In the months following Wash’s death, she’d tried a couple of times with young men in fancy Rim houses. Mal had turned a blind eye, but he’d known. The men were nothing like her husband - boys, really … tall, willowy, dark … she’d come, all right, but there was no release, and she’d realised it wasn’t sex she needed, but love, and he was gone.

So she’d become almost nun-like, occasionally relieving the tension herself when it became unbearable, always seeing Wash’s face in the dark, always crying silently into her pillow after.

Mostly she tried not to think about it. And it was so hard after being with a man who wanted her, craved her like a drug, an addiction …

Then along came Hank. Who not only liked her, loved her, but was so much like her dead husband in so many ways that she hated him for it. Yet he got under her skin, irritated her. Until …

He thought they looked like a giant ice-cream sundae. She was the dark choc mint, all luscious and rich, while he, swirled about her, was the cool vanilla. The sweat on their skin was probably the hot fudge sauce, or maybe sweet maple syrup. He sighed happily. “Mmn, chocolate.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve just been satisfied and you’re thinking about food?” she asked, turning her head to look into his face.

“I always think about food.”

“Always?”

“Well, quite a lot. I like food.”

“So now you’re thinking about chocolate?”

“Only in the way of dessert.” He grinned and lifted himself up onto his elbow to look down at her, all exotic and mysterious, just waiting to be explored, like a hidden city in the jungle …

“You’re fantasising again,” she said, her lips twitching, just a little. “Who is it this time?”

“No-one,” Hank promised, then looked a little sheepish. “Well, maybe you, actually.”

“Hank, you have me,” she pointed out. “No need to fantasise.”

“Wasn’t that kind of fantasy. Not quite.”

“So what was it?”

He sat up, lifting his arm off her waist. “I was just thinking that I’d like to know the rest of y