Even here, even though he had rescued her and she was barely out of the coma, the loathing surfaced as if it, alone, had not slept. The taste of him. She sat forward, holding her forearms; separating herself from him. For that reason, Charlotte could not trust or respect her.
What can I do to warm you? she asked frantically. Their radiance was a contrast to Kristian's stark paleness, the priestly black of his robe and hair. His face changed slowly as he went on looking at her, seeming to crumple with fear, anger, denial. html (384 of 711)28-12-2006 21:38:58 A Taste Pierre was disarmed by this.
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