"No, Roger," she moaned weakly. "No, you're not. And… And it's not that I don't care for you. I do, I do very much."

"Then what is it?" he demanded, walking over to her.

"It's me," she whimpered, brushing the first real tear from her blurring eyes.

"Fine, just fine," he said sarcastically. He sat down beside her and viciously yanked at the cork of the bottle. "It's not me, which I can be glad about; the problem is with you. I'm not glad about that."

"Roger… Give me time. Please give me a little more time." She lowered her eyes dejectedly, slowly shaking her head as she bit her trembling lip. "Be gentle with me, Roger."

He studied her for a long moment, then reached out for her other, free hand. "Darling, I'm sorry." His deep onyx eyes softened and a warm affectionate smile brought white, even teeth into view. "I guess I'm being selfish. I thought I'd never love another woman after my wife Karen died eight years ago, but now I've found you. I… I want to marry you, Miriam, just as soon as I can."

She was unable to reply, only nodded mutely. She turned his hand so that her palm was against his and pressed gently, her own lovely blue eyes looking up into his. She searched his thin, expressive face with its prominent cheekbones and classic Roman nose, the finely delineated lips and deep dark eyes, and she intuitively knew at the bottom of her soul that he was sincere. He wanted to marry her, and, shockingly, she had to admit that she cared for him. He possessed an affable charm and forceful personality, and with his shirt off and his chest and back rippling with hard muscle, he was one of the most desirable men she had ever known. The urge to shout yes to him was nearly uncontrollable, but to care for him was one thing and to love him another. And then there was always the black and terrible cloud of her sordid, uncontrollable perversion hanging overhead…