KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch

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PART 14

The rain that had begun sometime after midnight continued through the morning. Even with an umbrella, her dash down the Federal courthouse steps to a waiting taxi had left her linen suit spotted, her hair limp. and though it was a shorter run into the Criminal Courts Building, she felt uncomfortably bedraggled as she crossed the room to her desk and propped the sodden umbrella against the file cabinet.

"How did it go in court, Cathy?"

She turned to see Rita, shaking out the hem of her print dress.

"Fine. Judge Welborn's agreed to the switch. It's pretty awful out there, isn't it?"

"Soggy," Rita agreed. "So -- is there anything new on the stolen painting?"

"No, not a word. I guess its pretty much a unanimous conclusion that the thief was hired to take it specifically for a closet collector --someone who wanted a Vermeer to add to his hoard. It may already be out of reach."

"You know, I read an article about that not long ago. About a wealthy businessman in Japan who had a dozen different works of art -- pictures, sculptures, even a frieze from a Syrian temple, and he'd built a whole gallery underground to house them. But he was the only one that ever entered it. He just kept all those fantastic treasures to himself. Weird, huh?"

"Oh, I don't know,- Catherine answered with an oblique smile." The idea has a certain appeal. Where is everybody anyway?" Looking around, she saw only a few of her co-workers scattered about the usually chaotic office. Odd on such a rainy day.

"I don't know. I just got back from lunch myself. Wait  -- there's Joe."

His head appeared around the conference room door and spotting them, he hurried across the room.

"Cathy, where have you been?"

"I've been in court, Joe, where I was supposed to be. Welborn says if-- "

"Later -- you gotta see this."  He grabbed her hand, pulling her out from behind the desk. propelling her toward the conference room.

"Joe, what on earth?"  She shrugged out of his grasp.

"A picture's worth a thousand words. You'll see.'

One mystery was solved as they entered the room; half the office staff ringed the long conference table, eyes fixed on the television at the far end. The set was on. but there was no sound, and the picture didn't move. It took a moment for the image to register: a woman with her hand on a window of delicately patterned glass, the gleaming jug on the table, the light. Now she could make out the frame, even the almost imperceptible smudged area in the lower left corner. The small amorphous shape evident on the top of the frame was puzzling, but slowly the truth dawned on her.

"Plastic explosives?" she asked Joe in a hushed voice. "Probably Semtex."

"This is a tape?'

He nodded. "It came in a plain brown wrapper -- regular mail. Copies supposedly went to local TV stations."

"But why? Why not just send a snapshot to prove they have it?'

"You'll see." He nodded toward the screen, arms folded, and a moment later a voice could be heard, definitely a man's, but distorted, as if recorded and played at different speeds. The request was short and simple: that the tapes be shown to the public and that a half million dollar ransom be readied for further instructions. The screen turned to static and a task force member reached over to rewind the VCR, a gesture she knew would be repeated again and again in an effort to get as much information as possible from their only evidence.

Staffers not involved with the case started to drift back to work, shaking their heads and exchanging theories. In the corner, Greenwald and Frye began a heated argument.

"You think you've seen every kind of nut there is, but this town can always produce a new variety," Joe observed philosophically.

"You think the painting's still here -- in New York?"

He shrugged.  "The tape was postmarked here. It's the local stations he wants it shown on. We'll know more when we get instructions for the ransom."

"That's the weakest point, Joe. What are the chances, especially with the notoriety this guy wants -- that he could pick up a ransom undetected?"

"Practically zilch,' he replied with a satisfied smile. "We're dealing with a wacko here, Radcliffe. He may not have thought that far ahead."'

"I think you're wrong, Joe. This thing has taken planning and patience since the beginning. He must have some sort of twisted logic going on in his mind."

"You think so? How much's the picture worth, Cathy?"

"It's hard to say. It's worth whatever someone's willing to pay for it."

"Which has got to be millions, right? So why's he only asking for a fraction of that?"

"Because he's more likely to get it? Why does he want the publicity, when it only increases the chances that someone will guess who he is?"

"To get the public all excited, so some art lover will jump up with the money."

"Not necessary, Joe. The minute the painting was stolen there were people aware of its value who would have paid to get it back, assuming, of course, official policy was to give into terrorist demands, which we both know it isn't."

"Terrorist, huh? You think this guy's got some sort of political agenda? Sounds more like the same old song to me -- give me your money."

"And what if no one cooperates? If he blows up the painting, what has he gamed?"

"A lot of company for one thing. Even in New York, you don't blow something up without getting noticed. Unless he goes up with it. Maybe he's some idealistic type that wants to die for his art."

"It isn't his art, Joe, or do you think he's so crazy he imagines it is?"

"Now you're getting out of my league, Radcliffe," he smiled at her. They both enjoyed this habit they'd developed of bouncing ideas off each other. It had been helpful in the past, but the sudden twist in the case left a bewildering array of possibilities to explore. "A police shrink is headed our way to try and figure that one out. As if there weren't already enough clowns in this circus. This kinda pulls their little red wagon out from under them, doesn't it?" He indicated the special agents who were gathered around the TV, watching the tape again.

"You needn't look quite so pleased about that, Joe. If the painting had been hidden away somewhere, it would have a chance of resurfacing someday. This way it could be destroyed."

"Well, at least this puts us right back in the middle of the game. If I were you, Radcliffe, I'd grab a cup of coffee. This could be one hell of a long afternoon."

Long it was, but it didn't require the artificial stimulus of coffee to stay alert. The room fairly hummed with ideas, questions, the people gathered there rushing out to make phone calls or retrieve a record, others coming in to take their places -- the police psychiatrist, an expert on explosives, a representative from the museum who attested that the painting on the tape appeared to be the original. Where there had been few clues to follow before, there were now too many to handle. An attempt must be made to trace the mailed packages, the tape itself, the small and deadly charge ominously clamped to the frame. There was little in the way of visual information that would help to identify the location. The picture appeared to rest against a blank white wall.

"This is nothing," Greenwald groused. "It tells us nothing."

Frye leaned across the table. "It tells us the thing's in a room --not a locker or the trunk of a car -- a room with a window on the left. See the way the light falls? That's not nothing."

"Really narrows it down, huh, Frye? You about ready to move on this?"

Catherine tuned them out in favor of a discussion about voice prints that seemed to hold more promise. There was little doubt that the tape could be used to engineer an accurate recording of the speaker's voice, one that might be recognizable to someone watching if the decision was made to let the footage be aired on television.

That particular question was being addressed by another group. Someone ventured that an amplified recording might reveal sounds that could help pinpoint the location. "Doubtful," she wrote on the pad that was fairly swarming with notes by now.

"We'll get something to you by morning," the police psychiatrist told her. "We're working on a profile now -- for Greenwald and for you. Something a little more detailed than what we've discussed today."

"I appreciate that. We'll start checking our files as soon as you can get it to us."

"You got a lot of those, Ms. Chandler? A lot of priors on art-nappers?"

Catherine turned a frosty smile on Greenwald, whose attitude was beginning to seem as charming to her as it did to Joe. "We have a lot of disturbed human beings in our files, Agent Greenwald. People who can't get along with others in society. Surely, you can understand that."  A snort from one of the agents across the table indicated that the sarcasm hadn't gone unnoticed, though the object of it appeared unsure whether to puff with indignation or let it go. "Lt. Hardy, could you tell us a little more about the street investigation?"

It was six by the time the meeting broke up and seven before she was ready to leave the office. At home she organized her notes in an attempt to find some avenue left unexplored, some clue that had been overlooked, finally deciding that either there wasn't any, or she was too tired to ferret it out. The next few days could be grueling, either full of frustrated waiting or frantic activity if something should break. She went to bed early, wondering as she fell asleep what Vincent would think of the latest evidence that her world was peopled with strange, unhappy souls.

Wednesday started out with a tentative optimism, though the police profile was a disappointment.

"A loner? Somebody with a grudge against society? Good of 'em to narrow it down for us, wouldn't you say, Radcliffe? That describes just about everybody we've ever prosecuted and half our own staff to boot."

"Look at the bright side, Joe.  Maybe we don't have to search very far for our perpetrator."

"You think so?" he grinned. "In that case my money's on  Greenwald.'

"I assume you have facts, counselor, to support these allegations?"

He shrugged. "Only that I'd like to deck the guy every time he opens his mouth."

"Insufficient evidence, Joe. Unless we're making a case here for you needing a vacation."

"Hey, I'm doing it, Cath."

"Really?" She eyed him doubtfully.

"Swear to God. I got some brochures on deep-sea fishing --sunfish, marlin -- no phones, no hassles."

"And no females. I thought you were going to look for a nice girl, Joe. Somebody you could have a serious relationship with."

"You trying to marry me off, Radcliffe? No fair. I'm supposed to spend my weekends changing diapers, while you flit around free as a bird? That's taking this liberation thing a little too far. You gotta practice what you preach. You find a nice guy, I'll dance at your wedding. I'd even give you away . . ." His teasing smile faltered at the stricken look on her face.

She had no idea why that imagery pierced her suddenly like a blade of ice. A picture in her mind. How long had it been there? A church flooded with flowers, Nancy and Jenny in delicate pastel dresses. Her gown -- that had changed over the years with the changing fashions. Sunlight, washing even the high, hidden comers of the nave with the freshness of spring, dazzling from the long white runner where she stood, poised to step off into a new life, eager to glide toward some faceless figure waiting at the other end.

A picture she had often turned to over the years in moments of idle thought. A given, joyous and filled with promise. Now suddenly it wrenched at her; the pieces were all there, bright and colorful as they'd always been, but the pattern they created seemed sinister, mocking. She felt she was being drawn down that long, merciless pathway, not to some promise of fulfillment, but to her own execution. She wanted to run from that place with its false brilliance, not into the waiting sunshine, but to the beckoning shadows, the darkness that held the true light.

"Hey, Cathy. What did I say?" Joe was looking at her with concern. "I was only fooling around. I . . ." He stopped, remorse apparent in the mobile features. "That was dumb. I just wasn't thinking . . . about your father."

"I always thought he'd walk me down the aisle, Joe." She still stared at him, unblinking, grateful for the excuse he'd supplied, struck by the strange realization that her father hadn't even entered her mind.

'I'm really sorry, Cathy. I know it still hurts."

"It's okay, Joe -- really." Sympathy for his discomfort drew her back to reality, and she smiled reassuringly. "I'm glad you're serious about the vacation, and you should do exactly what you want. As for me, I need to start on these files."

Starting a new search was always invigorating. The possibility that any moment an M.O. might click with something in the profile, living them a definite direction to pursue was exciting, but Joe was -right: It wasn't the most helpful character assessment they'd ever used, vague on one hand. quirkily specific on the other. A man who might have been arrested near the museum, with a flair for the dramatic, a history that included extortion or explosives or cameras. A personal grudge against someone connected with the Metropolitan or museums in general or artists...

Once again this morning the police were concentrating on the museum's personnel. Perhaps there'd been an employee fired some time back. The original questioning had been aimed at finding a professional thief -- someone who wanted the painting for itself, not merely as a hostage. All the original facts were the same, but they had shifted now to be seen at a different angle, and the design didn't look the same at all.

Ail day she pressed on without success -- computer records, files too old to be included on the disks -- or too new. She pulled anything that might be connected, but as they were fed through channels few of them panned out to even warrant sending out an investigator, and those that did had so far produced no positive results. The voice on the tape had been adjusted to normal speed, yet it still proved to be muffled and purposely indistinct, whispered rather than spoken. Nevertheless, there were hopes that someone hearing it on the news might catch a familiar tone.

She watched that night, as she ate a hurried dinner, anxious to get back to the stack of court records she'd brought home. There had seemed little to gain by not airing the tapes, and perhaps someone watching would make a connection with something they'd heard c, someone they knew.

By morning dozens of phone calls had come into the television stations and the police, and more man-hours were eaten up in what proved to be a tangle of useless leads. By the time she left the office Thursday night, there was a general air of frustration among everyone involved. All their efforts, all the many possibilities that had beckoned on Tuesday had left them no closer to a solution. Friday morning she had to be in court, but when she returned to the office she was greeted by a sense of restless tension.

"Nothing to do but wait now, Radcliffe. The guy's bound to come across with instructions pretty soon. You gonna be around this weekend?"

"I'm going out tonight. Joe." She hesitated. 'But, yes, I can stick closer to home after that, if you think this might break."

"I don't like to ask it of you, kiddo. I know you've been working overtime, but I didn't figure you'd want to be left out of the end game."

"No. It's my job. Ill be here, if you need me."

In fact, though the weekend was only hours away, it seemed insignificant. All that mattered was that tonight would be for the two of them -- alone with the music. As the hour drew closer she let the anticipation rise to consciousness, reveling in it. By the time she'd gotten ready and set out for the park, the sensation had engulfed her completely, hurrying her steps, quickening her pulse. Every nerve seemed sensitized, until the longing, always just below the surface, had become as much physical as spiritual, and she stopped at the threshold to take a deep breath, determined to regain some measure of composure.

She tripped the lever herself, just as he came into view at the far end, but this time she didn't wait. Letting the door slide shut, she ran to him, and halfway down the tunnel he caught her in his arms.

If her mad dash toward him, the fierce hug she was giving him now, surprised him, he gave no indication -- he only stood silent clasping her to his chest. But. of course, he knew. Perhaps part of what she'd felt in that exquisite yearning had been his. The possibility made her regard him almost shyly, as she pulled back to look at his face.

"I really needed to see you," she explained with an embarrassed laugh.

He didn't answer, but his eyes told her everything. What a marvelous language they spoke, she thought, one whose silent words made her feel at once helpless and indestructible.

"You look wonderful, Vincent." She took in the intricate, rugged appeal of his suede vest, tiered with leather fringe, the soft trousers that had probably once belonged to someone else, yet mysteriously fit as if tailored just for him. He had left his cloak behind. "And you, Catherine. You look.., lovely."

Her dress of palest jade had been chosen with the same care she would have taken to dress for a concert above. Far from being an excuse to wear whatever seemed practical, their private place for listening to the music made her doubly conscious of her appearance. She would he dressing just for him -- much more important than looking her best for a crowd of strangers. And if the dress got ruined by rain or dirt blown in through the grate above -- it would be well worth it, knowing that he found her lovely.

"The music will be starting soon." He slipped his hand from around her waist and lightly down her arm to take her hand, so that the contact between them was never broken. Nor did he take his eyes from hers, as they walked side by side. She had needed to see him, and she had needed this too, this ability he had to surround her with his presence, though he only held her hand. Was it because he always seemed to sense what she needed, no matter how subtle, or was he answering some need of his own that would not let him look away? She wasn't sure which thrilled her more and decided simply to enjoy the results.

"There's been so much rain, Vincent. Has it caused new problems?"

He shook his head. "Only exacerbated the old ones, but your work has been demanding, I know. Do you want to tell me?'

'I do. I want to tell you everything, but I'd rather wait till later. Right now, I don't want to think about anything but you . . . us. Do you mind?'

The tilt of his head told her the question was unnecessary. The expression in his eyes sent a fine line of crackling flame searing through the middle of her, and inevitably, he looked away.

He had already prepared the spot where they would listen to the performance. The rough floor was swept clean, though it must have been muddy. Funny how cold concrete and the steel bars of the grate above could look so inviting. Deep cushions and pillows had been arranged against the curve of the wall, and as he lowered himself gracefully, nestling her close beneath his arm. she thought no theater could ever match the splendor of this simple place; no architect could create an ambiance to match the aura of magnificence his presence gave to these humble surroundings.

Relaxing against him, she felt a deep contentment replacing any shred of stress, clearing the clutter from a mind that had been crammed full of facts and restless thinking such a short time ago. All week she had given her full attention to work; even at night the dreams that flickered through exhausted sleep had been full of legal papers and computer screens, anonymous rooms and the elusive voice of a criminal. Now she knew she couldn't enter that thicket of facts and theories, even if she tried. There was only an overriding peacefulness in the security of his arms around her, the serenity of his slow, quiet breathing. No doubt he felt an equal pleasure in her slight presence resting against him, although she couldn't imagine what she offered that could compare to what he gave.

Her thoughts flew with the music, free and undirected, yet always somehow including him, always conscious of the warmth of his hand on her arm, the places where their bodies touched. The way he let his mouth lightly skim across her hair had always been pleasurable to her, and for a long time she had taken it for an almost unconscious expression of affection. Because it was nothing more than that? Or because she hadn't allowed herself to enjoy it on a deeper level, hadn't dared to interpret it as a subtle form of lovemaking?

That it should seem so now no longer surprised her, no matter his intent. Since admitting -- to herself and to him -- the reality of her desire, she had become acutely aware of his ability to make love to her with his eyes, with his mesmerizing voice. Was it part of the mysterious power he wove so unselfconsciously or simply that, loving him completely, his every word and gesture seemed to speak to her of love? The questions floated on the night and the waves of melody from the orchestra above, the answers unimportant.

She tilted her head to look at him, and he had leaned his own against the wall, eyes closed, listening to the music. She smiled to herself, relishing this opportunity to look her fill on that face that was so often turned from her out of residual shyness or a hesitancy to expose his emotions.

"Chopin," he said softly.

"Yes," she responded. "It's beautiful." She knew he was aware of her watching him then, but the fact that he still hadn't moved or opened his eyes was encouraging, and she lightly touched his chin, letting her fingers float down the strong column of his neck. He caught her hand and for a moment held it there, then gently lowered it to rest between them, his fingers intertwining with hers. With a sigh she tucked herself under his arm again, and they remained quietly, happily letting the strains from the invisible instruments glide over them.

How often had they sat like this, their bond tranquil as a crystal lake, its ebb and flow calmed by their nearness? The first plaintive notes from a piano twinkled down from the open air above.

"The Pathetique," she whispered, her forehead against his cheek. "It's so lovely and so sad."

"I once thought so," he murmured.

Her head slipped back slightly along his shoulder, so she could look at him, and in his eyes there was no sadness. Magically, it had disappeared from the music as well, leaving only an exquisite, poignant beauty that hovered near perfection and found it in his kiss.

She answered his tenderness in kind, sweetly disoriented by his power to make her instantly weak and at the same time so suddenly strong that she felt she could do anything, that nothing was impossible. If the music had changed, she didn't notice. There was only the incredible taste of him, his touch, the pervading sense that their bond had become a tangible thing, their love a physical reality.

He didn't speak, yet the words chimed through her with every touch. His kisses were unhurried sometimes only the merest brush of her cheek, the soft exploratory tasting of the delicate spot beneath her ear that set her deliciously adrift on a sea the color of his eyes, until his mouth found hers again, and she was lost under the billowing waves. From time to time he would pull back to simply look at her, as if needing the confirmation that she was really there, that this silent communication that ran so deep, and seemed so dreamlike was not merely an illusion. He did so now, and she returned his gaze, surprised that her eyes had misted.

He tilted his head and whispered her name, but it was not a question. They were too finely tuned to each other for him to mistake her tears for sadness. Instead, the word was a comfort and a soft exclamation of wonder that her joy in this should be so intense. He released her hand to tenderly brush a single tear from her lashes. She smiled and caressed his cheek, leaning forward to gently kiss his nose, and then the cleft of his upper lip, wordlessly bestowing her love on the very features that set him apart, that he tried to hide from the eyes of the world, letting him know that her passion was for him alone.

He pulled her closer, and her fingers twined irresistibly in his hair. How blithely her body, that all her life had dutifully responded to her own commands, had abandoned its allegiance. From the first time they'd kissed, she'd become increasingly aware that it much preferred his control, that her responses had ceased to follow her own thoughts or even to take note of them. In some strange and delicious mutiny they now answered only to him, to the gentle tyranny of his kisses, the tantalizing strength of his caress.

Lost in the glory of him, she knew only the need to press closer, a need that was echoed in the deepening of their kiss, the seductive flames licking ever nearer, seeking to melt away all the barriers and fuse the two of them into one. If the music still played, it couldn't reach her; the rhythm that charged the air around them was theirs alone. There was only the pounding of his heart, as she sank beneath it, the splendor of his hair, tumbling around her face. Her rational mind, long obliterated under the tide of sensuality he had denied for so long, flashed the surprising realization that they no longer sat against the hard, cold wall, that at some point the hunger to touch more fully, the unquenchable thirst to pour into each other had carried them naturally into the welcoming depths of the cushions. The recognition faded, irrelevant beside the flood of desire that followed.

His kiss consumed all her attention until his hand slid from beneath her to her waist, slowly following the silken path of the dress to the curve of her hip. Never had he allowed himself so intimate a caress, and with the thrill of it burning through her came his awareness of what he was doing. She covered his hand with her own before he could pull it away. affirming his right to this caress, trembling with the shock of the possessiveness that spoke to her in his touch and at her own desperate longing to succumb to it.

But his fingers beneath hers were trembling as well, and he drew back. looking down into her face, his eyes stormy with conflicting emotions. He closed them briefly, as if the sight of her added to the confusion. When he opened them again, he drew in an unsteady breath and moved carefully away from her to lean back against the wall.

She stayed where she was, half reclining on the scattered cushions, attempting to regain some mastery over her rebellious body, her racing heart. She could see his chest rise with the deep breaths he took, sense his struggle to speak, but when he did, there was only the faintest tremor in the soft, powerful voice.

"Forgive me, Catherine -- please."

She fought to duplicate the control that had made his voice sound almost normal, "There's no need. You know that. Nothing you've done has brought me anything but joy, Vincent. Forgive you for what?"

He shook his head. He had drawn his knees up, arms lying across them, hands clasped together, as if not trusting them to obey  his commands. "Greed, Catherine . . . my greed."

"What makes you say that?'"

He still wasn't looking at her, but she had no sense that he was purposely withdrawing altogether, rather that he was struggling with some deep conflict, and she wanted only to help him see his way through it.

"These moments, Catherine. They seem miracles to me. I told you that I wanted only to savor them, to cherish them with gratitude, and yet I find myself wanting more.., wanting to take . . . more . . . when I should be merely thankful for these gifts, for what you give so unselfishly."  He finished, his head lowered, so that the light in the tunnel seemed brighter where it fell upon the shining hair.

Her first impulse was to fling ail the turbulence of her emotions between him and his self accusation, but she thought better of it. To overwhelm his doubts with passion would only force those doubts deeper into the darkness of his soul, where they could more surely take root. There was a chance that in the light they might be exposed as needless. He hadn't hidden them from her, hadn't turned and walked away, as he once might have done, to confront them in self-imposed isolation.

He had accepted his love for her, their bond, unquestioningly. without the need to explain it in logical terms. She thought now it was because those things had moved him ever closer to his most human qualities, his finest impulses, and he had known that. But desire, the power of his passion -- that must feel like a moving toward the blind, instinctual impulses he battled against. No wonder he distrusted them, that he felt compelled to balance them with a rational scrutiny.

She twisted slightly to lean on one elbow, looking up at him. "I don't think it's greed. Vincent, but if it is, it isn't yours -- or mine. It's love's."

The comment drew a sidelong glance, but he quickly looked away again, his breath catching in a soft plea, "Sit up, Catherine . . . please."

The fact that he didn't move to help her told her more than his words, and she eased herself, suddenly self-conscious, into a sitting position, not quite touching him, hoping to clear the path of his thoughts, but when he spoke again, they seemed to have taken a different direction.

"You came here tonight, dressed as you would for an evening above. You did that for me, I know. Up there, Catherine, you would be admired.., and someone . . . would take you anywhere you might choose to go, see to your comfort. You come here and I . . ." He shook his head again, still focused on his own clenched hands. "You deserve better than this. Catherine, than what I've brought you to. You do not belong on a gutter floor."

His disgust at this vision, his shame in the knowledge that he was responsible for it were evident in his voice, but the sharpness of her reply shook him from his self reproach, pulling him around to face her.

"Vincent, don't tell me where I belong."

She met his stricken gaze with unblinking defiance, until the pain she saw there softened her tone. "Where I belong is with you. Where you are is the most perfect place in the world to me -- whether it's a storm drain or a palace, I don't care. There's nowhere I'd rather be tonight, and I wouldn't trade a second of our time together for anything my world has to offer. You must believe that."

For a moment they hung in some delicate balance, and she wasn't conscious of holding her breath, until the torment in his eyes seemed to fade with the heavy sigh that left him, revealing the loving look she hungered for. He leaned back, opening his arms. and she moved closer to lay her head on his shoulder. Gradually, she felt his tension ebbing with her own.

So often it seemed in moments when they openly confronted the doubts and fears tangled in their relationship, a careful space was kept between them. Perhaps these painful exchanges would be soothed if they stayed close like this, reassured by each other's touch. "Vincent, what you said . . . about wanting more.., when . . . when you love me. You can tell that I long for that too, so why should it still be such a problem?"

His fingers that had been gently caressing her shoulder stopped, and for a moment she was afraid he couldn't deal with holding her close, when the conversation promised to be unsettling, but he didn't relinquish his hold, and after a hesitation, he answered. "Because in those moments there is a magic I never hoped to find. I can lose myself, Catherine -- in your kiss -- forget what I am and where I am. But for the first time there is no terror in that loss, no darkness. There is only you in a place I've never been before -- a place of beauty and light."

"I know," she breathed, slipping her arm around his neck, but he hadn't finished, and his next words were spoken with an effort, as if he hated having to say them.

"But I don't know the limits of that place, Catherine. With every step there is a danger of crossing those boundaries into a land of shadows."

"You're afraid of what might be hidden in those shadows?'

"No," he shook his head. "I know that darkness, Catherine. I've been there before. What I fear is taking you there with me. I will not do that." His voice had become almost inaudible. "I would die rather than do that."

She let her hand slide lightly down his chest to finger the long, leather fringe of his vest, choking back the rush of emotions that rose in her throat, taking time to gather her thoughts and the strength to speak in tones that would not reflect the pain of his tortured words.

This was the hardest issue to argue against, because all the knowledge of it was his. It was like tilting at windmills even to try, but he had progressed to talking about it openly, and at last she said, "I don't think that can happen, Vincent. I think we carry the light with us, and wherever we go, it will chase those shadows before us."

"Sometimes I think that's so," he admitted, a wistfulness in the low, musical tones of his voice. "But there is no way to be certain, and the risk is terrifying."

She released the soft strip of suede that played between her fingers to touch instead the softer skein of his hair, winding it around her finger like a golden band. "A few short weeks ago, Vincent, the smallest kiss seemed too great a risk and now . . . now we've come such a long way. You've enriched my life, given it a whole new dimension. There's been nothing harmful in it -- nothing. Maybe there are no limits. What we're feeling is all part of the same thing --a need to be as close physically as we are in every other way."