"Love doesn't excuse all actions." Amused, she tilted her head and studied him in the flickering light. He looked gloriously masculine in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, his hair tousled, his face shadowed with stubble. "Isn't that just like a man? Finding excuses for a woman's infidelity just because it's written about in romantic terms."

He didn't think it was precisely an insult, but it made him squirm a little. "I just don't think she had control of the situation."

"Of course she did. She had a choice, and she chose poorly, just as Lancelot did. All that flowery business about gallantry and chivalry and heroism and loyalty, and the two of them justified betraying a man who loved them both because they couldn't control themselves?" She tossed her hair back. "That's bull."

He laughed before he sipped his wine. "You amaze me. Here I've been thinking you were a romantic. A woman who picks flowers by moonlight, who collects statues of faeries and wizards, and she condemns poor Guinevere because she loved unwisely."

She fired up. "Poor Guinevere—"

"Hold on." He was chuckling, enjoying himself immensely. It didn't occur to either of them that they were debating about people most considered fictional. "Let's not forget some of the other players. Merlin was supposed to be watching over the whole business. Why didn't he do anything about it?"

Fastidiously she brushed crumbs from her bare legs. "It's not a sorcerer's place to interfere with destiny."

"Come on, we're talking about the champ here. One little spell and he could've fixed it up."

"And altered countless lives," she pointed out, gesturing with her glass. "Skewed history. No, he couldn't do it, not even for Arthur. People—witches, kings, mortals—are responsible for their own fates."

"He didn't have any problem abetting adultery by disguising Uther as the Duke of Cornwall and taking Tintagel so that Igraine conceived Arthur in the first place."

"Because that was destiny," she said patiently, as she might have to Jessie. "That was the purpose. For all Merlin's power, all his greatness, his single most vital act was bringing Arthur into being."

"Sounds like splitting hairs to me." He swallowed the last bite of pizza. "One spell's okay, but another isn't."

"When you're given a gift, it's your responsibility to know how and when to use it, how and when not to. Can you imagine how he suffered, watching someone he loved destroyed? Knowing, even as Arthur was being conceived, how it would end? Magic doesn't divorce you from emotion or pain. It rarely protects the one who owns it."

"I guess not." He'd certainly had witches and wizards suffering in the stories he wrote. It gave them a human element he found appealing. "When I was a kid, I used to daydream about living back then."

"Rescuing fair maidens from fiery dragons?"

"Sure. Going on quests, challenging the Black Knight and beating the hell out of him."

"Naturally."

"Then I grew up and discovered I could have the best of both worlds, living there up here—' he tapped his head with a fingertip ''—when I was writing. And having the creature comforts of the twentieth century."

"Like pizza."

"Like pizza," he agreed. "A computer instead of a quill, cotton underwear. Hot running water. Speaking of which…" he said, fingering the hem of the T-shirt he'd given her to wear. He moved on impulse, and had her shrieking out a laugh as he tossed her over his shoulder and climbed out of bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Hot running water," he repeated. "I think it's time I showed you what I can do in the shower."

"You're going to sing?"

"Maybe later." In the bathroom, he opened the glass shower doors and turned on the taps. "Hope you like it hot."

"Well, I—" She was still over his shoulder when he stepped inside. With the crisscrossing sprays raining, she was immediately drenched, front and back. "Boone." She sputtered. "You're drowning me."

"Sorry." He shifted, reaching for the soap. "You know, this shower really sold me on the house. It's roomy." He slicked the wet bar of soap up her calf. "Pretty great having the twin shower heads."

Despite the heat of the water, Ana shivered when he soaped lazy circles at the back of her knee. "It's a little difficult for me to appreciate it from this position." Then she shoved her dripping hair out of her face and noticed that the floor was mirrored tiles. "Oh, my."

He grinned, and moved slowly up to her thigh. "Check out the ceiling."

She did, tilting her head and staring at their reflections. "Ah, doesn't it just steam up?"

"Treated glass. Does get a little foggy if you're in here long enough." And he intended to be in there just long enough. He began sliding her down his body, inch by dangerous inch. "But that only adds to the atmosphere." Gently he pressed her against the back wall, cupping her br**sts through the clinging shirt. "Want to hear one of my fantasies?"

"It—Oh." He was rubbing a thumb over an aching nipple. "Seems only fair."

"Better idea." He brushed his lips over hers, teasing, retreating, until her breath began to hitch. "Why don't I show you? First we get rid of this." He dragged the wet shirt over her head, tossing it aside. It landed with a plop that had another tremor jerking through her system. "And I start here." Toying with her mouth, he rubbed the slick soap over her shoulders. "And I don't stop until I get to your toes."

She had a feeling showers were going to join staircases in the more erotic depths of her imagination. Gripping his hips for balance, she arched back as he circled wet, soapy hands over her br**sts.

Steam. It was all around her, it was inside of her. The thick, moist air made it all but impossible to breathe. A tropical storm, water pounding, heat rising. The creamy soap had flesh sliding gloriously against flesh when their bodies moved together. Her hands foamed with it as she ran them over his back, over his chest. Even as his mouth raced to possess, his muscles quivered at her touch, and her laugh was low and softly triumphant.

If she burned, so did he. That was power clashing against power. There was no longer any doubt that she could give back the wild, wanton, wicked pleasure he brought to her. A pleasure so much sweeter, so much richer, because it grew from love, as well as passion.