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  She shook her head, but heaved herself to her feet and went to a cupboard she unlocked with a great circle of keys. From within the cavernous space came a plateful of chocolates and marzipans molded into tiny fruits. Basilio grinned his pleasure. "Very good."

  As he passed the library, he suddenly knew that it did not matter if he were wildly skilled, if he were the greatest lover in the world. This was his Cassandra, who had stolen his heart from far away, and he had only to be himself and trust his instincts. He took a book from the shelf and tucked it in the basket.

  She stood exactly where he'd left her, by the open glass door to the courtyard. Her spine was very straight, her poise gathered around her like a cloak, and fresh desire flooded through him. He joined her, looking over her shoulder. "I have a very fine view of the sea from my chamber," he said. On impulse, he bent and very lightly kissed the back of her neck.

  "I should like to see that view," she said, her voice husky. Some of the hurt had fallen from her eyes and he saw the frank hunger in her face.

  But when they had climbed the many stone stairs to his suite of rooms, and closed the door, and the bed loomed over everything, mocking and alluring at once, they both paused awkwardly. Her hands fluttered up and back down to her sides. Basilio seemed stuck where he stood, the basket in his hand, seeing his things with strange new eyes. The clutter of his desk, papers piled and messy, for he did not allow the servants to straighten it. A pile of books on a table. The things he'd collected on his travels gave a foreign cast to the room: carved elephants he'd purchased in Cypress, a beautiful wall hanging in reds that he'd found in Egypt, and brass candlesticks from India.

  One side of the room boasted long windows looking west to the sea, and a set of doors opened onto a stone balcony. Cassandra moved toward it, and relieved, Basilio put his basket down on a table and began to take things out of it. Then he joined her.

  This balcony was wider and deeper than the one in her chamber, and the view was more primitive: only the hills rolling across the land like a woman, and the sea in the distance, shimmering with life.

  He leaned on the rail, letting the breeze comb his hair away from his hot face and scalp. "I love this view,"

  he said. "It inspires me, the colors and the shapes and the smell of it."

  She nodded, her hands folded primly before her on the stone. "I have made you feel very awkward, haven't I?"

  He shifted to lean with one elbow, so he could face her. As honestly as he was able, he said, "A little.

  Not for you. For me." He smiled down at her. "You must see by now that I am besotted with you, Cassandra." He reached out to touch a tendril of reddest hair. "Since you arrived on that road, I have thought of nothing but you—and now I am afraid that I cannot be wise enough, good enough for you."

  A brilliance came into her expression, light and graveness at once. "It is the same for me, Basilio. I cannot even sleep for thinking of you." She clasped his palm to her face. "I feel as if I have been sleeping all my life, and have only now awakened."

  "Yes," he echoed, captivated by the movement of her lips. Gently he leaned close. "You like kissing, I think. May I kiss you, my beautiful Cassandra?"

  She touched his mouth. "Yes, I would like that."

  He did not immediately move, letting the sight of her mouth stir his imagination. Only then did he lean close, careful to keep his body far from hers. Putting his palm against her jaw, he touched her lips lightly with his own; felt the softness and give of hers, felt the immediate opening of her mouth to him.

  But he did not take the invitation. Instead, he trailed the tip of his tongue along the inner edges of her mouth, teasing—now a flutter, now a long, slow, opulent circle. Her breath quickened, and he danced within the sweet-tasting lips, slipping just past teeth to the very, very tip of her tongue. A sweep and retreat, a slight sound in her throat as she followed him out, into his mouth, and back. Only his hand on her face, and their lips and tongues. He whispered instruction and she followed, sticking out her tongue only a little, and he captured it, that small, pointed end, sucking on it. With broken breath, she said,

  "Now you," and came a little closer, putting her hands on his face. With one finger, she traced the shape of his mouth, and then lightly, erotically, stroked his lower lip, her eyes brilliant with fever. Gently he sucked the digit into his mouth, swirled his tongue over it. She gave a soft cry and moved within his mouth, just a little. He saw that her nipples were urgently erect, and he ached to bend and take those points into his mouth, too. But he only met her eyes and did to her finger what he wished to do to nipples

  —swirled and suckled and let go. "Oh," she breathed, suddenly taking her hand away, stepping back one hesitant pace. She tucked her hand behind her, in her skirts.

  He laughed softly, and took her other hand. "Come, my dear," he said. "Let us read and eat and think no more of kisses tonight."

  "I am not sure I can promise not to think of them." A little scowl touched her brow. "Nor am I certain I wish to promise not to do it."

  He lifted a brow. "If you wish to kiss me, you have my full permission."

  Sitting side by side on the divan, they read aloud from Boccaccio, nibbling from each other's hands the marzipans and chocolates he'd stolen from the kitchen. They did kiss a little more, and a little more, and when Basilio came to a point he could no longer bear it, he laughed a little at the stunned sensuality in her eyes, and sent her away. Even when she reluctantly lingered at the door, leaning back into the room to kiss him again, he did not move one more step forward.

  That night, as he lay alone in his bed, the moon spilling cool and white over his restive limbs, he realized that she needed wooing, needed a man who would allow her own sensual nature to claim her. In the quiet dark, he composed a poem of revelation for his Cassandra.

  In the morning when Cassandra awakened, a letter waited on her breakfast tray. She opened it eagerly, and found only a few lines in Basilio's hand:

  The moon is the ruler of women, her round, white face echoing the white round flesh of a woman's breasts. Tonight, my love, we will ride on the white sands by the sea and learn what gifts the full moon will give.

  B.

  A ripple of heat went through her, and she spent the day in a state of restless anticipation. As the sun dropped low in the sky, she dithered over her hair and clothing, over which adornments to put on her body, which to leave behind. At last she was ready to join him, and ran laughing to the stables with him, her heart pounding.

  The air was warm as bathwater as they rode on the beach they had visited a few days before, and the smell of the sea charged her blood with a heightened excitement. The full moon, bright and round and high, cast pale light over the world, and Cassandra felt the strangest leap of anticipation when she looked at it. Her breasts seemed to swell against her bodice, and she wondered with amusement if she would always think of breasts now when she saw the moon.

  Basilio helped her dismount, his eyes glittering with mischief. "I would be pleased to shed all these trappings of civilization for your benefit if you like," he said, gesturing to his clothes. "Or perhaps you would only like to gaze at my feet?"

  She laughed. "Shed your shoes, dear sir. The rest we will leave for another time."

  "And what will you shed, my Cassandra?" he asked, stepping close.

  A ripple of anticipation. "What would you like me to shed?"

  "Turn around," he said. "I will show you."

  She hesitated. The night was bright, but they were alone. Fear mixed with desire. "That frightens me."

  "I would like," he said, touching her shoulder, "to kiss your breasts, Cassandra. Only your mouth and neck and breasts." His dark eyes were clear and honest. "I think you will like it. If you do not, I give you my word that I will cease immediately."

  Her heart shivered, and without a word, she turned around to let him unlace her dress a little. He kissed the back of her neck slowly as his hands pushed away her sleeves; kissed her shoulders with exquis
ite little moist presses of hot lips as she tugged one arm, then the other out of the confining sleeves. Her corset pushed her breasts up under the gauzy chemise with a drawstring neck, and she shivered when he untied the neckline and gently pushed that fabric away, too. He stood behind her, kissing her neck and the edge of her ears and her shoulders—patiently, as a salty sea breeze and moonlight touched her breasts, naked to the night. It was decadent and delicious, and Cassandra discovered that she loved it.

  She loved it more when his beautiful long hands slid up her waist and ribs and stroked the bare flesh, dancing over the aroused points, stroking the sides and delicate undercurve.

  "What do you think?" he whispered. "Yes? No?"

  She leaned a little into his chest, letting her head fall back to his shoulders to give him fuller access to her body. "Yes," she whispered.

  He drew her down with him to the sand. "Close your eyes," he said.

  She did. White moonlight burned on her eyelids and she waited, barely breathing, for the first kiss. It seemed to take a very long time for it to arrive, a time filled with the low roar of the sea and the caress of the wind and the delectable wonder of being even a little bit naked outside.

  At last the kiss fell, hot and open, on her right breast. His mouth closed around the pointed tip, and she cried out at the pleasure of it, lifting her hands to his hair in encouragement. "Mmmm," he said. "I wanted to do this last night, when you had your finger in my mouth," he said, flicking his tongue over her. "That is what I was thinking of: that I was doing all those things to your breasts, to these pretty pink points"—he touched them, one at a time, with the heart of his palms— "instead of your finger." His dark eyes met hers. "Do you like it?"

  She pulled him down to her, wordless in her wish to have him continue. Hands and tongue and teeth and lips—oh! She would never have dreamed there could be so much feeling in the simple attention to her breasts, but he soon had her quivering and hot, her hips restless. She nearly wanted to weep with the fullness, and when he stopped, she wanted to tell him to begin again. But she saw the effort with which he halted, and she did not think she was near ready for the rest. So she only said, "Basilio, remove your shirt, please. Do you mind?"

  He scrambled to oblige her, his fingers fumbling with the ties so violently that Cassandra laughed softly and rose up to help him. He made a soft, almost amused noise, his hands in her hair. "You are a goddess, my love." He kissed her, then Cassandra tugged the shirt over his head and they faced each other, kneeling in the sand.

  Surprised at her own boldness, she inched closer to him until her breasts just brushed his chest, and put her naked arms around his bare shoulders. It was extraordinarily wonderful, the feel of his skin against her own, and she said earnestly, "I think I would like kissing this way, if it is not too difficult for you."

  "Nothing is too difficult," he whispered. So they kissed, and kissed, and kissed, gently brushing breast to crisp hair, belly to belly, arms and hands.

  At last, with trembling hands, he took her arms from his shoulders and moved away a little. "I must halt now," he said regretfully. Without awaiting an answer, he stood and dashed for the water. Cassandra laughed when he gave a great shout and dived into the sea, coming up like an otter, his hair shining with diamonds among the curls, moonlight making of his face a work of art. Without hurry she covered herself, and allowed him, dripping and calmed, to lace up her corset. They rode back to the villa in rich silence, touching hands, and he left her at her bedroom door with a long, deep, heated kiss of promise.

  Feeling the pulse of her sex, Cassandra pulled him back when he would have left. "Basilio," she whispered. "Come to my bed. I am ready now."

  He bent and kissed her once more. "Not yet," he said. "Good night."

  Nor was it the next day, or the next. In the cool mornings they rode until the sun burned away the mist, laughing and telling stories—but mainly just reveling in the beauty of the landscape and the pleasure of each other's company. In the hot afternoons they lazed in the cool interior rooms of the villa, sometimes sitting for long quiet hours reading or writing, side by side, content with the silence and the company. At such times, Basilio felt the rarest, deepest sense of happiness he had ever known—that a woman could enjoy the same thoughtful silence he did, without requiring reassurance every moment.

  In the evenings, they ate the dishes he'd ordered his cook to prepare: delicately flavored local specialties, drawn from the sea, and rich wines, and sinful sweets. Afterward they sat close together on the terrace, admiring the sound of cicadas and the scents of the olive trees breathing from their leaves. Hands entwined, they laughed and kissed and shared bits and pieces of their lives. Basilio told her about his student days, and a teacher who had been a particular encouragement. Cassandra told stories about her siblings—Adriana, the wild one, and Ophelia, the beauty, and Cleo, about whose fate they all worried, and Phoebe, who was simple and plain and kind. She also spoke of her brothers, one fair, one dark, and their unusual adventures in the new world. It was plain she was very fond of them all.

  He ached, every minute of every hour, to make love to her. Each day, he allowed only an hour or maybe a little more, of the kissing she so loved. He showed her new places on her body where a man's hand could give pleasure—the soles of her feet, the palms of her hands, the inner crook of a wrist. Slowly, he uncovered her knees and kissed the small crook below, leaving her writhing. And that time, he let his fingers stray up the insides of her thighs, stopping short of the place she wanted him.

  In return, she grew bolder, less skittish. One morning, she shocked him with a quick glimpse of unrestrained breasts when she came down for breakfast, leaning over with apparent guileless-ness to admire a flower. When she looked up with laughter in her eyes and danced away, he knew she was nearly ready for him, but he waited just a little longer.

  When his senses, his hungers, began to overwhelm him, he always laughed a little, pulled away, breathed deeply. Every night, he went to sleep with a thick weight in his groin. Sometimes he relieved the pressure himself; sometimes his dreams did the work for him—but it allowed him great patience.

  And it would be worth the wait.

  Cassandra was utterly, totally besotted. She had lost reason days ago, lost it in the drunken pleasure of kissing him for such long interludes, lost it in the explosion of her physical self—a part of her that had been starved and malnourished for years, so that now it was ravenous, insatiable.

  One evening he slid a note beneath her door, asking her to meet him in his chambers for dinner, and she rushed through her preparations, arriving giddy and out of breath, The room was filled with flowers: vase after vase of them, roses and ferns and violets and everything imaginable, their perfume enriching the air, their colors adding a heady sensuality. He'd cleared his books away and had a table brought in for dinner.

  "Hello," he said, gesturing her inside and seating her at the table. "Eat heartily," he said with a wicked lift of his brow.

  Cassandra laughed. She ducked her head a little, then smiled. "Would you take off your shirt, sir?"

  "Now, so soon?"

  She met his eyes. "Now."

  Basilio took a breath and reached for the hem of his shirt. "It would be my pleasure." He pulled up the hem but his hair tangled in a tie and caught, so it was stuck half on and half off until she reached out to help him, laughing. Ruefully, he smiled. "I am not usually so graceless."

  She stood close, shaking her head. "Not graceless." She reached out with one hand to touch him, cupping her hand around the curve of his shoulder. "Pure beauty. I have never seen so beautiful a man as you."

  He stood still as she lifted the other hand and spread her palms open on him, looking at him as she touched his chest. The dark triangle of hair, his nipples, his arms. Even so simple a thing aroused him, and he hoped that would not alarm her. He couldn't bear to close his eyes, to think of something else, because the wonder in her eyes was a deep pleasure, as if she were discovering a man's fo
rm for the first time. "Your skin is very soft," she said, looking up at him. "I like the way it feels."

  "I like the way it feels when you touch it."

  "So I see," she said with a flash of dry humor. "May I touch you there, too?"

  He grinned. "Please, my lady, touch everything. Anything. This humble form belongs to you to do with as you wish."

  Her hands ran down his belly, and then lower, tentatively. He sighed softly, and she looked up in alarm.

  "Is this difficult for you?"

  "No."

  She smiled. "Yes, it is." But she did not remove her hand, and her eyes flew down to see what she curved her palm around. "Only flesh," she said.

  He nodded.

  She let him go and turned around. "Please unfasten my laces, Basilio. I should like to remove my dress."

  It startled him that his fingers were so clumsy, that he had so much difficulty with a task he had performed many times. He at last managed it, then unlaced the corset underneath. She wore a long, thin chemise beneath it all, and he saw her skin through it when she let the dress fall away into a heap on the floor, and the corset along with it. She stepped out of the pile and kicked it to one side, and stood there with her hair piled high, the airy chemise cloaking her, yet not.

  "Now, your hair," he said, his voice rough.

  She raised her arms, and he watched her breasts, loose and heavy beneath the gauzy covering, lift, too.

  Then her hair tumbled down, falling over her arms and shoulders and breasts.

  He leaned close, keeping his body apart, and put his mouth on her nipple, sucking through the cloth very lightly. Then he raised his head. "Do you like that?"

  "Yes," she said emphatically, and he bent again. Her hands fell in his hair, moving restlessly as he took the crest into his mouth and rubbed his tongue over it. The action made him dizzy, and he suckled close in deep pleasure, putting one hand on her belly to brace himself. She made a low sound of pleasure and he moved to the other breast, feeling his sex pulse in rhythm. Her hands moved to his back, stroking in a rhythm he was sure she did not recognize.