Eve: “If you ended up naked and dead with another woman, I'd do the Rumba on your corpse.” Roarke: “You can't do the Rumba.” Eve: “I'd take lessons first.” Roarke: “You might very well. Not that you'll ever get the chance, but you'd also grieve.

I said, you're the beat of my heart, the breath in my body, the light in my soul.

What a woman you are,” he murmured, and she heard the emotion in it, the way the Irish thickened just a bit in his voice. And saw it in those vivid eyes when he drew back. “That you would think of this. That you would do this.” He shook his head, kissed her. Like the breath, long and quiet. “I can’t thank you enough. There isn’t enough thanks. I can’t say what this means to me, even to you. I don’t have the words for it.” He took her hands, brought them both to his lips. “A ghra. You stagger me.” He framed her face now, touched his lips to her brow. “You’re the beat of my heart, the breath in my body, the light in my soul.

You can’t go back. Can’t fix what broke. But you can go forward. And every step matters. Every one makes a difference.” She pushed away from the desk, cupped his face in her hands. “From where I’m standing, you’re the best step I ever took.

Roarke: You'd enjoy flying more if you'd learn the controls. Eve: I'd rather pretend I'm on the ground. Roarke: And how many vehicles have you wrecked, had blown up, or destroyed in the last, oh, two years? Eve: Think about that, then imagine it happening when I'm at the wheel at thirty thousand feet. Roarke: Good point. I'll do the flying.