the night, distant but clear, and he felt the hairs along his arms stand on end. Trappers had almost eradicated the wild creatures from the swamps—the bear and wolves and most of the big cats. A few survived, though. Had it been one of them that attacked Henri Bastion as he walked along the road? He hoped Doc Fletcher would have some idea of the beast that had bitten Henri.
    Raymond felt the need for action, but Florence slept so peacefully, and it was so little to give her—a night of companionship after the generous bounty of her love. Her feelings for him were strong, but he couldn’t bear to know about them. He came to her two or three times a week, and that told him how much he’d come to rely on her.
    The house he’d bought on the edge of town contained the necessities of life—a bed, a toilet, a lamp. The nights he