"Blood Seduction"

Sara was a little late, having fielded a call from Vicki right as she was going out the office door. When she reached the address that Ian had given her, he was waiting in front of the building as promised. She pulled to the curb and locked the Buell. "Sorry I'm late," she said as she approached him. "No problem," Ian replied, turning immediately to enter the building. It was a four-story converted warehouse and looked very well maintained. "What floor?" she asked. "Second," he said, "There are two units to a floor." She was impressed. They must be large units if they were only two to a floor.

"How's security?" Sara asked as they crossed a clean, tiled lobby with marked mailboxes on the right. "Tight," Ian replied succinctly. He led her into a large freight elevator and pulled down the caged door. "Why not take the stairs?" she asked. "To show you that this works and works well," he replied, "You'll be glad it's here when you move in your furniture." "I don't have any furniture any more," she pointed out. Ian cheeks flushed and he ducked his head. "Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say," he mumbled. She tried to look in the bright, golden eyes but all she could see was thick lashes. "Nah, it wasn't," she said, "You're right. I'll need furniture and this will be handy to move it up."

Exiting the elevator on the second floor landing, she was surprised to find rich burgundy walls, thick charcoal carpeting under foot, and long mirrors at either end of the wide, well lighted hallway. Sara looked around as Ian dug out a key. "I can't afford this," she said. "Yes you can," he replied. "The building belongs to Irons. Right?" she asked. "No," Ian said, "It doesn't. It belongs to me." Sara immediately swung back toward the stairs, saying, "Okey-dokey. Thanks anyway, Nottingham. But I don't really think I want to have you as my landlord." "Sara," he called to her, "Don't be foolish. I can afford to give you a good deal – not charity – a good deal. You'll never find anything else remotely like this for the price. At least, look at it now that you're here."

Sara stopped at the top of the stairs. She sighed loudly, her back still to him. Then, she turned abruptly and came back to his side. "Okay," she said, "I'll look. Now that I'm here." Ian unlocked the front door and swung it open, stepping back so that she could precede him into the apartment. The first thing that she noticed was the light. Like her loft, there were large windows all along one side of the space. She went over and glanced out the windows, then turned back to Ian, smirking. The stark shape of a fire escape loomed outside the windows. "Well," she said, "I guess you could still visit." He acknowledged her humor with a slight twitch of the lips.

Sara stood in the center of the space and looked around. It was huge, half again as big as her loft. At the far end, an area was marked off with a raised wooden platform about six inches higher than the main floor. "Bedroom," she thought, already mentally designing the living area. The kitchen and bathroom were both small, separate rooms. The kitchen was closed off from the main room with French doors, but some idiot had painted over all the small glass squares in the doors. The bathroom had both a tub and a shower. The place needed work – a good paint job, floor refinishing, and lots of cleaning – but it had tremendous character and possibilities.

Ian stood watching her scope out the place, his hands jammed in his pockets and his head down. "She's hooked," he thought. After doing another complete circuit of the living area, Sara returned to stand directly in front of him. He raised his head and she looked directly into his eyes. "How much?" Sara asked. Ian told her. It was only a little more than the loft had been. "Utilities?" she asked. "Included," he said. And that made it a little less than the loft had been. "Such a deal!" she said in her best accent. Ian looked blank. Sara sighed.

"Who lives across the way?" she asked, moving to sit on the raised wooden platform. Ian followed and sat next to her. "A young couple," he replied, "He's an artist and she's a dancer." "Who lives above?" Sara asked. "On three?" Ian clarified. "Yeah," she said. "An older woman," he said, adding, "She lives alone. She's a professor at NYU, I think." "Sounds quiet," she observed. Ian shrugged. "There have never been any complaints," he said. "Who lives on the top?" she asked. He took a very deep breath before answering that one. "I do," he said. Sara stood like she'd been shot out of a cannon. "Whoa," she said, "When were you going to tell me that?" "When you asked," he answered, "What difference does it make?"

Sara thought about that. "You've got the whole floor?" she asked, stalling. Ian nodded. "It must be huge," she said. There was a long pause. "I'm not sure that I'd be comfortable having you that close," she finally said. "As opposed to what," he countered, "On your fire escape at the loft? I'd actually be further away than that. Besides, I spend most of my time at the mansion. I'm rarely in this building." Sara narrowed her eyes as she wondered whether she could believe him. "So who takes care of maintenance then?" she asked. "Gotcha," he thought. "There's a live in super in the basement apartment," he said aloud, "So, what do you think?" "It needs some fixing up," she pointed out, "But, all in all, I like it. When could I move in?" He allowed himself a smile. "Right away," he said, "If you don't mind me working in it while you're out during the day."

"Working in it?" Sara asked. "Yes," Ian said, "I'll paint it for you and do the floors." "You'll need a month's rent and a month's security, I guess. Won't you?" she asked, biting her lip. He shrugged. "Pay me at the end of the month and give me the security whenever you can," he said. "You're easy," she said. "You have no idea," Ian thought. He grinned and she found herself thinking what a nice smile he had. "I know where you work," he said, adding, "So you'll take it?" Sara nodded. "I'll move in tomorrow if that's okay," she said. "Fine," he agreed, "If you want to borrow it, I have a spare futon in the storage room." "That would be great," she said, "Thanks, Ian." He had to remember to breathe when he got lightheaded. "She called me 'Ian'," he thought stunned.

There was a long silence. Sara was starting to decorate her new apartment in her head. Ian was feeling his body flush alternately hot and cold as he suddenly wondered if maybe there might be some slight hope after all. He shook his head a little and cleared his throat. "What color do you want me to paint the walls?" he asked. "Just do everything white," she said. He nodded. Ian pulled out his pocket watch. "I have some work that has to be finished," he said, "So, I'll just leave you here if you don't mind." He handed her the key to the front door.

"You have another key to let yourself in tomorrow after I've gone to work?" Sara asked. Ian nodded again. "If I can arrange to have the phone and utilities guys come out tomorrow, can I call you on your cell to let them in?" she asked. "Of course," he agreed. She smiled. "Great," she said, then added, "Thanks again," holding out her hand to him. Ian caught her hand in his but instead of shaking it, he bent and pressed a soft kiss to her palm. Sara made a slightly strangled sound and quickly pulled back her hand. Ian sighed. "You're very welcome," he said, moving toward the door, "Goodnight." She watched him head toward the stairs. "Night, Nottingham," she said and shut the door. As he trudged toward the fourth floor apartment that he'd never seen, Ian sighed again and thought, "Back to Nottingham."

In the newly redecorated room just off his bedroom, Kenneth Irons moved his wheelchair closer to the bank of video monitors – click whir, click whir. On the screens taking up the first row in the multi-tier bank, he watched Sara Pezzini test the burners on the stove in her new apartment. His lips twisted in a humorless smile. "That's right, Sara," he hissed, "Turn up the heat." That brought his mind neatly to Ian. Lifting his eyes, Irons surveyed the third tier of screens. Ian was stretched out on the floor in the loft sleeping area of his new apartment doing push-ups. "Yes, my boy," Irons said, "Build up your strength. I think you'll need every bit of it." His eyes flicked back down to Sara, now testing the water pressure in her new faucets, and he cackled softly.

By the time Sara got back to Vicki's place, Vicki was already home. When Sara came in the door, Vicki was just settling on the sofa with a glass of wine and a medical report. She dropped the report in her lap, pushed her glasses up into her hair, and said to Sara, "Okay, give." Sara turned, one arm still in her leather jacket. "Give what?" she asked. "I called you to see whether you wanted to order pizza tonight and Danny told me that you'd left early to look at an apartment," Vicki said. "Jeez," Sara said, stalling, "Who needs cell phones when there's the precinct pony express." "So?" Vicki pressed. "So, I took it," Sara replied, "I'm moving in tomorrow."

"Yikes. That was fast," Vicki said, "You didn't take some dump just because you thought you were putting me out, did you?" "Nah," Sara said, "It's actually a great place, bigger than the loft and cheaper overall. It's closer to the precinct and there's an indoor garage for the Buell." Vicki frowned. "What's the catch?" she asked. There was a long pause. "No catch," Sara responded, obviously uncomfortable. Vicki's eyes narrowed. "C'mon, Sara," she said, "Such places don't exist in Manhattan, not unless somebody died and you know the undertaker." Sara smiled ruefully. "That's pretty close as a matter of fact," she said, "Someone I know owns the building and he called me because an apartment went vacant." She knew what was coming next. "Who?" Vicki asked.

"Ian Nottingham," Sara mumbled. "What?" Vicki asked. Sara repeated his name. "Have I met him?" Vicki asked. "No, Sara replied, "You saw him outside your lab that time. Remember?" Vicki's eyes went wide. "The pirate?" she asked. Sara headed toward the kitchen, throwing over her shoulder, "Yeah, I guess." "I wouldn't have figured that he was your friend," Vicki said, curious. "Not a friend, really," Sara said, pouring herself some wine, "More like an acquaintance." "If I recall correctly," Vicki said, "Your description of him was something like 'bipolar, psycho, hard body'. That was it, wasn't it?" "I don't remember," Sara waffled, "Why do you?" Vicki smiled. "Because he was pretty memorable, or maybe memorably pretty," she said.

Sara came back into the living room with her wine, avoiding Vicki's eyes. "I guess," she said, sitting in the easy chair, "If you like that type." Vicki smirked. "Uh huh," she replied, "What's not to like?" Sara shrugged. "The looks are okay," she said, "But the personality leaves something to be desired." "I never realized you were so picky, Pez," Vicki observed, "In any case, he came through for you in a crunch." "Maybe. We'll see," Sara said. "You don't trust him?" Vicki asked. Sara smiled. "Not as far as I can throw that memorably pretty hard body," she said.

When Sara got to the precinct the next morning, both Danny and Jake were already there. She came in growling, "Morning, guys." Before she had a chance to take the lid off of her coffee, Danny asked, "So, did you take the apartment?" Sara took a big gulp of coffee, then winced because she'd burnt her tongue. She peered at him over the rim of the container. "Yeah, I did," she replied. "Where is it?" he asked. She gave him the address. He frowned. "That's all warehouses rehabbed into fancy lofts, isn't it?" he asked, "You win the lottery, Partner?" "Nah," she said, "I got kind of a deal from someone I know, that's all." "Who?" Danny asked. There was a very long pause. "Pez?" he asked.

"Ian Nottingham," Sara mumbled into her coffee container. Jake's head shot up like it was on a spring but Danny beat him to it. "What? Are you nuts? That's the guy that stalks you, right?" he asked, "The guy that killed your last boyfriend?" "I told you that I made a mistake about that," she said, her head down. "Yeah, well, it's not a mistake that Nottingham's a Black Dragon, is it? Or that he's Kenneth Irons' enforcer, is it?" Jake inserted aggressively. "Hey, guys, lighten up," she whined, "I'm not moving in with the man, he just steered me to an apartment that was for rent." Danny's eyes narrowed. "One that you can afford, in that neighborhood?" he asked, "How?"

Sara cleared her throat. "Shit," she thought, "I hate this." "Alright," she said, knowing what was coming, "Nottingham owns the building and he's giving me a little break on the rent. Big deal." "And what does he get out of this?" Jake wanted to know. Sara fixed him with her most intimidating stare and he wilted a bit. "Answer the man," Danny said. Sara frowned. The Pezzini glare wouldn't work with Danny. "I resent your implications," she said, trying her high horse, "He gets nothing. He heard what had happened to me and he wanted to help out. That's it." "Oh yeah," said Jake, "Nottingham and Irons, two real humanitarians." Before either of them could say anything more, Sara imperiously held up her hand for silence. "Enough," she said, "There's no point in further discussion about this. It's a done deal." Looking exasperated, Danny shook his head and went back to work. Jake started to open his mouth again and Sara pointed one long finger at him. "You don't want to piss me off, Rookie," she warned. His mouth snapped shut.

Before Sara left the office for her new home that night, Danny cornered her one more time. "Sara," he said, sensing her immediate resistance, "Just promise me that you'll be careful around this guy, okay? He's dangerous." She squeezed his arm. "Hey, Partner," she replied, "I'm not some little dewdrop fresh from the country. Give me some credit. I won't let Nottingham put anything over on me. I promise. But, in the meantime, I've got a primo piece of real estate at a to-die-for price. And besides, if Vick and I had to share a bathroom for another morning, you'd have had to surgically remove our teeth from each others' throats." That made him smile. "Okay, but remember, if it doesn't work out, you always have a place to go," he said. She smiled back. "I know," she replied, "Thanks."

When Sara got to her new apartment, there was a note waiting on the door marked "Sara." It read: "Be careful when you close the front door – paint on the inside might still be wet. I'll try to finish painting the main area tomorrow. You have a working phone and utilities. Ian." She unlocked the door and flicked the light switch. When she saw the inside of the door, she gasped and smiled. It was painted bright red. She grabbed the knob and shut the door carefully before she turned around. He'd accomplished a lot in one day. More than half of the main loft area was painted a soft, muted white. It looked stark and clean. He'd also set up the futon on the raised platform. She sat on it to test it and discovered that he'd made it up with new beige satin sheets. A cardboard box rested beside the futon as a bedside table. It held an alarm clock, a lamp, and a book. She picked up the book and looked at the title – "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." She briefly wondered if Ian pictured himself as a bell ringer and her as a gypsy.

There was another note in the middle of the bed. "Sara," it said, "I didn't want to presume but I thought that there were a few necessities that you might need. I took the liberty of providing them for you. Please just accept them as a gesture of welcome and don't be angry, Ian." She snorted and wandered into the bathroom. She found soap, shampoo, a hair dryer, towels, and a bath mat. A fluffy white terry robe was hanging on a hook on the back of the door. "Pretty smooth, Nottingham," she thought, "But it's going to take more than this to change my mind about you." She got undressed and took a shower before wandering out to the kitchen wearing the very comfy robe.

On the counter were a really nice coffeemaker, a pound of ground French Roast, and a mug. "Well, shit," Sara said out loud, "Maybe you're not so bad after all." Ian had also added some basic food items to her refrigerator and cabinets. She couldn't help but smile. "It's just like old times," she thought, remembering when food would suddenly appear at the loft courtesy of Nottingham. She also found a few plates, a couple sets of utensils, and some basic pots and pans. "It's like a nice motel," she thought, "Where everything is provided but it's new and clean and impersonal. Still, it was thoughtful of him to do this." She walked back into the main area and stood there looking around at all the empty space. "I miss my stuff," she thought. Then, before she could go down that road, she shook off the depression lurking at the rim of her mind.

Sara went back to her bedroom and curled up on the silk sheets. She'd never had silk sheets – too much of an indulgence. They felt wonderful against her body. "I guess I'll have to go thank him tomorrow," she thought, "It would be rude not to." She wondered if this was some new way he'd found to try to weasel his way into her affections. She snorted. Well, if it was, the man had another thing coming because it was doomed to failure. Having put Nottingham back in his place in absentia, Sara pulled the book off the makeshift nightstand. She sighed. "Might as well read for a while," she thought, "Can't dance."

Ian felt ridiculous talking to his bathroom mirror. A brief, absurd image from "Snow White" flitted through his mind. One of his caretakers had told him the fairy tale to get him to sleep when he was a child. The thought of the magic mirror had kept him awake for hours and he'd passed every mirror in the mansion with trepidation for a month. His fears had come back to haunt him, Ian thought, rubbing his eyes. "The coffeemaker was a masterstroke," the mirror said, "She was thrilled, though I have no idea why." "No, you wouldn't," Ian thought, "You have no concept of who she really is." He looked into the mirror and said, "Is that all, Sir?" The tone of the mirror became petulant. "No, Ian, that is not all," it said, "What are you planning next? I want to see more forward progression in this relationship. Soon."

Ian sighed and shut his eyes. "Look at me when I talk to you," the mirror snapped. His eyes shot open and Ian focused his attention on the task at hand. He couldn't help Sara if he got careless. He found the thought of Irons watching her dress, take a shower, sleep, extremely upsetting. It made his skin crawl and all his protective instincts rise. That he came under the same scrutiny, endured the same lack of privacy, never entered his mind. For Ian, that had become a given, a routine part of his life. "I plan to finish the repairs and then help Sara furnish the apartment, if she'll let me," Ian answered his master's question.

"Details, Ian," the mirror requested. "She won't have money to spend and she won't take much from me, if I can convince her to take anything at all," Ian explained, "I thought I'd offer to go with her to some estate sales, flea markets, and second hand stores to help her furnish the apartment." "That sounds time consuming, my boy," the mirror hissed, "Be careful. I won't have you wasting my precious time just so that you can dally with the Wielder." Ian allowed the edge of his frustration to show. "If I push too hard, I'll lose her completely," he said. The mirror sighed dramatically. "Very well," it said, "Proceed. I'll permit you a week for this stage of the seduction, no more. See that you spend the time productively." "Yes, Sir," Ian replied.

Understanding that he'd been dismissed, Ian returned to the bedroom. He tried a few more stretches to loosen up his tired, aching muscles. The hot tub had not done much to relax him either. The unaccustomed movements he'd made painting Sara's loft had him stiff and sore. He could use a massage, he thought. The barest hint of a smile touched his sensuous lips. That made him think of one of his favorite fantasies. "Why not?" he thought. But he'd have to be careful. He didn't know where all the cameras and bugs were in this new space. They were state-of-the-art, virtually undetectable, embedded in the walls.

Ian stripped off his clothes and dropped them on a chair by the bed. He felt a little tug to go back, pick them up, and hang them neatly in the closet. His building need warred with years of training. The need won. Breathing deepening in anticipation, Ian slid beneath the sheets and angled his body to block any likely lines of sight for hidden cameras. He stretched, sighed, and cleared his mind. Behind closed eyes, he watched as Sara came into the bedroom dressed in a short, black silk robe. She wore nothing under it. She had a bottle of massage oil in her hand. Ian's hand slipped over his naked hip and began moving downward.

Despite her overdeveloped sense of responsibility and their burgeoning caseload, Sara called in to take the next day off. It was Friday after all, and she had no choice. She had no clothes. She had those she'd been wearing on the day of the fire and an outfit that she'd borrowed from Vicki. That was the extent of her wardrobe – if you didn't count the fluffy robe that Nottingham had left her. Necessity forced her to take an action she hated. She had to go clothes shopping. Aware of her meager cash reserve, Sara sat on the edge of the sleeping platform and made a list of the things that she had to have. Knowing that she'd have to shop cheap, Sara set off on the Buell early for the nearest discount chain. She was gone by the time Ian let himself in to finish painting the loft.

Around 3:00 P.M., a very tired but satisfied Sara climbed the stairs to the loft. She had fortuitously hit some killer sales and had managed to find great bargains. She was relieved that she wouldn't be arrested for indecent exposure in the immediate future. As she neared her door, the smell of paint reminded her. "Oh shit," she thought, "Nottingham." Then she remembered that she needed to thank him for the things he'd left for her yesterday. "C'mon, Pezzini. Just get it over with," she told herself. Sara took a deep breath and turned the key in the lock. The first surprise was the classic rock that was playing from a boom box on the floor. The Stones were belting out "Sympathy for the Devil." Sara could appreciate the irony of that.

Sara couldn't see him but she could hear the whoosh of a paint roller. He was also singing softly with the radio in a surprisingly pleasant baritone. In the kitchen or bathroom, she thought. She stopped in the kitchen doorway, mouth dropping open. Ian was balanced on the kitchen counter, painting the ceiling. He wore tight paint-spattered jeans and a white undershirt. Nothing else – except for the back-turned Mets cap on his head. "Dear god in heaven," she thought numbly, "Look at that body. Holy shit!" He wasn't just muscular, he was sculpted. He was freakin' Michelangelo's David. He's beautiful, she thought, watching a drop of sweat lazily slide from his neck to his chest – his chest, his shoulders, his arms, Jesus – to disappear beneath the undershirt. She fought to get a grip before her senses were nudged into overload.

"He has no idea that I'm here," she thought. She lightly cleared her throat. Ian kept painting, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Nottingham," she said. Ian started violently, his face going expressionless with surprise. He would have fallen backwards off the counter if she hadn't stepped forward to brace him. A moment later, he'd steadied himself and Sara realized that she held Ian's taut butt cheeks in her hands, one to each. "He's not wearing underwear," she thought stunned. She gasped and released his buns as if they were incendiary, stepping back. He grinned, savoring her unintended caress, and gracefully dropped to the floor.

"What are you doing here?" Ian asked. "I live here," Sara replied. He removed the hat, wiped sweat from his forehead with his forearm, and tucked the hat in the back pocket of his jeans. His hair was pulled back in a tight tail. "No," he said, "I mean…" "I know what you mean," she interrupted, "I took the day off to get some clothes. Everything I had was lost in the fire." Ian briefly thought of the little black dress she'd worn for Daniel Germane. In his mind, it ignited and burned to a crisp. He smiled. "That strikes you funny, Nottingham?" she asked, already spoiling for a fight. Ian held up paint-spattered hands. "No," he said, ignoring her question, "I wasn't expecting you to be home in the middle of the day. That's all. I've got another couple of hours of work before I finish."

Sara made a rude sound. Ian frowned, leaning over to turn off the radio. "So," he asked, "Do you want me to leave or do you want me to finish?" The jeans had pulled tight against very firm flesh when he bent over. Sara felt a brief flutter too low to be her stomach. She cleared her throat nervously and brushed her forehead with her hand. "Warm in here," she thought. Ian was looking at her expectantly. "What?" she asked. "Leave or finish?" he asked again with just a touch of irritation." She shrugged. "I'd rather get it done today if you don't mind," she said. He gave her the ghost of a smile. "I don't mind," he agreed.

Ian had turned back to the kitchen, roller in hand, when Sara said, "Hey, Nottingham." He turned toward her, one dark eyebrow raised. Shoving her hands in the pockets of her jeans, she dropped her head and mumbled, "Thanks for the stuff you left around for me yesterday." He smiled. "Damn, he's got a good smile. He should do it more often," she thought. "It was my pleasure, Sara," he said, "I'm just glad that you're not angry." She raised her head and met his eyes. "Wow, they're gold," she thought, another little jolt going through her. "Nah," she replied, "It was nice of you." Then, added, "Just don't go making a habit of it." He raised paint-smeared hands again, then said, "I better get back to work." She nodded and headed for the bedroom.

When Ian came out of the kitchen an hour later rubbing his hands on a rag, he found Sara sitting on the futon surrounded by empty bags and boxes. She was perched amid a small explosion of new clothing, looking forlorn. "What's the matter?" he asked. She looked up at him as if she'd just remembered that he was there. "I have nowhere to put anything," she replied. He frowned. "Maybe I could build you a closet," he said, "Would that help?" "Didn't you say that you were hardly ever in this building, Nottingham? Doesn't Irons need your special services?" she asked, managing to make that sound illicit, "How come you have all this time to help me?" "Look, Sara, I happen to have some time on my hands at the moment," he replied shortly, "Take advantage of it or don't. It makes no difference to me." He started to move toward the bathroom to finish painting in there.

"Sheesh, don't get all bent out of shape," Sara mumbled, then louder, "Hey Nottingham." He stopped but didn't turn, presenting her with his broad back. "A closet would be good," she said, "Thanks." "You're welcome," he responded, disappearing into the bathroom. She sat on the bed folding clothes and thinking that he was kind of cute when he got all pissy. Her hands stopped in mid-fold. "Did I just think to myself that Ian Nottingham is cute?" she wondered, "Jeez, Sara, take a pill. You're getting delusional." She shook her head and turned over the cardboard box beside the bed, putting her clothes inside. The lamp, clock, and book would just have to sit on the floor for now.

"You need some furniture," he said. Damn man moves like a cat, she thought. Ian was leaning against the bathroom doorway, arms and ankles crossed. "No shit," she said. He took the plunge. "I could lend you some money," he said, "No strings. Just pay me back when you can." "Fuck you, Nottingham," she said. He muttered an oath under his breath, threw up his arms, and disappeared back into the bathroom. Sara thought of an endless panorama of nights during which she sat in the middle of the futon, her single piece of furniture, and read her book, her single form of entertainment. "Shit," she murmured. "Okay, get back out here," she called to him. "Why don't you come here?" he called back.

Sara gritted her teeth. Then, she got up and went to the bathroom, halting in the doorway. Ian was balanced on the edge of the big clawfoot tub, painting the upper half of the bathroom wall. He was painting the bathroom a soft, fern green. "What are you doing?" she said, startled, "I said white." "Picture this color with some hanging plants," he said, thinking that it matched her eyes, "I'll put in a strip of grow lights for you. It will be like showering in a rain forest." Sara narrowed her eyes. "Is he nuts?" she wondered, then thought, "Well, yeah. Duh." "Go paint your own bathroom green, Nottingham, if you like it so much," she said. Ian stopped, lowering the arm holding the roller, and sighed. "Do you want me to paint it over white?" he asked. Now that she took a good look at it, she kind of liked it. "Nah," she mumbled, "Just keep going. I'll adjust."

Ian turned his head so that she couldn't see his grin. "She likes it," he thought. "What did you want to say to me?" he asked. Sara took a deep breath. "I'll borrow $500 from you – no more – because I can pay that back in six months. I know I won't be able to get much with that but it will have to do," she said it all in one quick breath before she could change her mind, "Is that okay?" Ian kept painting. He nodded. "That's fine," he said, "But you might be surprised how much you can get for $500. Have you ever been to any estate sales?" "No," she said cautiously, "What are they?" "Someone dies, usually without leaving a will, and all their possessions are sold," he explained, "It's like a big, exclusive garage sale. You can sometimes find some real treasures for next to nothing."

"Then there are the actual flea markets and garage sales," Ian added, "You might be able to pick up some buys there too." Sara jammed her hands in her pockets. "I don't have a car," she said, "I need a furniture place that delivers." "No, you don't," he said, "I have a car and I can get a truck if we need it." Sara stared at him hard for a long moment. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. Ian stopped painting and jumped down to sit on the rim of the tub. "I've told you that," he replied.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "No, you haven't," she said, "Not really." "I want to help you," Ian said, "I need to help you. I'm honor bound to protect you." Immediately after he said it, he thought, "God, how can that word even pass my lips." "Don't start going cryptic on me again, Nottingham," she begged, "What's that supposed to mean – in English?" Ian shook his head, looking down. "Ask the Witchblade," he said. "That seems to be your answer to everything," she hissed, "Ask the Witchblade. Trust the Witchblade. Well, in case you hadn't noticed, the Witchblade doesn't give straight answers either." Ian shrugged. "I can't force you to accept my help, Sara," he said, "I've made the offer. It stands. Take it or don't. It's up to you."

Ian dropped the roller in the tray and said, "Painting is finished. I'll take this up to my place to clean up. If you want me to help you find some furniture, I'm free this weekend. Let me know." He was almost to the front door when he heard Sara behind him. "Ian," she called. He stopped on a dime and that little quiver went through him again at hearing her call him by his first name. Ian turned to face her. "You've been really decent. I didn't mean to jump all over you," she said. He grinned charmingly. "Sure you did," he replied. She laughed, pushing a hand self-consciously through her hair. "Well, maybe," she agreed with a lopsided grin of her own, "So, how about dinner as an apology. My treat."

Ian studied her face for a moment. "Alright," he said. "It's going to have to be cheap Chinese delivery though," she said, "Funds are kind of tight at the moment." "I could…" he started. Sara held up her hand. "Absolutely not," she said, "It's the least I can do. The only problem is – we'll have to eat on the floor." He tipped his head, as if trying to decide whether to offer, then said, "We could eat at my place," then quickly added, "but the floor is fine too." Sara considered. She was actually dying to see his loft. "What the hell," she thought, then said, "Your place is fine. We can call in the order from there, can't we?" He nodded, slightly dazed by her mood swing and this turn of events. She made sure that her keys were in her pocket and waved a hand toward him. "Lead on," she said.

Ian unlocked the door to his loft. He blocked the opening as he pushed in the door, saying, "Uh, you better stay back for a minute." Then, he was on the floor and a huge mound of fur had climbed over him to bowl her over too. "What?" she sputtered, as a large, friendly Rottweiler licked her face. "Sorry," Ian said, grabbing the dog's collar and pulling him back, "I just got him and I haven't had a chance to teach him some manners yet." "He's huge," Sara said. "Yeah, he is, isn't he?" Ian said with a happy smile. Ian had always wanted his own pet and, although there were always dogs at the mansion, they weren't really his. Irons didn't keep animals for companionship. He saw their function as utilitarian – guard dogs or hunting dogs, certainly not friends.

This loft was the first place that Ian could call his own even though Irons had technically owned it (before he'd had his minions put it in Ian's name), commissioned its decoration, and set Ian up in it for his own nefarious purposes. Still, he was living here on his own – if you didn't count the voice in the mirror. Once he had his own place, almost the first thing Ian wanted was a furry companion. He actually got two. With Ian restraining the dog, Sara had managed to get inside the door and shut it behind her. She felt something brush against her ankles and looked down to see a Siamese cat rubbing against her legs. "Jeez," she said, reaching down to scratch its head, "What is this place, a zoo?" Ian frowned, still struggling to hold the big dog. "Sorry," he said again, "Are you allergic? Do you want me to shut her in the bedroom?" Sara smiled. The cat was purring like a buzz saw. "Nah," she said, "It's cool."

"Who are these guys?" she asked. Ian grimaced, then said, "This is Hannibal," as he attached a leash to the dog's collar, "And I think he needs to go for a walk right now. The lady trying to crawl up your leg is Clarice." Sara snorted. "You're kidding," she said. He gave her a sheepish smile, still wrestling with the big, excited dog. "I just got them from the shelter a couple of days ago," he said, "They were raised together. No one wanted them because they had to be adopted as a pair. And, they were already named." He'd actually brought them home just that morning, but he wanted to keep the illusion of his continuity going. "Will you be okay while I take him out?" he asked. When she nodded, he added, "I won't be long. There's a phone in the kitchen to call for the food. Make yourself at home. I'll be right back." Ian opened the door and Hannibal took off, dragging his new master behind him.

Sara looked down. Large, almond-shaped turquoise eyes studied her in return. "C'mon, Clarice," she said, "Let's check out chez Nottingham and order some dinner. Do you like Chinese?" She stopped and muttered to herself, "Jeez, I'm talking to a cat." She felt around beside the door and found a light switch. When she flicked it on, track lighting throughout the loft came on. She stood still, awed, her mouth hanging open. The place was enormous, one great sweep of space that he'd broken out into separate living areas with shoji screens, plant arrangements, oriental rugs, and, like her loft, a raised sleeping platform. Only in his place, the sleeping area was an actual loft that you reached using a ladder. At the far end, a spiral staircase reached up to access the roof – at least, that's where she assumed it went.

The color scheme was a surprise too because, although there was a lot of black and white, it was predominantly browns – from taupe all the way to the more unusual burnt umber and sienna. The main highlight colors throughout were bright, shocking oranges and muted golds. The floors were cherry and highly polished. "He must have a maid," she thought as she started to investigate further, "Or a housekeeper." The place was spotless. Nottingham was a collector of art too, ranging from the more traditional – paintings, etchings, sculpture – to the quirky – not a whole suit of armor, like Irons had, but just the chainmail glove. Weird, she thought.

All in all, his place was tasteful, stylish, comfortable, and just a bit exotic. And, curiously, there was also just the slightest air of impersonality, something that she couldn't quite pin down. "Jeez, Pezzini," she thought, "So, the guy's neat, so it doesn't look really lived in, so there's no evidence of any discernable hobbies or interests. Stop being a fucking detective and order the food." She set about finding the kitchen phone, Clarice hot on her heels. Job done, Sara found a sort of library with hundreds of books on floor to ceiling shelves, as well as a big screen TV. She curled up in a blocky chocolate corduroy chair to wait. The cat immediately jumped up on her lap and began making beds. She absently scratched feline chops and the cat made a noise like a crop duster.

Sara heard the front door open and close. The next sound was the tumultuous click of nails on hardwood. "Slow down, you maniac," Ian called out to Hannibal, "You're going to knock yourself silly…sillier. Stop." The last word was a demanding whip crack. If she'd been in motion, she would have frozen. Then, she heard his voice take on a lovely, crooning tone as he apparently caught up to his obedient companion. "Good boy, Hannibal, good boy," he purred, "Let's go find your sister and the pretty lady." Sara's lips twitched. "And this is the man that leaps off tall buildings and catches speeding bullets in his fingers," she thought. A second later, she frowned wondering where the hell those images had come from.

Ian came around the wall of bookcases looking a little concerned. When he saw her in the chair, his face relaxed into a brief smile. "There you are," he said. The dog ambled over to Sara to nudge the cat in her lap. Clarice hissed, shot out a disdainful paw to whap Hannibal across the face, and streaked off Sara's lap and out of the room like a missile. Hannibal took chase. She raised an eyebrow. "I thought they were friends," she said. "More than that," he replied, meeting her eyes directly, "That's just their slightly perverted way of showing affection." Their eyes locked and, surprisingly, Sara dropped her eyes first. "I ordered the food," she mumbled, "It'll be here in about 45 minutes."

"Great," Ian replied, "I've got to shower and change. Would you like some wine?" "That would be nice," she said, eyes still on her lap. An almost inaudible sigh escaped him as he turned, heading back toward the kitchen. Sara got up to follow him. "This is a great place, Nottingham," she said. "Thanks," he replied tersely. "Where does the spiral staircase go?" she asked. "Oh," he said, face lighting up, "To the roof garden. There's a hot tub and lap pool up there too. You're welcome to use the pool whenever you'd like. I'll give you a key." He saw a guarded look edge onto her face and thought, "Slow down, slow down, you idiot, too fast. You'll scare her away."

Aloud, Ian added lamely, "So you can use the pool when I'm not here, I mean. I'm gone a lot – like I said." He turned his head away and winced. They had reached the kitchen and Ian pulled a bottle of chilled white wine from a cooler. He began digging through drawers to find a corkscrew. Sara cleared her throat and he looked up quickly, then went back to his quest. "Kind of chilly for swimming," Sara observed. "Aha," he said, triumphant, pulling a complicated looking corkscrew from a crowded drawer, "The temperature doesn't matter. It's all enclosed." "What?" Sara asked, having lost the conversational thread. He concentrated on opening the wine. When he popped the cork with a satisfying sound, Ian stopped to look at her. "The garden, the pool, everything, it's all enclosed, temperature controlled. You could swim in the dead of winter if you wanted."

"Oh," Sara replied, eyes wide, "That sounds amazing. I'd like to see it." Ian gave her a quick, devastating grin and poured wine into lovely crystal glasses. "Sure," he said, "We can go up after dinner, if you like." "Okay," she agreed. He handed Sara a glass of wine. "Now I've got to go get cleaned up," he said, "You've been very tolerant but I know I must reek." He immediately turned his head away and winced again. "Smooth, Ian. Very smooth," he thought, hating his clumsiness. But Sara said distractedly, "No, you don't. You always smell great." A second later, realizing what she'd just said, Sara turned her head to find bright, golden eyes studying her face intently.

Sara took a gulp of the excellent chilled wine and plunged ahead. "Is that the bedroom?" she asked, nodding toward the loft at the far end of the living space. A moment later her cheeks colored violently. Ian also took a sip of wine before giving her a stunning, sexy smile, all embarrassment gone. "Yes," he said, "Would you like to see it?" Sara cleared her throat, her hands fidgeting with the glass. "Not right now," she replied, "Uh, is there a bathroom down here?" Ian nodded, then inclined his head. "About halfway down on the left," he said, still smiling, "You can't miss it." "Thanks," Sara said, heading unsteadily toward the bathroom to pull herself together. "Sure," Ian replied, watching her progress. When she'd closed the door, Ian headed off to the master bath off his bedroom to take his shower. He was whistling.

Ian showered quickly, not wanting to leave Sara to her own devices for too long. He was brushing his teeth when the mirror said, "Well done, my boy." Ian jumped, his toothbrush clattering to the sink. "I admit that I am frankly amazed you were able to bring her up here this soon," it added. Ian's haunted eyes stared into Ian's haunted eyes. "We're just having dinner," he pointed out, "Sir." The mirror emitted a raunchy chuckle. "She wants to see the hot tub, Ian," it said. Ian frowned. "Yes?" he said, his "so what?" was implied. "Your obtuseness is appalling," the mirror declared. "I am what you made me," Ian replied, molded lips thinning. "The Wielder wants sex, Nottingham. Even twice removed, I can smell her heat," the mirror ordered, "Give it to her."

Ian blushed. "Sara wants to eat dinner and look at the roof garden," Ian said, speech becoming more formal in his distress, "I am not removed. I am right here and I do not smell anything untoward emanating from her." "Christ, you're a fool," the mirror spat, "Maybe I should just go ahead and activate one of your brothers right now. What do you think, Ian?" Ian felt a small chill ripple through him. His tone became conciliatory. "I think that you must try to have a bit of patience, Sir," he replied, "The game has just begun. If we push too soon, we could lose everything. Trust me. Trust the instincts that you yourself created in me." "When?" the mirror whined, "I was spoiling for a good show. I even made popcorn." "You gave me a week," Ian said evenly, "Don't rush me." "Very well," the mirror replied crossly, "One week. Get to it. Your dinner has arrived." A moment later the buzzer sounded.

Ian rinsed his mouth thoroughly. He spared the mirror one more distraught glance, running his hands through his damp hair. Then he stalked into the bedroom to dress, so distracted that he didn't give his nakedness a second thought. After Sara had buzzed in the delivery guy and paid him for their dinner, she had dropped the two large bags in the kitchen. She had then walked toward the sleeping loft to let Ian know that their food had arrived. That's when she heard the voices – two voices. Worse, she'd swear that one of the voices was Irons. Those clipped, snotty tones were had to miss. She stopped, frozen, jaw dropping, eyes wide.

Then, she realized that it couldn't possibly be the wheelchair-bound Irons in the flesh. How would be get up that ladder to the sleeping loft and what would he be doing sequestered in the master bath? A brief image of the end of Hitchcock's "Psycho" flashed through her mind. She snorted. "Chez Nottingham aka the Bates Motel and Ian dressed up as Mother Irons," she thought, "Get a grip, Sara." Still, maybe she better stay out of the shower. There were other possibilities, of course. It was probably a speakerphone, a micro cassette recorder, or some other techno-gadget.

Just as she was wondering why Ian would have such a device in the bathroom, Sara realized that she could no longer hear the conversation. Now, there was only the sound of water running. She was just getting ready to call to Ian to let him know that the food had arrived, when he emerged from the bathroom naked as the day that he was born. For the second time in the span of a few minutes, Sara froze, jaw dropping and eyes going wide. When her mind was able to form thoughts, the very first one was: "Man oh man, is he built, not to mention very well endowed. Oh, go ahead, Sara, that beauty bears a big mention." She shivered and a shot of pure heat drilled straight down her center. Her mouth snapped shut and she colored, her reactions embarrassing her.

Ian was completely oblivious that she was watching him as he grabbed clothes from the closet and headed back toward the bed. Sara was afraid that if she moved she'd draw his attention, so she stood, frozen like a rabbit in headlights. He dropped his clothes on the bed and turned, presenting her with his broad back. She had a moment to reflect that his ass looked as good as it felt before she speedily slunk back to the kitchen. Sensing movement, Ian whirled around, automatically dropping his hands to cover his privates. There was nothing there. Still distracted, he turned back to the bed and sat down. He stared into space, absently raising a hand to push his hair behind his ear.

For many months after Sara had killed his father, at least so he had believed, Ian had seen and heard Irons in odd places. He'd been possessed by a detached hand. He'd held conversations with phantoms materializing in puddles and fires. He'd seen the lips of a painted image curve in a smile. There had been moments during that awful time when Ian had stood back, watching his actions dispassionately, and genuinely wondered if he were going mad. Now, he was having conversations with his bathroom mirror. Once again, he found himself questioning whether there was actually a tiny microphone embedded somewhere within the glass or whether part of his mind had simply detached and created its own tormentor.

Ian shut his eyes and whispered aloud, "This is pointless." He jumped when Sara called out from the kitchen, "Hey, Nottingham, dinner's here. Are you decent?" Dragging on a pair of briefs and a clean pair of jeans, he thought, "How the hell do I answer that question?" He called back, "Be right there." Ian shrugged a black cashmere sweater over his head and reached for the comb on his dresser. He took a few quick swipes with the comb, leaving his hair hanging in loose waves around his face. Ian took a deep breath and jumped agilely from the sleeping loft to the floor below. He rarely used the ladder down. When he walked into the kitchen, Sara's eyes raked over him and then quickly shifted away. Her cheeks were still flushed. Ian frowned. What was that all about? he wondered.

Ian tried a smile. "Sorry I took so long," he said. "That's okay," she replied, still not looking at him, "It really just got here. Where do you want to eat?" "We could eat on the roof if you want. There's a table and chairs up there," he said. She glanced meaningfully from the numerous cartons of Chinese food with spoons in them to the arduous looking spiral staircase. Ian followed her gaze and then laughed. "Oh, no," he said, "Even I wouldn't attempt that. There's a dumb waiter." Her brows knitted. "Who?" she asked. "It's a what, not a who," he replied, grinning, "A sort of little elevator that can carry food from here to the roof." "Oh," she said, feeling a little stupid, "Yeah, the roof sounds good."

Ian loaded up the dumb waiter with plates and utensils, Chinese food, their wine and glasses, and an extra chilled bottle of wine for good measure. That done, he sent the loaded platform to the roof. "We have to use the staircase I'm afraid," he said. "That's okay," she replied, "It looks like fun." He held out his hand in a "ladies first" gesture and Sara moved quickly toward the stairs. "Why won't she look at me directly?" Ian wondered, "Have I done something wrong?"

They were halfway up the winding stairs when Sara said, "I thought I heard Irons talking to you earlier. Do you have a speakerphone in the bathroom?" Ian almost missed one of the narrow steps. He grabbed at the out that she'd offered him. "Yes, I do," he replied, hoping that she'd leave it there. She didn't. "I didn't hear the phone ring," she said, turning now to look at him over her shoulder. Ian's mind went into overdrive. "I called him," he explained, "I almost forgot he'd asked me to check in about an assignment he had for me." She'd stopped on the stairs and was watching his face carefully. "So then I guess you won't be able to help me with furniture this weekend after all," she said. He blinked. "Sure I will," he replied. She lifted her eyebrow. It took a moment before it clicked. "Oh," he said, "No. I don't have to be back at the mansion until Monday. That's when he wants me to take care of this thing for him." He wondered if he sounded as awkward as he felt. He hated lying to her. "At least I know the microphone is real," he thought, relieved.

Sara studied him for another moment before turning back to her ascent. "Good," she said, as she emerged on the roof – and into Paradise. Ian hurried up immediately behind her because he wanted to see her face when she got her first look at the roof garden. When he'd seen it, he'd been like a child at Christmas – at least, what he assumed a child at Christmas should be like. He'd ached for someone to share it with. Now, she was here. "Isn't it great?" he bubbled before he could stop himself. A moment later, his excitement was dampened as he wondered where the cameras and bugs had been placed. Sara hadn't moved from where she'd emerged at the top of the stairs. Her eyes and mouth formed perfect O's of shock. Her face relaxed into a delighted smile. "It's incredible," she breathed, "What's that smell?"

Ian grinned. "Night blooming jasmine. Isn't it great?" he asked again. Sara smiled. She'd never seen Nottingham this excited about anything. He was like a little kid. It was kind of cute. The breaks came on. "What's with you, Pezzini?" she thought, "You're doing it again. Nottingham is not 'cute.' He's a stone cold killer and Irons' lapdog." "Yeah," she agreed, "It's great. We better get dinner before it gets cold." His grin died. Ian was ridiculously disappointed that Sara wasn't as thrilled with the garden as he was. He blinked and fought to switch gears. "Of course, you're right," he said blandly, "This way." He led her to a set of iron table and chairs toward the center of the magnificent garden. He held her chair for her and then went to get the food and dishes from the dumb waiter. Ian came back pushing a cart with everything on it. He poured them more wine and transferred the plates and cartons of Chinese food to the table.

Ian sipped wine leaning back in his chair while Sara dug into the cartons of food. When she had a full plate, she asked, "Where's the pool and the hot tub?" Ian waved a negligent hand. "Back that way," he said, "I'll show you after dinner if you like." Ian checked out the cartons of food, putting a small amount of two or three things on his plate. "Who takes care of all this?" she asked, waving a fork at their surroundings. "There are a couple of gardeners who come in once a week," he said, "But it's watered using an automated system." After swallowing her next mouthful, she asked, "So are we going to get soaked here when the sprinklers kick in?" She was studying the glass dome above them nervously.

Ian grinned and shook his head. "It's not sprinklers, Sara," he said, "The irrigation is under the planting beds." "Oh," she said, "Could you pass me more Cashew Chicken?" He glanced in the cartons and passed her the one that she'd requested. He cleared his throat and she stopped shoveling food on to her plate long enough to glance at him. "So, I guess that you do want me to take you around to some estate sales and flea markets this weekend to look for furniture," he said, "Did I hear that right?" She studied his face until he started to fidget with his fork. She smiled, realizing that she enjoyed making him nervous. Taking pity on him, she nodded.

"Fine," Ian said, the barest touch of annoyance in his voice, "We'll need to get an early start tomorrow." Sara's eyes narrowed. "How early?" she asked. He watched her while he sipped more wine until she started to fidget. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, he replied, "Seven." She winced. "I'll pack a thermos of coffee," he added. Now she was forced to smile. "You'd better, pal," she said, "If you want to emerge from the drive with all your body parts intact." A sudden image of him coming out of the bathroom au natural popped into her mind. Her eyes went distant and her lips parted. "Sara?" he said. Her eyes refocused. "Where did you just go?" he asked. "Somewhere I shouldn't have," she mumbled.

There was lots of food left. "Are you done?" Sara asked, "You didn't eat much." "I'm done," Ian said, "It was very good." She nodded, best damn Chinese delivery in the precinct area. "Do you mind if I take the leftovers?" she asked. "Not at all," he replied, as they both started removing spoons and closing cartons. He shifted everything except the wine and glasses back to the cart. "If you give me a couple of minutes to package everything up for you and put it in the refrigerator until you're ready to go, I'll show you the pool," he said. She was about to say that she'd catch the pool another time; that she should just be getting home now, when she changed her mind. "Okay," she said instead.

Ian had sent everything back down in the dumb waiter and was heading toward the stairs when Sara felt something rubbing against her ankles. At the same time, a cacophony of whining and barking began at the base of the stairs. Ian laughed, embarrassed. "Sorry," he said, "He's fine as long as Clarice stays down there with him. If she comes up here without him though, he goes nuts because he can't get up the stairs. I think he's afraid he's missing something." Sara laughed too. "Sounds like a typical male," she said. "Hey," he objected, leaning down to scoop up Clarice, his hand lightly brushing Sara's calf in the process. She covered her responsive shiver as he disappeared downstairs cuddling the cat.

Sara closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair, sipping wine and smelling jasmine. "I could get used to this," she thought. A moment later, reality struck. "C'mon, Sara, back to earth," she told herself, "Don't be seduced by a few plants and a lap pool, not to mention the hot tub. Remember the rest of the package that comes with it." Another image danced across her mind. "Not that package, bad girl," she chastised herself. She was chuckling when Ian came back upstairs, balancing two dishes of ice cream. "What's funny?" he asked. She shook her head. "Private joke," she said, adding, "I shouldn't eat that." "It's Chunky Monkey," he tempted. "Well, shit," she said reaching out for a bowl, her favorite.

Sara savored a few spoonfuls, watching him surreptitiously. "It's very weird and disconcerting, you knowing all this stuff about me," she said. Ian shrugged but didn't look up, eyes fixed on his ice cream. "We have a history, Sara," he replied. She thought about that, wondering how he meant it. She wondered if he were referring to this Witchblade/Protector crap that she'd never fully understood. She shook it off. She didn't want to get into that tonight. Sara put down her empty bowl, licking her lips. Ian was just finishing up. "Want coffee?" he asked, "I have some brewing for you." She shook her head. "You're really something, Nottingham," she remarked. The sharp golden eyes narrowed. "Meaning?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sara waffled, "Let's see this pool." It was full dark now and subtle lights had appeared throughout the garden. Ian took her elbow in his hand to guide her along the garden paths to the pool. He was thrilled when she didn't shrink from his touch. "Is this grass?" she asked, feeling softness underfoot. "Uh huh," he replied, "Some of the paths are grass, others are gravel." "It feels like there's a breeze," she said. "There are air currents," he replied, "Fans." They stepped around a lush outgrowth of some tall flowering plants and the pool was before them. Rocks and vegetation surrounded the water so that it looked like a lagoon. She gasped out loud when she saw it. "This is so cool," she cried. Ian grinned, loving her excitement.

"How deep is it?" Sara asked. "Five feet throughout," he replied. She grinned again, a quick flash of teeth. "No diving, I guess," she said. That made Ian laugh. "No," he agreed, "No diving." "Oh man," she said, "I'm itching to get in there." He gave her a lazy smile. "You're quite welcome," he offered. "I don't have a suit," she pointed out. His smile got a bit lazier. He shrugged. "Besides," she said, "We just ate." "I won't let you drown," he promised. Though sorely tempted, she wasn't ready to skinny dip with Ian Nottingham. "Nah," she finally said, "Another time. When do you swim?" "Every morning about 6:00," he replied, hoping that she might join him. "Then maybe I could use it at night?" she asked. "Sure," he said, turning away to hide his hurt feelings. She hadn't wanted to join him, she'd wanted to avoid him.

"Ready for some coffee now?" Ian asked, getting himself back under control. Sara rubbed her eyes. "I think I'm going to pass on the coffee," she said, "I'm bushed and we have to get an early start tomorrow. Maybe you could just dump it into that thermos for me." "Okay," he said softly, sorry that she wasn't going to stay. She was, in fact, already headed back toward the stairs. "'The Wielder wants sex,' my ass," he thought sourly, "My master doesn't have a clue how her mind works." As he watched her navigate the twists of the spiral staircase, Ian frowned and thought, "And neither do I." He sighed and followed her rapid progress back to his front door, only making a quick stop in the kitchen to get her leftovers.