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representative, Father Baptiste, the way she should have.
    Father Baptiste . Martine closed her eyes and locked the thought out of her brain. Once everything had been sorted out, she would contact Father Baptiste and make her confession. Visions of her last night in Haiti and her grand-mère"s heroic struggles to help her stow away on the cargo ship bound for Marseille danced through her brain.
    Only when worn cowboy boots appeared between her gaze and the carpet did Martine managed to climb out from inside her horrific memories, the blood, the pain, the filth that had taken control of her mind. She licked dry lips and stood, staring at a royal blue denim shirt buttoned midchest. Not a hairy chest, more lightly furred, and the down seemed soft, her labored breathing tickling a few strands into motion.
    Non, non, do not do this, Martine. Do not picture what is to come.

    16
    Jianne Carlo

    “They are ready for you,” he said. “You need to sign the agreement before we go in.”
    Martine avoided Harrison Ford"s gaze, certain guilt and embarrassment broadcasted from her flushed cheeks, her clutching fingers. The door opened, and a man at least four inches taller than Martine strolled into the room, carrying a sheaf of papers.
    “I believe you know Sir Geoffrey Stanford.”
    “ Oui . Yes. Monsieur,” Martine said, inclining her head. Perspiration coated her palms as the two men flanked her, their stares intent and somber. She had met the English lord during the interviews required for the position, and the man never failed to ignite a hollow panic in her belly. No matter how often she tried to convince herself he didn"t know what she"d done, all her lies seemed obvious when she was in his presence.
    “Miss Bellamy.” Sir Geoffrey laid five pages on a rectangular sideboard lined with fragile crystal decanters filled with liquids of brown and amber hues. He proffered an old-fashioned fountain pen with a brilliant gold nib. She accepted the writing instrument and searched the printed-paper for the familiar X , which would delineate where she should sign.
    “Sign here.” He touched a forefinger to a series of dots. “Here. Initial here. One more right here.”
    Angling her body, Martine managed to hide her trembling fingers and complete shaky scrawls where the man indicated.
    “Your turn, Harry. Same spots.”
    After they completed signing the prenuptial agreement, Geoff gathered the documents into one hand and stated, “I"ll make copies for both of you. The original will go to the bank safety deposit box.”
    “Sit, Martine.” Harry waved at a plush lemon Queen Anne chair. “You need to know exactly what"s going to happen over the next twenty minutes.”
    A throbbing started at her temples, but Martine obeyed his command. She swallowed once, twice, and a shudder racked her body.
    Harry noticed. He fell to one knee in front of her.
    “I"ll be in the room with you, right by your side. There"s a tent between you and the doctors and lawyers. You won"t see any of them. I"ll be sitting next to you at the head of the table. Look at me, Martine.”
    Shaking her head, she whispered, “I can"t.”
    Tipping a finger under her chin, Harrison forced their eyes to meet. “I won"t let them harm or humiliate you in any way, shape, or form. I promise you this. I know we"re strangers, but it"s you and me against them, understand? We have to trust each other. Can you do that? Trust me?”

    Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

    17

    “Do I have any other choice?” Moisture threatened to overflow her eyes, and Martine choked back a hysterical laugh. Trust, what a laughable concept. In her world trust equaled death.
    When they put her feet into the metal stirrups some eternity later, she squeezed her eyes shut and recited the Lord"s Prayer followed by the gospel of John, chapter one, verse one. In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God.
    The cold steel met her warm flesh, and she flinched, unable to stifle the