---

Michael swore softly under his breath, as his last engine sputtered and quit. He pulled hard on the sluggish controls, trying to keep the nose of the damaged Cessna up as long as possible. Crashing on the jagged rocks below was not an option he could afford. He scanned the area below for an easier place to land.

Time, however, was running out. . . .

* * *

Savannah sighed with disgust, looking at the collection of books and videos in front of her. No matter how much she read, no matter how many 'adult' scenes she'd viewed, she couldn't imbue her romance with any realism! Her one goal in life—to write romances—was stifled by her total lack of experience in such matters. At age twenty-four, it was getting embarrassing being the only virgin on the continent!

She tossed another romance novel down onto the coffee table in frustration. Her own romance novel sat unfinished. She'd taken two months of hard-earned vacation and rented a cabin up in the Colorado Rockies, thinking the picturesque scenery would inspire her. She thought being away from all the noises of the city, and all the technological crap from her job would allow her thoughts to wander in a more romantic vein. For all the snow-capped mountains had helped, she might as well have been writing a travel guide!

Savannah stared out of the cabin window and grimaced—snow and more damn snow! To a Florida native, the snow had been amusing, even fun, when she first arrived. Now all it was, was a nuisance, and a cold one at that! Three feet and counting—and more on the way, according to the latest weather report out of Denver. She was glad she'd stocked up on food for the duration of the two months – because at this rate, it would probably be that long before she shoveled her way out of here!

Her once cheery fire was burning low, as she looked out the window, mentally tallying the amount of snow that had fallen. It had slowed a bit, making now a good time to haul some firewood inside before the approaching blizzard set in. Savannah tugged on her gloves, struggled into her heavy coat and boots, and headed out side. Damn! But she hated being cold!

Michael braced himself as the bottom of the plane started to clip the tops of trees. The first hard jolt slammed him around within the confines of his seat belt. Now the sound of screaming, twisting metal filled his ears. It seemed as though the entire world was being bounced and flipped from side to side, and upside down.

For a moment, Michael knew real fear when the ground came rushing up at him through the windshield. In seconds, the windshield would be gone, and the cockpit would be packed with snow, but only if he was lucky. His one hope for survival was soft powder and the hope he had dumped enough fuel that the residual wouldn't explode the plane on impact.

He had to survive—his mission was to get the coded disk back to Section. A thousand innocent lives hung in the balance. Failure, Operations had warned, was not an option!

Savannah heard the dull roar when she stepped out onto the porch. Looking up, she gasped, and felt the urge to duck, just as the outline of a small plane passed overhead, dangerously close to the treetops.

Savannah's work experience encompassed writing for a computer magazine. She wrote articles on the strengths and weaknesses of software. She could evaluate the speed and ability of a program to perform with ease, but had never considered what to do about a crashing plane! And there was no doubt about it! That plane was coming down! She watched as it did, heard the crash and saw the snow fly in an arc over the tops of nearby trees.

"Oh God! What do I need?" Savannah dashed inside and began to grab anything that might be useful. Burdened with an armful of blankets, a flashlight, and the first aid kit, she raced out the door in the general direction of the crash, weaving around broken trees and twisted limbs.

Michael didn't take the time to check for injuries. When the plane came to a stop in a twisted mass of metal and glass, he yanked off his seat belt, and scrambled for the nearest hole. He didn't want to be in the plane when it caught fire and inevitably, it would.

Where the wing used to be, there was a large gaping hole, exposed wires already sparking. Michael leapt outside, landing in three feet of snow, and scrambled to put as much distance between him and the plane as he could.

He staggered twenty yards, before stopping to lean against a tree. He hurt all over and gasped for breath in the thin, mountain atmosphere. He wasn't feeling the cold yet, but knew it was only a matter of time before he would. Something warm ran down into his eyes. He swiped at it in dazed annoyance. Training told him to remain near the wreckage—but it was all he could recall to do, at the moment. He felt dizzy and nauseous.

"Hey!" a woman's voice called out, from behind Michael, " Are you OK?"

Michael turned quickly, instinctively reaching for his weapon. But he stopped almost as quickly. She was struggling towards him in the knee-deep snow, carrying blankets, a first aid kit, and a flashlight. Clearly, she'd seen him crash. Hopefully she lived nearby with a phone as well.

Michael stepped away from the tree, and staggered, falling to his knees, his head swimming.

" Hold on!" she called out, quickening her pace towards him.

Michael was struggling to his feet by the time she reached him.

" Let me help you," she said, wrapping the blankets around his shoulders, "Is there anyone else inside?" She looked doubtfully at the twisted wreckage and wondered how in the world he had survived it.

"No," he answered, and with her help managed to stay on his feet.

"I . . . I don't know much about first aid . . . are you OK? I've got a phone - but the roads are getting really bad . . ."

Michael shook his head to clear it. It only served to make his ears ring louder.

"Do you live near by?" Michael asked her, as they started to walk.

" Yeah," she said trying to concentrate on where to put her feet in the knee-deep snow. "Those were my trees you were clipping."

They struggled in silence through the thickly, falling snow, Michael fighting dizziness as he went. He had to get to a phone, and a computer, and fast. He'd never get out of here on foot, and the roads would be starting to close by now.

The cabin loomed ahead, and when they staggered onto the porch, she stepped ahead of him, pushing open a door she hadn't bothered to lock.

Michael found the idea of an unlocked door odd in the extreme. He stepped up to the door, then has to hold onto the floor frame to steady himself as the room began to spin. Even so, he managed to catalog all he saw: A bed, a table, a sofa, a love seat, and a coffee table . . . with a lap top computer sitting on it.

" You have a computer," Michael said softly, "Can you get on line?"

" Sure," she said, trying not to stare at his bloodied, but oh-so-handsome face. "But you need to be resting and not net surfing right now. Your head's bleeding." She seated him on the couch and proceeded to open the first-aid kit.

"People will be looking for me," he murmured. "In Paris, they'll be expecting an email that I made it safely back, do you mind?"

"Of course not," she replied, carefully sponging off the blood from his head wound, "but after you get out of those wet clothes, and wrapped up in warm blanket. It wouldn't look good if you died of hypothermia, after having survived a plane crash."

"There," she said finally. "The bleeding's stopped. Want some coffee?" Savannah suddenly had the shakes. 'Coffee cures the shakes, doesn't it?' she wondered to herself.

Michael nodded. Anything to get her out of the room for a few minutes, so he could upload the data off the disk.

Savannah turned her back and busied herself with making coffee, trying to give her new guest a little privacy as he stripped off his clothing. But despite her good intentions, she happened to see his reflection in window over the kitchen sink and stared. Her breath caught in her throat. He had hard, sculpted muscles, like a Greek statue.

God! He had the face of a Raphael angel and the body of Michelangelo's David! She watched, fascinated, until he wrapped himself up in the blanket. When she turned around, with two cups of coffee in her hands, he was just sitting down on the sofa.

" Here, here's the phone if you need it," she said, "You just rest, I'm gonna go get some wood from the side of the house, and get the fire going to keep us warm."

Michael ignored the phone, took the offered cup, and watched as she pulled her coat on again, and slipped out the door. He waited until he was sure she was gone to pull the disk out of his jacket, and slide it into the drive.

A few taps on the computer keys later, found Michael frustrated and despairing—the disk the Section had risked so much for, had been damaged. He tried three times to download the information, with no success.

He flung an angry look out the window at the heavily falling snow. If Birkoff had been here, he was sure the young computer genius would be able to find a way to salvage the data.

But Birkoff was a thousand miles away and time was quickly running out!

Somehow, someway, he had to get the information coded on this disk back to section! Several times while he was attempting to upload the data, the woman—he still didn't know her name--came in, carrying several pieces of wood at time, until she had the bin filled up to the top, and had the fire place well stocked. The dry wood crackled and caught right away, sending waves of comfortable heat in Michael's direction. It made him sleepy, but some part of him was alarmed by the weariness, knowing a severe concussion might be the cause.

Tapping into a DoD uplink, Michael sent an urgent message back to Section, explaining the circumstances. Operations had replied that help was on its way—then the cabin went dark as all the power was lost.

Michael reacted by getting to his feet to investigate the cause of the power loss. The sudden movement pushed him over the edge and he lost consciousness several moments later.

Savannah saw the lights wink out in the cabin. Since they all went out simultaneously, she realized her guest hadn't turned them off. With the storm roaring about them, it had to have been a loss of power.

"Great—just great! A plane crash and a power outage! Wonderful day!" Savannah grumbled to herself.

She struggled back inside with a final load of wood, to find her guest slumped over the keyboard of her computer. Dumping the wood on the floor, she ran to his side in the dim light of the still burning fire, and touched his bare shoulder.

"Hey! Are you okay?" She shook him gently, got no answer and got a little panicky.

"Oh, please don't do this!"

The young man still didn't respond.

She ran to the phone and found it completely dead as well.

"Shit!" She shouted into the phone before slamming it back onto its cradle. "Okay, Savannah—deep breath time!" She held her head and looked around as if directions on what to do next, might be written somewhere on the walls. "Damn, I knew I should have joined Girl Scouts!" She muttered to herself, as she carefully moved the young man to her couch and tried to make him comfortable. Leaning over him, she was relieved to hear a heartbeat. "Okay, good—still alive." She babbled to herself. "I have to go to the garage and start up the emergency generator—so don't go anywhere, okay?"

After the forth try of trying to start the generator, Savannah cursed a blue streak and kicked it. Being petite and a virgin was really getting on her nerves!

Realizing she had to get back to her injured guest, she gave up for the moment and went back inside the house.

Her patient hadn't moved and it was really worrisome. She tried the phone for the fifth time—still dead. "Boy, Savannah, when it's not your day, it's really not your day!"

She rummaged through the first-aid kit and pulled out a small instruction manual. Under "C" for concussion she read what to do.

"Wonderful!" She spit out angrily. "It says to try and keep the person awake!" Pulling out an ammonia inhaler, she snapped it open and waved it under his nose. "Come on gorgeous, wake up! Please, wake up!"

Michael came awake like a raging lion, surging to his feet, and knocking over the woman and her coffee table in one mad rush.

"Oh! Ow!" She complained, rubbing her shapely backside.

Michael's dizziness instantly returned and he fell back onto the couch as weak as he had been before. "S-sorry," he apologized softly, leaning forward and resting his head and arms on his knees.

"Hey, maybe you'd better lay back again," the woman said, shyly, patting him carefully on the shoulder with one hand, while righting the table with the other. Michael allowed her to help him to lay back on the couch, where she covered him again.

"Can you tell me your name?" Her soft voice inquired, as she helped to shift his pillow a little.

"Michael." He responded wearily, hardly able to keep his eyes open.

"Hi, Michael. I'm-uh, Savannah. I tried calling for some help—but the storm's brought everything to a standstill—no phones, no power. How are you feeling?"

Michael felt her stroke his forehead lightly.

"Di—dizzy." He managed to get out before fainting again.

Savannah's eyes filled with sudden tears. 'What if he died?' she thought beginning to feel overwhelmed, sitting there alone in the dark.

After a few tears of self-pity Savannah decided to get a grip on herself. "Some Steel-Magnolia, you've turned out to be!" She laughed bitterly, and wiped away a remaining tear. "Okay, make a list—what do you have to do first?"

Her quickly scribbled list started with keeping the fire going. She piled on more wood to accomplish it. Making something to eat and trying the phones again came next. She succeeded with one and failed with the other. The phones remained stubbornly dead, and were likely to remain so, in the throes of the howling storm.

She checked Michael frequently, concerned that he wouldn't wake up, and was showing signs of being cold, despite her attempts to keep the fire burning high.

"Allez! Vite!" Michael muttered, rolling his head to one side violently. "Non!"

Savannah moved and knelt at his side. "Shhh, shhh! You weren't kidding about Paris, were you? You're French?" She stroked his forehead and it seemed to calm him.

"Shhh, Michael. You're safe," Savannah bent and kissed his mouth, then fell backwards on her butt, in wide-eyed horror over what she'd done.

"Ohgod! Savannah! You've gone and fallen in love with him!" She muttered in disbelief, as she backed into the kitchen.

She paced back and forth in the kitchen for over an hour, giving herself a mental lecture on the idiocy of falling for a complete stranger, no matter how gorgeous he was! There was no such thing as love at first sight—she told herself, only to have her heart say, 'Wanna bet?'Savannah shook her head and looked for something to do to keep busy (to keep your hands off him---said her inner voice with unholy glee!).

She saw his clothes in a pile on the floor and decided to lay them out in front of the fire so they'd dry faster. She found the gun when she shook out his jacket and it dropped like a rock onto the floor.

"Oh good—it needed only that." Savannah picked up the offensive object with her thumb and forefinger and laid it gingerly on the coffee table.

"So, what are you, darlin'? A good guy or a bad guy?" Savannah looked skyward and inquired, "This is a test, isn't it?"

"Who are you talking to?" Came a softy spoken question.

Savannah jumped a foot in the air. "Oh! God! You scared me to death—I—umm, no one—" She knelt next to the couch. "How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty." He said weakly.

"I'll be right back!" She jumped over the coffee table with the grace of a gazelle, and returned in seconds with a glass of water.

"Here," she said, holding the glass to his lips. "Sip it slowly. Does your head hurt a lot? I have some aspirin . . ." She opened her other hand and showed him the bottle. "Would you like a couple?"

He nodded, and allowed her to put the tablets in his mouth and hold the glass so he could drink some more.

"Michael . . . I know I'm going to be sorry I asked, but I found your gun. . . "

"Yes?"

'His voice is enough to curl your toes!' Savannah thought wistfully.

"Are you a policeman . . . or something?"

"Yes." Michael closed his eyes again, abruptly ending the conversation.

Savannah felt genuinely disappointed. He had the most delicious accent—even if he only said 'yes'.

Sighing, Savannah pulled the blankets up and tucked them securely around him. In the end, she couldn't help herself. She ruffled his curls.

It was after eleven in the evening and Savannah decided to get to bed herself. There was nothing else to do—the power and phones were still out—so she loaded the fireplace with more wood, and crawled into bed.

It was hours later when Michael woke up, and judging from the sky out side, he decided it was either very late at night, or early in the morning. The fire had burnt low and he shivered in the coolness of the room.

Easing himself from beneath the blankets, Michael sat up to check his surroundings. He remembered the crash and a few snatches of conversation from the night before, and was aware that there was something that needed to be done, but what exactly that might be, he was still unclear about.

He noticed a pile of firewood in a box nearby and got up to put some logs on to burn. That accomplished he felt his way into the kitchen. The power was back on as evidenced by the flashing green light on the microwave oven. He felt for and found a light switch and winced when the light proved painfully bright. He was terribly thirsty and drank three glasses of water in succession before feeling better. Then he remembered the woman and wondered where she might be. He found an adjoining room, but it was too dark to make out anything and he didn't want to wake her.Quietly, he logged back on the net. As soon as he'd noticed the computer, he's remembered the damaged disk and contacted Birkoff for any advice he might be able to give. Birkoff's messages reeled themselves across the screen in quick succession, asking questions and giving advice on what to try. But after an hour, Michael's head was splitting and he was no closer to being successful than when he started.

Oddly enough, Birkoff seemed to sense that Michael had had enough.

"Operations says to wait out the storm. We have people in transit. I'll be running sims. If I come up with a solution, I'll contact you. Birkoff out."

Michael shut the computer down, letting his gaze wander over to the woman asleep on the bed in the next room. Through the open bedroom door, he could make out her form burrowed beneath several layers of blankets. The early morning light, amplified by the whiteness of the continually falling snow showed she had long, dark hair. Dark brown, he thought he remembered—but the night before it hadn't seemed to be so long. He frowned, then recalled a thick braid. She had had it pinned up, he supposed.

Michael made his way back over to the sofa, and sat down, accidentally kicking over a pile of books sitting beneath the coffee table. He bent down, and picked them up. Curious, he flipped one open. It was a sex therapy book. Another book was a romance novel. A third book was entitled 'How to Drive Your Husband Wild'. The mate to it, 'How to Drive Your Wife Wild' was beneath it. There were video's on sex techniques stacked nearby--a few that were obviously pornographic. He frowned at the seeming incongruence of the situation.

Michael knew that no one else was here up in the cabin with her. He'd seen only her suitcase. Everything about the way things were set up suggested that she had no plans for any visitors. So why all the books and video's on sex? Was she a doctor?

'No', he could remember her comment about not knowing very much about first aid.

After a moment, Michael decided it didn't matter what she did, or didn't do, and set his mind back to puzzling out his computer problem.

Savannah awoke abruptly the next morning to the smell of fresh coffee. She leapt out of bed, tugged on a robe, and found Michael in the kitchen dressed in the sweat pants she'd set out for him the night before. He still didn't have on a shirt, and she felt her mouth go dry at the sight of him. He was busy laying out strips of bacon on the griddle, the carton of eggs sitting on the counter top. The power was back on again.

'So Adonis cooks too . . .' she sighed at the vision he made.

She combed her fingers through the heavy waves of her hair, and stood there a few moments, content to watch.

He must have known she was awake, because after a moment, he poured a second cup of coffee, and turned to offer it to her.

"You didn't take creme or sugar yesterday," he said softly, his soft French accent made his voice sound like silk.

"No, I drink it black," she told him, padding quietly across the carpet and into the kitchen. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he answered her. "I never thanked you yesterday."

She smiled, "You're excused, unless you're a nut. I'm sure you don't crash planes on a daily basis."

"It's Savannah—isn't it?" He asked, seeming a little unsure he had remembered correctly.

She nodded, and commented, "Mama fell in love with the city and decided to hang the name on me."

"It's a beautiful name, Savannah."

'It is, when you say it,' she thought dreamily. "Thanks." She responded—lamely, she thought.

"I hope you don't mind that I helped myself," Michael said, pointing at the food in the skillet.

"Oh! No! I'm glad you felt you could. It smells wonderful!"

'Don't gush, Savannah!' Her cheeks turned red at the thought.

"If you'll excuse me for a moment—I think I'll get dressed." With that, she spun on her heel and went into her room to dress.

Savannah was a bundle of nerves by the time she and Michael were clearing the dishes for breakfast. She tried to hold up a conversation through breakfast, but Michael seemed somewhat distracted. She was sure he hadn't even tasted the wonderful breakfast he cooked. She did manage to learn that he normally lived in New Orleans, was 23, and had neither wife nor kids. His friends in Paris were old college friends.

He politely asked her about what she did and she admitted to being a writer for a computer magazine, but that she was working on a romance novel at the moment. She omitted her current problems with love scenes and how she was convinced that she was oldest virgin on the continent. Some things, one did not tell handsome strangers!

After breakfast she noticed Michael turning a disk over and over, as if puzzled by it. He sighed deeply, slipped it back into the drive, and began furiously typing.

"Hey, that isn't my disk, is it?" Savannah said in a panic. The last thing she needed was for him to mess something up with her already struggling novel!

Michael turned quickly. She'd walked up right behind him, and he hadn't noticed her approach. It bothered him that he had become so trusting of her in so short a time.

"No," he replied, and started to shut down the computer.

"Wait!" Savannah said suddenly, reaching past him, "You're going to lose your data if you don't save it first!"

"It's damaged and won't let me access it," Michael told her. "It must have happened in the crash."

Savannah sat down next to him, "Hmmm. This doesn't look damaged to me . . ." Michael resisted the urge to take the disk back from her. It would be rude, and might raise questions he didn't want to answer, but before he could rationalize anything else, she sat back grinning.

"I think the file name is bad," she told him, "let's try renaming it . Ah, there you go. All fixed!"

She clicked enter, and a page of strange symbols came up, that made absolutely no sense what so ever.

"This isn't standard text format, is it?" she said softly.

"No," Michael told her, "It's . . .formulae. I was supposed to upload it for my friend in Paris - it's for his research on AIDS. I should have sent it before I left California."

It was all a lie, but the last thing he wanted was for this sweet, innocent woman who'd saved his life to be cancelled because she'd seen too much!

"This looks like it's encrypted . . ." Savannah's voice trailed off, as she opened another program, and started to type. "You're in luck though, because this used to be a hobby of mine. Daddy was a CIA encryption expert and he pretty much taught me all he knew."

Michael kept his mouth shut. If she could decrypt the file, he'd be able to upload it to Section one, with minimal exposure. He wondered at the wisdom of involving a civilian, but let it go. He and the Section were running out of time.

"That was too easy!" Savannah laughed, drawing Michael's brooding gaze away from the fire, "Whatever kind of drug cocktail your friend is working on, it sure looks complicated. All those chemicals!"

Michael looked over at the screen in amazement. She'd decrypted the entire file.

"Here," she said, pushing the laptop towards him, "Email your friend so he can save the world from an epidemic."

Michael almost shivered. She had no idea how close to the truth she was!

When she got up to get them more coffee, Michael quickly contacted Section One. Birkoff groaned through the entire upload process, embarrassed that he had overlooked something so simple as a bad file name. Michael consoled the young computer genius by noting that no one, himself included, had been able to find the problem either.

After the data had been safely downloaded, Operations informed Michael that he was going to cancel the extraction team. Michael now had time in abundance to return to Section, now that Section had the precious formula that would neutralize the chemical weapon terrorists had planned to use. Michael was to return to Section whenever it was convenient to do so.

Michael shut down the computer, and sat back, relief flooding over him. Thousands of innocent lives . . . saved by a software analyst/romance novelist . . . if she only knew. . . Michael slipped the disk back into the case, and got up, intent on adding more wood to the fire.

"What are you doing? You should be resting - not moving wood around!" she told him, taking the wood from his hands, "Go sit down."

"I'm fine," Michael said evenly, "If the roads were clear, I'd be on the road today, and you'd be enjoying your vacation again."

Savannah looked over at him, and took a seat on the far end of the sofa, picking up her coffee cup from the coffee table again, brought her knee's up to her chest, and wrapped her free arm around them,

"I don't mind having company you know - I grossly miscalculated when I made my plans. I thought a light dusting of snow would be picturesque - I had no idea I'd be getting snowed in, that it would be so damned cold . . ."

Michael smiled faintly, "You're not from Colorado?"

She shook her head, " No, not at all. Native of Florida, southern Florida, where it's warm, year round, and the worst weather I ever see is an occasional hurricane - but at least it's warmer."

"What made you pick the Colorado Rockies?" Michael asked her.

He absently tucked his hair behind his ears, and Savannah noted that even in sweats, he managed to look elegant - and delicious.

"I thought the snow-capped mountains would be inspiring," Savannah explained, "I've had the plot of my book worked out forever. I've even got the rough draft down. . . it just seems to lack something."

"And what is that?" He asked politely.

Savannah's entire body flushed scarlet. Somehow the conversation had taken an unexpected and nerve-wracking path. She couldn't answer that question! Intent on getting up to refill their coffee cups, she swung her legs around, her foot hitting the stack of books, magazines and video's she had neatly stacked under the table.

Both she and Michael bent to pick them up at the same time, nearly butting heads.

"They're uh, resources, for my book. I've been working on a love scene and I needed some . . . a different . . perspective. Be right back!" She jumped up, grabbed his coffee cup and hers, and bolted for the kitchen.

Sensing her embarrassment, and somewhat touched by it, Michael picked up the pile of tapes, magazines, and books, and set them neatly on the coffee table.

Savannah quietly returned a few minutes later, and groaned as she noticed the stack of blatant sexual data sitting on the coffee table.

Michael had picked up a copy of the Kama Sutra, and was calmly leafing through it, as if it were a newspaper and not the bible of all sex manuals!

"I love to read," he said, calmly turning a page, "I imagine writing a good love scene must be difficult."

"Especially when you've never made love . . ." Savannah blurted out aloud, then covered her mouth as if she could catch the words before they could be heard. 'Oh shit, Savannah—oh shit, oh shit, oh SHIT!'

Michael sat the book down, laid his arm across the back of the couch and turned to face her. "You've never made love?" His voice was inquisitive, but not teasingly so. "I find that hard to believe. You're a beautiful woman, Savannah."

"I . . .just never, well met anyone. I've been busy the last several years going to school, getting a job and . . . ohgod, this is got to be the most embarrassing moment of my entire life!"" She dropped down next to Michael on the couch, drew up her knees and hid her scarlet face against them.

"Stop." Michael said, gently tipping her chin up, "It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Maybe not for you—you're not the oldest living virgin on the p-planet!" Her voice broke, and Savannah felt all of four year's old instead of twenty-four.

She felt his warm hand cup her cheek and turn her face towards him. His expression was serious as he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.

The kiss was tentative at first, just a brush of lips upon lips. Even so, Savannah nearly forgot to breathe entirely! It was followed by a velvety wetness as Michael's tongue traced her lips and coaxed her to open her mouth.

The only sound that followed was a brief sigh as Savannah felt Michael's hand slide across the sensitive area below her ribcage, and carefully cup her breast between his thumb and forefinger.

"You're like the words you write," Michael whispered softly, feathering the words against her neck before kissing her there, "both passionate and innocent."

"Y-you read my story?" Savannah pulled back, more to catch her breath than to ask a question.

"Yes. You have a great deal of talent." He pulled her closer into his embrace and felt her tremble.

"Are you afraid of me?" He asked carefully, stroking her back as he pressed her close.

"N-no." She managed to blurt out. "N-not really."

"Do you trust me?" Michael asked, not knowing in that moment if he could trust himself. Why he was suddenly drawn to this woman, puzzled him. She was attractive, but not what you would call a beauty. She was even funny at times—a trait he was quite unfamiliar with, being in Section. Then finally, it dawned on him what it was— her innocence.

Innocence. Michael suddenly felt ashamed. He drew back and looked closely at her face.

"Savannah, I . . . I shouldn't have . . ."

Savannah cut him off, "No, please. Don't say it. Don't say you're sorry. I'm not!"

He smiled softly and ran his hands through the thick abundance of her dark hair. "I'm not sorry that I kissed you. I just don't want to hurt you. After tomorrow, I'll be gone and chances are, I won't see you again—"

But Savannah had made up her mind. "It doesn't matter—about tomorrow, Michael. I just . . . want to know. I need to know—please don't stop!"

"Are you sure?" He asked, his voice suddenly husky at her invitation.

She kissed him with all the meager experience she had, in answer.

He tasted her mouth and begged her to open for him, searching the moist cavern for her tongue and mating with it.

Michael carefully repositioned Savannah, so her back was supported against the couch's armrest, and he was straddling her.

She watched him with big brown eyes. Trusting brown eyes. And for the first time, Michael wanted to be worthy of such trust.

He slid his hands into her hair again at her temples, and tilted her head back slightly. "Stop me," he said, "if I do anything you don't want. Promise me?"

Savannah nodded, even as his parted lips brushed the corner of her mouth, then the other. His tongue stroked her mouth tentatively, waiting for her response. When she started to kiss him back, Michael felt a flood of emotion, something akin to gratitude. For once, this tenderness was real, not forced upon himself by the dictates of his job. For once, he could make love and have it give joy, not betrayal. The whole idea of it was intoxicating in itself.

Michael let Savannah set the pace for a few minutes, letting her taste him, and explore the contours of his lips with her soft mouth.

When he felt her small hands reach out to touch him, then hesitate, he caught one of them with his own, and pressed it to his chest.

"It's okay—" he assured her. "Touch me."

He dropped his hand to her waist, slipping under her shirt to caress her bare back. She trembled under his touch at first, but in anticipation, not fear.

Michael drew his mouth from hers, blazing a trail down her chin, beneath her jaw, to the hollow of her throat, with gentle, searing kisses.

Carefully, Michael began to remove her pullover. A soft moan escaped her throat, and Michael paused in the attempt. With a look, he begged permission to continue; she answered by lifting her arms to assist him.

Even though she had wanted him to, it startled Savannah when Michael kissed the cleavage of her breasts. No one had ever done that before!

He raised up and kissed her hungry mouth again briefly, then spoke, the depth of his voice sending shivers through her.

"Can I take this off of you?" He slipped a thumb beneath the confines of her lacy bra and stroked a nipple.

Savannah nodded, bereft of speech.

Michael quickly unhooked it, but left it in place.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, bending his head down to continue branding her flesh with his mouth. He slipped his hands beneath the loosed bra and cupped her breasts, his fingers brushing against their velvety flesh.

His hot mouth followed, pushing aside the frail, lacy material and centering on one sensitive peak. Savannah gasped aloud at the sensation and the sound of her pleasure sent Michael's desire soaring. The bra then became a nuisance and he pulled it off completely, exposing more flesh to his searing mouth.

When he felt her hands slide under his T-shirt, he paused briefly to remove it, giving her free reign to explore him.

Savannah's palms moved across his chest, finding his flat masculine nipples already hard. Her fingers stroked them, as if testing them for a reaction. Michael rewarded her with a soft moan, then with attention given to her own nipples.

Cupping the solid weight of her breasts in his hands, Michael's thumbs stroked their centers until they were again erect.

He found himself enjoying how she trembled, and reveled at the sound of her sighs. Savannah moaned beneath his touch, as a coil of ever tightening pleasure, began to make itself known.

" You have beautiful breasts, Savannah," Michael murmured, bending his head again to take one peak into his mouth. He suckled her, stroked her nipple with his tongue, even gently nipped the sensitive flesh, while her body writhed in innocent response. His thumb and fingers continued to torment her other breast, then just as she was sure she couldn't handle any more, his mouth moved to lavish the same sweet torture on the other as well.

Michael stilled for a moment, sucking in a rush of air when her hand casually brushed his stomach, just above his groin.

When he'd reacted, Savannah drew back her hand, thinking she had done something terribly wrong.

Michael caught her hand and pressed it against the hardened evidence of his passion.

" Touch me wherever you want to, Savannah." he whispered hoarsely in her ear, and then kissed her hungrily again.

Savannah's hand trembled as her fingers caressed the length of him. The thought--the revelation-- that she could be the cause of his desire enflamed her further.

He pressed his fingers against her, stroking her through her jeans, preparing her, as she had him, by rubbing sensitive flesh. She was already wet for him; he could feel her moist heat seeping through her jeans.

Savannah moaned, parting her legs unconsciously, wanting more. Her hands moved to grip his hips, as she pleaded with him through whispers, not to stop.

As if he could stop-- he thought, unbuttoning her jeans, and slowly working them down past her hips.

Michael paused long enough to remove the remaining barriers of her clothing, then shed his clothes as well.

Savannah's hands unconsciously covered herself, and she shivered at the sight of him, leaning over her, his body bronzed by the light of the fire. He was so beautiful, so magnificent that she started to cry.

Michael saw her shiver, before he saw the tears. "Are you cold?" He asked as his fingers traced the faintly rippled surface of her belly.

"N-no."

When she answered, Michael heard the emotion in her voice.

"Do you want me to stop?" There was a wide range of emotions vested in his question—concern, tenderness, and disappointment.

Savannah shook her head, "No. Please don't stop, Michael."

He smoothed a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "You're sure?"

She answered him by bravely curling her fingers around him and stroking.

He allowed her to continue a few moments, before moving out of reach.

She gave a little mew of protest as she lost him, but he gave her other things to concern herself—his tongue delving into her navel, his fingers, first stroking the insides of her thighs, when gently caressing themselves against moist, hot flesh.

She jerked under him at the initial invasion, only to arch towards him as he began an intoxicating rhythm—slowly, stroking side to side, then around, then dipping the tip of one finger inside—then out again. Over and over—Savannah began to pant, then plead, "Michael—oh, Michael, please—"

He moved lower and began to explore her with his mouth, first finding, then feathering his tongue against the hardened bud, at the apex of her desire until Savannah convulsed under him violently, crying out in surprise and pleasure, her mind and soul seeming to shatter.

Michael let her ride out what he knew to be her first orgasm, until her body started to relax and sag back into the sofa.

"But you . . ." she started to say, "Oh god . . . "

He smiled down at her, before easing her thighs apart, and beginning again. His mouth suckling her as he slipped one finger slowly inside her hot, moist sheath, causing her to immediately climax around it.

"Sweet Savannah," he whispered as his mouth returned to hers, letting her taste herself on his lips.

He waited until her head cleared a little, stoking her hair from her face, happy to know he had pleased her, yet worried that he had let things go too far.

"But what about you, Michael?" Savannah asked, seeing the sudden hesitation in his face. She slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

"Please Michael, don't stop. Not now. I want to see you, when you come in me. I want to know it all--your pleasure as well as mine." She stroked her hands down his chest, then brushed his groin with her hands. "Please, Michael."

He closed his eyes, then caught her hands and held them, "Wait—" he said gently. He leaned over, searching for something on the floor. A moment passed before he sat back up again and pressed something into her hand.

Savannah smiled at the small foil wrapper, suddenly thankful he had better sense than she did. She kissed him shyly, then pushed him back against the cushions of the couch.

"W-what should I do?" She asked, suddenly unsure.

"Whatever pleases you," Came his soft answer.

She turned and looked over one shoulder, at the soft rug in front of the fire. It had always been a fantasy of hers, to make love in front of a roaring fire.

"Could we move over there?" She asked, shyly.

"Anything, mademoiselle wishes," Michael replied, tossing two pillows from the couch to where she had indicated. That accomplished he scooped her up into his arms and laid her atop the pillows.

Once there, Savannah made him lie on his back, with his head on one pillow. "My turn," she said, running her fingers across his chest, feeling his warm, firm muscles contract at her touch.

She began as he had done, with her tongue exploring the flat whorls of his nipples, delighting in the discovery that she could make them peak and Michael sigh huskily, as well.

She straddled his waist, so she could lean down to kiss him, then shivered as his warm hands closed over her breasts and plucked softly at their tips. After a few moments, Savannah felt him push against her hips, guiding her to where he wanted her, positioning her intimately against him.

Instinctively, she rocked her body against him, groaning with wonder as she rubbed his velvet hardness against her most sensitive flesh. That anything so hard, could be so very soft at the same time, was bewildering to Savannah's impassioned brain. She rubbed against him again, and again, panting and straining to keep the perfect pressure where she was mad for it.

Michael cupped her bottom in his hands, pressing her harder against himself. She was so hot, so wet against his rigid flesh. He wanted inside—wanted to explain to her—ohgod—he wanted her so much. He clamped his eyes and jaw shut, to keep from begging.

As if he had spoken, Savannah suddenly seceded to his wishes. He felt her trembling fingers rolling the protective barrier over and around him, then gasped aloud as she positioned the tip of him inside her.

She was tight—so hot! He lifted his hips, to push himself further inside, then stopped when he heard her gasp aloud and pull back.

He'd forgotten. She hadn't lied. She was a virgin, in every way. He held her still, his hands holding her hips.

"Savannah—" He tried once more to offer her a choice to stop. But she seemed determined. He heard her draw a deep breath, then arch her body towards his.

They groaned together; she in pain, he in ecstasy, feeling her tight, hot flesh enclose and hold him.

After a moment, to adjust, Savannah pulled back, then eased forward again achingly slow. Her arms shook with the fatigue of holding herself in position, so Michael carefully rolled with her to one side. Adjusting a pillow to support her head, he eased her onto her back, then kissed her to apologize for her pain. He had never been anyone's "first" before and it touched him deeply.

Mindful of her pleasure, Michael slowly pushed in, and eased out, going a little farther each time, allowing her to adjust with as little discomfort as possible. He kissed her hungrily as he continued to penetrate her, his fingers gently squeezing and teasing her nipples.

When he reached the point where he was completely sheathed within her, he reached down and began to carefully stroke her along with each measured thrust.

Then all became movement outside of thought—outside of time. Advance and retreat. Faster and faster. His heart pounding; her body lifting. Both arching, both wanting. . .. until . . . Michael heard Savannah cry out as her muscles spasmed around him, and he fought to hold back his own climax, so he could draw out hers. Then, as Savannah's subsided, Michael allowed himself to come, his body throbbing into hers as the rest of him relaxed against her.

They lay there, warm and spent, their bodies threatening to melt into a pool of satisfied flesh.

Savannah stroked perspiration-soaked curls away from his face, as he lay asleep against her breast. Her tears were hot as they rolled down her cheeks. It had been the most beautiful moment of her life, and the most bitter-sweet, because somehow, she knew. Beyond doubt, she knew, that he could never be hers.

Light streamed through the through the window, dancing across the rumpled bed covers. Michael was awake, and watching it dance across Savannah's face as she slept. She sighed in her sleep, turning onto her back, the blankets sliding down to reveal more of her tempting flesh.

Michael felt like giving into temptation this morning. He eased the covers down, exposing one of her breasts, and flicked his tongue over the coral peak. She stirred a little as her body responded in its slumber, and Michael continued on by circling the hardening peak with his tongue.

Savannah woke up to a warm heady sensation building inside her, and Michael's hands traveling down her stomach, and in-between her legs, his mouth devouring her breast.

"Michael?" she asked gently, her arms slipping around his neck as he moved over her.

He looked up at her, and even Savannah knew how to recognize desire in the green eye's she'd become so intimately familiar with.

"Thank you," she said gently, and felt the blush rising on her cheeks.

Michael grinned, and kissed her, taunting her, tempting her. She kissed him back, and then pushed at his chest. The kiss broke, and Michael looked down at her again, "Is something wrong?"

"I uh . . . why don't you lay on your back for a while?" she suggested.

Michael smiled, and rolled them, so she lay sprawled on top of him. Savannah sat back, straddling his waist, looking down at him. She trailed her fingers down his chest, memorizing him, the shadows, the contours. She bent her head down, and ran her tongue across is flat masculine nipple, experimenting. She heard his sharp intake of breath and felt a heady rush course through her. It felt good to know that she could affect him as well. She moved to his other nipple, and reached down in-between them, and wrapped her fingers around his swelling shaft. Remembering something she'd read about, she rubbed her thumb across the sensitive tip, and won a sharp gasp and moan from Michael.

"Savannah," his whispered, his French accent making it more a caress than a name. He reached down, searching for that place in-between her legs that seemed to ache with need constantly now, and touched her, expertly playing her body until she was taunt and strung out with need. Michael grasped for something on the side of the bed table, and Savannah yanked it out of his hands, ripping the package open, and rolling the thin latex barrier down his shaft.

Michael helped her ease himself inside her slowly, grabbing her hips, not letting her take all of him in at once. Inexperience could be cruel. The last thing he wanted was for her to hurt more than she had last night.

Michael rocked his hips up slowly, in rhythm to Savannah's rocking backwards. He reached for where their bodied joined, rubbing her sensitive nub with his thumb, making sure she got as much pleasure out of this as possible. He struggled with himself to hold back his own release, stroking Savannah as hard as he dared with his thumb. Her muscles clamped and spasm around him, her body becoming rigid in it's release, and Michael soon followed, helpless to stop himself.

She collapsed on top of his chest, still drunk on the sensations. Michael's arms wrapped around her, and he kissed the sensitive spot he discovered beneath just beneath her ear.

"How did you learn all this?" she asked him gently, after they'd had a chance to catch their breath, their heart rates returning to something close to normal.

Michael felt an ache in his chest that he didn't want to identify. How could he tell her he'd been trained to seduce, to manipulate a person in one of the most devastating ways?

"Just . . . time . . . I guess. The key is to be sensitive to your lovers needs - looking for their reactions, what pleases them, what doesn't," he told her, sliding his fingers into her hair, to massage her scalp, "Always remember Savannah - no matter who you are with. If it feels good, it's OK. When it doesn't feel right - it isn't."

Michael sighed with real regret. The storm had subsided. The weather would be very cold, but there would be no more snow for the next week. The roads were being cleared yesterday afternoon. This morning, on the radio, they'd heard that the roads were open again. It was time to go.

He'd never discussed anything with Savannah along the lines of seeing her again. He'd been evasive about what he did, and she'd somehow known not to pry.

It was with regret that he dressed in his standard black on black, pulling on the heavy coat. He had the disk stashed safely inside the breast pocket, his shoulder holster and gun in place.

He turned, hearing her come out of the bedroom, dressed warmly in jeans, a sweatshirt and parka. She would drive him into town, where he'd catch a flight out of Colorado. She smiled at him, the smile genuinely happy and warm. She wasn't going to dwell on what couldn't be.

They talked about nonsense things--whatever caught their attention on the radio as they drove into town. She waited while Michael arranged to catch a flight that would be leaving soon, and ticket in hand, he turned to her, pulling her into his embrace.

"I will miss you Savannah," Michael said, kissing her forehead, holding her close.

Savannah smiled, "You'll know where to find me I'm sure - I tend to move every time my lease is up it seems - but the magazine always knows where I am."

"I can always contact your editor too," Michael told her, "I'm looking forward to seeing your book in print."

One year later . . .

Michael stopped, and turned to look in the bookstore window. Something had caught his eye about one of the books displayed there. He went back to look, examining the titles and the authors.

One of the books, a hardbound romance novel, by Savannah Richards, sat in the middle of the display. Michael had to have it.

He went inside, purchased the book, and hurried home to read it.

He'd thought of Savannah more than once over the last year. He'd even thought about calling her briefly, when he'd been in Miami - but that would put her at risk, and that was the last thing he wanted to do to her.

He reached his lonely apartment, poured himself a glass of wine, and sat down on the sofa to read. He flipped open the cover, and found on the second page, a dedication.

'Thank you Michael, wherever you are, for your gift of passion. Be happy. Love, Savannah."