The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

But she didn't listen.

She'd never told Rhyme, but some months ago she'd bought a book called The Disabled Lover. Sachs was surprised to learn that even quadriplegics can make love and father children. A man's perplexing organ literally has a mind of its own and severing the spinal cord eliminates only one type of stimulus. Handicapped men were capable of perfectly normal erections. True, he'd have no sensation, but--for her part--the physical thrill was only a part of the event, often a minor part. It was the closeness that counted; that was a high that a million phony movie orgasms would never approach. She suspected that Rhyme might feel the same way.

She kissed him again. Harder.

After a moment's hesitation he kissed her back. She was not surprised that he was good at it. After his dark eyes, his perfect lips were the first thing she'd noticed about him.

Then he pulled his face away.

"No, Sachs, don't . . . "

"Shhh, quiet . . . " She worked her hand under the blankets, began rubbing, touching.

"It's just that . . . "

It was what? she wondered. That things might not work out?

But things were working out fine. She felt him growing hard under her hand, more responsive than some of the most macho lovers she'd had.

She slid on top of him, kicked the sheets and blanket back, bent down and kissed him again. Oh, how she wanted to be here, face-to-face--as close as they could be. To make him understand that she saw he was her perfect man. He was whole as he was.

She unpinned her hair, let it fall over him. Leaned down, kissed him again.

Rhyme kissed back. They pressed their lips together for what seemed like a full minute.

Then suddenly he shook his head, so violently that she thought he might have been having an attack of dysreflexia.

"No!" he whispered.

She'd expected playful, she'd expected passionate, at worst a flirtatious Oh-oh, not a good idea . . . But he sounded weak. The hollow sound of his voice cut into her soul. She rolled off, clutching a pillow to her breasts.

"No, Amelia. I'm sorry. No."

Her face burned with shame. All she could think was how many times she'd been out with a man who was a friend or a casual date and suddenly been horrified to feel him start to grope her like a teenager. Her voice had registered the same dismay that she now heard in Rhyme's.

So this was all that she was to him, she understood at last.

A partner. A colleague. A capital F Friend.

"I'm sorry, Sachs . . . I can't. There're complications."

Complications? None that she could see, except, of course, for the fact that he didn't love her.

"No, I'm sorry," she said brusquely. "Stupid. Too much of that damn single malt. I never could hold the stuff. You know that."

"Sachs."

She kept a terse smile on her face as she dressed.

"Sachs, let me say something."

"No." She didn't want to hear another word.

"Sachs . . . "

"I should go. I'll be back early."

"I want to say something."