Harry's cleanly shaven face was a mask of concentrated effort and she couldn't help but pity his mood. Rare is the man who can endure illness with levity.

Diane had been keeping him at a distance since their night at the hotel, but she didn't know why. At every opportunity he had reached out for her; kissing her hands at the table, touching her back as they walked, looking her fully and deeply with his amazing eyes.

During their stay at his mother's place he had said goodnight, every night, with expectation in his voice, but never pressed her when she turned from him to her room. Each morning he greeted her warmly without a hint of resentment. She never actually pushed him away, but she never initiated contact either or explained what she was feeling.

After seeing Grace leave his room at the hospital, she had completely shut him out, and it was cruel.

Swallowing her fears, she reached down and gently combed Harry's silky hair with her fingers. He closed his eyes, sighed and tilted his head back further. Diane continued stroking his hair and slid off the back of the couch. Kneeling behind Harry's head, she used both hands to massage his temples.

Minutes passed and the tension began to drain away from both of them. As she softly said, "I'm sorry," he reached up and brought her hand to his mouth. Diane traced his lower lip and he responded by lightly biting her finger. He didn't release her until he had a thorough taste and when he did, the sensation made her dizzy with pleasure.

The little sound she made brought a smile to his lips. Harry felt like he could breath again.

After setting his coffee on the table, Diane ordered him to turn over so she could rub his back and shoulders. He kicked off his shoes and obediently flopped over. The phone rang once, and stopped.

"Good girl, Gracie," Harry mumbled into the couch. He was face down and his right arm hung limply over the edge, fingers resting on the carpet. Diane pressed hard on his lower back, and he sunk into the cushions.

"Hmmm,this won't do, I'm afraid. No leverage."

He turned his head to the side facing her, "I beg your pardon?"

Diane pushed the coffee table back and said, "On the floor, Detective."

He carefully moved to the floor and lay down. Diane sat next to him, and without asking, she slid her hands under his sweater and pulled it up and over his head, and tossed it on to the table. Then she positioned his arms next to his sides so his shoulder muscles would be relaxed.

"Too cold?" she asked.