He told me he found it in Miami. I didn't tell him it gave me the creeps. I didn't need to understand it. And I loved seeing it in the little altar he'd set up on the raised brick hearth before the fireplace.

If you didn't know what that area was, you'd never guess it was an altar. He lights candles I've placed in the fireplace. He kneels on a throw pillow I found for him. His eyes close and he leaves me.

I have often wondered if he wishes he still had the little figures he had of his first wife and his son for his altar. I would ask him but something always stops me. I think it's an internal brake that keeps me from intruding in a spiritual belief of his that I have yet to understand or appreciate.

The figurine he found in Miami is one of several he keeps there upon the raised hearth. They are arranged neatly. Most represent various goddesses and gods that hold special meaning to him. They are a motley collection yet strangely compelling. People who have been to our home must think they are some artistic or designer-arranged nuance.

He kneels before them, lights candles in the fireplace and talks to his gods. I have never witnessed him kissing the figurine he bought in Miami. But he does take it with him when he travels away from me. I can imagine he kisses it when he is gone. In fact, I know he does. Somewhere deep inside me, I know he does. I even think I can feel it when he does. It is the warmth inside me that knows he is thinking of me as I go to sleep on the nights he travels. It's as if I feel his lips as they caress the figurine's face and his index finger as he strokes along her back.

The candles are all shapes and sizes. I found them in a little shop in Hammond near the railroad tracks. The shop is owned by an interior designer who sells the things her clients decide they don't want after all when she's done a makeover of a room or a home. And sometimes, she told me once, she will find something when she is on a shopping expedition that will speak out to her as having a future. So she buys them with the faith that they will find a home some day when the right person sees their individuality. That's the way it was with the candles.

That's why I thought of using them for Max's altar. Up to that point, he'd been using some old church candles that had been part of my hurricane supplies. But that the designer had bought them on faith in the future seemed perfect to me. Well, that and the fact they are the perfect shades of olive green and deep russet that would fit in with the throw pillows I found in her shop and had to have for the living room.

It's a source of amusement to my mom that I have gotten into decorating the home. I don't want her to think I'm nesting. Maybe I'm reluctant for her to laugh at the idea I have found a new gene. Maybe I'm afraid she'll discourage me. Maybe I'm afraid she'll point out that it's a lot more likely that I'll take after my father instead of her.

So I keep quiet.

The only person I've even told that we are trying to have a child is Chili. I think I was trying out the way that would sound when I told him. Whatever. All I do know is that he didn't find it laughable.

And every time we have tried these last few days, every time Maximus takes me in his arms, I feel stronger and stronger in my yearning and in my determination. I can see it in him, too. There is a difference in how we make love.

That's why I don't understand why into this time of special closeness that there is a spoiler who makes me torment myself with self-doubt that maybe ... just maybe ... maybe I'm not who I thought I was becoming these last few months.

Today I sat at Max's altar after I dusted around the living room. I picked up the figurine he bought in Miami. It is no bigger than a chess piece. It is made of marble. He said it was made in Italy, which he took as a good omen. It is white grey marble. It is a woman. She has long hair. You can't really see features for it is not that finely carved.

I held it in my hands and rubbed over it. I wondered at the sentimentality in the man who bought this.

He bought it to represent me.

That he puts it at his altar and includes me in his prayers to his gods, to keep me safe, to watch over me ... I don't know if there are words to describe how it makes me feel that I am that absorbed into his life.

I have never once doubted his word to me. Fidelity means different things to us. His definition would violate mine. It's not fidelity, though, really. Just how it is practiced, I suppose. It is more about sexual mores, I realize. But once he gave me his word that he would not have other women, I never have had reason to doubt him. I've never known any man I trusted like I do him.

It doesn't normally bother me if I see other women look at him. Not that he doesn't look back. He is subtle about it most often. Sometimes it makes me feel awkward, as if I don't measure up, like when he looks at "Miss D'Antonio" because when he looks at her, his eyes often linger. He never has looked at me like he looks at her. Not with that blatant look of raw attraction to her essence and her body. It's a carnal, wolfish look I don't believe I've ever generated from him.

But I have kept my mouth shut when it comes to that. I'd bite my tongue off before revealing jealousy or doubt in him when it comes to that. It'd make me look pretty pathetic. After all, how can that matter when the reality is that it is me he fell in love with? And it is with me he has chosen to build a life?

I was holding that little figurine, the one that represents me to him. I looked at her simple garb and bland curves. I touched her hands as they were folded primly over her tummy. She is so simple, this little figurine. No details to study. No complexities to mull over.

He asked me, just last night, if everything was okay ... if there was something I should discuss with him. I'd said no. I couldn't look in his eyes. I was afraid he'd see. Then again, I'm not always sure he looks that hard anymore. I am not so sure I've not gotten too simple lately.

It seems to me that he likes the way things are. I may be a royal screw up on the domestic scene, but I am learning. I can cook and bake so fucking good. I know that sounds like bragging, but the truth is, I am so high on this totally unexpected talent. I still suck at cleaning and washing, which bothers me not in the least as they are insanely boring. Max keeps hinting that I should hire someone to come in to do the housecleaning, clothes washing and stuff like that. But all in all, I think he's rather enjoying having me doing a semblance of the happy homemaker course. He comes home to dinner, even if it is warming in the oven on the nights he's late, and he likes that I'm puttering around putting touches on the décor and that I'm not complaining about being out here in this cultural wasteland. He has little in terms of worries about this homestead ... just has to get with Ralph on things like the horses and lingering repairs to the property that I'm actually overseeing in his absence.

I have thought too much of that niggling worry of his ... that some day the fact I have left my career, chosen the simple life of wife, mother, homemaker, will come back to haunt him. That it may be something I actually use against him in the future. That it will be a wedge between us if I decide later on that he coerced me into this.

It irritates me more than worries me. As if I am not capable of thinking this choice through to its logical ends?

For all the flagrant ways in which my life's choices have been decidedly not the norm in terms of longing for love and home like other women, I am frighteningly simplistic when it comes to this issue of raising children. To me, making the choice means putting the child before other considerations. I actually agree with Max: a child should have a mother at home. Well, when it's financially possible. And when the woman wants that. Unless the man would prefer to be the homebody.

Pedestrian view with a liberal slant, isn't it?

Maybe in the end that's all I ever was. Just a liberal waiting to be liberated.

That's depressing.

Now that we've found the way back into the Pub, there have been few days that I was not finding a reason to go there. I'd become very close to Rosie. I brought her baked goods; she turned a blind eye to my disappearing act. But there are times that I think she knows.

I also wonder when we will tell Ralph about us. I wonder how he'll take it. I have no doubt we'll tell him. He has become more and more a part of the family. He should know.

My trips to the Pub have brought me back into the fold. Sometimes though, the changes I've gone through make me feel like I'm doing nothing but trying to fit in where I maybe don't belong anymore. Except I do belong. I just have changed in ways that can be subtle.

Then again, everyone changes. Life changes you. I see it in the people there, our friends. What doesn't change is the allegiance we feel to each other.

All except one person.

Hando.

God, he is such a bastard. No one likes him. No decent person. Not one single person with the exception of Colin but he doesn't count. Either does Kim. Johnny has distanced himself, I think. Men like Chili, Terry and John Biebe have his number and have nothing to do with him. Maximus had seen him but not met him. He would have Hando's balls in a sling the first (and only) time he would challenge Max, we have all agreed.

A few days after my first run in with Hando, I was in the Pub waiting on Max to come by after work. We were going to have a bite to eat and a quiet night out, which we hadn't done in a while really.

Chili and I had the chance to catch up on our love lives while I was waiting. He promised I'd get to meet his Edie ... well, not exactly promised ... more like I rather ordered him to introduce us. Which he deftly ignored.

When he needed to get back to work, I tutted at him and told him Max would be along any minute and I was perfectly capable of being alone in any event. Then I was watching Paul and Jessie behind the bar, down a ways from where I sat ... I could tell something was troubling Paul. They had their heads together but before I could begin pondering on what might be happening, I felt a man press his body in behind me. I was sitting at the bar. On a stool. In plain view of everyone. And a man pressed into me, grinding ever so lightly so I'd know his groin was part of what was being pressed into me.

"All alone, eh? Little Annie No Mates," he said, this man behind me. And I knew who it was. There was no mistaking that lethal combination of softly dangerous Australian timbre, grossly mean killer thrust to one of your soft spots and inherently sexual magnetic deft way of handling his body in contact with a woman's. He rocked in against me. "Feels good? You know it makes sense...Am I the only bloke here who knows what a single woman sitting at a bar is advertising...? Fancy a quickie before the General rolls in...?"

This man behind me. This ... Hando.

By the time my brain clicked into gear, he had darted away. I am sure my mouth was hanging open. I know my heart was beating wildly. Hando slowed on his path toward the men's room, winked at me and then began making that universal "jerking off" symbol. He licked his lips, waggled his eyebrows, darted his eyes to the bathroom and back at me ...

Oh, fuck. Was it really this bad? Had I invited this? Was it something he really thought I'd take ... he really thought it was okay to basically come in there, in full view of everyone, and make a monstrous sexual come on to me? Like I'd really consider this? Like I deserved this only because I'd had that initial reaction to him when we'd met?

I couldn't believe it.

But what had once been torturing me for the feeling that I'd failed, that I'd somehow cheated on Max because I'd felt the unmistakable arousal of sexual heat around Hando ... something happened in that moment of looking at Hando ... and seeing myself through his eyes.

And I knew I was not that woman he saw.

I was not.

And no man was ever going to treat me like trash. No man.

I picked up the wine glass before me. It was just some instinct. Something red and indignant and not about to take this abuse from anyone ... that's what made me grab the glass. I was going to throw it at Hando. It was this irrational need to strike him. He was too far away to slap or I would slugged him.

But Paul put his hand on mine. I glared into his eyes but then followed the direction of where he was nodding ... toward the closet that was my entrance to the pub ... and I saw Maximus entering.

A feeling flooded over me. Shame. Fear. Loathing. I would never have let Max see me losing it with Hando. He would have known instantly that I was guilty of something.

My eyes darted to where Hando was. He was taking it all in ... seeing why I'd stopped ... that I couldn't retaliate ... he smirked ... and then continued on his way. Bastard!

The rest of that evening is a blur. I remember feeling dirty when Max touched me, a light kiss on my forehead. A soft apology in my ear about being late. We moved to a booth.

No wait. I remember something. A detail. I remember I told Max that Hando was a 'raving bastard' before getting hold of myself.

What else? Oh, yes. I remember I changed the subject. We talked about our long-delayed, never-planned honeymoon. I remember he said 'yes' when I asked if we could go in April ... I remember the way that made me feel. It gave me an instant picture of us, together, in Rome, in a piazza, in April. I remember smiling inside. I remember saying I wanted to flirt with him. I remember Max starting the flirting by teasing me.

"Have you any idea how many men in here follow you with their eyes when you cross a room? Should I be worried?" he asked me, leaning away, looking about with a brooding expression ... and a twinkle in his eyes to show he was playing around. "Perhaps it is time for me to exert my authority...but should it be over them or you...? That is the question? How responsible are you for the way your hips sway in that tight skirt or your breasts rise proudly in that figure-hugging jumper...?"

For the briefest moment, I felt uncomfortable. But his tone of voice gave him away if nothing else did. Still ... I blushed and dropped my eyes because I know other men do nothing of the sort. Still, my skirt was short and rather form-fitting, as was my sweater. But I was dressed for Max. Not other men. And everyone would know that ... right?

Or ... is it possible that I ...? No. I dressed for Max. I wanted to look nice for him.

I glanced up into his eyes, his face. Did he think that ... or was really he just teasing me? And this was what I realized when I saw him studying me casually. He was engaging me ... and it'd been a very long time since he'd tried to rev me up like this. I wondered if he could see my nipples harden under that tight sweater? Could he smell my arousal as I leaned into his body?

"Other men don't look at me, Maximus. Only you. At least, it's only you I notice," I whispered as I held my lips inches from the shell of his ear. I pressed my breasts in against his arm. "You'd exert your authority if a man looked at me? Tell me how you'd exert it on a man ... and on me. And then I'll choose which you should do. Tell me, Maximus."

He swallowed. He leaned toward me, subtly giving me the side of his neck that I could kiss lightly with no one noticing. My hand was under the table, and atop his knee. He moved it up his thigh. I moved it the rest of the way to his groin. No one could see where my hand was. What it was doing.

His eyes scanned the room. He sipped his ale. He wasn't sweating. He was hardening, though. I doubted anyone would have thought he was doing anything but chatting about his day at work with me. I was absorbed in enjoying every nuance of him.

"Depends on the man...mostly a look will suffice although occasionally I have to make a more threatening move... and as for you, young lady, well, I might just have to remind you what I can do for you that no other man can....do I really need to elaborate...?" he mused, finally, in response to my challenge.

There was no need to elaborate. He knew that. His eyes glanced into mine. It reminded me of how he'd glanced down at a waitress in a coffee shop recently after she'd "accidentally" leaned her breast in on his arm as she was refilling his cup. His eyes had not stopped at her face. He'd looked right at her breasts, where one was touching him. He used to look at me like that, I think.

Maybe I was always a pushover for him. My honest reaction had been to take him somewhere and fuck him hard. It took a lot of willpower to resist ... that and the fact we didn't do things like that anymore. That way you have of losing your head to the heat of sex.

He was right though. That bit about things only he could ever do for me. 

I wanted to tease him back. I teased him about how he'd enjoyed the waitress' come on. He raised his eyebrows. "So, you're accusing me of brushing up against women and taking a second look? And your eyes have never once strayed across the bar say like now....I could have sworn I saw you waving across at that scruffy Cullen Murphy...and he's certainly looking over at you....or do you think he keeps that smoldering look for me?"

An instant chill went down my spine. I prayed he never noticed. But what he said rattled me. Was it possible this was about more than teasing me? Had he seen me with Hando? Was this his way of warning me that I had gone too far? Did he choose to pick up on this friendly, innocent look from Cullen as a way of letting me know that he did not approve of whatever he might have seen in that split second he must have had to take in the pub before I noticed him?

I passed off the Cullen smile across the pub as nothing. He wasn't even really looking at me, truth be told. He was just looking about, absent minded, absorbed in some internal pondering ... even Max could tell that, I realized.

So he really had been teasing me.

I was opening my mouth to tease him back, to pick out a woman I could pretend was giving him the eye. And just then ... Hando walked right past our table. He slowed down and gave Max a mock salute.

"Evening, General...and the wife," Hando said

Max nodded at him. I glared at Hando. He replied by giving me a look as if we shared a secret that he might spill to Maximus if I pushed him.

It made me want to vomit, if I can be frank. The second Hando strutted away, I told Max I wanted to go home. When he just looked at me and didn't move, I said I'd meet him outside Rosie's, that I needed air.

We didn't talk on the drive home. I was deep into hating myself and hating Hando. Hating Hando won out. You know what I realized? The bastard pushed me a step too far. Max never noticed the silence on the drive. It's only after an argument that the silence lives with jangled heat and must be addressed.

My car ... Chili's caddy ... was still in the shop. I had this fleeting impulse to sneak to the garage the next day and just start driving until I was too far for these troubling thoughts. But that was the old me. I no longer wanted to run, not really. This was my home. Here. In Folsom. And at the Come On Inn. And no punk was going to drive me from it. This is what I told myself that night as I chased sleep and listened to Max's steady breathing next to me.

When I woke the next morning, I realized I was being silly. Hando was just playing me. I was letting him. John Biebe had warned me of this very thing the first time I'd met Hando. He was right. It wouldn't happen again.

That day, I did not go to the pub. I ran errands. I did chores. I sat in the upstairs room that had once held an artist's paintings and sketches. Max and I ended the night and began the morning in the pursuit of creating a baby ... in our bed, amongst warm and crumpled sheets. Where we could talk and touch. Where making love with each other was sweet and deep and so tender it made me cry.

Today, I have felt more at peace. No longer on a roller coaster. Most of the day, I've been outside in the spring's welcome and gushing warmth. It has been glorious. It rained yesterday and you can almost smell how the plants are responding. Everything around me seems eager and fertile.

Buck and I have explored down by the stream at the back of the property. We've carted away tree limbs from the bank and piled them up so Ralph can come get them with the tractor. I've weeded around Max's newly planted fig trees. I've sprayed them for bugs and disease. I've re-staked them and fed them. And as I now pace over and around the land on the tidy slope that Max dreams of planting into a vineyard, I find a softness overcomes me at the very idea of helping make a dream come true for Maximus.

Though Buck started the day in antic spirits, racing about and sniffing everything before peeing everywhere to mark his territory, now he is lagging. He just needed a long enough outing to get his high spirits under control. Like me, Buck has discovered he adores being out on this land.

We sit together under the spreading limbs of a small oak tree that overlooks the future vineyard land. I daydream for a while. Buck falls asleep almost instantly. I never realize I've slept until I wake up, groggy and unsure of where I am for a moment.

It's early evening. It surprises me how late it is, how long I've drowsed there. Max will be home soon ... unless he's delayed yet again. He could even be home already but I doubt it because he's been working longer hours lately. I should have started dinner an hour ago. I wanted to make him lasagna tonight.

No biggie. I'll make something faster, I am thinking as Buck and I set a brisk pace to return home. We're at the back yard when Buck hears Ralph revving up the tractor. Buck gives me this pleading look and I shoo him away. He tears around the corner of the house, heading for the stable, hoping he'll make it in time to hop on the tractor with Ralph, which has become about his favorite thing to do in the whole world.

It's at this precise moment that I step into the house, directly into the living room from the back deck. It takes me a moment for my eyes to adjust but I have seen movement inside. I think it's Max. I truly do. I know I'm smiling and the words, "Oh! You're home already" are almost out of my lips ... when I see it is not Maximus here in our home.

It is Hando.

The sight of him, here, in our home, makes me gasp. "What are you doing here?" I ask, hearing that definite growl in my voice.

He gives me an insolent look. I give him a glare. Why does he make me want to hit him?

"So this is your squat, hey?" he says softly. He gives the room an appraising glance. "Can't quite see the General chilling out here. You gonna be a good girl and get me a cool one?"

"Get out of my house."

He smiles at me. His eyes turn cold. 

"Get out now. Max is coming home soon ... he will kill you if he finds you here."

"Yeah?" Now he cocks his head and regards me. "What will he do to you if he finds out you came on to me?"

"What?" It squeaks out of me. "I did no such thing!"

"No? Not how I remember it."

And there it is, isn't it? The source of my shame and guilt ... isn't this how Max would interpret it? Isn't this what I fear, deep down, that I am guilty of doing?

When I don't answer right away, Hando starts walking around. His fingers touch the back of the couch. He pauses to feel the softness of the chenille throw I have tossed there. He bends to look at framed pictures I have placed atop the table behind the couch. He looks hard at a piece of art glass that Max found before he ever knew me.

I feel panic swell. Imagine Max walking in to find Hando there? How would I ever explain it? Of course he'll think I encouraged Hando to believe he'd be welcome. Maybe he'll think even worse ... that there has been an assignation he's interrupted. Oh God. Imagine if he thought that ... that I'd done something that vile? That I'd let another man ... touch me ... especially now when Max and I are trying to get me pregnant?

The words are in my throat. The ones I will scream at Hando if I must to get him out of this house before Maximus returns. I never say them, though ... because my eyes blink into focus just as Hando stoops down to study Max's altar upon the hearth. I cannot explain the feeling I get when he reaches in and picks up the figurine from Miami. The one Maximus has imbued with my spirit.

This is when it feels like a violation. As if Hando has crossed a line I will not allow. All I really know is that I feel a fury inside me that has not been felt in many months as I watch him touch this object that represents the woman I am now. Max's woman. Me. Who I really am.

"Put that down," I say to Hando. It is said with steel. He hears it.

He looks me up and down. I think I've surprised him. He recovers almost instantly but not so quickly that I haven't seen his realization that I'm taking a stand.

"This?" he almost whispers, palming the figurine before holding it out to me as if in offering.

"Put it down and get out of my house."

"Your house? Thought this was the General's house."

"I said get out. I mean it, Hando. Get out."

He tosses the figurine toward me. I reach to grab it from the air. When I look up, he is advancing on me. His eyes are points of black. His jaw is tight. He has a mean smirk on his face.

"Max is going to be home any minute. You do not want to be here when he does," I say, surprised that I would fall back on this, on expecting another man to step in and fight my battles with this man.

"You think I'm scared of him? The General?" he asks me, now so much closer. Another step. He's in my personal space because I refuse to run from him.

I am far too furious to run. This has always been my failing ... get me angry enough, and nothing can keep me from acting on my desire to fight to the finish. "I want you out of here. Now. And if you ever show your face around me again, ever talk to me in the pub again, then I will tell Max ..."

His heat, scent, testosterone ... whatever you may call the essence of an aroused Hando ... invades me. His jaw works side to side. I say a promise inside my head ... that I will make him pay for touching me. For I know he will touch me. I know it now. I know he will likely rape me. And I should have called for help but no one would have heard since Ralph is off on the tractor. I bunch my hands into fists. Whatever his next move is, Hando will find that I am a fighter. I will fight back. He is stronger but I will still fight back.

And then a voice cuts through this tension, this fear, this insane moment between Hando and me.

It is not my voice and it is not Hando's. It is Max's voice. It comes from the stairs, from where he stands at the bottom of the stairs, where I have no idea he is.

"What will you tell Max?" he asks into this tense moment that he has interrupted.

Everything seems to go so slow. Like a glacier. Slower, maybe. But it clicks ... it does. I look from Hando's tight face to where Max is standing, one foot on the wood floor of the living room, one foot on the bottom step. He is dressed not as if he's just come home from work. He is dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. As if he's been home for a little while. As if he came home, went upstairs to change, planning to go out to the stable to brush his horses or some other chore.

I look back at Hando who has now backed away. Who is smiling at me. Who winks as if to say, "Gotcha." Who is also dressed in jeans. Who wears a heavy t-shirt with a jersey jacket. Who is at ease here. Who feels welcome here in our home.

Who has been invited here. Into our home.

But not by me.

I look back at Max and find it infinitely easy in my angry concentration to ignore not only his question but also Hando's presence.

"You brought him here? To my home?" I ask Maximus softly.

"Our home," he replies, equally softly. "He is a guest here. Our guest."

"I do not want him here."

Maximus stares me down. My eyes drop eventually. What can I say, really? I am not about ready to argue with Max in front of anyone, but especially not Hando. I won't show division before an enemy. And Hando is definitely an enemy. Instead, I turn and walk into the kitchen.

I am standing at the window there, the one over the sink. It looks out upon the back yard and down the slope to the tree line at the Little Tchefuncte. I hear Maximus tell Hando he'll meet him at the stable. I hear the sound of men walking in my living room. One set of footsteps heads for the front door and out. The other enters the kitchen.

He doesn't have to say a word. His presence fills this space.

"I do not want that bastard in this house," I say to Maximus. I won't turn to face him. I fear what he will see in me.

"He is a guest in our home. You will accord him the respect a guest merits. I do not approve of this petulance over a boy who has done nothing more than irritate you," he says.

"Why did you invite him? Why would you bring that monster into our home? There isn't another man in that Pub, other than the ones too stupid to know his game, who'd have anything to do with him. You know I hate him. Why would you bring him here?"

"I do not listen to others when it comes to taking a measure of a man. I judge a man on my own and according to my own criteria. Can you give me no credit?"

I say nothing in reply. He walks out. I don't know if he's angry with me. I do think he's disappointed and probably now knows there is a lot more to this than Hando irritating me. I stand there at the sink and look out on the evening's soft light.

And here it is. The corner into which I've been painted by Hando. If I tell Max about why I hate Hando so, then Max is likely to blame me every bit as much as he'd blame Hando. After all, if a man comes on to me, isn't it up to me to not respond? But I responded. I did. To my eternal shame. It eats at me that I did. It makes me feel confused and ... dirty. How could I do that when I am in love with Maximus? When he fills all my needs, even those I never knew I had?

So, I think to myself, Hando has thrown down the gauntlet, hasn't he? He has somehow charmed Maximus. Well, well. That won't last. Max is way too smart to be fooled for long, I think to myself. What fun it will be when Hando reveals his true self to Maximus ... and won't Max make him pay for that?

I go to the side window and watch Max walk in measured strides toward the stable. Hando is lolling there against the wooden side, smoking. Max walks right past him, gesturing into the interior. Hando gives one long look up at the house, in my direction, before following Max inside the stable. I'd say Hando knew I'd be there, watching him.

"You little fucker," I say out loud. "You'll pay when Max figures out your game."

One thing I know is that Max will not be moved from whatever position he's taking on Hando by me nagging at him or tattling on Hando. It's beyond that. Hando has to show his hand. And that has to happen right away. Lord help me if they get to be friends! Imagine Hando deciding to cut Max out of the pack like he did Johnny? Jesus. He'll tell Max I came on to him ... that's what he was really threatening in the living room, wasn't it?

Well, I tell myself, I ain't taking that from Hando. No way.

I look around me and wonder what I've got in my arsenal if I can't just tell Max that I refuse to let him associate with Hando. That thought, that mental picture of me telling Max that and Max giving me my way ... it makes me giggle at the absurdity of such a notion. I think maybe I've swished over to insanity. But that's okay. I need to be inventive ... what would an insane woman do right now?

C'mon. Think!

And it comes to me as a pure and insane inspiration.

I know just what to do. I have to push Hando's buttons in front of Max but I have to do it in a way Max won't realize is anything but me treating Hando with the respect due a guest, under Max's stated desires, right?

Oh, I am capable of being evil, I say to myself with a grin.

And then I get to work cooking dinner. Because that's what a housewife does when her husband brings home a guest, right?

In about an hour, I walk calmly down to the stable. Max has the stallion out of his stall. He's pointing out something about his gait to Hando. Hando is looking like he gives a damn about this. I know he doesn't. I know he's playing Maximus. I won't let him get away with that.

"Maximus? I'm sorry to interrupt," I say sweetly. He looks up at me, wary. I smile and wipe my hands on the apron I'm wearing. He's never seen me wear an apron unless I'm baking and making a mess. "Dinner will be ready in about a half hour. Why don't you boys come in and get washed up? I'll have some cold drinks waiting for you when you come in. You look like you could use them."

"We shall be up shortly, Anna," he says. He smiles at me. I smile back. I even smile at Hando.

I don't wait around to see Hando's reaction.

They get to the house maybe five minutes after me. I am in the kitchen trying not to laugh out loud as I hear them head to the bathrooms to wash up. I'm waiting in the living room when they return. Max is coming down the stairs. Hando is coming down the hall from the wing where the guest rooms are. I am holding a silver tray with iced beer mugs filled with crisp local ale. Hando smirks at me as he takes his. I flutter my eyes and smile.

When Max takes his, I pat his arm and move him over to the couch. "Y'all just relax while I finish up dinner. It's taking a bit more time and I bet you're hungry. Here, I've made a few Vietnamese spring rolls as an appetizer. I know how you like them, Maximus. I hope it'll tide you over 'til dinner."

He gives me a tiny bow. He blinks at me; it's a look he gives when I've pleasantly surprised him and touched him. He is so sure I'm abiding by his command to be a good hostess to Hando. He thanks me, almost too formally, but then again, we do have a guest so I suppose he feels a bit constrained. I don't dare look at Hando for I fear I will be unable to stop from smirking at him.

Inside the kitchen, I rush around to finish dinner. I throw plates on the table, silverware, candles, napkins. In between tending to the dishes I'm preparing, I arrange everything neatly and prettily on the table. I take a moment to look at it as I light the candles. It looks so nice it's a shame to waste it on Hando. But then again, I don't plan on it being a waste ... I think of it as an investment in my plan to get rid of Hando from our lives.

After I arrange each of the dishes on covered platters and place them on the table, I go in the living room to announce that it's time for them to come in to dinner. I had thought about serving dinner in the living room but I was afraid Hando would see what I was up to and his surprise is essential. Or rather, his reaction to my surprise for him is what's essential.

Max takes a long sniff as he enters the kitchen. He makes that distinctly male sound of satisfaction. I usher him in to his place. I gesture Hando to his seat. I unveil the dishes with a flourish and flush of pride.

"In honor of our special guest and in atonement for my rude behavior, I have made three of Max's favorite dishes. I hope you'll enjoy them as well, Hando," I say sweetly. "First up, is spaghetti carbonara. Maximus does enjoy his pasta dishes."

Max smiles at me. Hando furrows his brow.

"Next, I've made enchiladas with that wonderful Mexican mole sauce you loved, Maximus. Remember? You said you adored it. I had some in the freezer from the last batch I whipped up," I say.

"Yes, how well I remember. Anna, you've outdone yourself," he says, as if it's nothing for me to make two entrees that do not go together. I think maybe he imagines I've just gone overboard in hopes of pleasing him.

"But I'm not finished. I have one more ... Shrimp Japanese teriyaki with sliced pickled ginger shoots and bean sprouts."

Now Max really looks puzzled. But pleased. Very pleased. I've outdone myself. I've made him proud. I've shown I know how to cook and that I am willing to obey my husband and that I want to please him by being good to his guest.

He grins softly at Hando and offers him the platter of teriyaki. "You will enjoy this very much, Hando. Here, let me serve you," he says proudly.

"Oh, and here, Hando, some wonderful white rice to go with that teriyaki! Now, don't be shy. You'll love the spaghetti. And you have to have at least two of the enchiladas. No, no. I insist! A man like you needs feeding up. You're much too skinny," I say, not looking at him, just piling food on his plate.

I sit down as I urge them to dig in. I look over at Max to catch him considering the odd assortment of food. He breaks off a chunk of French bread from the basket near him and begins digging into the spaghetti. His eyes sweep up to me. It is delicious. I know it is. I take a bite of the shrimp teriyaki. It is cooked to absolute perfection.

When I finally venture a look at Hando, my fork is slicing into the succulent softness of an enchilada. He doesn't appear to have eaten a thing. A piece of celery from the teriyaki is on his fork. He is glaring at me as if he will reach across the table and choke me to death.

"You don't like it?" I ask Hando, my voice shocked, my hurt palpable. "I worked so hard to make this special for you."

His jaw works. He knows I've done this entirely for one purpose: to piss him off. 

In my mind, at this moment, what happens is that Hando turns to Max and asks him how he can eat this gook, dago and wetback gunk. He throws his plate across the room. And I presume Max will then explode and throw him out on his lily white ass after he pummels him into the ground. And I can almost hear the apology Max will make me when he returns, wiping his hands of the last we'll ever see of Hando around here. And I hear myself say it's all right, that Hando upset me but I know Max will never let him even so much as look at me again.

This is what I am sure is going to happen ... or some version of it.

Instead, Hando takes a deep breath, slices into an enchilada, brings it slowly but surely to his mouth ... and eats it. He is looking in my eyes as he swallows it. He smiles around what I know is a large ball of fury.

"Yummy," he says to me. "You're a lucky man, General."

The evening passes so slowly that I imagine I have caused time to stop. I cannot believe the torture I've endured. The way Hando has bested me. The way I tried to bait him later with the enticement of watching a French film with Max and me only to have him settle in with a smile as Max dug up the DVD.

I can remember my chin rising as Max stooped down to put the DVD in the player and Hando ogled my legs. I tried to ignore Hando during the movie. I wanted to snuggle into Max to show my allegiance but, of course, Max wouldn't allow that with a guest in the house to witness such a display of affection. I couldn't help the involuntary glance at Hando when Max cleared his throat and stiffened in response. I scooted a bit away and tried not to see Hando smiling. Again, my chin rose. I imagine my color was pretty high as well.

And then, finally, he was leaving. He thanked Max for the tour of the stables. He thanked me for dinner. We looked at each other. I glared at him. He looked innocently at me. Max invited him to come back for a promised lesson.

When the door shut, I looked at Max. "What lesson?" I asked him.

He shrugged his shoulders and moved past me. "Fighting tactics."

"What?" I said, incredulous. "You're going to give Hando lessons in fighting? Are you nuts?"

He half turned. Looked at me over his shoulder. Said nothing else before turning to go into the living room where his half-finished snifter of Cognac must have been calling out to him.

I put my forehead on the wall and pounded my fists there and let out a silent scream of absolute frustration.

This morning, my nerves are hopelessly screwed up. And I'm angry. At myself for being so riled. At Hando for riling me. At Max for being played by Hando and not letting me manipulate him instead.

We are quiet with each other this morning. We don't make love because I rose long before him and when he came to the kitchen for breakfast, he was dressed for jogging. He likes to jog with Ralph on Saturdays when he's home. I tried going with them once. They left me in the dust what with their much longer strides. Now when I jog, it's Buck I take to talk to along the way.

Hando shows up before Max and Ralph get back. He knocks at the door but I won't answer it. So I watch from Max's study, peaking through a slit in the blinds, as Hando wanders over to the stable. He peers inside. I realize he is unsure. I can well imagine. He's a city boy. He's a lot less comfortable out here in the country than even I was when I first came here.

It seems like nothing ... yet ... I am bothered by how easily I go from staring at him with unadulterated hatred to perving his body and almost wishing I would make the mistake of inviting him inside the house. He is dressed in tight jeans. He wears a red shirt that he has unbuttoned in the warm sun that is beginning to turn the day into early summer weather. He rolls up the sleeves, taking infinite care to do it neatly, precisely. There is a frown on his face as he walks over to the white fence that corrals the horses in their main run next to the stable.

He lights a cigarette, leans his back against the fence and regards the house. I imagine he knows I'm watching. I am sure that's why he adjusts himself inside his jeans. For my benefit. Bastard.

As I watch, I notice one of Max's mares approach where Hando stands absorbed in trying to make me uncomfortable over the distance that divides us. He doesn't notice the mare until he feels her nose touch him as she sniffs him.

I can't help giggling at his reaction. He rounds on her, dropping his cigarette, his hands on his head. He must yell at her for she backs up and turns before approaching him again.

But then he surprises me. He leans over the top of the fence. He puts a hand out. She nears him again. He strokes her nose. He must be speaking to her for she swishes her tail and her ears come forward. I can hear him in my head; not his words, but that soft burr of utter man that comes from deep inside him.

Just then, Max and Ralph come running in, racing for the finish, determined. They finish in a dead tie, slap each other on the back. I watch Max introduce Hando. I see Hando give Ralph the twice over. Ralph walks away but before he goes into the stable, he looks back to give Hando a long look of his own. Hando never notices because he and Max are heading toward the house.

So I race upstairs and jump in the shower. I do not want to be downstairs and have to deal with Hando today. So I am planning to hide out as much as I can. I stay in the shower long enough to wrinkle and for the hot water to run out. I then take a long time to dry my hair, choose the shorts and t-shirt for the day, put on some make up then take it off then put a bit back on, then put my hair in a pony tail.

Finally, I look out the window but I do not see them around. I can see Ralph out the side of the stable where he is hammering away at some project that I think I remember he said was going to be new shelving for the grooming area.

Buck and I decide it's too nice to stay inside. We opt to go for a walk. We figure we should say good morning to Ralph along the way. Ralph makes a face when I ask if he's met Max's cousin. That gives me comfort for I figure Ralph is not taken in by Hando any more than Buck and I are.

"Where are they?" I ask Ralph casually.

"Something about picking out the right stick," Ralph says cryptically. 

"For what?"

"To hit each other."

"Huh?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "They took off for the river. Should be back soon."

I feign disinterest and take off in the opposite direction to walk with Buck. We are gone for at least an hour. I insist on it. I am hopeful that by the time I'm back, Max will have beaten Hando with whatever stick he's selected and then it'll be done.

From what little I have overheard and the even less that Max has grunted about the night before, I am to understand that Maximus, the General of the Armies of the North, has deigned for some unfathomable reason to teach Hando a few techniques that allowed Maximus to wield his sword so effectively in battle. When I asked why, he rolled his eyes and said he felt the discipline would be good for Hando.

Discipline? What? It takes discipline to wale away on an enemy? Well, lordie, I think Hando has that down pat. Imagine arming him with a sword and the damage he'd do with that?

Buck and I finally make it back from our escapade, walking up the lane that leads past the main horse pasture and up to the house. We hear the sound of men and the unmistakable thwack of wood on wood.

We find a vantage point at the large sycamore on the far side of the stable. We've had to walk around until we found the source of the noise and then we walked into this shady, hidden area from which we could observe unnoticed.

It is only curiosity that draws us near, me and Buck.

At first, I watch, mostly hidden by the tree's broad trunk. Only my head is sticking out, so I can see. 

They are in a cleared area behind the stable. It is an area where Max sometimes teaches the stallion to obey him by forcing him to do intricate maneuvers in a relatively confined space. It is nothing but a fenced in area of dirt, packed in over years of hard use.

When I first see them, they are side by side. Max is saying something to Hando. Hando's head is tilted and his mouth is scrunched up. He looks insolent and bored, as if the last thing he wishes to be doing is listening to Max lecture him about something.

They are both dusty. They have both stripped off their t-shirts. Hando is now in shorts, which I recognize as belonging to Max. Max is in his sweat pants that he was jogging in earlier. They hang down on his hips. I know his body well enough to know that if I was close, I'd be able to see the beginning of the pelvic hair line that starts below his belly button and widens when it reaches his groin. My fingers on the tree trunk involuntarily make a movement as if I am touching his body there.

They both look magnificent though Hando's body is thinner and his muscles do not have the same jaw-dropping quality that Max's do to me. In the stark sunlight, Hando's black tattoo markings break through as startling contrasts to his pale skin, even with the fine layer of dirty dust that hangs here and there upon his arms and his lower back. They frighten me, those markings. I don't understand them. And yet ... their ruthless wildness affects me somehow and it's not revulsion I feel though that is in the mix somewhere.

Now they break apart. Max barks at Hando to correct some position. They are holding slim sticks at each other. The sticks must be tree limbs that they roughly hewed to shape them into crude swords without the hilt.

Max's arm is cocked. His knees are bent. He advances on Hando.

Hando holds his stick low, almost to his knees. He circles warily. Suddenly he springs at Max with a roar. His sword is now high and descending viciously.

Max blocks it, both hands holding his sword stick up to take the blow. He blocks several more of Hando's undisciplined lunging attacks that grow increasingly desperate. It is astonishingly easy to see when something shifts and Hando realizes he will not win. And in just that instant, Max gives his own roar and swings powerfully at Hando's body as Hando loses his balance during his attempt to retreat.

I hear the "thunk" of Max's stick hitting Hando's upper hip and he is sent sprawling.

For a moment, I hold my breath and wait for an explosion. But there is Max, wary, guarded, goading Hando to rise and face him again.

They are both sweating profusely. Hando is breathing hard. Max appears too intent to so much as give in to the need for more air during this time of physical exertion. It is intimidating to watch just how in control Maximus is. Hando appears coiled in cold fury.

And now they face each other again. I see Hando's expression. He is focused entirely on Max. There is hatred, anger, humiliation and deadly intent in his eyes and in his entire posture. His sword stick is now out at his side, an almost-imitation of Max's stance.

Maximus circles Hando. Now I see Max's face. He studies Hando. He is resolute, intent, determined. There is not one iota of doubt in his bearing ... nor is there a scintilla of pity in his gaze at the man he faces in this contest.

I circle the tree trunk without realizing it. Now I am fixated on the scene before me. I am sweating. I am cheering on Max inside me. I am fascinated by how Hando does not seem the least afraid. I don't even realize I've walked just a bit closer to the rough arena before me, that I am drawn in to witness this experience between these men who are so different and yet who share a similar magnetism about them that I cannot deny affects me.

And just in that moment, Maximus attacks. His face contorts, twists. His nose flares. His mouth twists into a snarl. His eyes widen, go cold, lose anything but the will to defeat his opponent. I am witnessing a side of Max I've never seen in person. Honestly, it isn't the man I know. That intimidates me; I feel the tree at my back and realize I've backed away from them without even realizing it. But there is also this ... the absolute sense of man ... this is Maximus I am seeing and I am enthralled.

Hando meets Max's attack. I cannot see Hando's face. Only his back where the muscles bunch and flex as he raises his sword stick to block Max's blow.

But Max strikes with a force Hando was not expecting. Max has told me before that the raw brutality of focusing your entire physical strength on one strike of the sword is more the secret for how you turn sword skills into the death of an opponent.

Hando learns this lesson with a cruel blow that breaks his sword stick in two and then knocks him across the shoulder, sending him crashing to the dirt in a blaze of arms and legs. He rolls and tries to rise. Max tells him to surrender. Hando looks up at Max, malevolence in his eyes. He is holding his shoulder when he rises slowly. Max is advancing on him. Hando looks about for a weapon, grabs for one of the discarded sections of his stick sword and comes up swinging.

Maximus deftly sidesteps the down stroke and Hando is wide open. Max's elbow catches his jaw and then Max's foot sweeps Hando's feet from under him. Hando is flat on his back, eyes open with surprise.

They glare at each other. Max is gripping his sword stick. Hando is gripping his shoulder.

"Ya fucker," Hando grates out, gasping for breath.

"Next lesson will be Latin curses," Maximus says calmly through his own light pants. "You appear to have a natural talent for cursing. Pity you have no natural abilities in the discipline of one-on-one combat. If you had listened to my instruction rather than ..."

Suddenly, Hando's leg strikes out, catching Max's ankles and sending him smashing down to earth.

I hold my breath as Max hits the ground with the most heart-stopping thud. I expect him to leap on Hando's prone body and throttle him. I actually wonder if I'll stop him from killing Hando or just let him do it then help him bury the body. I swear I do.

What I am unprepared for, though, is what happens.

Maximus starts laughing. Hando does, too. And then Max does leap on Hando but instead of choking him, they start wrestling over the remnant of Hando's sword stick that he refuses to release despite Max's growling demands.

In moments, they are both covered head to toe in dirt. And bruises. And they are still laughing even if they can barely breathe for the exertion. And for calling each other names.

Maximus drags himself to his knees, a wide grin breaking through the grey dirt on his face. I stay stock still, unwilling to be noticed as having spied on them. But he does not turn my way. Instead he struggles to his feet, helps Hando to his, pats him on the back, tells him a few more lessons and maybe Hando will go more than a few rounds with him. They stumble toward the water hose that snakes away from the spigot on the back of the stable.

From my vantage point, I stand to watch them each gulp water from the hose.

I do not like this display of camaraderie. Not one little bit. It greatly perturbs me.

What disturbs me is that it turned me on to witness their battle. To see that Hando was unafraid and unbending. To see that Maximus was masterful and utterly confident brute force. I feel creepy to feel this way. My skin seems to prickle from nothing more than the touch of the breeze.

But what happens next will be most disturbing of all. I am still there, spying on them, not moving, blending into the tree's shaded recesses. Max gives Hando a shove as they are heading inside the deep cavern that is the stable in this noon day spread of sun.

Just before he goes to follow Hando into the cooler darkness of the stable, Max stops for a moment. And then he turns slowly. My breath catches as he looks directly up at me. He gazes for what seems forever, smacking the dust from his chest and arms. Then he gives me a slight bow before turning to go into the stable.

I am rooted to the spot. I can't understand the feeling inside me. It is fear and excitement, mixed to confusing portions. Did he just condemn me for my prurient gawking? Or had he been showing off for me?

Lunch is thrown together quickly and in a mirror of my continuing confusion and disquiet. I serve them on the patio as they sit still damp from their showers. Hando keeps asking for condiments or chips or drinks every time I sit down. I can do nothing but get back up, go in the house to retrieve whatever he's requested, to serve him.

It infuriates me that Maximus cannot see what Hando is up to. It insults me that Maximus does not stop him. And I cannot say a thing without appearing churlish and unwelcoming.

And so Hando wins yet another round or two. When he finally leaves, I cart everything from the patio into the kitchen, dumping it on the table until I can clear off the mess of preparing lunch from the counters near the sink. I can hear Maximus when he finally returns to the house after seeing Hando off.

I want to scream at him but what would I scream without sounding like a hectoring nag and paranoid woman? And deep inside, I fear what will happen the day Hando decides to divide Max from me by telling him about my reaction to him.

Inside the kitchen, I start cleaning up the dishes. More than anything, I am pretty furious, I admit. I've been outsmarted by Hando again. Bastard! And not only could I not find the way to embarrass him in front of Max, but now he and Max are becoming buddies! Bastard bastard bastard! How dare he corrupt Maximus?

"Why are you so bothered by him?" Maximus asks me, coming in, catching me unaware for I had thought he was upstairs or in his office.

I take a deep breath. "He doesn't bother me. Not at all."

"Liar," he says softly, coming behind me, his hands circling my waist. His mouth is near my ear. "The show last night was not for my benefit. And today's demonstration of interest in what we were doing was not solely about me."

"Why would you even talk to him, Max? He's dirt. No one else likes him. Yet you bring him here, as if he's worthy of some respect. He's not."

He gives me a tsk. It is soft, almost playful. But I am not fooled. He is fishing.

"I see myself in him," he says to me.

I turn in his arms and look at him. "You cannot be serious. He is the opposite of you, Maximus. You are honorable and brave and honest. He is a bully and a vile creature. He is not at all honorable."

"Are you sure you have not judged too quickly?"

"How can you be fooled by him?"

"I am not fooled," he says, tersely. He moves from me, going to the table, taking a seat. Looking up at me. "I am surprised you have not noticed the similarities."

"Between you and Hando? There are none."

"Then perhaps it is only that you will not let yourself see them. He offended you? If I had not had the benefits of a life formed by training and discipline, I would have done worse."

"What?" I say, coming to the table, picking up a few dishes to clean at the sink. "You would never ..."

"I come from crueler times. I see part of myself in him. As a younger man," he says. His voice is simple. His words make no sense to me in this moment. I am far too angry that he seems to be apologizing for the animal that is Hando. His hand reaches out to touch mine where it is on the rim of a plate. I pull away. He suddenly grows very serious as he gazes at me. "He did not have my advantages. He did not have a father whose iron will showed him a path. Do you honestly believe the man I am now was fully formed as a babe?"

"You are the finest man that ..."

"I became this man because other men took an interest in a raw, headstrong boy. I benefited from mentors who shaped and molded any natural talents and leadership I possessed. Hando had no such mentors. Or if he did, they were too weak for such a boy."

"Surely you don't imagine yourself becoming his mentor?" 

"Do you not find me up to the challenge? You believe I cannot deal with Hando or any man? You were not perhaps convinced by the lesson you witnessed today?"

I see it in his eyes. In his bearing. He knows.

Fear licks at me.

I don't answer him with anything more than a shrug. I go put the dishes I'm holding in the sink. I can feel Max behind me, watching me clean up. It takes every bit of courage for me to return to the table to get more of the dirty dishes.

"Do you believe he is a challenge to me?" he asks me.

"No," I whisper, afraid to look at him. But also angry to feel him pushing me into a corner.

"Did it excite you today? To see us? To see him?"

"No. Of course it did not. I hate fighting like that."

"Do you think I'm blind?"

"No."

"Why does he bother you so, Anna?"

"He doesn't."

"Liar." I look up. He is not looking at me, just gazing thoughtfully off through the window near the table. The word 'liar' was almost a sigh. "It is normal to look. To be intrigued."

"No. It's not. I'm not. I'm not, Max."

"He intrigues you?"

"No. He doesn't."

He looks at me. Full on. A smug smile. He knows.

"I saw the way he looks at you, Anna, when you both believe I do not see. With hunger. But he would never challenge me, would he?"

The air snaps between us. I notice the tension in Max's shoulders. I can read him better than I used to. I know he reads me. I feel that snap in the air. I feel it snap against me.

"At least he looks at me with hunger," I whisper, so soft that I don't even think I've spoken.

His eyebrows rise so I know he's heard. "And I do not?"

My chin rises. "I don't think you've ever looked at me like that. I'm not saying I want you to. I am just saying ... you don't. It's not your style."

"Do you wish it was?"

"No."

"Why does he make you uncomfortable?"

"He doesn't. Stop it."

"He does," Max says, firmly, emphatically. "Why does this bother you to admit to me?"

"Why have you never looked at me like that? You look at other women ... I've seen it ... but not me. Not like that. Not like all you want is sex," I say, now facing him, squaring up, ready and willing to take him on if he's going to keep pushing me.

"What?"

"Don't you ever think of me in those terms? As something other than just your wife? As just a sexual object? Someone who just makes you so hungry that you feel like going on the prowl for her?"

He smiles at me. I don't read his smile. It's not cruel. It's not smug. It's not sweet. I don't know what it is.

When he rises from his seat at the table, he moves slowly. He puts a hand slowly on the edge of the table. But his next moves are swift. I can't even remember if I've blinked. He pulls up on the table, slanting it so that every single thing that had been on it slides off to the floor. It is a horrible clatter and roar inside the kitchen. He lets the table's edge fall from his hand and it settles back atop its four legs with a rough rattling against the tiles of the kitchen.

He reaches for me as soon as he lets the table go. Grabs around my waist. Picks me up and firmly slams my body down atop the table. He climbs in atop me, one knee between my legs, his hands gripping my wrists. I am breathless.

"This is my hunger for you," he says, his voice tight, hoarse, low. "It frightens me for its consuming nature, Anna. I fight to control it every moment I am near you. It knows no bounds. You believe he hungers for you? Anna, you know nothing of a man's hunger for you until you know mine."

"I never thought you felt that way," I say. My voice is also hoarse. "I swear ... I don't want him. And I don't want any part of you that frightens you to come out. Maximus ... please."

He swallows. Something passes in his eyes. He reaches down to kiss me. We meet with open mouths. Hungry in a way I haven't felt in so long.

"Fight me," he says, moments later, his mouth at my ear.

"I don't want to fight you."

"Fight me, Anna. Remember feeling that way? Don't get lost inside what you choose now simply because it is easier."

"I'm not."

"You are. Anna, if you choose this life, choose it for the right reasons. Don't simply fade away out of fear of facing challenges. That's not who you are. Fight me."

"Damn you," I mutter and try to shove him off. He starts trying to work my jeans open. "You think I'm so stupid and weak that I'd just go into this blindly? That's what you think, isn't it?"

"Yes," he murmurs, his face in my neck. I know he's mocking me.

"Don't flatter yourself. You can't control me. I make my own choices. Stop thinking I'm not. I want what I want. I want you. I want us. I want ... Fuck! This is what I want."

I grab for the snap of his jeans. We start yanking clothes off. I almost fall off the table but he catches me in time. When he does, his arms are so strong and the muscles bulge. And I am looking at them before I glance across his chest, littered with the red welts of my nails where I instinctively clutched for him when I was falling.

His mouth is open. He is panting.

"God. I love you. You drive me crazy, Max. Crazy. Absolutely insane."

"As you do me."

"Did it excite you to demonstrate you could beat him with me as a witness?" I ask him, my eyes sharpening to study his response.

"Did it excite you to see us? To know your man may be showing another man that he has staked a claim to his woman that he will defend against all comers?"

It rakes through me, this idea ... something out of reach to my consciousness ... a thought I never imagined I would have. "Yes. It did. God, yes, it did. Even if it will never be necessary ..."

"He tests me by these actions more than he means to test you."

"Does it excite you that he may desire me? Or do you think me horrible to ask that?"

He licks his lips before replying. There is a light in his eyes that sparks out to me. "What excites me is to watch you react."

"We are such a mess."

"One of us is a mess. The other is about to give you a demonstration of how your lust for me will be rewarded."

I start laughing. His face softens. I reach up to smooth over his hair, stroke his ear, touch along his neck. "I don't know why he bothers me. That's the truth."

He nods at me. As if that was what this was all about. To get me to tell him. So he could say to me, "I come from a culture where women openly regarded young, attractive male slaves. Lusted after gladiators and not solely for their powers in the arena. What you felt for him was only lust."

"Only? God, Max." I close my eyes. Ashamed but relieved to have it out in the open between us.

"So a younger man caught your eye. Do you think I am worried? Do you think any man will ever threaten me when it comes to you?"

"No." I open my eyes to look into his amused face. "You knew this? All along?"

"It would be hard to miss."

"He made a pass at me. Several, in fact."

"Why would he not? He seeks to engage me. And I am vulnerable where you are concerned, Anna, because you are everything to me. Though I believe he knew from the beginning that he would never be my match in that arena."

"And yet you invite him here? Knowing that he is trying to annoy you? Knowing he is making moves on me? Knowing he wants to take you down?"

"Have some faith in me, Anna."

We stare into each other for a while. Later, he will tell me that he is glad I fought back ... against both him and Hando. That this is the woman he loves ... a woman who contradicts herself and invents complications not nearly as complicated as she already is.

But right now ... we are looking at each other and I am remembering how Hando made me feel when he first brushed against me and made the first crude comment. I am looking into Maximus and wondering if I ever see that aspect of him. I don't, you know? But what I do see is the superior version of the mastery of me that Hando displayed ... the same innate understanding that the way to get to me was through a challenge to my sense of self because I so often think I'm as much a mystery to others as I am to myself.

So Hando gets some part of me in a basic way that only Max ever has?

Well, it is Max who not only hungers for me but makes me hunger for him in a way I don't want to control. It is Max who makes this effort to allow me to feel comfortable with a part of my sexuality I thought was forbidden to me. It is Max who is so confident, so masculine that he would never be threatened by what he considers a woman's natural inclination to find other men attractive physically.

It is Maximus who holds me and pushes me ... and he can do it all in the same moment. It is Maximus who feels a hunger for me that knows no bounds. It is Maximus who has the strength to control that hunger, to hone it until it calls forth the woman who loves him with a hunger she's never known for another man.

And he is hard against me. Maximus doesn't even realize he is humping me, slowly. Not until I say to him that I want him to take me here, on this table. That I want him to at least take the edge off his hunger.

Just the edge, mind you.