Title: A Husband's Chance

Author: Britanyca

Email: britanyca@hotmail.com

Disclaimer : Not mine. All characters belong to Joss Whedon and his crew.

Rating: NC-17

Spoiler: Nothing that I know of. Rated: you can read if you can watch the show.

Summary: AU. Angelus and Buffy=92s marriage is of inconvenient. But when Buffy have amnesia. He saw it as the only chance to be a husband he wants to be. But how would she react when she learn the truth of their relationship.

Author Notes: This is actually a rewrite of one of my favourite story. I can't remember the author. But all credit is to her. Not me.

Angelus is in a serious meeting in the boardroom. After many years in business no one dare to oppose him. For they all know how ruthless he is in business. They all heard or witness what happen to those who dare to challenge him.

They were debating whether to buy the company that is in a bankruptcy state right now and want to sell it before they lose everything.

The door was suddenly open and Cordelia, Angelus' secretary walks in. In all her years of working for Angel, she learned not to interrupt a meeting unless it's important. `Well,' she thought. `This is important'

When she reaches him, Cordelia whispered to Angelus ears. Her words cause his body to stiff and his expression darken. Their audience watch curiously.

Angelus only asked quietly. "Where?"After getting the answer, he turned and said to his executives and high-class employee, hi voice hold back all emotions that run in him. "The reason the company fail is it location" he thrown the folder down. "It's not worth buying it" With that Angelus walk out the boardroom. As soon as the door close Angelus slash out to his car with only one destination.

The General Hospital.

Cordelia pile all the info that her boss laid on the table while the other watch with their mouth open. They spend a whole hour of arguing each other whether they should buy or not. And their boss decided in less than a minute.

To him, beside the cemetery, the hospital is the saddest place of all.

"Your wife is still in the emergency room sir." One of the nurses at the exception desk told him as he identified that it was Buffy who was in the crash.

`Why is it that everything connected to Buffy, I always feel helpless.' Angel thought sitting in one of the chair at the waiting room. "If anything happen to her…" he said quietly to himself, yet unable to finish it.

As a doctor came toward him, Angelus jumped to his feet instantly. "Is Buffy okay?"

"Your wife is stable now Mr. Delaney." The doctor begins, "but I'm afraid to inform you that the crash had damage her head. And that when she wakes up, she might not be able to remember."

As he continues Buffy's state, he didn't notice a spark of hope in Angelus' eyes. Angelus quickly conceals his emotion and said to the doctor that he want Buffy to be transfer to a private clinic as soon as she is able to be transfer.

She didn't want to open her eyes. She knew he was there. The man they said was her husband. Seated in a chair by the side of her bed. Where she had been told that he had stayed consistently for days after her admission into the hospital. She had gained consciousness last week and he had confined his visits to three times a day. Early morning, mid-day and evening.

She heard the nurses commenting on it when they thought she was asleep. They relayed it in faintly envious tones when she was awake. How he didn't want to leave her, and how he watched her for any sign of movement to show she was coming back to consciousness. Her admission had caused a general outburst to the tabloids and the clinic. It appeared that everyone knew who she was.

*Or rather, * a voice whispered in her mind, *who she was married to. * The nurses told her that she had been transported while unconscious by the ambulance from the accident scene to a nearby public hospital. All hell had broken loose when reporter's found out she was there. And then she had been transferred post-haste to this exclusive and very expensive private clinic with it's own array of specialists.

She was so lost in thought that she almost didn't hear him calling her. "Buffy."

His voice taking on an intimate quality, as if he were talking to a lover.

*Was he her lover? * She asked herself. Of course he was. The ultra-sound picture of a two-month foetus in her womb was taken during her unconscious state. Luckily the baby had suffered no harm. The baby is the ultimate proof that he is her lover. The thought of him with her in bed intimately made her pulse triple into an accelerated beat.

Damn. Now she had no more pretence but to answer him. Her lashes trembled fractionally then fluttered slowly upwards.

His striking good looks were such that it took considerable effort not to shut out the sight of him.

He was a tall man. Well over six feet tall. With a pair of wide shoulders and the muscled frame of a superbly trained athlete. Even in relaxed repose, he still seemed intimidating.

"Good morning, gra' did you sleep well?" His voice was deep and vaguely husky. She watched with detached fascination as his lips curved into a warm smile.

'Why ask when you have undoubtedly elicited that information from the attendant sister before entering my suite' was the answer she wanted to give him. But her response to him which held restraint was monosyllabic, "Yes."

"Thank you." She added quietly, all too aware of the look in his eyes.

Shouldn't there be some level of recognition deep within her psyche? Anything that would allow her to recognize or know him? Even if her mind failed to acknowledge him in any intimate capacity, surely there must be a sixth sense that helps her be aware of him.

'Damn it.' She cursed silently. IT wasn't enough to believe that Angelus Delaney had swept her off of her feet in a whirlwind courtship. The fact that they had married after a month of having met had left many details unexplained. A natural curiosity about her background was explained by a couple of thick albums containing family snapshots brought to her by Angelus. Unfortunately not one of the snapshots inside aroused any spark of recognition in her.

She leafed threw the pages that were filled with glossy prints detailing her from infancy to adulthood numerous times. Highlighting scholastic and sporting achievements to her chosen study of becoming a paediatrician. There were photos of her parents, the father she had lost at an early age. And many of her mother, whose affection for her child was achingly apparent. All the more distressing because she had died two months ago. There were many holiday snapshots with friends she was unable to identify. The picture of the family home she and her mother had shared until her marriage to Angelus didn't help to capture any memories either.

"How is your hand? Hurting any less today?" Angelus queried lightly.

"A little." She responded stiffly. Refusing to tell him that her ribs and shoulder still ached.

"Is there anything that you need?"

Buffy slowly closed and re-opened her eyes. "You send me flowers everyday." As her gaze skimmed to the massive bunch of exotic blooms. Roses, a varying hue of pale cream till the deepest red. Their long stems and velvet petals attesting to their expensive hothouse origin. Exquisite arrangements assembled with delicate artistry. According to one of the nurses, it's one of the most exclusive floral boutiques in L.A. "I've also got fruit." A bowl of exotic yet delicious fruit was placed at an easy reach. "I have so many magazines, I couldn't possibly read them all." She tried to inject a little warmth into her voice. "What more could I possibly want?"

"To come home, perhaps?" Angelus queried with a teasing indolence as he kept his watchful gaze on her as she tried to veil her startled expression.

A silent scream erupted from the hidden recess of her soul. *Dear God, no.* This hospital, this particular suite had represented the sanctuary she was reluctant to leave. Yet she knew she couldn't stay there forever.

Aware of the slight lump that had risen in her throat she swallowed as her fingers began absentmindedly pleating the sheet in abstracted agitation. "I'm to be released?" she looked at him carefully trying to read his expression more carefully. All she could see is his relaxed figure and the warm smile that was pasted onto his handsome face.

"The neurologist and the obstetrician have both assured me that there is no reason why it should not be this afternoon."

*So soon* she thought, *why can't it be tomorrow? Or the day after? * At least by then she would have time to get used to the idea.

The mere thought of re-entering the home she had supposedly shared with him filled her with inexplicable dread. It was difficult to pinpoint her reluctance. *Was it because there had been no one to visit her, except Angelus Delaney? * Buffy asked herself. She looked at him and searched his features. But all she saw was the evidence of his strong character. She identified the man in him that would be a force to be reckoned with, a man no adversary would choose to have as an enemy.

A shiver of apprehension slithered down the length of her spine at the thought of him as her lover.

One couldn't live with a man such as him and not be aware of his sexuality. Or remain unawakened to her own sensuality. Without a doubt he would have introduced her to every intimacy, every sensual pleasure, and without a doubt would have taught her how to respond in kind.

Angelus growled and said in a husky chastisement, "Don't look at me like that."

"You don't understand." Buffy closed her eyes in silent chagrin, then opened them again. Her wide gaze was filled with a mixture of puzzlement and confusion. The air seemed to charge with the intensity of the emotions coursing threw her and she seemed to have trouble regulating her breathing.

"You think not?"

She gained nothing from his voice. "Angelus--" She tried to judge him by voice, but gained nothing. "Angelus..."

"It is no more difficult for you to face a husband that you fail to remember than it is for me to have a woman who is my wife look at me as if I were a total stranger."

She saw him clasp her uninjured hand and lift it to his lips as if it were in slow motion. A gasp emerged from her throat as he gently turned it palm upwards and buried his mouth in the soft palm.

A white-hot sensation arrowed with unerring accuracy to the core of her femininity, flooding it with a heavy languorous warmth. She was held mesmerized by the depth of emotion evident in his dark eyes.

"Do you have any idea what it does to me to see your eyes dilate with apprehension every time I touch you?" Angelus asked, his voice seeming to hold a bit of restraint as he spoke, "To be aware that you prefer my lips brush your cheek, rather than possess your mouth?"

The room, everything that it contained seemed to fade to the periphery of her vision and she could only look at him. She was unable to utter so much as a word, the moment seemingly freeze-framed in time.

The knock on the door proved anticlimactic, and she hurriedly tugged her hand free as the kitchen orderly came in carrying a breakfast-tray.

"Good morning," the woman greeted them cheerfully as she placed the tray on the bed-trolley then slid it into position before turning toward the man seated close to the bed. "Can I bring you some coffee, Mr. Delaney?"

Angelus' smile curved the edges of his mouth, deepening the vertical creases that slashed each cheek. "Thank you, but no."

Buffy watched him carefully as he enfolded his lengthy frame from the chair. Leaning forward her covered her mouth lightly with his own. Her lips trembled beneath the brief contact with his.

"Your to be discharged at three o'clock." His husky voice said. "See you later, gra'."

For one crazy second she felt strangely bereft, almost wanting more than that fleeting touch. Something flickered in the depths of his eyes before it was successfully hidden, then he straightened and moved towards the door Without another word.

Buffy watched his departing figure with perplexity. The warmth of his lips against her own, the restrained degree of passion that lay beneath the surface had stirred her senses, almost as if some inner being were intent on forcing recognition.

"There you are, Mrs. Delaney," the kind faced kitchen orderly declared as she undid a mini pack of cereal and added it to the bowl of fresh fruit. "Which spread would you prefer on your toast this morning?"

Hospital routine ensured that there was little time in which to brood, Buffy accord wryly, for within ten minute of the breakfast tray being removed a nurse arrived to assist her to the shower, followed by the doctor's round, Physiotherapy, morning walk and tea, the daily visit from the hairdresser-arranged, as she had been informed, by her husband.

It was a thoughtful gesture, although she couldn't help attempting to analyse his motivation. And that proved detrimental, for it only brought her relationship with Angelus Delaney to the fore, and incurred a renewed bout of soul searching.

It seemed ludicrous to doubt Angelus' depth of caring when there was every evidence of his devotion in the room; the cards carefully placed together in the drawer of her bedside pedestal, each bearing 'Love', written in black ink, and signed 'Angelus' in a powerful slashing hand.

More importantly-did she love him? Certainly she had married him, but was love her motivation?

Dear God, she wasn't the sort of woman who had deliberately contrived to trap a wealthy man by using feminine wiles. Was she?

Buffy closed her eyes in silent anguish, and then slowly opened them again.

"Time, patience, Mrs. Delaney," the neurologist had stressed solemnly. Yet such an answer was as frustrating as it was ambiguous.

Lunch was a delectable bowl of beef consommé, followed by thin slice of roasted beef with accompanying vegetables, and segment of fresh fruit for dessert.

Apprehension began to knot in her stomach, only to intensify a short while later as a nurse entered the suite.

"Your husband will be here to collect you in haft an hour," she informed Buffy with a bright smile. "I'll help you dress, then pack your things."

I don't want to go, an inner voice screamed in silent rejection. Several jumbled thought raced through her head. Perhaps she could dream up a mild complication-an excuse-the onset of a headache, her hand-anything that would delay her departure. Yet even as she contemplated such an action she dismissed it as futile and, pushing the bedcovers aside, she slid to her feet, watching with detached fascination as the nurse moved to extract clothes from a nearby closet.

Sky blue trouser in uncrushable silk, a cream silk blouse, wisp brief and bra in a matching cream silk and lace, plus low-healed shoes. Each item looked incredibly expensive, and undoubtedly was, given the evident reverence with which they were handled.

Buffy stood still as her nightgown was being removed, an exquisite garment in peach satin-finished silk and lace, which made up a set with its matching négligé. Obediently she steps in to her clothes with the help of the nurse.

"Would you like some help with the make-up?"

There was a case holding everything imaginable, but all she'd chosen to use over the past week was moisturizer and a pale lipstick. Perfume? Her fingers hovered near the curved glass bottle of Dior, then retreat. She hadn't bothered to use it in hospital, so why now?

Buffy watch with idle fascination as the nurse extracted a valise and began filling it with all her belongings.

"Please" Buffy intervened as the girl caught up variety of glossy magazines. "Keep them."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes and the flowers" Buffy added. "Divide them among the day and night staff. And the fruit, the chocolates."

The nurse's features mirrored her gratitude. "Thanks. They'll be appreciated."

"You have all looked after me with great care." Buffy's mouth curved into a soft smile.

They had, despite it being their job to do so. Yet there had been a marked degree of dedication to this particular patient.

Because of the man whose very presence demanded nothing less? Or was it the faint air of mystery, the haunting vulnerability of the attractive girl who had occupied this suite?

The Sister will be here in a moment to formally sign you out of the hospital system."

Buffy murmured something suitable in response, and gazes sightlessly after the nurse's departing form.

'Why did she feel so uncertain and so damnably insecure?' She asked herself.

A natural reaction, an inner voice assured her, in a tone that remarkable like those of the consultant neurologist.

The door swung open and she turned towards the ward sister, accepted the relevant appointment cards, and listened to the professional advice, which concluded with, "Don't attempt anything too strenuous too soon."

"I will personally see that she doesn't," a faintly accented masculine voice assured her from the doorway, and Buffy turned slowly to face her husband.

'Right on time too.' As she quickly glanced at the clock.

The business suit he had worn that morning was absent but it was replaced by dark trousers and a polo shirt unbuttoned at the neck. The casual knit fabric emphasized his broad shoulders, and the long sinewy sweep to his lean waist, and revealed powerfully muscled forearms.

The smile on his face was warm, and Buffy idly watched the nurse's reaction with detached fascination, aware of the faint appreciative gleam evident beneath the professional façade.

Did all women respond to Angelus Delaney this way? Buffy wondered silently. Such thoughts were hardly conductive to her peace of mind, and she stood very still as he moved towards her and brushed his lips against her temple.

"I have the car waiting outside."

Her indecision must have been apparent, for his gaze narrowed slightly as it took in her pale features and the degree of uncertainty evident in her hazel eyes.

"You have no need to feel apprehensive," he assured quietly.

'Are you kidding?' She wanted to scream. 'I'm being taking home to a home I can't remember with a man I feel hardly know.'

With a sense of desperation she sought to elicit some sort of recollection-anything that would provide her with a measure of reassurance.

Yet there was nothing, and she cursed herself once again for attempting to force a situation over which she had no control.

"If you would care to follow me" the nurse sister suggested, "I'll accompany you to the main entrance."

His frame seemed to overpower her as they traversed the carpeted corridor. Her stomach executed a series of painful somersaults as she caught sight of a large, expensive-looking vehicle parked immediately in front of the main doors. Unquestionably his, it looked as powerful as the man, who owned it, and she slid cautiously into the passenger seat, unconsciously holding her breath as he leaned forward to attend to her seatbelt. His hand brushed against her breast, and her pulse leapt, then set up an agitated pound a he carefully fastened the clip in place, leaving her feeling helplessly trapped.

Oh, God. 'She had to control her over-active imagination,' she counselled silently to herself as he closed the door and crossed around to slide in behind the wheel.

The car eased forward and she experienced the insane desire to tell him to stop and let her out, which was crazy. For where would she go?

Minutes later the large vehicle emerged into the steady stream of traffic, and with a sense of resignation she focus her attention on the scene beyond the windscreen.

Houses constructed of bricks and mortar; neat garden borders bearing a variety of brightly coloured flowers; carefully tended lawns; trees lining the streets, their wide spreading branches providing shade from the sun's shimmering rays; numerous electronically controlled intersections, shops. It all appeared so normal, so everyday. Yet none of it looked familiar to her.

Some of her tension must have made itself known, for Angelus turned slightly and cast her a discerning glance. "You are uncomfortable?"

Her eyes widened slightly as she met his dark eyes, and she uttered a polite negative before he returned his attention to the road.

The car's air conditioning reduced the force of the midsummer heat, and Buffy breathed a silent sign of relief as he activated the stereo system, glad of the music's soothing qualities, for it precluded the necessity to converse.

With seeming fascination she observed the quality and style of the house lining the wide arterial road begin to change, from small blocks of land to those of larger and more stately design. Old mingled new, their elegant façade revealing a visual attestation of wealth. The celluloid print Angelus had shown her of their home in suburban Sunnydale revealed a large double story mansion overlooking the town and the town's harbour. How long before they reached it?

"A few more minutes," Angelus told her quietly, almost as if he knew the passage of her thoughts.

The large vehicle slowed down to a halt before a set of highly wrought steel gates, which swung open with a touch of an electronic modem, then closed quietly as Angelus eased the car along the wide sweeping driveway. The double-storied mansion was an architectural masterpiece in stone, with gleaming casement windows and gables and arched doorways. With a set well back from the road in beautiful sculptured grounds, whose neat garden borders a profusion of flowers and shrubs, which were visual proof of a gardener's loving care.

The car drew to a halt at the main entrance where an impressive set of heavy panelled doors was offset by a pair of large ornamental urns, and once inside Buffy was unable to prevent a faint gasp in awe of the spacious foyer. The central focus was a tiered marble fountain, complete with gently cascading water, above which ornate crystal chandelier hung floating from the high glass-domed ceiling, which lent spaciousness and light. A wide double staircase curved up to an oval balcony from which apposing hallways led to two separate wings.

Exotically designed panels of stained glass in the vast atrium shot brilliant prisms of multi-coloured light on the walls, magnifying their pattern in an ever-changing sweep controlled by the direction of the sun's rays.

"It's beautiful" The word slid unbidden from her lips, and moved forward to pause at the marble fountain. "Were you responsible for the design?"

His already dark eyes were darkened and almost still, and then he smiled. "To some degree-yes. I consulted with a plethora of experts to achieve this result."

She put out her hand and trailed her fingers through the water, soothed by its soft flow against her skin, then turned slightly toward him. "You must entertain a lot."

His slow smile held warmth. "There are occasion when it is more relaxing to invite business associates to one's home," he responded indolently.

"With their wives?" 'Where did that come from? A natural assumption,' she assured herself silently. Successful men had wives or mistresses. Some presumably had both. 'Did Angelus possess a mistress' Buffy asked herself quietly.

Angelus took a few necessary steps to her side and placed a hand beneath her elbow. "Let go into the lounge. Olivia will have prepared a few delicacies and some tea to tempt your appetite."

At the silent question mirrored in her expression, he added quietly, "Olivia takes care of the house and does the cooking. Her husband, Giles looked after the grounds, the cars and acts as general handyman."

His nearness bothered her more than she was willing to confess, and walked at his side as he ushered her into a beautiful furnished room that commanded a fabulous panoramic inspection of the town and harbour.

Expensive work of art were spaced at intervals on the silk-covered walls, and provided an elegant backdrop for the magnificent Chinese rugs that covered the marble floor. Predominantly pale blue, employing a delicate mix of cream and the palest pink in their patterned design, the large rugs were a perfect foil for the cream-upholstered sofas and chairs, the rosewood cabinets and profusion of glass-topped occasional tables.

No sooner had Buffy selected a single chair and settled comfortably into its cushioned depths than a pleasantly slender woman in late thirty, entered the room with a wheeling trolley on which reposed two steaming pots, milk, sugar, cream and various plates containing a selection of small cakes, pastries, and delicate sandwiches.

"It is so good to see you home again," Olivia greeted Buffy as she poured tea and added milk and sugar, then positioned the cup and saucer within easy reach on a glass-topped table beside Buffy's chair.

"Thank you," It seemed strange to be faced with a woman she must have dealt with on a daily basis in the seven months of her marriage.

"I will serve dinner at seven o'clock. Is there anything special you would like?" The smile broadened with pleasure.

"You have often complimented Olivia on her chicken soup."

Buffy inserted warmth into her voice. "Chicken soup will be fine."

"And afterwards? An omelette, with mushrooms, some cheese, a little tomato, ham?"

"That sound delicious" she qualified, watching idly as Olivia poured coffee into a demitasse and handed it to Angelus before exiting the room.

The tea tasted like nectar, and Buffy took a small sandwich, savouring the delicate smoked salmon and cream cheese filling, accepted another, then declined anything further.

"More tea?" Angelus asked.

"Please," she accepted gratefully, watching his lengthy frame unfold from the chair. His hands sure and steady as he refilled her cup and placed it within an easy reach.

"Have you lived here very long?" The need to converse seemed paramount, and her fingers shook slightly as she lifted a hand and smoothed back an imaginary lock of hair behind her ear.

His eyes flared slightly at the nervous gesticulation, and she made a conscious effort to moisten the edge of panic threatening to assume unmanageable proportions.

"A few years. I had the original house remove, then began from scratch." She felt as if she were on a conversational roller coaster that she couldn't stop.

"During the past week I've looked at photograph albums which mean very little, and you've provided essential information. Tell me how we met, and why."

His smile assumed musing indulgence. "The need to fill in some of the gaps?"

"There are so many."

"And you are becoming impatient."

"Frustrated," Buffy corrected. "I seem to have a hundred questions."

"All which you want me to answer at once?"

Her eyes took on a haunted quality, "I need to know."

"You walked into my office demanding a minimum five minutes of my time." Angelus told her.

"Why?" she had to ask.

"Your mother had borrowed extensively from my merchant bank, and you refused to accept my decision not to extend the loan or the term."

She digested the information slowly. "You own a merchant bank?"

He revealed solemn; "I have many investments."

"Was I successful in overturning your decision?"

He seemed to take his time in answering. "You can say we eventually reached an understanding."

"You asked me out." This much she knew, because he had told her.

"You opposed me as no other woman had, quizzed my business acumen and condemned me for my lack of compassion." Warmth gleamed in the pits of his chocolate eyes.

"Your fierce loyalty impressed me, and I was sufficiently intrigued to insist we share dinner. Within twenty-four hours I had persuaded you to marry me."

"And arranged for the wedding to take place a month later." Dear God. Such omnipotence was devastating. She found it vaguely shocking that she had given her consent. "Am I supposed to believe you're an honourable man, or go with reality?"

One eyebrow slanted in mocking cynicism. "Which reality would you prefer? Gra'"

"You have the advantage." She manages, with a degree of sadness. "While I possess none."

"Finish your tea," he commanded quietly. "Then I will take you upstairs to rest."

She wanted to say that she wasn't in the least tired, but the thought of being free of his presence for an hour or two was attractive, and she replaced her cup on its saucer.

"I have a house overlooking the ocean at San Diego. It's an ideal location for you to relax and recuperate."

"You mean for both of us to stay there?" Not alone, surely? She agonized, aware that he had caught the fleeting emotions perceptible on her expressive features.

He lifted a hand and brushed warm fingers across her cheek. "Of course. Your welfare is very important to me."

For some inexplicable reason she felt the faint stirring of apprehension featured insidiously sown her spine.

'Why?' She queried silently as they moved towards the magnificent staircase. Yet with every step she took, her sense of anxiety increased.

The entire floor was covered in thick-piled powder-blue carpet, providing a cool tranquillity that was gratifying.

Buffy caught a glimpse of rooms employing soft shades of pale emerald and peach, delicate pinks and greens, the softest shades of blue and cream, all so beautifully coordinated that she began to suspect he had enlisted the services of an interior decorator.

The master suite held a king-sized bed and two finely crafted rosewood chests of drawers, with corresponding cabinets and bedside pedestals. The drapes and bedcover were of a bold design in cream, pale amethyst and sapphire.

She watched as he crossed to the bed to turn back the cover, then with deft movements he retrieved several pillows from a cabinet and assembled them into a comfortable nest against the bed head.

"There's an intercom device on the pedestal," Angelus informed her as she slid off her shoes, and then sank back against the pillows.

The breath caught in her throat as he lowered his head and brushed his lips against her own in a provocative caress before straightening and moving back a step.

"I'll be in the study for an hour or two. If you need anything, just activate the intercom. Rest well, gra'," he bade gently, then he turned and left the room.

There was a collection of magazines conveniently placed within easy reach, and Buffy idly browsed through two before discarding them, her eyes heavy with weariness she could no longer fight.

Her sleep was dreamless, and when she woke up, the first thing she saw is Angelus standing a short distance from the bed, his eyes dark and faintly brooding as they examined her pale features.

"I'll have Olivia bring you a tray." He reached out a hand and tucked a tray tendril of hair back behind her ear. "Come," he commanded, sweeping the sheet aside. "I'll help you undress."

*NO! *, A silent voice screamed from deep within. "I should be able to manage," she voiced in strangle tones.

"I doubt it," Angelus returned, his eyes darkening measurably at her evident reluctance. "Think of me as a nurse," he drawled, taking in her clear-eyed resolve with a narrowed gaze as she got to her feet.

No nurse of the male species could possibly look as he did, nor create such havoc with her senses.

Calm deliberation was evident in his action as his fingers undid first one button, then another.

"The thought of a man you can't remember removing your clothes," Angelus pursued in a silky voice, "a man who as your husband has lain with you every night in this bed, tasted every inches of you, and placed the seed of his child in your womb. It frightens you?"

"Unnerves me," Buffy corrected shakily, almost hesitant to voice the words that had tortured her since she had been aware of her pregnancy. "Had we planned to have this child?"

His eyes took on gleaming warmth as he leant down and brushed his lips to the edge of her mouth. "The choice and timing of conception was your decision." His fingers freed the third button, then moved to the fourth. "Rest assured, I could not be more delighted."

The last button slid undone, and she stood helplessly still as he slipped the silk blouse free from her left arm, then carefully drew the blouse free.

When he reached for the clip fastening on her bra she was unable to prevent an intake of breath or govern the erratic beat of her heart, and she would have given anything not to be dependent on his help.

"Close tour eyes, if you must," he advised with amused indulgence. "Unfortunately I cannot do the same, for fear I might cause you unnecessary pain."

He was amused, damn him! Resentment flares, lending her eyes a brilliant sparkle as she sprang into barely restrained speech. "You think I enjoy being dependent on you?" Stupid tears welled up and threatened to spill.

"Your reticence is somewhat misplaced," he chastised as he frees the clip, then eased the straps off her shoulder, and his eyes narrowed as she lifted an arm to cover her breasts.

A protesting gasp escapes from her lips as he caught hold of her left wrist and carefully pulled away.

She closed her eyes, aware of her bruised shoulder. The colour had changed from dark red to purple. Now it was a deep bluish-green.

"Dear God." The soft curse slipped into the stillness of the room, and his eyes darkened in silent rage as he saw that the bruising extended the length of her ribs on the right side.

The silence stretched out between them, and began to play havoc amid her nerves.

"It could have been worse," she offered, and saw his expression harden into a frightening mask.

"Yes," Angelus agreed with brutal cynicism. "That young fool behind the wheel could have been responsible for your death."

His eyes travelled to the soft swell of her breasts, and she remained helplessly still as he trailed gentle fingers over their rounded contours, shaping first one, then the other, before brushing a thump-pad across one tender peak.

Buffy gasped out loud as pure sensation shot through her body, arrowing down to focus at the intersection between her thighs, unleashing multitude of feelings she wasn't sure how to handle.

A distress whimper escaped her lip. "Please" she begged, her eyes clouding with anguish as he traced a path to the soft hollows at the base of her throat, then lingered over the rapidly beating pulse for a few heart-stopping seconds before trailing up to rest at the edge of her mouth.

"You look so incredibly fragile, it robs me of breath", he ventured leisurely, and his dark eyes so deeply acute it seemed as if he possessed a license to see into the depths of her soul.

Buffy swallowed convulsively, and let her lashes flutter down to form a protective veil, only to have them fly open as the tip of his finger slowly outlined the generous curve of her mouth, teasing the soft fullness until it parted voluntarily, allowing him to continue the sensual probe.

A slight tremor shook her slim frame, and she was powerless to move as his lips overtook hers in a provocative, sensual tasting that was so incredibly gentle its almost made her weep.

Some deep intrinsive need prevented her from moving away, and she bore the light sweep of his tongue as its explored the sweet recesses of her mouth, creating an acute sense of loss as he slowly withdrew. For several long, timeless seconds her eyes were held mesmerizes by his, then his lips curved into a slow smile as he reached for her nightgown an ease the straps over her injured hand, then her head, before pooling the silk at her waist while he removed her trousers and underwear.

"Do you need help in the bathroom?"

"No," she refused; infinitely relieved that this was an area there was no need for him to invade.

"I'll be back with a tray in ten minutes."

Oh, dear God, she breathed silently as the door closed behind him. What was happening to her? How could she react so damnably with someone her conscious mind failed to recognize?

She had made no effort to move away from the touch of his mouth, merely stood mesmerized, as he had initiated a sensual foray that had played havoc with her vulnerable emotions.

"There are two diner plates," Buffy declared with a slight frown as Angelus re-entered the room and set the covered bed-tray into position across her lap.

One eyebrow lifted in quizzical query as he subjected her to a long, considering look from beneath dark-fringed lashes. "You imagined I would leave you to eat alone?"

She had hoped he might. He emitted a sensual vibrancy that was intense and dangerous. To envisage him as a lover was sufficient to set alarm bells jangling inside her brain, awakening feelings deep within that raised questions she had no desire to answer.

"Eat, Buffy," Angelus commanded. "Before the food becomes cold."

Obediently she picked up the spoon and started with the soup, then when it was finished she used a fork to dissect the omelette. It was impossible not to be aware of him as he sat a few feet away in a comfortable chair. His movements were economical, and her eyes were drawn to the strength of his jaw, his mouth.

Remembering how that mouth had felt against her own brought a flood of soft colour to her cheeks, and she couldn't help but wonder what it would like to be kissed by him. Really kissed, not the controlled brushing of his lips against hers that had been little more than an affectionate salutation.

He looked the sort of man who would consume a woman-with deep, drugging passion that gave no quarter, demanding abandonment so complete that there could be no room for reticence.

She did not know the measure of her own personality, or the strength of her emotions. Yet even in her wildest imagination she couldn't imagine acting like a wanton in his arms.

He had said he had tasted every inch of her. He couldn't mean.

"Are you finished?"

His query startled her, and she met his unfathomable gaze with widened eyes.

"Yes. Thank you. I'll be fine now," she added quickly in dismissal, and saw his eyes narrow slightly as he removed the tray.

He regarded her steadily, his expression revealing nothing, and there was latent steel beneath the velvet tone of his voice. "The bed is sufficiently large enough to accommodate the both of us."

The thought of sharing the bed with him made her stomach knot with unenviable nerves. "I'd prefer a room of my own."

"No."

It was a categorical refusal. One that made her uncommonly resentful. "I think--"

"Don't think," Angelus advised with dangerous softness, and her eyes acquired an angry sparkle.

"How can I not?" she declared, with a degree of asperity. "I have no knowledge of you in any sexual sense. I know I'm not ready to resume intimacy. Dammit," she flung heatedly, "I can't even remember if we're--"

"Sexually compatible?" he drawled in silky query. "I assure you we are, gras'. Passionately, primitively so"

The retort she wanted to fling at him died in her throat as he began unbuttoning his shirt. No matter ho hard she tried she couldn't prevent her gaze from focusing on him, watching beneath lowered lashes as deft fingers competently dealt with the remaining shirt-buttons before moving to free the belt as his waist. Seconds later the shirt was tossed over a nearby chair, closely followed by his trousers.

It was impossible not to be aware of his impressively muscled frame: broad shoulders, chest tapering down to a trim waist, slim hips and long, powerful thighs.

Something deep inside her stirred, then slowly unfurled at the sight of his chest, a smooth muscled wall.

"Are you going to join me in the shower?"

He had to be joking!

Buffy's eyes widened measurably then grew dark as her gaze shifted to a point somewhere beyond his right shoulder, and she was powerless to stop the faint flood of colour covering her cheeks as her imagination ran wild.

"I can cope on my own," she managed in strangled tones, hating him as he calmly scooped her to her feet.

She wanted to hit him or at least hurl abuse at his merciless head. Sparks of topaz accentuated the green of her eyes, and her chin tilted in open defiance. "I hate having you play nursemaid," she said with a degree of anguish as he carefully undressed her.

"I refuse to stand by and have you inflict further damage on your shoulder out some foolish need for modesty."

The tone of his voice should have warned her against arguing but she was too angry to take any notice. "And I dislike the thought of a husband who practices voyeurism."

He stiffened, his large frame an awesome sight as he held himself severely in check. Anger emanated from every pore, and his eyes were so dark that they resembled polished onyx. "Perhaps you should give thanks to the good God," he intoned in a hard voice. "If it were not for your injuries, I would teach you a lesson you would not easily forgot."

As he had in the past? Dear God, was he an abusive man? She agonized in shocked silence. Her features paled at the thought, and she heard him utter a string of viciously soft incomprehensible words.

"Go and have your shower, Buffy," he commanded with dangerous silkiness.

She needed no second bidding, and her mouth set in a mutinous line as he followed her into the bathroom and switched on the water, tested its temperature, then stood aside as she stepped into the large stall.

Despite the rising cloud of steam she was aware of his presence a few feet away on the other side of the glass screen, and she gritted her teeth against rising anger, feeling no remorse for taking longer than necessary before closing the taps.

He was waiting as she slid open the glass door, and her eyes waged a silent battle with his as he stepped forward and removed the waterproof covering from her bandaged hand, then collected a towel and began blotting the dampness from her body.

"I'm quite capable of completing the task," Buffy said tightly, and almost swayed beneath his long, intent gaze.

Did he have any idea of how vulnerable she felt? How damnable it was to have to stand naked before him and suffer, his ministrations?

"Of course," he drawled with hateful amusement as he discarded his briefs and stepped into the shower.

There was an enviable selection of toiletries to choose from atop the long marble vanity unit, and after making use of a few Buffy collected a large towel and was about to secure it sarong-wise around her body when the water stopped.

Seconds later the door slid open and Angelus emerged from the stall. Buffy hastily averted her eyes from the electricity image of his superbly muscled frame, with its generous expanse of smooth chest.

There was something incredibly erotic about glistering water droplets dripping down in his drenched chest, the fluid grace of strongly honed muscle moving beneath satiny, lightly bronzed skin.

The degree of restrained power in repose was an intensely disturbing entity, and her fingers shook as she caught up a brush and stroked it vigorously through the length of her hair, increasingly aware of his every action as he towelled himself dry.

As he reached for a black silk robe she stepped quickly into the bedroom, almost succeeding in donning her nightgown before firm fingers eased the straps over her injured finger, and she stood helplessly still as the silk hem whispered down past her hips.

Impotent resentment darkened her eyes, and Angelus cast her a long, thoughtful look, which she found increasingly difficult to hold as the seconds ticked slowly by.

He lifted a hand and slid firm fingers beneath the hair at her nape, then in seeming slow motion his mouth claimed hers with an element of possession she instinctively knew would harden should she attempt to pull free of him, and she swallowed compulsively as pleasure overtook warmth, touching each nerve-end as it coursed through her body.

She felt strangely afraid-not of him, but of herself, and the wild sweetness that swirled within, encouraging a response she was hesitant to give.

His tongue sought out every recess, every ridge, before lightly stroking her own tongue in an erotic dance that reached deep into her feminine core, unleashing emotions almost beyond her control.

She was slowly melting, awash in a sea of delicious sensation, totally unaware of voicing a faint murmur of regret as he slowly lifted his mouth from her own.

"Into bed, gras'," Angelus bade firmly.

Within minutes of her head touching the pillow her eyes became heavy, and it was easier to give in to sleep than fight it.

Angelus stood for a long time in contemplative silence, his gaze dark and brooding as he surveyed her finely boned features, the sweep of blond hair, the delicate texture of her skin, the long, thick eyelashes and the sweet curve of her generous mouth, softly swollen from his kiss.

A muscle tightened at the edge of his jaw then he reached forward and switched off the lamp on the nearby pedestal before crossing to the other side of the bed to ease his long body carefully between the sheets.

Seconds later he snapped off his own lamp, and focused his attention on the shadowed ceiling.

The heat of the summer sun was reduced to a comfortable level by the car's air-conditioning, and Buffy leaned back against the leather-cushioned seat as Angelus slid a disc into the stereo system.

"This is a beautiful car," she commented with a genuine appreciation as it swept noiselessly along the arterial road heading south.

"A Jaguar," he enlightened her, shooting her an amused glance.

"It looks expensive," The words slipped out unbidden, and his eyes narrowed slightly.

"A luxury that affords me pleasure," he responded in a soft drawl that sent a shivery sensation feathering down the length of her spine.

As I do? Is that all I am to you, a possession? Permitting her thoughts to travel such a path was both fruitless and detrimental; it served no purpose.

"You have been remarkably docile all morning," he relayed amusingly. "I could almost believe you are treading eggshells."

"I woke up early, and couldn't get back to sleep," she proffered, for it was no less than the truth.

He slanted her a frowning glance. "You should have woken me."

"Why?" she attempted a smile, and almost made it. "So we could both have lain awake?" How could she tell him that she had experienced a gamut of emotion as she had watched him sleep? His strongly etched features had been barely visible in the darkness and then, as the dawn sky began to lighten the room, she had been held spellbound by the stark beauty of his countenance in repose. The hardness was gone, his jaw and mouth relaxed, and his lashes curved slightly, their length and shape dark and lustrous. Fascinated, she had wanted to reach out and place a finger against the edge of his mouth to trace a slow pattern over the firm curve and watch him stir into wakefulness, to open his eyes and witness their warmth as he caught the sight of her. Instead, she had feigned sleep the instant he looked like rousing, and only stilled the pretence when she had felt him rise from the bed.

Afterwards she had managed to dress herself, and on descending the stairs Olivia had immediately led her out on to the terrace to join Angelus for breakfast.

"The car I was driving. Was it badly damaged?"

Angelus slowed the Jaguar to a halt at a set of traffic lights, then turned to slant her a probing glance. "You are more important to me than any vehicle."

Was she? "You didn't answer the question."

"It will be several weeks before you gain medical clearance to get behind the wheel of a car. And when you do, it won't be a fashionable sports model. Meantime, Giles can drive you wherever you need to go."

She looked at him stunned silence for several seconds before venturing in protest, "You can't be serious."

"Unequivocally."

Buffy added another quality to his character. Inflexibility. "Are you usually this...overbearing?"

"Protective," he corrected. "You could have lost the child. Worse, I could have lost you."

The lights changed, and his attention returned to the road ahead. As the Jaguar gathered speed Buffy feigned an interest in the passing scenery.

There were many coves and inlets, picturesque beaches, crisp sand, softly waving tree-branches stirring beneath a gentle breeze, and an expense of glorious blue sea that stretched out to the horizon to emerge with the sky.

"How long before we reach San Diego?"

"About fifty more minutes, depending on traffic."

It was just after midday when Angelus swung the car into a driveway leading to an imposing double-storied house overlooking the ocean. It was the antithesis of what she had image a beach house to be, and once inside there was a sense of unreality as he led her through several rooms on the lower floor. Beautifully furnished, it was almost as magnificent as the mansion in Sunnydale. There was even a swimming pool adjacent to the terrace- almost a decadent addition; given the accessibility of the ocean a few short steps distant.

The upper floor held four bedrooms with en suite facilities, and as she followed Angelus into the largest suite Buffy could not help but wonder how frequently he made use of the house.

"Do you come here often?" she queried, watching as he deposited their bags.

"Whenever I can manage a few days away."

Crossing to the largest picture window, she moved the curtain fractionally to admire the view. Sun-dappled water, a few cruisers anchored offshore, young children, supervised by their mothers, playing happily in the sand. "It looks so peaceful." She sensed rather than heard him moved to stand behind her, and sensation stirred deep within, lending an awareness that made her feel acutely vulnerable. His body warmth seemed to enfold her, and all the fine hairs on her skin rose up in instinctive self-defence.

"The precise reason why I brought the place," he told her.

"An escape from the wheeling and dealing of high-powered executive city living?"

Was that why she felt such an empathy with the house? Because it's represented a refuge? From what? Whom? The man who owned it? She gave a sudden start as his hands rested lightly at her waist, and there was no way she could disguise the frisson that shook her slim frame as his lips settled against the curve of her neck.

"Angelus." Her voice faltered, then regained a measure. "I'd like to go downstairs," she said, on a note of desperation. He was so close, much too close. It bothered her, and she couldn't reason why. "Lunch," she elaborated, and felt immeasurably relieved when he disengaged his clasp and moved away.

"Then we shall eat. The fridge and pantry are well stocked."

Buffy turned slowly to face him. "You're going to play cook?"

He lifted a hand and trailed gentle fingers across her cheek, letting them slice down the edge of her jaw to tilt her chin.

She gazed at him in mesmerized silence, taking in the hard planes of his broad facial structure, the vertical crease that slashed each cheek, the powerful sweep of his jaw, the wide mouth.

"You find the prospect of being alone with me so daunting?" He was teasing her, and suddenly it seemed so unfair that he had the advantage while she had none.

Indecision and a fleeting sense of placid panic coursed through her veins, visible in the dilation of her eyes as she gazed at him. His eyes darken and became almost black. "Little fool," he growled gently. "You look at me as if you are struggling with fear. What manner of man do you imagine I am?"

"I don't know," she was forced to own, aware that it was nothing less than the truth. Of all the details she had been made aware of, few had given a hint of his character.

"Come," Angelus directed, releasing her chin.

"We'll go down to the kitchen and fins something to eat." He bent down and brushed his lips against her own with lightness of a butterfly's wing. "In a few days you will become accustomed to having me around."

Somehow she doubted it. Yet she accepted that she had no choice but to try. In the kitchen he retrieved cooked chicken cooked chicken from the refrigerator, divided it into portions, and placed several on a platter to heat in the microwave. Then he prepared a wholesome salad with deftness Buffy found surprising. Within a matter of minutes there was food on the table. "Please," she protested as Angelus began filling her plated. "That's too much."

"Eat all you can," he bade easily, employing his cutlery to divide her food into bite-sized segments, which she could manage with a fork. There was a studied intimacy in his actions, a familiarity she tried desperately to recognize, yet she could recall nothing that gave a hint of the many meals they could recall nothing that gave a hint of many meals they must have shared together. "Why the slight frown?"

"Did we socialize much?" she ventured, quickly qualifying the question. "Both your homes are large."

"It is all too easy to gather a coterie of acquaintances who are active on the social circuit," he answered. "Unless you become selective, it is possible to spend three nights out of every seven at one dinner party or another." His eyes assumed teasing warmth. "Since our marriage, I have chosen to entertain only when necessary, and much prefer dining a deux with my beautiful wife."

Yet a man of his calibre would be in demand, his friends many and varied. Her position as his social hostess seemed a foregone conclusion.

"Why don't you eat now?" he suggested quietly. "The chicken will become cold."

It looked appetizing and, aware of her own hunger; she picked up her fork and speared some chicken, then salad. Repeating the action until she felt replete.

"Some fruit?"

She selected an apple, its white flesh crisp and tangy, and when she'd consumed it she sat back in her chair.

"Iced water?" Angelus queried, and she shook her head in silent negation. "Why not go upstairs and rest?" he prompted gently. "I'll take care of the dished, then join you."

"Your solicitude is overwhelming," Buffy said quickly, alarmed at his attention. "But hardly necessary, when you must have calls to make, people you should contact."

His gaze was remarkably steady, and a faint smile lifted the edge of his mouth. "And you prefer to be alone," he drawled.

"Yes," Buffy answered honesty, and glimpsed a degree of humour lurking in the depths of his eyes. Because you scare the hell out of me, she added silently. Every defence mechanism I possess screams out a warning of one kind or another, yet I'm unable to fathom why.

It was a relief to reach the sanctuary of the bedroom, and she selected a magazine, then sank back against the pillows. She dozed, and when she woke there was a note, scripted in black ink, signed by her inimitable husband, informing her that he was in the study. It look only minutes to freshen up and go downstairs, and Angelus glanced up from a sheaf of papers he was examining as she entered the study, a slow, teasing smile curving the edges of his mouth.

"You look rested," he commented musingly, and her heart tripped its beat, accelerated for a few seconds, then settled into a steady pattern. His smile was lazy, extending to the depths of his eyes, and he rose to his feet with a lithe indolence, crossing round the desk in a few easy strides. His head lowered to capture her lips with open- mouthed gentleness, and she felt like crying Don't out loud as she stood helpless against the trembling sensation slowly consuming her body. The desire to sway toward him shocked her, and she experienced a mixture of emotions as his lips left hers. Relief, dismay-regret? She didn't have a desire to analyse her emotions, and she gave a shaky smile as he caught hold of her hand.

Angelus exchanged long trousers and shoes for shorts and Reeboks too-an action which set the butterflies inside her stomach fluttering into a nervous dance as he hunkered down to effect the change.

It was a glorious afternoon, the sun's summer warmth caressing her skin as they wandered slowly along the hard- packed sand, which was still slightly damp from an outgoing tide. A gentle breeze teased the length of her hair, causing a few tendrils to drift across her cheek. There was a sense of freedom apparent, a lightness resulting from confinement in hospital for the past ten days, and she allowed herself several shallow breaths in order to drink in the salty smell of the ocean, the cleanliness of unpolluted air.

A few children were at play in the distance, their chatter and laughter barely audible as they dart back and forth, heads bent in their quest for seashells. It was good to be alive, Buffy decided with a slight smile, only to have the smile slowly fade with the realization that, had Fate been unkind, her loss would have included the right to life of her unborn child.

An arm curved lightly round her waist, and she turned toward him, her eyes wide as she searched his strong, firmly etched features. Some degree of her inner anguish must have been apparent, for his hold tighten fractionally, and his lips brushed the top of her head. She was supremely conscious of his close proximity, aware of his warmth, as the security his powerful frame afforded. They continued walking until Angelus drew to a halt. "This is far enough, I think."

Buffy viewed the short distance they had travel\led and wrinkled her nose at him. "I feel fine," she protested, not wanting to return to the hose just yet. "Look," she exclaimed, as a large golden retriever loped along the water's edge. "Isn't he beautiful?"

The dog's movements were poetry in motion, measured lolloping strides that sent his long golden hair flowing back from his young body.

"Beautiful," Angelus agreed, and when she turned towards him she saw his focus was centred on her, not the dog.

The breath caught in her throat, and for several long seconds her eyes felt impossibly large, then she smiled, a tinge of humour lifting the edges of her generous mouth. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to walk a bit further?"

"No," he refused lazily, and his eyes held amusement as he looked down into her upturned features.

"So, this is it for today?"

"Don't sound so disappointed." He lifted a hand and tucked a flyaway lock of hair behind her ear. "There's always tomorrow."

Without a word she turned slowly and walked back to the house at his side. Once indoors, he led the way through the kitchen. It was warm, and she felt in need of a long, refreshing drink. She watched as he extracted two glasses, filled each with fruit juice, and held one out to her. "You have enjoyed your taste of fresh air and sunshine?"

"I don't think anyone fully appreciates the choice of freedom to move anywhere at will until that choice is removed." She lifted the glass and took a long swallow of the icy liquid, watching as he followed her actions.

There were several chairs and two sun lounges positioned on the wide, partly covered terrace, and Buffy moved outdoors and sank gracefully into one of the lounges. The sun was beginning to lose some of its warmth, although the house provided sufficient protection from the breeze to make sitting outdoors a pleasure.

"Your face has regained a little colour," Angelus observed as he chose the other lounge close by, and she bore his scrutiny with equanimity.

"Another two weeks of this, and I'll resemble a sybarite," she said, with a tinge of humour.

"Your welfare is very important to me."

The quietly spoken words stirred her sensitised nerve-ends, and she examined his features carefully. "I hesitate to think at what cost," she ventured slowly.

Something flicked in the depths of his eyes, a fleeting emotion she was unable to define before it was successfully hidden. "I retain eminently qualified personnel." Whose positions within the Delaney Corporation Angelus would instantly terminate should anyone of them fail him in any way. The knowledge was an instinctive judgment that needed no qualification, and she was silent for several long minutes.

"It's difficult to comprehend that there was a time when I knew everything about you," Buffy confessed.

"While now there are only gaps?"

"A deep, yawning abyss," she corrected with a faint grimace.

"Which you would like me to fill?"

"You did that to some extent while I was in hospital." Details, facts. Not the personal things she desperately wanted to know.

"So gras'," he mocked gently, searching her intent expression, "where would you like me to begin?"

"I think…with you. Where you were born, when. Your family. Things you enjoy doing."

"An extended biography?"

"The condensed version."

His eyes held warm humour, and his soft laughter transformed the hard-chiselled bone -structure, so that for a brief moment he appeared almost human, she decided, as he lifted the glass to his lips and drained the contents in one easy swallow. "My father was born in Galway, the son of a wealthy land owner. My mother was a descendant of the English aristocracy. After their marriage they immigrated to United States, where I was born. A few years later my mother died in childbirth. Father never fully recovered emotionally, and my paternal grandmother flew out for an extended visit, only to stay on and raise her only grandson. It was because of that good woman's determined strength that I stayed at school and received the education my father insisted I endure." He paused to shoot her a faintly whimsical smile. "I was known to display rebellion on occasion."

Buffy had a vivid mental picture of a tall youth who's broad-structure had yet to acquire its measure of adult musculature.

"At university I acquired several degrees associated with business management and became part of my father's financial empire. At the lowest level," Angelus qualified dryly. "A Delaney son was accorded few advantages, and I spend several years proving my worth. A fatal accident ended my father's life, and I was catapulted through the ranks to a position on the board of directors." He spared her a faintly cynical glance. "The next few years were- difficult, shall we say? Men with years of experience do not view kindly a young man taking control of a string of multinational companies, or making decisions that oppose their way of thinking."

Buffy looked at him thoughtfully, seeing the strength of purpose, the chilling degree of hardness apparent, and barely controlled faint shiver that threatened to slither down her spine. "You succeeded."

As if there could be any doubt. His expression did not alter for several long seconds. "Yes," he acknowledged with wry cynicism.

Had she been his social equal? Somehow she didn't think so. "I have little idea of what my childhood was like," she proffered with pensive introspection. "The photo albums you brought to the hospital reveal events of which I have no recollection. I can only piece together the visual impression of a happy childhood. A father I can't remember, whose passing away surely must have caused my mother a great grief. I don't know even know the extent to which I missed her. Or whether my years in school was a happy experience or a lonely one." She paused, her eyes dark with reflected intensity. "I chose paediatric nursing as a career, but I don't know if I had a boyfriend, or several. Or what sort of life I led before I met you."

I doubt the existence of many boyfriends in other than a platonic sense," Angelus put in with indolent humour. "You were relatively inexperienced." Her eyes sparkled with resentful resignation. "A fact you no doubt soon remedied."

His husky laughter was almost her undoing.

"With immense pleasure, mo gras'. You proved to be an apt and willing pupil." He leaned forward and brushed his mouth against her own, his eyes gleaming with humour as she reared back from his touch, "Time to prepare dinner, I think."

An hour later they sat down to soup, and followed it with grilled steak and salad, electing to watch television until Angelus deemed it time to retired to bed.

Buffy had little option but to accept his assistance, and she stood, head bent, lower lip caught between her teeth, as he began freeing her clothes.

There was something incredibly sensual in having him tend to the buttons on her blouson, the fleeting of his warming fingers as they brushed her sensitised flesh. To have him unclip her bra and feel his light touch against each breast.

Last night should have prepared her for the protracted intimacy of standing part-naked in front of him. Yet, try as she might, she was unable to control the shallowness of her breathing, or prevent the faint color heightening her cheekbones.

It was a relief to escape into the en suite bathroom and shower alone, and she took as long as she dared before emerging to find Angelus waiting to towel her dry.

She wanted to say she could manage, and for a moment she almost did, but one look at his dark, brooding features was sufficient for her to realize that such action would be the height of foolishness.

The instant her nightgown was safety in place she turn away, only to have her movement stalled as her chin was caught between a firm thumb and forefinger.

"Don't," Angelus began in cautionary remonstrance, "erect obstacles where none exist."

The soft drawl matched the faint mockery evident in those dark eyes, and a lump rose in her throat that made it difficult for her to swallow.

Her mouth trembled, and she felt the ache of unshed tears as she searched the strong masculine features, noting the grooves that slashed his cheeks, and the tiny lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes.

"How can you say that?" she queried in strangled tones, feeling at a loss to cope with the force of his compelling masculinity.

He lifted a hand and traced a finger down the slope of her nose, then traversed the tip to settle on the curve of her lip.

"Easily," Angelus assured her as he lightly stroked the soft fullness of the lower contour before exploring the generous line above.

His touch was provocative, light, and sent warming flares to each separate nerve-ending as a deliciously warm sensation slowly radiated through her body.

I could close my eyes and become lost, thought Buffy, swayed by emotion and held in its invasive thrall. There was a part of her that hungered for the touch of his hands, his mouth, and she had the most insane desire to plead with him to turn the erotic images to reality.

A soft moan whispered from her throat as his mouth closed over hers, teasing, tasting, in a gentle exploration that brought her body close to his in an involuntary movement as he carefully deepened the kiss.

It was heaven, she decided hazily, filled with such agonizing sweetness that she felt as if she were melting, boneless. His.

She wanted more than the mere fusing of their mouths. Much more. It was almost as if some secret part of her was privy to a knowledge that eluded her conscious mind, and she gave a tiny despairing moan as his tongue slowed its masterful stroking dance with her own as a prelude to retreat.

As he lifted his head her eyes clung to his, wide and almost trance-like, for several long seconds before his features swam in focus.

Buffy glimpsed the passion held severely in check, the deep slumbering emotion that darkened his gaze, and something else she couldn't define.

Her lips were swollen and the inside of her mouth so acutely sensitised that she wondered if she was capable of uttering so much as a word.

Never had she felt so hauntingly vulnerable, or so fragile. A pulse thudded visibly at the edge of her throat as the blood drummed through her veins, and she lifted her left hand, only to let it fall helplessly to her side.

"Bed, I think," Angelus decreed, his eyes narrowing as he glimpsed the effort it cost her to retain some measure of control.

His hand cupped her left shoulder, then slid to her breast, slipping beneath the silk to shape the tumescent mound with exquisite care.

She felt it swell beneath his touch, the peak tautening in sensitive arousal, then his mouth assumed a wry humorous twist as he lift ed both hands to frame her face.

"Television, or would you prefer to read?"

It took considerable effort to summon a faint smile as she allowed him to lead her toward the bed. "Television," she declared unevenly. "Providing I get to choose the program."

"Brave word, gras'," he teased lightly. "You will probably be asleep by the time I have shaved and showered."

She was unable to still the faint fluttering of butterfly wings inside her stomach, and her gaze became pensive as he stripped down to his briefs, and then crossed to the en suite bathroom.

He was an enigma, Buffy decided thoughtfully as she endeavoured to concentrate on the images flickering across the screen.

Darkly intense, almost frightening. Yet he could be gentle and considerate. A difficult mixture to comprehend, she accepted silently, wondering if there had ever been a time when she had understood him.

Thinking about it made her tired, and her lashes drifted down as she lapsed into dreamless oblivion.

The days ran one into the other, each following a similar pattern to the one preceding it. They rose early, dressed, and went for a walk along the deserted beach, then returned to eat a simple breakfast out on the covered terrace, after which Angelus would disappear into the study for an hour.

It was his only concession to maintaining a check on business interests, and although there was a phone in the car, and a mobile cellular unit tucked into the pocket of his shorts whenever they moved away from the house, only once did either ring. His instructions on each occasion had been chillingly brief.

Occasion he would pack a picnic lunch and drive to one of the neighbouring beaches, or a designated park. Sometimes they stayed at home and watched videos. Late each afternoon they embarked on a leisurely walk along the beach.

With every passing day the pain in Buffy's hand lessened, the bruising faded, and she was soon able to don and shed her clothes without help, something she considered to be a milestone.

Angelus appeared to be attuned to her every mood, watchful that she didn't become tired, and able to coax her into laughter with very little effort at all, until gradually she began to relax and regard him with hesitant affection.

She became accustomed to the light brush of his fingers across her skin, the touch of his hand on her arm, cupping her shoulder, resting at the small of her back or curved round her waist. The light touch of his mouth against her own was something else, and more than once she was barely able to suppress a tide of sensation as he instigated a teasing kiss. At night she no longer felt uneasy when he joined her in bed, nor did she attempt to pull her hand away when he threaded his fingers through her own.

Yet all the time she was aware of his restraint, the latent passion just beneath the surface of his control. Occasionally she glimpsed evidence of it in the darkening of his eyes, felt it in the sudden quickening of his pulse.

The knowledge made her nervous, tugging at something hidden deep inside her. It generated a waiting expectancy that sent tiny flares of fire surging through her veins, set her fine body-hair on edge, and curled insidiously at the core of her femininity.

The weekend came and went, with a series of scattered showers, which kept them indoors. Monday dawned fresh and clear, with not a cloud in sight.

"I thought we'd pack some food in the car and head north," Angelus declared as she cleared the last of their breakfast dishes and watched as he rinsed and slotted them into the dishwasher.

"What time do you want to leave?" Buffy queried with an alacrity that curved his mouth into a slow teasing smile.

"Allow me an hour in the study. Around ten."

It was a glorious day, the sun high in an azure sky, with a soft breeze tempering the midsummer heat.

Angelus brought the car to a halt and switched off the engine. The view out over the park was one of tranquillity, with several large trees lining the grassed verge. Bleached white sand bordered the eastern boundary, and the surface of the lazy outgoing ocean tide shimmered in the early afternoon heat.

"Hungry?"

Buffy turned towards him and offered an easy smile. "Ravenous."

The park was almost empty, and Angelus slid from behind the wheel and walked to the rear of the car to retrieve a rug, cushions and a picnic hamper from the capacious boot, choosing a smooth patch of grass beneath a nearby tree.

Minutes later Buffy sank to her knees and watched as he began apportioning food on to two plates.

Cold chicken and salad, with crusty bread rolls and fresh fruit, presented a veritable feast, and she picked up a chicken leg and bit into it with relish.

"Your appetite is improving," Angelus commented in approval, and she wrinkled her nose at him.

He sat stretched out beside her, his powerfully muscled legs tanned by the sun. His feet, like hers, were encased in Reeboks.

Looking the antithesis of a wheeling, dealing multinational corporate leader, he had ignored designer leisurewear in favour of cut-off jeans and a loose cotton shirt. The effect was devastating, she conceded as she allowed herself a circumspect appraisal, all too aware of the effect he had on her equilibrium as she admired his chiselled jaw, the firm sensual mouth, then slowly raised her eyes to meet the dark intentness of his gaze.

There was a latent indolence apparent, studied watchfulness that was wholly sexual. She could sense his potent chemistry, like a magnetic force field, and something stirred deep within, pulsing through the tracery of veins, triggering nerve-ends until her whole body became caught up in the thrall of physical awareness.

"A sip of wine?"

"It will make me sleepy," she protested as he extended the patterned flute to her lips. There was something incredibly intimate about placing her mouth to the rim where his had been only seconds before, and she savoured a small quantity of the excellent Chardonnay, letting it slip slowly down her throat, then followed it with several long swallows of iced water.

"Would that be such a bad thing?"

She senses the faint humour in his voice and her eyes widen slightly. It would be so easy to reach out and taste him, to place fingers against that hard jaw and explore the vertical crease slashing each cheek. She wanted to, badly.

Almost as much as she wanted to feel his mouth against her own, his hand shaping her breast. A long, slow prelude to a passionate overture. Except that she wasn't sure if she was ready for the finale. Such wayward thoughts were infinitely dangerous to her peace of mind. In an effort to shut them out she turned her attention to the horizon, aware of his deft movements as he extracted a fresh peach and began peeling it.

What was he like as a lover? Passionate, primitive, shameless. Dear Lord in heaven, could there be any doubt?

"Buffy?"

She turned at the sound of his voice, and her fingers shook slightly as she took a segment of fruit from his outstretched hand. "Thanks."

It was deliciously cool and juicy, and she followed it with a glass of chilled mineral water. If she lay back and closed her eyes, maybe it would stem this inner restlessness. She hadn't taken into account the soft sea breeze, the sun's warmth. Or their midday meal. Together they had a soporific effect, and it took only minutes for her to slip into a light doze.

Buffy woke slowly, passing through the threshold of sleep to a state of nebulous consciousness, aware that the slight feeling of lethargy had dissipated. It was difficult to tell whether it could be attributed to the recuperation Process or her pregnancy.

Perhaps it was a combination of both, she decided lazily as she let her eyelashes sweep slowly upwards. Angelus lay sprawled in a half sitting position within touching distance, his head propped in one hand as he faced her, and she blinked as he lifted a hand and trailed gentle fingers down the edge of her jaw.

"Pleasant dreams?"

She couldn't recollect even one. "How long have I been sleep?"

"Almost two hours," he responded, and her eyes widened in disbelief.

"You should have woken me."

"Why?" he asked, watching the play of emotions across her expressive features. "There's no need to hurry home."

Buffy stared at him, aware of the sheer physicality of his powerful body and his ability to make her feel infinitely fragile. There was warmth evident in those dark eyes, a latent sensuality that was deeply disturbing. It was as if some invisible magnet was drawing her to him, and she became increasingly confused as her emotions swung like a pendulum between cautious acceptance and denial.

Logic reasoned that a man of his considerable means could easily have hired a nurse-companion for her and continued to devote most of his energies to an extensive business empire. Yet he had not chosen to delegate. Surely such an action was sufficient evidence of his caring? Why this instinctive niggling doubt that persisted despite every effort to rationalize and dispel it?

"Ready for some exercise"

Her eyes cleared, and a smile curved her mouth, "Yes."

With easy lithe movements he rose to his feet, extending a hand to help her, then he stowed the hamper in the boot and followed it with the rug and cushions.

They walked in companionable silence, and Buffy lifted her face to the sunshine, loving the soft afternoon breeze as it came off the sea, the slight tangy smell of salt refreshingly evident. There were young children playing close by, three beneath the age of kindergarten, and a lovely lump baby sitting on a rug beneath the shade of a wide beach umbrella.

Buffy looked at the baby's bright eyes, the wide smile and happily flailing arms as the young mother deftly exchanged one nappy for another. Something tugged deep inside her, a wistful longing that came from nowhere, and she made no protest as Angelus curved an arm around her waist and pulled her close to his side. Unbidden, her own fingers traced a light path across her waist, then paused in an unconsciously protective gesture. Would their child be dark-haired imp inheriting his father's genes, or a flaxen-haired angel who would steal her father's heart? Without a doubt their child would be fortunate enough to lead a privilege existence.

It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the beach house in San Diego, and Buffy wandered through the house while Angelus checked the fax machine and made a few calls. She found her way into the informal lounge and picked up the remote control unit, flicking from one channel to the next in the bid to discover something worthy of her attention. At this time of the afternoon most of the programs were designed to educate or amuse children, and she discarded the remote control for the favour of a magazine.

"Would you like to eat? There are a variety of restaurants within a short driving distance."

In public? The idea held definite appeal. "YES."

His soft laughter held a degree of quizzical warmth, and she swallowed convulsively as he caught hold of her hand and lifted it to his lips kissing each finger in turn before slipping inward to caress the softness of her palm. The sensation sent tiny shock waves radiating from her feminine core, and she shivered at the lambent warmth evident in those dark eyes so close to her own. Releasing her, he slid both hands beneath her blouse to free the fastening of he bra, his touch deft, unleashing a number of sensations she found difficult to ignore. It would have been all too easy to lift a hand and pull his head down to hers to infinite a long, sweet kiss. Except that if she did, it wouldn't stop there.

"If you continue to look at me like that for much longer," Angelus drawled, pressing a finger to the soft lower fullness of her lip, "I'll take it as an invitation to join you in the shower. Afterwards," he promised huskily, "where and when we eat won't be a consideration."

Colour stained her cheekbones and she turned away from him, forcing herself to walk to their suite with unhurried steps. Once there, she gathered up fresh underwear and entered the bathroom. The water's warm spray soothed her fractured nerves, and she stayed longer than necessary, emerging to towel herself dry, then don lace-edge briefs. Angelus was in the process of tucking a shirt into his trousers when she entered the bedroom; she consciously averted her gaze as she crossed to the capacious wardrobe to select something suitable to wear. Black silk culottes, slim heeled black sandals, and a long white sleeveless button-through silk top, she decided as she extracted the clothes from their hangers. It was a go-anywhere that was both comfortable and elegant. Buffy stepped into the culottes and pulled them into position at her waist, then reach for the top as Angelus crossed to her side.

"No bra to fasten?"

"The top is fully lined," she explained, intent on closing the buttons. She lifted her head and her eyes clashed with his dark, disturbing gaze. A spiral of sensation began in the region of her stomach, radiating a wealthy of sensual warmth, which she found difficult to ignore. Dampening it down, she forced her voice to remain steady. "I won't be long. I just need to brush my hair and apply basic make-up."

"You look about sixteen."

She managed a shaky smile. "Much too young to be married to a man like you."

Angelus cursed quietly in a foreign language before he drawled. "Why a man likes me?"

Levity, surely, was an appropriate weapon, and she used it without hesitation. "If you're going swear, at least do it in English," she chastised with mock severity.

He laughed softly and brushed his lips hers. "You are beginning to recover," he mocked dryly. "Soon you'll be challenging me at every turn."

Dear heaven, She'd been that brave to cross verbal swords with him…that foolish?

"If you're ready," he suggested easily, "let's go and eat."

She moved into the bathroom, brushed her hair until it resembled a curtain of pale silk, stroked translucent gold shadow on to each eyelid, then applied lip liner and gloss. When she emerged Angelus was waiting for her, an impeccably tailored reefer jacket lending an air of sophistication she felt at a loss to match.

The restaurant he chose was Italian, small, delightful and intimate, filled with a variety of beguiling aromas that teased her taste buds. There was also a tiny square of parquet floor and a man of middle years playing a soft romantic ballad on a small electronic keyboard. Buffy ordered tortellini with mushroom served with garlic bread, while Angelus opted for pasta with marinara sauce, and afterwards she sat back feeling replete.

"Dessert?"

She shook her head. "I couldn't fit in another mouthful."

He seemed totally at ease, and she couldn't help being aware that his presence caused a flutter of interest among several of the female patrons. How could she blame them? He was a superb male animal, who possessed more than his share of sexual magnetism. Inherent good looks and an overwhelming aura of power made him a spell binding challenge few women could ignore. The lilting music and warm convivial atmosphere of the restaurant were persuasive, and she cast him a faintly wistful smile.

"Would you like to try the dance floor?"

She looked helplessly at the small square of parquetry that held one couple, then inclined her head in silent acquiescence. Minutes later she wasn't so sure it was a good idea. Her right hand lay supported between her breasts, while the fingers of her hand rested again his shoulder. His hands were loosely linked behind her hips. Forming a protective cage and this close she could sense his body-warmth beneath the sophisticated mantle of his clothes. His movements were sure, fluid. His strength a potent entity as he guided her with effortless ease. The keyboard player sang a hauntingly slow ballad, and to her surprise her steps didn't falter once, although her breathing quickened in tempo with fast-beating pulse. Warm heat spread through her veins, suffusing her body until she was aware of every sensory pleasure spot, and a deep aching need that cried out for his touch. She felt his hands shift to curve over the slight swell of her bottom as the ballad finished and another began, even more poignant than the last. Seconds later, she felt the brush of his lips against her hair as they trailed down to settle at her temple, and her stomach executed a tiny somersault, then went into a series of crazy flips as his warm beneath stirred a few stray tendrils close to her ear.

Slowly she lifted her head, her eyes skimming the broad column of his throat to take in the firm contours of his mouth, the straight patrician nose, the sculpted cheekbones, and lastly his intensely dark eyes. What she glimpsed there deepened the colour already staining her cheeks, and her mouth trembled slightly as she sought to put some distance between them. He immediately loosened his hold, allowing one arm to curve lightly round her back as he led her from the floor.

"Another drink?" Angelus queried when they were seated.

Something cool, icy, she qualified silently. "Please," she accepted.

"Lemonade with a dash of lime."

He ordered coffee for himself, and she sipped the contents of her glass, contrarily wanting the evening to be over, yet strangely hesitant to leave the restaurant.

Why so apprehensive? She reiterated to herself as the Jacquar cruised smoothly toward the beach house. There was no medical reason why they shouldn't resume intimacy, and to be so racked with nerves was ridiculous.

"Do you want to share?" The sound of his voice startled her, and she turned towards him in silent query.

"Your thoughts," Angelus elaborated as he eased the large vehicle into the driveway, then activated the remote control to raise the garage doors.

Dear heaven, had he guessed? What would he say if she said she was scared stiff…of him in the role of lover? More than likely he would be mildly amused, she decided wretchedly.

As soon as the car came to a halt she released the seatbelt and slid to her feet, waiting as he sprang the locking system before crossing to her side as they entered the house.

Once indoors she made straight for the stairs, only to come to an abrupt halt as his hand closed over her elbow and he turned her round to face him. His eyes were faintly hooded, his tone a deceptively against soft drawl. "You're reacting like a skittish kitten, unsure whether to leap and run, or stay."

"Perhaps because that's how I feel."

"You find my touch abhorrent?"

Oh, my, nothing likes aiming straight for the jugular. "No," she disclaimed quietly. "But I'm not ready to sleep with you."

"We already sleep together." His voice was so dangerously quiet that it sent an icy shiver scudding down her back.

Dull pink streaked her cheeks. He was fully aware of the havoc he was creating, and she hates him for the deliberate assault on her ambivalent emotions.

"You know that isn't what I meant."

He caught hold of her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting it so that she had to look at him.

She couldn't articulate a single word, and it was difficult to swallow the lump that had suddenly risen in her throat. Her eyes felt large and impossibly wide as she watched his head descend, and she was incapable of movement as he angled his mouth to settle over hers in a kiss that claimed his possession, savouring it in a manner that alternated between gentleness and restrained savagery.

Buffy told herself she should be shocked. Instead, she became caught up in a tide of deep primitive need. One hand cradle her face, the other cupped her bottom as he pulled her hard against him. Evidence of his arousal was a hard, throbbing entity, and she gave a faint moan of protest as his mouth took on a light teasing quality, and then slowly withdrew. She could only look at him, totally ignorant of the deep slumberous quality evident in her eyes. Her lips felt swollen, and she could have sworn they tremble beneath the intentness of his dark gaze. It was as if time stood still, for she wasn't conscious of anything except this man: his eyes, the sensual curve of his mouth, the hard plane of his jaw, the strength of his chin, the texture of his skin. He didn't say a word for what seemed like ages, and then he leaned toward her, swept an arm beneath her knees and lifted her against his chest. Sensations curled deep inside her stomach and began radiating through her body as he mounted the stairs to the upper floor. On entering their suite he closed the door, slid off her shoes, then carefully set her down on her feet. Lifting a hand, he slowly traced the contours of her mouth, probing the softness with a gentleness that made her catch her breath.

"I want to make love to you."

Her eyes dilated and her pulse began to kick in a quickened beat. She wanted to voice her nervousness, but the words never came as she shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over a chair, then he loosened his tie and discarded it before unfastening the buttons on his shirt. Next came his shoes and socks. Buffy couldn't look away as his fingers unbuckled his belt, slid free the slim metal clasp, then freed the zipper on his trousers. Black silk briefs rode low on his hips, barely containing the turgid manhood. Awareness shot straight to her feminine core, focused and so intense that she was unable to suppress a slight shiver that spiralled down her spine.

Slowly he closed the distance between them, took her left hand in his, and led her to the bed. His touch was warm and strong, and she uttered no protest as he sat on the mattress's edge and drew her close. Her eyes were almost on a level with his, and she felt mesmerized by the dark gleaming passion evident as he lifted a hand and lightly traced the curves of her face. The touch of his fingers against her skin was electric, and she swallowed convulsively as they trailed down the column of her throat and traversed a path to the edge of her top. He freed one button, then the next, until the edges hung loose, and she uttered a faint gasp as he brushed the full curve of her breast.

"The thought of doing this has driven me to the edge of sanity," Angelus said huskily. "All evening, every movement you made emphasized their unbound state." With extreme care he eased the blouse free and tossed it to join his discarded clothes. "Beautiful," he whispered, gently shaping the creamy fullness, testing its weight as he lightly circled each sensitized peak.

Acute sensation curled deeply inside her stomach, and her throat began to constrict as he leaned forward and took one peak in his mouth until she felt it swell and harden beneath his touch. A low groan locked in her throat as he bestowed a similar attention on its twin. Then she gasped out loud as he began to suckle them from each tender peak an erotic satisfaction she had no conscious urge to deny. When at last he lift his head, she met his gaze through half closed lid, and she stood quite still as he reached for the waist band of her culottes and began easing the silk down over her hips to pool at her feet. Satin and lace followed, and she felt heat sear her body as he conducted a leisurely appraisal.

He lifted a hand and trailed gentle fingers up over her rib cage, then slowly traversed her hip, slipping to caress the slight roundness of her bottom before brushing a path to her thigh. His eyes never left hers, and Buffy felt her own dilate as he sought the soft, curling hair, then followed its upper line, caressing, moving back and forth, until her whole body began to sing like a finely tuned instrument. Slowly his hand lowered until he reached the junction between her thighs, and she uttered an audible gasp as he initiated an intimate exploration she was hesitant to accept.

"Am I frightening you, gras'?"

Fear wasn't quite the word she would have used to describe her feelings. Excitement, exultation, to name only two. "No." The single negation emerged as a whispered gasp. His touch proved an erotic torture, and she shuddered as an initial spasm caught hold of her and spiraled out of control. "Angelus." His name on her lip was a deep, husky groan. Dear God, such sweet magic. It was like being taken straight to heaven and shown a hundred different delights.

"Gentle, gras'," he cautioned as she reached blindly for him.

The soft sounds emerging from her throat were incomprehensible, and she was hardly aware of him easing her down to the bed. He carefully moved her injured hand into a comfortable position, then stretched out at her side. His mouth sought hers in a long, slow, drugging kiss that alternately teased and tantalized, and she tremble as his lips began a path of erotic discovery so that it was all she could do not to cry out as he nuzzled the entry to her innermost core.

Brazen, she admitted silently as she climbed to dizzying heights. Shameless. Hopelessly, helplessly passionate and disruptively sensual. She never wanted it to end, yet the spiral of sensation was so incredibly acute she wasn't sure how much longer she could maintain any restraint. It was the most intimate kiss of all, a deep, drugging oral simulation of the sexual act. A sensual gift so exquisite, so incredibly generous that she wanted to weep from joy of it.

Slowly his head moved, and he began raining a trail of open-mouthed kisses over the plane of her stomach where their unborn child lay, upwards to caress the soft under-swell of each breast before fastening on one sensitized peak.

Then he raised his head to look down at her, taking in the slumberous darkness of her eyes, the soft pink that colored her pale features, and her parted lips.

Buffy lifted a tentative hand to the smoothness of his chest, and she traced his shoulder, playing delicately with the strong cage of his ribs before moving involuntarily down to the taut flat planes of his stomach. She felt the muscles clench, and unconsciously her tongue edged out and ran a tentative path along her lower lip.

"Dear God," Angelus cursed in husky remonstrance. "If you don't stop now, I will pass the limit of my control."

She looked at him carefully and glimpsed the latent passion, the heated desire barely masked. A feel of power raced through her veins, building until she felt like a goddess in charge of something so infinitely precious, so rare that only she could grant him the release he sought. With deliberate slowness she led her fingers to trace the length of his distended shaft. Fascinated, she gave it a gentle tactile exploration, feeling it engorge further beneath her feather light touch.

"I don't want your control." Her voice was a husky enticement, and she heard his deep despairing groan followed by the sound of silk being torn from hair-roughened skin.

"Dear God," he responded piously, "I doubt you would condone my lack of it."

With extreme care he prepared her to accept him, and she arched instinctively, welcoming the intrusion as he gained entry. The feeling was intense as moist tissues stretched to accommodate his length, and she exulted in the total enclosure. It was almost as if this were their first time together, and she experienced a sense of wonder in his possession. As crazy as it seemed, she could feel the blood vessels engorge as she encased him, the spasmodic action of inner muscles as they sought to encourage and match his rhythm.

It was almost as if her body recognized what her conscious mind was reluctant to accept, urging a blatant display of passion that was vaguely shocking.

With the grace of an uninhabited Circe she traced the length of his spine, then gently kneaded his tightly muscled flank. Almost of their own volition her fingers trailed to his hip, then began a slow exploratory inner path to the highly sensitized base of his sex.

Gently, very gently she squeezed the sensitive glands, and exulted in his in-drawn breath. Not content, she initiated a seeking path with her lips until they discovered a sensitive male nipple, and she suckled shamelessly, nipping occasionally with her teeth until she felt his powerful body shudder in the initial throes of sensual ecstasy. She wanted…Dear heaven! What did she want? More, more than this carefully controlled pacing. All of him, plunging deep inside her in a torrent of wild strokes that would take them both to the heights.

Buffy was hardly conscious of the soft sounds emerging from her throat as her body reacted with instinctive ease, lifting, angling with a will of its own as she intuitively matched each and everyone of his movements. His hands on either side of her shoulders braced his weight, and she met his mouth hungrily as it closed over hers, his kiss so deep, it mirrored the sexual act itself in an erotic joining that culminated in a wild journey to the center of her corporeal universe.

Her mind might refute any conscious acknowledge of her primeval soul, but every sensitive chord in her awakened body was attuned to this one man, honed by his expertise, tutored with a mesmeric passion that surpassed every restrictive boundary.

There could be no vestige of doubt that she was his. The traitorous proof was apparent in every sensitive nerve-ending; the acute vibrancy that thrummed through her veins, heating her blood to a fervent flame of desire that could only lead to a conflagration of all the senses. Passion-pagan, primitive, and wildly erotic.

When it was finally over, she was so emotionally enervates that she doubted her ability to move so much as a muscle. She felt tingling alive, as if every nerve ending has become acutely sensitized by his touch, yet drowsy and deliciously spent. Languid, she corrected, smiling as she felt his lips caress the curve of her neck, then slip down to bestow an open-mouthed kiss to each breast in turn.

He was … magnificent, she acknowledged dreamily. An affectionate lover, gentle, thoughtful of her needs. Had he enjoyed himself with her as much as much as she had with him? Was he satisfied, completely? Somehow she couldn't bring herself to ask.

She felt him move, and she shifted her head to look at him as he retrieved the support of her arm and carefully fixed it in place. His eyes were dark, slumberous, and her own skittered to a point somewhere beyond his left shoulder.

"Don't," Angelus chided huskily as he cradled her head and forced her to look at him, "attempt to hide what was a intensely beautiful experience for both of us." His thumb probed the swollen softness of her mouth. "Exquisite." He slid down to lie down besides her, gathering her close so that her head nestled beneath his shoulder. With minimum effort he caught hold of the sheet and threw it over them. "Go to sleep, gra'," he bade her gently. Yet she couldn't, not for a long time. Instead she lay still, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

The beach was peaceful, with the merest breeze slipping in from the ocean to caress Buffy's skin and tease the length of her hair. The water was a deep blue; its surface smooth in the distance, cresting as it neared the shore to swirl foam-laced over the hard-packed sand. A strange feeling of ambivalence held her in its spell…and a degree of sadness. She felt safe her. Secure.

The past ten days had been idyllic: lazily spent sunshine-filled days, and easy companionship, long moonlit nights and gentle loving. Tomorrow they were to return to the mansion. Next week she was to begin physiotherapy, and seeing a neurologist. Within a very short time Angelus would drive into the city each morning to spend most of each day in his office atop one of Los Angeles' city up-to-the-minute architectural masterpieces, and she would be alone…

An office, Atop a modern city architect-design building…

She saw it clearly. A large, sumptuously furnish room, clean lines, expensive prints on the walls, and a wide expanse of tinted plate glass with splendid views over the city and harbor. Encapsulated visions of a room with a tall, broad-framed figure leaning against the edge of a large executive desk…Angelus. His expression was harsh and forbidding. His silent anger a vivid entity.

She was there, recapturing her anger… his. Hearing the words with frightening clarity.

"My respect for your mother," Angelus declared a dangerous soft, slightly accented voice that was chilling in its intensity, "allowed you to get past my secretary and buy five minutes of my valuable time." Dark yet a hint of gold eyes became icily dispassionate. "I suggest you make a good use of it."

"My mother doesn't know I've initiated a personal appeal," Buffy assured him in immediate defense.

"It makes no difference. My decision is irrevocable."

The words were clipped, hard, and horrible final. "How can you say that?" she demanded, launching into passionate speed. "She deserves---"

"Another chance?"

"Why don't you let me finish a sentence?" she parried with mounting antipathy, and encountered his visible cynicism.

"Four minutes and thirty seconds doesn't allow for loquacious clarification."

She wanted to hit him! She almost did. Yet there was something electrifyingly primitive beneath his sophisticated facade that warned her that he would retaliate in kind without the slightest trepidation.

"Without your help, my mother faces bankruptcy," she enlightened him starkly, and glimpsed no visible change in his expression.

"I head a multinational corporation that has a complex variety of investments throughout the world. Although I retain a controlling percentage, as director I am responsible to a number of shareholders. Your mother's latest appeal for a further extensive feasibility studies. The findings negate any possibility of directorial board approval for either an increase in borrowings or an extension of time."

Buffy felt her misgivings increase at his inflexibility. "She's ill," she stressed with sense of desperation. "Conclusive tests reveal the necessity for a brain surgery."

"I cannot gamble with my shareholders' money."

The hard unyielding words brought a rush of anger she barely managed to contain. 'Don't blow it,' an inner voice cautioned. "My mother is a very proud woman, who loves her job," she informed him with commendable steadiness, given the short rein she held on her temper. "It will kill her if she loses everything because of a bankruptcy action."

His expression did not change. He was a superb tactician, watchful, waiting for her to plot the next move. There was no doubt he would win the game, but as the moment she was still a player, even if he held all the cards. "Commendable sentiment isn't sufficient reason for me to grant the extension your mother requires."

He was an obdurate, unfeeling monster, she decided with bitter acrimony. Truly a monster. Pride lifted her chin and lent her eyes a fiery sparkle. "What would you consider to be sufficient reason?"

His eyes darkened fractionally, and she was unable to look away. His intent gaze had a mesmeric effect, and a slow heat suffused her body, reaching deep to unleash an entire gamut of sensations she was loath to recognize. A deep insistent burr was almost an anticlimax as it broke the fraught silence, and Buffy watched as he reached for the in-house phone, privy to the brusqueness of his voice as he checked the time and intimated he was on his way.

Replacing the receiver, he moved away from the desk. "I am needed in the boardroom."

She endeavoured to keep the desperation from her voice. "Please…"

His eyes seared hers, lancing right through to her soul. After what seemed an interminable silence, he drawl, "Have dinner with me tonight." He named a well-known restaurant. "Meet me there. Seven-thirty."

Her lips formed a single negation, only to have it remain locked in her throat.

"A test of filial loyalty, wouldn't you agree?" He moved with lithe ease towards the door. "My secretary will show you out. "

A shiver shook Buffy's slim frame as the image disappeared and, no matter how hard she concentrated, it was impossible to recall.

Angelus paused beside her, his expression intent as his eyes raked her pale cheeks. "What is it?"

She lifted a hand and smoothed a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear. Slowly she turned toward him, puzzlement creasing her forehead. "I was appealing to you to extend my father's gallery loan," she explained shakily. "You were angry," she revealed slowly. "We both were." She 'd felt it, breathed it in those few brief minutes, a palpable entity so vivid it made he feel terrible afraid.

His expression was impossible to fathom. "How much were you able to remember?"

Was that why she married Angelus? To save her mother? Her head began to reel, and she drew a deep breath in a conscious effort to stave off dizziness. "You were called in to a board meeting," she revealed slowly, trying desperately to recall the elusive image without success. "I can remember walking to the lift, stepping into it," she said helplessly. "But that's all "

His hands lifted to cradle her face, then his mouth closed over hers in a light tasting that elicited little response. It was as if her mind were still caught up with the desire to recapture the past, and she didn't offer a word as they made their way back to the house.

Buffy found it difficult to shake off an inclination towards introspection for the rest of the day, and even during dinner she was unusually quiet.

"Anxiety won't help hasten the return of your memory," Angelus advised as she pushed her plate aside.

She glimpsed the inherent strength apparent, and her eyes took on a shadowy quality. "I can't help the feeling of defenselessness that has always lurked in the background." She revealed slowly, holding his gaze.

"You have no reason to be uncertain. About anything." He added with emphasis.

She wasn't quite so sure, but at the moment she had little option but to accept his word.

He rose to his feet and began collecting cutlery and stacked plates. "Sort through the video while I take care of the dishes."

Buffy wandered into the informal lounge, and after some deliberation she selected an action movie that threatened to swamp the viewer with a lot of thrills and spills.

Angelus walked into the room just as the previews concluded, and as she made for one of the single chairs tugged her down on to the two-seater beside him. With maximum ease he adjusted their positions so that she rested between his thighs and leaned back against his chest. His hands moved to link together over her lower abdomen, where his baby grows inside. The desire to stay there overcame any willingness to protest, and she forced herself to concentrate on the superbly fit male actor on screen as he launched into a daring choreographic karate routine with his opponent.

Buffy must have fallen into a doze at some stage, for when she woke she was in bed and it was morning.

After a leisurely breakfast Angelus tossed their bags into the boot, locked up the house, and drove back to the city.

"You look so much better," Olivia beamed with approval as she greeted them when they had arrived back to the mansion. Olivia's pleasant features creased into a genuine smile. "It is good to see the color in your face again."

Buffy's mouth curved with a wry humor. "Angelus has been feeding me up and taking me for walks along the beach."

"I will serve lunch early. Your appointment is at two, yes?"

It was all going to start: the daily physiotherapy sessions, the visits to specialists, and soon there would be no reason for her not to rejoin Angelus on the social scene. Buffy was unable to still a feeling of instinctive apprehension, and although she did justice to a bowl of Olivia's chicken soup, she toyed with the salad, picked at the bread, and opted to conclude the meal with fresh fruit.

Perhaps Giles would drive her to the physiotherapist's rooms, leaving Angelus to retire into the study for the rest of the afternoon. However, it was her inimitable husband who slid in behind the wheel.

"There's no need for you to come in with me," she essayed when the Jacquard eased into a parking bay adjacent to the main entrance.

"I will confine myself to the waiting room," Angelus conceded with amused tolerance, and she wrinkled her nose at him in silent admonition as he followed her in to reception.

The physiotherapist name was Wesley Wendam Pryce explained precisely what exercises he wanted her to do, and why-muscles lost their elasticity if they were not used, resulting in stiffness, gradual lost of mobility, and pain.

Buffy completed the simple exercises with supervised care, and at the end of the session Angelus drove her home.

Traffic was congested, and some drivers more impatient than others as lines of cars slowed to a snail's pace. Tempers rose, horns blared and engines roared in protest. Then slowly they began to move again. The Jacquard had just begun to pick up speed when Angelus hit the brakes.

Buffy was conscious of several things at once: Angelus arm anchoring her against the seat an instant before the car lurched on impact, and the sickening crunching metal. She registered dimly a string of viciously articulated Gaelic words, then Angelus was leaning over her, his features harsh as his hands cupped her face.

"Are you alright?"

She was in another car, a white sports model, behind the wheel, passing through s Silicon Valley Company's intersection. There was an instantaneous reaction as she slammed on the brakes and wrenched the wheel in a desperate bid to avoid hitting the oncoming vehicle. But it was too late. There was a sickening crunch of metal. Her head hit something, and then there was darkness.

"Oh My God!" Buffy felt as if her eyes were too large for her face as she attempted to re-focus them and shut out the horrific vision.

"Are you hurt?"

She registered Angelus' voice, deep, dark and throbbing, then she saw his face, anxiety etching every line, his eyes almost black as they attempted to see beyond the mask her features had become.

"Buffy." His fingers were gentle as they stroked each cheek, and she blinked once, twice, then she was back in the present.

"I'm-fine." She attempted, through lips that trembled badly. She met his intent gaze, and she swallowed the sudden lump that seemed lodged in her throat. "Really," she assured him shakily as she defended herself against a pair of eyes that seemed to pierce her soul.

"You remembered the accident." It was a statement, not a query. "All of it?"

Her lips seemed strangely dry, and she edged out the tip of her tongue to moisten them. "Just-a blur of white hurling toward me, the moment of impact."

His eyes never left her face and her mouth trembled slightly as he reached for the car phone, punched in a series of numbers, requested the police, and gave a brief description of the accident and location.

Buffy could only stare straight ahead as Angelus pushed open the door and slid to his feet, and his hard inflexible tones combining with those of the man who had tempted providence by making an erroneous move barely penetrated her conscious mind. Was this how her memory would return? A series of brief isolated incidents every few days?

Less than a minute later Angelus slid in behind the wheel, and Buffy bore his intent scrutiny with equanimity.

"I'm OK," she assured him. "Is there much damage to the car?"

"You concern me. Not the car," he said bleakly.

At some stage she heard the distant wail of a police siren, then it came close, red and blue lights flashing. Doors slammed voices.

It wasn't until they arrived home that she saw the broken light and its surround, the deep gouges and scratches. The sight of them brought on a wave of nausea, and she only just made it upstairs in time.

No protest she made could prevent Angelus from calling a doctor.

"This is normal, dammit." She uttered fiercely, and saw his expression measurably harden. She lifted her hands in mock surrender. "All right, I give in."

An hour later she barely refrained from reiterating the doctor's assurance and the only concession she made to rest was to recline on the sun lounger beneath a shade umbrella at the pool's edge.

The next few days assumed a regular routine as Buffy attended the physiotherapy clinic and kept an appointment with the neurologist.

Angelus rose early, spent an hour working out in the gym downstairs, followed it with several lengths in the pool, then after breakfast he closeted himself in the study until Olivia served lunch.

An urgent telephone call on Friday morning necessitated his presence in the city, and Buffy rejoiced at the thought of spending the day alone.

The physiotherapy session was scheduled for mid-morning, and after lunch she settled down to leaf through a supply of the latest glossy magazines. Tall, perfectly proportioned modeling beautiful clothes, she perceived as she flipped idly through the fashion pages. One model in particular caught her eyes, and she wondered at her instinctive fascination with a longhaired brunette with classical features and cool dark eyes.

Without any warning those same features seemed to come alive, and it was like watching a re-run of part of a film depicting an isolated incident in her life, Buffy decided, momentarily freezing as images crowded her brain. So clear, so hauntingly vivid.

Angelus, Buffy and Drusilla seated together at a table, aiding one of several charities Angelus was known for supporting. Drusilla. The hauntingly beautiful model that had been Angelus' close companion for several years before Buffy had been thrusted into the limelight as his latest conquest. Now Drusilla seemed intent on proving she still held Angelus' interest by indulging in a little game of subtle flirting, a fact which was not lost on Buffy.

It was extremely difficult to maintain the semblance of a smile as she spooned morsels of delectable fruit from the elaborately presented dessert. Jealousy was terrible emotion, she conceded, as she picked up her fork and speared a segment of orange with more force than necessary. With little provocation, she could have killed Drusilla for her attempted to capture Angelus' attention. As Angelus. She would have liked to do temporary harm to a vulnerable part of his anatomy. Perhaps he sensed her antipathy, for he turned his head and his eyes gleamed with mild amusement as he met her calculated smile. Without a word he reached for her hand and carried it to his lips, kissing each finger in turn as she seethed with silent anger.

How dares he? She wanted to walk out and take a taxi home. As it was, she barely managed to preserve a calm front for the reminder of the evening, and the instant Angelus brought the car to a halt inside the garage she burst into an angry speech.

"In the future you can choose whether you partner Drusilla or your wife," Buffy railed in fury.

"You expect me to display ill manners by ignoring a friend I have known for several years?"

"Heaven forbid," Buffy said sarcastically.

"You have no reason to be jealous."

She slid from the car as he moved out from behind the wheel, and it gave her the utmost satisfaction to slam the door. "I am not jealous. I simply refuse to be part of a ménage-a-trois."

Angelus began to chuckle, and the husky sounds of his amusement acted like flame placed too close to combustible octane.

Buffy threw her evening bag at him, and followed it with one evening sandal, then the other, each of which he neatly fielded and slid into the pocket of his jacket.

"So you want to play?"

He reached her far easily, before she had gone more than a few steps, and she gasped in outrage as he lifted her effortlessly over one shoulder and carried her indoors.

"Put me down!"

He walked through the foyer to the stairs, gaining the upper floor with galling ease, seemingly uncaring as she beat her hands against the broad expanse of his back. In the bedroom he tumble her down onto the bed, discarding his jacket, then captured her wildly scrambling form by the simple expedient of covering it with his own.

"Damn you," Buffy vented as she struggled impotently against his superior strength. "I hate you."

"I love the way hate, luidhear."

"Sex. Lust," she qualified. "Bought and paid for."

He went curiously still. "I suggest you retract that vilifying statement."

"Why? Does the truth penetrate your conscience, Angelus?" she taunted; only to cry out in shocked surprise as his mouth closed over hers with punishment force.

What followed was a formed of retribution he actively encouraged her to share, their mingling anger resulting in wild, untamed sex that gave no quarter. for either of them.

"Buffy?"

The sound of Olivia's voice seemed to come from far away, and Buffy dragged her mind back to the present. Her heart pounded inside her chest, and her skin was damp with the fine sheen of sweat.

"I have just made tea. Would you like some?"

Somehow she managed a suitable response. Dear God. This was the most explicit span she'd experienced. The memory of it was so vivid; the act so primitively savage that it was all she could do to prevent herself from being physically ill. I don't want to remember anymore. Not if total recall means a revival of anger and dissension. The friendship, the special closeness that she shared at Palm Beach seemed part of a distant fantasy. Instinct warned her that she was teetering on the edge of reality, and a chill featured over her skin, raising all her fine body hairs in protective defense.

It rained most of the weekend, squally wind-driven showers that beat against the windows, bringing much needed water to the depleted dams and providing relief against the seasonal threat of bush fires. Angelus taught Buffy the basic skills of chess, checkmating her so many times that she declined to allow him further victory as she opted to trounce him at cards. That too was a disaster, for, although she won twice, she suspected that it was only because he deliberately set out to lose.

Monday dawned bright and clear. The Jaguar went into repair, and Angelus took the Mercedes into the city.

Buffy attended physiotherapy after lunch; then Giles drove her across town for her appointment with the obstetrician. They arrived early, and she opted to check in rather than wait in the car.

The senior nurse greeted her warmly. "The Doctor has a patient with him, Mrs. Delaney. He won't be long." Buffy took a seat, selected a magazine, and began leafing through the pages. An article caught her eye, and she read it with interest.

Minutes later she glanced absently at another, and froze. Two frames featuring Drusilla adorned facing pages, and with a tiny gasp of shock every thing suddenly fell into place, almost as if someone had depressed a camera shutter, then released it to reveal a moving photograph to view.

With horrified fascination she watched it all unfold. Dear God, no. No. The negation seamed to thunder inside her brain over and over as she desperately sought to stop the images appearing one after other like a rolling red of Technicolor film. It wasn't true. None of it. There was some terrible mistake. A shocking joke played by a devilish hand.

If she sat still, perfectly still, the images would disappear, and she could walk out of here without becoming an emotional wreck. Her stomach churned as the impact of the recurring memory took effect, and she only just barely made it to the powder room in time.

Afterwards, she leaned her head against the cool tiles for several minutes as she stared sightlessly at the beautifully appointed bathroom. She didn't feel like facing anyone, much less a skillful perceptive medical professional who would doubtless take one look at her pale features, note her elevated pulse-rate, and begin a line of questioning she had no wish to answer.

Buffy wondered what sort of reaction she would generate if she simply walked out, slid into the car, and bade Giles take her home. Home. Hell's teeth, how could she go there? How could she not? She decided dully. If she requested Giles to take her anywhere else, it would only be a matter of minutes before Giles alerted Angelus, and then what? A confrontation? She had so much anger to expel. Such a degree of inner rage.

With deplorable ease her mind slid back to the ill fated dinner she had shared with Angelus Delaney only hours after launching a personal appeal for him to stave off her mother's imminent fall into bankruptcy.

Buffy arrived five minutes late and was escorted to Angelus' table, where, within minutes of ordered iced water, she immediately launched a further attempt on Joyce Summers' behalf.

"What inducements do you intend to offer me?" He lifted one well-shaped eyebrow, his expression assuming world-weary cynicism. "Yourself perhaps?"

It took mere seconds for his words to sink in, a few more for her to throw the contents of her glass at his face. She rose to her feet in white-faced fury, then stormed from the restaurant.only to have to return when she discovered that she had left her evening bag on the table.

When she reached for it, his hand closed over hers. "Sit down."

"I have nothing to say to you!"

"Walk out on me a second time, and any chance you might have will be gone."

Every instinct screamed for her to turn away from him, and it was only the image of her mother that persuaded her to resume her seat.

"You care for your mother very much." It was a statement, not a question.

"If I didn't," she responded flatly, "I wouldn't be here."

"Enough to give your personal guarantee to investment from my private funds?" His pause was deliberate. "Become part of the deal?"

She felt cold, and barely in control. "In what capacity?" If he said as his mistress, she would tip the hot soup in his lap, then walk away. This time she would make sure she had her bag. And hell would freeze over before she would exchange so much as a word with him should their paths cross again.

"My wife."

It was the last thing she had expected him to say. "You're insane."

He subjected her to a long, steady look before venturing in a hateful drawl, "Two million dollars as an unconditional gift in exchange for two years of your life."

"No."

"You sign a pre-nuptial agreement relinquishing any claim on my assets in lieu of the two million dollars I advance to your mother on the day of our marriage," he continued as if she hadn't spoken.

It was totally crazy. "No."

"Handsome recompense for an act of mercy."

"My mother would never condone it."

"She don't need to know about it, if you act a part."

His eyes never left hers. "You have twenty-four hours to reach a decision."

Hours of thinking she finally gave in, within mere minutes of his deadline. The marriage of Buffy Summers and Angelus Delaney took place a week later.

"If it were not for my mother," Buffy vented with restrained vehemence as she attached her signature to the marriage register, "I would never have agreed to this diabolical arrangement."

"I have no doubt."

"What if I refuse you?" she flung at him later that night when they retired to their hotel suite.

"A no I should interpret as a maybe?" Angelus queried. "If my foreplay succeeds in arousing you to a state of sensual desire?"

"You damned egotist," she spluttered.

Afterward she hated herself, him, for proving that sex and love were two entirely different emotions.

It had taken less than a month to discover the existence of Drusilla and learned that the glamorous model had been and, rumor had it, still was Angelus' mistress-a revelation deliberately designed to shatter her confidence. At the time, the vindictive gossip did not hurt at all. The pain came later.

Four months after her marriage her mother learned that she had a brain tumor and was admitted to the hospital. The night when her mother lay so ill in the hospital's bed, Buffy forgot to take the Pill. By the time she realized the implications of her lapse it was too late, and her worse fears were confirmed when a home pregnancy test showed positive. A doctor's appointment merely verified it.

For two weeks she suffered the tortures of the damned. Then, early one morning, soon after Angelus left for the office, she simply threw a few clothes into a bag, slid in behind the wheel of the sport car that Angelus had assigned for her to use and headed north.

Ironically, she had only cleared the outer suburbs then another when another car ran through a 'Stop' sign. She could vividly recall her reaction as she slammed on the breaks and made a desperate effort to avoid him; the sickening sound of colliding metal; a shuttering jolt that threw her against the door. Then nothing.

Buffy's head was throbbing so badly that at first she didn't hear the repeated knock at the door.

"Mrs. Delaney?" the voiced called. "Are you all right?" Oh, God. How long had she been in here? Five minutes… ten?

"Yes. An attack of nausea," she assured the nurse shakily. She had to pull herself together. She looked and felt like death. "I'll be out in a minute."

"Doctor is ready to see you. Can I get you a cool drink? A cup of tea?"

There were disposable toothbrushes and toothpaste thoughtfully provided, and she made use of both before applying lipstick and running a comb through her hair. "Tea would be great. Thanks."

Ten minutes later she sat in a deep cushioned chair facing Dr. Pryce, who viewed her over hid glasses resting halfway down the bridge of his nose.

"You're pale, and your pulse-rate is elevated," he declared quietly. "Care to tell me what's bothering you?"

"The baby-"

"Is fine. The mother, however, is keeping me a cause of concern." He subjected her to a lengthy appraisal, then ventured gently, "Your memory. Have you experienced any recurring flashes?"

She wanted to deny them, for, if she pretended they hadn't occurred, she might somehow fool herself they were part of some nightmare that had no place in reality.

"A few," she admitted cautiously, unwilling to relay that her memory had returned in full.

"You've found them distressing?"

Partial truth was infinitely preferable to truth in its entirety. "I guess it's a natural reaction. My husband has been able to fill in some details, but not all."

"I think I should call him."

"No. No." she hastened quickly, aware of his sharp interest. "Please."

He looked thoughtful. "He has been very concerned about you." He didn't add that Angelus Delaney had insisted on a full report after every one of his wife's consultations. "I think it would be best if I see you again in a forth night. Finish your tea."

Giles was waiting in the car when she emerged, and as soon as he caught sight of her he moved quickly round to open the rear door, then, when she was safely seated, he slid in behind the wheel.

"Is there anywhere you would like to go? A little shopping perhaps?"

She had money, and sufficient credit card buying power to walk into any store and purchase literally anything. For a moment she was tempted to indulge in a splurge that would raise her husband's eyebrows when he received the bill. But she had an entire closet full of fashionable clothes, enough to wear one for each day for a numbers of weeks. Perfumes, toiletries, make-up. Even jewelry. Angelus had been exceedingly generous, given the circumstance of their marriage. She related such generosity to the need to project the image of a successful wife.

"Madeline's" she instructed on a sudden whim. "Angelus is entertaining a business associate tonight, and I have an inclination to buy a new outfit."

"Yes," Giles concurred with a friendly grin. "I shall take you there."

The car slid forward, moving out into the flow of traffic, and Buffy leaned back against the cushioned seat and closed her eyes against the onset of images crowding her brain.

"Would you like me to accompany you?"

Buffy blinked at the sound of Giles' voice, and hastily caught hold of her scattered thoughts as she established that the car was parked outside one of several exclusive boutiques known for their designer labels and expensive price tags in Los Angeles.

"No, thank you, Giles." She cast him a warm smile. "Why don't you have coffee somewhere? I'll be at least half an hour."

She was twice that time and more, requiring special authorization when it became apparent that she was unable to sign the appropriate credit slips.

They arrived home only minutes ahead of Angelus, and she moved quickly upstairs to their suite in hope of avoiding him… at least momentarily. If she hurried, she might be able to seclude herself in the shower. She managed it, but only just and when she emerged into the bedroom he was in the process of discarding his clothes. Her eyes encountered his, then skittered away as he pulled off his shirt and took the few necessary steps to reach her. For a few more hours at least, she had to act a part. After their dinner guests departed, she could unleash her inner rage.

The need to say something-anything-seemed to paramount, and she rushed into a speech. "Giles took me to Madeline's," she elaborated, indicating the assortment of brightly colors carrier bags at the foot of the bed. "I felt like wearing something new tonight."

He was within touching distance, and she injected warmth into her smile as he lifted both hands to cup her face. His mouth closed over hers, warm, hungry, and possessive. She could feel her own unbidden response, the unfurling deep within as he drew her close in against him.

When he lifted his head it was all she could do to meet the dark intentness of his gaze, and she felt her lips tremble as he gently rubbed his thumb back and forth across the kiss-swollen curves. One hand traced a path down her neck to trail the edge of her silk robe, parting it to slip inside and caress the full curve of her breast.

"What did the obstetrician have to say?"

How did she answer that? With extreme care, a tiny voice warned somewhere in her psyche. "He reassured me that the baby is fine."

Her breast felt heavy, their peaks taut and aching. It wasn't the only part of her that ached.

Dammit, how could her body react in such a traitorous fashion? His eyes seared hers, dark and analytical, almost as if he knew precisely what had happened and was waiting for her to tell him. Could the obstetrician have called him? The possibility wouldn't surprise her. "I-suffered a bout of morning sickness." She paused, then made a light attempt at humor. "In the middle of the afternoon." She was not such a good actress that Angelus would be fooled for long. "I had another memory flash."

It was an extension of the truth. "It shook me up a little."

"Poor darling," Angelus soothed, brushing his lips against her temple. "If you don't feel up to dinner tonight, I will called William and have him meet me at the restaurant."

"No," Buffy said quickly, adding. "Olivia has gone to a lot of trouble." She didn't want to wake in the depths of night when he slid into bed and reached for her. She wanted a confrontation. Dammit, she wanted to launch a full-scale war against him. But not when they had a guest due to arrive for dinner in-how long? Less than an hour?

"Shouldn't we get ready?"

Angelus drew back and gave her a rueful smile. "I need to shower and shave."

The dress she had bought was a slim-fitting sheath in a brilliant water blue uncrushable viscose and linen mix, its hemline resting just above the knee. A clever panel of blue beaded embroidery elevated the simple design to the glamorous, and matching beaded shoes completed an ensemble that shrieked a top designer label. Angelus entered the bedroom as she put the finishing touches of her make-up, and with practiced ease he attended to the hook on her bra, then assisted her into the dress. The long zip-fastener slid home, and she slowly turned to face him.

"Stunning," he pronounced, his eyes gleaming with indolent appreciation as they roved over her slim curves. "Do you need help with her hair?"

"I thought I'd wear it loose."

She crossed to the dressing table and caught up her brush, stroking the length of her hair until it shone. At the last minute she decided to put a blue headband on her head, making her nothing but more innocence looking. Just as she finish with her hair, he walk over her and pick one of her earring that match with her dress perfectly and put each on her ears, knowing that it's impossible to attach them with one hand.

William `Spike' Harrington was a tall, handsome man in his early thirty, charming, with Gallic??? appreciation for the opposite sex.

"I have been looking forward to meeting the woman who managed to slip beneath Angelus' armor." He lifted his glass in salute. "I congratulate you."

Dinner was a success, for only had Olivia excelled herself with superb culinary offerings, but the delicate baiting each man indulged in bore the stamp of a long friendship.

"I realize that our fathers were business associates? Yes. It's true. For some years we spent holidays together. Paris. One year Angelus was packed off to join my family in London." His eyes twinkled with wicked humor. "We were young, gregarious, and, I think, a little too adventurous for our own good."

"Don't indulge in tales, Spike," Angelus drawled, "or I may feel compelled to relay a few of my own to Faith when I see her."

"Faith is in no doubt as to what manner of man I am."

"Are you about to destroy my illusion?" Buffy queried lightly, and incurred his slight smile. His eyes, however, assumed inscrutability.

"What illusion do you refer to, my dear?"

"That you might be an exception to most successful business men and have chosen not to have both wife and mistress?"

Spike's gaze didn't waver, and she met it fearlessly, aware of the sudden stillness in the room.

"If a man values his family, and his wife meets his needs," he offered quite gently, "why would there be the necessity for him to take a mistress?"

She was stepping into dangerous territory, but she didn't care. "The challenge it represents perhaps? Excitement?" she managed a careless shrug.

"Would you consider it fair for a wife to expect her needs also to be met?"

Angelus' voice was pure silk. "You are lodging a subtle complaint, love?"

It took all her acting ability, but she managed a light incredulous laugh. " How could I begin to fault you?" She reached out a placating hand, and sat quite still as he took hold of it and raised her fingers to his lips. It was a deliberate gesture, and she glimpsed the dark gleam in his eyes, a watchfulness that sent warning flares licking the taut edge of her nerves.

He knew. Perhaps not precisely when her memory returned, but there was no doubt he was aware that she had experienced a total recall.

"Shall we adjourn to the lounge for coffee?" Angelus suggested smoothly.

Somehow Buffy managed to get through the rest of the evening. If Spike sensed that her conversation was a little too bright, he gave no indication.

"You must excuse me," Spike said at last. It is late, and I must return to my hotel." He crossed to her side. "Thank you for a most enjoyable evening." He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, then held it a fraction longer than necessary. "Angelus must bring you to London," he said gently. "It would give Faith much pleasure."

"Indeed," Angelus concurred as they moved through to the front of the house.

Buffy turned away from the door the instant the car's taillights cleared the gates, acutely conscious of Angelus' actions as he reset the alarm system. Apprehension prickled at the back of her neck as she made for the stairs. The anger that had lain dormant since this afternoon rose to the fore, darkening her eyes and reining her mouth into a firm line.

Entering the bedroom, she slipped off her shoes, then reached for the zip-fastener at the back of her dress. Angelus came into the room as she began a third fruitless attempted to slide the fastener down, and she didn't utter a word as he crossed to complete the task. With extreme care she stepped out of the dress and placed it over a nearby chair, watching out of the corner of her eye as he discharged his jacket and removed his tie.

"When did it happen?" Hs voice was quiet, deadly, as she turned slowly to face him, unwilling to prevaricate.

Eyes, as dark as onyx, were filled with a chilling intensity, and her chin tilted, fractionally, as she prepared to oppose him.

"This afternoon, in the obstetrician's waiting room." Her eyes sparkled with green fire. "A photograph of Drusilla in a magazine acted as the trigger, giving me total recollection in slow motion."

His expression darkened, fractionally, and he reached out a hand, catching hold of her chin between thumb and forefinger, tightening his grasp when she attempted to wrench it away.

Buffy's eyes flared a brilliant topaz-flecked emerald in an unspoken challenge. "Why?" she demanded. "Why did you deceive me?"

He held her effortlessly, his expression an inscrutable mask. His silence angered her immeasurably.

"Dammit, answer me!"

His eyes became bleak, and his voice sounded as dark as the depths of his black soul. "When would you have had me reveal facts?"

She suffered his raking scrutiny with angry defiance as she waited for him to continue

"While you lay in a hospital bed injured and afraid?" he pursued relentlessly. "When you first came home?" His eyes dared her to refute him. "Should I have destroyed your trust? Refused you reassurance and affection?"

"You took advantage with a calculated play on my emotions," she cried, raw with pain.

"We made love," Angelus corrected harshly

"We had sex."

"A carnal coupling?" His voice was lethal. "Based on greed and the gratification of a primitive urge?"

Dear God, it hadn't been like that. Ever. No matter how hard she fought, she had been entrapped from the moment of confrontation in his office. One look and she had been shaken to the very roots of her being by the mesmeric quality of his masculinity. Aware, with the depth of self-knowledge, that Angelus Delaney possessed the ability to render her helpless as no other man on this green planet could.

She had hated him for it, hated herself for her own vulnerability. But, most of all, she had hated the circumstance that bound her to him

She wanted to cry her rejection, but the words choked in her throat. "The night of the accident," she revealed bleakly, "I'd decided to leave you."

His eyes speared her. "How long did you imagine it would take before I tracked you down."

"I intended to see a lawyer and file for separation."

His features hardened measurably. "You hate me so much that you would attempt to deny me knowledge of your pregnancy, my child's existence?" His voice lowered to a dangerous silkiness that sent tiny shivers along her spine. "Or did you plan an abortion?"

"No!" she jerked out in shocked denial, reasserting in a hushed tone, "No." The thought had never entered her head.

He was silent for several interminable minutes, and when he spoke his voice was hard and held unaccountable bleakness. "The child you carry is as much mine as yours. Uniquely ours. Our son or daughter deserves to be more than someone we fight custody for in a court of law."

"I married you because I couldn't stand by and see my mother emotionally and financially beaten. It would have killed her before the tumor would. I had wanted to give her something to fight for." She had to take some consolation from the knowledge that the last months of her life had been happy. "You engineered a diabolical game," she accused him fiercely. "I should have damned you to the depths of hell and walked away."

He regarded her steadily for what seemed an age. "Yet you didn't," he reminded her, his gaze alert beneath partly lowered lids. "You accepted the arrangement as a challenge, and attempted to score against me."

That had been her intention. At first, she had fooled herself that she was succeeding. Except that somewhere along the way she had fallen in love with him.

"Displaying beautiful manners in public," he went on, in musing reflection, "while behaving like a virago when we were alone."

Her eyes were dark and accusing, "A fact you deliberately withheld from me."

"If you remember," Angelus pursued, "I made no pretence that we shared an idyllic relationship

"You said we argued occasionally!" Buffy flung, hating his skillful employment of words.

"Frequently," he corrected. "The resolving of such arguments was always-" he paused deliberately, "-satisfactory, wouldn't you say?"

That was an understatement. In bed, they had always been in perfect accord. In the beginning it had been a source of anguish, for she found it difficult to condone the degree of her emotional involvement with a man she professed to hate.

"Our marriage breaks all the rules," she offered wretchedly, her eyes stormy with anger, and her hand shook as she lifted it to push her hair back from her face.

"The reason for its existence remains the same," he said in a hard voice.

She looked at him carefully, aware of his immense strength of will, the arresting elemental quality that made her feel suddenly afraid. "You can't mean for the marriage to continue?"

"Indeed," Angelus declared inflexibly. He subjected her to a long, level appraisal. "What is more, I insist that you honor the two-year term listed in our pre-nuptial agreement."

Anger emanated from every pore in her body. "That's barbaric!"

"Perhaps." His smile was a mere facsimile, his eyes dark and forbidden.

"You expect me to act a part?" She felt like screaming with indignant resentment. "Pretend?"

His expression was resolute, and his voice held infinite mockery. "You have managed admirably for the past seven months."

"Six," she flung back angrily, incensed by his imperturbability. "I cannot be held responsible for the past one and a half."

He lifted a hand and brushed light fingers along the edge of her jaw. "Relieved of the barrier of your animosity for a few short weeks," he said, "there was no reason to generate hatred for your Irish husband."

She closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again. "There wasn't meant to be a child!" It was a cry from the heart.

His voice, gentle, as he caught hold of her chin and tilted it towards him. "Nevertheless, there is. Its unexpected existence is something I refuse to consider as anything other than a very special gift."

His thumb lightly caressed the lower edge of her lip. "For several weeks we were able to dispense with any hostility." His eyes darkened measurably. "Friends, as well as lovers."

Her eyes glittered with anger, sheer emerald flecked with gold. "We can never be friends!"

A smile tinged with wry mockery tugged the edges of his mouth. "Perhaps at this moment you do not believe so." Dark eyes gleamed with cynical humor. "Why don't you get into bed?"

Her pulse tripped its beat and measurably quickened-as a result of anger, she assured herself, not passion. "I don't want to go to bed with you."

"We share, Buffy," he insisted, in a dangerously soft voice, "as we have done from the beginning."

His threat wasn't an idle one, and she looked at him in silent mutiny for several long seconds. "If you touch me, so help me, I'll hit you," she vouched with low-pitched vehemence, and, turning away from him, she caught up her nightgown and crossed into the bathroom to remove her make up.

Her fingers shook so badly that the cream got into her eyes, and she dabbed frantically at it before sluicing her face.

Angelus was in bed when she emerged, stretched out, his arms crossed behind his head.

Buffy eyed him warily as she slipped in beneath the covers and closed her eyes. Seconds later she heard the snap of the bedside lamp as the room was plunged into darkness.

Slowly her lashes swept upwards, and for a long time she stared sightlessly ahead, discerning shadows and a thin strip of moonlight threading between the curtains as her eyes adjusted to the gray light of the night.

She was acutely aware of every sound, her own breathing, his, and she knew the moment when Angelus' steadied and assumed a deep rhythmic beat. Tomorrow, she promised, as her eyelids became heavy and began to flutter down. Tomorrow she would launch an attack about the depth of his involvement with the glamorous Drusilla.

Buffy woke late to discover that Angelus had already left for the city. His absence provided an anticlimax, for there was a fine edge to her inner rage that longed for the satisfaction of a full-scale confrontation.

"Angelus asked me to tell you that you are both to attend a formal dinner to aid charity this evening," Olivia conveyed, as Buffy sat down to a solitary breakfast.

The Delaney Corporation was a well-known benefactor and Angelus lent his personal patronage to selected organizations. Buffy had attended several such dinners in the past, and her heart sank at the thought of mingling with Angelus' sophisticated coterie of acquaintances.

Without a doubt, Drusilla would be present. Buffy hated being an object of conjecture as certain guests speculated on the latest development between the Delaney scion, his wife, and the glamorous model who had been his constant companion for years, before his sudden marriage to a virtual unknown with no social background.

Buffy entertained no doubt that Angelus' absence from the social scene for the past couple of weeks had been duly noted and commented upon, details regarding her accident embellished and explicated.

It seemed coincidental that she was to have the bandages removed from her arms today. After this afternoon, physiotherapy would be reduced to weekly, instead of daily, sessions. Soon the only evidence would be a thin scar on her hand.

The thought of regarding her independence was a heady one. After today, she would be able to drive again.

There were a few friends she needed to contact. *Willow*. Realization suddenly hit her that her dearest friend might be anxious after not having heard from her at all since the accident.

As it was, she had no idea whether Willow was still working days at the General Hospital, or if she had crossed over to the night shift. If it was nights, the answering machine would be on and she couldn't leave a message.

Buffy checked the time, then finished her breakfast and moved quickly upstairs to use the bedroom telephone.

Willow picked up on the third ring, her voice jubilant on discovering who was on the other end of the line, and they talked for the best part of an hour before Buffy reluctantly had to conclude the call in order to keep her appointment with the orthopedic surgeon.

"Let's meet up for lunch-soon," she insisted.

"I'm a working girl, remember?" Willow teased. "However, I'm off the next two nights. Is tomorrow soon enough?"

Buffy gave an exultant laugh. "Tomorrow it is. Just name the place, the time, and I'll be there."

An hour later Giles deposited her outside of the consultant orthopedist's rooms, and thirty minutes later she walked out, sans protective half-cast and bandage. The specialist sanctioned a return to driving, advised care with her hand, and suggested a further appointment in a month. Now all she had to do was determine which car she could use as her own. There had been no mention of the white Porsche or its fate. Surely it couldn't have been smashed beyond repair? With the Jacquard out of the action, Angelus was taking the Lexus into the city, which left the Mercedes to Giles. She would have to broach it with Angelus tonight.

After lunch she went through the contents of her wardrobe in an effort to reach a decision over what to wear to dinner. After much deliberation she narrowed the choice down to two, eventually selecting a stunning fitted gown of deep emerald that seemed to bring the green color out in her hazel eyes. It highlighted the creamy texture of her skin and proved a vivid contrast to her blonde hair.

It was almost four when Giles delivered her home from physiotherapy. At five she took a shower, washed her hair, and had Olivia curl her hair with the roller, before attending to her nails.

Angelus entered the bedroom as she began applying her make-up, and she met his studied appraisal with equanimity.

"How is your hand?" He moved towards her and Buffy felt an immediate awareness of his close proximity.

Without a word she displayed the pink scar. "I'm sure you've already received the specialist's report." She hadn't intended to sound quite so cynical.

His eyes narrowed fractionally. "Yes."

"You also know that I'm able to drive again," she offered, watching as his head lowered down to hers.

She averted her head so that his kiss landed on her cheek, and almost at once, he caught hold of her mouth with his own, in an invasion that brought forth a muffled entreaty he chose to ignore.

When he finally lifted his head she silently damned him to the depths of perdition.

The desire to rage against him was paramount, and drawing in a deep breath, she launched into attack. "I'd like to become independent again, rather than have to drag Giles away every time I want to go out."

Angelus slipped the knot free on his tie and began unfastening his shirt. "That is part of his job."

Her eyes assumed a brilliant hue, as anger began to unfurl, and took considerable effort to control her temper. "Have you assigned him as my guard?"

"You're being fanciful."

"Am I?"

He looked every inch the power broker… indomitable, lethal, and inflexible. "Are you intent on having an argument?"

She wanted to throw something at him and have it cause mild bodily harm. "I find it difficult to condone almost everything you do where I am concerned."

He pulled his shirt free and tossed it down to the bed. "Almost everything, lover?" One eyebrow slanted in silent mockery. "Should I take that to indicate there is some hope for me?"

"Don't be so damn facetious," she condemned fiercely, seething with helpless indignation as she glimpsed his amusement.

"We need to leave in about half an hour. Can this discussion wait?"

"Until when, Angelus?" she taunted, holding his gaze without any difficulty at all. "Next week, maybe? Next month?"

"Tomorrow."

It was a better concession than she had hoped for, and she viewed him steadily for several long seconds as her anger began to dissipate.

"Where is the dinner being held tonight?"

One eyebrow arched, and his mouth assumed a degree of cynicism. "The Bronze."

Some devilish imp prompted her to ask, "Will Drusilla be there?"

"I imagine so. She likes to attend most of the events."

"In order to see you." It was nothing less than the truth.

"Drusilla has many friends, most of whom are active on the social circuit," he drawled, and his faintly mocking tones brought a resurgence of anger.

"I can't think of why you didn't marry her." Buffy endeavored not to sound bitter. "She would have leapt at the chance!"

"Perhaps," Angelus conceded, watching the play of emotions across her expressive features. "I chose not to ask her." I don't love her was left unspoken.

"One can only wonder why." Her eyes deepened in color and became faintly reflective.

"She's beautiful, poised, and she comes from the right social background." It was amazing that her voice sounded so calm.

His eyes gleamed with sardonic humor. "Many women of my acquaintance fit that description."

"Several of whom are wealthy in their own right," she pursued, uncaring that she was treading dangerous ground. "Poor Angelus," She added lightly. "Were you afraid their prime motivation was an adventurous financial merger? Or, if their independent wealth was sufficient for that not to be a consideration, could there have been distaste that they were merely lusting after your body? Not to mention your-" she dithered deliberately, then finished with considered delicacy "-impressive skill in the bedroom."

"Only in the bedroom, *lover*?" the word lover was intentionally put in as he mocked cynically. "I retain a vivid recollection of several enjoyable…encounters, shall we say?" he suggested, slanting one eyebrow. "When we shared the shower, the spa." His eyes gleamed as soft pink colored her cheeks. "Shall I continue?"

"You've had plenty of practice, damn you!"

"You are jealous, gra, that any one of my former lovers might possibly have meant more to me than you do?"

Buffy felt her eyes widen in shock, thinking to herself, was she so transparent? Could he be aware of how much she hated the thought of his splendidly muscular body engaged in the act of lovemaking with another woman…? *Women*, she corrected.

"How could I be jealous," she countered, with as much pride as she could muster, "When you clearly defined the reason for our marriage, allocated a price tag and specified a time limit?"

"That bothered you?"

It bothered her like hell, but she was damned if she would admit to it. "About as much as the fact that you've chosen to retain Drusilla as your mistress."

"The term `mistress', conveys a woman kept by a husband while still co-habiting with his wife." His eyes were dark, and held latent anger. "You imagine I would insult you in such a manner?"

"I don't know. I'd appreciate it if you would at least keep the… *liaison* discreet."

There was a perceptible pause, one in which it seemed that even a pin falling to the floor would result in cacophonous sound. "Am I to understand that you give your sanction to such a relationship?"

*NO!* The silent negation screamed inside her head. It took tremendous effort to effect a slight shrug. "Would anything I say make a difference?"

He seemed to be garnering his anger, confining it beneath a shroud of superb power. "We have a dinner engagement," he reminded her frigidly. "I suggest you get changed."

The notion of sitting through a formal dinner, having to endure the company of some of the city's most abominable socialites, was more than she could bear.

"Forgive me, Angelus," she said with astringent pessimism, "but I can't bring myself to play pretend tonight." Her eyes sparkled with emerald luminosity. "I'm sure you can come up with some suitable excuse that will explain my absence." A devilish pixie prompted her to add, "Drusilla will be delighted."

He looked at her for what seemed an age, his expression a compelling camouflage from which she inwardly shrank. "You tempt me to the brink of violence," he said in a voice that was so dangerously quiet it raised all her fine body hairs in silent fear.

Without a further word he discarded his clothes and strode into the bathroom. He didn't slam the door, and she found that infinitely more unsettling than if he had resorted to an outward display of anger.

Ten minutes later he emerged, a towel hitched low over his hips, and she moved hastily to her feet as he began to dress.

"Ask Olivia to prepare you something to eat."

"It's her night off," Buffy managed in a stilted voice. "I wouldn't dream of disturbing her." She crossed to the door. "I'm quite capable of fixing something myself." She didn't wait for Angelus to answer, and on reaching the ground level she made her way to the kitchen.

The refrigerator was well stocked with most of the healthy foods Angelus had ordered Olivia to buy for her, so too was the pantry. It was just a matter of making a decision. An omelet would be adequate; with palatable cheese, juicy tomato, sizzling ham, tasty mushroom… not that she felt in the least bit hungry. If anything, the thought of food made her want to heave. But she recalled information on how important eating is when pregnant.

She moved a skillet, placing it on the stovetop, assembled the ingredients on the bench top, and then chopped, sliced and diced with methodical stoicism.

Angelus entered the kitchen as she turned the omelette on to a plate, and she willed her hands not to betray her as she turned down the gas.

His raking appraisal unsettled her more than any words he could have chosen to utter, and she turned away from him, as she carried her plate to the wide servers' bench, then returned to collect the utensils.

She sensed rather than heard him move, and seconds later, she felt his hands close on her shoulders as he turned her towards him. For one painfully long moment their eyes clashed. Then his dark head lowered in seemingly slow motion, and a strangled cry of dissent lay imprisoned in her throat as his mouth closed over hers in a hard, merciless kiss that tore at her defences and reached right down to the depths of her soul.

It became a ruthless invasion that bordered on violation. If he had wanted to punish her, he'd succeeded, she decided numbly. She felt raw; her whole body consumed by an emotional pain so intense that it was an almost tangible entity. Her eyes began to ache, then glistened with tears she refused to allow to fall.

His features were harsh, and with a muttered damnation, he turned and strode from the kitchen.

Minutes later she heard the muted sound of a car engine start up, then its refined purr diminished as it reached the end of the driveway.

She hugged her arms together over her chest, where her bleeding heart lay, and tried valiantly to maintain a measure of control.

How long she stood there she had no idea, for she had no sense of the passing of time, as she attempted to rationalize the foolishness of pitching her strength against a man whose physical and emotional prowess were infinitely superior to her own.

It was only the prosaic need for food that refocused her attention and, with determined resolve, she collected the utensils and systematically divided the cold omelette into bite-sized portions, forking them automatically into her mouth.

When she had finished, she cleaned the skillet, rinsed the plate and utensils, and placed them in the dishwasher.

The house seemed incredibly silent; the lounge was much too large for her to sit in alone. Feeling thoroughly unsettled, she wandered into the informal salon, collected a magazine, and sank into one of the deep cushioned seats.

The pages were not able to capture her interest, and she discarded the magazine, choosing instead, to use the remote to turn on the TV. Surely there would be something she could become involved in, she thought with despair, as she clicked one channel after another.

The shows on WB seemed made to quite increase her depression, but she was provided some light relief by the comedies on other channels. But her appreciation of the humor portrayed was only superficial, and when they were over she roamed between channels in search of a movie that might prove interesting.

There was not much of a selection, so she crossed to the cabinet and browsed through the collection of videos. Some of the black and white romantic movies she remembered she used to watch with her mom on their mother-daughter bonding sessions, finally discarding all, but one. It was a dark Gothic piece that had earned critical acclaim, but she found it too intense, and was quite pleased when the credits rolled at the end.

Buffy crossed back into the kitchen and filled a glass with ice from the freezer, then poured lemon juice; Olivia had squeezed in the morning, into the glass and slowly sipped the contents to satisfy the urge for something bitter.

What time would Angelus come home? 'If he came home', a tiny voice somewhere in her head taunted. Dammit, of course he would. He had never stayed out before, so why would he begin now? `Maybe, because you virtually gave him carte blanche to spend time with Drusilla', the same tiny voice reminded her with devilish glee. `Actually you practically pushed him into her.'

A glance at her watch revealed it to be almost eleven, and with sudden decisiveness she finished her juice, then made for the stairs. She would have a shower, then go to bed.

Twenty minutes later she slid beneath the cool linen sheets, snapped off the light, and closed her eyes. Sleep did not provide the release she craved, and half an hour later she gave a muttered groan and slid out of bed, choosing to curl up in a chaise close to the curtain draped window.

How did one reconcile the heaven of loving Angelus Delaney, and the resultant hell of knowing he could never love her? Buffy speculated, as she gazed sightlessly around the darkened room. Like a moth to a flame, she had been struck by the lighting of instantaneous attraction, aware of the swift invasive magnetism of opposing physical desires, and engulfed by its powerful charisma. By day she had fought him, hating him for being able to hold her captive to her own desire, hating herself for being so easily entrapped by the dictates of her own flesh… By night she lost the fight and revelled in the magic of his touch.

`Would it ever be any different between them? It had been,' she reflected sadly. For over a month she had believed him to be a compassionate, amorous husband, a man who had devoted all of his time to her and shown her incredible tenderness.

Had it been real? Or was it just merely an act? She would probably never know.

`Oh, hell,' she cursed, as her eyes filled and the tears she had tried so long to hold back finally trickled down both of her cheeks. She hardly ever cried. Except when her mother died. Dammit, her hormones must be waging some sort of personal war with her emotional heart. `To be this stricken with tears was crazy.'

`Futile,' she amended, timeless minutes later, when she appeared all cried out. The spent emotion made her sleepy, and she snuggled deeper into the chair and rested her head in the curve of one arm.

It was there that Angelus found her, and he stood for a long time looking down at the graceful arch of her slender neck illuminated by the bedside lamp. The softness of her hair as it clung to her neck, the slender curves beneath the simple white cotton nightgown, the faint evidence of tears.

The picture she made was a portrait of innocence, something she had lost to him on their wedding night.

Slowly he discarded his clothes, showing off his broad shoulders and his flat as a board stomach, then he crossed back to the chair and carefully lifted her into his arms.

Buffy stirred, aware in the depths of her subconscious that something was different. Whereas the cushioned chair was softly padded, now there was the warmth of hard muscular flesh beneath her head. She was also aware of a deep rhythmic heartbeat, and an arm curving her close against a long male body.

Fingers traced a light transient pattern over her hair, and she felt the brush of his lips against her temple. A soft sigh escaped from her lips, and almost in reflexive action, her arm crept out to encircle his waist.

His mouth was so beautifully chiselled, like one of those beautiful Greek god statues, and she knew exactly how it felt against her own. Even thinking about it brought alive the flicker of desire, igniting from her central core and licking treacherously along every nerve in her body.

Of its own accord, her head tilted slightly, the soft curvature of her mouth parting to accept a kiss that began with incredible gentleness. Teasing, provocative, and profoundly seductive.

There was no notion of denying him, or denying herself, and she revelled in each touch, the awe inspiring, bewitching ecstasy as he funnelled her towards fulfilment-seismic, earth cataclysmic, and submission to the corporeal delights of passion.

It was the one echelon on which they communicated. No discord, no sense of disappointment. Just beautiful intimacy. Sex, she corrected, all too aware of the difference.

Buffy was unaware of the soothing touch of the man who lay beside her, or that he curled her body closer into his, more than once, through the night.

Nor was she aware that he woke early and propped himself comfortably on his side to watch her sleep. She was comprised of delicate features and the softest, silkiest skin of any woman he'd had the pleasure to touch, he cogitated soothingly. The silky-glossy, tousled length of her hair, he had so many times threaded his fingers through, lent an abandoned appearance. Her lashes were long, curling upwards at the ends, veiling her emotions from the world. It aggrieved him more than he could stand, when tears escaped from those beautiful hazel eyes he so adored. Her mouth was luxuriant; the lips so tenderly curved in sleep, that he couldn't help, but to press his hard lips against them so many times. Slender hands, talented in many things, displaying the band of diamonds surrounding a heart shaped solitaire that claimed her as his.

She bore an air of delicacy that was illusory, for she possessed an internal potency, an innate integrity that decried deceit or treachery.

Did she have any contemplation of her beauty? Something that went far beyond the visual, to the profundity of her psyche. Something that none of his acquaintances possessed.

He would have liked to provoke her into wakefulness, to feather light kisses over every inch of her skin until she reached for him, then make time-consuming, sweet, leisurely love.

The generosity of her response never failed to move him. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. His hand slowly touched the slight swell of her belly. The thought of his child in there, moving, growing, gave him more pride than anything did in his life. It had become the most important thing in his life now. Except, no matter what, it was still second to…

Angelus felt her senses stir, and he knew if he remained in bed she wouldn't sleep much longer. His lips brushed her temple and, with a husky groan, he rolled over and slid to his feet, then he walked naked into the en suite and stood beneath the shower.

"Drop me anywhere along Tully Street, Giles," Buffy declared. "It's a beautiful day and I feel like walking." The car eased through the traffic lights and pulled into a parking lot. "What time and where shall I pick you up?"

"I'll get a taxi back," she said lightly, unwilling to put a curfew on the day. Who knew how long lunch with Willow was going to take? And besides, she might want to explore the shops for a while.

"Perhaps you could ring when you're ready?" Giles suggested on an anxious tone. "Angelus would insist." Angelus could insist all he liked! "I'll let you know," she conceded, feeling slightly guilty, for she had no intention of calling Giles. She proffered a warm smile, then opened the door and stepped onto the pavement, waiting only a few seconds after he pulled out into the traffic before making her way toward the next street.

Willow was waiting for her and they hugged each other as if it had been years, instead of weeks, since they had last seen each other.

"You look fantastic," Willow declared, as they entered the restaurant. The maitre d' took them to a table near the window and handed them a menu, then left them to make their selections. "How is your hand?"

They ordered mineral water, deliberated over what they would eat, ordered, and then attempted to continue where they had left off the previous afternoon.

Three hours later they shared the bill and wandered out into the fresh afternoon sunshine.

"The shops?" Willow hazarded with an irrepressible grin, laughing, as Buffy concurred with alacrity.

It was just after five when they finally parted, but not before they promised to phone each other, to arrange lunch together the following week.

From five to seven, taxis were in high demand, and the queue at the nearest rank was a lengthy one. Securing a taxi within half an hour looked to be impossible. 'Damn,' Buffy cursed, aware that she should have taken the peak hour into consideration. Maybe a rank in one of the neighboring streets would offer her a better opportunity. It didn't. If anything, it was even longer. There wasn't much choice, except to ring Giles.

She reached into her bag, then made a wry grimace on discovering that she had left the compact mobile phone at home. Locating a telephone booth took several minutes and she had to wait for two people in front of her to take their turn in making calls. Finally she got through, and the signal only sounded twice before the receiver was lifted from the hook. However, it wasn't Giles, or even Olivia, who answered, and her heart took on an agitated beat.

"Where are you?"

Angelus sounded so coldly furious that it was all she could do not to snap back at him. "Downtown city. All the taxi ranks have horrendous queues. Tell Giles I'll wait in Alvin Street at the Park Street end."

However, it was a midnight Mercedes Benz that pulled into the curb some thirty minutes later, not the car Giles drove her in.

One glance at Angelus' harsh features was enough to determine that a battle was about to commence. Angelus leaned across and opened the passenger door. "Get in." His voice sounded brusque, and Buffy slid in beside him and fastened her seatbelt.

It took the next change of lights before he could ease the Mercedes ahead of the traffic, and the sheer number of cars vacating the city hampered their progress.

"I planned on being home before now." It was a statement, not an apology.

"Obviously."

Anger rose to the surface, as she turned towards him. "Dammit, Angelus, I won't allow you to put me in a gilded cage!"

Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. "My position in the business arena is well reported in the press." A muscle tensed at the edge of his jaw. "In today's society there are a few fanatics who take pleasure in targeting those who lead a high profile existence. Consequently, I take extreme care to ensure any possible risks are kept to a minimum." He spared her a dark glance, then returned his attention to the traffic. "Hence the necessity for security measures. The reason I insist you always carry a cell phone, and each car has a car phone. A need for someone-myself, Olivia, Giles-to be aware of your whereabouts. For protection, not restriction."

She lifted a hand in angry agitation. "If I'd had my own car, this wouldn't have happened."

He didn't say anything. He had no need, Buffy decided darkly, as the car cleared the city confines and traversed Sunnydale Road. The traffic thinned slightly as they reached Crawford Street and, ten minutes later, the Mercedes Benz swung through the wide double gates at the entrance to the Crawford mansion. The garage doors lifted at a touch from Angelus' remote module, then the car slid into place between a café milk Lexus and a stunning red BMW.

"Yours," Angelus told her as she cast an admiring glance toward the BMW.

Her stomach executed a slow flip and she turned slowly towards him. "You bought it for me?"

His statement was unfathomable. "Giles will take you to test drive it tomorrow." He unclipped his belt and slid out from behind the wheel.

Buffy did likewise, pausing long enough to run tentative fingers over the red satin smooth paintwork. "It's beautiful," she said quietly and, taking a step toward him, she reached up and placed a fleeting kiss on the edge of his chin. "Thank you."

His mouth curved to form a wry smile, and his eyes assumed a darkness she found impossible to fathom. "Your hand," Angelus asked quietly. "How does it feel now that the bandages and the plaster have been removed?"

"A little strange. Stiff," she elaborated with a slight shrug. "Physiotherapy helps."

"Shall we go in indoors? Olivia will be waiting to serve dinner."

She needed to freshen up and use the bathroom. "Give me ten minutes."

With a quick splash of water to get rid of her makeup, Buffy took time to change into jade silk trousers and a matching top to bring out the color of her eyes, then ran a brush through her golden tresses. Her statement was vaguely pensive as she joined Angelus in the dining room, and she spooned her soup with little real appetite and merely picked at the tender beef with its accompanying veggies.

"Not hungry?"

Buffy looked at him carefully, examining the strong bone structure, the assemblage of muscle and skin that molded his features into such compelling attractiveness.

Before the accident she would not have had the least bit of apprehension about beginning an argument with him. Not only that, she would have delighted in doing battle, exulting when she succeeded in rousing his temper. It was madness, because she could never win against him. Now she seemed hell-bent on following a similar path. His brand of caring during their time together at San Diego beach, his tender affection, had wreaked havoc with her emotional heart. Worse, it had destroyed the very core of her resentment.

"No," she answered at last, pushing her plate to one side.

"Have some fruit."

Buffy looked at the selection Olivia had placed in the bowl, then shook her head. She reached for her glass of water, miscalculated, and water pooled across the table. "Oh, hell," she said shakily, as she collected a napkin and began mopping up the excess. For heaven's sake, what was wrong with her?

"Leave it."

She rose to her feet. "I'll get another napkin."

"Leave it, Buffy," Angelus commanded silkily.

Stupid tears pricked her eyes and she blinked furiously in an effort to prevent them from spilling over. Any second now she'd make a fool of herself, and that would never do. She moved from the table and had taken three steps when a hand closed over her arm.

"Let me go. Please," she begged in bleak despair, hating the degree of vulnerability evident, as he tilted her chin.

"When you tell me what is disturbing you."

She closed her eyes against the sight of him, then slowly opened them again. "I didn't deliberately stay in the city in order to cause you concern."

"I wasn't aware I implied that you had." He cupped her face between both hands and brushed a thumb-pad across one cheek to wipe the tears.

Dear heaven, why did she feel so acutely sensitive where he was concerned? A few days ago she wouldn't have thought it possible that she would find it imperative to offer him any explanation or proffer an apology. Now she was doing both. However, soul searching wouldn't achieve anything, for there was no easy resolution.

"Thank you, for the car," she managed unevenly, and glimpsed his faint smile as he watched the fleeting emotions chase across her expressive features.

"What good manners you have, gra," he drawled. "I shall look forward to a more-passionate, shall we say? -statement of your gratitude."

It took considerable effort to keep the pain from her voice. "Payment in sexual favors?" she queried, and saw his eyes darken.

"You little fool," Angelus responded with deadly softness as his mouth fastened over hers in a kiss that was meant to punish.

A silent cry of impassioned entreaty remained locked in her throat, and it seemed an age before he lifted his head.

His eyes ran through hers, and she became spellbound beneath the degree of embryonic sensuality manifest, a primordial recognition that had much more to do with the senses.

Her mouth quivered, its soft curves faintly swollen from the ruthless force of his own, and she cried out a single negation, as he swept her, effortlessly, into his arms.

In the bedroom he let her slide down to her feet, and she wanted to emit her rage against his premeditated seduction, as he tenderly cupped her face.

Eyes, that were impossibly slumberous, held her own incarcerated, and helpless frustration welled up inside her as she became caught up in mesmerized fascination.

Did he know how complicated it was for her to accept the treacherous desire she experienced in his arms? The breath seemed to catch in her throat, and her eyes clung to his, brilliant with anger, yet deeply susceptible.

A hand slid beneath her golden locks, urging her close, as his lips trailed across her forehead, then moved slowly down one cheek to settle at the corner of her mouth, teasing, gentle, and incredibly erotic, as he conducted a sensual tasting that made her ache for more. Beneath his sensual mastery a deep flame flared into vibrant life and she offered herself up totally to the enchantments of unbridled ardency.

Buffy made no objection when he set about freeing her clothes and his own, and her body arched of its own accord, as his mouth began a supplicating path over every inch of her body. She was scarcely aware of the tiny sounds emerging from her throat as she began to beseech him, wanting, needing, his total possession.

When, at last, he gave in, she cried out, welcoming his mouth on hers with hungry passion, as acute sensations spiraled towards a mutual climax that explored the heights of primitive satiation. Sexual rapture at its acme, she acknowledged hazily, a long time later, as she drifted towards sleep.

Buffy reveled in her independence by opting to take the BMW out each day.

In one instance, she visited the ward where she had been employed at the hospital, after which, she drove by the old house she used to reside in with her mother.

It looked different, she reflected with a dash of grief. The miniature front garden she used to love, no longer existed, the curtains had been changed, and the door was now painted white.

Was it just six months since her world had been turned upside down? In some ways, she felt it was longer than that.

It was impossible not to ponder what her future might hold. She wanted… What did she want? Angelus' love? Was it such an impossible dream?

The blast of a car horn interrupted her thoughts and she set the BMW to moving away from the street that no longer held a place in her life.

Lunch, she decided, feeling suddenly hungry, after which, she would head towards the wealthy part of Los Angeles, to browse among the many boutiques. She might even visit a beauty salon and indulge in a facial. Then she could look for a suitable gown to wear to an important end-of-year function to be held the following evening in an inner city hotel.

After an extensive rummage around she discovered exactly what she wanted, added matching evening shoes and a bag, and tried not to blanch as she signed the credit slip.

Angelus' appreciation of her selection was plainly evident as she bore his appraisal mere minutes before they were due to leave the house the next evening.

"I won't be able to let you out of my sight," he drawled, and she proffered a teasing smile.

"Likewise."

"Indeed?"

His eyes apprehended latent passion, and something she dared not define. A tiny flame flared deep within and flowed through her body. "Shall we leave?"

"So many beautiful women," Buffy murmured, as they entered the hotel ballroom some twenty minutes later. "Wearing a fortune in clothes and jewellery, in a personal quest to outshine one another."

Angelus cast her an amused glance, as one of several hostesses hurried forward to check their invitation and indicate their table position.

"Careful, my love," he drawled meditatively. "Your claws are showing."

She offered him a winsome smile. "It's one thing to show them and quite another to use them." 'Unlike Drusilla, who doesn't hesitate to do both,' she added silently, as she paused at Angelus' side while he exchanged pleasantries with an acquaintance.

The ballroom had the capacity to seat almost a thousand patrons, with ten guests assigned to each circular table. An impressive annual event, it was a draw for the city's social elite who came primarily to be seen. The promoted charity, the reason for such a gathering, was incidental.

Perhaps that was being a little unkind, Buffy decided, as she took her seat a short while later. Committee members, affiliated to any charity organization, worked tirelessly to put something like this evening's soirée together and deserved an accolade for their efforts.

Two seats at their table remained empty and Buffy's fingers constricted on the stem of her glass as she overheard who was due to join them.

"Drusilla is always late, darling. She likes to make a grand entrance."

Drusilla's presence tonight was a foregone conclusion, but only someone with a twisted sense of humor would have placed the glamorous model at the same table with Angelus and Buffy Delaney. It was too contrived to be coincidence. 'Plus, I don't believe in coincidence,' Buffy reflected. She could only conclude that Drusilla, herself, had engineered the seating arrangements.

The lights dimmed, as a spotlight hit the podium, and the president of the charity extolled the amount raised and its purpose. Tonight's guest speaker was a well-known dignitary, who would begin his speech at the dinner's conclusion, after which music would be provided for guests to dance.

The spotlight faded, the light returned, and there was Drusilla looking absolutely stunning in ruby silk, that clung lovingly to every one of her curves. The man at her side wasn't someone Buffy had previously met and she pinned a smile firmly in place as Drusilla performed an introduction.

Was it her imagination that their table was the cynosure of all eyes? Perhaps not, she conceded, although there could be no doubt Drusilla's presence would be viewed with interest.

"Buffy. How are you? Quite recovered from your accident, I hope?" The slightly bored tone was offset by a seemingly sincere smile, which did not reach her dark eyes, as Buffy made a polite rejoinder. "Angelus missed you dreadfully at last week's dinner." The smile deepened and became deliberately secretive as she switched attention. "Didn't you, Angel? Quite the devoted husband. If he hadn't been a featured guest speaker, I doubt he would have come."

Buffy was saved from having to retort, by the arrival of a waiter bearing a basket of bread rolls, and when the first course was served, she dutifully spooned the delectable potato and leek soup until it was finished.

Faced with a choice of chicken or steam salmon, she opted for the former, and forked each mouthful with studied care. Every so often she paused to sip iced water from her glass, acutely conscious of Drusilla's presence directly opposite. Model beautiful - there was no visible flaw in any of her perfect features. Nature had bestowed with a bountiful hand, while good fortune had ensured that she'd been born in wealth. A modelling opportunity had landed in her lap at a tender age and the rest, as they say, was history.

Buffy had viewed her with extreme caution the moment they had first met, and nothing had occurred in the interim to change her mind. The model was an ensnarement to men, making it very clear that Angelus Delaney was her prime target. His marriage was dismissed as of little account, merely a mild irritation soon to be dispensed with.

"Some wine, my dear?" Buffy turned towards the man seated on her left and shook her head. "It's kind of you to offer, but no, thank you."

"You're getting by with water, dear?" Drusilla queried, effecting a faint moue. "Are you driving?"

Angelus shifted slightly in his chair and caught hold of Buffy's hand, lifting it to his lips. His eyes gleamed with warmth as he gently kissed each fingertip in turn, before enfolding her hand in his.

She wanted to wrench her hand free, but even as the thought occurred, his own hand tightened measurably in silent warning, and she had no recourse, but to smile. Damn him, he was little more than an elegant savage behind that sophisticated façade. Ruthless, she added, suppressing a slight shiver as she caught Drusilla's fixed stare.

"You're not pregnant, are you, dear?"

Only Drusilla would ask such a question, and Buffy held her breath as Angelus met the model's seemly gaze.

"Yes, to my delight." There was no doubt about the element of steel beneath the silk-smoothness of his voice.

The arrival of dessert was an anticlimax and Buffy picked segments of fruit from their meringue nest, then pushed the plate to one side, choosing tea, as the guest speaker took the podium.

Afterwards a DJ provided background music; Drusilla and her partner were among the first to dance, moving through the steps with effortless ease. She looked so-sophisticated, and so very sure of herself. Her features were faintly sultry, and Buffy had no doubt that the model knew precisely the effect she was having on her partner.

The question was whether it was having the desired effect on Angelus.

Buffy cast him a surreptitious glance and was disconcerted to meet his hooded gaze. She offered a tentative smile, afraid he might have deduced the pattern of her thoughts, and she blinked as he reached out and threaded his fingers through her own.

"Would you like to dance?"

Part of her wanted to, quite desperately, for she badly needed the sanctuary of his embrace. The other part recognized the danger of having her body pressed against the hard powerful impact of his own.

With a word of acquiesce, she levitated to her feet, moved out on the floor and into his arms.

As they walked towards the dance floor, Lorne, one of the invited singers, began to perform his new hit single; "I Love You". It was a slow and romantic song. Buffy matched her steps to Angelus' in perfect unison. Magic, Buffy mused, as she laid her head against his broad shoulder. Was it possible for one human being to be addicted to another? Held in a thrall, as if the essence of him were some powerful narcotic.

Buffy was so lost in thought, she didn't notice Angelus lean his head on her. Didn't notice that he kissed her hair lightly once in a while, like he always did when she was asleep. Didn't notice that he breathed her in, like a man desperate for air, as his mind reflected on the song that was being sung, while he held her in his arms.

//Oh, from the moment I laid my eyes on you,

I knew that my life would never be the same.

You walked in my life, like a ballerina dance in front of the spectators.

I try to believe that you are just like any other girl, but…

With every minute I spend with you,

Getting to know you, I cannot help, but let my heart open and let the fact into my mind.

Oh baby, don't you know that I love you?

I never said the three little words,

But all my actions -

My pain,

My pleasure,

My anger,

My smile,

Prove to you how much I love you. //

'He diminishes every other man in the room, possessing an intrinsic ruthlessness, sharpened by experience and enhanced by the extent of his success.' Buffy reflected. 'It held an enthrallment that men acknowledged and women analysed with the speculative interest of their sex.'

//I can't imagine my life without you, my love.

Oh, a thousand daggers slice me to my bone at the thought of you hurt.

Oh, a sharp wooden stake pierces into my heart at the thought you don't love me.

I know I never said the three little words,

But all my actions -

My pain,

My pleasure,

My anger,

My smile,

Prove to you how much I love you. //

'To some it was an indistinguishable lure, galvanized by the exhilaration of discovering if the man, freed from corporate restraint, was as skilled at lovemaking as he was at adding millions to his investment portfolio.' The music flowed effectively, as Buffy stayed spellbound in her mind. 'An immensely sophisticated man, yet there was the hint of an untamed quality, a primitive savagery held rigidly in control.'

//Oh please, baby,

Forgive me.

I had never felt this way before…

I never had a lover,

A friend,

And a love,

All I rolled in one.

I know I said many hurtful things,

I know I did many cruel things,

To you, but baby,

I love you.

I know I never said the three little words,

But all my actions -

My pain,

My pleasure,

My anger,

My smile,

Prove to you how much I love you.//

A faint shiver featured down her spine with the knowledge that he would be devastatingly heartless as an enemy.

//I can't imagine my life without you,

Without hearing your laughter,

Without seeing you smile,

Without holding you.

I'd do anything to have you in my life, in my arms,

I'd move heaven and earth for you, baby,

All in all, just hoping you would love me in return.

Don't you know I love you?

I know I never said the three little words,

But all my actions -

My pain,

My pleasure,

My anger,

My smile,

Prove to you how much I love you. //

"Cold?"

His voice was a soft caress against her hair, and she mumbled a faint negative. "Someone just walked over my grave," she offered, with a quaint attempt at humor.

"Drusilla?"

She missed a step, and gave an inaudible gasp as he enfolded her close against him. It was a far from conventional hold, and she skewed her head to meet the dark inscrutability apparent in his gaze. "You're too astute for your own good," she offered in a strangled voice.

"Is that a disadvantage?"

//If it makes you happy, if it is the only way for you to believe me,

Then I, without a thought, would put all my doubts, all my hurts

Behind me, just let me prove you how much I love you.

I know I never said the three little words,

But all my actions -

My pain,

My pleasure,

My anger,

My smile,

Prove to you how much I love you,

But if that's what you want to hear… T

hen I will gladly say it;

"I love you!" //

She chose not to answer and when the music changed, she moved back apace, out of the circle of his arms and suggested they return to their table.

"I need to use the powder room," she murmured, aware of the effect of several glasses of water. She caught up her evening bag with the intention of doing a few running repairs to her makeup while there.

"Do you want me to escort you?"

She directed him a slow smile of amusement. "I'm not a child, Angelus. What can happen to me?"

'What, indeed?' She could only query silently several minutes later, when she emerged from a stall to find Drusilla examining her makeup in front of one of the long mirrored walls.

"Playing to win, dearie?" Drusilla queried softly.

"Every time, Drusilla," she managed evenly, as she took out her lipstick and ran it smoothly over her lips.

"You're very… petite," Drusilla opined, with a total lack of graciousness. "A petite size… eight, maybe?"

There had to be a purpose to this conversation, and determining her dress size was totally irrelevant, Buffy reflected, as she recapped the lipstick and turned to face her aggressor.

"Angelus is so…" Drusilla trailed off delicately.

"Well endowed?" Buffy suggested, deliberately manufacturing a stunningly amused smile. "A distinct advantage, wouldn't you agree?"

Dark black eyes glittered with dangerous venom as the model released a tinkle of soft laughter. "He's a lusty animal, dearie." Her gaze focused on Buffy's trim waist. "Pregnancy is hardly flattering, especially in the latter stage. I cannot imagine he'll practice celibacy, no matter how temporary."

"And you will be there for him to turn to?"

"Of course dearie." She paused, then whetted her verbal gibe for maximum impact. "As I have been and always will be."

Buffy felt sickened and it took a significant endeavour to summon a light smile. "I really must go back to the table." She turned away, only to give an anguished gasp as Drusilla's grip caught hold of her injured hand.

"Don't underestimate me."

" I never have," Buffy assured steadfastly. "Will you please let go of my hand? It's still quite painful."

Drusilla's grip momentarily tightened, and her eyes intermittently lit with a malevolence that changed her features into a hard mask. For a few shocking seconds Buffy thought she wouldn't be able to muddle through with the pain, then Drusilla chucked her hand aside with a pitiless laugh.

"I'd hate to hurt you unnecessarily." Collecting her evening bag, she swept out of the powder room.

For several minutes Buffy was locked into immobility as she tried to control her shaken emotions. Her hand throbbed, aching with an intensity that clouded her eyes and took the color from her face.

"Are you alright?"

The slight feminine voice held concern and Buffy dredged up a faint smile when she saw who the voice came from. Anya Harris, married to Alexander Harris, whom she had met, more than once, during some of the parties at the beginning of her marriage. She was … interesting. "You're very pale. Perhaps you should sit down for a few minutes? Shall I fetch your husband?"

"No, No," she reiterated quickly. "I'll be all right in a few minutes."

"My table is next to yours. We'll walk back together, shall we?"

"I heard Angelus just bought you a new BMW."

'Boy, news travels fast,' Buffy thought. "Yes."

"I think you might need to sharpen your claws more," the voice held suggestion.

Buffy reluctantly turned towards Anya Harris. "Really? And use them on whom? Angelus?"

"Drusilla, Buffy. There are other methods a wife can use to tame her husband."

It was meaningless repartee, spoken with jesting cynicism for the benefit of mutual amusement.

"Such as?" Buffy ventured, and Anya gave a soft laugh.

"Expensive jewellery."

"Do enlighten me," Angelus drawled as he threaded his fingers through those of his wife as she drew near their table. She stood perfectly still for a few seconds, then she allowed her gaze to meet his. "Pink and white diamonds," she fabricated. "A drop necklace and matching earrings." A bewitching smile tilted the edge of her lips, forgetting all the pain from her hand. " And maybe a matching bracelet. They are quite beautiful."

"Is this a wifely hint?" His mouth slanted into a humorous curve, at variance with the watchfulness still evident as he raked her features, noting her over bright smile and tense stance.

Buffy said goodbye to Anya and sat down on the chair Angelus had pulled out for her. She was extremely conscious of Angelus' intent gaze as she resumed her seat. To her relief, there was no sign of Drusilla or her partner.

"Would you like more tea?"

She doubted if she would be able to drink it. "I've enough, thanks." 'In more ways than one,' she added silently.

"Do you want to go home?" His voice was quiet and there was no escaping his penetrating appraisal.

"Not yet," she managed, with commendable calm. To leave now would amount to an admission of defeat and she would be damned if she would give Drusilla the satisfaction.

Most of the guests were drifting from one table to another and Buffy gave an inward sign of relief when another couple joined them. The man, Doyle, a business associate of Angelus', launched into an in depth discussion with him, while his date, she recognized as Angelus' secretary, Cordelia Chase. They engaged in innocuous conversation.

It was almost half an hour before they left, and Buffy cast Angelus a startled glance as he leaned an arm across the back of her chair.

"It's almost eleven. We've done our duty. Shall we leave?"

Without a further word he made their excuses, then began leading the way from the ballroom. Several acquaintances sought his attention and, although he paused momentarily to offer a few words in polite response, he didn't linger.

It was a relief to reach the car, and once inside, Buffy simply leaned back against the leather cushioned seat as Angelus eased the car up to street level and into the steady stream of traffic vacating the city.

Her hand still throbbed, although with less intensity, and the pain had subsided to a deep nagging ache. Bearable, she conceded, but only just. Music emitted from the stereo speakers and she closed her eyes as the car sped smoothly toward the mansion.

Once indoors, she made straight for the stairs, discarding her clothes as she entered the bedroom. When Angelus appeared only a bra and briefs shielded her from total nudity.

"Want to tell me what upset you?"

Her eyes held a hint of defiance. "Not really."

"Drusilla followed you into the power room and emerged minutes ahead of you."

"How observant of you to notice."

He crossed to stand within touching distance. "I notice everything about you," he drawled, sliding a hand beneath her hair to cup her nape. "The way you respond when we make love. What makes you smile. How your eyes cloud with pain," he said quietly.

"Drusilla and I exchanged a few words." She attempted a shrug and met his gaze unflinchingly. "Is there any reason why we shouldn't?"

His eyes darkened fractionally. "None at all," His hand slid forward and his thumb caressed the soft outline of her mouth.

His touch was an erotic force, and she fought an inner battle not to succumb to his subtle brand of foreplay, as he reached to unclasp her bra, freeing her breasts from the scrap of silk and lace.

The burgeoning peaks ached for his touch, and a faint moan escaped her throat, as he stroked the creamy fullness before paying attention to each dusky peak. His hands slid down to her ribcage, over her waist to slip beneath her briefs, carrying them down over her hips with effortless ease, before transferring his attention as he removed his own clothes.

Then he reached for her, both hands framing her face as he lowered his head.

His mouth was an erotic instrument, and she welcomed his kiss without reserve, revelling in the liquid warmth coursing through her veins. Her whole body seemed alive with acute sensation and she moved close against him, needing the physical contact. Most of all she wanted to be swept away by primitive desire, to become so lost in the rapture of his lovemaking that Drusilla and her hateful words would be pushed beyond the periphery of rational thought.

It was almost as if he knew, and a low groan of delighted anticipation emerged from her lips, as he drew her down onto the bed and began conducting a leisurely tasting of every sensual pleasure spot.

She exulted in the degree of amativeness he skilfully bestowed the depth of emotion she experienced beneath his touch, so that when he finally took her, it was all she could do not to cry out with joy.

Afterwards she lay curled into the curve of his body, delightfully sated and on the verge of sleep.

Buffy woke later to find that Angelus had already left for the city, and she indulged in a leisurely stretch before sliding from the bed. So far she had been very fortunate for, although she occasionally experienced a slight queasiness on waking, it had not developed into morning sickness.

After a refreshing shower she dressed in shorts and a top, then ran lightly downstairs to the kitchen.

"Morning, Olivia," she greeted. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"

"Yes," the other woman answered with a smile. "I will get your breakfast."

"I'll do it." Cereal, fruit and toast, with a glass of orange juice, were simple enough to assemble. Besides, she'd looked after herself for years and valued a degree of independence.

Buffy enjoyed an unhurried breakfast, browsing through the morning papers, then when she had finished, she moved outside for a walk around the gardens.

The flowers were simply beautiful, grown in color coordinated borders that were a visual delight: delicate pinks, glowing white, brilliant red and dazzling yellow, among carefully clipped shrubs. There were a number of urns gracing the steps leading down from the terrace and a splendid concrete tiered birdbath was the central feature on the square expanse of a perfectly manicured lawn.

Beyond that laid the swimming pool with a contiguous cabana that housed a bar and changing rooms.

It was a magnificent property, the architecture and landscaping in perfect harmony. It's location and beautiful views, out over the Sunnydale harbor alone, indicated a value she was hesitant to calculate

. Was it any wonder that Drusilla coveted the man who owned it? His position in the city's social scene was unquestionable, and there were few women who were not fascinated by a rich and powerful man. Some even sold themselves in a quest for fame and fortune.

As she had. Although not for fame or fortune. Her mother… Dammit, such introspection was dangerous. It led nowhere, and achieved nothing, except to highlight her own insecurities.

Love was a mixture of heaven and hell. Especially when you were not loved in return. The physicality of lovemaking was there, but not the emotional commitment.

Would it ever be any different? Could it be? Sadly, she didn't think so.

Buffy wandered down to the swimming pool and sat in one of the chairs positioned beneath a wide sun umbrella. The sun felt warm against her bare skin, and she leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

"Buffy? It is ten fifteen." Olivia called, to remind her of her therapy appointment.

She came sharply awake at the sound of Olivia's voice, amazed that she could have lapsed into a light doze.

Her hand had swollen slightly and was beginning to show signs of bruising. There was also a degree of pain when the physiotherapist supervised her exercises, a fact which he noted, adding an admonition to be more careful. There didn't seem much point in assuring him that it was not self-inflicted.

She returned around noon and ate the chicken salad Olivia had prepared for lunch, then she changed into a pair of shorts with a thin T-shirt, selected a book, and wandered out to sit beneath a shaded umbrella by the pool.

It was almost six when Angelus arrived home, and Buffy cast him a warm smile as he entered the lounge.

"How was your day?" she asked lightly, and was unprepared for his brief hard kiss.

"A series of meetings, appointments." His tone was dry, his eyes dark and inscrutable. "I'll change. Then we'll have dinner."

"I'll go and check with Olivia."

The table was already set and there was a delicious aroma emanating from the kitchen.

"Vegetable soup," Olivia informed her, as she stirred the contents of a saucepan. "Paella, with fresh fruit to finish."

"Sounds wonderful. Can I help you with anything?"

"It is all under control," the older woman beamed companionably. "I will serve in fifteen minutes."

Buffy wandered towards the lounge and was busy watching the news on TV when Angelus entered the room.

He looked vaguely devilish in casual dark trousers and a polo shirt, which highlighted the tint of his skin and emphasized his length and breadth. "A cool drink?"

She glanced towards him and her breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed the hard demeanour just beneath the surface of his control. "Please," she managed evenly, returning her attention to the television.

He turned as he reached her side and, instead of handing her a glass, he placed both down on a nearby table.

"Let me see your hand."

He knew. 'How?' The physiotherapist? There was no one else who could have told him, she reasoned silently.

"It's a bit stiff," she admitted with a helpless shrug, unwilling to extend it for his inspection.

"Some bruising, pain and reduced mobility," Angelus stated with dangerous softness, "consistent with the hand being compressed." He reached forward and carefully caught hold of her arm. His intense examination filled her with a peculiar sense of dread, and she almost died at the savagery apparent as he seared her features. "Drusilla?"

She swallowed nervously. "What if I accidentally knocked my hand?"

His expression became inscrutable and his voice contained dangerous indolence. "Did you?"

Evasion of the truth was hardly wise, for there was already visible evidence of bruising. "No."

He said something vicious beneath his breath in Gaelic, then lifted a hand to cup her jaw. His finger traced a gentle pattern over her lower lip, probing slightly, before moving to caress her cheek. His eyes became dark, their depths unfathomable as he searched her features.

"My relationship with Drusilla was…" He paused fractionally, then said deliberately, "Mutually convenient."

'Mutual need', Buffy qualified, sickened at the picture that conjured up.

"Marriage was not something I had considered, until you stormed into my office in a state of fury and began hurling accusations and making allegations." His smile held wry cynicism. "Over dinner that same evening I decided I wanted your loyalty, your fierce pride, your honesty."

He had deliberately tested her, and it rankled unbearably.

He brushed her mouth lightly with his own. "Eventually-your love," he added quietly.

He had placed the chess pieces on a board and played the game with infinite patience and skill. She hurt too much to let him know that he had won.

"Along with good health, love is something that money can't buy," Buffy declared carefully, and glimpsed a flicker of pain in the nadir of his eyes, so fleeting that she wondered if she had imagined it.

"The time between being informed of your accident and discovering the extent of your injuries were the worst moments I have ever spent," he assured her ruminatively, as he took possession of her mouth in a kiss so incredibly gentle, that she simply closed her eyes and gave herself up to the corporeal eroticism of his touch.

It seemed an eternity before he broke contact and gradually lifted his head.

It required enormous willpower to step away from him, and her voice was not quite sturdy, as she offered, "Olivia will be ready to serve dinner."

"Then let us go in and eat."

Angelus had flied out to New York for a business meeting two day ago. And Buffy had to admit, she miss him as she perusing a book about pregnancy. The large empty bed with no male warmth to sink into, no clever hands to tease and tantalize as emotions caught fire and burned. No one there to reassure her that he wants her as much as she wants him. Her thought was interrupted when the phone rings. Knowing that Giles was outside tending the garden and Olivia is in the kitchen. She hurried toward to answer it.

"I've been presented a pair of tickets to a movie premiere tonight," Angelus began without preamble. He named the title and the venue. "I'll be home tonight at six."

She had been waiting for that movie to come out ever since she saw the commercial. "Thank you," Buffy declared, and his husky laughter was almost her undoing.

"Take her gras'. Try to relax as much as you can."

Don't worry, Buffy thought as she picked up her book again and rub with her hand on her tummy to appease the diminutive life within her.

It was about three hours later and she was in the shower that Angelus entered their bedroom.

She shampooed her hair, rinsed off the suds, and then she caught up the soap and began smoothing it over her body.

"Why don't you let me do that?"

Buffy felt the soap slip from her fingers at the sound of that familiar drawl, and her eyes widened as Angelus step in beside her.

"You're home early," she managed unsteadily, and bit back a gasp as he cupped her face, then fastened his mouth over her own in a kiss that was all heat and possession as he took her deeper with passion and desire.

His hand slid over her shoulders, then down her back as he caught her close, and she leaned in against him, exulting in the strength of his arousal. A hand shaped her buttocks, then curved inwards as his fingers slid skillfully to probe the moist silken part of her that responded so well to his touch.

He felt the tremor rake her slender body as he brought her to climax, and absorbed her husky groan as he send her up and over again.

She ran her hands over his shoulders, caressed the toned muscled, then slid to his hips and held him as she tore her mouth free and sought one male nipple with her mouth.

It wasn't fair that he should be in total control, except he didn't relinquish it for long. In one fluid movement he lifted her up against him and plunged her deep inside, stilled briefly, then withdrew only to plunge again and again, increasing the strokes as her rhythm matched his and she held on as he took her for a shattering ride.

"Well, now," Angelus murmured as his lips teased hers. "That was some welcome home."

He hadn't broken the intimate connection, and she shifted a little, raked his fingers through his hair, then held his head as she angled her mouth and took possession with a smooth slide of her tongue against his own.

"Greedy," he accorded when he was able to speak, and she felt him harden deep inside.

This time it was she who set the pace, and it was achingly slow, with soft slide of hands, the touch of lips, and the gentle rocking movement of two bodies in perfect tune.

"I think I should go away more often," Angelus drawled musingly.

It was a while before they indulged each other with a slow sensual lathering, then rinsed; they emerged to towel dry and slip into robes.

"Are you hungry?"

Angelus cast her a musing glance. "I presume you're referring to food?" And delighted in the soft pink that colored her cheeks.

"Of course." She struggled to regain her composure. "Olivia is preparing dinner before I took a shower."

They ate slowly and it was almost seven o'clock when they finally start to clean up.

The film premiere was an invitation-only. It meant dressing up, and Buffy chose an ensemble pallid-white gown that reaches an inch over her knees. The top of the gown was overlay with embroider of beautiful flowers patterned design. It was strapless so she adds a matching color wrap around her neck should complete the outfit. She selected a beautiful diamond necklace Angelus bought her a month after their marriage to go with the dress and choosing to French twist her hair into a fashionable knot.

Members of the social élite were in attending as well as the stars of the movie. She stood at Angelus' side as they greet the producers. Buffy didn't even comprehend what they are talking about because she keeps looking around to see if Drusilla was around.

Her eyes finally catch the look from Drusilla's. They were dark, yet burning ferociously; filling with repugnance.

"Buffy," the voice called.

Angelus' arm tighten around her shoulder as she finally break her eyes-communication with Drusilla'. Finally notice that they were looking at her. She quickly apologized and justified herself. "I am sorry Wesley. I was just looking around if the film started yet."

Wesley laughed. "Of course. With that excuse." They begin to walk toward the auditorium doors. "I asked how are you feeling?"

"Oh, I am fine."

"May I know if it is a boy or a girl." He asked curiously.

Buffy looked at Angelus and only to see him smile at her lovingly. Her heart almost melts at the articulation. 'Don't be a fool," the voice that had constantly warned her when she lost her memory suddenly articulated its opinion again. 'It's an act.'

"We decided not to know its sex." It was Angelus who answer Wesley's question. "We want it to be a surprise."

"Ahh," Wesley responded quite speechless at the look from Angelus to his wife. He is one of the many who was suspicious of Angelus' marriage to Buffy. He had thought it was a marriage of convenience. But now he is not so sure. "Well do please enjoy your evening. It seem that I am needed elsewhere. It is good to see you again, Buffy."

They mingled awhile before making their way to their reserved seating in the dimmed theater. Almost immediately the curtain rose and the acts begins.

Buffy focus with a determined effort on the movies and forgets everything around her, including Drusilla and her inimitable husband whose hand is firmly clasp on her. She attempted to extricate her hand, but finally give up when it its fail. What is he trying to do? Reassurance over Drusilla?

She succeeds, almost, just almost. Rising off her seat with the audience to applaud the cast, producer and the playwright.

The exodus of patron took a while and it pass eleven when Angelus parked the mobile in the garage. The night activities and her current state had drained most of her energy and had fallen asleep in the car on the way home. She didn't notice that her husband had pulled her so that her head can rest on his shoulder and his right arm had curl around her waist while the other on the wheel.

Angelus opens the door of the passenger seat and unclasps the seatbelt and carried her out and toward their bedroom.

He strips off her clothes first and settle her on the bed before remove his own clothes. She groans when he strips her and he quietly murmured, "Sleep, love." The sounds of his voice some how soothing as she again falls in slumber again.

He slid in bed and cradled her close to him protectively.

Buffy felt a solid yet tepid form next to her and unconsciously placed her head on the warm solid board. The pacifying beating thud under it relaxes her as she drapes her legs over the elongated board. Her head fit just beneath his chin, her head and chest on his chest and her thighs and calves intertwined with his. Unconsciously notice something hard obtrude at her thigh and an accelerating beats and a stifle of soft groan from the man underneath her as he indolently kiss the top of her blond head.

'I need to settle with Drusilla,' he thought as he reminisces the glare from Drusilla to Buffy. More than once, he had blamed himself for creating the problem he is in now. Fool! 'As soon as possible.'

But all she can hear as she promenades into the arms of an amorphous deity of siesta with an angel beside her is the steady reverberation of the beating heart.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was a week later that Buffy entered one of the elegant Sunnydale salons and checked with reception.

"Oz will be five minutes, Buffy," the good looking Fred told her with a bright smile. "He's running a little late. Perhaps you'd care to take a seat? Would you like some tea, coffee maybe? Orange juice? Mineral water?"

Buffy shook her head in silent negation, adding a polite, "Thanks," before sitting down in one of the chairs.

A year ago-make that half a year ago, she corrected mentally-she wouldn't have been able to afford to walk into this exclusive hairdressing salon. To have had Oz, himself, apply his artistic cutting expertise to her hair would have been unthinkable.

The name Delaney opened doors, commanded respect, and produced a desire to pander to any whim with such obsequious effusiveness that it was almost obscene.

Buffy reached for one of several thick, glossy magazines and began flipping through the pages. She noted the elegant models, the beautiful clothes, designer makeup, articles written in stylish prose, a feature profile on one of America's social doyennes, another profile on a top designer and the usual society pages with a run down on recent events with accompanying photographs.

She skimmed over them without any interest, only to be riveted by a frame depicting Angelus with Drusilla at his side.

Her stomach gave a painful lurch and she took a deep breath as she willed herself to check the magazine's date of issue. The event highlighted was a dinner organized specifically to raise money for a well-known charity.

'Oh, hell!' Why did she have to pick that particular magazine? Besides, she silently attempted to reassure herself, the photograph was probably the result of coincidence, taken when Drusilla just happened to be standing at his side.

'And pigs might fly', she added mentally. There was nothing innocent in any one of Drusilla's actions. The way Drusilla was gazing at him in open adoration was positively sickening.

"Buffy, how are you? Sorry to keep you waiting."

She closed the magazine and rose to her feet with a ready smile. "Oz."

Most of the time an introvert, he delighted in portraying an exaggerated mannerism, creating an erroneous image that was in direct contrast to his true personality. They had become good friends ever since she brought Willow with her once. Oz was fascinated by Willow and had tried to learn as much as he could about her from Buffy, before asking Willow on a date with him.

"Your hand? It is still giving you pain?" He drew her towards the far end of the salon and seated her at a basin.

"It aches a little."

Oz's personal attention was rare and Buffy, by virtue of being Angelus' wife, appeared to be one of the favored few.

She wrinkled her nose as he sluiced water over her hair and applied shampoo, rinsed and repeated the process with conditioner, then towelled it dry before leading her to a mirrored cubicle.

"You are able to drive again?"

"The specialist says I can. Angelus would prefer that Giles continue in the role of chauffeur. Although he has compromised and bought me another car."

"He is being protective, hmm?"

"You could say that," she agreed with suitable dryness.

Oz picked up his scissors and comb, and went to work. "Don't knock it, Buffy," he cautioned wryly. "Men are not usually protective unless they care."

Angelus' brand of caring was linked to their unborn child. She was merely a secondary consideration. Or was she? From the beginning his lovemaking had generated a desire for her pleasure, as much as his own, and there had never been an occasion when she had felt-used.

When had she fallen in love with him? Sadly, Buffy couldn't pinpoint a single moment when the revelation had hit. She was aware only of its stealthy possession and the agonizing knowledge that her life would never be the same without him.

"Tonight is the exhibition of fine art held in one of the Los Angeles galleries," Oz informed her. "You are attending, of course?"

Angelus was a known patron of the arts and he had a reputation for adding one or two paintings each year to his collection of works by European artists.

The evening event would include cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, and was, like most events Angelus attended, strictly by invitation only.

"Yes."

"A notable occasion." Oz proffered as his scissors moved with crafted expertise.

Without a doubt, she agreed mentally. The social glitterati would be present, together with members of the press. And several photographers, each attempting to outdo the other.

She had even bought a new black gown. Sleeveless, its simple, slim fitting style was enhanced with intricate silvery embroidery on the bodice. A high-scooped neckline precluded jewellery, and there were matching shoes and an evening bag.

Oz reached for several fat rollers and positioned them in place, collecting a magazine for her to read, then moved towards the reception area to greet the next client.

It was almost four thirty when Buffy emerged, another half-hour before she brought the car to a halt beside the main entrance of Angelus' Crawford Mansion.

She could hear the shower running as she entered their suite, and she stripped down to briefs and bra, collected a silk robe and slipped it on, then she crossed to the dressing table to attend to her makeup.

Angelus entered the bedroom, with a towel hitched low on his hips, as she applied the finishing touches. She watched in mesmerized fascination as he moved to her side and bestowed a lingering kiss on the soft curve of her neck. His touch sent warmth tingling through her veins and her expression held a faint wistfulness, as he stood beside her and viewed their mirrored reflections.

"What time do you want to leave?" she queried, unable to tear her gaze away.

"Fifteen minutes. The traffic will be heavy." His hands rested on her shoulders, then slowly slid down the front edges of her robe to slip beneath the silk and gently tease the softness of her breasts. With tantalizing care he began to brush the pad of his thumb over each sensitive peak.

Buffy felt them swell and harden, and she gave a soundless gasp as his fingers slid to unfasten her bra. "Angelus-"

"Humor me," he said gutturally. His eyes held hers captive, their depths alive with barely leashed passion. "I have thought of little else all day. The intoxicating texture of your skin, its delicate perfume, the way your beautiful eyes soften when I touch you."

Sensation spiraled from her feminine core as intense sexual awareness swept through her body. All he had to do was pull her into his arms and she would be lost.

"Shouldn't we get ready?" she asked in a strangled voice and glimpsed the edge of his mouth twist in a gesture of wry self mockery.

"Indeed." His hand lingered, then slowly withdrew to settle briefly on her shoulder. "If I kiss you, we'll never leave this room."

"In that case, perhaps you'd better get changed and let me finish my make up," she suggested shakily, and he laughed, a soft, husky sound that sent goose bumps over the surface of her skin.

"Eventually we will return home, grá, and then we shall resume where we have left off."

"If I'm not too tired." It was a tame attempt at denial, and didn't fool him in the least.

"I promise to do all the work, grá." His lips brushed her temple, and then slid down to nibble an earlobe.

Not all, she promised silently as he moved away and selected boxers, a silk shirt and black trousers that formed parts of a sophisticated sheath for the primitive strength of his body. Socks, shoes came next, and when he reached for the immaculate bow tie, she hurriedly transferred her attention and picked up a shiny gold tube with which to stroke pastel color on to her lips.

Her choice of perfume was one of her favorites, a subtle scent of daffodil that imbued the skin with intense delicacy. Five minutes later she slipped into her the gown, and she stood perfectly still as Angelus slid the zipper fastener into place for her.

"You look beautiful," he complimented, as she stepped into the elegant evening shoes.

Collecting her evening bag, she turned towards him and proffered a faint smile. "The women will vie with each other for your attention," she anticipated lightly.

"I have no control over inherited genes," he responded in an amused enunciation. "And the only woman I am interested in is you.

'For now', Buffy added silently, wishing she could believe him. It would be incredible to feel truly secure in a man's love, to know, without any element of doubt, that you were really adored. To know that, even if he displayed visual appreciation for another, no other woman had a chance of capturing his heart.

Such a hope belonged in the realms of fantasy, she reflected reluctantly, as the car became part of the flowing traffic entering the inner city perimeter.

Reality was an amalgamation of harsh facts and formidable statistics, which existed as irrefutable proof, that love did not always last forever. The first heady bloom often flared brilliantly, only to diminish, all too frequently, to a state of prosaic affection.

The car slid to a halt and Buffy’s eyes widened with the realization that they were stationary. The car park was brightly lit and there were sounds and movement as guests vacated their cars.

Angelus caught her elbow in a light clasp and led her towards the main entrance. Inside, several guests mingled in small groups, and there were several nattily uniformed waiters and waitresses proffering drinks and bite-sized food.

Almost at once Angelus was greeted by the gallery owner and engaged in conversation, and Buffy found herself drawn into a civilized debate on the advantages of free artistic statement over the confines of conformity.

“Do you enjoy Angelus’ artistic taste?”

Oh, hell, she wasn’t even sure which artists he favored. The paintings hanging on the walls at Crawford Mansion and the beach house were visually pleasing, although a few were a little too modern for her own enjoyment. Her mother had once told her, when she was young, that there was special meaning in them if she looked carefully. Well… all she could see was someone messing around with paints for a couple of minutes, then claiming that it was a masterpiece. She still couldn’t figure out what they saw in those kinds of paintings to waste away a month’s salary!

“Mostly,” she agreed. “Although he has a Hal Fielding of which I’m not particularly fond.”

“My wife is a traditionalist,” Angelus relayed smoothly. “Her taste runs to Thomas Kinkade.”

“Oh, my dear. Fielding is brilliant.”

“So are a number of other noted artists,” she offered firmly. “It’s very much a personal choice, don’t you think?”

“There’s an excellent piece you really must see. Expensive, but worthy of investment.” He riffled through the catalogue pages and brought the item to Angelus’ notice, then made his excuses, as someone else demanded his attention.

“I happen to like Thomas Kinkade,” Buffy protested, as Angelus’ amused gaze rested on her expressive features.

“So do I,” he assured her, and, placing an arm around her waist, he directed her towards a display. “Shall we begin viewing?”

Some paintings verged on the bizarre, others resembled caricatures of design over brilliant slashes of color. One in particular looked as if a child at kindergarten level had indulged in a totally wild battle with numerous pots of multi-colored paint.

“What do you think?”

Buffy turned towards Angelus and endeavored to present a considered viewpoint. After several seconds she voiced, with restraint, “I’d prefer not to answer on the grounds that anything I say could be overheard, taken into account, and held against me.”

“A remarkable nonconformist piece,” Angelus drawled knowledgeably, and her eyes danced as she nodded in silent agreement. “Shall we move on?”

“Please.”

There were a number of guests present whom she had met before and for the next hour she exchanged pleasantries, accepted an invitation for an upcoming fashion parade, and deferred to Angelus on no less than three dinner invitations. She was just beginning to find the evening a relaxing venture, when she glimpsed a familiar head several feet in the distance.

Drusilla. As if by design, the guests shifted position so that the model’s body profile was in clear view: a stunning figure, attired in a flamboyant gown that on anyone else would have looked totally outrageous.

Buffy forced herself to meet Drusilla’s intent gaze, and for one brief second, she witnessed unadulterated venom before it was masked. A slight smile appeared in acknowledgement before Drusilla turned towards her partner and Buffy was unable to prevent a slight shiver.

Did Angelus know Drusilla was here? It was a distinct probability.

“More mineral water?”

“Thank you.”

“We should be able to get away in less than an hour. We’ll go on to dinner afterwards,” Angelus said quietly.

“Have you already booked reservations?”

He named a well-known restaurant, famed for its fine cuisine. “You would prefer somewhere else?”

“Quiet, out of the way, with little chance of meeting anyone we know?” she suggested hopefully.

“I can recollect a few.”

‘Suitable for clandestine meetings?’ Damn, she had to stop resorting to destructive introspection! “Of course, we could buy a take-out meal on the way home.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Chinese?”

His eyes gleamed with humor. “I’ll cancel the restaurant from the car.”

“Thank you.”

He lifted a hand and brushed his fingers lightly across her cheek. “Just where, precisely, do you intend we eat?”

She looked at him with undue solemnity. “Dressed like this?” she enquired innocently. “At the dinning room table. Where else?”

“We could always change first.”

“And eat out on the terrace?” She offered a singularly sweet smile. “What a wonderful idea.”

The depths of his eyes took on a dark brilliance. “Minx. Remind me to extract due penance.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

A slow, wicked smile tugged the edges of his mouth and his voice held infinite indolence. “Just watch me.”

Every bone in her body began to feel liquefied at the thought of precisely how he would exact atonement. “I think,” she said unsteadily, “We should attempt to continue our viewing, don’t you?”

“An excellent suggestion.”

It was after eight when they left, almost nine before Angelus garaged the car. The plastic carrier bag, with its various containers, emitted a mouth-watering aroma, and Buffy slid off her shoes the moment they entered the house.

“You are intent on changing before we eat?”

She cast him a studied glance. “This gown cost a small fortune.”

“So did my suit,” drawled Angelus.

“Perhaps you should exchange it for something less formal.”

“And save on the dry cleaning bill?”

“Naturally.”

“I gather eating in bed would be considered the height of decadence?”

She failed miserably in suppressing in impish smile. “It would be such a shame to waste the food.”

“The terrace?”

Her eyes twinkled with devilish humor. “Think of the moonlight.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and placed it over a nearby chair. “Plates, cutlery, glasses?”

She pretended due consideration. “I guess we could opt for informality,” she decided, as she picked up her shoes and made for the staircase. “Two forks, two glasses.” She began mounting the stairs, then paused to look down at him. “Do you think you can manage that?”

He removed the bow tie and loosened the top buttons on his shirt. Don’t be too long, grá,” he warned gently, and her mouth curved into a guileless smile.

“Patience, Angelus.” She turned and slowly traversed the remaining stairs.

In the bedroom she slipped out of the gown, then dressed in silk culottes and a loose top.

Minutes later she walked out onto the terrace to find Angelus seated at one of the outdoor tables, a portable lamp providing essential light, the food displayed in its various containers, and a slim flute of wine within easy reach. His shirt was undone almost to the waist; the cuffs rolled half way up his forearms.

Buffy sank into a chair opposite from him, dipped a fork into sweet and sour pork, and savored a mouthful with apposite enthusiasm, then repeated the process.

“Isn’t this better than eating in a restaurant?”

He forked a prawn into his mouth, then shot her a musing look. “This is quite good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” She met his gaze and wrinkled her nose at him in admonition. “The trouble is you’ve been thoroughly spoiled, with a personal cook and professional chefs to pander to your gourmet taste.”

“Planning to re-educate me, Buffy?”

“In some areas it mightn’t be a bad idea.”

“And what areas are those, my darling wife?” He sounded distinctly amused, and dangerously indolent.

“You could do with a lesson in humility,” she said with mock severity.

“Where you are concerned, I am remarkably humble,” Angelus claimed solemnly. His eyes held hers, and she couldn’t look away, as he lifted his glass in a silent salute before placing the rim to his mouth.

He sounded sincere, almost as if he cared very much. The breath caught in her throat, and she found it difficult to swallow.

Her fork was suspended in mid-air, and she slowly replaced it on the table, her appetite gone.

He leaned back in the chair, his large frame displaying an indolent grace that was deceptive, for there was watchfulness apparent, a leashed air she found infinitely disturbing. “Lost for words, Buffy?”

She looked at him for what seemed an age, wanting more than anything to move into his arms, to lift her mouth for his kiss. But she seemed locked into immobility, and there was a strange ache in the region of her heart.

There was so much she wanted to say; yet she felt hesitant, afraid that if she revealed too much it would render her vulnerable.

“Shall I make coffee?” Even her voice sounded breathy and uncertain, and she cursed her own insecurity.

“No coffee,” Angelus said gently. “I’ll dispose of these containers, then we’ll go to bed.”

Bed. That was her downfall. It was where she sold her soul and lost control. “I’m not tired,” she offered quietly, and glimpsed his faint smile.

“Neither am I. Sleep wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

She rose to her feet and gathered up the cutlery and glasses, then carried them through to the kitchen.

Angelus followed, and she heard him locking the outer doors and setting the security alarm.

It was a simple task to load the dishwasher, and she had just finished when he entered the room.

He looked vaguely piratical: dark trousers, deep tanned skin and tall. He almost seemed overpowering, and while she craved his touch, there was a part of her that cried out against any sexual subjugation.

She watched as he dispatched food down the waste disposal unit, then dropped empty containers into the pedal-bin before washing and drying his hands.

In silence he turned and caught hold of her hand, leading her through to the lounge, where he selected a compact disk and slid it into the CD player.

Soft music emanated from the speakers, and Buffy looked at him speechlessly as he drew her into his arms.

Crazy, she thought, as he pulled her close against him and began to drift slowly around the room. She felt his lips brush her hair, followed by the warmth of his breath against her temple. His heartbeat was strong beneath her cheek, and her hands crept to link together at the back of his waist.

The music was so slow and dreamy that after several minutes they hardly bothered to move at all, and simply stood still in the dim light reflected from the foyer.

His kiss was so incredibly gentle that it almost made her cry, and she offered him her mouth, exulting in an erotic act that excited without demand.

When the music finished he raised his head and subjected her to a long, searching gaze, then he placed an arm beneath her knees and carried her up the stairs.

Buffy wanted to cry, and when he lowered her to her feet in the bedroom, tears shimmered like crystal droplets in each corner of her eyes.

Without a word he led her to the bed and sat down on its edge, then he drew her to stand between his thighs.

Her mouth began to tremble, and there was nothing she could do to prevent the slow downward path of a single tear as it overflowed.

Angelus lifted a hand and halted its passage with the pad of his thumb before moving to trace the outline of her mouth.

“I am almost hesitant to question the cause,” he drawled gently. “Do you want to blame it on ambivalent emotions?”

“I guess that’s as good a reason as any,” she owned shakily, and almost died at the wealth of passion evident in those dark eyes so close to her own.

“I need you,” he said gently. “Everyday in my life. All night long in my bed.”

Need. Need had to be better than want, didn’t it? And ‘everyday in my life’ sounded permanent. As in forever?

She wanted to say, “I love you.” But the words wouldn’t emerge.

He pulled her into his lap and kissed her, then carefully eased her onto the bed.

Her arms lifted to curve around his neck as she gave herself up to the magic only he was able to create. Soon she was filled with an agonizing sweetness as her body began to respond to the exquisite tenderness of his touch, and she throbbed with intense awareness when he entered her, glorying in the shared joy of complete possession as they journeyed towards a mutual fulfillment of the senses.

It was a wild, sweet pleasure, tempered by raw desire. Erotic, primitive, yet so incredibly sensual she was held captive in its thrall…his, without any equivocation.

On the edge of sleep she was conscious of his arms enfolding her close, and she gave a tiny sigh of contentment before drifting into a dreamless state that lasted until morning.

“No? You perceived our lovemaking as a premeditated coupling without any profundity of emotional involvement?”

It had never been that, not even in the commencement. “Love isn’t a prerequisite for satisfactory sex.” She felt as if she were collapsing inside, her body gradually cataclysmic with each successive word he uttered.

He was taciturn for what seemed an age, and his voice when he spoke sounded like silk being sliced by the finest tempered steel. “You can depict what we share as merely clinical satisfaction?”

She looked at him vigilantly, seeing the potency evident, the insinuation of passion in the depths of those dark eyes. “No,” she owned at last.

His thumb trailed to her cheekbone exploring the faint hollow beneath, then slid to rest at the corner of her mouth. “Thank you,” he declared huskily. “An admission.”

Time stood still, and she was willing to swear that her heart stopped beating for several seconds before kicking in at a quickened pace as the pad of his thumb slid halfway along her lower lip to rest there momentarily before gently compressing its fullness.

“And *this*,” he drawled with emphasis, as his hand shaped one sensitized breast, deliberately tracing a provocative pattern back and forth across its aching peak, “is your body’s reaction to the caress of any man?”

‘Dear God, no’. *You*, she vowed silently. ‘Only you’. His eyes were dark; almost black; gleaming like polished onyx as he reached into her mind and so easily read what was there.

“Impossible, of course, for you to comprehend you are the love of my life?” The silence was so total that she forgot to breathe, then her chest lurched as she drew in the first of several deep ragged gasps of air.

“They’re only words, Angelus,” she managed shakily, wanting desperately to believe them.

“They are all I have left.” His eyes were dark, unguarded, and filled with a depth of passion that made her senses reel.

“Your amnesia provided me with a heaven-sent opportunity to begin afresh. Without the barrier of your animosity, it became possible for you to believe you were the very much loved wife of a man who clearly adored you.” He paused, and his touch was so gentle that it made her want to cry. “I prayed your memory loss would last long enough for those weeks we had together to make a difference.”

“The baby—”

His finger pressed closed her lip, and his eyes were incredibly dark. “Make no mistake, *love*. The child you carry is a wonderful bonus. But it is you I care for. You.”

She shivered at the soft invasive pull on her emotions as his fingers slid to her nape and angled her head toward his.

“Please—*don’t*,” She whispered in anguish.

His head lowered to hers, and his breath was warm against her lips. “Why not, love?”

Her stomach lurched, then curled into a painful knot as his mouth brushed against hers. She couldn’t have moved, even if her limbs had been willing. “Because I can’t think when you do that.”

She sensed rather than glimpsed his smile. “Is it so important that you *think*?”

The tip of his tongue touched the corner of her mouth, relished the indentation, then slightly traced the full curve to the center. Liquid fire coursed through her veins, igniting each separate cell until her body seemed one burning entity.

“If I don’t,” she managed in strangled tones, “you’ll simply sweep me into oblivion.”

She felt his smile, and heard the faint husky growl emerge from his throat. “Would that be so bad?”

His smile was creating the sweetest magic with her own, a slow, tantalizing prelude to what must surely follow, and her body began to heat, every nerve-end flaring into vibrant life as her soul reached out to his.

“Angelus…” His name escaped her lips in a shaken gasp as he drew her close in against the swollen evidence of his desire.

It was almost as if he needed to absorb her—flesh, bones, the very essence that made her unique—and she could feel herself slowly melting, slipping inevitably down into a glorious pool of swirling warmth where there was only an acute perception of the senses, the sweet promise of two souls perfectly in accord merging and becoming one.

With a sense of desperation she dragged her mouth away from his, aware in a moment of complete lucidity that it was because he allowed it.

Her lips felt soft and swollen, tender, and they trembled slightly beneath the moistness of her tongue as she unconsciously ran its tip along the lower edge.

His eyes flared, watching the movement with mesmerized fascination.

Almost as if he could not restrain himself, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against her temple, then pressed each eyelid closed before trailing down to the edge of her lips. His touch was as light as a butterfly’s wing; caressing, loving, and she wanted to cry out against his flagrant seduction.

“I expressed my adoration with the touch of my hands, my mouth…my body,” Angelus declared. He lapsed into Gaelic, then repeated the words softly in a language she understood. Erotic, explicit, undeniably earthy. Yet heartfelt, and without any pretence. Soft color flooded her cheeks, and her lips trembled as a low husky chuckle emerged from his throat.

“Have I shocked you?” he mocked gently.

A wicked smile curved her generous mouth. “Did you intend to?” she queried, offering deliberate temptation as she lifted her arms and linked them carefully at his nape, only to gasp as his mouth closed over hers with deep, drugging possession.

He gave no quarter, and she expected none as she matched his ardor, exulting in the feel and taste of him, the heavy thudding beat of his heart as it pounded against her own in unison, the sheer sensation of knowing he was hers. It was a heady power, one she knew she would never choose to abuse.

Moments later she cried out as his mouth left hers to trail down her throat, and she arched her neck to allow him access to the sensitive hollow, gasping as he teasingly nipped delicate skin, then slid to begin an open-mouthed suckling at one silk-covered breast that caught her slender frame in a paroxysm of sensation.

"You are wearing too many clothes, my love," he chastised huskily, minutes anon as his fingers began to deal with the buttons on her blouse.

"Hmm," she agreed with a delicious smile, "So are you." Her eyes danced with wicked amusement. "There's a problem," she announced with ostensible repentance and felt his fingers stagnate, as he looked at her in taciturn enquiry.

"Olivia is serving dinner at seven."

His eyes darkened with ill-concealed humor. "Next," he murmured huskily, "you'll tell me you're hungry."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "We could eat first. Then retire early."

"Flattering, to be relegated second to food."

"I promise I'll make it up to you," Buffy declared, and he smiled, the creases deepening as they slashed each cheek.

"Interesting."

"It will be," she teased. "It's the reason I need to keep up my strength."

His fingers moved to refasten slowly the buttons on her blouse, then he kissed her with such incredible gentleness that it was all she could do not to wind her arms up around his neck and tell him to make love to her now.

"Then let us go downstairs and sample what Olivia has chosen to serve us."

They ate a leisurely meal, each increasingly aware of the moment they would rise from the table and go upstairs to their suite.

There was a sense of anticipation that became more acute with every passing minute, a sensual teasing as they indulged in a playful game.

More than once Angelus paused in the process of eating to lift his glass and utter a salute in a drawled collection of Gaelic words that required no interpreter to define them.

"After your son is born, you'll have to censor your words," she chided with an attempt at severity and failed miserably beneath the liquid warmth of his gaze.

"I have no intention of withholding from him how much I adore his beloved mama."

She had a mental image of a small dark-haired boy with mischievous dark eyes, running, laughing, infinitely loved by his parents. And later, God willing, there would be a little girl for him to protect and adore.

Buffy gouged the last segment of fruit from her plate and lifted it to her mouth, biting the firm fresh melon with a delicacy that brought a brilliant flaring to the eyes of the man seated opposite.

"I suppose you are going to be adamant I take coffee?"

Her eyes candidly teased his, sparkling with impudent humor. "Caffeine," she vindicated knowledgeably, "is supposed to stimulate the brain."

His dark gaze became lethargic, a strutted ruse that didn't fool her in the slightest, as he queried in a silky drawl, "And it is my brain that you particularly want to stimulate?"

She swallowed the last of the melon, then ran the edge of her tongue lightly over the curve of her lips. "I would be disappointed," she declared with trifling emphasis, "if you proved less than…capable," she finished delicately.

His eyes became faintly hooded and the edge of his mouth assumed an upward curve. "Witch," he responded, with deliberate lightness, as he sat back in his chair and savored his wine. Aware of his propensity to conduct a leisurely lovemaking, extending her pleasure to a point where she became wholly, solely his, before tipping them both over the edge into a state of passionate oblivion, she wondered at the wisdom of baiting him.

At that moment Olivia entered the room and began clearing the table, her movement sure, deft, and unobtrusive.

"That was a lovely meal," Buffy complimented gently, and was rewarded with a pleased smile.

"Thank you. Will you have coffee here or in the lounge?"

Buffy glanced toward Angelus, who merely raised one eyebrow in silent mockery as he transferred the responsibility for a decision.

"Would you mind bringing it out on to the terrace? It's such a beautiful evening."

"My wife is a romantic," Angelus drawled, sparing Buffy a long, thoughtful glance that curled her toes.

"The evening sunset," Olivia agreed with a slight nod. "Such a lovely color."

"Indeed," he acknowledged, and his beautifully chiselled mouth widened slightly as he got to his feet and crossed round to assist Buffy from her chair.

Seconds later, as they moved out onto the veranda, his arm curved lightly around her waist, its balmy strength a tangible entity that crept through her skin and seemed to liquefy her bones.

The swimming pool looked intensely blue in the soft fading light, its surface reflecting a mirrored sheen duplicating the waters of the sea.

Buffy's gaze wandered out towards the horizon where ocean met sky, breathing in deeply the clean sea air as she savored the slight breeze that teased her hair and faintly stirred the leaves on various trees.

Angelus shifted slightly to stand behind her, his hands linking protectively over her thickening waist as he drew her back against him.

She felt his lips brush her hair, then slip down to settle in the hollow at the edge of her neck as he teased the delicate flesh. Soft tremors shook her slim frame, and she leaned into him, loving the hard muscularity of his solid frame as he enclosed her within the cage of his arms.

To rest against him like this was heaven, and she was aware of the promise of passion, the strength of his control as he simply held her, content to allow her to savor the magic of nature as the sun slowly disappeared beyond the horizon in a bright flaring of orange and amber tinged with mauve, before the silvery sky slowly darkened to an inky velvet.

The chink of crockery in the background was an intrusive sound they both acknowledged. Together they turned and slowly wandered towards a wide, cushioned two-seater as Olivia poured Angelus' coffee, then filled a glass with water from an iced pitcher for Buffy.

"Goodnight."

Angelus sent Olivia a warm smile. "Thank you and good night to you too."

When the housekeeper had returned indoors he leaned forward and spooned sugar into the dark aromatic brew, stirred, then cradled the cup in his hands.

Buffy was strangely pensive. They had cleared up so many misconceptions but-

"There is something on your mind?"

It was a light, teasing query, and unexpectedly brave, she took courage in both hands.

"Drusilla."

"What is it you want to know?"

His voice was a wry drawl and in the semi-darkness it was difficult to gauge his mood.

"You were her lover?"

"Yes."

It hurt more than she cared to admit, even now.

"A long time ago," he qualified.

"She implied-"

"Innuendo tied with imprecise information is a perilous hodgepodge," Angelus interposed deprecatingly.

She had to ask. "Did you love her?"

He didn't hesitate. "No. Nor did she love me." His eyes perforated hers, dark and faintly brooding.

Buffy stared out into the darkness, hardly aware of the tracery of dimmed lamps that sprang to life around the grounds, highlighting the well cared for garden. "She still wants you," she opined slowly.

"Drusilla dislikes conceding defeat."

She recalled the maliciously verbal diatribe, malevolent in its intent, purposely chosen to obliterate, by a woman who was unlikely to find personal happiness with any one man.

Buffy rose slowly to her feet. "If you've finished your coffee, I'll return the tray to the kitchen."

"I'll take it." He moved with lithe ease and, once indoors, activated the security device before following her through to the rear of the house.

The kitchen gleamed from Olivia's meticulous care, and it only took a few seconds for Buffy to load their cups into the dishwasher and rinse out the coffeepot.

She was conscious of Angelus' studied gaze and she tilted her chin to meet it, her eyes clear pools of liquid emerald ringed with gold.

There were words she wanted to say, achingly poignant and straight from the heart, yet they seemed locked in her throat. For a moment she hesitated, then she slowly extended her hand and caught hold of his, threading her fingers through his own. "I want to make love to you."

His fingers tightened, then he raised her hand to his lips and Buffy saw the blaze of emotion evident in the darkness of his gaze. Deep, heartfelt and electrifyingly primitive.

Then he curved an arm beneath her knees and lifted her high against his chest. A slow, burning excitement unfurled deep within and radiated through her body until she felt achingly alive. "I can walk," she protested with a soft laugh.

His smile was a thing of beauty, warm and passionate, his eyes almost black. "Humor me."

Her lips were so close to his throat that it was an irresistible temptation to rest them against the warm pulsing cord and savor the deep thudding beat. Gently she circled it with her tongue, then drew it carefully into her mouth.

"Do you want to be ravished here?" Angelus threatened huskily as he gained the stairs.

Buffy gave a soft exultant laugh and bestowed a rain of soft kisses along the edge of his jaw. "The bed might be more comfortable," she teased, loving his strength, the sheer force of his raw masculinity.

On reaching the main suite he let her slip gently onto her feet and drew her close within the circle of his arms.

His mouth closed over hers with infinite gentleness, then hardened as she melted against him, taking possession of her mouth in a manner that left no doubt of his feelings.

At last he lifted his head, and she could only look at him in mesmerized wonder as his fingers worked the buttons on her blouse, then dealt with the clasp fastening the contoured strip of silk and lace supporting her breasts.

They felt heavy, each dusty peak swollen as it ached, hungering for his touch.

"You're beautiful." He traced the curve, shaping it with a reverence that brought the prick of tears and she blinked rapidly to dispel the threatened spill.

Slowly she lifted a hand and trailed her fingers along the strong thrust of his jaw, tracing the firm chin, the faint indentation, and the chiselled shape of his mouth.

Nothing-no one-mattered. Not Drusilla, nor any of the other women who had inevitably shared part of his life.

Who was it who had said you had to make each day count?

The quote and its source eluded her. The message, however, did not.

Her eyes searched his, seeing the watchful stillness in those dark eyes, the hint of pain. "I tried very hard not to love you," she declared in a voice that was excruciatingly strained. She swallowed the sudden lump that rose in her throat. "I don't remember when it changed, only that it did," she continued, without any pretence at hiding her emotions. "Now I know I can't live without you."

Angelus reached for her, his hands shaking slightly as they slid to frame her face. "I want to love you, be with you, for as long as it takes to reach forever. God help us," he vowed huskily.

"Yes," she agreed simply, her heart in her eyes as she brought his head down to meet hers, and there was the hint of an impish smile softening the curve of her mouth as it parted to receive his. "Are we through talking?"

"Definitely," he muttered as his mouth closed over hers, his actions proving more than mere words could ever convey…

The End