"Blood Seduction"

Sara sat sideways in the passenger seat of the jag watching Ian. When they stopped at a light, he turned his head and said, “You’re staring.” She licked her lips. “I know,” she replied. One of his dark brows arched sardonically. The light changed and his eyes shifted back to the road ahead. The speed of the sleek car increased. She smiled and asked, “Are we in a hurry?” He turned his head to glance at her again and a curl tumbled endearingly across his forehead. He absently brushed it back and said, “Only to get home.” Her smile broadened. “And then?” she asked. He smiled too now, focusing on the traffic again. “And then we can take our time,” he assured her, leaving absolutely no doubt in her mind as to his intentions. Sara shifted uncomfortably in the luxurious, leather seat. She was soaking wet and the new lacy, green thong she wore was probably ruined. She decided to think about something else before she jumped him and caused an accident. “What did you and Danny talk about in the kitchen? Besides the evil twin, that is,” she said, adding, “Speaking of which, in the future, you might want give me some warning before you drop a bomb like that on me.”

Remembering her clone faux pas, he laughed delightedly, sounding very young. Sara couldn’t help it. His laughter was infectious. Her lips twitched too and then she laughed with him. “Okay, okay,” she said, between chuckles, “Get it all out of your system. You’re really in for it when we get home. I owe you big time, buster.” He turned his head again, eyes flashing wickedly. “Promise?” he asked. Looking into those rich, amber eyes, Sara had a vivid sense memory of how he tasted. It almost undid her. She was a hair breath away from telling him to pull the car over to the side of the road before she mastered herself. “What’s the matter with me?” she thought a little frantically. The smile had slipped from his face when Ian asked, “Are you okay?” He looked concerned. She swallowed hard, feeling a low clench of arousal. “Lordy,” she thought, “I’m like a bitch in heat.” Aloud, she asked, “Are we almost there?” She felt the powerful car accelerate again. “Five minutes,” he assured her, “Aren’t you feeling well?” Sara snorted. “I’m fine,” she responded, “Just a little…overheated.” Ian frowned. “Warm?” he asked, hand moving toward the dashboard, “I can turn down the heat.” She caught his fingers and stroked them slowly. He turned his head to glance at her questioningly. “Not even if you tried,” she growled softly. She watched comprehension dawn in the luminous, golden eyes. “Oh,” he said softly. Ian slipped his fingers from hers and moved them to the gear shaft. Her seatbelt tightened and she put her hand on the dash to brace herself as the jag leaped forward. “Two minutes,” he corrected. Sara laughed.

He was as good as his word. Miraculously avoiding a speeding ticket, they pulled into the underground garage of their building two minutes later. Ian deftly parked the jag and turned off the ignition. Before the engine stopped vibrating, Sara was reaching for the door handle. She was halfway out the door when Ian gripped her shoulder and pulled her back into the car. “Stop!” he commanded. When she turned to him with lowered brows, he held up one finger and said, “New rule, Sara. You let me go first to be sure that it’s safe. You allow me to be your Protector. Yes?” She looked pointedly at the hand that still rested on her shoulder. He removed it. Sara raised her right hand and waved it in front of his face. “I have this,” she said, though the Blade was quiet on her wrist, “Remember?” He managed a strained smile. “I’m not likely to forget,” he replied, “And you’ll still have it if I fail to protect you and you must face whatever defeats me alone. So?”

There was a long pause before Sara sighed. “So, I’ll wait in the car and let you go first,” she accepted, resigned. Ian smiled and lifted her right hand to his lips. He pressed a warm kiss to the inside of her wrist, then turned her hand to press his lips against the brilliant red stone of the Witchblade. “Thank you,” he whispered. She frowned again, but playfully this time. “Yeah, yeah,” she replied, disengaging her hand from his and waving it airily, “Just get moving. My bones are feeling awfully solid and you promised me that they would melt.” Now, he grinned. “Moving,” he said, opening the car door and adding, “Because that’s a promise I intend to keep.” As Ian walked around the car, she could see the subtle change in his body language. He had suddenly shifted from lover to warrior mode. She sighed again and shook her head, watching him scan the shadows carefully. By the time he had reached her door and helped her out of the car, it was apparent that he had decided that the garage was safe. He pressed a button somewhere, and the jag beeped and locked. “Time to tackle the elevator,” she thought. They got to the elevator doors and Sara tilted her head to look up at him. “Want me to stand back while you open the door?” she asked facetiously. He didn’t bite. Instead, he smiled pleasantly and nodded. “Please,” he requested. Sara snorted, but she stood behind him waiting for him to slide up the big door. The elevator was empty.

Ian held out a hand to indicate that Sara should precede him. As the elevator rose to the top of the building, she leaned against the wall and asked, “How long are we going to perform this ritual?” He met her gaze, unflinching. “Until I eliminate the threat of the clone,” he replied. She made a rude sound and his lips twitched. When the elevator stopped at their floor, he casually moved in front of her and raised the elevator door. There was no evil clone lurking in the hallway either. Sara passed him, digging around in her bag for her key. “Are you sure Irons isn’t faking you out?” she asked, head down, “Maybe he didn’t save the clone after all. Maybe the clone doesn’t really exist.” Ian moved past her. He slipped his key into the lock and opened the door. “He exists,” he answered softly, grabbing Hannibal as the big dog attempted to climb all over his returning master in a paroxysm of joy. Sara laughed as she watched Hannibal maul Ian into submission. Hanging her coat in the hall closet, she said, “Yeah, you’re bad, Nottingham. It’s easy to see who the master here is. Hannibal has got your number. Are you taking him out?”

Ian had finally managed to extricate himself from his dog’s clutches. He was getting ready to leash Hannibal to take him for his evening walk. “Yes,” he confirmed, “Do you need anything from the grocery?” She thought for a minute before she said, “We’re almost out of milk.” Ian nodded, ready to go. “I’ll get some,” he replied, opening the door and adding, “Lock it behind me.” He was almost out when she hissed, “Hurry back, ace. You’ve got a hot date with my bones. Remember?” Ian stuck just his head back in, grinning, and said, “Vividly. Warm them up for me so that I can jump them comfortably as soon as I get home.” He was suddenly yanked out of sight, uttering a soft oath, as Hannibal made a dash for the stairs. Sara shut the door, smiling. She started to move away, stopped, and turned back to lock the several bolts now on the door. She hesitated for a moment and then also activated the new security keypad that Ian had recently installed. “Like living in a goddamn prison,” she thought irritably.

Soft fur brushed along her ankles and Sara jumped back against the wall with a small shriek. She glanced down and found Clarice staring up at her as if she were both rude and nuts. Hand over her pounding heart, Sara hissed, “Jeez, Clarice, you almost gave me a heart attack.” The cat responded with a delicate yowl that managed to convey disdain and disappeared into the shadows of the loft, tail held high. Sara pulled in a few deep breaths before heading to the sleeping loft to prepare for Ian’s return. About half an hour later, Ian was back with a relieved dog, a quart of milk, and a big box of pastries for the next morning. He unleashed Hannibal, and put the pastries and milk in the kitchen, before moving toward the sleeping area. Sara was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed waiting for him. She had on her new green silk nightgown, freshly laundered since their sojourn at the Sherry Netherland. Her honey brown hair was pulled back in a high ponytail tied with a ribbon of the same color. Ian vaulted up onto the raised bedroom and stopped to stare, open-mouthed. Sara glanced down at herself, her cheeks coloring a little. “What?” she asked. He gave his head a tiny shake like he was rousing himself from a dream. “You look so beautiful sitting there like that,” he said, voice husky. She smiled, running her hands over her silk-clad breasts. “What? This old thing?” she whispered slyly. He grinned back at her wickedly. His eyes had darkened to deep amber and were sparkling. “That ‘old thing’ definitely had the desired effect,” he growled softly, “I very much want to explore the treasure that it’s hiding.”

Sara’s green eyes smoldered. “You’re dressed much too formally for a treasure hunt,” she declared to Ian, who was still in his suit, shirt, and tie. “You better come right over here and let me get you ready for your adventure,” she added, crooking her finger. He obeyed her readily, coming over to sit on the side of the bed. “I could be out of these clothes in about two seconds flat,” he suggested. Sara slid off the bed to kneel in front of Ian. “And what would be the fun in that?” she asked. Ian tilted his head to one side, watching her avidly, as she slipped off his shoes. She ran her hands over his stockinged feet, dragging her nails lightly over the soles. He made a soft sound and tried to pull his foot free of her grasp. She looked up to meet startled golden eyes. “Ah ha,” she observed, “Feet a little ticklish, are they?” The cat eyes following the movements of her fingers grew warier. She felt him tense, preparing to bolt if she tickled. Instead, she carefully removed his socks and bent forward to kiss the arch of his foot, her long hair trailing over his bare ankle. Ian shut his eyes and sucked in a ragged breath at the sharp shock of pleasure that began at her mouth and radiated upward.

Sara slipped warm hands up under his pants legs to stroke the hard muscles of his calves slowly. Ian’s brain began to fog with a heady steam that was equal parts love and lust. At this rate, he thought, he would come before she got him out of his pants. “Sara…,” he began. She shook her head and said, “Shhh,” rising up on her knees. Smiling seductively, she pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders and down his arms, dragging her hands slowly over each perfectly delineated muscle and vein. When the jacket pooled over his hands, Ian pulled out of the sleeves and tossed the garment one-handed across the room where it landed beside the bureau. Sara followed the jacket’s trajectory with her eyes. “Wrinkles,” she murmured, looking back into smoky golden eyes. “Cleaners,” he responded, sinking into depthless green pools. Sara grinned and purred, “Now the fun really begins,” pulling off his tie. She slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Ian grinned too; leaning back to rest on his hands and let her have her way with him. As she bared his chest and stomach, Sara kissed and licked taut, silky skin, lingering over each scar she found – and there were many. When she finished stroking his sculpted abs, she tilted her head back to gauge the effect she was having on him. Ian’s eyes were shut. His lips were parted and slack, and he was panting softly. Her eyes moved to his hands, behind him on the mattress. He was gripping the sheets, white-knuckled. Sara smiled and pushed the cream silk shirt slowly down his arms, again dragging her finger nails erotically over naked skin and muscle.

When Sara leaned forward to pull the shirt over his hands, flinging it across the room to join the jacket, her tummy connected with another portion of his anatomy that was obviously aroused. She had intended to turn her attention to his nipples next, but now she changed her mind. Even the best cleaners in the world could not remove some stains. It was time to lose the pants. She sat back on her haunches and said, “Stand up.” For a moment, there was no reaction. Then, her words managed to edge past the roiling lust in Ian’s brain. His eyes slitted to fix her with a molten gold gaze, filtered through thick lashes. “Now?” he asked hoarsely. Her lips twitched, amused. He didn’t seem much inclined to move at the moment. “Yeah, sport. Now,” she confirmed, “If we don’t get those pants off you soon, they’re going to be ruined.” Ian lifted one bare shoulder in a languid “Who gives a fuck?” gesture and Sara’s lips thinned. The suit that he was now almost wearing probably cost more than she made in a month. It was irresponsible to needlessly trash costly clothing that way. Both sensing and seeing the change in her mood, Ian’s eyes opened wide. He honestly had no idea what he had done to put that hard glint in her eye but, whatever it was, it wasn’t worth blocking the momentum that had been building between them. Ian swiftly stood. He dropped his head to cautiously regard her, still sitting at his feet, trying to gauge whether she was now mollified. Sara rose up on her knees so that her head was level with his waist. She rested her hands on his hips and looked up at him, standing so tall above her. She had to fight to keep a smile off her face. Ian looked so worried. She had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. He hasn’t a clue what pissed me off, she thought, but he really wants to get laid tonight so he’ll do whatever it takes to keep me happy. Head down, she stifled a muted snort. “Sara?” he asked, confused, “Do you want me to take off the pants myself?” In answer, she began unbuckling his belt. “Guess not,” he murmured, shifting from one foot to the other like a nervous child.

She pulled down his zipper, being careful of the swollen shaft pressing hotly against her fingers. Sara gave a quick push and his pants fell to drop around his ankles. “Step out of them and stand still,” she directed. He did. Sara turned to toss the discarded pants on the chair. Swiveling back around, she just studied him for a moment, standing there in a pair of simple, white briefs. She was no artist but he made her wish that she was. Her fingers itched to capture him on paper. Then, she decided, her fingers just itched to capture him. She went up on her knees again and dug her fingers under the waistband of the briefs. Getting him out of the tight briefs when he had a straining erection was no easy task, but it was a pleasant one. Ian hissed as her fingers brushed against him, his hips arching toward her uncontrollably. “Hurry,” he whispered, voice tight. She tilted her face up to look at him, grinning. “Keep your pants on,” she said drolly. He moved one hand to tangle his fingers in her hair, giving it a little tug. “Not funny,” he panted. Ian stepped out of the discarded briefs impatiently. Sara gathered them up, realizing that they were already a bit wet with his arousal, and flung them across the room to land near his shirt and jacket. She felt the hand enmeshed in her hair trying to subtly guide her head toward his rigid shaft. She resisted. She heard his soft, resigned sigh and his grip loosened.

She smiled and began stroking the long muscles in his thighs, taking her time. Stretching forward, she planted quick, wet kisses all along the insides of his upper legs, breathing in and getting dizzy with the heady scent of his arousal. Sara ran her hands around the backs of his thighs and up to his firm bottom. She grasped one cheek with each hand, enjoying the feel of sinewy muscle under satin skin. He made a perfect handful. Gripping tightly, she directed his hips forward and snaked out her tongue to lick shining droplets off the head of his erection. Ian swayed, groaning. He put his hands on her shoulders to keep his balance, fingers digging in spasmodically. Sara pulled back a little and said, “Ease up on the shoulders, sweetie. I bruise easily.” He gasped and released her immediately. “Sorry,” he managed. “Maybe you better lie back down,” she suggested, “Wouldn’t want those knees to give out on you.” Ian apparently agreed because he stretched back out on the bed, his eyes fixed on her expectantly.

His eagerness made Sara smile. Nothing like a bit of a dry spell to peak a man’s interest, she thought – not that Ian had become anything remotely like blasé about making love. She decided that it was time to stop her slow seduction and she settled down to finish what she had started. He was already so close that it didn’t take very long. His whole body arched high off the mattress as he came, crying out her name. Sara delicately wiped her mouth with a towel she had wisely brought to the bedside table. Ian lay utterly still, eyes shut, trying to catch his breath. She dropped the towel back on the table before reaching out to push sweaty curls back from his forehead. “Better?” she asked. He sighed deeply, eyes still shut. “Took off the edge,” he murmured. Sara ran one finger from the center of his chest down to his scooped navel. “Not too much, I hope,” she replied, “You go to sleep now and you won’t have to worry about evil clones. I’ll kill you myself.” The tiger eyes flashed open and he grinned. “Detective, you wound me,” he replied in a pained voice, “Casting aspersions on my stamina. I’m just getting started.” Her eyes narrowed. “Prove it,” she challenged.

Ian moved faster than her eyes could follow. Sara was suddenly flat on her back and he was pinning her to the mattress with one long leg wedged between hers. She felt a warm hand edging up under the silk nightgown. The gown snagged at her hips and Ian uttered a soft, frustrated growl. He bent to nuzzle her neck, sucking a spot below her ear hard. I’m going to have a primo hickey tomorrow, she absently thought, even as she enjoyed the feel of his mouth and tongue. “I love the gown,” he whispered, “The feel of the silk. You know that, but right now it’s in my way. It needs to come off.” His hand was still stroking the inside of her leg a breath from her groin. She wanted him where she needed him. He kept teasing her by brushing the tips of his long fingers near her moist, aching heat without dipping them in. She made a strangled sound and reached for the hem of the gown to rip it off. Smiling at her impatience, Ian caught her hand. “Stop, Sara. You’ll tear it,” he said, “I’ll do it.” She squirmed as he drew the slippery gown up her body and over her head. When it was free of her, he opened his fingers and let it slide to the floor beside the bed. Much less patient than Ian had been, Sara captured his hand in hers and drew it down to her throbbing center. Thinking that she’d probably throttle him if he played around now, Ian got down to business.

Sara groaned as he slowly pushed two long fingers deep inside her, rubbing her swollen clit with a third. “Ohhh, good,” she breathed, her fingers clamping around his wrist and her hips pushing her heated mound up against his wonderful hand. Ian rolled closer so that he could lean down to take her nipple into his mouth. When he sucked hard, rolling the sensitive nub of flesh between his teeth and tongue, Sara’s eyes almost rolled back in her head. She started to squirm and dug the fingers of her other hand into his thick, silky hair. He pulled back a little to shift to her other breast and Sara gasped, “No. Don’t stop.” He chuckled softly. “I’m right here, love,” he responded, “Just giving the other one equal time. Don’t panic.” His warm lips closed around her other nipple and he began to lick and nip. He felt her heart speed up under his lips. “God, Ian,” she moaned, “That feels wonderful. Harder.” Ian acceded to her request and seconds later a killer orgasm gripped her, shook her, and left her limp in his arms. He moved his hands to rest on her bottom, intending to flip her over and enter her. Instead, Ian suddenly froze in mid-motion. Feeling the inexplicable tenseness in her lover’s hands, Sara opened her eyes. Ian was poised above her, his body utterly still, his head turned toward the darkness beyond the sleeping loft. “What?” she began, only to find Ian’s hand immediately clamped firmly over her mouth. In the fey moon glow from the skylight above them, she looked up into his glittering eyes while he removed his hand to hold one finger warningly up to his lips, indicating that she should keep still. Eyes huge, Sara nodded, drawing the sheet up to her chest.

Without a sound, Ian slipped from the bed. He pointed back to tell her to stay in the bed. She nodded again. Then, he was gone. Impossibly, he was absorbed somehow into the thick shadows of the darkened loft and disappeared. In the now sinister quiet, her own heartbeat was loud in her ears. From the direction of the kitchen, the refrigerator cycled on and she jumped at the familiar noise. Sara pulled her right wrist from under the covers to quickly glance at the Witchblade. There was nothing, not a glimmer. The blood-red stone was sanguine on her wrist. She frowned. Might it confuse the clone with Ian and think that everything was fine when it wasn’t? Did objects of power get confused? Lord knows, she did. Would she know the difference? What if the man that came back to her out of the darkness was no longer Ian? And, then, as if she had conjured him with her thoughts, he was back beside the bed. He was naked and holding his katana. Anyone else would have looked absurd. He looked deadly. “Ian?” she asked, frowning. He smiled and crouched beside the bed, pulling the scabbard for the sword from beneath it. He re-sheathed the wicked looking weapon. He sat on the edge of the bed, and Sara pulled the covers higher and scrunched back further. Tilting his head to study her curiously, he smiled and declared, “False alarm. The loft is secure.”

Sara absolutely hated that she wasn’t sure. How could she not know for certain that this was the same man that had just been making love to her? Dark brows knitting, he reached out a tentative hand and she flinched back. She saw a brief flash of hurt in the expressive, golden eyes. “Ah hell,” she thought, giving in. Aloud, she asked, “What was my bunny’s name?” The wide cat eyes went blank. Sara leaned back against the wall, her hand sliding behind her and reaching down to dig between the mattress and box spring. Her fingers had just closed over the reassuring cold, hardness of her service revolver when he smiled, eyes sparkling mischievously, and said, “Why Mr. Snuggles, of course.” Sara let out the enormous breath that she had been holding. Punching Ian hard in the shoulder, she hissed, “Damn it, Nottingham. Don’t do that. Don’t play with me over something that important.” Ian rubbed his shoulder and looked contrite. “Sorry,” he replied, “Was just trying to ease the tension a bit.” She frowned. “Tension that you created, I might add,” she said, annoyed and cranky, “What was that all about? If that was supposed to be a drill, I might hurt you.” He smiled. “No. It wasn’t a drill,” he responded, “I thought that I heard a noise that was out of place.” Now, he looked thoughtful. “A drill really isn’t a bad idea, though,” he added. Sara sighed, shutting her eyes. What had she done?

“You aren’t going to be jumping out at me all hours of the day and night now, katana raised, are you?” Sara asked, opening her eyes to study him, “Just to keep me on my toes?” Ian smiled at the image that formed in his head. Still ranting, she continued, “Lordy, it will be like Inspector Clouseau and Cato. I’ll never know when you’re going to attack. We’ll have to…” He held up his hand, laughing, and said, “Stop! Stop! I get the picture. I’ll stifle my strongest overprotective impulses. I promise not to pretend to be a lurking assassin in our own home to test you.” Sara sighed in relief this time. “Thank god,” she said with feeling. Ian frowned. “Who are Inspector Clouseau and Cato?” he asked. She shook her head wondering if she would ever understand how his mind worked. After all, she was fully aware that Ian did have a flair for the dramatic, in spite of all his creepy, melt-into-the-woodwork assassin’s schtick. He had a penchant for leaping through the air, voluminous coat flaring. And who but a drama queen would keep a severed hand in a jar? Still…She sighed again and let it go. “Tomorrow night,” she said, “We’ll order pizza and rent a bunch of Pink Panther films. Heaven knows, I could use a good laugh.” He tilted his head, not really following her train of thought. Like his pleading look, it was a gesture that reminded her of Hannibal. Which, in turn, sparked another thought and made her ask, “If the clone broke in, wouldn’t Hannibal raise a ruckus?” Ian frowned and shook his head. “Not necessarily,” he replied, “If the clone smells like me and looks like me, he might be fooled as well.” Sara looked glum. “Swell,” she mumbled.

Ian studied her, already looking resigned. He shrugged, thinking, “Nothing ventured…” Aloud, he asked, “I don’t suppose that you’re still in the mood to pick up where we left off, are you?” Sara looked back at him, askance. “You’re kidding. Right?” she said. Now, he sighed. “I wasn’t. No,” he replied. She held up her hands and observed, “Hey, buster. You’re the one that started doing ninja moves in the middle of happy hour. I don’t have the energy to work my way back to that place again. The adrenaline rush you so kindly provided me has worn me out.” As if to confirm her statement, Sara yawned hugely. Ian nodded. “Of course,” he said, disappointed but not surprised, “You should sleep then.” She lay back on the pillows and watched him from drowsy eyes. “You’re not pissed?” she asked, yawning again. “At you?” he responded, “Of course not. As you pointed out, it is my own fault for jumping at shadows.” Sara was almost asleep when she heard him murmur, voice soft and deadly, “But that fucking clone already has a lot to answer for and I haven’t even met him.”

Across town, the clone is question was once again glued to the computer screen. This time, however, it was not tapes of Ian and Sara that had captured his attention. With avid interest, Devian was perusing the balance sheets, annual reports, and other more esoteric financial information of Vorschlag Industries. The computer screen was casually tilted to an angle that made the scrawl across it indecipherable to the camera trained upon him. Dev had found all the cameras and listening devices during his first day in the Observatory. Since then, he had developed routines to overtly adopt harmless behavior for the benefit of his viewers while covertly pursuing his own ends. Now, as he heard the elevator begin its slow ascent to his aerie, Dev cleared the computer screen of its incriminating information and adjusted the log that automatically recorded the web sites that he visited. That done, he calmly reached for one of the DVDs that the old man’s loopy doctor had given him for entertainment. He slipped the movie into the port and fast forwarded it to give the impression that he had been watching it for a while. Then, he settled himself comfortably in the desk chair – lean body tilted back, long legs raised to rest on the desk, feet crossed at the ankles. He folded his hands on his chest and waited, golden eyes languidly following the action on the screen. Picking up the DVD case, Devian scanned the description on the back cover. It was an old film called “Gaslight” and it sounded a bit warped, but interesting. Dev briefly wondered where Immo found this stuff. The mad doctor did not really look like much of a movie fan.

The elevator doors hissed open and the old man sat in the center of the opened box. Like an evil revenant, he appeared featureless, just a dark mass, backlit. The pause, Devian was sure, was for effect. Irons rolled slowly out of the elevator and across the room – click whir, click whir. He came to a stop in a pool of darkness about five feet short of the desk where the clone lounged. Had it been Ian, Irons thought sourly, he would have been standing at attention by now. Devian acknowledged Irons’ presence by only a slightly sharper focus in the cat-like eyes and a smile that flirted with a sneer. When he regained more of his strength, Kenneth thought – after the next transfusion of the Wielder’s blood surely – he would have to teach this naughty boy a good lesson. His thin lips lifted in a genuine smile. That was something to look forward to. Dev watched the ill-concealed emotions chase across the old man’s face. He was very aware that his borderline insolence irritated Irons. He gave not a tinker’s damn. Kenneth reminded himself that, although the young man in front of him was Ian’s double physically, he was not Ian’s double emotionally. Irons could not expect the same fealty from the clone when it had not yet been conditioned to be properly obedient and subservient. He counseled himself to be patient. “What are you doing?” he asked. Using the tip of his foot with alacrity, Devian swung the computer screen around until it faced Irons. “Watching a movie,” he replied, “What are you doing?”

Kenneth fought down the immediate irritation he felt at being questioned by a servant. “Worrying about you, boy,” Irons replied dourly, “About whether you will fail me.” Dev’s face lit up with a devastating grin. “No worries there,” he replied cheerfully. Kenneth’s head lifted and he stared down his long nose with skeptical eyes. “Really?” he doubted. Still grinning, the clone nodded. “Really,” he replied. The manic smile was also beginning to get on Kenneth’s nerves. Yessss, Irons thought, he and this Nottingham were definitely going to have a reckoning – and soon. His liver-spotted hands ached to create an artistic cane pattern on that smooth, unmarked back. “You believe that you are ready to face and defeat your brother? To take his place without alerting the Wielder?” Irons asked. Dev nodded. “Am I ready?” he thought, “I can’t wait, old man.” Aloud, he replied, “I’ve studied the tapes. I can convince Sara that I am Ian.” Irons narrowed his eyes. At least the little shit was confident, he thought. “And you’re sure that you can kidnap Ian without harming him? Bring him back here?” he asked. Devian sighed. Both the old man and Immo had already asked him this – several times. How much reassurance did they need? “Yes,” he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance either, “I’m sure.”

Irons came to a decision. If the clone said he was ready, there was no point in delaying any longer. He had planned to stretch it out for a few more days, to give Devian more time to learn, to prepare. But now he decided to let the snotty brat prove himself. With his attitude, a few more days wouldn’t matter. Either he would pull it off or he wouldn’t. “Fine,” Kenneth said, “Do it on Monday.” Dev shook his head and replied, “Tuesday.” Irons’ eyes darkened and he clutched the arm of the wheelchair as if it were already his wolf’s head cane, as if he could raise it to strike. “Is it necessary for you to contradict everything that I say, boy?” he asked. Dev looked as if he were considering that. “Not necessarily,” he replied, “But my brother is taking the Wielder out to dinner on Tuesday night. Other people may be involved. I’ll wait until that’s over.” Kenneth frowned. “How do you know this?” he asked. Dev shrugged. “He made a reservation at a restaurant. I found it,” he explained. Irons nodded, swinging the chair around and rolling back toward the elevator. Perhaps the boy would be able to pull it off, after all, he thought. And, once he had both of his boys back in his clutches, once the Wielder’s blood gave him back his strength, then, then he would make them pay. He would make them all pay. “Tuesday then,” Kenneth said, wheeling himself into the elevator, adding, “See that you don’t fail me, boy. If you do, I will make you very, very sorry for it.” The doors closed and the elevator began its slow descent.

Dev shook his head, chuckling. He stretched out his bare foot to swing the computer monitor around to face him. He had watched one of the Austin Powers movies the night before and Dr. Evil was fresh in his mind. “That actor does it better,” he thought, “The old man could use some ‘evil’ lessons.” He snorted and cried, “Muahaha,” turning to mug for the camera. Positioning the screen again to avoid his watchers, Dev pulled the Vorschlag financial data back up. There were some details that he wanted to check. He began to hum to himself as he started to make his plans for Tuesday night. Devian fully intended to do everything that Irons had asked. The results of those actions, however, would be nothing at all like the old man was expecting. At least, that was the plan. Of course, he still had to convince his brother and the Wielder, and that was likely to be a hard sell too. It would be foolish to let such an opportunity pass. The power was theirs, after all. The old man needed Ian and Sara for the longevity in their blood, and needed him for his ability to procure it. From the moment, dear Dr. Immo had let slip that the other clones were toast, Dev had seen his advantage and he had set the wheels in motion to grasp it. Now, only Ian and Sara stood in his way. Well, they would come around or he would find a less pleasant way to deal with them. He couldn’t wait to get out of this mausoleum, to make his entrance into the larger world beyond the mansion’s gates. Picturing it in his mind, Dev saw himself in leather. Whistling, he pulled the slip of paper with Daddy’s purloined credit card number from the desk drawer and went shopping.

The phone rang shrilly at 7:30 A.M. on Saturday morning. Sara grunted, stretched out questing fingers, and came up with a handful of Ian’s hair. He uttered an indecipherable sound and burrowed deeper under the covers, pulling her hand with him. She released his locks and opened a bleary eye. The phone was still making that annoying noise. “Shit,” she muttered, crawling over Ian’s broad back to snag the offending instrument from the night table. “What?” she growled into the receiver. “Good morning, sunshine,” Vicki Po sang drolly in her ear. Sara loosed a string of rather inventive expletives. There was a brief pause before Vicki blithely replied, “That’s very rude, Pez. Not to mention anatomically impossible.” Sara looked down, suddenly realizing that she was stretched full across Ian, who was face down on the bed and who hadn’t moved a muscle since that one initial gurgle. She dropped her head to experimentally bite his bare shoulder. Another muted groan emerged from the vicinity of the pillow. Sara lifted her head, satisfied that he was alive. Throughout that whole exercise, Vicki had been rattling on. “What did you say?” Sara now asked. There was another pause. “Which part didn’t you get?” Vicki asked in response. Sara yawned noisily into the phone. “All of it,” she replied.

Vicki came to a decision. “I’m coming up,” she said. That woke Sara right up. “What?” she squeaked, “No. Wait.” The phone was dead in her hand. She looked at it stupidly and asked, “Vick?” But Vicki wasn’t there. She was on her way upstairs from the second floor, where she had spent the night on the bed that Sara had gotten from Danny and had never used. Sara dropped her head on to Ian’s warm, bare back and muttered, “Shit,” again with feeling. She had just drifted back to sleep when the buzzer on the front door sounded. Ian lifted his head and opened sleepy, golden eyes. “Too early,” he murmured to no one in particular, “Go away.” His eyes closed and his tousled head dropped back to the pillow, snuggling in. Sara smiled and sat up. “You tell her, baby,” she murmured. The buzzer sounded again. Sara knew her friend. Vicki would not give up. Sara sighed and got out of the big, warm bed. She checked the floor for the green, silk nightgown that Ian had dragged off her the night before. She found it and slipped it over her head; then, went to the bathroom to get the matching robe off the hook behind the door. Now dressed, Sara rolled off the sleeping loft. She wasn’t up to dealing with the ladder at the moment. She almost landed on Hannibal who was waiting beside the ladder like a furry rug. She frowned at him and he whined, backing up out of her way.

By the time she got to the door, Vicki was leaning on the buzzer and Sara was really pissed. It took her a full three minutes, buzzer sounding continuously, to deactivate the alarm and open all the bolts. Sara finally flung open the door, where she stood staring at Vicki like a storm cloud about to burst into a torrent. Vicki gasped and, like Hannibal, took a step back. Plunging in, she tried charm. Holding a steaming mug before her as a peace offering, Vicki said, “I have coffee for you.” Still frowning, Sara grumbled, “I have my own coffee.” Vicki thought for a second, then asked, “Made?” In answer, Sara grunted and took the mug. Sipping, she turned and headed toward the kitchen. Taking that as an invitation to enter, Vicki came in, shutting the door behind her. When she got to the kitchen, Hannibal trailing her like a shadow, Vicki found Sara making more coffee. She noticed the big bakery box on the counter immediately. “Ahhh,” she breathed reverently, “Is that what I think it is and can I have some?” Sara swung around, noticing the box for the first time. Fortified now with coffee, she was a touch less grumpy. “Ian must have gotten those last night when he took Hannibal out,” she observed, “Go ahead and open it.” Vicki attacked the string on the box and had it open in about two seconds flat. “Oh yes,” Vicki gasped, as if an orgasm had just overtaken her.

Vicki consumed a cheese Danish for several minutes in blissful silence before she asked, “Where is Ian?” Refilling her mug with fresh coffee, Sara answered, “Ian is still asleep, Vick. It’s a Saturday and it’s early.” She held out the coffeepot with a raised eyebrow and Vicki nodded. Sara pulled a clean mug from the cabinet and poured her friend some coffee. She handed the mug to Vicki and said, “Pass that box over here.” For a few moments, silence reigned as they sipped and chewed companionably. Finally, Vicki said, “You do remember that you and Ian promised to help me move today, don’t you?” Sara shut her eyes. She would almost rather confront the evil clone right this very minute than spend the day helping Vicki move. She sighed and bit the bullet. “Yeah,” she confirmed, “I remember.” Moving Vicki Po into their building was bad enough; throw Jake McCarty into the mix as a helper and things rapidly deteriorated; add Ian and Jake together moving heavy furniture and things plunged straight into the toilet. Sara sighed again and Vicki grinned against her mug. “Is Jake still helping out?” Sara asked, hoping that Vicki would tell her that Jake had bowed out at the last minute. “Oh yeah,” Vicki confirmed, “He’s going to meet us at my place at 9:00.” Sara glanced at her wrist only to realize that she hadn’t yet put on her watch. “It’s already a little after 8:00,” Vicki said, “Time to wake up Ian?”

Sara grinned, turning to pour herself more coffee. Her back to Vicki, she suggested, “Why don’t you do that, Vick?” Sara didn’t look at Vicki. She was grinning too broadly and afraid that she would tip off her friend. She could hear the confusion and trepidation in Vicki’s voice when she said, “Me?” Still facing away, sipping coffee and smiling manically, Sara mumbled, “Sure. Go to it.” Vicki Po will never wake me up early again, Sara thought. She heard Vicki’s slow footsteps as she moved away toward the sleeping loft. Hannibal was stretched out again at the foot of the ladder. When Vicki got there, she called, “Ian?” There was no answer. She could clearly see the man-sized lump under the bed covers. “Uhhh, rise and shine?” she asked, a little louder. Bad move. One of Ian’s particularly annoying caretakers had been fond of waking him up with that phrase when he was a child. He was all grown up now and didn’t have to put up with that crap any more. More than half asleep and carried back to less enjoyable days, Ian growled from the vicinity of the pillow. That sound was followed by a soft, hissed, “Fuck off.” Vicki’s eyes widened. She could see the male clothes scattered on the floor and chair where Ian and Sara had flung them. Vicki had a pretty good idea what he wasn’t wearing. She was getting no closer to that bed.

Vicki cleared her throat and slunk back to the kitchen. Sara tucked her tongue in her cheek and turned back toward her friend. “Ian up?” she asked, between bites of a cherry Danish. Vicki studied Sara with narrowed eyes, sensing that she had been set up. “What do you think?” she replied. Sara smirked. “I think that you didn’t even have the guts to climb the ladder,” Sara jabbed. Vicki snorted. “What’s he wearing?” she asked. Sara grinned and responded, “A frown?” Vicki’s lips twitched too. “What would you have done if I did go up the ladder?” she asked. Sara shook her head. “I know you, Vick,” she said, “I figured that Ian’s modesty would be preserved. I’ll go get him up.” Vicki snorted again and Sara added, “So to speak.” As Sara headed toward the sleeping loft, Vicki called after her, “Just make sure that statement wasn’t literal or we’ll never get out of here this morning.” Sara navigated around Hannibal, climbed up to the bedroom, and approached the covered lump on the bed. She uncovered Ian’s head to find a mop of shaggy curls, his face was pressed into the pillow. She dug her fingers into his silky locks and rubbed his scalp. A sound like a low purr drifted upward. She smiled and uncovered his broad back. The whip scars looked almost incandescent in the morning rays coming in from the skylight. Releasing his hair from her grip, Sara ran the tips of her fingernails slowly down his spine. He made another low sound and arched his back up against her fingers, like a big cat stretching.

In spite of his response to her touch, Ian mumbled, “Go away. I’m sleeping.” Sara’s smile deepened. “No,” she corrected him, “You were sleeping. Now, you’re going to get up, get dressed, and help Vicki move like you promised. Remember?” He stayed as he was. After a moment, face still buried in the pillow, he murmured, “I was coerced into that promise. Does that count?” Still stroking, she responded, “Afraid so.” Intensifying her tactics, she pushed the covers lower to expose his excellent ass to the morning light. He turned his head far enough to fix her with one drowsy, golden eye. “I feel a breeze,” he observed, “What are you doing?” She grinned down at him. “Airing you out,” she suggested. His head turned a little more and she watched the luminous eyes get sharper. “Is Vicki here?” he asked. Sara nodded. He rolled over, snatching the covers back from her, and pulling them up to his chest. “Where?” he wanted to know. Sara’s eyes drifted toward the master bath and she watched his face slacken with shock before she replied, “Kitchen.” Taut muscles all over his body went limp with relief. “That wasn’t nice,” he scolded her, adding, “Okay. I’m awake now.” She nodded and bent forward to brush her lips across his. When she pulled back, Ian licked his lips and said, “Mmm. Cherry Danish.”

Sara pushed back a pale-streaked curl that had tumbled across his forehead. “I’ll make you a cup of tea while you go get your shower,” she said. He leaned forward to kiss her more deeply, snaking his hand out to grasp her neck and pull her closer. When they were breathless, he moved his lips to whisper in her ear, “Come with me.” She turned her head to look into his eyes. “In the shower?” she asked. He nodded, sensuous mouth curving wickedly. “We were interrupted last night,” he said, “If I have to put up with surfer-boy all day, I want a treat first.” Sara pushed her hand under the covers to slide over his hard, warm abs. Her fingers drifted downward until they rested in soft hair. When she wrapped them around him, he jumped in her hand. They came together to kiss again, tongues tangling. She felt his hand slip inside her robe to cup her breast, thumb grazing teasingly over the nipple. It hardened and she shivered. Panting, they broke apart and she gasped, “Vicki’s waiting.” He licked the rim of her ear and whispered, “So? Let her wait.” He could see that she was wavering, so he gave her the full effect of the smoky cat eyes and added seductively, “Come on, detective. Get wet with me.” Sara drew in a shaky breath. She was only human after all and he was just so pretty with his tousled hair and big, golden eyes. “Hey, Vick?” Sara yelled. Ian grinned. Vicki stuck her head out of the kitchen doorway. “Yeah?” she called back. Looking into his eyes, Sara yelled, “Ian and I are going to take a quick shower.” Vicki sighed. There went the morning. What could she say? They were doing her a favor. “Okay,” she called back, “I’ll be here. Waiting. Keep that in mind.” There was a long pause. “Okay?” she asked, rising up on tiptoe to check the sleeping platform. They had already disappeared into the bathroom and she was talking to herself.

Ian stood under the shower spray, his back to her. Putting her hands on his shoulders for balance, Sara joined him in the hot water coming from three sides of the tiled enclosure. She slid her hands slowly downward and, pressing her chest to his back, wrapped her arms around his slender waist. Resting her cheek against his back, Sara sighed. The warm water felt wonderful. “Ah, heaven,” she sighed. Ian laughed and turned in her arms to face her, pulling her close. “See?” he said, “You owe this to yourself before you face the day ahead of us.” She nuzzled her face into the hollow under his chin, his beard tickling her nose. Draping her arms around his neck, she nipped his throat and dug her fingers into his wet hair. “Um,” she agreed, “Pass me the shampoo and I’ll wash your hair.” He did, bending his head to her as she poured some on his lowered head and worked up lather. Standing with his hands braced on her waist, Ian sighed deeply when she dug her fingers into his thick hair and massaged his scalp. “Rinse,” she directed. He angled his head under one of the jets of water and rinsed the shampoo from his hair.

When he had rubbed the water from his eyes, Ian saw that Sara had already begun to wash her own hair. “Hey,” he protested, “I wanted to do that.” She frowned and said, “I feel bad, Ian. Vicki’s down there waiting for us. We shouldn’t draw this out too much.” He shrugged, picking up the soap. “She appeared at our door uninvited, Sara. Politeness only extends so far. She’s got coffee, pastries, and comfortable furniture. She can amuse herself for a little while. You, on the other hand, need some help with that.” She smiled as he moved her under the water and pushed his strong fingers through her hair, rinsing it clean. “Do I?” she murmured. Blinking water from her eyes, she watched him rub the bar of soap between his hands, filling them with fragrant suds. “Absolutely,” he whispered seductively. Starting at her neck and shoulders, Ian washed his way down to her waist, lingering over her breasts until she was wet with more than water. He was finding ways to use soap and water very creatively. Turning her around so that her back was against his front, Ian pulled her flush against him, wrapping his arms around her, and sliding his soapy hands down her hips, across her belly, and – finally – lathering up her dripping lower curls. Breathless, her head fell back to loll on his hard shoulder. “This soap smells wonderful. What’s the scent?” she asked. She felt his soft lips against her forehead. “Sandalwood,” he replied.

The callused pads of two long, slippery fingers began to slowly tease her, sliding back and forth in a languid rhythm to circle her swollen, sensitive nub. Unconsciously, her hips took up the same rhythm, thrusting against his moving fingers so that she was helping him to caress her. As the need for release began to tug at her, Sara pressed her shoulders back into the hard body behind her, tilting her head upwards into his muscled shoulder, and digging her fingers into his sinewy thighs, which she gripped to keep herself upright. She started to make soft, mewling sounds as the pressure escalated. Ian tilted his head down to press his lips to hers in an upside down kiss. The odd position didn’t hamper the heated eroticism of that kiss and their mouths opened wide to each other, their tongues rubbing together sensuously. Suddenly, his stroking fingers moved directly to her clit, massaging it hard. A wrenching orgasm caught her so hard, so suddenly, that Sara was unable to mute the full-throated cry that it yanked from her depths. She would have fallen to the floor of the shower if Ian had not tightened his arms around her to hold her upright. He allowed her to stop shaking and regain her breath before he asked, “All better?”

Still panting slightly, Sara murmured, “Jeez, Vicki is going to think that you just did me in.” Ian smiled. “She’s a big girl. I’m sure she knows the difference between a cry of passion and a death rattle.” Sara turned to face him, lifting her arms to encircle his neck. Suddenly needing the feel of his skin against hers, she pressed her body to his and rubbed against him like a cat. His breath caught sharply and he pressed right back. The hot, silken hardness wedged against her belly confirmed that her little maneuver excited him. Like magnets, their mouths came together in a fiery, searching kiss. Sara pushed one hand roughly down between their locked bodies to find and hold him. Her fingers encircled his balls, squeezing and pressing, then moved up again to stroke his thick, long shaft to its tip. She kept doing that until he finally clutched her hand with his, whispering her name with that sweet catch in his voice. Pulling on the hand that he held, Ian led her over to the opposite wall of the shower where a small shelf jutted out from the wall at mid-level. Putting his hands on her waist, he turned her to face the wall and said, “Bend over and hold on.” She turned her head to look back at him, one eyebrow raised. “It will feel good,” he added, “Stop me if it doesn’t.” Sara shrugged and did as he had asked.

When Ian once again wrapped his arm around her bent form, his talented fingers unerringly gliding to her slick center of sensation, Sara’s back arched and he simultaneously entered her from behind. Her position allowed him to thrust unusually deep and his hot erection started stroking against previously unexplored places that drove her wild. Her internal muscles clamped tight around him, starting an erotically-charged chain reaction. Because she was tighter, he was forced to push harder. When he pushed harder, she clamped down tighter. The exquisite friction drove them jointly to a kind of barely-controlled ecstasy. Then, the Witchblade joined in. Sara’s bracelet lit up like a Christmas tree. Its carnelian flash stained the walls of the shower and made the cascading water look like torrents of blood. “Oh, dear god,” Sara wailed as wave after wave of raw sexuality raked over her nerve endings. Ian was making those ragged little grunts with each thrust that really turned her on. The Blade kicked it up a notch, mainlining a blast of erotic heat through their blood. They both cried out at the sensation. Sara felt like she was on a roller coaster ride. She had just crested the highest peak and was taking a breakneck plunge toward her climax. When it hit, she felt everything inside her explode in a shower of sparks. It tore from her a sound somewhere between a scream and a sob. Her internal muscles gripped Ian with such intensity that he came hard a moment later. He buried his face in her thick hair to try to stifle his own cry of release.

Sara leaned back into Ian, gasping, “I can’t stand up.” He was so wrung out that he went down with her. They both slid slowly to the floor of the shower, where they curled together under the cooling jets of water. That’s where they were when they heard Vicki call from somewhere close, “Hey, you two. Fun is fun, but it’s after 9:00. You think we might get out of here by 9:30 or so?” Ian made a soft sound, then murmured, “She wouldn’t come in here, would she?” Sara snorted and tried to move a little without success. “I don’t think so,” she replied. He shifted enough to pull out of her, giving a soft gasp when they separated. “You better answer her,” he managed. She lifted her head to call, “We’ll leave at 10:00, Vick. That’s the best I can do for you. You better call Jake.” There was a brief pause before a sulky Vicki responded, “Alright. And I already called him.” Ian dragged himself to his feet and offered his hand to Sara. She took it and he pulled her to a standing position. He turned off the water, got out of the shower, and dragged a big towel from its rack. He held it open for Sara to step into. “Why did she have to call McCartey?” he asked, rubbing her dry. Ian left her to finish drying off and got his own towel from the rack. “We were supposed to meet Jake at Vicki’s place at 9:00 this morning,” she explained. Ian started to laugh. She couldn’t help but smile with him. “I know you didn’t make us late on purpose,” she said, “But I know you’re not all broken up over it either. Be good today. Okay?” He grinned back at her wickedly and purred, “Haven’t I been good already?” What could she say? He was right. He had been good.

At 9:45, they were dressed and downstairs. They found Vicki in the library staring glumly into the fireplace. Clarice was on her lap and Hannibal was at her feet. Sara, clutching one last mug of coffee, dropped into the chair across from her. When Ian came into the room, Vicki took him in. The hoarse cry she had heard from the bathroom was still fresh in her mind. He was wearing boots; tight, faded jeans; and the “Surrender Dorothy!” tee shirt. Standing behind Sara’s chair, he was in the process of pulling the clean, shining waves of hair framing his face back into a tight tail. Vicki’s eyes went from the wide shoulders to the flat stomach to the substantial bulge in his jeans. Ian froze, watching her take inventory; when she was finished, he blushed scarlet. Vicki turned back to Sara, who had missed the whole exchange. “Are we ready now?” she asked. Sara sighed, frankly annoyed with her friend. “Yes, Vick,” Sara said, “We’re ready now.”

Sara asked Ian, “Are we taking the truck?” When he didn’t respond, Sara leaned back in the chair and tilted her head back to look up at him. “Hey, Nottingham,” she said. Ian shook his head sharply as if he were waking from a sleep. “Yes?” he asked. She sighed and asked again, “Are we taking the truck, Ian?” He nodded. “Sure. If you want,” he replied. She studied him curiously, sensing something bothering him. Not able to pin it down, she let it go, saying, “The truck it is. It will make the move easier. Let’s get this show on the road then.” When they got to Vicki’s old apartment, Dr. Po had to contend with an ill-tempered Jake McCartey who had been cooling his heels for the last hour and a half. It got the whole moving experience off to a rousing start. Things deteriorated from there. When they could operate independently – like moving boxes or small furniture – it was manageable because Ian and Jake could avoid each other. But when they had to work together – to move the sofa, for instance – it was an unmitigated disaster! Each man had his own method and, of course, his way was the only way. Sara and Vicki were forced to referee and began to argue as well. By the end of the day, it was a miracle that no one had been killed. At 5:30, Vicki and Sara sat across from each other in Sara’s old loft. Ian was back upstairs. Jake had gone to get beer. “Next time, I’ll hire movers,” Vicki moaned. Sara’s head was resting on the back of the chair and her eyes were shut. Her whole body ached. She didn’t have the energy to formulate an answer.

“Why do they dislike each other so much,” Vicki asked softly, “Do you know?” That deserved an answer. Sara lifted her head and opened her eyes. Unfortunately, she didn’t have one. She shook her head. “I don’t know, Vick” she said, “They’re very different. Maybe it’s just that.” Vicki frowned. “Maybe,” she agreed, “But you don’t really think so, do you?” Sara sighed. “No. I don’t really think so,” she said, “It’s more than that.” Vicki nodded. “I was going to offer to order some pizza to go with the beer Jake is getting. Feed you guys as a thank-you for helping,” she said, “But you really don’t want to stay, do you? And Ian disappeared as soon as he could without calling attention to himself.” Sara ran a hand roughly through her hair. “Yeah,” she said, leaving it at that. They sat together quietly for a few minutes. “Well, I’m beat,” Sara finally said, “I think I’ll leave you and the rookie to christen the new loft and I’ll get upstairs to my guy. Maybe we can do the pizza thing another time. If you need anything, let me know.” She stood up, adding, “But call first. Okay?” Vicki smirked. “Yeah. Okay, Pez,” she replied. Sara was almost out the door when Vicki said, rather forlornly, “Is Ian mad at me?” Sara stopped, came back in, shut the door, and leaned against it. “Of course not,” she said, “There’s just a lot of stuff going on in our lives right now. He’s a little distracted. Don’t take it personally.” Vicki tilted her head and said, “Really?” Sara nodded. “Really,” she confirmed, “I’m going now.” Vicki smiled. “Thanks, pal,” she said, “Thank Ian again for me too. He slipped out of here like a wraith and I didn’t get a chance to do it.” Sara nodded again. “I will,” she said, “Night.” Vicki waved and said, “Night, Pez.”

Sara knocked a couple of times on the front door of their loft. She had her key in her pocket but, knowing Ian, he had all the bolts and the security system engaged. She was just getting ready to knock again louder when a voice on the other side of the door said, “Who’s there?” She snorted and replied, “Very funny.” There was another pause before he said, “Very funny who?” She was getting tired of standing in the hall. Irritation had edged into her voice when she said, “Cut it out, Ian.” She heard him disengaging bolts. He opened the door wearing a black silk robe. Sara lifted her eyebrow and strode past him into the loft. “Come in,” he said, to empty air after she had passed. He shut the door and re-activated all the security. He found her in the kitchen making coffee. “Kind of late for coffee, don’t you think?” he observed. Without looking at him, she replied, “I guess if I did I wouldn’t be making it, would I?” When he turned to leave, she asked, “Did you have another shower?” He nodded, responding, “I was filthy and sweaty.” There was a pause and, then, he turned to go again. This time, she asked, “Are you hungry?” Ian shrugged. Sara eyed him. “Are you cranky?” One dark brow lifted. “Why would I be cranky?” he asked. She sighed. “Because you and Jake were like a couple of those animals that slam their horns together in a National Geographic special all day,” she responded. He shrugged, not really wanting to get into that. “I’m not cranky at you,” he said, “I’m tired.”

Ian had almost gotten to the library, Hannibal tracing his steps, when Sara stuck her head out of the kitchen door. “Shall I order pizza?” she asked. He stopped at the edge of the bookcases and turned back. “If you order it,” he said, “I guess I’ll eat it.” She cocked a hip and rested her hand on it. “Don’t do me any favors, sport,” she told him, “I need to take a shower. I’m grimy too. Will you get the pizza when it comes?” He nodded, turning back toward the library. “Ian,” she called, stopping him yet again. This time, when he turned back, there was an irritated set to the broad shoulders. Her lips twitched. “If Suzie with a z delivers the pizza, I’m going to be pissed and she’s going to be thrilled if you answer the door in just that robe,” she said, adding, “Just something to keep in mind.” Before he could answer, Sara had disappeared back into the kitchen to get her coffee. Ian grinned, detouring toward the bedroom to put on some clothes. As Sara headed to the shower carrying a steaming mug of coffee, she passed Ian, who vaulted off the sleeping platform dressed now in sweats. When they had passed each other, both of them smiled. The buzzer sounded while Sara was drying off after her shower. It was either the pizza or the four Pink Panther films that she had ordered from their neighborhood video store. Paying one of the clerks a stiff delivery fee was worth neither of them having to go out again tonight. She grinned, brushing out her hair until it shined. After all, Ian could afford it. She went to put on some sweats too.

When Sara got to the library, he had everything set up. Both of the animals were sitting by the fireplace where a cheery fire burned. Hannibal’s tongue was out so far it almost skimmed the floor. Clarice had too much dignity for that but her large, turquoise eyes also followed the pizza box whenever Ian touched it. The object in question was on one of the end tables, with paper plates and napkins resting beside it. It smelled heavenly. Ian was lounging in the chair, his long legs stretched before him and crossed at the ankles. He was reading the back of one of the DVD’s. “You haven’t seen any of these?” she asked, going immediately to the pizza. He glanced up at her, smiling, and shook his head. She smiled now too, in anticipation, and said, “You’re in for a real treat, ace.” As she piled a paper plate with three pieces of pizza, the animals almost quivered. Still reading the DVD case, Ian asked, “He’s a detective?” Sara snorted. “Of sorts,” she replied, taking the DVD from him and studying it, “You should see these in the right order.” While she put the first film in the player and turned on the television, Ian served himself pizza. When Sara fiddled with the controls of the DVD player, Ian slipped a large chunk of his slice of pizza to Hannibal who appeared to inhale it.

Just as she was ready to turn on the movie, Ian asked, “Want more coffee?” Sara handed him her mug and said, “Thanks, honey.” He smiled and replied, “Sure,” picking up her empty mug and heading toward the kitchen. He loved it when she called him by an endearment rather than one of the flip nicknames that she had for him. While Ian was in the kitchen, Sara slipped Clarice a piece of pepperoni. The Siamese slinked behind Sara’s chair with the piece of meat clamped firmly in her teeth. Hannibal started to follow, retreating when he was greeted with a loud warning hiss. Ian came back with a fresh mug of coffee for Sara and they settled in to eat their pizza and watch their movie. They watched two of the films before they conked out from sheer exhaustion. Ian loved Peter Sellers’ Inspector Clouseau and Sara was very afraid that he may have now truly cast her in the role of Cato. For the next few days, she was going to have to be very careful when she opened closets – not in fear of the evil clone but in defense against her impressionable lover. As Ian cleaned up the remains of their dinner, he asked, “Ready to retire to the bedrouooom?” doing an excellent impersonation of Clouseau’s bizarre accent. Sara snorted. “I’m going to regret introducing you to these films, aren’t I?” she asked rhetorically. He grinned and replied, still in character, “Perhaps. Tomorrow, you can call me on the foooon to ask.” She snorted again, turning off lights as they headed toward the bedrouooom. “Don’t make me hurt you, Ian,” she warned. He laughed and replied in his fractured French accent, “You would try, my little, yellow friend. You would try.” Sara shut her eyes. There were still two movies to watch tomorrow. As they cuddled together in bed, she wondered whether the clone might not be the lesser of two evils.