KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch

---

  PART 19

Stepping out into the brilliant morning sunshine, she felt a momentary anxiety, half expecting to see the proof of last night's horror still scattered on the grass, but the park showed only an innocent face, bucolic and fresh, and she hurried home to change, not dwelling on the chain of events that must have occurred here while she was safely below.

It was only a little later than her usual arrival time, when she entered the office to find Greg Hughs poring over a deposition at the reception desk.

"Greg, hi. I haven't seen you for a while."

"How's it going, Cathy?. Hear you've been hot on the trail of our number one bad guy."

"Don't believe everything you read in the papers," she warned with a grin. "Since you're here, maybe you could do me a favor. Would it be possible for you to check on the status of the Denton case -- find out whether it's been officially closed? I'd like to update my personal records."

"Sure, no problem. I can get back to you later today. You know, you really better keep your doors locked. There's been a lot of activity over your way."

"What do you mean?"

"Last night -- in the park. Somebody did a number on four of our sterling citizens."

"What... are they dead?"

"Not quite -- one of them's in pretty bad shape, but a couple of the others were up to having visitors this morning."

The sense of relief, that she could tell Vincent there were no more deaths to weigh on his conscience, sank under an icy stillness, but she had to know.

"What did they say happened, Greg?"

"They stonewalled us. No big surprise there."

"You mean they wouldn't talk?"

"Oh, they talked, but it was the usual line of bull -- about a monster, an avenging creature coming out of nowhere, with fangs and claws -- the whole bit."

"What do you mean 'usual'?" She sank down on the corner of the desk. hoping that the desperation pushing at her stomach didn't show in her face, that she could pass this off as professional curiosity.

"We've heard it all before," the lieutenant shrugged. "Ever since the Jason Walker hype a couple of years ago. You wouldn't think these punks would have that much imagination, but they sure grabbed onto that and ran with it. You get somebody like these guys -- gang members -- who've gotten the worst from somebody they crossed. They're not about to spill the real story and set themselves up for retaliation, so they pull out the standard line. And it's not Just the druggies. We've heard it from some big timers, too. It's headed up the charts for most popular cop-out of our time."

The fear had begun to dwindle, but she didn't trust the sense of relief that edged a little closer. There was still something she had to know, and she cast about for a way to ask it before Greg lost interest in the subject. "So it's just a convenient lie? There's nothing to . . . to back it up?"

"That's the really crazy part, Cathy. Some of these hits . . . well, the other side can play the game too. We've found victims with claw marks, throats slashed, necks broken -- perfect M.O. for the avenger."

"How, Greg . . . why?" She managed to push the words out despite the nausea that rose at his casual description.

"How? Well, there's plenty of ways to mutilate a fellow human being, Cathy. Remember that clawed glove in Jason Walker's wardrobe? That's become a real hot item. Doesn't matter what the crime is or whether we're talking street punks or bona fide hit men --they blur the lines, make our job a little harder by doing this avenger bit. You can't follow it to any one source. It all gets laid at the doorstep of a guy that doesn't even exist."

Catherine was at a loss for words, and Greg was gathering up the papers, getting ready to leave, when she added, "The men last night --in the park, they were just victims? I mean, they hadn't done anything you could hold them for?"

"Well, if you mean. were they up to something last night, I'd say the chances are good, but nothing we could prove -- there weren't any stolen goods on them or drugs. Nobody reported an assault. Best bet -- it was a drug deal gone sour, and the suppliers took off with the money and the merchandise."

She nodded, telling herself that life wasn't fair. and it was useless to expect it to be. "So they'll walk then."

"That's up to you, counselor, but you'd have to forget to show up in court not to make this one stick. They've all got a list of priors from here to Poughkeepsie, including the murder of a pawnshop owner and a couple of rapes."

The news made her blanch at the same time she felt a glowing sense of triumph. "Well, then, we'll see that no technicalities sneak in. I promise."

"Appreciate it, Cathy, and in the meantime, you'd be smart to stay out of that park after sunset."

"I'll remember that, and Greg -- you won't forget what I asked you to check on?"

"Top priority, Cathy. Catch you later."

 
She was still trying to assimilate the implications of what she'd heard when Rim flagged her down.

"Cathy, Joe wants to see you right away in his office. I think it's about the Met investigation."

"Okay, thanks." She'd just have to think about what Greg had said later and share it -- oh, how she looked forward to sharing it --with Vincent tonight.

Joe looked up when she entered. "We were right, Radcliffe," he announced without preamble. "The woman on the tape -- she's a street person. A call came in early this morning from someone who recognized her on the news."

"From who, Joe? The homeless don't usually watch much television."

"A Mrs. Hopper -- Gladys Hopper. She's the volunteer coordinator at a soup kitchen down on 3rd." He shoved a piece of paper across the desk, the transcript of a phone conversation taken at the police station.

"Has anyone else seen this, Joe? Has Greenwald?"

"Hey, he's not here, Cathy," he said with a self satisfied smile. "You are."

"I'll get on it right away."

The Hope and a Hearty Meal House looked to be in no better shape than its neighbors, crumbling brownstones whose steps were cracked and windows almost opaque with dirt, as if the occupants no longer had a reason to look out at the world.

The door was open, and Catherine stepped directly into a long room dominated by several peeling tables and mismatched chairs. Two young men were scrubbing at the counter that ran behind them. At her inquiry they nodded toward a doorway, and she passed through into a kitchen, crammed with clean but hopelessly outdated equipment. The smells of breakfast still hung on the air. There was no one there, and she continued down a short hall, flanked by two tiny offices, to a room in which several sagging cots had been set up. On one a young woman was reading a picture book to a little boy in clothes that were far too big for him. On another two men sat silently staring at the playing cards laid out between them on the dingy sheet.

No one looked up, and she passed through to a small, windowless space that had probably once been a closet. A stocky black woman was folding a pile of laundry. She looked up as Catherine entered.

"Mrs. Hopper? My name's Catherine Chandler. I'm with the DA's office. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about the phone call you made to the police this morning."

"You can ask, but I don't know anything more than what I told the officer on the phone."

"You said you recognized the woman on the news, and you thought her name was Roberta?"

"It's the name she used, but that doesn't mean much to the people that come in here."

"No last name?"

"None that I ever heard." The woman continued folding sheets, but Catherine noted the nervous look she threw towards the doorway and wondered what had precipitated it.

"How often did she come in here?"

"Not often -- maybe two or three times. She didn't stay long, just ate her meal and left."

"Do you know where she went when she left here? I mean, do you have any idea where she was living?"

"From the look of her she was living on the streets, like most of them. I wouldn't have any idea where."

"Do you remember if she was alone on those occasions, or did she come in with someone?"

"I think someone always brought her, not the same person, but just somebody who knew about us and got her to come along. I doubt very much she would have come on her own."

"Why not?"

"I don't think she was capable of planning to do anything. She'd come in here and sit down, mumbling to herself. She never spoke to the others. Somebody said she'd been released from the state hospital a few months before."

"You mean she wasn't mentally competent?"

"Well, that's for a psychologist to say, isn't it, or a counselor?"

"You don't have one here on your staff?."

For the first time the woman looked at her, and there was definite resentment behind the wire rimmed glasses. "We had a psychologist, Miss Chandler. Just a few days a month, but we had one. And a couple of counselors. We used to have a visiting nurse too, but that was before the funding ran out."

She sees me as part of the problem, Catherine thought, part of the bureaucracy that stands in the way of places like this. It wasn't a new experience. It happened to her often, the 'us vs. them' perspective that invariably cast her on the side of 'them'.

"She should have been in a hospital or someplace where people could give her what she needed -- therapy or drugs or at least a safe place to be, but the state dumped her out on the streets, and we didn't have anybody here that could see her through the red tape of finding help."

"I'm sorry," she said inadequately. Mrs. Hopper shook a sheet out with a vengeance, and Catherine tried to ease the conversation into another direction. "It's an unusual name -- Hope and a Hearty Meal."

"It's a deceptive name. I don't know how much longer we'll be able to provide the food, and the hope ran out long ago. We just sustain people here now, Miss Chandler -- get them through one more day. We can't help them. We can't show them the way out of the corner they're in." She carried the laundry into the next room and Catherine followed, as she began to make up a cot.

"Do people sleep here?"

"Sometimes." The woman looked up defiant, but there was fear in her fierce expression all the same. That's it, Catherine thought. They aren't licensed to do this. The place could be closed down completely if the authorities knew.

"I won't say anything, Mrs. Hopper."

The woman didn't answer, and Catherine hoped she believed her. Anything else she could say, she could offer, would only be taken as a patronizing gesture, and she thanked her for her time.

During the taxi ride back, she was plagued by the familiar sensation of not belonging -- not to the world of the rich she'd been born into with its frivolous pursuits that no longer interested her, and not to the world of the people she wanted to help, where she was continually viewed as an outsider. There was only one place, one world, where she truly felt a sense of belonging, where she longed to go with every fiber of her being, but to go there, to stay, would be to destroy whatever ability she did have to make a difference in these people's lives, and worse, it would take away the pride he took in her small contributions to a world that rejected him but that his noble spirit embraced all the same.

She felt trapped in a comer that no one could help her out of ,not herself, not the Hope and a Hearty Meal House, not even Vincent. As the traffic snarled, and the August heat turned the cab into a rolling oven, her head began to pound, and the thought crossed her mind that Gilbert DiLillo might find a tempting subject here -- "Woman Going Nowhere in a Taxi."

After two aspirin and a call to her accountant, the bout of self pity subsided, and a message from Greg Hughs revived her optimism. The Denton file had been virtually closed for weeks. No contact had shown up in the first few hours following the drama in the upper tunnels, and the publicity that followed had effectively destroyed the chances that anyone would, with the result that surveillance had been removed from the site shortly afterwards. All this time, she could have been using the entrance beneath her building. She could have used it last night.

No use crying over spilt milk, she told herself firmly when remorse threatened to dampen her spirits again. The words brought an image of a pint sized Vincent tossing hackneyed phrases into Father's oh-so-correct conversation, and she smiled.

She had always liked Greg, thought he was a great example of the best kind of cop, but today he'd taken on all the virtues of a saint, and tonight she would make use of the precious piece of information he had furnished.

"They have good soup in that place, Radcliffe, or did you get a solid lead out of them?"

She hadn't even heard him approach, and now she wiped the enigmatic smile off her face and told him what she'd learned. "I thought I'd check on state hospital records to see what I can find on a 'Roberta'. But even if we find out who she is. if she has relatives somewhere, it probably won't give us any connection to the kidnapper. What we do need to do right away is question as many of the street people in that area as we can."

He nodded. "Whatever you need, kiddo -- you got it."

She set the wheels in motion, taking time out only to scribble a quick note that she took with her when she left for lunch. The hot dog vendor she gave it to didn't even look up, but she knew it would quickly find its way into the right hands.

All afternoon she wondered if there would be time to act on the information sent below. Everyone might simply be too busy to dismantle the pile of stones that for weeks had blocked her access to the tunnels. It would be smart to have a contingency plan, another way to go below if she found the barrier intact, but when seven approached, and she checked her appearance in the dressing table mirror one last time, she still hadn't bothered to think of an alternate plan.

The hand that shoved the boxes aside from the subbasement entrance tingled with suspense. As the door swung open, she peered down into the space below, but the bright light illuminating the ladder made it impossible to make out anything in the darkness. Crawling through, she began the familiar descent, heart racing now with more than anticipation. At the bottom, she paused a moment, drawing in her breath, and turned to meet the blue perfection of his eyes.

"It feels like coming home again." she said in a voice made unsteady by emotion, and stepped into his embrace. "I was almost afraid to hope the entrance would be cleared so soon. You have so much to do."

"To keep you safe . . . there is nothing more important than that. "
 

"It's more than safety, that I feel here, Vincent. It really is a sense of being where I belong."

He didn't respond, and the slight tremor that touched the feelings flowing between them, as if somewhere inwardly he'd recoiled, puzzled her. Hadn't he told her often lately that she had a place here? She pulled back to look at him but saw only the love in his eyes that made her forget everything else. "I have so much to tell you."

"Catherine, you always say that." His gentle mockery couldn't hide the pleasure he found in her enthusiasm.

"It's always true," she grinned. "But this is important. This is important to both of us."

She told him everything Greg had said to her, and he listened in silence as they slowly retraced the path of their first journey together. "Nobody really thinks that one person is responsible for everything that's happened."

"But it is the truth."

"We can't help it if they don't believe the truth, Vincent. And it's not as if someone else is being blamed unfairly." She could see that he was incapable of rationalizing the facts away, but hoped he could accept the gift that circumstance had given them.

"It's just such a relief to be sure that no one is seriously looking for you."

"Has that troubled you, Catherine?"

"Sometimes, yes."

He was silent, and she knew he was weighing the discomfort of his responsibility for the complex web of lies being woven above against the obvious reassurance it brought to her.

"To be honest, Vincent, I don't care what they believe, as long as it keeps you out of danger."

He stopped, turning to her, the conflict of regret and humble gratitude apparent on his face. "I never meant for you . . . Catherine, to compromise what you know to be true.., because of me..."

"I love you, Vincent," she responded, laying her hand over his heart. "There is no compromise. There is no greater truth than that."

The dizzying rush of desire came with the look that passed between them. She felt powerless to move or to look away from the love in his eyes . . . or the hunger. He took her face in his hands, framing it, studying what he held with such intense yearning that she felt he was drawing her into himself, into the heart of the blazing passion that melted away everything but her own desperate need to follow.

"Catherine...when you look at me that way... I..." He shut his eyes, and the effort it took him to release her was so keenly felt it might have been her own.

"I don't know any other way to look at you, Vincent. I . . . I just don't."

"We should go," he said in a whisper, his eyes on some point beyond her shoulder. 'We should join the others."

She nodded, valiantly trying to force down the tide of feelings, still lapping at every nerve. "But, Vincent... you know we can't go on this way indefinitely. I'm not . . . I can't . . . There's a point where the pleasure becomes . . . almost painful." She finished quietly, "I know you feel that, too."

There was no denial in his silence, only a struggle to cope with the honesty of what she'd said, and she rushed ahead on a wave of tension. "I thought what happened last night in your chamber would ease your doubts. It's always been such a tremendous obstacle -- that fear -- but last night that was tested, and we won, Vincent. You won. Doesn't it seem possible to see past it now?"

"To see past it, Catherine," he said very quietly, "is to be unable to ignore those other obstacles that still lie ahead."

"Like what?" she asked breathlessly.

He was silent for a moment, but when he spoke he finally looked at her directly. "Catherine, last night I could feel your desire . . . and your trust, yet you reminded me that I had a choice. You allowed me to make that choice, knowing what it would mean to me, to my struggle."

She nodded, returning his earnest look.

"There are other choices, other decisions, that lie in our path. They are yours, Catherine. For me to guide you -- even to point them out -- would be unfair. I must give you the right to recognize them and to choose, as you gave me."

"I'm not sure I understand."

 'We have all the time in the world," he reminded her gently. "How can I wish to hurry this journey when it only brings closer the possibility that you may move farther from me?"

"That is not a possibility," she said fiercely, throwing her arms around him. The confusion and alarm his words had wakened in her faded under the ferociousness of her love. "Whatever happens, Vincent, I choose you. I choose us."

"Catherine" he clutched her close, the word infused with such love and longing and a note of compassion, as if he wished he could spare her the trials ahead, that she wanted to stand here forever, clinging to him, the two of them alone with their love.

"Father's expecting us" he said finally, "and everyone is intrigued by your investigation. They'll be eager to discuss it with you, Catherine. I'm sorry if you hoped to put it out of your mind while you were here."

"I don't mind," she assured him, glad to have something of interest to offer from the world above, sadly aware that it was all she could offer these people and that even this poor contribution depended on her being a part of that world.

They entered Father's chamber, not touching, fearful that the intensity growing between them would be all too evident to the friends gathered here.

About two dozen people had come to mill about in conversation, enjoying the simple refreshments that William had provided. It might have been a cocktail party above, she thought, if it weren't for the exotic clothing and the fact that nobody was talking business.

The controversy of the case she'd been following seemed to generate just as much interest here as it did above. Time and again she was asked about the details, and the talk veered off into debates on the place of art in society and the appalling conditions that left people who were incapable of caring for themselves out on the streets. Everyone seemed to have a point that could be proved by this latest madness above. Everyone had a theory as to what kind of man could conceive such a crime.

"Well, it's apparent to me," Father was saying, "that this person is challenging the citizens of the city with a moral question, forcing them to assess their values."

"Ah, hell, Father, He wants money -- that's all it's about. He figured out that the picture would be too hot to dump, so he tried something else."

"He could have had the money, Cullen" Catherine pointed out. "At least we made it seem that way, and he didn't take it."

"So maybe he was onto the scam and figured he'd have a better chance of getting the real thing if somebody's life was at stake."

"You can't do that," Pascal averred solemnly. "You can't pay a man like that, or where would it end?"

"Well, let's face it," Cullen countered, "this woman doesn't even know what's going on, right? It sounds like she's pretty much out of it, so how much can she be worth to anybody?"

"This woman is a human being," Father reminded him sternly.

"Yeah, and that painting's worth sixty million dollars."

Catherine decided to opt out of this conversation before it rose above the boiling point, and she searched the room for Vincent. He had carefully left her to socialize on her own most of the evening. She thought he must share her conviction that those times when he approached the air around them became charged with an electricity that must be all but visible. She supposed it was only their own imaginations but had to content herself with looking up frequently to meet his eyes, feeling the warmth of his love caressing her always through their bond.

Now she found him standing near the steps, talking to someone she at first took to be a child. He turned at her look and crossed the room with the stranger at his side.

"Catherine. I would like you to meet Gillian Olafson, our newest resident and our best hope for survival against the elements."

Gilllan laughed, a clear, sparking laugh. She was smaller than Catherine. and her short cropped blonde hair, almost silver, gave her an elf look. "Hi, Catherine. I don't know how I'm going to live up to the advance hype going on down here. So I know a few formulas, and I have a definite prejudice for integral compounds over membrane waterproofing. I'm not sure how much good that's going to do anybody. It seems like what's needed most is just plain old brute strength, as always."

Catherine smiled, shaking her hand. "I don't think you need to worry that your welcome here was based on what you could do to help."

"I'll leave you two to get acquainted," Vincent interjected, already backing away, and she resisted the urge to look at him.

"You don't live here, do you? Your outfit's more Bergdorfs than tunnel," Gillian observed and added with a laugh, "Not much gets past me."

"No, I don't live here. I'm an attorney -- with the DA's office."

"The one that's after the art thief- or kidnapper -- or whatever he is? I heard someone talking about that. But you're a helper too."

"Yes, and a . . . a friend. How does it feel to come back here after all this time?"

"It feels strange. Some things are just as I remember them, and some things have changed. I lost my mom earlier this year, and I thought I was over the worst of it, but coming here, I expect to see her around every corner."

Catherine nodded. "I know what you mean. My dad died not long ago. I still expect to see him sitting behind his desk, every time I go to his office."

"This is a good place to come when you've lost somebody. There's so much love, such a feeling of acceptance. Do you get down here very often?"

'Whenever I can," Catherine said carefully.

"And nobody objects to that? I mean, Father gave me quite a song and dance about how I couldn't just come and go and try to maintain a life above if I was going to live here. He's always afraid of too much exposure, I guess, but it would sure help if I could keep some contacts that could ease the situation here -- take soil samples above, bring down materials. I'll just have to see what I can get away with, but I can understand why he feels so strongly about commitment."

"Yes," she agreed, somewhat uncomfortably. She was scarcely aware that her eyes had gone involuntarily to Vincent. He was patiently listening to Mary whose distressed expression, she could venture to guess, had something to do with the plight of the abducted woman.

"He's incredible, isn't he?" Gillian commented, and Catherine started.

"Who?"

"Vincent, of course. Absolutely incredible."

Catherine busied herself by reaching for a cookie on the desk, willing the flush she could feel creeping up her neck to subside. "You knew him when you were children."

"Well, mostly. I was fourteen when we left, but he was quite a bit older. Even when I was little, I knew there was something special about him -- and I don't mean the obvious. He was just more.., more humane than the other boys. I was always trying to get them to accept me, and Vincent was the only one that didn't act like I was some kind of insect."

Catherine smiled inwardly. "You must have been a tomboy."

"Yeah, kind of," Gillian grinned. "A lot of good it did me. It's still a man's world, Cathy -- even down here. If you ask me male bonding is overrated. I used to do everything but stand on my head to get noticed by that tribe, but they were off doing their macho thing. The only girl that ever seemed to get their attention -- especially Vincent's -- was Lisa, and she had him wrapped around her little finger."

Catherine winced at the image, but couldn't resist probing, "You knew Lisa? What was she like?"

"She was okay, I guess. I was just a kid, and to me she was beautiful and very feminine, so grown-up, and she could really dance. I used to wish I were more like her."

"But she was just 'okay'?"

"Well, this is only hindsight, you understand, but there was something almost too good to be true about her." Gillian searched for the right words. "Lisa Campbell was the kind of person who thinks she's the star in a play about her own life, and everyone else in the world is just part of the audience, you know?"

"I think I see what you mean," Catherine smiled.

"Well. Gillian, I see you've met Catherine. Your reintroduction here would not be complete without that. She has proved to be our greatest ally above. No doubt you'll be hearing stories of the innumerable things she's done to help us over the last few years."

Catherine blushed at the compliment. "Please, Father, you make me sound like Mother Theresa."

"Well, no, Catherine, I wouldn't say that is precisely the image you have among us. Gillian, Mouse tells me he has a plan for a new aqueduct -- to supply the chambers under construction. He's promised to discuss it with you."

"Yes. he did -- mainly, after following me around all day. What a funny kid. He looks at me like I'm hiding some secret formula that he's just dying to get his hands on, but I got him to show me the plan."

"And his idea -- is it practical?" Father pressed with a frown.

"Oh, it's absolutely crazy -- straight out of left field. But it's wonderful -- what an imagination. We're going to tackle it in the morning and try to adapt it to some workable design, so I think I should call it a night. It was really nice to meet you, Catherine. I hope I'll see you again."

"It was nice meeting you, Gillian. I'm sure you will."

Catherine watched her bound from the room, thinking that Devin was right -- she did look like a pixie.

"Well, thank God, Gillian and Mouse seem to have found a common meeting ground," Father observed. "I can't think what havoc would result if they were at odds with each other."

Catherine hardly heard him, so aware was she of Vincent's approach behind her. He hadn't spoken or touched her, but she felt his presence as solidly as her own. Perhaps the reaction showed on her face. In any case Father cleared his throat, looking visibly uncomfortable, as if he'd stepped into some intimate scene.

"If you'll excuse me, Catherine, I believe I should rescue poor Pascal from Cullen's interesting perspective on the kidnapping."

He moved away, and she turned into the heat of Vincent's benign expression. "Hi", she said, beaming up at him.

His eyes twinkled, impossibly blue and impossibly full of love. "I thought you might be ready to go."

"I should, yes. I have a feeling this is going to be one of those non-weekends. Knowing there's someone in danger out there -- it's not a nine-to-five proposition."

He didn't take her hand until they'd entered the tunnel beyond Father's study, and she was dismayed at the response that instantly coursed through her when he did. Get a grip on yourself, Chandler, she advised herself firmly. If he could no longer even hold her hand without awakening the turbulent flood of emotions that threatened to engulf her, how could she cope with their being alone together? How could she exist without it?

A slight squaring of his shoulders told her that the energy vibrating through her own small body was potent enough to shake his, and that was truly intimidating, but his tone was only normally seductive, normally devastating when he asked, "What do you think of Gillian, Catherine?"

"I like her. She seems very straightforward, very outgoing. It should be fun having her around."

"If she chooses to stay."

"I thought that had already been decided."

"There's always a probationary period, Catherine -- a few weeks when newcomers can decide if they've made the right decision and leave without the formal permission of the council if they find they have not."

"And the council can also decide if the person doesn't fit in?" He nodded.

"I don't think you have to worry in this case. Gillian seems happy to be here, and I can't imagine that she wouldn't get along with people. "

Their conversation shifted to the various attitudes and ideas that had come up this evening among the people of his world, and they had arrived back at the ladder in a disappointingly short time.

"I really don't know what my schedule's going to be, Vincent. I need to keep trying to do what I can on this case. There's no telling how much time we have before the kidnapper tires of his game and does something drastic,"

He soothed her with his sympathetic gaze. "Catherine, you have a privilege -- to be able to help this woman. You must do what you can."

She nodded, wondering why the "privilege" suddenly weighed on her like a ball and chain. "I will." She stood now in the magnetic field that seemed to surround them. facing him. feeling suddenly awkward. She hated that awkwardness -- it was so foreign to everything they'd ever felt together, but it. too, was a product of their love, of the passion they were both suppressing. He hadn't moved to touch her. and the moment stretched out in the ringing silence until she couldn't bear it anymore.

"Vincent, in a minute I'm going up that ladder. I really am, and I'm not sure when we'll see each other next. Can't I at least kiss you good-bye?"

She could feel him gathering his resistance, as if prepared to do battle with the devil himself, but his eyes told her that even his enormous strength was helpless against the plea in her voice, and when he gathered her to him. the detail of who was kissing whom became quickly irrelevant.

The compulsion that surged instantly into life was fueled outwardly by his sensual command of her mouth, inwardly by the blazing urgency in their bond, until she had to suppress the small sob that welled up, seeking release. He tore himself from her, but pulled her head to his shoulder with one large hand, and she closed her eyes, concentrating on getting her fingers to let go of the soft tangle of gold they clutched. After a moment, he moved her gently away from him. and she smiled weakly, unable to speak, and turned to mount the ladder.

At the top she knelt, looking down at his upturned face, wishing she could tumble back into his arms, never to leave. "I love you," she said inadequately.

"I love you, Catherine."

She forced herself to back away from the sight she longed for day and night, wondering why the words sounded so meager when she said them and why -- when he spoke them -- they filled the whole world with their beauty.