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44DFS illusion.
    He opened his eyes again. She was no illusion. Nor had she been an illusion in the night. Only the love had been an illusion, the belief in magic.
    Not the act of love, logic warned him. That had been very, very real. So real that he could still warm to the touch of her, remember with aching clarity the sweet, wild things that had gone on between them….
    He cursed aloud, then carefully tried to unravel her hair from his shoulders. What would she remember, he wondered. His own recall was perfect, but then he hadn’t inhaled half of what she had of the drug. She had acted out a dream, and perhaps she would awake believing only in that dream. He still didn’t know all the repercussions of the drug. It had been tested on rats, rabbits, beagles, chimps, and fighting cocks, but never human beings before.
    He winced; it shouldn’t have been tested on humans now. And sure as hell not in these circumstances!
    She’d wanted to see him hanged before; now she’d want to perform the execution herself.
    If she remembered.
    Oh, God! What the hell had he done!
    Carefully, he untangled her leg from his. He stood, then stared blankly at the blackness beyond the porthole. And then he looked down at her again, shaking his head slightly, a soft smile curling his lips.
    He was horribly in the wrong. Yet who could resist dreams? Who could resist such a balm to the soul?
    â€œThank you,” he whispered, and with great tenderness he moved a wild strand of her hair from her cheek to the pillow. “I’ll never be able to say this when you’re awake, but what you gave me was more, much, much more, than 44DFS. It was something very fine. Something I haven’t known in more than a decade—”
    He broke off, quickly. She was stirring, her thick lashes fluttering over her eyes. His breath caught, but she merely murmured something and nestled into the pillow.
    Michael took a deep, shaky breath. He needed some good strong coffee now, something to completely clear his head, something that would let him think.
    He needed to decide just what to say and do when she awoke. Ethically, he felt he had to be honest. Yet something inside warned him that she might not want to know the truth.
    He ducked down by the bed, pulling out his drawer. He didn’t even know where his robe was, but it didn’t matter. He wanted to dress in uniform whites for morning. If nothing else, he was definitely going to have to discover what she was still doing on the island when she had signed a government form promising to be off it! And then, he was going to have to give her some kind of explanation, if not a complete one.
    Just as his hand closed around a pair of socks, her fingers fell on his shoulder. “James?”
    Her voice was husky, full of pain and yearning.
    He rose, taking her hands, leaning over her.
    â€œGo to sleep, Katrina.”
    â€œNo!” The agonized sound of her cry closed around him. She shook her head, a haze of tears glittering in her eyes.
    â€œYou have to sleep; I have to go—”
    She was halfway up, wrapping her arms around him. She buried her face against his shoulder, and she trembled slightly as a sob threatened to engulf her.
    â€œNo, no! You’re here … you’re here, and I’m afraid to close my eyes because you’ll disappear.”
    Her breasts were against him, soft, full, and feminine. It was nearly impossible to ignore the plea in her voice.
    He wasn’t under the influence of 44DFS anymore.
    But he was still human, and torn in two.
    â€œGo to sleep, Katrina,” he told her firmly, pressing her back to the bed. “Sleep….”
    At last her eyes closed, and he left her.
    Katrina awoke very slowly, and oddly enough, the sensation was pleasant enough—at first.
    It was very much as if a soft, soft billow of clouds had pressed her forward to some sort of landing, then faded, billowing just as gently away and out of reach.