Running Hot

his. He savored the knowledge that she was linked to him, whether she knew it or not.
    Forty-eight hours, that was all the time they’d had together. How could he be so sure that he would think about her, yearn for her, want her for the rest of his life, even if he never saw her again? How the hell did that work?
    But there was no time to think about it because Grace was undoing the fastening of his pants. When he felt her fingers on his erection, cupping him, the lazy heat of his arousal flashed into a wildfire. Her hand tightened around him in response.
    He opened her shirt and discovered that sometime during the night she must have removed her bra. He was sure she had been wearing one earlier. He covered her breasts with his palms. The feel of her firm small nipples against his bare skin was exciting beyond belief.
    He left her shirt hanging loose and reached down to undo her trousers. By the time he got them pushed to her ankles, she was shivering and whispering his name. Most of all she was touching him everywhere. Her hands glided over his thighs and chest and shoulders as though he was some rare and extremely valuable work of art.
    “So good,” she said, kissing his shoulder. “It’s so good to be able to touch you like this.”
    “I like it that you like touching me.” He captured her face in his hands and raised his head to meet her eyes. “But the thought of you touching anyone else like this would make me crazy.”
    “The only man I want to touch right now is you.”
    “That’s not quite what I want to hear but we can talk about it some other time.”
    “I don’t understand—”
    “Doesn’t matter. Not now.”
    He grabbed the cane, caught hold of her wrist and led her into the gleaming marble-tiled bathroom. There he got both of them out of the rest of their clothes and into the rain forest of a shower.
    He lowered himself onto the built-in seat and eased her down so that she could ride him astride. He made love to her beneath the artificial waterfall until they were both locked together in hot climax.
    Whatever else happened between them, he thought, she would not forget him.
    Sometime later she stood in front of the steamy mirror, a huge white towel wrapped around her breasts, another around her wet hair. She felt energized. Invigorated. Who needed a full night’s sleep?
    Luther was shaving beside her, a towel draped around his waist. She met his eyes in the foggy glass.
    “It was a fight,” she said.
    He grinned. “We should do that more often.”

TWENTY-TWO
    The housekeeper was humming. She pushed her cart past Grace and continued down the hallway. The melody sounded vaguely familiar. Grace found herself trying to identify it. The harder she concentrated, the more intricate and compelling the tune seemed to become.
    The song was definitely not from the contemporary pop repertoire. Not classic rock, either. It was far more elaborate and sophisticated; an aria from an opera, perhaps.
    She wondered how many housekeepers hummed opera. Someone had certainly missed her calling. Then again, perhaps the woman sang professionally. Maybe housekeeping was just her day job.
    The humming echoed softly in the corridor, growing ever more illusive and more intriguing as it faded.
    Music was a form of energy. It acted directly on all the senses and across the spectrum. The proof was evident everywhere. It could stir the passions, excite the nerves or send adrenaline rushing through the veins. Some religions feared its power to such an extent that they tried to ban it. Others harnessed its unique energy to exult and glorify their deities. Music could throw an intoxicating spell over crowds, drawing people to their feet and compelling them to discharge the energy in the form of motion; dancing.
    Music could make you want to focus on something very important. Name that tune.
    An odd chill fluttered through Grace. It suddenly seemed very important that she identify the housekeeper’s song. She had attended the opera on several occasions over the years. The over-the-top emotions of the stories appealed to her primarily because she had always been so careful to control her own passions. The singers’ astonishing ability to project their impossibly gorgeous voices to the farthest corners of a three-thousand-seat theater without the aid of microphones never failed to amaze her. But she was not a dedicated fan. She lacked an intimate acquaintance with the music. She had heard the housekeeper’s piece