Free Divine Fire by Melanie Jackson Page B

where Brice had stood. Her perfume lingered in the air. He could smell it on the hard, cold night.
    And even if the truth didn’t free him completely, he would let himself lose his heart to this woman—and do so before he lost his nerve and again pulled back from the warmth of life, and possibly even love, that she offered.
    But he shouldn’t do anything until he knew it was safe to share his information with Brice. He would wait. For a while. He had to.

Chapter Six
All men are intrinsical rascals. And I am sorry that, not being a dog, I can’t bite them.
—From the letters of Lord Byron, October 20, 1821
Rochefoucauld told me once that a man of sense may love like a madman but not like a fool. In this I agree.
—From the letters of Ninon de Lenclos
Like a lovely tree,
She grew to womanhood, and betweenwhiles
Rejected several suitors, just to learn
How to accept a better man.
—Byron
    Brice pressed into the frosted glass, looking downward. Yesterday afternoon she had seen lots of people scurrying by. Many of them wore bright knit caps with their black coats, and they had looked a bit like the world’s biggest bed of asters pushing through the snow. This morning there were fewer pedestrians, and they walked hurriedly, postures hunched, telling her that bitter cold had settled on the city. There were no cars either. The plows hadn’t been out yet to scrape away the snow left by the freakish storm.
    Frowning, she pulled back from the cold glass. The scene seemed somewhat sinister for Christmas Eve, but wasn’t that because she hated the cold and didn’t know how to cope with it? Maybe this air of desertion was perfectly normal for the city. Perhaps its inhabitants were all at home by a fire drinking eggnog. Or at Macy’s, doing last-minute shopping. Brice didn’t celebrate Christmas now that her parents and husband were gone, but others did.
    She pushed her bleak thoughts away and turned her mind to Damien instead. Which reminded her of something that needed seeing to. Brice reached into her cosmetic bag and brought out her birth-control pills. She was glad that she was still taking them. She had tried giving them up twice after Mark’s death, but had been reduced to a nervous wreck who cried at the slightest provocation. The choice had been to take the pill again or turn to antidepressants and tranquilizers. After her thoughts turned once to suicide, hormones had seemed safer. And now…useful?
    She swallowed the pill, chasing it with a mouthful of tap water, then turned to the rest of her travel arsenal.
    Brice was vain enough—and attracted enough, in spite of last night’s odd show—to dress carefully for Damien. She just hoped that she wasn’t too obvious in her selection of clothes. She didn’t want to appear as desperate for attention as an S.O.S. from a sinking ship. She also wasn’t looking to get eye-fucked by any other person who happened to be passing by. Eye-fondled maybe, but nothing more than that.
    Brice heard herself giggle. The sound was startling in its giddy youthfulness. It made her sound as if she had suddenly dropped thirty critical I.Q. points. She couldn’t help it, though. Imagine using such a crude expression in front of Damien! She could see his eyebrows darting upward and his lips compressing in disapproval. The thought was hilarious.
    Still, she was a grown woman now. She didn’t giggle like a teenager, even at amusing things. Especially not when it made her sound stupid.
    Not that she had reached the point where she was chasing after the fountain of youth with collagen injections and Botox, or throwing pennies in wishing wells and saying prayers to the evening star that age be gentle with her face and body. However, sometimes she did wear makeup—especially when she wasn’t well rested and needed a lift. Which she most definitely did need this morning. The previous night had been anything but restful.
    Shaking her head, she broke the seal on a new tube of mascara. She leaned