Kitabı oku: «No Holding Back», sayfa 3
“Do you often throw impromptu candlelight suppers in the middle of the night for strange women?”
“I might make it a habit after tonight.” He considered her carefully. “So far, no signs that you’re a deranged killer…are you?”
“Ah, no. I gave up deranged killing. Hell on a girl’s nails. And those dry-cleaning bills…” She made a tsk-tsk noise and shook her head.
“I hear you.” He pulled up another stool close to hers, so what could she do but wiggle around until she faced him? “I’m glad you showed up.”
“Really?” Fishing, fishing, she was shameless.
“Really.” He poured himself champagne, topped hers off and put the bottle back in the fancy chill-thing, which undoubtedly kept it at the perfect temperature. “Since I left my party early, the evening didn’t feel finished. I’m glad to have company to salvage it.”
I Need a Woman: Billionaire’s Sad Tale of Deprivation.
He clinked his glass to hers. “Dig in.”
Maybe she shouldn’t have, maybe she should have at least hesitated and spent another minute or two contemplating the plight of the poor, but she didn’t. She dug.
Oh my. Dug again. And again, and where was her shovel? If D. G. Jackson could see her, he’d never stop saying told-you-so. She’d deserve it, too.
“Caviar?” He passed it, amusement in his eyes.
Caviar…who knew? She’d had the jarred preserved stuff from the supermarket once and decided the fish should have been able to keep it.
“Foie gras?” The amusement became a smile.
Foie gras…she’d cheerfully gain forty pounds on the stuff given the chance.
“Prosciutto with figs?” This time he was outright smirking.
Prosciutto with fresh figs…sign her up for that action every day. And on and on, while they talked about the food she was eating: him discussing the various types of caviar, she bringing up overfishing in the Caspian Sea; he regaling her with memories of his first taste of foie gras, her mentioning the controversy involved in force-feeding the geese and ducks; him painting a picture of the summer he spent in Lebanon and the fig tree outside his bedroom window from which he could pick ripe figs first thing in the morning, to which she had no politically correct objections. All the while their champagne glasses were emptying and refilling until finally she couldn’t eat or drink another bite and what a horrible shame that was.
“I have reached my absolute limit.”
He drained the last of the bottle into her glass. “C’mon, I dare you.”
“Oh, you Satan.”
He picked up her practically licked-clean plate, grinning triumphantly. “Enjoyed it?”
“Ya think?” She gathered up dishes and bowls and placed them in the sink. “I’ve never had a feast like that. I’m not much of a luxury foods person.”
“Ah.”
Something about the way he spoke made her glance at him suspiciously, though he was concentrating apparently innocently, on rinsing plates. What was that about? Had she disgraced herself with her greed? Maybe, but everything was so good she couldn’t regret it. And he’d been eating quite healthily himself. Best of all, with Mr. Jack Brattle’s notorious aversion to publicity, this multidollar-binge could remain her guilty secret.
“I feel like I should run about five miles to atone for those calories.”
“There’s a pool if you want to do laps.”
Of course there was. “No suit.”
“I’m sure you’d look great in one of mine…”
She giggled and blamed it on the champagne. “Um. Minor coverage problem.”
“If you’re sure…”
“No women in the house?” She tried to ask casually, and succeeded. She thought.
“Not for a long time.”
“Are you divorced?” A natural question, wasn’t it?
“No.” He walked toward her, drying his hands.
“Never married?”
“Never. You?”
“Never. Girlfriend?”
“No. Boyfriend?”
“No.”
And there they stood. If he was feeling anything like what she was feeling, the obvious circumstances of their proximity and their mutual singlehood were suggesting a number of delightful possibilities. Unfortunately there was that damn ethics thing because getting romantic with a man and then publishing an article about him was taking kissing and telling way further than she was comfortable taking it. But ohh, his mouth was so tempting, his lips full and sharply drawn, surrounded by the faint masculine gray of stubble-to-come.
A song came on, a smooth velvety jazz lullaby sung by a female artist whose voice she didn’t recognize.
He took a step forward and she took one, too. His arms went up, one at her shoulder height, one at her waist. “Dance with me, Hannah.”
Jack Brattle: All the Right Moves.
“Love to.” Mmm, she hadn’t been in a man’s arms since Norberto, the smooth-tongued, talented-in-bed, charming, absolute cheating idiot creep jerk butthead…
Okay, she’d ignored all the warning signs and leapt happily into his arms and gotten her heart smacked down yet again. She should have known better.
But now, Jack Brattle smelled soooo good. And he moved like a dream. Under her hand, his shoulder was solid and warm, his chin also warm and smoothly close-shaven when it occasionally brushed her forehead. His fingers held hers lightly, but he kept his body close.
Hannah should know better right now. She’d have to crash down into reality all too soon. Somehow that seemed so deliciously far away, though, and he was so deliciously near.
“You dance divinely, Ms…what?”
“O’Reilly. Thank you. As do you, Mr…?”
She knew he wouldn’t answer, but she lifted her head from where it had pillowed itself on the smooth comfortable front of his shirt and looked up expectantly.
“…Brattle.” He stopped their dance. Looked down intently.
Her reaction was perfect, since she was actually shocked and could do a convincing double take. She couldn’t believe he’d told her. What about keeping himself such a tremendous secret all those years? All that trouble to stay hidden, and now he was telling her, a complete stranger who’d already joked she was a reporter and had been asking all kinds of questions?
Why would he do that?
Her treacherous imagination immediately supplied the kind of answer that was always getting her in trouble. Maybe he’d fallen for her, same as she’d fallen for him and therefore he had given her this incredible gift of trusting her with his identity.
She sighed. Nice story, but it never happened. At least not to her.
Something was definitely odd about the confession, but her brain discarded those thoughts because he was still inches away, their hands were still on each other’s bodies, champagne fizzed through her veins, and since somewhere there must be someone for whom the name Jack Brattle rang only the faintest of bells, she decided the best possible course of action was to pretend to be that person, go on tiptoe and kiss him.
Of course, of course he kissed like a dream. The first was soft and quick, probably a surprised response to her typical lack of self-control. Then another at his initiation, longer and sweeter…then gradually hotter. Her body warmed, she felt his next kiss right down where kisses went when doled out by seriously sexy men. And when she pressed closer—and who could help it when his strong arms slid around her so completely—she could tell that he was…er, enjoying the kiss, too.
Mayday. She was completely crazed with lust, unbearably infatuated with everything about this man and this evening. This was where she should back up, think this through and make sure she understood every possible ramification of her—ooh.
He’d nudged her legs apart and put his thigh between hers, which made her skirt ride upward. His hand dipped to caress her rear, which she faintly hoped, with the last glimmer of her sanity, had gotten firmer since she’d been going to the gym.
What had she been thinking? Something about pulling away. Something about…
Aw, hell.
He guided her back a few steps and lifted her onto the edge of his counter stool, stepped between her thighs and kissed her exactly how women all over the world longed to be kissed whether they knew it or not. He was very hard now, pushing the swollen heat against her thin, red, lace panties, making her nearly ready to come just thinking about being in bed with him.
Wasn’t she supposed to stop this? Something about a story, about ethics…
His lips left hers to explore her neck; his hands drew her skirt slowly up, building her arousal with the expectation of more intimate touch. He slid those same warm hands back and forth on her hips as more and more of her skin became available to his fingers.
Must…hang on…to brain. “Jack.”
“Mmm.”
“This is a little…unreal.”
“How so?”
“You and this amazing house and the incredible food and the champagne and now…this.”
“What ‘this’?”
“Nothing that should be happening.” Her voice was low and breathless, making it damn clear how serious she was about stopping. Which would be not enough.
“I know. It’s a lousy idea.”
“You do? It is?” She opened her eyes. “Why shouldn’t you be doing it?”
“Shh. Pretend it’s not happening.” He trailed his fingers across the lower edge of her abdomen, then along the lacy sides of her panties. “What happens tonight stays there. In the morning, it will all be erased.”
“So…this isn’t happening?”
“No.” He urged her legs farther apart, slid fingers teasingly inside the lace edge. “It’s not happening.”
“Mmm, Jack, but it…really does feel like it’s happening.” She braced her feet on the chair rungs, lifted her hips. He took his cue and slid her panties down, got them over one leg and let them fall down the other.
“No, don’t worry.” He knelt and she leaned her elbows behind her on the counter, tipped her head back, open and vulnerable to him, feeling his warm breath on her sex, closing her eyes in delicious impatience for his even warmer tongue. “I promise it’s not happening.”
“If you say so—oh!” She gasped, let her hips lift and retreat under his talented thrusts, so close to coming so soon that she had to take deep breaths and open her eyes to slow the process down. She wanted him with her. She wanted this to last forever. But, no, she wasn’t going to hold out much longer. “Are you sure this isn’t happening? It really really feels like it is. Any second now.”
“Let it happen, Hannah.”
“I want you with me.”
“I don’t have a condom downstairs.”
“But if this isn’t happening…” She was panting, trying desperately to hold on to some kind of logic. “Then we don’t need…oh!”
He’d moved to kiss her inner thighs, but now settled firmly back on her clit and she was lost. The orgasm started in a dark rush, then boom, steam engine blowing past, making everything rattle and roll in its wake, subsiding eventually to the distance and the past.
“Oh my goodness.” She slowly unclenched her muscles, slumped wearily back on the counter, staring at him with what was certainly a worshipful look as he stood up, smiling male triumph.
Then the impact of what she’d just done hit nearly as hard as the orgasm, creating a serious rupture in her afterglow. Sex with an interviewee who didn’t know yet that he was an interviewee…absolutely not. He’d think she’d slept with him for the story.
Jack Brattle—Jack Brattle—stepped forward and scooped her back to upright, bent and kissed her hard, once, then again and nearly overwhelmed her dismayed and blissful heart by gazing into her eyes and smoothing back what must by now be a rat’s-nest hairdo. “You know they say what happens to you New Year’s Day predicts how you’ll spend your whole year?”
“Does it?” She smiled wistfully up at him, already in love with this perfect, beautiful, incredibly talented-tongued man. “Then this is going to be the best year of my life.”
“I haven’t had a perfect night like this in a long time.”
Something about how he said it made her think that instead of being polite, he meant the words literally. “Me, neither.”
She meant them literally, too.
“I have a brilliant idea.” He held out his hand. “Come upstairs with me and we’ll make more things not happen.”
“That is a brilliant idea.” Hannah accepted his hand, slid off the stool, picked up her panties and took a moment to get her hips working while he supported her. “As soon as I can walk again.”
Up the stairs, then, resting her fingers in his, anticipation mixing with dread, mixing with elation, mixing with sadness. Maybe none of this would have happened by morning as far as he was concerned, but she doubted she’d ever forget a single second.
Not only that, but morning was going to come way too soon. And with it the dismal certainty that once again she’d done plenty of leaping without the slightest bit of looking beforehand. And once again she’d have to pay—this time by having to give up the career opportunity of a lifetime.
Chapter Four
HE WAS SO SCREWED. NO MATTER how he played the rest of this evening, Derek was screwed. Everything had gone as planned, but nothing was working out as it should.
Obviously Dee-Dee had played her role perfectly at Gerard Banks’s party, dangling the Jack Brattle interview in front of Hannah and supplying her with directions to the house. He’d had no doubt she’d take the bait. However, once the weather had changed so dramatically for the worse, he’d never dreamed she’d risk driving out tonight. After his shower earlier in the evening, he’d been about to relock the gate and front door.
Instead, he’d met Hannah for the first time stark naked. That hadn’t been part of the plan. Nor had been his immediate attraction, which only compounded the interest and curiosity that was sparked by the provocative wit she revealed in her Lowbrow column, blogs and occasional features in The Philadelphia Sentinel.
He’d started the Highbrow column as D. G. Jackson when Philly’s restaurant scene began to take off, wanting to indulge his passion for food on the one hand, and on the other, wanting to introduce the average man and woman to dishes, flavors and establishments he or she might otherwise be intimidated by. In his view, good food was one of life’s greatest joys. But once Hannah began countering his “highbrow” suggestions with her “lowbrow” alternatives, he quickly learned that she knew what she was talking about as well as he did. He took great pleasure in going—incognito, of course—to every hole-in-the-wall and mom-and-pop joint she recommended, all of which satisfied as she promised.
His interest only intensified along with their public rivalry. Who was Hannah O’Reilly? What was she like? How could he find out? He wouldn’t call her an obsession, but he certainly thought about her more than was normal, certainly more than any woman he’d met since he’d been forced by circumstances in his early twenties to grow up practically overnight. Okay, maybe obsessed. But not being the kind of man who tolerated unanswered questions, he’d come up with tonight’s plan.
The chance for Hannah to experience the lifestyle of the elusive Jack Brattle was his bait. Lure hungry journalist with promises of the interview of a lifetime, then make her the most “highbrow” meal he could whip up, secretly document her enjoyment, and in his last column before he left Philadelphia for good, skewer her as a closet gourmet. Anyone with taste buds as unerring as hers would be an easy mark.
Hannah had shown up, Derek played the Suspicious Heir act apparently convincingly and she’d gone down without a fight—though he wished he could have captured photographic evidence of her shoving in the foie gras and washing it down ecstatically with Pol Roger Cuvée Sir Winston Churchill 1985.
After the “impromptu” meal, perfectly poised for a wrap to the ultimate checkmate, what did he do? He asked her to dance. Nice one. What did he think, he’d have her gorgeous body pressed against his and remain completely impassive, then Hey, thanks for the dance, I’m off to bed, choose a room, and see you in the morning? He’d immediately started getting ideas involving a lot more than dancing, fueled wilder when it became apparent she was getting the same ones.
Now…with this beautiful, sexy, willing woman stranded in his house, to say that things had gotten out of hand was like saying winter got chilly in Antarctica. Lure her, yes, feed her, yes, dance with her…okay. Kiss her? Bad idea. Succumb to the sexual promise of her blue eyes, rose lips and slender body?
He’d already said he was screwed.
Worse, he was leading her upstairs, unsatisfied lust driving out common sense. Once she got into his bedroom…
Well, she’d be screwed. He didn’t want to think about how low this was for him to go. He might be fascinated by Hannah way beyond the typical male interest in boobs and a great ass, but nothing he could say would convince her of that if she knew who he was and why she was here.
His only hope of going through with the rest of the night without feeling like total scum was to ditch the idea of the article. At least she hadn’t admitted yet that she was a reporter, so he wasn’t the only one holding back truths. Granted, she’d dipped a cautious toe in honesty, but quickly gave up total immersion when he pretended to think she was joking.
What a pair. I’ll lie to you, you lie to me, come into bed, and we’ll lie together.
He got to the end of the hall, pushed open the dark door—so much dark in this house to accompany the dark memories—pulled her into the room and into his arms. She nestled against him; he lowered his chin onto her hair, inhaling her light perfume, more tropical and exotic than he would have expected on a woman whose face could be in an Ivory soap commercial…and whose body could be in an X-rated movie—okay, the perfume made sense.
Either way, Ivory or triple X, she was driving him wild. Watching her come…He was going to have to do some serious soul-searching if he wanted his ego to regain control of his id.
Did he? He wasn’t sure. Because the alternative would be very, very sweet.
“So…” She drew back, keeping her hands linked lightly behind his neck. “What’s not going to happen now?”
Oh, the choice of words. If he had any sense of honor, he’d tell her everything wasn’t going to happen now, he was D. G. Jackson, he’d set her up for this entire evening, though he hadn’t planned the sexual part, and—
“Hmm?” She started rotating her pelvis seductively against his erection.
“Hannah.”
“Ye-e-es?”
“I can’t think while you’re doing that.”
“Do you need to?”
Yes. He needed to. But thought wouldn’t be easy. Hell, it might not even be possible. Her lips were parted, eyes half-closed, head tipped back as she gazed at him. Her skin was so smooth, her neck so long and graceful, the clingy dress sparkled and winked at him so enticingly…
“I’m thinking that—”
“No.” She moved forward again; her tongue painted a short line on his throat, then she closed her lips over the moisture in a brief biting kiss that made him want to pick her up, throw her on the bed and visit heaven. “Don’t think, Jack. Just do…me.”
Her whisper made him groan. He couldn’t take advantage of her like this. Someday in some form even though he was leaving The Herald, she might find out what D. G. Jackson looked like and loathe him forever. Either he told her right now, or—
She let go of his neck abruptly, backed up a few steps, reached to the hem of her dress and pulled it slowly up.
Oh, no. No no no. If she did that, he was—
Long thighs came into view, widening into round hips uninterrupted by the red lace panties that unhinged him earlier. A curving female waist, full breasts barely contained in a red lace demibra.
—lost. He was lost.
The dress dangled from her triumphant fingers, then dropped. She arched her soft brown brows. “What are you thinking now?”
“Ungh.” His caveman grunt made her laugh. To hell with it. Buy now, pay later. He’d make love to her until she begged him to stop, have her sign an I’ll-never-tell document she’d assume typical of Jack Brattle, have her towed home as soon as the weather cooperated and change his planned final Highbrow article. He’d be selling the house soon. Hannah would never meet D. G. Jackson or Jack Brattle in person. Or maybe if she ever did, by then she’d think this was funny.
Right. Maybe.
The plan had flaws wide enough to drive a Hummer through, but with a half-drunk horny woman wearing nearly nothing—no, with this particular half-drunk horny woman wearing nearly nothing, anything sounded better than turning her down.
“You have on too many clothes.” He shrugged clumsily out of his shirt, yanked his undershirt over his head, still uneasy over his lame justification. Where was his nobility?
“I was so hoping that’s what you were thinking.” She put her hands to the back of her bra.
To hell with nobility. Nobility would leave him more frustrated tonight than he’d probably ever been in his life. The promise of those breasts…
“No.” He waggled his finger at her, the stern taskmaster. “My job.”
“Yes, sir.” Her arms fell to her sides. Her sexy mouth, crimson lipstick by now only a faint hue, looked all the more tempting for the smile that spread it. “Your job.”
He’d never make it. He’d get within an inch of her, and he’d come just from that smile. Out of his jeans, impatiently out of his briefs, he strode toward her, stopping inches away, not coming, but more than ready to start trying.
“Make it all not happen, Jack. All of it.” She spoke with earnest passion. “Any way you want it not to happen works for me.”
He grinned, slowly, enjoying her humor, her obvious eagerness. The last woman he’d made love to had the body of a Playboy Bunny and the brain of a squid. Suffice to say, he’d had too much to drink that night and been embarrassingly desperate for sexual contact. But Hannah was Hannah, and he wanted this to be good even if it was going to be their one and only night together. Even if they were both lying through their teeth about who they really were. At least they were honest about wanting this.
What a way to meet.
His hands found her waist, followed her smooth firm lines back and around, wandered up her undulating spine-trail to the closure of her bra. He unhooked it slowly, his eyes anticipating the glorious moment of her full breasts’ release from the confining lace.
Ohh, man. The thought of being able to see this body naked only this one time made him want to weep.
And the thought took him aback. With women these days he was absorbed only in the erotic present. No emotions had been involved since his first girlfriend, Amy, back in college, before his father’s life shattered and brought his mother’s down with it. How often and how deeply he traced losses back to that hellish year. Loss of trust, loss of the desire and capacity for true intimacy. Was it possible to break the cycle if the right woman came along?
Derek pushed the thoughts away. Lighten up, dude, as his Oberlin roommate would say. It was New Year’s Eve, he’d been seduced by champagne and this woman, with all her possibilities. By morning, she’d have to be another brief conquest like the rest of them. In the meantime…he’d give her what they both wanted before he disappeared.
He lifted her and set her down on the edge of his bed, savoring the way her arms came around him to help support her weight. Starved for female touch, he knelt to worship her body, rubbing his cheek around each heavy breast, glad he’d shaved to spare her feeling sandpaper. Her scent was exquisite, the voluptuous softness of her skin enticing, the smooth weight against his face thrilling. Her nipples responded to his tongue and teeth; she moaned and didn’t resist when he pushed her gently back on the quilt-covered mattress and climbed over her, settling between her legs, not entering yet, though his cock was in a frenzy. Too soon. He wanted this to last forever. As if anything could.
She pushed her hands up the columns of his arms, met his eyes unwillingly, hers unexpectedly shy and vulnerable. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He was undone by those eyes, suddenly and fiercely protective of her, naked underneath him, opening herself willingly to a stranger. Crazy old-fashioned idea. For all he knew, she spread for every guy she met. Boatloads of them a week. Though he didn’t think so, didn’t know why not, just instinct, about the only thing he trusted anymore.
“This is still not happening, right?”
Suddenly he felt a longing so fierce it startled him. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, then her mouth, long lingering kisses, hoping the vulnerability he’d glimpsed in her eyes meant she felt the same.
“Nope. Not happening.”
“Whew. Good.”
Yeah. Great. He reached for a condom from his night table to hide the surge of anger he recognized as disappointment in her reaction, then settled back over her. If he kept his brain on tits, ass and pussy, he’d be fine.
Except he wanted much more out of this night with her, all the more so since it would be their only one together. So he took his time, tasted her mouth leisurely, willing her to be seduced by his lips and tongue until she wanted this to be “not happening” as much as he did. She responded warmly, her arms encircling his shoulders. His hand wandered to her breast; he slid his palm back and forth, brushing her nipple gently side to side. Her kisses grew hotter; her hands clenched in his hair. Triumph swelled. Her control was wavering. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. And he wanted her more apparently than he wanted his own integrity intact.
His erection found her sex, barely nudged into her opening, forward, back, forward, back, no more than half an inch. Her legs spread; her hips lifted; she made an impatient sound. Still he teased, press, release, press, release.
She wrapped one arm around his back, brought her knees up beside his shoulders, reached down and spread herself wide with her fingers. “Jack.”
“Something you wanted?”
“Um.” She gave a short hoarse laugh. “Yeah.”
“What’s that?” He whispered the words in her hair, lifted his hips to give his hand access to the sweet moisture between her legs, trailing his fingers up and down her sex, loving the way she hissed in breath when he lingered over her clitoris. She was so responsive. So uninhibited. He wanted to believe she was like this only with him.
“Er…I find that sex is a lot better…” Hiss of incoming breath. He slid a finger inside her and she gasped the air out again. “When you actually have it.”
“Really.” He wasn’t going to be able to hold back much longer. The calm and cool act would be completely blown if she could feel his heart thudding, hear the lust-roaring of his too-long denied body. She was so beautiful. “Interesting idea.”
“Do it. Now.” She took hold of his cock and guided it straight where it most wanted to be, wriggling her hips up and around, trying deliciously to impale herself.
His control vaporized; he lowered and let his muscles do the work they were so desperate to do, sliding into her as gradually as he could manage, trying not to dwell on the smooth tight feel of her gripping his length or he’d come too soon.
Her blissful sigh nearly undid him.
“Like that?”
“Mmm, like that.”
He moved slowly, against all instincts urging him to pump until his orgasm had its way, made sure he stimulated her, concentrated on making her as crazy for him as he was for her.
She fell in with his rhythm, her body flushing, her eyes glazed and sensual. He had to look away. She was too perfect. Too beautiful. Too close and too intimate like this. His chest ached dangerously; he wanted, insanely, to possess her in a far more lasting way than just this one night.
In defense, he closed his eyes, sped his rhythm, trying to finish before he lost his heart—or his mind. He wasn’t sure which was in danger, maybe both. She whimpered, and he tried to block out the sound, wanting her over the edge ahead of him. Her legs locked around his back; her head made swishing noises on his pillow; her breath grew rapid and hoarse. He loved what he was doing to her. He wanted to do this to her every day; he didn’t want another man touching her ever, no one ever making her feel like this but him.
Tension locked her body; he opened his eyes so he could watch the ecstasy on her face as he felt her pulsing around his cock. Her cheeks were pink, lips parted, expression awed and blissful.
His own climax tore through him; at its peak he joined their mouths and kissed her with every shred of passion he could feel, more than he knew possible.
Then it was over. Lost, he rolled them to one side, still inside her, gathered her to him, his chin resting on her hair, listening to their breathing gradually slow, feeling their hearts still pounding.
He’d been a fool to think he could make love to this woman and call it over. He wanted more. He wanted to talk to her every day, eat with her every day, to make her laugh, give her everything she wanted and things she didn’t even know she wanted.
Where had these emotions come from? How had he gone from seeing sex as an occasional human necessity with whomever appealed, to wanting to devour everything about this woman? Had she drugged him? Bewitched him? Had he become such an emotional hermit that the need in him exploded retroactively? He didn’t know.
But he had to tell her at least some of the truth or nothing more than tonight would be possible. After the power of what just passed between them, maybe she could forgive and forget…and want more, as well.
Though no doubt his confession would make for a rough few hours.
“Hey.” She stretched and started stroking and massaging his neck and shoulders, making him want to handcuff her to his bed so she could do the same every night.
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