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As if reading my mind, she said, "I so seldom seem to be out during the day, you know." Then she looked at me and smiled and said, "But no, how could you know?" Wanton angel was the description my feverish mind conjured up.All I was capable of was to stand there benumbed and stare at her perfect, beautiful, almost flawless features. Her dark as midnight hair blew in gentle in the breeze, tag ends lifting and waving, to come to a rest as the gentle winds blew for a moment and stopped, only to blow another gentle breath once more.The simple nearly transparent shift she wore was loose fitting and hung on her in soft folds that left little to the imagination. It was of such light and diaphanous material as to show more than it covered. It was very obvious that she had nothing on under it. There was a faintly dark smudge of a tiny black triangle where her legs made their juncture. Pink aureoles peered faintly through the thin material at me. I ached as I stared at the most exquisitely. He knew it would kill him to stay away from her, to wait for her to initiate contact, because what if she didn’t? He knew her well enough to know that fear, pride and pure stubbornness had often prevented her from doing things that would, to her twisted way of thinking, make her appear vulnerable. He was prepared to face the real possibility that that could happen now. I may never see her again, he dropped into a chair in front of the fireplace and stared at the leaping flames glumly. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there when he heard a light rap on the door to his room. An annoyed Aidan wrenched open the door and glared at the person who dared to interrupt him while he was stewing in his anger and self-pity. It was French. ‘Hi. I’m back,’ she said cheerfully. He dragged her inside and slammed the door behind her. ‘Where were you? Did you go see Nicolàs?’ he sneered. Her friend’s name sounded foul the way Aidan said it. She drew back from him in surprise and distaste..
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