Cort made an immediate impression on me from the moment I set eyes on him. I had never met him before but I knew he would make some impact- a loose-hipped, gun slinging good guy like him descending on the narrow parochiality of the north of England? I was not disappointed. The guy just oozed through the crowd and left a stunned reaction in his oblivious wake. Like slo-mo, I watch him stride through the gate and the waiting throng; it brought a grin to my face. I also found myself biting the knuckle of my right hand. I'm not sure why.

I think he sussed me straight away. I was discreet but I suppose it had to be me, the only lone woman meeting someone. He strolled on up and gave a slight inclination of his head; if he had worn a hat he would have doffed it. I sensed the old world courtesy and loved it.

"Ma'am?"

"Cort. How wonderful to meet you at last! I'm Uma. Welcome to Britain!"

He smiled, a self-effacing smile, but not shy: "I'm mighty pleased to be here, Uma. I've only been here once before - never to the north."

We shook hands. I suppose that doesn't sound like me but I do know how to behave; I was well brought up. He really isn't the kind of man you grab and kiss; there is a reserve that needs respecting.

"Cort, I know you've had a long flight but could you stand another short one? I want to take you somewhere. It just seemed right for you. A little trip."

He shrugged. "Lead the way, ma'am. It's your call. Have I got to guess or will you tell me what you plan for me?" There was a glint of something in his eye, as if his question had more meanings than the surface one. I chose to play it straight.

"Dublin. It's a city I love. And I think a guy like you might feel at home there."

"Ireland. What have you got in mind, pretty lady?"

I just grinned and we strolled on to Domestic Departures.

I should have guessed. From the moment we checked in, the Aer Lingus ground staff (male and female) and later the air stewards made a beeline for us. Cort has that effect on women and, apparently gay men too. The flight lasted 35 minutes and I have never had better service even on long haul flights in Business class. Somehow I don't think I was the causal factor. Cort was unfailingly polite to everyone but he didn't overtly flirt with the hostesses, even those who all but propositioned him themselves. He might ooze sexual attraction but he did not appear to exploit it knowingly; it is merely an innate quality.

He stretched his long legs in front of him and relaxed, shook his hair back and sat easy as a cat, but with an almost visible awareness; you felt the feline instinct just below the surface always ready to spring. Cort is quite possibly the most beautiful man I have ever seen. As he closed his eyes, I stole the chance to observe him. His face, square jawed and tanned, cleft chinned (you know my weakness!) with a slight stubble set in a bronzed face lit by startling sea-green eyes and framed by wild chestnut hair. There is something animal-like about his grace and beauty, magnificent and untamed, unshaped by modern notions of perfection. He dresses easy, comfortable clothes that hang about his frame as if by chance: jeans, boots, black shirt, white T, and a worn suede jacket.

I swept my eyes down him and tried not to notice the puckered bulge in his groin. OK, I lie- I made a point of noticing it. He's a big boy, like all of them. No surprises there. His hands were crossed as if in prayer across his chest and I relished his thick fingers, noticing their surprising elegance- like the hands of a musician or an artist. I imagined them playing me and struggled to clear my vision. It was too soon. I didn't want more complications in life.

"You're not what I imagined." Cort suddenly spoke and I jumped, blushing slightly, wondering if he had been aware of my gauche staring.

"Why? What did you imagine?" I think I know but cannot resist the question.

"Someone more assertive, I guess. You give a more sassy image in your writing."

I raised my eyes. "All lies, I'm afraid. I'm just a big fraud. A quiet little mouse who pretends to be cool. Didn't take you long to suss me out."

"Oh, I don't think you're a little mouse. Just different." He let his eyes drop down me; I felt my heartbeat quicken. I had joked about jumping his bones the moment I saw him; sheer, uninhibited sex had been my aim - he must have read my comments. Why else would he nickname me Jezebel? Was that what he expected? It was funny how it seemed the last thing I wanted from him at the moment, now that he was here. I wanted to win his respect and friendship. I wanted him to call me another name than Jezebel.

We landed almost as soon as we had taken off; it really is a hop, skip and a jump from where I live. A totally fresh air greets you in Eire, how to explain it? A light in the eye and a spring in the step, lively banter and intelligence springs from these people. They are my people - although to them I am another Brit, wryly tolerated and secretly pitied - lacking in some fundamental gene for living life with passion. I smell the air of freedom.

I thought he noticed it too, smiled at the quips of Immigration officers.

"So you'll be from America, will you, sor? Back to find your roots or is it the craic you'll be after?"

Cort looked at me. "Crack? Like cocaine?" He asked in embarrassment. I giggled.

"No c-r-a-i-c. It means the wit and chatter of a night out on the town in Ireland. It's hard to translate. You'll know it when you find it. I promise!"

Taxi to the hotel. Charming driver, talked our socks down. " Honeymooners, will you be?" I blushed and Cort looked bashful.

"No, just friends," I reply. I catch Cort's eyes, he smiles. Yes, we will be friends.

"Dirty weekend, then. Ah, you've picked the wrong town. Too much going on outside the bedroom, you'll never get the business done!" He chuckled gaily.

I opened my mouth to reply but thought better of it. Somehow I knew I would probably make it worse. Cort looked out of the car window and suppressed a grin.

The Gresham Hotel. I had chosen it for several reasons. Firstly because I love its restored Victorian elegance and can imagine another world, a hundred years ago, when a struggle for freedom began in its reading rooms and halls. Parnell, Collins, De Valera, all the great names stayed there and met under its high domed ceilings. But I also thought it would recapture an age that Cort knew, if he had rarely been able to share in its luxury. A chance to enjoy the world denied to him by the harsh circumstances of his life. He viewed it with scarce concealed pleasure.

"Good afternoon, madam. Do you require a double room?" We stood at the reception and I paused. Well, did I?

"Er..."

Cort nudged my arm and turned me round to whisper in my ear. "If you're unsure, get two rooms. Don't feel obliged, ma'am."

And then he turned to the receptionist: "Two rooms, adjoining if possible."

I found myself breathing a sigh of relief. How strange. 

We settled in; I jumped on the bed and bounced a few times - I always do that in hotel rooms. Then I unpacked, took a shower and began to think about the evening, flicking through the hotel's Things to Do in Dublin guide. I knocked on the adjoining door and went in, presuming Cort had probably slept after his long journey. He had intended to get a few hours' shut-eye.

The bed was empty. Just then Cort walked through from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel round his waist, his hair wet from the shower. I stared open mouthed and then tried to excuse myself in my usual pathetic way, the one that usually digs me into a deeper hole.

He held up his hands. "Don't matter. I'm not shy. Got nothing to hide, darlin'. Seems to me like you've seen a naked man before. Reckon I won't shock you." And with a smile, he stripped off the towel and proceeded to dress. I tried to look away but I simply haven't got the self-control. My God, he is a sight for sore eyes: tall, muscular, bronzed - body like a Greek God, genitals to make any woman into Jezebel. I had to suppress a whine like a little puppy dog at the sight of such male perfection, innocently displayed. I knew for sure this wasn't some seduction technique. Cort is guileless.

I made a stab at conversation, still reeling from his image and wondering how Isobel bears to let him out of her sight. "Er...I was thinking, what d'you fancy doing tonight? You tired? Just take it easy?"

He slung on a pair of indigo blue jeans. I watched with fascination how he tucked himself into place and buttoned up - what is it about a man's hands and the fly of his pants? I just love to see them dress - almost as much as undress - but that's another story. "I slept well on the plane. Got upgraded - real kind lady at check-in put me in First Class. Had a quick nap just then. No, honey, I'm cool. You just show me the sights." Cort pulled on a white T-shirt and then a V-necked black velour jumper. He shook his hair and messed it up with his hands.

"Want me to dry your hair? There's a hairdryer in the dressing table drawer."

Cort looked at me "Dry my hair?" like as if I had asked him to wear makeup or lady's underwear. He isn't a guy to waste much time on his appearance.

"Just to speed things up. Cort, it's cold out there. You'll catch pneumonia if you go out with damp hair." I sounded like my mother and was surprised that he made me want to look after him. It isn't a natural instinct for me. This man was having an unusual effect - but then, I had been warned.

He shrugged. " OK. Just nothing fancy, huh?"

I giggled and sat him down on the stool and grabbed the dryer. His hair feels wonderful: really thick and glossy, wild and unrestrained. Sort of like the rest of him. I scrunched my fingers through it and let the warm air play with the silken locks, making no attempt to discover a style- I wanted nothing more than to see its natural fall and feel its erotic thickness in my hands. All the while, Cort watched me in the mirror with a look, which said both 'what are you up to?' and ' et off my hair' like a little boy who doesn't want his Mum to fuss him.

I leaned in on his shoulders and felt the warmth and latent strength of his body; it was an intoxicating intimacy and yet, it didn't feel sexual. I couldn't understand it. I wanted to look at him and admire him like a beautiful work of art but felt no desire to have sex with him; somehow that seemed inappropriate and sordid with this pure man.

"See, now isn't that better!" I switched off the dryer and he ran his hands through his hair and growled slightly. It was extremely charming.

"So where to first?" He asked me as he slung on his suede jacket and found his wallet. I almost expected him to buckle on a gun-belt. God, would that have been a thrill and a half!

"Something to eat. Traditional fare, I reckon, and then a pub crawl. It's the only way to see Dublin.

"Crawl? We have to crawl?"

"Only home, sweetie. It's just the idiom we use for a night on the booze. Booze...drink...you follow?"

He laughed. "Yeah, the Creator's tastes are somewhere in my mix."

"Just no fighting in any men's rooms, OK?" I giggled.

"Don't worry, darlin'. I always see it coming!" I'll bet he does. 

So we went to dinner. Found a restaurant that specialised in traditional Irish fare. Cort was impressed by the menu: plain and wholesome, much like the food he must have known. He chose ribs and cabbage, served with mountains of buttery mashed potatoes; I had beef and oysters stewed in Guinness.

"You sure about those oysters, Uma?" Cort teased.

"Hey, man, as long as at least one of them works," I retorted. But it was idle flirting, not a come on. I felt safe and unthreatened with him.

And then we hit the town. Boy, does that city jump at night! We toured O'Connell's Street and then the streets that led off, sampling the wares of different kind of hostelries: little corner pubs, big theme bars, modern steel and wood chic, spit and sawdust saloons. I introduced him to Guinness. He instantly got a taste for it. Everywhere we went we fell into conversation with other drinkers; the big handsome cowboy fitted right in with the local boys - and can you see any woman not noticing him, especially Irish girls with their roving eyes and bold moves?

"So you're a Yank, are ya?" A green-eyed redhead with fair skin and freckles, a typical Dublin temptress, wandered over from the next table.

"Suppose I am."

"What part of the States d'ye hail from?"

"California." He kept it simple.

"I'd have taken you for a Texan. You look more like a cowboy. Bet you know how to ride 'em."

Cort smirked and downed his pint. I gave her that 'push off, love' warning but she merely laughed and snuggled in beside him on the bench. He gave me a helpless look, but was clearly enjoying himself. So was I.

At Kehoe's, there was a live band playing traditional music, shades of Christy Moore. A couple of fiddles, guitars, penny whistles, accordion, Borrain drum and the Uilleann pipes - Cort was intrigued by the sound and his foot was tapping. This was music he could relate to. He must have heard plenty of the fiddle in his youth. We sat and listened to the mixture of old traditional songs of leaving Ireland, famine, the loss of homeland - the usual heartrending ballads of pain and suffering intermixed quite ludicrously with country western favourites- Kenny Rogers' staples and the like. The Irish are such a crazy melange of passion and trite sentimentality.

The soloist launched into an old ballad I knew from Christy Moore's arrangement. I had always liked it but this time the lyrics suddenly struck me. I guess I was well on the way to maudling after God knows how many pints of Guinness and Bushmill chasers. The song was 'The lakes of Pontchartrain'. I suddenly realised where it was set. The words burned into me. It is about a traveller leaving New Orleans who meets a Creole girl by the lakes of Pontchartrain and falls in love with her. I saw Cort's glance; he had recognised the words too, and of course he knew the place- he had been there so recently. His arm circled me and his lips found my forehead.

"It's just a song. He'll be home soon."

Then the final verse began; we both listened and burst out laughing at the same time.  I had forgotten the punch line. Uncanny. So Jack was always the third wheel, was he?

I asked her if she'd marry me
She said that ne'er could be
For she had got a lover and he was far at sea.
She said that she would wait for him and true she would remain
Till he'd return to his Creole girl
On the lakes of Pontchartrain.

"Have you ever noticed how just when you need it, you hear a song, or read a passage or someone just says something and it sort of helps? Why is that?" I wondered out loud.

"Some would say that was God's help. He uses mysterious ways to reach us." Cort quietly stated.

I thought about his words. "Some would say fate. Coincidence. Or that we just hear what we want to hear."

He shrugged. "What makes you feel better? Does it matter?"

"True. As long as you feel better. That's the main thing." I raised my glass and clinked his. "Slainte*, Cort. Here's to feeling better." He repeated my toast and we downed our whisky. I was going to regret this in the morning.

Our final call was to Mulligan's. It is a dance hall. There has been a resurgence in Irish dancing in Ireland since Michael Flatley brought step dancing into the world's spotlight with Riverdance. As a child, I was a cup winning dancer- my Irish cousins didn't know a step. Culture is always more valued by exiles than by those born into it. Now, however, it is thought to be sexy again. What a way to end the night- Cort, wild fiddle music and set dancing. We were going to have a hooley!

Cort is a natural dancer. Moves like a cat, arms strong enough to hold any woman, balance enough to swing a girl off her feet. Irish set dancing is much like square dancing, except more complex and no one calls the moves. But we managed. We danced the Siege of Ennis, a dance I remembered from Church hall Ceilidhs in my girlhood, and we tripped the light fantastic. At the end of the set dance comes the swing. Nothing is quite like being swung by an Irishman- except perhaps being swung by the fucking padre. Gripped around your waist with his left hand, right hand holding yours, you cling to his shoulder with your one free hand and pray. Your partner takes his stance, right foot as pivot, left a wheel and then you go. Faster and faster as the music builds, like whirling dervishes, he spins you round on the one fixed spot until your legs lose contact with the floor and only his holding arms anchor you to safety. Many is the time I have seen girls launched into space and sliding down the dance floor, modesty forgotten, spinning from the impetus of the turn. But Cort would never drop me or lose his balance; I relaxed into his solid grip and let myself fly. That's Cort for you. He would never let you fall.

Slowly he returned me to the ground and we spun at a more leisurely pace to a gentle stop. My hair was wild and my face flushed. This is what dancing is about; a man and woman moving in wild abandon flaunting their charms before each other - an age old mating game. Our eyes shone and our bodies bore the impression of each other - intoxicating and heady with the possibility of completion to follow. He had shown his strength, his tenderness and his power. I had given my body to his care and shown my uninhibited joy in his presence. All that remained was to consummate that potentiality. Was I ready to do so?

It was late, past one o'clock and we took a taxi back to the hotel. We were both a little high, a combination of drink and euphoria. It had been a great night and I felt as if I had known Cort all my life. But as we neared the moment of decision, I felt unsure. Stealing a glance at him in the taxi, I could not read his expression. He smiled back, steady green eyes crinkling. What did he expect from me?

Crossing the foyer, I noticed that the bar was still open. Ireland is like that. If there are drinkers around then the bar will serve. "Come on! Let's have a nightcap. One last whisky. Or maybe a Gaelic coffee?" Was this a delaying tactic? Probably.

I pulled him by the hand and we settled down to our steaming cream and whisky-laced coffees. Just then a large party arrived. It was a band, the background musicians for Mary Black, a well-known Irish singer, just in from New Year celebrations in New York. They saw the bar was open and in they piled. Within five minutes, their instruments were out and an impromptu session was underway. The few other night owls in the bar were pulled into the fun and we soon found ourselves in the midst of the festivities. I was persuaded to dance a hornpipe - wonder if Jack would like my hornpipe? - and then someone handed Cort a guitar and he joined in with a ballad that one of the men was playing. The next thing I knew was when someone said, "OK, cowboy, gives us a song," and he did. I sat cross-legged on the plush hotel carpet at three in the morning and listened to him sing and strum "Shenendoah", that haunting elegiac lament to the passing of the old days. It sent shivers down my spine to hear his deep soft voice glide over the lyrics and watch his sure, strong hands make tuneful music on his guitar. I felt tears prick my eyes. He has such a beautiful heart.

"Your turn." Cort looked at me. "Sing something that means something to you."

Whatever Terry says - I can sing. Always have been able to- I come from a musical family where everyone takes turns to entertain at family gatherings. I wondered what I should sing that they might know - and then it came to me. "Leaving London" I announced and Mick, the lead guitarist launched into the intro.

There's a dark and rolling sea between my true love and me
I've been walking through this cold dark town
While I wait for better days, I could use a place to stay 
somewhere that I could lay my burden down...

It was a sentimental ballad, but in keeping with the tone of our evening. I finished, received the whisky-loosened applause and then Cort whispered "Time to lay your burden down, Uma. Let's go upstairs." I was dead on my feet as well as unsteady. He supported me with his arm as we made our farewells and wandered slowly through the dimmed lights of the foyer to the lifts. Cort escorted me to my door and helped me fit the key card into the lock- the manoeuvre was more than I could manage at the time.

"Are you gonna be all right, darlin'?" he asked.

I looked up at him. My ability to think clearly was long gone. "Will you stay with me tonight? I don't want to be alone," I replied. The words seemed to come from far away.

He cleared his throat. "I don't think that's what you really want, honey. You've drunk too much. Tomorrow you don't want to have any regrets."

I suppose I was in that stage of inebriation when high spirits are giving way to melancholy; the tears started up. He picked me up and carried me inside, lying me on the bed and taking off my shoes.

"Come on now, swing those legs over into bed. Take your jeans off and slip under the covers. You'll feel better in the morning." I let him undress me like a little child and cover me up. Reaching out, I  slipped my arms around his shoulders, forcing him to lie beside me. I'm not sure what happened next. I seem to remember crying in his arms and he was comforting me but the next clear memory was finding myself tucked up alone and daylight streaming in my window. It was ten-thirty in the morning.

I sat up. My head was thumping and my mouth was dry. Staggering to the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror- not a pretty sight- and drank several glasses of water. Peeling off my underwear, realising that Cort must have undressed me and put me to bed, I took a shower and let the warm jets revive. Dried and dressed, I rang room service and ordered a late breakfast for two. The door between our rooms was ajar- he must have left it open in case I was ill in the night - so I peeped in and saw him still sleeping, lying peacefully, face down and spread out across the big bed.

When room service knocked, I brought the trolley into my room, signed and sent them away. Then I wheeled it into his room and sat on his bed to wake him up. I should have remembered his reflexes. As soon as my slight weight depressed the bed, he rolled over and woke with a start. I gasped at the speed of his movement; he held his hands up in apology. I smiled back.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. It's quite late. I thought you might want breakfast."

He rubbed his hands down his unshaven face and shook sleep from him. I wondered if he had an early morning hard on and struggled not to stare at his groin. I cannot help myself. Ask Darcy - I just have a gutter mind. Caught it from her.

"Breakfast? Sounds good. I could eat a man and his horse," he muttered.

I giggled. "Sorry - all I have is bacon and eggs and the usual trimmings. It'll have to do!"

We sat on his bed and tucked in, flicking though the morning papers and discussing snippets of news as if we were an old married couple. It felt so comfortable and right. Even when he jumped out of bed, stark naked, to take a leak, it seemed a natural thing for him to do. When he returned and eased himself into his jeans, I lay across his bed on my front, reading the paper.

"Cort, was I very pissed last night? I don't remember you putting me to bed."

He settled down next to me. "Some. You were rambling a bit."

"Rambling?"

"Yeah, you know how it is. Trying to tell me all your secrets. Didn't make much sense. But the name Terry kept featuring in it and then usually a few tears." He smiled. " In vino veritas, as they say."

"You know Latin?" I was surprised.

"I was a priest. Had to know some."

"Of course. Yes, truth in wine. Maybe. Hope I didn't say anything private."

He shrugged. "I've heard worse."

"In confession?" He nodded.

"Bound by the sanctity of your vows not to reveal what you are told?" Another nod.

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned..." I began to intone the usual opening to a confession.

"No, Uma," he warned, " I'm no longer a priest. I broke my vow."

"But you would never tell. Cort, I need someone to talk to. There are things on my mind."

So, for the first time in many years, I confessed my sins and sought absolution from this former priest. He listened, holding my hand, and truths came pouring out like a tidal wave.

"So, what's my penance? How many Hail Marys must I say? How many nights on my knees?"

Cort smiled, a sad and weary smile. "You have nothing to say sorry for. You have done nothing wrong."

"Then why am I riddled with guilt?"

"We Catholics do it very well. Once I was like that. But I had done real bad things - things that had to be atoned for. Guilt swamped my life until I realised that there are many ways to serve God. I had run from life to hide from what I'd done. But it's only in facing what you are that redemption truly can be found. I was never cut out to be a priest. I belong to the world of men, the world of the flesh. We can't fight our nature, Uma, nor should we."

"We can't just take what we want without consequence. I'm struggling with that notion. Part of me is full of curiosity and an urge to live life to the full. Another part of me is reluctant to take that step in case I fall too far. And then there are other people to whom I owe my loyalty. Can I risk losing their trust?"

He rolled over to lie on his back. "You are a woman of sensuality. Why should you repress that part of you as if it were a curse or something to be ashamed of? Our bodies are our greatest gift from God. To use them to give pleasure is the ultimate offering."

"That's what the Greeks believed."

"That's what Maximus believes." He said the name pointedly. "He has no Christian guilt."

"But plenty of Stoic self control." I reminded.

"Will you ask to see him?"

I paused. "Yes."

Cort nodded. "Good."

"You approve?"

"I understand. I've been there. You need to get him out of your system.You are part of this world now. Play by the new rules. Find out about your true desires. And then come home to the one you love."

"Love the pudding you're with."  I grinned at the memory of that quote.

"Huh?"

"To paraphrase Jack's cookbook."

Cort groaned. "Don't tell me you've got that fucking cookbook too! I'm not eating anymore of that suet shit."

I giggled. "No. It doesn't intrigue me quite as much as  some of the others - I grew up with some of those recipes. Yuk! But I like the analogy. Love the one you're with, Cort."

I threw the newspaper to the floor and rolled above him, lying on his chest. He sighed and rested back on the pillows, his eyes raised to the ceiling. It was a familiar pose. I could not resist the urge to give this man some loving. My hands found his buttons and I deftly opened them. I took his impressive manhood in my hands and freed it from its denim prison. Already growing hard, it twitched in my hand as I jerked it softly. Cort moaned and gripped the bed head with his hands; he was not going to resist me. He must have wanted this all along and yet had never pushed for it or tried to take advantage.

We have all wanted to do this, haven't we, Sisters? Ever since we saw the film (we Europeans never had to put up with missing scenes!) and independently came to the conclusion that the snippet of oral satisfaction was probably one of the most erotic sex scenes ever shown, we have wanted to be on the giving end of that act. And Cort was made to be fellated. What a tool he possesses, thick and hard and long, velvet wrapped steel, resting on iron balls in a furry silken purse, framed with a thicket of dark golden brown hair! It begs to be stroked and licked and tasted. It responds to your tender care like a sentient being, alive in your caress. And this beguiling man, gentle, brave and awesome becomes a helpless slave to his own virility. My God, I have never known a man so affected by a woman's intimate kiss. The knowledge of that alone would make the possession of him desirable, apart from all the other joys of loving him this way.

I tasted his salty trickle, flickered my tongue in his little hole and heard his gasp. I ran my tongue beneath his swollen head, under the purple ridge and sucked lightly upon the tender juncture of skin and flesh; he jumped and raised his hips towards me instinctively. My tongue traced down the throbbing vein and swirled around his girth, kissing every centimetre of him, nothing to be missed out. He was thrusting now, his breathing heavy and deep, trying to begin his struggle for release. I wanted to do everything I could to bring him there.

"O sweet Lord," I heard him moan when I weighed his balls in my hand and rolled them softly as I sucked.

"Jesus Christ!" He muttered as I massaged the sensitive muscle at the joining of his cock and sac.

"God Almighty!" Cort groaned as I pressed my finger down the tender area behind his balls and raised the tempo of my sucking, lightly placing pressure with my teeth at intervals.

But when I licked my finger, found his tight hole and began to massage my entry, I knew he was lost. His let out a deep groan, his belly tightened against me and he exploded, sending rivers of his creamy gift down my throat. 

I relaxed and swallowed, tasting his sweetness as he sank weakly in my arms. I knelt before him, bent down and kissed his shrinking cock; returned it to his jeans, buttoning him up and sinking down to lie on his lap. It was a silent moment. Nothing to be said. His hand stroked my hair. We lay like that for some time.

I rose and made as if to slip from the bed. With a flick of his wrist, he caught my hand and pulled me down against him.

"No. Stay by me. I want to love you, sweet woman. Lie with me until I can."

I knelt by his side and ran my hands through his hair. "No, Cort. I'm not ready. Give me time. But I'm getting there."

He nodded and let my hand go. "You know, Uma, you might have just shot a hole right through my self-esteem. You saying I can't match up to Arthur?" He grinned and I howled with laughter.

"Wait until I tell Superdick that one- he will love it!" Then I grew serious. "This is different, Cort. You are a dangerous man to know. I must keep a watch on my heart."

"That makes two of us, sexy lady. Seems like you can find your way into a man's heart pretty darn easy."

"Don't exaggerate, you smoothie. My skill lies more into finding my way into a man's pants. Don't let your satisfied dick lead you by the nose. You and me are not going to walk down that road. We are going to be friends. Real true friends. I won't compromise that for a quick shag - you're not that kind of man."

"And you're no Jezebel, Jezebel. But the name kind of suits you. Mind if I stick with it?"

"And I ain't no Virgin Mary either!" I joked but then I changed my mood.  " 

"Terry's a lucky man. He's a friend. I'm glad he's found something real at last. Thought he would never find what he wanted. Or even know what he needed." Cort smiled at me.

"You are better for me than a rest cure, Cort, my main man. Let's get our coats on and catch the air. Do you fancy a wild and windy walk by the sea? I'll take you to Bray Head and we will brave the wintry blasts. You can give me some more of your spiritual guidance and then I'll ply you with more earthly spirits in a local bar and we can eat sea food for lunch. How's that grab you?"

"We just had breakfast. How can you be thinking of food again? It isn't just Jack that is obsessed with food then? Is it some British thing?"

"Sea air, sweetie. Works up an appetite. Jack knows a thing or two about that."

"Works up an appetite for more than food," he muttered grudgingly as he found his shirt and jumper.

"Ooh, bitchy! So padre, you are not always so sweet-tongued. I like that in a man. I cannot abide goody goodies. I like my men sassy and hard to handle. Gives me something to work on..."

"Makes them sound like a horse you plan to break. You'll have your work cut out with Thorne, though. He's never going to be tamed completely."

I gave him a knowing wink. "Just what good to me is a docile gelding? You want tough guy, you gonna get tough guy. I'll take my chances."

We pulled on our coats; I wrapped a scarf round his neck. "You are going to be cold, boy. Do you moan like he does?"

"No, ma'am. I'm real tough. Not pretend modern soldier boy tough." He boasted with a grin.

"Pissing contests. Jeez! Bet you've never dug a tattoo out with a stone. Reckon Max could win the hard man contest hands down"

We left the room still arguing. "You setting us up, Uma? Want a competition? We all challenge each other until one emerges supreme? The Hard Man of Perve world? What would that do to precious little Arthur's ego?"

"He might win. He's got hidden depths. Rank outsider. He'll let all you tough guys cancel each other out and then come up quietly on the ropes. My money's on Arthur. King Arthur of Perve World! You could all be the Knights at his Round Table."

"Has anyone ever told you, you are completely mad?" Cort grabbed me and tickled me as we were in the lift.

"Stop that! I'm ticklish. It's not just me. Terry has a fantasy of all us Sisters in a wet T-shirt competition. Just cos he knew I'd lose."

Cort laughed. I laughed. We hit the street still laughing.

We spent a couple of days in Dublin and then flew back home to Manchester. It was a gentle, warm time. Cort and I spent hours chatting and laughing. I showed him round my city, so different from any place he had ever visited before. The physical intimacy that we had shared was not repeated. I'm not sure why; it just didn't come between us again. Cort and I spent many evenings sprawled on the couch watching TV or DVDs, close and affectionate, but it led to nothing but amicable companionship. We slept separately although I usually bounded in and jumped on his bed in the mornings while we sat and discussed what we wanted to do that day. I guess an unspoken bond had formed between us; our intimacy was of the heart not of the body. I knew that I could tell this man anything and he would answer me straight. It was worth more than gold to have his trust.

We were flying back on the same day- he to California, me to Malaysia. His flight left first. We sat in a café in the departure lounge, a little quiet, a little thoughtful. I would miss him and I hoped he would sometimes think about me. I was unsure when I would see him again. He knew I was anxious to see Terry and I saw in his eyes how much he was missing Isobel. It was time for us both to go home. They called his flight; he gathered his hand luggage and slung it over his shoulder. We walked hand in hand to the gate.

The corridor was relatively quiet. I didn't want him just to go without some special farewell. Did he have any idea how much he had touched my heart?

"Cort? Can you just stop a moment?" He put down his bag and turned to hold me; he rested me back against the wall.

"Let's say goodbye properly," he murmured and he kissed me tenderly, holding my head in his hands, stroking my face with his thumbs. My heart skipped at beat at the gentle touch. When our lips separated, he smiled and I buried my head against his shoulder, hugging him to me and feeling his strong body in my arms. Then I knew what I wanted to say to him. It just seemed right.

Pulling his head to my ear, I softly sang a prayer I remembered from long ago. It was called "A Celtic Farewell.

He smiled and ran his knuckles down the side of my face, whispered, "Adios, Jezebel!" Picking up his bag, he strolled through the gate, leaving me with a lump in my throat and a single tear running down my cheek. Until he disappeared from sight, I watched him go