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‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. Shari draped herself lazily upon her unmade bed. You have said a thousand times that there was no shame in you. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. FOREWORD Forever Fifteen was born of a dream I had in 2002, a dream that was part nightmare.
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