The Marrakech sun bled down on Michael Brighton as he bathed nude in its warmth. "Home," his lips blew the word silently into the spice-scented breeze. He was a student of all things old. His life had been one of saving the condemned, of bringing life back to the stone cold dead. His calling was noble. His love was not. Michael loved a married man. "Gareth Reed," like a lovesick fool, he whispered the name just to feel the taste of the man on his tongue. Gareth worked construction, in his spare time he dug lives out of disasters' rubble. Urban rescue was his calling. Michael Brighton was his love. Theirs had been a story of stolen hours, of games adults play, of futures locked away behind cold wedding bands. Theirs was a love that had no right to be... So a madman took it away. Beneath that very Moroccan sun, with the name of his lover still ripe on his lips, Michael Brighton was stolen away.... When the love of a man's life is taken away, he is left with only one choice... Gareth Reed takes him back.