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“If you were in your right mind, you would not offer this.”

I pulled the red T-shirt out of my pants, but had trouble pushing the straps of my shoulder holster down, as if I couldn’t remember how. I screamed my frustration, wordless. Maybe because of that, or because Jean-Claude was trying to fight off too many things at once, I suddenly felt Richard feeding, hot flesh going in great gulps down his throat.

I choked, stumbled, collapsed against the edge of the tub, letting the hot water come up to my waist. I was going to be sick.

Jean-Claude touched my back, and I couldn’t sense Richard anymore. “I cannot shield us from our wolf, fight both your ardeur and mine, and fight my own bloodlust. It is too much.”

I sat on the edge of the tub, hands flat, trying to keep myself steady on the marble. “Then don’t fight it all. Pick your battles.”

“What battle should I choose?” he asked, voice soft.

The ardeur rose like a gentle wave, chasing back the nausea, cleansing me of the sensation of meat and flesh going down my throat. I hadn’t realized the ardeur had any gentleness to it.

As if he’d read my thoughts, Jean-Claude said, “If you do not struggle against the ardeur, it is not so terrible.”

“Like the beast, if you accept it, it doesn’t beat the hell out of you.”

He gave a small smile. “Oui, ma petite.”

The ardeur drew me to my feet, and I wasn’t shaky anymore. I was steady in my desire. I moved through the hot, thigh-deep water, my jeans clinging to me like a second skin, my jogging shoes sliding through the thickness of the water. I stood touching him only with my gaze. The strength of his thighs, the loose swelling of his groin, skin there slightly darker in color than the rest of him, the line of black hair that traced upward, around his belly button, to the smooth lines of his chest with the pale circles of his nipples, and the flat whiteness of the cross-shaped burn scar. I came to the grace of his shoulders, the line of his neck, and finally the face. I was never sure how to look upon his face and not be overwhelmed. If it had just been the dark glory of his hair, I could have borne it, but his eyes, his eyes, the darkest blue they could be and not be black. They were the richest blue I’d ever seen. His eyelashes were so thick they were like black lace. The bones in his face were delicate, small and finely chiseled, as if whoever had made him had paid attention to every curve of his cheek, every turn of his chin, every sweep of brow, and finally the mouth. His mouth was simply beautiful. So red against the whiteness of his skin.

I touched his face, traced the edge of it from temple to chin, and my fingers clung to the beads of water on his skin, sticking, so that touching him wasn’t smooth, or easy. The ardeur was still inside me like a great warm weight, but I’d welcomed it this time, welcomed it chasing back Richard’s beast, and I could think, though only about the man in front of me.

I stared up into that face and said what I was thinking, “Was this the face that launched a thousand ships?” I slipped my hand behind his neck and began gently to bring him closer as if for a kiss, “And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?” I turned my face and swept my hair aside, exposing my neck, “Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!”

He spoke, “Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it: Thinkest thou that I who saw the face of God, and tasted the eternal joys of heaven, am not tormented with ten thousand hells in being deprived of everlasting bliss!”

The quote made me turn and look at him. “That’s from Dr. Faustus, too, isn’t it?”

“Oui.”

“I only know the one quote,” I said.

“Let me give you another. ‘I kissed thee ere I killed thee, no way but this, killing myself to die upon a kiss.’ ”

“That’s not Marlowe,” I said.

“One of his contemporaries,” Jean-Claude said.

“Shakespeare,” I said.

“You surprise me, ma petite.”

“You gave me too big a clue,” I said, “Marlowe and Shakespeare are about the only contemporaries that people still quote.” I frowned