Part One

He stood back a few paces from the open bathroom door and watched his wife of just over a year apply lotion to her sleek body. The air, still steamy from their shared shower, was fragrant with her citrusy herbal bath gel and the deeper scent of lovemaking. She had the arch of one foot propped on the edge of an open drawer as she smoothed lotion over her leg. The foot dropped to the floor and she nudged the drawer shut with her knee. Facing the mirror, she poured the rich liquid into the palm of one hand, set the bottle down and then coated both palms before spreading it over her skin. One hand stroked her shoulders, the other her smooth stomach, both circling, gradually moving lower. The right soon made contact with the small mound of one breast, the tip tightening as her fingers skimmed over it. The corners of her mouth turned up in a womanly little smile of recent, remembered bliss as the other hand slid farther stopping to press just above the soft, still swollen crease.

He could stand no more. The towel around his hips fell to the deep blue bedroom carpet and in a few quick steps he as behind her, winding strong arms around her waist, drawing her back against his chest.

"Ready for more, sweetheart?" he asked softly.

"Mmm." She pressed against him a bit. "I think you are too. Can we lie down this time?"

He laughed, the deep rumble vibrating against her back. The sound abruptly turned to a harshly indrawn breath as he felt her small hand slip between them to give him an intimate caress.

"So warm," she whispered. "Warm and soft and hard all at once."

He let her stroke him for a sweet moment, but then warned, "We're not going to get as far as the bed if you keep that up."

Slowly, she released him smiling at his flushed face in the mirror.

He was never quite sure afterward how they got from there to bed, but it hardly mattered. She was there with him and he was kissing his way down her body until his mouth pressed the gentlest, most intimate of kisses to her most feminine place. She opened for him so naturally, so willingly, and he slowly slipped one finger inside easily finding and massaging the place that made her wild for him.

"Now, Duncan," she breathed. "Please!"

He withdrew carefully, unwilling to hurt her, and moved over her.

"Guide me, sweetheart."

She touched, then lightly gripped him, showing him the way. He sank into her, her name escaping his lips on a sigh. "Taryn!"

They rocked together, slick and hot, wild and sweet, until they found their joy. Joy, he thought as he settled, still atop her slim body, burying his face in her shoulder. Joy was exactly what she gave him. It was fitting that the word was part of her name.

Taryn Joy MacLeod.

Holding her while she dozed, he remembered the day joy came into his life.

He'd had to leave Seacouver and Paris behind. Both were filled with too many memories. Richie. Tessa. A Dark Quickening. Ahriman. Horton.

The list went on.

It was too much to cope with on a day to day basis. He needed someplace completely different. He considered a few very quiet backwater places, but the truth was that he liked being somewhere sophisticated enough that the word "culture" meant a little more than yogurt.

The Minneapolis/St. Paul area of Minnesota seemed to be what he was looking for. There was art and theatre there. Not on the same scale as New York of course, but enough to be appealing. He found an old two story house in St. Paul on a pleasant street that had once been residential. His new property has been converted into a coffee house with an owner's appartment on the upper level. The neighboring buildings were of similar design. There was a tailor, a tea room, a milliners, a small but respectable art gallery and several others on the block including a second coffee shop that had apparently out-done the one he'd purchased. He planned to convert his into an antique book shop. The previous owner, however, had vastly different tastes than Duncan MacLeod.

He needed a decorator.

Badly.

Wonderful invention, the Yellow Pages. A newcomer could open it and have the entire city at his fingertips. Or all the listings for Interior Design, at least. He skimmed through them one morning, the big book open on the dusty counter of his new enterprise. There. That one looked like a good place to start. A small, tasteful ad nestled among several larger, less tasteful ones.

"T. J. Harrison," he read aloud. "Interior design. Homes. Small businesses." He reached for the phone and dialed the number.

Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the large window which still read "Estelle's Espresso". It was the first truly pleasant day of the spring and he'd propped the door open while he worked at disconnecting pipes to the no longer needed sink. He intended an antique book case to go on that wall instead.

He nearly jumped out of his immortal skin when he heard a low, feminine voice say, "Mr. MacLeod?"

He whirled around,shirtless, wrench in hand to find a woman in a dove gray suit standing in his doorway.

The designer.

She smiled encouragingly. Dimples. She had dimples.

He'd forgotten she was coming.

Long lashed green eyes behind wire rimmed glasses. And a halo of warm brown hair. The sun tangling in the sleek strands turned them nearly red. Chin length. Curled under. Wispy bangs.

Swell.

Sweaty and half naked, he stood staring at her like a deer caught in the headlights.

"I'm sorry I startled you," she said.

"'S'okay," he replied, his voice muffled by the gray t-shirt he'd grabbed from the back of a chair and was busily pulling over his head.

"You are Mr. MacLeod, aren't you?" she asked.

Composure regained, he answered, "Yes. Duncan MacLeod." He moved toward her extending his hand. She clasped it firmly. Her skin was soft and cool.

"Oh, good. I was starting to wonder if I hadn't found either the plumber or Estelle," she said gesturing to the window. "Although you don't look much like an Estelle."

He grinned at her. "I don't suppose I do. At least I hope not."

"I'm Taryn Harrison," she said. "Is this a good time? We can reschedule if you need to."

She smiled again and he was lost.

Utterly lost.

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