Anita can speak for herself," Richard said.
Jean-Claude's attention flicked back to me. "That is certainly true. But I came to see how the two of you enjoyed the play."
"And pigs fly," I said.
"You don't believe me?"
"Not hardly," I said.

I want nothing more than to climb between the silk sheets and wrap our nude bodies around one another. I want to hold and be held. Sex is a wondrous thing, but tonight I wish to be comforted more than pleasured. I feel like a child in the dark who knows the monsters are under the bed. I want to be told it will be alright, but I am far too old to believe such comforting lies."
- Jean-Claude

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,” he said, “That from the nunnery, Of they chaste breast and quiet mind.”
I looked up at him, and said the next line, “To war and arms I fly.”
“True, a new mistress now I chase,” he said.
“The first foe in the field,” I said, and let him draw me closer.
“And with a stronger faith embrace,” he said.
“A sword, a horse, a shield.” And the last word was whispered against his chest, still looking up into those eyes, searching his face.
“Yet this inconstancy is such, As thou too shalt adore,” he whispered against my hair.
I finished the poem with my face pressed against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart, that truly beat with my blood. “I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.

I did not run to him, but I did wrap my arms around him, press my ear to his chest, hold on to him as if he were the last solid thing in the world. He stroked my hair and murmured to me in French. I understood enough to know he was glad to see me and that he thought I looked beautiful. But beyond that it was just pretty noise.
It wasn't until I felt Zerbrowski behind me that I pulled away, but when Jean-Claude's hand found mine, I welcomed it.
Zerbrowski was looking at me as if he'd never seen me before. "What?" It came out hostile.
"I've never seen you be that ... soft with anyone before."
It startled me. "You've seen me kiss Richard before."
He nodded. "That was lust. This is ..." He shook his head, glancing up at Jean-Claude, then back to me. "He makes you feel safe.

I stared at Jean-Claude and it wasn't the beauty of him that made me love him, it was just him. It was love made up of a thousand touches, a million conversations, a trillion shared looks. A love made up of danger shared, enemies conquered, a determination to neither of us would change the other, even if we could. I love Jean-Claude, all of him, because if I took away the Machiavellian plottings, the labyrinth of his mind, it would lessen him, make him someone else.

I'm not sure there are enough white roses in the world to make me forget Richard." I held up my hand before she could interrupt. "But I'm not sure there are enough cozy afternoons in all eternity to make me forget Jean-Claude.