"I think we must dance, ma belle."

Bella watched Jacques stride over to a handsome gramophone, crank it up, and put on a shellac record. The tinny though plaintive refrain of "Love's Old Sweet Song" spilled out. Shivers racked her!

He approached her. "Dance with me, Bella?"

She was reeling. It was all too much! Here she was alone with Jacques, drowning in his beautiful eyes, his tender, inviting smile--and hearing the very same sweet song he'd used to woo her across time! Knowing his time might run out far too soon!

Helplessly, she turned away, clenching her fists. "Oh, God. I can't dance with you . . . not to that song!"

"You do not like it?"

"That's . . . not what I meant."

She sensed him moving up close to her, felt him taking her hand, raising and kissing the coiled fist. She winced with yearning.

"Why won't you dance with me, cherie? Why not to 'Love's Old Sweet Song'?"

"I--I can't explain. It's too . . ."

"Too tender, too moving?" Pulling her around to face him, he drew her into his arms, his expression fervent, intense. "But I want to move you, Bella. To tenderness--and to passion."

He already had! Bella was melting at his husky words, his exciting scent, his vibrant nearness. "Oh, Jacques . . ."

He hugged her close and she gloried in the welcome haven of his embrace. "Don't think, ma belle," he murmured against her hair. "Just feel the music with me. Let it carry you away."

He swept her about the room to the poignant, lilting song. Bella was in heaven. Dancing with Jacques was like waltzing on a cloud, so skillfully did he lead her, so perfect was his timing. As when he sang or played, he became the music, the rhythms of his body an expression of the song itself.

Such powerful emotions welled in Bella that she was surprised her legs supported her. Jacques was so near, so alive, yet soon he would become a ghost. He was so sexy, handsome and carefree, yet soon he would lie dead with a knife in his back. What if she could not save him? How would she bear it? The beautiful song of his existence would be silenced forever. And it seemed so much more a sacrilege because he could sing, sing so gloriously; because his soul was so alive, while hers lay smothered by fear . . .

The music stopped. He stared into her eyes and whispered, "Now you must give me that kiss."

Bella's heart roared in her ears. Jacques leaned over and tenderly claimed her lips. Heat and desire swamped her, for Jacques's mouth on hers felt wondrous, so right, like the burning crescendo of the sweetest song she'd ever heard. Moaning softly, she reached upward to curl her arms about his neck, ran her fingers through the thick, soft curls at his nape, and felt his arms tightening, molding her against his muscled chest. His tongue coaxed her lips apart and slid inside her mouth in a hot, wanton caress. Passion jolted her with such intensity that she had to wrench her lips from his in order to breathe.

"Non, non," he said roughly, kissing her more insistently . . .

Copyright 1996 by Eugenia Riley