I know I'm being silly, she told herself as she folded the soft, silk-like material and laid it carefully back in its box, but I couldn't sleep a wink wearing that, even though I know it's all right as long as Verne gave it to me. After all, he's my husband!

She leaned down to dig her ordinary cotton babydoll pajamas out of the dresser drawer, then paused with her hand on the drawer handle and a serious expression clouding her girlish face.

No! I'm not going to be a baby! she decided. Verne bought it for me to wear, and I'm his wife now, not my parents' little girl! I'll wear it, because he wants me to!

Ignoring the guilty voice pricking at the back of her brain, Sandi again slipped the sexy, slinky nightgown over her slim figure. You like wearing that obscene thing, don't you? the young wife's conscience accused as she climbed into her king-sized bed. You get a kick out of looking like a photograph in one of those dirty magazines. And it's nothing to do with Verne!

This whisper was, of course, thoroughly unacceptable; Sandi paid it no more heed than she'd paid the somewhat similar sensations she'd experienced when she'd ridden on the back of Verne's big cycle and every man on the road had stared at her long, perfectly formed legs. Switching off the bedtable lamp, Sandi instead directed her thoughts toward the day when her husband would arrive home again. He should show up on Thursday, maybe Friday morning. That gave her two days to get out of her mood of depression. She'd prepare all the foods he especially liked, and maybe even drive into Brunrocke, the nearest town of any size, for some of that Danish beer he fancied.