He hated the term "human servants." Quintin was his grounds caretaker and Marian, Quintin's wife, maintained the upkeep within the castle. Though Quintin was at Jacques's command, Jacques also regarded the man as a friend.

Leaving his chambers, Jacques walked up the steps to the main floor and made his way to the study, where he picked up the newspaper lying on the desk. Seating himself on the leather couch, he flipped through the pages, reading over the world's recent events. Then he stumbled upon a photo.

A man was lifting a ballerina into the air, her body a picture of grace and beauty. Jacques's eyes took in every detail and feature of her flawless face; his heart pounded wildly in his chest.

She was here! Kelly was in Paris.

Tossing the paper aside, he bounded from his seat, his mind reeling. He had to see her; though he had tried not to think about her every night for many months, he had failed miserably. Everything in him now cried out for just a glimpse of her in person.

Without a second thought, his body shifted and contorted; glossy black feathers appeared, and his nose stretched into a hooked beak. He let out a cry, the hawk's high screech echoing down the corridors of the castle; then he took flight up into the rafters and out a window.

The dark ground rushed below him, the warm breeze ruffling his feathers. His eyes were trained on the horizon where Paris lay ... and where Kelly was. He reached with his senses, working to locate her. Heartbeats flooded his mind, scents filled his nostrils until, finally, Kelly's was the only pulse he could hear, her perfume the only one that called to him.

Entering the city, he followed her trail to La Villa Maillot, where he flew onto her balcony. It was dark in her room, but he could see her lying on the bed, asleep. Her hair spilled around her face like a golden waterfall, and her hands were tucked prettily beneath her face, allowing him a view of her profile: one high and elegant cheekbone, a small nose, and full, lush lips. Her body, revealed to him as she lay above the covers, was long and lean, her breasts small and firm. Slightly rounded hips extended from a tucked-in waist, and her legs went on for forever, uncommon for a prima ballerina, but perfect for wrapping around a man's waist...

Suddenly wishing he were not a bird sitting outside watching her, but a man moving into the shadows of the room and claiming her beauty, he transformed and pushed the balcony door open. Jacques strode across the room; when he came to the bed he stopped and gazed down at her.

Mon ange.

He lowered himself beside her and breathed in deeply. Her feminine scent overwhelmed him, and the sweet flow of her life's blood was alluring. Then he touched her, unable to resist the softness of her skin, the silky texture of her hair. His palm caressed her cheek, brushing up into the luxurious tresses. She mumbled incoherently in her sleep, and his eyes became riveted by her lips, so pink, so sensual ... so inviting.

His breath hitched; he couldn't remember a time when another woman had made him feel this way. The excitement, the longing, the aching need. His mouth descended on hers. Her arms wound around his neck, and he lifted her into his embrace, holding her against him as his tongue delved, savored. His body seemed to catch fire. He couldn't believe she was here, in his arms, and that he was kissing her once more.

How often had he thought of her? He wondered yet again if he'd made a mistake and whether he was doing the right thing for them both. Wanting to see her eyes open, he pushed gently against her mind so that he could look upon them. Her lids lifted, and dark blue orbs stared sightlessly at him.

He groaned, his hands coming up to shape her breasts, squeezing lightly, caressing them. She moaned. Cursing, Jacques quickly laid her back on the bed, tamping down the flames consuming him. His need for her was great, but if she woke to find him in her room, mauling her in her sleep, he knew she would be more than upset.

Turning, he fled the room and hid in the shadows of the balcony.