THERE WERE FEW THINGS IN LIFE Alex Hawke treasured more than being alone at home on a rainy Sunday night. His large house in Belgravia had many nooks and crannies where he could curl up with a good book. But it was the small window seat in the third-story sitting room overlooking Belgrave Square that he loved most. A hard, slashing rain beat against the windowpanes as he turned the yellowed pages of the book given him by Prince Charles at Highgrove.

He'd wandered into Charles's library after dinner the first night, looking for something to read himself to sleep. Charles had entered the room looking for some documents on his desk and had recommended Our Man in Havana by Graham Greene.

The book was the tale of an Englishman named Wormold, a divorced vacuum cleaner salesman in Havana. Wormold is, for various obscure reasons, recruited by the British Secret Service as a spy. Hawke found himself laughing aloud in parts and soon realized that Charles had not chosen the book at random. He'd meant it as an inside joke, but he had also known Hawke would love it. Wormold's biggest seller was a vacuum called the "Atomic Pile."

An inspired choice. And, even though the book was quite good fun, he found himself drifting off periodically, only to wake and gaze across the room at the dimly lit painting hung above the mantel. His mother, seated, was lovely in a long white satin dress; and his father, standing beside her in his dress navy uniform, ramrod straight, looked every bit the modest hero Hawke knew him to be. The portrait had been painted just weeks after their wedding.

They looked so very happy, he thought, and so very much in love. And so blissfully unaware of the unspeakably cruel fate the future had lying in wait for them in the short decade they would have together.

From downstairs came the faint echo of the front door bell. He looked at his watch. After eleven. Who in the world? He put the book aside and stood up. You could see the front entrance from this window if you tried hard enough.

He peered down, but all he saw was the top of a large and glistening black umbrella at his door. Pelham was no doubt making his way to the door at this very second, and a few moments later he watched the umbrella pass between the four great fluted pillars of white marble and make its way inside his house on Belgrave Square.

He glanced at the telephone on his writing desk, waiting for the intercom button to start flashing.

It accommodated him and he picked up the receiver.

"Someone to see you, m'lord," Pelham said, calling from his private pantry.

"I was afraid of that. Perhaps they could see you instead."

"You yourself were specifically requested, sir. I'm sorry to disturb your solitude."

"Who is it?"

"A Miss Sahira Karim, sir. On her way home from a party at the Indian ambassador's residence and thought she'd pop in and say hello."

"Well, I suppose it could be worse."

"Indeed, sir. Quite a lovely woman. But I suspect perhaps madam was overserved at the soiree and thus the lateness of the hour."

"Where is she now?"

"At the drinks table in the drawing room, sir. Pouring herself a rather large scotch if I may be indiscreet."

"I'm in my pajamas and a robe. Do you think that will suffice?"

"I would strongly advise against it, sir."

"Oh, all right, I'll throw something on and be down in five minutes."

"I shall inform her of your intentions, sir. Shall I light the fire? There's a bit of a chill in that room and she's soaked to the bone."

"Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, Pelham."

"My pleasure, sir."

HAWKE FOUND SAHIRA SITTING CROSS-LEGGED, Buddha-like, on the floor in front of the roaring fire. She had her back to him, but he could see she was sipping whiskey from a crystal tumbler. He regarded her in silence for a moment, taking in the long black hair, still wet and gleaming in the firelight. She was wearing an elegant silk sari. The folds of fabric were silver-gold with veils of aqua-marine. It held its sheen, even soaking wet. Hawke guessed she was wearing something very bright and colorful, perhaps a ruby brooch, at her neck.

"Sahira," Hawke said softly from the doorway, so as not to alarm her.

She turned fully around and said as she smiled, "Dear Alex, you must think me quite mad."

"Not at all. I'm delighted to see you again."

He'd been right about the brooch. And the rubies.

She said, "As the old cliche would have it, I was in the neighborhood. I decided to walk home from a dinner party just over in Eaton Place. It was threatening rain, but then I love storms."

Hawke knew how she felt. Bad weather always cheered him more than blue skies. Storms enchanted him, always had.

"Good thing you had an umbrella," Hawke said, crossing the room and sitting in a well-worn leather club chair by the hearth. He was wearing a faded flannel shirt the color of smoke and grey pleated trousers. On his feet were a pair of scuffed leather boat moccasins he'd bought at some ship chandlery in Key West.

"Yes, isn't it?" She giggled, tugging at her wet sari.

"You look as if you barely escaped drowning in the street."

"Ah. Well, I did actually have an umbrella, you see, but I neglected to employ it until I suddenly found myself standing at your front door, pushing your bell."

"That would explain it," Hawke said, smiling, though of course it didn't.

"Please forgive me for intruding, Alex. I can't really explain it, but I had this overwhelming urge to see you tonight."

"Name a man who would not be flattered."

"Join me in a drink?"

"No, thank you. I quit."

"Good for you. I wish to God I could."

"You can."

"Well, not tonight obviously...I've been thinking about you, you know. That's silly, of course you don't know. But I have. Ever since seeing you again at Highgrove." She gazed into the fire for a few long moments and then said, "I felt drawn to you. The moment I saw you and then when I heard your voice again."

"Well, we have something very much in common, don't we?"

She sighed, looking back into the crackling fire.

"We do, Alex."

"A sad coincidence of loss."

"Do you believe what they say? That time heals all wounds?"

"No. My mother and father were murdered before my eyes when I was seven. That event is seared into me. It feels like a steel ball in the center of my chest. Sometimes it glows red hot."

Hawke saw a single gleaming tear roll down her cheek. She didn't bother to brush it away.

"I'm just so lost without Tony. Nothing makes much sense anymore. All my plans, my dreams. Children. A little house somewhere. Do you feel that way about her, about--"

"Anastasia."

"Anastasia, yes, I'm sorry, such a lovely name."

"I did for a long time. Just getting up and living through another day seemed like sheer folly. But, now, I think losing my mother, both my parents the way I did...it hardened me. Inside. Made me stronger somehow. I never felt the same way about life after they died. I looked at other boys who had their mothers, their families. I had no one. No one but me. I put my trust only in myself."

"A lack of trust in anyone else. Or anything else."

"Yes. That, too. And a smoldering anger at God."

"Oh, yes."

"You're shivering, Sahira. How rude of me. Would you like a blanket?"

"That would be lovely, thanks."

"Splash of scotch as well?"

"Good Lord, no. I'm rarely this tipsy, you'll be relieved to learn."

"I'll be right back."

WHEN HAWKE RETURNED WITH THE BLANKET, Sahira hadn't moved. She was leaning toward the fire with her bare arms wrapped around her knees.

"This should do the trick," he said, draping the woolen blanket around her shoulders. He collapsed back into his chair looking at her profile in the flickering firelight. "Better?" he said.

"Hmm. Thanks. Much."

"We'll find them, you know, these bloody bastards who killed Tony. Sword of Allah, for God's sake. We'll run them to ground sooner or later and put the sword to them. I promise you."

"Yes. It helps to hear you say that. We now have a common enemy, don't we?"

"Another awful thing we have in common," Hawke said.

"Alex, may I ask a favor?"

"Anything."

"May I spend the night here?"

"Here?"

"Yes."

"Are you worried about the storm? I could easily drive you home."

"No. It's not that. I don't--don't want to be alone tonight."

"We've certainly no shortage of guest rooms. I'll ring Pelham. He'll make sure that we--"

Hawke reached for the telephone, but Sahira reached up and stayed his hand.

"Not a guest room, Alex. I want to sleep with you, in your bed. I want to wake up in your arms. Don't worry. We don't have to do anything. I just have this overwhelming need to be close."

"Any port in a storm, so to speak."

"No, Alex, don't misunderstand me. I want to be close to you. I've wanted it for a long time. Ever since that first afternoon we all met, when you and Tony gloriously had your shirts off, playing rugby in Hyde Park. I never told you, of course, because of Tony."

"Told me what, Sahira?"

"That I always wanted to be with you instead. From that first day. It's awful, I know. Don't look at me that way. I did love him very much. Adored him. He had a marvelous mind and the kindest heart. And he made me laugh, thank God, after all the bloody twits from the City. Forgive me, but this is something I had to tell you. You don't have to say anything, I wish you wouldn't, so please don't feel uncomfortable."

"Well, Sahira, I don't--"

"And now that I've unburdened myself and told you the truth, you can drive me home if you wish. Perfectly understandable were I in your place. But I would give the earth to hold you for one night. Just one night. Easy question, yes or no."

Hawke stared into those dark brown eyes for what seemed an eternity. He could come up with a thousand reasons why this was idiocy. But the simple and uncomplicated truth was, sitting here, looking at this beautiful woman, he discovered he wanted someone to hold too. He smiled down at her and gave his answer.

"Yes."

She reached up and put her hand on his knee, whispering the words, "I was praying you would say that."

They sat like that for a long time, her hand on his knee, both staring into the fire, neither feeling the need to speak. Hawke put his hand over hers and squeezed it gently. Even this, Hawke thought, even this small comfort is something I still need. Moments like this. Anastasia would want this for me. I know she would.

"Would you mind if I shed this soaking sari?" she said suddenly. "Even with the blanket, it's miserable."

"What's the old joke, 'you need to get out of that wet dress and into a dry martini'?"

She got to her feet and handed him the blanket. "Will you hold this for me a moment?"

"Of course. You'll find the loo is right--"

She put a finger to her lips and said, "Shhh. This will only take a minute."

And then, standing before the fire and smiling down at Hawke all the while, she began to disrobe, unwinding yards of glistening silk from her wondrous body.

"Sahira, do you really think this is a good idea?"

"I really do."

When she was naked, standing in the shadows of the dying fire, the beautiful sari puddled at her feet, she leaned forward and put out her hand to him. The movement made her large dark-nippled breasts sway dangerously close to his lips and Hawke felt faint memory stir, as something inside him was rekindled for the first time in an eternity.

"Will you please take me to bed, Lord Hawke? It's past my bedtime."

THE RAIN BEAT STEADILY AGAINST his bedroom windowpanes, the storm unabated, now accompanied by tumultuous thunder and sudden lightning strikes nearby that filled the high-ceilinged room with white fire. The storm awakened him a few times during the night and he was always startled to find Sahira by his side, her head on his left shoulder, her hair spilling across his chest, her hand cradled in his, snoring softly.

He'd drift off after a while, content, even happy for her presence.

Sometime later, toward dawn, he awoke to find her hand had found its way to his belly. She was rubbing it lightly, making little circles around his stomach that got wider and wider. Her fingertips brushed his semi-aroused penis, and quickly withdrew.

"Sorry," she whispered in his ear.

"Don't be."

She slid her fingers down over his belly and took him into her hand. She began stroking him, slowly at first, and then, as he grew harder, more quickly.

"Is this all right?" she said, as lightning struck a nearby tree and ignited the room for the briefest instant.

"Yes."

A few moments later, she shifted in the bed and rested her head on his stomach. She brushed the very tip of him across her lips, lightly grazing them a few times, and said, "And this?"

"Yes."

She took him deeply into her mouth and closed her lips around him and the sensation caused Hawke to arch his back and moan involuntarily. Any doubts about how deeply he had missed this part of his natural life fell away like a shedding of old skin. He would mourn his beloved Anastasia until the day he died. But were the living served by a lifetime of abstinence in honor of the dead?

This is not a betrayal.

"Alex," she said, lifting her head, her breathing heavy and somewhat hoarse, "I know all this is strictly against our rules."

"It is."

"But I need you inside me. I have waited a lifetime."

"And life is so short."

"Are you going to make me beg?"

"No."

"Please," she said. "Please. Now."

Hawke stared at her face, those large dark eyes luminous even in the waning blackness of the room, and said the first words that came into his head.

"I would be honored."

He entered her slowly and gently and the two brokenhearted people made love until exhaustion drove them to sleep.

In the early morning he woke to find her lying on her side staring at him.

"Top of the morning," he said sleepily.

"Top of the morning."

"Staying for breakfast?"

"Can't. England and Lord Malmsey await me. Desperately."

"Know the feeling."

"Alex?"

"Yes?"

"Before I go, I need to ask you one last question. All right?"

"Fire at will."

"Have you any possible idea of why we were both made to suffer such cruel losses? Anastasia, Tony, your dear parents?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"Tell me."

"Quite simple, really."

"Please tell me."

"God sinned."