It can't be me, she thinks, it's got to be him. He needs a little encouragement, a little more inspiration, is all.

Because Cranston was right.

The more she thought about it, the less she liked the idea of another woman coming here, coming into Buck's life.

And it's not, she tells herself, that she is one of those viciously ambitious villainesses from a romance novel, but a matter of convenience, of practicality, of an opportunity begging for the taking.

In short, the there-ness of him, of her.

That, and the isolation.

So that for her to leave this chance go would be a waste.

Waste not, want not, she has always heard said.

And truer words were never spoken, their meaning never more clear, than at this moment.

No doubt, no question.

So that now, she joins him, swimming his laps side by side, matching him stroke for stroke, choreographing her actions to his own.

And we're man and woman, together, alone, and naked, naked, naked! she beams at him with powerful thought waves.

The shallow end.

And he stops.

And, therefore, so does she.

And they stand up, her large breasts high and paperback magnificent, heaving slightly with the exertion of the swim, as is his big, beefy chest.

They look at one another, she with her arms loose at her sides, he with his hands on his hips.

And suddenly, as though drawn by a mutual magnetism, paperback romance style, she is in his arms.

And he is covering her face and mouth and throat with his ardent kisses.

But there is nothing paperback romantic about the thick bar of meat which rises heavily, the plum of the head climbing her stomach until the eye stares upward, large and ruddy, the mighty organ sandwiched between their bodies.

And now, he breaks away from her, leading her by the hand up the steps, out of the water, over to the heavy, redwood chaise, covered with padding and a towel.