London and Rome.

"I'm off to Rome at the weekend for a dinner. Have to make a speech at the British School. Some old codger retiring. Join me, Anna? You'd make a beautiful and knowledgeable escort." Stephen had asked her Friday morning as she brought him a coffee. She was no longer with Ferrier and Romney. Stephen had given her a much better offer and she was now his PA. They worked from an office in his Bloomsbury home.

"Sounds fun. Rome must be an oven at this time of year. Better bring some sun block," she retorted as she sifted through mail and threw over those that Stephen needed to answer personally.

"Not fun. Tedious as hell, I would imagine, but they're paying for the best so let's enjoy ourselves, huh? I was thinking The Hassler Villa Medici. Discreet, elegant and very well placed. I hate those monstrosities of modern hotel chains. Two rooms, of course. Perhaps a suite?" he mused as he read through letters and made notes in the margin in his impatient scrawl.

Anna dropped her eyes to her lap and picked at her fingernails. She should say something. This was a perfect opportunity to let him know that she was ready for their friendship to take a step forward.

"Stephen?" Then she stopped, unsure how she could put this in way that did not seem tawdry.

"Hmmm?" He raised his head and smiled over absently. "Something the matter?'

She shook her head. "No...it's just that....Stephen, maybe you would like to take another woman? I don't quite know how to say this but - surely you'd like a weekend away to mean a little more than just a sedate stroll around the sights with me and an early night..."

He laughed. "Your concern for my sex life is very touching, Anna. I want to go with you because I want to go with you. If I want to scratch an itch, there are other ways to do it. Quicker and without the need to have to put up with mindless drivel from some empty-headed bimbo for a whole three days in such a beautiful setting made for a woman of far greater elegance than that..."

Annie suppressed a grin; Stephen never had a problem with direct speech. "That's very kind of you, Stephen. I'd love to go with you." She stopped and then blurted it out in an embarrassed rush. "Perhaps one room would suffice? Or a smaller suite?"

There. She had said it. It hadn't been so bad, despite the fluttering of her heart. Stephen's head shot up, the supercilious manner gone in an instant. "Really? Does this mean....?" He stood up and rounded his desk, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. His hand reached out to stroke her cheek tenderly. "It would be the greatest honour if you would spend the weekend with me in the full intimate sense of the word. I've wanted nothing else for so long..."

"...I know," Annie pulled away slightly, embarrassed by his closeness, but he drew her back in, bending his lips to kiss her ear and flicker his tongue over the sensitive place beneath. She controlled the desire to shudder. He took her slight shiver as a sign of pleasure.

"I'll give you such a time as you have never known, Anna. You won't regret this!"

"I know." She gave another curt response as his lips found hers and he nibbled at them, his tongue tickling her sensuously, opening her mouth as he took little bites and tastes before moving on for a more full bodied kiss.

She let him hold her and made a pretence of response. It would come, she told herself. It was nerves that were making her so frigid at his touch. As he released her she moved her head back gratefully and looked at him, feeling self-conscious. "You've been so good to me, Stephen, and I have given you so very little in return. But I feel ready now. I do care for you, so much, you know?"

He smiled and held her face in his hands. "I know you don't love me as I love you but I believe that will come in time. You've been so long in that place where he left you, it's numbed you emotionally. I swear I'll set you free and then you'll rediscover what it is to love. And, Anna? You've given me so much already. Your body will simply be the final gift. Worth waiting for. Believe me!"

She wanted to believe him. More than anything she wanted to make a life with a man who cared for her and made her happy. But the ghost of her past would not let her go. Terry was still out there somewhere on the fringes of her psyche. Perhaps Stephen was right and this was the way to exorcise his memory forever.

The outward journey was wonderful. First class seats on BA, chauffeured limo to the Hassler, and an exquisite suite with a corner view over the Spanish Steps. It was the sort of trip she had taken for granted with Terry but had not experienced for a long time now and it felt both obscenely indulgent to be back in the land of luxury expense accounts as well as acutely sad that the man in the outer room was not the man she wished it to be. It would have been so wonderful to have stayed here with Terry - and then she was grateful the next instant that she hadn't. Imagine the difficulties she would be having now had they made love in this room where she was planning to have sex with another man?

Standing alone on the small balcony, leaning on the wrought iron railing intricately decorated with flowers, she took a deep breath of the hot humid air of high summer in Rome and prayed for calm, feeling the onset of another panic attack. Stephen came out to join her; she felt the cool blast from the interior air conditioning when he opened back the door to step out. His arms slipped round her waist and held her against him, his hands cupping her breasts and massaging her nipples softly. It was the first time he had ever touched her sexually. His head dropped to her neck; he buried his face in her hair. "I want you so much I can barely stand it. I have dreamed of this moment for so long..." he whispered.

Annie closed her eyes. What woman would not want to hear such things from a man like Stephen who had been her close companion for so long, a wonderful friend and raconteur, the perfect gentleman for all his rakish charm? He was handsome, witty, urbane, sexy, desirable and much admired by women all over. And his touch made her feel sick. She tried to get a grip, imagining herself a courtesan of the past, no difficult matter in this former Medici palace high on a hill in Rome. How many beautiful women had closed their eyes and accepted the attentions of benefactors they did not desire in this very room down through the years?

It was only sex. She had had sex with men she did not love before in her life. Perhaps not for a long time, but she knew it was possible. She had almost gone to bed with that stupid young masseur in the health club last year and would have done so had he not turned out to have been a gigolo. So it shouldn't be difficult to do this with Stephen Lessing, a man she liked very much.

Or was that the problem? Her feelings for him were real but bloodless. There was no fire in her belly when she was with him. A totally impersonal encounter might have been far easier than this.

"You want to bathe? Anna, would you share a bath with me? The tub here's enormous and quite disgustingly OTT." Stephen drew her closer and let his hand wander down her slim frame, lust now blatant in his pale blue eyes. "I want to see you naked," he whispered. "I want you to show me what you like. Tell me, Anna. It's important that we set a mood of sensuality and take this slow. Come...?" He held out his hand and she took it, allowing herself to be led back inside. She would do as he wanted. She could do this thing. In the end it would make things better.

Sunset. Friday. Magaluf, Mallorca.

The nightclub was heaving, people pressed together in a writhing orgasmic mass of sweat, alcohol and pounding sound, the deafening rhythm louder than the music itself, reverberating through bodies like a primal language. Magaluf at two a.m. in the morning, the answer to every hormonal young clubbers' wet dreams.

Nearly naked women danced on podia set up around the place, gyrating and aping sexual frenzy, out of their heads on whatever high they were on - sometimes the abandoned atmosphere alone was enough for them. Couples were freely copulating in shadowy corners, some standing up on the dance floor, against the columns or manually bring each other off as they danced. Conversation was impossible but people still shouted at each other, laughter was everywhere, a few skirmishes were forming between drunken lads on a short fuse, bouncers moving in.

The whole atmosphere was borderline out of control, sexually charged as a Roman orgy, as easy as a bordello where the fucks were on the house. It was a curiously low brow gathering, the clientele mostly working class British, Germans and Dutch behaving in some mass hysteric frenzy which they seemed to believe was expected of them here, a specific etiquette for misbehaviour.

Liam stood and watched the performance, enjoying it in his own way if curiously detached in another. He ogled the strippers on the stage as much as any of the men did, watched the sexual couplings with a voyeuristic thrill, made eyes at some of the girls like everyone else. But he had a hollow feeling inside of him all the same.

One aspect was his fame. He wasn't instantly recognisable yet, especially in the flesh, as he was more known for his voice than his sex appeal, although he did have a wide fan base and enough groupies hanging around his shows to prove he had earned his stud chops. But he preferred to wander around incognito when he could, shunning the obvious celebrity hang outs and shaking off his bodyguard when he was able to. Yet he was already feeling curiously vulnerable when there was nothing between him and the rest of the world, aware that if anyone realized who he was, then this would become a feeding frenzy and he would be the lump of bleeding flesh.

His other reservation concerned the unlikelihood that this kind of place could ever fulfill what he needed in life. Wild parties, drunken excess, pills galore, wall-to-wall sex kind of went with his day job if he let it, so it seemed the very last thing he ought to be seeking out on the rare occasions he was on a night off. But what else do you do when you're twenty two, pretty wealthy, have time on your hands and are moderately interested in getting laid?

The trouble was, Liam wanted to meet some real people for a change. To have some real experiences. To feel some real emotions. His muse was seriously drying up these days. What did he have to emote about any more?

A few of them had come here tonight as a group; the others were hanging about nearby each searching after their own pleasure: Jez, Piers, Billy J and Fliss. Jez was part of his management, Piers and Billy J in his band and Fliss was his PA. A fresh drink was put in his hand, another bottle of Cruzcampo. He turned his head. It was Fliss.

"You looked thirsty. My shout!" she yelled. He grinned and raised the bottle in thanks. She was a really great girl and had been with him for about six weeks now, his first PA. He'd resisted employing one but his life was so hectic and complicated that he had finally realized that he needed such a person. She had indeed made a tremendous difference already. Suddenly his life was falling into place after the chaos that it had been for the past year or so. She attended to everything from his shopping, arranging house repairs and staff, booking transport, hotels, coordinating his schedule, vetting his calls, keeping his diary, remembering significant birthdays, you name it, she did it all. A pretty thankless job, he thought, although she was paid a decent amount. But Fliss wanted to be in pop management and you had to pay your dues. He was a step up on the ladder for her; she was happy that she had landed such an opportunity.

She was a pretty girl, rather boyish, elfin like. Liam called her Frodo. Her face was tiny with perfect skin and teeth, big bright blue eyes and her hair was cut in a pixie style, making her look waif-like, a Twiggy on speed. She was small and tiny boned but an absolute powerhouse of energy and enthusiasm, happy to keep up with the boys, ready to jump into anything at the drop of a hat and never worrying whether her makeup was touched up or she looked right. Mostly she wore jeans or baggy combats and a washed out T shirt, men's boots on her feet. She didn't appear to have a boyfriend. Liam thought she might be gay although he knew the evidence was slim and mostly based on stereotypical male reasoning rather than any vibe she exuded.

"Wanna dance?" he asked her on a whim, handing their bottles to Jez, and she grinned, nodded and grabbed his arm. Tonight she was a little less severe in her style: still the jeans but wearing a pretty pale pink off the shoulder top. He noticed something sparkling on her eyes and he realised she was wearing makeup; her lips were glistening with a glossy sheen. She smelt good too. The music was mostly R and B, good rhythm, musically pretty with a sexually enticing lyric. Liam grabbed her by the hips and brought her towards his groin, hamming up the pelvis grinding motion and pressing against her. She gave it back and they laughed, simulating fucking, hands all over each other, finally kissing lewdly, tongues tangled. They broke off helplessly laughing and he flung an arm around her shoulder, leading her back to the others.

"Need a leak...mind my beer," he whispered in her ear and she smiled up at him; for a second he saw something close to adoration in her eyes and then the lively irreverence reappeared and she motioned spraying a wall with an imaginary penis. He grinned and flicked her nose before easing himself past the crowds of people milling around the perimeter of the dance floor and bar areas to the Men's Room.

Inside, the place was awash with beer, vomit and urine, the consequences of too many young men way beyond their depth. There was a guy having sex with a girl who was sitting on the counter of the wash basin, her legs crudely splayed for all the men to see, her dress rolled up to her waist. Vulgar comments were being thrown at them as they went at it. The girl just raised a middle finger behind her guy's back at them all. Liam shook his head and felt vaguely nauseous, turning his back to ease out his cock and take a piss at the urinal.

He went to wash his hands and tried to ignore the panting orgasm taking place on his left, the girl crying "Yes! Yes!" the bloke grunting 'Fuck! Fuck!" Suddenly he felt a slight pause in the action and heard: "You that singer, Liam Thorne?"

Instinctively his head turned; the girl in the throes had recognised him and stopped mid-stream, her boyfriend - or whoever he was - also freezing in his action. "Hang about....you can hop on next if you like...!" she announced gaily.

"No, love. I mean, I'm not him. That singer," he lied, glancing surreptitiously about to see if any others had overheard her remark. The thought of sloppy seconds in this Men's room and the paparazzi of Europe getting wind was enough to suppress any passing urge he might have felt.

"Bugger off then, it's not a free show..." she retorted and reapplied herself to the task in hand.

He made a sharp exit, aware that others might have picked up on her comment and eager to be gone. Hurrying through the club, he found himself detached from the others having taken a different exit and entering another room entirely. Turning for the door, his eye was caught by a girl dancing on one of the podia but, unlike the usual, she wasn't naked, drugged up and staggering. This woman was breathtaking, tall, dark and sensual, wearing a skirt of many colours, ruched and flounced like a flamenco dancer's, but much shorter. Her breasts were encased in a flaming pink bodice that clung to her curves. It would have looked an absurd outfit on any of the insipid northern Europeans here with their uneven sun- reddened tans and white strap marks. The mysterious lady appeared to be Spanish from her colouring and style, her thick glossy black hair flying as she whirled in the dance.

Liam stopped dead and watched her, his mouth open. She was simply gorgeous. She had a beautiful face, huge, dark sloe eyes, a wide full mouth and slender high cheekbones. Her skin was warm bronze, gleaming and smooth, and even though she was willowy, her body seemed to be round and soft and womanly, her flesh full and voluptuous, nothing like the bony slimness of so many of the pale skinned women he had seen that night.

Up there, whirling like a dervish, faster and faster on her impossibly high stilettos, the woman seemed unreal in her perfection and allure, like an erotic image he might have conjured up in a fevered nighttime fantasy, a secret of his inner life made flesh.

It was only when the music stopped that he realized how long he had been staring immobile at her. He blinked and then she caught his eye, smiling distantly, holding out her hand towards him. She wanted him to help her down.

He lunged forward and she saw his eagerness, biting her lip in amusement; she was the sort of woman who must be used to this attention, walking through life leaving catatonic drooling men in her wake. Liam felt childish and awkward, like when he had first noticed girls and they had teased him and made him blush.

"Gracias," she whispered and turned as if to walk away with a swish of her skirt. 

"Wait!" Liam found himself trotting behind her as she crossed the room, poised on the high heels. "Can I...I mean...would you like....maybe a drink? Cerveza? Vino?" He finally managed to complete the sentence, gasping it out and mentally banging his head against the proverbial wall. His tongue felt large and thick, his mouth dry and a pulse was beating in his heart so loud he though she could probably hear it.

The woman paused, her head tilted to one side as she surveyed him openly through narrowed eyes. "Okay. Mojito."

Her acceptance surprised him so much that he found himself almost unable to work out what to do next; he had expected her to just blow off his inept attempt to chat her up. For some time, he stood there smiling like a loon while she smiled back until he kickstarted his brain to think of something to say.

"Let me get you a drink then." The bar was crowded five deep; he got a sudden dart of concern that if he tried to fight his way through, she would be long gone by the time he returned with the drinks. Then he saw Fliss across the room, obviously looking for him. He raised a hand and called her over. She hurried across the distant, burrowing through people with surprising skill for all her petiteness.

"Fliss, get me two Mojitos. Keep the change..." he passed her a large note and then turned away back to the beautiful Spanish girl, relieved to find her still there contemplating them both with some interest.

Fliss's face fell as she realized what was going on. Liam couldn't see the disappointment both at the sight of him with a woman like that and the way he had relegated her to nothing but the hired help. Which was, of course, exactly was she was. The gopher. She flounced away, hiding her hurt under a sham of disdain and took out her anger on the ankles of a few of the young men in front of her at the queue for the drinks.

"Your girlfriend?"

Liam shook his head. "No, just a mate. More like a kid sister, ya know? Should we sit down?"

He indicated a vacant booth nearby and then winced; most couples only sat down to make out. He wondered if she would be annoyed at his suggestion. But she didn't seem to be, walking over and slipping onto the lurid red vinyl and making room for him to join her.

"My name's Liam," he began.

"Huh?" She asked. Even here, away from the main floor the noise was very loud and speech was difficult. 

"LIAM," he shouted.

"Lee?"

He shrugged. It was close enough. "You?" he pointed at her.

"Pilar."

"Pillow?"

She grinned. "PILAR!"

"Ah! Pilar. Pilar on a pillar..." he answered, reminding her of the high podium she had been dancing on when he had first noticed her. She frowned and he realised she didn't know what he was talking about. "That thing you were on. The column. We call it a pillar...like Pilar..." his voice trailed away and he gave up, she just smiled at him. Liam felt stupid, tongue tied and berated himself for being a prat. Why couldn't he think of anything sensible to say all of a sudden?

"Are you on holiday...Lee?" It was Pilar who broke the silence and again it took him a while to respond.

"Er...No. I'm working....sort of..."

"Working? What do you do?"

"I sing. Sort of."

"Sing? In a band? You're working at one of the bars here?"

Liam smiled and shook his head. "No. Just making a video."

"Video?" She seemed impressed. "Are you English?"

"No. Australian."

"You sound English."

"I lived there a long time...My Mum's British..."

At that moment, Fliss stormed up, plonked down the drinks with a flourish and flounced away. Liam rolled his eyes and handed Pilar one of the cocktails, she took it from him and clinked his glass.

"Salud!"

He looked around. There was an exit nearby. "Would you like some fresh air? We could talk...more easily..."

She looked at him and at the door. "Okay. The drinks?"

He picked them up and led her out onto the crowded street where holidaymakers were thronging, rowdy and drunken, simmering with adolescent excess. He saw Pilar shrink slightly from the coarse language and the raucous shouting, women as drunk and aggressive as men. Liam drew her away from the main thoroughfare towards the quieter back streets; they sauntered along in the balmy night air fragrant with frangipani, until they came upon a small square with an old crumbling church. They sat down on the steps and drank their cocktails.

"So what do you do?" Liam asked her, leaning back to stare at the clear night sky as Pilar perched daintily by his side. She looked at him with an honest appreciation. He was a good looking boy, handsome but not pretty, his features too strong and defined for classical beauty. She traced his prominent nose with her eyes, the curve of his full lips, his square chin and the shadow of his stubble, an unexpected hint of masculinity in his still youthful features. His hair was thick and unruly; she had an urge to run her fingers through it.

"I'm an actress," she replied, her eyes wandering down his muscular torso, the hint of hair sprouting above the top of the low slung jeans and to the soft bulge between his legs. There was something sexual about him for all his awkward boyishness as if a darker, more virile man was about to emerge from his shell. She sensed that there was more to him than would appear at first sight and she was intrigued, some instinct telling her he was more than just a horny young man away from home and looking for an erotic adventure.

"Actress? Cool," Liam said, raising up onto his elbows. "What kind? I mean films? TV? Stage?"

Pilar blushed. "I'm only just starting out. I have been studying in Madrid. Classical theatre. It is very intense. Like Commedia del Arte, no? Drama - Dance - flamenco - mime - opera - guitar - zarzuela..."

"Wow...you graduated yet?"

"Last year. I have been earning some money modeling but it is not a career...I got a small part on a film being made here. So I am working too. My first real job."

Liam grinned broadly. "You and me both. My first real job. Good for you, Pilar. I know how hard it is. Well, actually I don't. I got a big break early on. I was lucky. If there's anything I can do for you..."

He sat up cross-legged, his earnestness so endearing. Pilar wondered what he meant. "Help me? How could you help me?"

"I know a few people. In the business. If it would do any good, ya know?"

She slipped onto her knees and took his hands in hers. "Who are you, Lee?"

"Liam. My name's Liam Thorne. I'm quite well known...in England and Australia..."

He hardly ever revealed his identity willingly these days but he suddenly wanted her to be impressed with him, to think him more than just some English hooligan on his annual two weeks' in the sun. She didn't seem to recognize his name, so he sat back, blushed a little and then began to hum the opening bars of his hit song.

My life is brilliant
My love is pure
I saw an angel
Of that I'm sure....
She smiled at me in nightclub
She was with another man
But I won't lose no sleep all night
'Cos I've got a plan....

There must be an angel, with a smile on her face
When she thought that I should be with you...

*You're beautiful by James Blunt

She recognised his distinctive voice and the bitter sweet lyrics immediately; he could tell that by the gasp of surprise and how her ripe lips parted as soon as he began to sing softly into her eyes. She made his insides turn over at the sight of her loveliness. Here and there he changed the lyrics, blatantly directing the story towards her.

"Have you got a plan, Liam Thorne?" she asked him seductively, her voice lush with the mellifluous tones of her Spanish intonation.

He sank to his knees on the church steps. "See me again. Tomorrow. Please."

Pilar nodded. "I would love to. If you promise next time to bring your guitar...and serenade me properly..."

"Deal," he whispered as he bent forward and tasted her lips for the first time. His head reeled, drunk just on her nearness and the sweet fresh perfume of her skin.

"I should go. I have an early call," she held his face in her hands for a moment. "Until tomorrow then?"

She stood up and turned, running across the square even as he knelt there still lost in the moment. "Where do you live? Let me take you home! How will I find you tomorrow?" he shouted after her, jogging down the steps towards her. Pilar danced around and laughed, a tinkling shower of stardust.

"Here. Eight o' clock. Do not be late!" And she was gone. By the time he reached the main ramblas, there was no sign of her. For a moment he wondered had he dreamed her. Had she been some figment of his imagination, fuelled by a spiked drink or the joint he had had earlier?

"Oi, where did you go to? That girl dump you?" Billy J staggered over, drunk and with a brassy blonde clinging precariously to his hand.

Liam shook his head. She had to be real. Billy had seen her too. "Leaving already?" he grinned over, making a rude gesture at the girl on his arm.

"Bed time for Billy J...Fliss is clearing us out. We've got a six o'clock call. Don't these fuckers know we're rock stars? We only see dawn if it's at the end of the night..." he complained. Liam slapped him on the back and they strolled back to the limo that was now waiting at the front door of the club, engine running, drawing the attention of those around, alerting them to the possibility that a celebrity sighting was imminent.

"Bloody hell! That's Liam Thorne...You're beautiful, LIAM!!!!" A few girls took up the chant and began to move towards him. He took to his heels, running and weaving towards the car, the others on his tail, throwing himself inside as he dragged them with him and the limo sped off, almost knocking over a few revelers. The passengers howled with laughter, most of them well oiled. Liam found himself on the floor of the spacious interior, sitting at Fliss's feet. He looked up but she wasn't amused, her usual lively face pinched.

"What's up, Frodo? Lost your precioussss?" Liam giggled. "...Or did he leave with someone else?"

He failed to understand the cruelty of his joke, unaware of how much the girl loved him. But it wasn't lost on his friends as drunk as they were. They gave him a withering look. Liam frowned. It was probably that time of the month. Even Fliss couldn't escape the curse of her sex, it would seem.

Sunset: Friday. Broome, W. Australia.

Gillie could cook. She appeared so haphazard and disorganized, rarely ever appearing to visit a shop but somehow managing at a drop of a hat to whip up a fabulous supper at whim. Wandering around the kitchen, dressed only in a sarong, she chatted and pottered about and in no time they were dining on a sea food paella under the stars on her veranda, the waves lapping on the white sand beach, the lights of fishing boats in the dark blackness of the sea making the night waters into a diaphanous ink of dark and light. They sipped on the expensive reserve wine he had brought and ate juicy peaches for dessert.

There was something sensual about the food, the creamy paella laced with smoky paprika and preserved lemon, pungent with coriander leaf and strong chorizo, delicately dressed with large prawns and chunks of chicken breast. It was the sort of full bodied wholesome food, flavoursome and intricate which appealed to all the senses, added to that a hearty red and then the sweet, sticky perfume of the luscious fruit, staining their lips and fingers as they fed each other, it seemed a prelude to sex that was as languid and satisfying as the act itself. A culinary foreplay ripe with promise but unhurried and unaware of itself.

Terry reclined back on the chair, smoking a good cigar as Gillie poured them both a brandy to serve with the demi-tasses of the bitter dark Turkish coffee she loved. She settled down and slipped her feet along his legs, massaging his groin softly as he caressed the smooth skin of her calves. He closed his eyes and let the feeling of peace wash over him. At moments like these he realized how lonely he was the rest of the time and how the presence of a woman at his side seemed to complete him. Perhaps he should visit more often, ascertain if she was interested in something more permanent than just this casual sex thing they had. It wasn't a bad place to live and maybe he ought to stop hiding out in the middle of nowhere and join the human race again.

If she wanted a man around the house more often, that was. He doubted that she would be interested. Everything about Gillie suggested she was independent and had chosen her single path in life. Her affection for him was probably stronger because he did demand so little from her. If he suggested something more she might tell him to clear out permanently. And he was still unsure if he was even ready for the day to day realities of sharing his life with a woman again. He wasn't in love with Gillie. He would never be able to give any woman that much of himself again. Annie still had his heart and always would - he didn't even want it back. But was it wrong to wish for companionship and a warm body in the night - or peaceful evenings like this one shared together - if he could never offer a woman anything more than his friendship?

"Penny for them?" Gillie sensed his pensive mood and tried to draw him out. She often had the impression he was on the brink of saying something to her and then would draw back into his shell.

Terry shook himself slightly and smiled at her. "Nothing. Just thinking."

"About what?" This time she pressed.

He shrugged. "You and me. Nights like this. How good it feels not to be alone."

She let that admission sink in, almost afraid to pursue the line in case she drove him back again. After a long silence, she answered. "I know what you mean. Feels good, Terry. You and me. I wouldn't like you to think this was just a casual sex thing. The sex is good. It's fucking great actually..." He grinned and rolled his eyes playfully at her. "...but you mean more to me than just a body. I just wanted you to know that..."

He sighed, stood up and leant on the rail, looking out to sea, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "You are so good to me. I give you nothing. Just take advantage. But I treasure these visits, Gillie. They're like a light in the dark for me. I just wanted you to know that..."

She watched him as he rested there, smoking his cigar, still deep in his head. Moving towards him, she slipped her arms round his waist and leant against his broad back. It was warm and strong, such a wonderful place for a woman to rest her head. "You give me so much. You are tender and loving and gentle and yet very, very good in bed...Terry, you give me everything I've ever asked for. .."

"Except myself. You know nothing about me."

"You know nothing about me. Does that matter? I know what I know. You're a good man. I'm safe with you. The rest is not really my concern. Oh, and I do know you have a famous son. You told me that!"

He laughed softly. "Is there anything you need, Gillie? I know you don't make much money..."

"I don't take men to my bed for money, Terry..."

"I didn't mean that...I just...wanted to do something for you. To show my appreciation. Maybe something round the house? A new car?" He ran his hands through his hair and looked uneasy. He knew money was of little interest to her.

"You really want to do something for me?" she whispered, her voice suddenly dropping. He could hear a significant note in her tone. She wanted to tell him something that he suspected had been on her mind a long time. Easing round, he put down the cigar on the ashtray and took her in his arms.

"Anything. Just say the word, honey..."

Gillie stroked his stubbly cheek and played with the still thick tumble of his unruly brown hair now heavily peppered with grey. He was so fine; she wondered what he had been like as a younger man if he was as magnificent as this now. Breathtaking, she imagined.

She stepped back and led him to his chair and sat back down across from him. Joining her hands almost in prayer, she rested her chin on her fingers a moment as if she was searching for the right words to say. "Terry...I'm thirty nine years old...Next year I will be forty. Life has been good to me on the whole. I've done pretty much what I wanted, loved a lot of men, had my wild times, had my share of disappointments, settled to a quieter time of my life now. There isn't much I want or need that I don't already have. Except one thing..."

He was listening, his face composed as if he was trying to work her out. She saw no sign he had second guessed her, but you never knew with Terry. He was so incisive and intuitive in a way that she had not often found in men. Whatever he had done in his other life, he had used his skills with people. Sometimes she wondered if he was a doctor or psychiatrist or something but then she would change her mind about that. There was something about him that suggested a more physical lifestyle. But he was a leader and a decision maker, that was for sure.

"...I want to be a mother. For a few years I've been having such a strong urge. But I have to do it now before it's too late...I'm not asking for a partner. I'm not scared of being a single parent. I just want to find a man whose child I would want to have. That's all he needs to give me. Unless he wants more involvement. I would never stop that..." she realized she was beginning to ramble; it was off-putting talking of such a delicate matter and receiving no apparent reaction from him. His face gave nothing away.

"You are asking me to father a child on you?" He repeated the words slowly and softly as if he wanted to be absolutely sure he had taken her meaning correctly.

She nodded, blushing slightly beneath her golden brown tan. Terry closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger. She was unsure whether he was angry or just saddened by her request. He sure as hell didn't look like he was pleased. "I'm sorry, Gillie. Truly I am. I can't."

"Can't? Or won't?" She murmured, her face falling with his rejection.

"Can't." He replied tersely.

"You have three children. What you mean is you won't."

"I mean what I say, Gillie. I can't. Vasectomy. A long time ago. After Liam was born."

Gillie buried her head in her hands. "Oh God! Oh God! Isn't it reversible?"

He shrugged. "After twenty years? I bloody doubt it. Gillie...I would if I could. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have another child. I thought, all those years ago, that I had done my bit for the population. Two little babies and a job like mine? Annie was barely coping as it was..." He suddenly began to talk and Gillie raised her head in surprise as long repressed memories came pouring out and he started to reveal intimate stories about his life.

"Annie?"

"My wife. My second wife. My first marriage was a disaster. Apart from Henry. My eldest son. He was always my pride and joy, even in the bad times...then I married Annie. Not straight away. I was on my own for years. Gave up on love. Never saw Henry. Travelled the world and buried myself in my work. Then I met this girl..." He stopped short and Gillie realized he couldn't continue. There were tears brimming in his eyes. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. The silence of the night was intense, broken only by the lap of the waves and the hum of crickets. She thought he wouldn't say anymore, and then he suddenly continued.

"...She was like no one I had ever met. She is like no one I have ever met. She gave me everything I had lacked for so long. So, after Liam was born, she asked me if I would have a vasectomy. I didn't much like the idea, ya know?" He grinned at the memory, his eyes focused somewhere far away. "But I didn't want more kids and I knew it was the best thing. You think nothing will ever change. You'll always be together. The kids will always be little and under your feet. How can you imagine a time years later when you are alone and the thought of another life, another chance, might be the very thing you need to get by?"

His thoughts were disjointed but she was surprised at his remark and at the readiness which he had accepted the idea of fatherhood. It sounded even as he longed for something to call his own again. Just what had he done to lose the things he had so evidently treasured?

"It's okay, Terry.  You don't have to tell me private things. It just seems ironic that I spend my whole life looking for a man whose child I want to have and when I do, he can't give me one. But he wants to. That says an awful lot to me. It means a lot. I would have loved to have raised your son or daughter. She took a lot from you when she left you, didn't she? I'm so sorry she did that to you...so very sorry..." In truth it was anger as much as sorrow that was in Gillie's heart. What kind of woman was this wife? A selfish spoilt beauty, no doubt. Who had bled him dry, dictated how she would live and what he would do for her - and then left him when something more appealing came along? Some younger man? A richer meal ticket?

How could any other man be better than what Terry Thorne could offer a woman? Gillie would have liked to slap this silly little bitch for what she had done. She hadn't just broken his heart but she had prevented him from every loving again - and even the solace of fatherhood had been ripped from him. No doubt she had their children in her pocket, too, and had left him unable ever to have another one with a new woman. Even here on the brink of his new start his ex-wife was reaching inside their relationship and using her influence to destroy it before it blossomed. Gillie knew he would stay with her if she asked but that it would not be possible if she was to have a child by another man. So she was being asked to make a choice too. A child or him? That was so unfair.

And the little bitch swans off with her beautiful family, his money and probably a new man on her arm. Why is it always the innocent ones who get the bum deal?

"It wasn't her fault. It was my fault. I left her in the end." He spoke quietly, his deep mellow voice rich in the quiet of the warm night.

"What happened?" She couldn't stop herself from asking. "Another woman? You had an affair?"

He sighed and exhaled air heavily, as if he was bearing a great weight on his back. "It's very complicated. There was another woman. It wasn't an affair but I did have sex with her and Annie found out. But it wasn't as simple as that. But it was my fault. I hurt her deeply and she couldn't get past it. I broke her heart, shattered her trust in me. But I loved her. I still love her. I left so she could be free. She had a chance of happiness. She had the right to that..."

"She's with someone else?"

He nodded. "Someone probably a lot better suited to her than I am. I just hope he takes care of her properly. That's my greatest fear. That she is hurt or in danger and I am not there to save her. I always thought I would be...."

His voice trailed off again and Gillie slipped to the floor to rest her head on his lap, saying nothing as he stroked her tangled corkscrew curls and lapsed back into silence. "You're always welcome here, Terry. If you want to stay more permanently... you only need to ask..."

There was a long pause before he spoke again; she knew he was considering it. "I can't give you a baby. But I can give you the means to have one. There are private clinics. They'll find an ideal donor. Grade A spunk from some handsome young athlete with a high IQ. I'll pay for it. You don't have the money for that kind of thing. Make an appointment and don't hang about. You haven't the time, love. And...I'll be there for you, Gillie. At the birth. Give you a hand. Take my turn babysitting. Look after the financial side, education and the rest...even on the birth certificate if you want a name. Surrogate Dad, maybe? A kid needs a male figure in his life at least from time to time. If you want me to be, that is. I wouldn't interfere against your will..."

"Terry! You would do that for me?" she gasped, amazed at his generosity and his concern.

"Well, I think I might be doing it for both of us, sweetheart. I think we both deserve something to go right for us every now and again, don't you? Imagine us sitting here with a little fella crawling about? Who the fuck cares where the spunk came from?"

Gillie began to cry softly, unable even to answer him. Where had he been this wonderful man, all the wasted years of her life? But he was here now and even if she would only ever have a little part of him, even that was worth more than most men had ever given her. Just the knowledge that Terry Thorne was out there on the end of a telephone line every time she needed him was enough for her.

And the promise of times along the way when he would take her in his arms all night long.

"There are other things you need to know about me though, Gillie. I'm not quite what I seem. I need to tell you a little about my life before you make up your mind..." He eased back in the chair and pulled her onto his knee. And there, in the still of the night, he told her the story of his life as she curled up and listened enraptured by a tale she could never have even dreamed.

Friday: Morning. Berlin.

"YOU?" Zoe gasped as she dragged the cigarette from her lips and stared at Nick standing before her at the pavement café.

He asked if he might sit down opposite her, she nodded absently, still staring at him. He looked so good. Well, he had always looked good, whatever he wore or did or whatever state he was in. Nick was just a handsome man even if he had rather done his best to ruin his natural gifts. But this time, he actually looked so much better than she remembered him. His eyes were clear, his skin was lightly tanned and glowing with good health, his hair was cut shorter than she had seen it before: a sharp stylish look that made the most of his thick straight black shiny hair. His face was closely shaved, without that rather dissolute louche image he had often gone for with a swarthy shadow, his 'just-got- out-of-bed' impression.

Now as he sat before her, calling to a waiter for fresh coffees in his accent-less German, she saw just how well he looked, dressed in a casual designer elegance, fresh, well groomed and urbane. Something was different about him and she couldn't quite place it. He seemed older and yet it wasn't physical aging that gave her this impression. It was in his aura, as if he was emitting a completely different vibe, a calmer, more centred Nicholas Costello than the one she had known. She looked down at herself and shrank from his gaze. What must he think of her now? She looked like a tart, and a pretty cheap one at that.

Zoe knew she had let herself go this past year. She didn't eat properly, she drank way too much, was now a chain smoker and her abuse of illegal substances was beginning to veer from recreational into addictive. It was the result of her lifestyle, always traveling, living on her nerves, visiting dangerous places, keeping unsocial hours, witnessing horrors that most people would be scarred by. She was scarred by it all. That was the point.

In the course of her work, she had done all she could to play down the fact that she was a woman, never mind a young and beautiful one. She had no wish to make herself more of a target than a western journalist already was, so she had cut off her hair, dyed it black, never wore makeup and rarely dressed in anything other than baggy jeans and men's shirts. Except when she was on leave, that is, when she spent most of her time burning the candle at both ends, drinking, partying and having sex with anyone she could get her hands on. It helped to numb the pain of it all. For a little while anyway.

She looked at her thin body clad in a scrap of a floral dress barely covering her skinny thighs, the cheap satin jacket she had thrown over it and the slutty high heeled ankle boots. Her nails were bitten down and the black nail varnish was chipped. She hadn't even washed her face since she had dragged herself from that filthy bed; she must stink of him still: his unwashed body and the scent of spent sex, her teeth unbrushed, her hair uncombed, her heavily made up eyes smeared. These days she always looked pale, her large aquamarine eyes like deep pools in her head surrounded by the bruised bags of not enough proper rest.

To sum it up, she knew she looked like a low class prostitute and anyone seeing her and Nick together at this ungodly hour of the morning would no doubt presume that was her business with this man. She wondered what Nick must be thinking inside at the mess she had become. Perhaps he was secretly enjoying it, amused that she had made such a disaster out of herself while he had clearly risen up and made a good life. An idea struck her. He must have a new woman, maybe even a wife now. He looked so much more settled, not like that man on the edge he had once been. No doubt he had found a replacement for her pretty quick and that girl had had the sense to grab and hang on to a catch like him. She tasted the bitter tang of resentment. He had asked me to marry him. He had begged me to have his babies. Whoever you are, you are the second choice. And then she realized he was probably relieved that she had let him go. Imagine if he had met her for the first time now?

He wouldn't even give her a second glance. So who was she kidding?

"Yeah, me. How are you, Zoe?" The waiter set down their coffees and the pastries he had called for. His arrival inhibited them both while Nick settled the bill, paying for her earlier coffee. Neither spoke for a while.

"What are you doing here, Nick?" Zoe suddenly gave him a suspicious look.

"Working. Just like you."

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"I didn't. I was walking across the square. I saw you."

"Just like that? Coincidence, much?" She snapped back and took another drag on her cigarette.

 He pushed over a pastry. "Eat. You look hungry."

She pushed it back. "You didn't answer my question," she said.

"You didn't really ask one. You just made some accusation like I've followed you here. I didn't, but if you want to see it like that, I can't stop you. I just saw you and wanted to say hello. It's been a long time. No harm in that, hey? But if my presence is bothering you then just say so. I've got things to do. People to see. I can do without this little girl tantrum-lark." He stood up and fastened up his jacket as if to go. She put out her hand.

"Please. I'm sorry. Sit down. It's good to see you, too. You look well, Nick. I'm so glad you're okay. I always worried about you..." she stopped there and looked away, afraid he would see the sheen of tears in her eyes.

Nick sat down and took a sip of his coffee. "That was very thoughtful of you. The worrying part, I mean. Yeah, I made it through, Zoe. In the end. Had a few rough months but I pulled it all together."

"And things are good now? The job? You still doing it?" she asked tentatively.

"What? You think I've got a contract on later? Bang, bang, Nick makes another killing?" he answered her wryly, removing an imaginary gun from his inside pocket and taking an aim at a few pigeons in the centre of the square.

"I didn't mean that. Or did you go back to it?" She seemed unsure.

"Siphos. That's my business. We started it together, remember? I'm a reputable businessman."

"Good. I'm glad you stayed with it."

"Yeah....well, you taught me the error of my ways, didn't you, sweetheart? Gave me the benefit of your superior moral ethics." He let his eyes travel down her openly; Zoe wriggled under his searching gaze. "Let me guess. You're undercover trying to expose child prostitution for the good of humanity. That would be a great exposé, love. No one would ever expect you were anything more than a cheap tart looking for a John with poor eyesight dressed like that. The lack of deodorant was a great idea. Perfect touch."

She blushed red at his cruel jibe. "Don't you dare presume to lecture me on morals..." she began.

"...Wouldn't dream of it. That's your job." He gave her a sad smile and then looked at his watch. "I better be off. Take care, love. Nice to see you looking so..." he held out his hands helplessly. He was just going to walk away from her. Just like that. He had shown her that he didn't care anymore and that he had survived her and risen from the smouldering ruins of their affair - while she had slipped into some spiral of decline. Did he imagine that was because of him? Was he so arrogant to thing that she'd never gotten over him?

"Nick! I'm so over you, you know? The way I choose to live is nothing to do with me eating my heart out because you left me..."

"...You left me. To be absolutely correct," he added. "I did not imply you were suffering from any lingering emotional fallout. I think it was you who just made that link, darling. Interesting that the idea would even enter your head, don't you think?"

"My career is very stressful. I just go a bit wild when I get back..." she added ineffectually.

Nick nodded. "That's something I know all about. It's also a recipe for disaster. One of these days you're going to bite off more than you can chew. A little bit of advice for you this time from a concerned friend. Your Mum and Dad seen you lately?"

"I've been busy..."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"It's a bit rich taking advice from you. You were out of control when I met you. And you survived."

At that Nick threw his head back and chuckled. "I had a few more survival skills than you have, love. Don't put me in your league, hey? Not just yet. Wait until you get to 1000 notches on your bedpost at least...or are we rapidly nearing that figure already?"

"You are such a sick bastard..." she stood up and gathered up her purse and cigarettes.

"I'm staying at the Brandenburger Hof. You want dinner tonight, I'll be at the bar at seven thirty. We can talk about old times then, hey?"

Nick walked off and left her standing there. She watched him go. Her body ached at the sight of his loose-limbed ambling walk, the way he carried his broad shoulders and the hard, strength of his back, the long legs filling his jeans to perfection. Even now after all the things he had done wrong in the past, after his barbed and brutal words to her just now, she knew she had never even come close with any other man and wondered if she ever would. He'd asked her to dinner. Why? To humiliate her further or did he really care about her a little? Or have some good memories?

She wouldn't go. It would be the ultimate in masochism to put herself through that experience. To have to face your biggest mistake and look it in the eye all night.

And then realize that your even bigger mistake had been leaving him.

Nick forced himself to walk away as nonchalantly as he could, well aware that the prickly interlude had been everything he hadn't intended it to be. He wasn't sure why they had got off on such a wrong footing. It had begun when he had seen her close up and had been shocked at the physical deterioration. She was a wreck.

In some ways her starving pallor made her look younger, like a malnourished teenager you might see sleeping on the streets. Terry would break his heart if he could see her, never mind if he knew even half about her predilection for drug-fuelled sex orgies and some of the other recreational hobbies she indulged in these days. No wonder she was keeping clear of her parents - and he doubted Liam had seen much of her in a while either.

Zoe was running scared. She had even frightened him when he had seen her up close. This was a girl heading for a drug overdose or a brutal rape on a dark night from some sick pervert. He had been pretty vicious in his comments but something in him told him that she might be better handled that way. Conventional kindness would have her running for the hills. Maybe, by embarrassing her sense of vanity, she might just turn up tonight to prove to him she didn't need him anymore. If that failed he wasn't quite sure where he turned next for help for this girl.

But there was no way he was letting her out of his sight at the moment. One way or another, he was going to set her straight about a few things. Or bring her father into this. Somehow he knew that Terry was the one she would most fear finding out how low she had let herself sink.

He strolled through the archway that was his exit from the square and then doubled back out of sight to watch her. She was still standing then, forlorn and alone, staring at the place where he had disappeared. Across the distance between them, he sent a secret prayer to her. "Be there, Zoe. Be there, tonight. Please, be there!"

Saturday: afternoon. Rome.

She slipped off her wrap and eased herself into the warm fragrant water, Stephen's eyes fixed on her body, his mouth relaxed in a sensual smile. They lay facing each other and then he held out his hand and drew her into his arms, where he lathered his hands and washed her body slowly, caressing her and whispering endearments. She knew she couldn't have asked for a more tender or considerate lover. It made her feel even more of a fraud.

Kneeling up, she did the same for him and found it easier to attend to him than it was to let him touch her. It made her feel even more like a courtesan and she began to understand how such things worked.It was entirely possible to distance oneself and simply do the task either by thinking of something - or someone else - or by concentrating on what you were doing so intently that it became the end in itself and you did not have to face the deeper and more disturbing implications of your action.

Stephen seemed to accept her silence as simply part of her nature in this intimate moment. Anyway, he was a man, and she had not shirked from giving him the benefit of her manual skills exactly where he wanted them, even using her mouth. He was now beyond thought and entirely convinced that her willingness to indulge in such activities suggested she was as eager for him as he was for her.

When he deemed they had exhausted the charms of the large marble bath, he helped her out and they dried each other on soft thick white towels. Stephen produced a vial of some expensive intimate lubricant and anointed her nipples and clitoris with it; it tingled but not unpleasantly and she was grateful for it. It would help her reach some level of stimulation and hopefully make her wet. Then he asked her to do the same for him; she liberally applied the clear gel to his erect cock and massaged it into his balls.

Stephen picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He whispered that this time it would be quick - he wanted her too much to hold back. Lowering his head, he gently used his mouth; she closed her eyes and recalled another time, another place, another man. While he lapped around her sex, she let her own fingers help and together, with the help of a third absent participant, she managed to reach an orgasm. It felt limited, a relief after some great ordeal, not the wild expression of ecstasy she knew it ought to be.

But it was enough for him. He was proud to have taken her there and moments after, he was nestled between her thighs, his cock nudging into her. Stephen was not as big as Terry, although he wasn't exactly a disappointment in the size stakes, but she still found it painful. Even after an orgasm and with the benefit of lube, she was tight and inhibited, tensing as he pushed. He murmured about how small she was inside. He was enjoying the sensation. She tried to relax, breathing slowly and allowing him access, feeling acutely the red raw abrasion. It did not feel pleasant, like the sting of a man can be when you want him so much you care nothing for pain or bruising. It just hurt.

As he hilted and then began to move, she hung onto his shoulders and closed her eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks; he never noticed them in his pursuit of his own pleasure. She heard his groans and his exclamations of crude encouragement and was grateful that he was close. Then he asked her to come for him. So she did what women have been doing from time immemorial.

She faked it. He came in a shudder of desperate gratitude. Revulsion gripped her as he rolled away and settled round her, pulling her close and sinking into sleep. Did she feel better? Had he erased the memories of the past?

Not a chance. He had only succeeded in highlighting, in an even starker light, her isolation and the sense of bleak loss that infused her soul.

Never again would she feel like Terry had made her feel. This was the best that other men could ever offer her. She would rather take the veil in future than have to do this again. She knew then her sexual life was over. Even that potential comfort to her was now taken from her. No man, her children long since flown the nest, her friends left far behind. The rest of her life seemed a bleak and unforgiving prospect. Easing away from the sleeping man, Annie slipped into the bathroom, cleaned herself up, dressed quickly and left a scribbled note.

I am so sorry, Stephen. So very, very sorry.

She was on a flight home to London even before he woke from his post-orgasmic slumber.