"Blood Seduction"

Depending on how much you like this and the feedback that I get, I'll post the rest of this story here. If no one responds and it just sort of falls flat, then I'll figure that no one is reading it and I won't bother updating. So, if you are reading, please let me know it. Tell me and I'll be glad to give you more (hee hee) - kind of like a seduction. Yes?

*********************************************************************************************************

At precisely 7:00 the next morning, Sara heard a soft knock on her door. She was ready but she hadn't had time to make coffee so she hoped his promise of that thermos was real. If not, Ian wasn't in for a very pleasant start to their journey. Before she could open the door fully, a thermos bottle was thrust into the opening. Sara had to laugh. "Okay, smart ass," she growled, "It's safe to show yourself now that you've made an acceptable offering at my altar." Ian stepped into the open doorway. Sara frowned. The UberAssassin was back. He was in black from head to toe and he was wearing the gloves. His hair was pulled back tight.

Sara's mouth twisted. "Well," she said, "There's the Nottingham that I've come to know and…" She stopped short of finishing the nasty remark. After all, Ian was doing her a favor. She needed his help. She should try not to insult the man immediately. "And what?" he growled right back, able to fill in the missing word just fine from her tone of voice. She tried a fractured smile. "And nothing," she muttered, "I warned you not to venture near until after my first cup of coffee." The golden eyes were hidden behind wraparound dark glasses, but an arched brow raised. "No coffee at all yet?" he asked. She shook her head. A theatrical chill shuddered through him. "No wonder," he said, "Get your travel mug." "I don't have a…," she started, then remembered that he was the one who had stocked her cabinets.

Sara went back to her kitchen and started opening cabinets. "Second cabinet, third shelf," Ian called. She came back carrying a hefty travel mug. Sara handed it to Ian. As he was pouring steaming coffee from the thermos, she said, "So, I suppose that we can expect attacks from antique-wielding ninjas at these estate sales. Right?" He handed her the full mug and screwed the cap back on the thermos before he raised his head to fix her with his dark, blank stare. "Excuse me?" he said in a snide tone he must have learned at Irons knee. She extended a hand to present him to himself, from top to bottom. "You're back in full hired killer drag," she said, "What happened to the jeans and sweater?" "Why do you care what I'm wearing?" Ian asked, adding, "What are you – the fashion police?"

Sara took another sip of coffee, mellowing a bit as it rolled over her tongue. She smirked. "Nah," she said, "You want to blend in as the Terminator in the middle of suburbia it's your business. Personally, I miss the jeans. You looked good in them." She tossed off the last comment as she angled past him, jingling her keys in her pocket. A touch of color bloomed in Ian's cheeks and he made a little sound in the back of his throat as he shut her door and followed her down the stairs. In front of the building, Sara found a shiny black, mid-size, flatbed truck. She turned back to look at Ian, thinking it was unnerving not to be able to see his eyes. "Wow. You don't fool around, do you?" she said. He gave her a quick, lethal grin. "Depends," he shot back.

As Ian moved to open the truck door for her, Sara slipped past him and opened it herself. Vaulting on to the high seat, she said, "I got it," yanking the door shut behind her. Ian sighed as he went to the driver's side and got in. "Off to a smashing start," he thought morosely. Sara took another big gulp. "Good coffee," she mumbled. "Thanks," he replied, "There's a box of pastries in the back and some paper towels." Sara smirked as she reached for the box. "Fussy," she thought. Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed a couple of paper towels off the roll to appease him. As they set out for the wilds of suburbia, she snagged a cheese Danish and bit in, balancing it on a paper towel. Resting the box on her lap, she chugged more coffee before securing the mug in a cup holder.

Sara let out a contented sigh and Ian grinned. "Good Danish," she said. "I can't take the credit for that," he responded, "I just picked it up at the bakery." Her eyes shifted in a sidelong glance. "Want one?" she asked. "A plain donut, please," he said. Sara snorted. "Boring," she observed. "Basic," he countered. She smiled, suddenly unaccountably happy. She handed him his donut on a paper towel, then studied him covertly, eating her pastry. He drove the truck like he'd been born to it, shifting gears smoothly. "Is there anything that he doesn't do well?" she wondered. "So, what's on the agenda?" she asked. He finished chewing, then said, "I circled some ads that looked promising in the paper behind you."

Sara wiped her hands on the paper towel and reached back to grab the folded newspaper. Her eyes widened as she studied the markings Ian had made. "All these?" she asked. "They're just possibilities," he said, "Maybe you'll find everything you need at the first stop." The Pezzini eyebrow rose. "Yeah, right," she scoffed. Ian pointedly ignored her cynicism. "What are you looking for today?" he asked. Sara dragged her little list out of her jacket pocket, proud that she was prepared. "Bedside table, some sort of dining table and chairs, bookcase, and maybe a chair for the living room. If I do really, really well, maybe a couple of chairs and some cheap rugs. Oh, and a reading lamp." She sighed and added, "Hopeless, right? I'll never get all that stuff for $500."

Ian shrugged. "You never know," he said, "We might get lucky." She glanced at him sharply, wondering if he was aware of the double entendre. "Nope," she decided, "He hasn't a clue." "Danny called me last night when I got home," she said, "He and Lee are giving me a queen size box spring and mattress for a housewarming gift. So, I can give you back the futon. And, he'd talked to Vicki. She's letting me borrow her second color T.V. until I can replace the one that I had." "That's great," he said, "You'll soon be back to normal." Sara looked out the window, sadness filling her eyes. "No," she said, "Not really. I lost things in the fire that can never be replaced. The only photos I had of my parents, stuff like that." She sighed. Ian racked his brain again for a way he could get her something out of what he'd saved without incriminating himself.

They were quiet for quite a while, each lost in their own thoughts, before she asked, "Where are all these places?" None of the names sounded familiar to her. "Most of them are in Connecticut," he said. She looked appalled. "You're taking me to another state?" she said. His lips twitched. "Calm down, Sara," he replied, "You don't need your passport and I'm not a white slaver." She frowned. "Oh, ha ha, Nottingham," she said, annoyed, "You're a real killer." That shut them both up because it hit a little too close to home. In the sudden uncomfortable silence, Sara reached out to turn on the radio. The same classic rock station that he'd been tuned to in the loft came on.

During the rest of the ride to the first estate sale, Ian drew Sara out about the kind of furniture that she liked, the type of wood and style she preferred. At first, it was like pulling teeth but she soon warmed to the subject and he gathered a lot of information. The first place they hit was a large, old house at the end of a long, winding driveway. It was already crowded with bargain hunters. Ian and Sara split up so that they could cover more ground. She found her bedside table in the first five minutes but she wanted Ian's opinion on whether it was a bargain for the price. She found him mesmerized by a table of antique jewelry. "Hey," she said, punching him on the arm, "I thought you were helping me, pal." He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry," he said, "I did one circuit and didn't find anything on your list. Then I got sidetracked."

"Yeah, well, I think I found my bedside table," she said, excited, "And it's cheap. But I wanted you to take a look." She started to drag him away from the jewelry and the woman behind the table said, "Shall I…?" Ian nodded quickly and said, "Just hold them, please. I'll be back." As she pulled him along to her table, she glanced back at him curiously. "What did you get?" she asked. He moved her hand into his from where it was gripping his arm, linking their fingers. His heart started to speed up. "A pair of cufflinks," he said a little breathlessly, "Nothing exciting." He pondered that he was getting rather good at lying to her. She was so wound up in the thrill of the hunt that it didn't even register that they were holding hands.

She stopped in front of a small cherry table with two narrow drawers in the top and a shelf below for books. Ian dropped down to his haunches to study the workmanship. His eyes narrowed when he looked at the price tag. The seller leaned over and said to Ian, "Your wife has a good eye." Color crept into Sara's cheeks and she opened her mouth for a denial. Ian grinned at her as he rose. "Actually she has two," he said, "but this is a bit overpriced." Sara watched wide-eyed as Ian haggled with the seller, eventually bringing the price down to $25.00. By the time the bargaining ended, she was practically thrumming with nerves and excitement.

Ian moved Sara a little away and passed her a stack of bills - $500 in twenties. "Tuck that away somewhere safe," he said, "There are pickpockets here too. If you want to pay for the table, I'll go back to get my cufflinks. Then, I'll carry it out to the truck for you. Okay?" She nodded, smiling like a fool. He grinned back at her before he left. "Good buy," he said. Once the table was settled in the truck, they both agreed that there was nothing else to buy there. They got back in the truck and headed toward the next sale.

It wasn't far, only about a half hour away from the first place. And, it was a gold mine. At this one, Sara found her dining room table, extra leaf included, and six chairs, as well as a bookcase. All of them were cherry, well made, and in remarkably good condition. Ian bargained again for the table and chairs, but she took over on the bookcase. In total, her purchases came to $375. Sara couldn't believe that she'd found the furniture that she had and still had $100 left. When they were all packed up and back in the truck, she said, "Where to now, Ian?" His eyes shut briefly, savoring the sound of his name on her tongue. "Lunch," he said. "But we might lose the deal of a lifetime while we're eating," she protested.

Ian laughed, enjoying her good mood. "You're really caught up in this now, aren't you?" he asked. "Yeah," she said, unconsciously rubbing her hands together, "We've done so much in one morning. It's amazing." As she reached for the nearly empty coffee thermos, her stomach growled in protest. Ian threw her a glance and said, "See?" "Yeah, yeah," she replied, "Watch the road. I guess I could eat something." Ian squinted at the road signs and said, "There used to be an inn out this way with a really wonderful restaurant. It was sort of a mom and pop place. I think I might be able to find it." Sara turned to study him. "How do you know all this stuff?" she asked. Ian shrugged. "My work for Mr. Irons takes me to a lot of places," he said. "I'll bet," Sara agreed. The mood in the truck had chilled again. Ian sighed softly.

They drove a few more miles before Ian pulled into another long driveway that ended at a quaint bed and breakfast that also had a small sign advertising a restaurant. "This is certainly out of the way," Sara said looking around. "A hidden gem," Ian replied, "Unless it's changed management." When they went in the front door, it looked just as Ian remembered. A charming lobby with a check-in counter and the entrance to a small restaurant off to one side. The restaurant was tiny and all the tables were filled. "That's a good sign," Sara thought. They were only standing in the door a minute when a smiling, matronly woman came up to them. "Just you folks," she asked, "Or are you expecting more?" "Just us," Ian said. "Won't be more than a couple minutes," she said, "We have a group that's almost done."

They were seated at a lovely table by the window less than five minutes later. The same woman came to take their order. Ian just glanced at the menu before he set it beside his plate. Sara looked at him curiously then leaned across the table to remove his sunglasses. She folded them and put them next to his plate. "I want to see your eyes when I talk to you," she said. Their eyes met and held for one long steamy minute before he looked down at the table. She shook her head to clear it. "What are you getting?" she asked. Ian looked back up at her a little shyly. "Meatloaf and mashed potatoes," he said. She smiled. "A little heavy for lunch, isn't it?" she asked. "I love it," he explained, "And it's the kind of food I never get at the mansion." Her smile broadened. She couldn't really picture Irons as a comfort food kind of guy. "Is it good here?" she asked. He looked like he might transport to another plane. "Incredible," he said.

They both had the meatloaf and mashed potatoes, as well as homemade bread and fresh green beans. For dessert, there was strawberry pie that was almost orgasmic. Sara put down her fork on her clean plate and said, "I'm stuffed and ready for a nap." Ian grinned, sated and happy. "What happened to all that buying frenzy?" he asked. "It's currently buried under a mound of mashed potatoes with gravy," she replied, "Given a bit of digestion time, I'm sure it will reemerge." "Coffee?" he asked. She nodded, then said, "Where next, another estate sale?" He shook his head. "You need to get some living room furniture for $100," he pointed out, "I think we'll do better at a flea market or even a garage sale."

When they were back in the truck, Ian asked her to pass him the newspaper. Sara did, noticing that he hadn't put his sunglasses back on, they were tucked in his pocket. She stretched like a cat and curled sideways on the seat, watching him. Feeling her eyes on him, Ian cleared his throat. He turned his head to look at her. She looked so loose and relaxed, he thought. His eyes fixed on her moist lips and his own lips parted. "How far to the flea market?" she asked, breaking the spell. He blinked once, and again. "Uh, about half an hour's drive," he said. Watching his lips, she licked hers. "Ready when you are," she said, still staring at him and dropping her head back on the seat.

It took Ian two tries to start the truck. He looked back at the inn part of the bed and breakfast wistfully in the rearview mirror. Then, he let it go. The flea market was huge, spread out over what appeared to be a couple of football fields. Everything imaginable seemed to be up for sale. Sara bounced out of the truck, excited again, grabbing Ian's hand. Grinning, he let her drag him past rows and rows of tables. She came to an abrupt halt at an area at the end of a row that had sofas, loveseats, and easy chairs. A deep burgundy velour loveseat and matching easy chair had caught her eye. They were a bit threadbare but passable. Sara punched the cushions of the loveseat a bit and then sat down. She shut her eyes and smiled. Ian would have killed now to get them for her.

It took an hour of concerted cajoling, flirting, and intimidating to get the woman selling the items close to their target price. Sara stayed out of it because the woman was obviously lusting for Ian. Even using all his charms, and Sara was forced to admit that they were formidable when put on display, the lowest he could get her to was $150. He pulled Sara aside. "Take it," he said, "And let me give you the extra $50 as my housewarming present to you." Sara narrowed her eyes. "Please," he begged her. She gave in with an ecstatic smile. "Okay," she agreed. "Yes!" he whooped, flashing that devastating grin. The woman selling the furniture almost swooned. She snagged a male friend with a handcart to help them take the loveseat and chair to the truck and load it.

When Sara paid her, supplemented with another $50 from Ian, the woman asked her, "Does he have a brother?" Sara frowned. "God, just what I need, multiple Nottinghams," she thought. She replied, "Not that I know of." "Too bad," the woman said, smitten, "He's so gorgeous. But you know that. Right?" Unbidden, the image of Ian coming out of the bathroom naked filled her mind. "Right," Sara replied, caught up in the picture. "You hang on to him, honey," the woman said, eyes devouring Ian as he returned down the row of tables, "That one's a real keeper." Ian's warm smile swept over them both. "Ready?" he asked Sara. She looked into those thick-lashed golden eyes and nodded.

This time, Ian had worked up enough courage to reach out and take her hand, linking his fingers through hers. He held his breath. Sara didn't pull away. He not only started to breathe again, he began to whistle. She slanted him a sideways smile and said, "Jeez, you'd think that we were furnishing your place instead of mine." He grinned. "Technically, it is my place," he reminded her. "Don't remind me," she said, "Well, my money is gone but I think that I might have a home again – almost, anyway." Her eyes had gone a little sad remembering what she'd lost. Some of his happiness fell away too, remembering his complicity in her loss, even if it was only guilt by association.

By the time she reached the truck and saw all her new furniture neatly tucked away for the journey back to the city, Sara's brief funk passed and she began redecorating the loft in her mind. Feeling her mood shift again, Ian's spirits lifted too. She kept him entertained on the long drive home with her plans for the loft. She did catch him offguard, however, when she suddenly decided to have an impromptu housewarming party that coming Friday night. Just a small gathering with her closest friends – Danny and Lee, Jake and Vicki, the Siris, a few others she worked with – and she wanted Ian to come. The last thing on earth that Ian wanted was to be trapped in an enclosed space with Sara's two partners.

Sara was insistent as only Sara could be, pointing out that the house that they would be warming was almost entirely due to his efforts. She kept pushing until Ian gave her a guarded maybe. She finally let it go seeing the stubborn set of his lips but she was fully determined that Ian was going to come to the party – even if she had to drag him there herself, kicking and screaming. That mental picture brought an amused smile to her lips. Glancing at her, Ian thought that the look on her face was dangerous and decided that he might have to take a quick business trip. He was planning the logistics when he realized that Sara had said his name. And he'd missed it. He pretended that he hadn't heard so that she'd do it again.

"Ian?" Sara said. He snapped his head toward her and then back to the road, trying to look appropriately startled. "Yes?" he responded. "There's one more thing that I need to do before I can start fresh," she said, "I need to go back to the loft and look around just to put it to rest. I'd like to go tomorrow morning. Will you go with me?" Ian shot her another quick glance. "I understand that the fire was very bad, Sara. You were on the second floor. We may not be able to get past the barriers," he pointed out. Sara smiled challengingly. "When has something like that stopped either of us?" she asked. He smiled in response, taking her dare. "Point taken," he replied, "Yes. I'll go with you. Thank you for asking." She ducked her head and mumbled, "Welcome."

Ian pulled the truck into the alley behind their building. Using a remote control, he raised the door to the access ramp for the underground garage where Sara parked her Buell. He drove the truck into a separate area that he was able to secure. They weren't planning to unload the furniture until the following afternoon when Ian had arranged for some help using his cell phone during the drive back. As they were walking to the freight elevator, he held out his hand and said, "Here." Sara squinted in the dim light to see what he was offering her. It was a key. She pointedly ignored the proffered key, getting on the elevator. Ian palmed the key long enough to pull down the elevator door.

Sara pressed the buttons for two and four, not saying another word. Ian sighed. "Why not take advantage of the pool?" he asked, "It's true that I'm frequently gone. If you want to be sure that I don't walk in on you when you're using the pool, we can work out a signal." That intrigued her. "What kind of signal?" she asked. He ran a hand through his hair, inadvertently pulling out the tie that had been holding it back. "Tie a ribbon around the bottom of the spiral staircase and I'll know not to go up to the roof," he suggested. "How's that? You can swim in peace. If you don't want to deal with me when you're done, just come back down and leave." "That sounds pretty rude," she said. He shrugged. "I won't be offended," he said. "What about your privacy," she said, "If I've got a key, I can just walk in on you."

They'd reached the second floor. He slid up the elevator door for her and held out the key again. "Knock," he said, then grinned mischievously, "Forewarned is forearmed." She reached out and took the key, her hand brushing his just a little longer than was necessary. She went to her door and turned to face him. Grinning back, she said, "You asked for it." As he slid down the elevator door and it began its ascent, she lifted a hand and said, "Night, Ian. Thanks for everything. See you tomorrow." He waved back and said, "Night, Sara. You're very welcome. Sleep well."

When Ian opened the door of his loft, Hannibal was there looking desperate for a walk. Ian immediately reached for the leash on a hook beside the door. As he was hooking it to Hannibal's collar, the hall mirror said, "Where the hell have you been all day, dear boy?" The endearment was coated with menace. "Out," Ian replied, not looking into the looking glass. "Report," the mirror commanded in scathing tones. "I'll just be another few minutes," Ian said, opening the door to take Hannibal for a quick walk. As the door shut behind him, the mirror screamed "Nottingham! Get back here now." Ian flinched but didn't pause. He kept right on going down the steps and out the front door of the building.

Ten minutes later, Ian returned with a very relieved dog. Before he had even unleashed Hannibal, the mirror noted, "Well, Ian. It's nice to know where I fit within your priority system. Right below the fucking dog." Ian let Hannibal loose and faced the mirror. He blinked, making a concerted effort to mentally shift from resentment to conciliation. "I'm sorry, Sir," Ian apologized, "He was about to make a mess." Ian knew how Irons hated messes of any kind. "The animals only create complications, Ian," the mirror said, "You brought them in on your own initiative. This sudden independence of yours is worrisome. It might be simpler to just get rid of the animals altogether." Ian felt an icy hand grip his heart. He was crazy in love with Hannibal and Clarice. This was a petty punishment, nothing more, and Ian would fight like hell to keep his pets.

"The animals give me an air of normalcy," Ian said, "They give Sara and I some common ground on which to build our relationship." The mirror snorted. "Please. Spare me your lame explanations," it said dismissively, "Keep in mind, Ian, that your pets are one more thing that I can take away from you if you do not do my bidding. They are yet another vulnerability that you've given me to use against you." Ian shut his eyes. "I'm so tired," he suddenly thought, sagging against the hall table. "Look at me, Nottingham," the mirror snapped. Ian opened his eyes. "Report," it commanded.

"Sara and I spent the day together," Ian said, "We went to estate sales and flea markets to get her some new furniture." The mirror made a non-committal sound. "And does the fair Sara find you any less repulsive, Ian?" it wanted to know. "Yes, I think so," he replied, "She held my hand and she's begun calling me by my first name." "Perfect," the mirror said, sarcasm dripping from the word, "I'm rapidly slipping into my dotage and you're getting ready to pin the Wielder and take her to the sock hop." Ian frowned. He hadn't a clue what his master was talking about. What was a sock hop? "Excuse me?" he said. "Bed the bitch," the mirror warned, "Soon. Or you'll both suffer the consequences." Ian stiffened. "Yes, Sir," he replied. He slowly released the breath that he'd been holding, knowing that he'd once again been dismissed.

Ian knocked on Sara's door around ten the next morning. A moment later, she opened it looking fresh and rested. "Hey, Ian," she said, "Want some coffee?" After the inevitable rush he got every time he saw Sara anew subsided, he said, "Hey, Sara. Tea?" She gave him a lopsided grin. "Do I have tea?" she asked. He grinned back. "Second cabinet, first shelf," he replied. As she went to put on the kettle, Sara threw back over her shoulder, "When are we unloading my furniture?" Ian followed her to lean in the kitchen doorway. "That's why I'm here," he said, "To let you know that the plans have changed. The help I've arranged for will be here at eleven. Is that okay for you?" She nodded, excited.

"I still have to do the floors and build you your closet but at least it should start to feel a little more like home to you now that you have some furniture," Ian said, "I'll have the rest of the work done by the end of the week – in time for your party." Sara handed him a steaming cup of tea. "To which you'll be coming," she said, trying to pin him down again, "Right?" Ian studiously ignored her question, sipping his tea. "Ian?" she pressed. He sighed. "I'll come if I'm in town," he said. Sara narrowed her eyes. "Feel a trip coming on?" she asked. Caught, the color rose in his cheeks. "Of course not," he dissembled, "It's just that I often don't have a lot of notice when Mr. Irons needs me to travel on business." She smirked. "How convenient," she said. "It's true," he protested. But the look in his eyes was hidden beneath those impossibly long eyelashes.

A few minutes after eleven, Sara buzzed in a couple of burly guys with hand trucks. Ian supervised them moving the furniture from the garage up to the loft, where Sara guided them in placing her new items. They were done by noon. Sara sat on her burgundy loveseat facing Ian who was slouched in the matching chair. She looked around slowly and a wide smile lit her face. "I have stuff," she said. Ian smiled back at her, happy because she was happy. "You do indeed," he agreed. Sara frowned, waving her hand. "I'd like to find some way to create separate areas the way you did," she said. "The way some decorator I never saw did," he thought. "You could close off the bedroom with shoji screens," he said, "I could put them in for you. You can create other areas with a couple of rugs." "You've already done too much, Ian," she said, "I don't want to impose on you any further. And, there's no money left for rugs." Ian shrugged. "I don't mind helping you, Sara," he said, "I wouldn't offer if I did."

Sara could accept that. "Okay," she said, "Do you have more time now or do you have to go?" "I'm yours for the rest of the day," Ian said, "Why don't we get some lunch and then go visit the loft?" She studied his face a moment. "You sure that you're still up for that?" she asked. He nodded. "I don't think that you should go back there by yourself," he said. His concern touched her, though she'd never acknowledge that. "Any preference for lunch?" she asked, "You seem to have your pulse on the dining scene." He'd rise to the challenge. "There's a good deli in the next block," he said. Sara's eyes widened. "I love that place," she said. "Great pickles," they both said together, then laughed.

After a long, relaxed lunch, they came back to the building to get the Buell. Sara had convinced Ian to let her drive. They were now in the garage, Sara helmeted and mounted on the bike. Ian still stood to the side. She tried to hand him her spare helmet and Ian lifted his hands. "No thanks," he said, having a pretty good idea whose head had last graced that helmet. He'd be damned if he'd put on anything that had last been on Daniel Germaine. Sara looked at him like he was nuts. "Don't be silly," she said, "Put on the helmet." Ian shoved his hands in his pockets. She thought that he looked like a little boy about to have a tantrum. "No," he replied. "Ian…," she began. "I'm not wearing the damn helmet, Sara," he said, "Now, do we go or not?"

Sara stared at him a moment longer and then shrugged, defeated. She handed him the helmet again and said, "Here then. Put it away and get on." Ian stowed the helmet in a container by her parking spot and straddled the bike behind her. He was back to wearing jeans, sweater, and an old brown leather bomber jacket. When he angled himself tight against her back and slipped his arms around her waist, she could clearly feel all the hard planes of his body against hers. "Oh my," Sara thought, "He certainly does feel good back there." Ian was struggling to form a coherent thought because he was swamped by a multitude of sensations – his groin pressing against her bottom, the inside of his thighs molded to the outside of hers, his arms around her. "Ready?" she asked a little hoarsely. The only sound he returned was sort of a strangled moan, which she took as a "yes."

When Sara pulled the Buell to the curb across from the burnt out shell of her former home, she and Ian both were more than a little shaky. Ian got off the bike gingerly and turned away, trying to pull himself together. Sara made a production of locking the bike down before she turned to study the remains of her home. The fire had burned very hot and very fast. The building was a total loss. It had collapsed like a house of cards, each floor tumbling down on the one below. Although Sara could see that there was little hope of finding anything recognizable in the wreckage, she had to try. She looked grimly at Ian and he nodded, holding out his hand to her. She took it and held it tight.

They crossed the street, holding hands, and slipped under the barricades and barriers blocking off the remnants of the building. Once they reached their destination, the going was both treacherous and dangerous. They separated, picking their way very carefully amongst potentially lethal debris like broken glass, sharp shards of wood, and twisted metal. They were soon both covered with dirt and soot. Sara finally found an area with some shapes that looked vaguely familiar. Ian carefully inched his way closer to her, searching the uneven remains beneath his feet, looking for something that he could use. When he found it, he acted quickly. She was engrossed in digging through a likely looking pile of ashes, when he said, "Sara?" The tone of his voice made the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up.

Sara didn't answer him, instead she made her way carefully to his side. Ian had the toe of his boot on what looked like the corner of a photograph. It had been trapped and protected beneath a dense piece of some kind of metal. He drew back his boot, edging the photo further out from beneath the metal. Sara let out a wild cry and dropped to her knees. Ian immediately knelt beside her. She carefully inched the picture out of its sanctuary, careful not to bend or tear it. When she'd managed to extricate it completely, tears were rolling down her cheeks. The upper corner of the photo had been charred but other than that, it was fine.

Sara gave Ian a radiant smile. "Oh, Ian," she said, "This is my favorite picture in the whole world. It's the only one I have with both my parents and me. This was meant to be. This is why I had to come here today." He reached out his hand to gently brush tears from her cheek. He was so glad that he'd been able to give it back to her. It wasn't a lot of her past, but at least it was something. Given time, he'd figure out some way to get her the rest of her memories. "I'm glad for you," he said, "I don't think we're going to find anything else right now though, do you? If you want, I can come back during the week and look around some more." Sara held her treasure cupped in her hands and, at least for the moment, she was content. "I want to get a frame for it," she said reverently. He nodded, understanding. "Why don't we stop on the way back to the building?" he suggested.

**********************************************

When Sara got home from work on Monday night, she found a note under her door from Ian. Irons was sending him out of town on business and he asked if she could walk Hannibal for him. If she wasn't able to do it, he asked her to let Mrs. Braverman know that he'd been sent out of town unexpectedly and that Hannibal would need to be walked. Mrs. Braverman was the lady that lived directly above her on three. He also reminded her that she was welcome to use the pool and hot tub. It had been a long day at work and Sara decided to take him up on his offer. Hannibal was delighted to see her and gave her no trouble, thrilled to be taken out for his evening stroll. When she came back to Ian's loft, she went up to the roof garden and swam naked in the pool for about an hour. Then, she relaxed in the hot tub for another half hour. It was heavenly. Just in case, she'd made a point of tying a bright red ribbon to the bottom of the spiral staircase. But, it was unnecessary. As promised, she had his place to herself.

With Ian not due back until the end of the week, Sara followed the same routine each evening – walk Hannibal, take a swim, and relax in the hot tub. On Thursday night, she was getting out of the hot tub, slipping into her white terry robe, when she heard Hannibal bark in the loft below. She'd started to know his language and that sounded like the "Welcome Home, Daddy" bark that he usually reserved for Ian. Sara tightened the tie of her robe, wrapped her wet hair in a towel, and cautiously descended into the loft. The hairs on her arms raised and she suddenly wished that she had her gun. The only sound in the loft was Hannibal whining softly and incessantly. The sound was both unnerving and eerie.

Sara cautiously crept toward the sound, looking both right and left. When she reached the library, she relaxed. Ian was slouched in one of the brown corduroy chairs, his long legs stretched straight out, ankles crossed. His head was turned away from her. One hand rested on the arm of the chair, the other was scratching Hannibal's head. The big dog was pressed tight against Ian's legs with his head on Ian's lap. Clarice sat on the floor at the other side of Ian. If a cat's body could reflect tension, this one's did. Her big blue eyes were fixed unblinking on Ian's face. Hannibal didn't stir when she came into the room. He just kept whining. "Why is he doing that?" she wondered, "What the hell's wrong with him?

Sara was half way across the room when she smelled blood – lots of blood. Her nostrils flared picking up the all too familiar odor. "You're hurt," she said. Ian jumped, turning toward her. She immediately saw that the sudden movement had caused him severe pain. "Where are you hurt?" she asked. "I'm fine, Sara," he murmured, voice strained, "Just leave me alone." Sara gave Hannibal a little push away from the chair and took his place. "Not a chance in hell, pal," she said, squatting down beside the chair, "You can make this easy or you can make this hard, but I am going to find out what's wrong with you." Ian sighed and said, "Go home, Sara. I can take care of this myself. I didn't know you were here." She reached out and, taking his chin, turned his face to meet hers. His eyes were clouded and his face was tight with pain.

Sara noticed an open cut on his right forehead. She gently brushed his hair out of the way and said, "It's more than this. You're bleeding badly, Ian. I can smell it." He winced and turned away again. Her control broke. "Damn it, Ian," she said, "Stop this shit. Let me help you. Tell me where you're hurt." He turned to face her. "It's my back," he mumbled. She tried a smile. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" she asked, "Now sit up and let me take a look." His mouth went thin and he gave a little shake of his head. "I don't want your help," he said. She fought back the hurt that his statement shot through her. "Well, that's just too fucking bad," she said, "Because you're getting my help whether you want it or not. Now sit up on your own or I'll be forced to make you do it."

The thought of Sara forcing him to do anything actually made Ian smile. He sat up in the chair and leaned forward. Even in the dim light of the library, Sara could see that the back of his shirt was soaked with blood and sticking to his back. "Jesus," Sara said, appalled, "What the hell happened?" Ian blinked. "I displeased my master," he said softly. Her eyes went wide. "Irons did this to you?" she asked, "On purpose?" Ian shrugged and immediately hissed with the pain caused by his movement. "A beating is hardly ever accidental," he said with grim humor, "He didn't do it himself. He can't any more. He has someone else do it now." Sara looked at him like he'd grown horns. "And you do what?" she asked, "Just stand there and let someone beat you? Why?" Ian closed his eyes wearily and rubbed one hand across his forehead. "Because I failed," he whispered.

"Stop it, Sara," she told herself, "Psychoanalyze later. Right now, he's hurt and needs care." She took a deep breath. "Okay," she said, "We need to get that shirt off of you and clean you up." She carefully unbuttoned his shirt, her fingers brushing against his warm, hard-muscled chest, tangling in the light dusting of soft dark hair. Sara clamped down her control to keep her mind on the task at hand. When she'd opened his shirt, she tried to push it over his shoulders and off his arms but she found that it was stuck to his back with dried blood. "Shit," she said with feeling. Ian shrugged the shirt back over his shoulders. "Just let it go," he said, "I'll deal with it tomorrow."

"Like hell you will," Sara said, a plan forming in her mind, "Can you make it up the ladder to the sleeping loft?" "Sara…," he said. "Damn it, Ian. Just answer me, will you?" she growled back at him. Ian sighed. "I think so," he replied. "Good," she said, "Let's do it. I'll be right behind you if you need help." Ian got stiffly to his feet, swaying just a little. Sara caught his arm at the elbow and steered him toward the ladder to the sleeping loft. She hoped that he could make the climb because she wasn't sure what she'd do if he started to fall backwards. Ian climbed up the ladder slowly and with an occasional soft, sharp hiss of pain – but he made it. Giddy with relief, Sara clambered up after him.

"Where do you keep your tee shirts?" Sara asked. Ian looked blank for a moment, switching gears, and then he angled his head toward the bureau. "Bottom drawer," he said. She went over and pulled a clean tee shirt from the drawer, shutting it after her. Their eyes met when she stood. His clearly said, "Please just leave me alone." Sara smiled and answered, "Bathroom. Now." He lifted one dark brow but obeyed her. She put down the toilet seat and tipped her head. "Sit," she said. Ian sat down. She put the tee shirt on the edge of the sink and hunkered down to take off his shoes and socks. Ian reached out to touch her shoulder. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Getting you cleaned up and ready for bed," she replied.

Sara stuffed his socks in his shoes and pushed them back out of the way. "Stand up," she said. Ian sighed and stood. She started to unbuckle his belt and panic edged into the golden eyes. His hands covered hers. "Sara?" he asked, "What's going on?" He saw the determination in her eyes and removed his hands. "I'm going to put you under a warm shower to loosen that shirt from your back. Then, I'm going to try to clean up the cuts and put something on them," she said and asked, "Do you have anything that I could use?" He shut his eyes, fighting a sudden surge of heat, when she unbuttoned and then unzipped his pants. "There's some salve in the medicine cabinet," he said in a low, strangled voice. Ian had never pictured her undressing him in quite this way and he thought he'd pictured her doing it in every way imaginable. "Surprise!" he thought and gave a ragged laugh.

Sara glanced at his face. "What's funny here, pal?" she asked. "Life," he replied. She thought he must be a bit punchy from loss of blood. She bent to concentrate on getting his pants off him when her hand brushed against his now obvious response to her ministrations. Ian drew in a sharp breath and shut his eyes. "Oh god," he said softly, "Sara." Sara pulled back her hand as if she'd been burnt. She took a step back and turned away from him. "Uh," she said, flustered, "You better take off the pants yourself." Ian sighed again and pushed his pants down over his hips. When they puddled around his feet, he stepped out of them. "Sorry," he said softly, kicking the pants out of the way.

"That's okay," Sara said, digging the salve out of the medicine chest, "Guys can't help that stuff. It's automatic, like belching during the football game." Ian smiled, wearily sitting back down on the commode. "There's nothing automatic about my reaction to you, Sara," he replied, "It's very specific and unique to you. And it's not just my body, my head and heart are involved in it too." Sara's cheeks burned. How the hell was she supposed to answer a statement like that? She cleared her throat. Ian dropped his head. "Sorry," he said again, "I'm embarrassing you. I didn't mean to. I'll be quiet."

She swallowed hard and glanced at him. That image of him naked – which seemed always on the tip of her mind since she'd seen him – flashed again. He was even more spectacular up close. His legs were long, beautifully muscled, the thighs lightly covered with fine, dark hair. The open shirt exposed a pair of tight black briefs that enhanced rather than concealed his assets. A thin line of soft-looking dark fur meandered down from his navel to disappear under the band of his briefs. All of him was smooth, shaped, golden muscle. He was, by far, the most physically beautiful man that she'd ever seen. In the sudden absence of sound and movement, Ian raised his head – to find Sara staring at him rapt, eyes wide and glazed, lips parted. "Sara?" he said. She blinked and shook her head. "Jeez, Pezzini, get a grip," she thought, "Yeah, he's hot but he's also sitting on the john bleeding like a stuck pig."

That thought was like a slap of cold water. "Turn your head," Sara said. Ian looked at her as if she were speaking Urdu. "What?" he asked. "Turn your head, Ian," she repeated. He turned his head. Sara dropped the white robe to the bathroom floor and pulled his tee shirt over her head. It fell to just above her knees. His shower was a fancy setup that had no door. It was more like a room all to itself with multiple sprayers embedded at different heights in the tile walls to make showering an "experience." It took her a good five minutes to figure out how to use the damn thing. She got a strong, hot spray going before she held out her hand to Ian. "Come to mama," she said. His lips twitched. Ian got shakily to his feet and took Sara's hand, stepping into the shower with her.

In seconds, they were both soaked. The tee shirt clung to Sara like a second skin. She might as well have been naked. In fact, that actually might have been less erotic. Ian simply gave up trying to reign in his raging anatomy, knowing that his desire for her was blatantly obvious and that control was a lost cause. He turned to brace himself against the wall, eyes shut, panting, back to the warm spray. Sara could see that he was trembling. She didn't know whether it was because of the pain or because of her. She was aware that Ian wanted her badly. It was painfully clear. She touched his shoulder gently and he gasped, muscles clenching beneath her fingers. Sara pulled back her hand. She leaned in so that he could hear her above the sound of cascading water. "I'm going to try to pull the shirt loose now, a little at a time. Okay?" she asked. Not trusting his voice, Ian nodded.

Sara started with the hem in back. Very slowly, very carefully she eased the stiff, sodden shirt away from his lacerated back. When she finally had it free up to his shoulders, she leaned in again to say, "Put your arms down, Ian." He pushed back from the wall and dropped his arms. His eyes were still shut tight. She slid the shirt down his arms and off his wrists, tossing the ruined garment into a corner of the large shower. Diluted blood turned the floor of the shower pink, running in lazy rivers to the drain. The shower scene from "Psycho" flitted through her mind again. Ian moved his hands back to the wall for support, feeling a bit lightheaded.

Sara turned and took a good look at his back – and was horrified at the carnage that Irons had created. Ian had been beaten with a whip. There were deep lacerations from the base of his neck down to the band of his briefs, many of them criss-crossing each other. In some places, the wounds had overlapped so many times that his back looked like raw hamburger. "God in heaven," Sara whispered, horrified, "How could you let him do this to you, Ian?" Ian moved closer to the wall, resting his face against the cool tile. "Habit, training, obedience," he whispered. He sounded deathly tired. Sara bit her lip. The last thing he needed right now was a tongue lashing from her. She pressed a towel against his back gently to try to staunch some of the bleeding. "I should take you to the hospital," she said, knowing that he'd never go. "No," he replied.

"I want to wash my hair," Ian said, "It feels dirty." He reached for the shampoo and Sara caught his hand and squeezed it. "I'll do it," she said, "You stay still." She ran her fingers through his thick mane. She could feel what he meant. Some of the blood had spattered into his hair and dried there. "Come here," she said, taking his hand and pulling him under the warm water with her. He stared at her, blinking rapidly as the water poured over him. If the briefs had left little to the imagination before, he too might as well have been naked now. He was straining so hard against the thin cloth that she could see the veins in his erection pulsing with his heartbeat. "Sara," he groaned desperately, face against her hair. She poured shampoo into her shaking hand. "Don't," she said, voice tight, "Let's just get through this and get you to bed so that you can rest. Okay?"

Sara lathered his hair and rinsed it out before Ian said another word. One of his hands lightly gripped her waist to steady himself, but the other hand slipped like a whisper from her upper arm to cup her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple and it immediately hardened under the soaked tee shirt. "I don't want to rest," he growled softly. "Stop it," she said, voice still tight, "Your back is ripped to pieces. Nothing is going to happen between us tonight." The thumb kept seductively stroking her and Sara realized that she was panting. She felt a warm gush of arousal between her legs. Her weakness put steel into her voice, "Stop it, Ian," she said, "Now." His lips nuzzled against her neck. "Why?" he whispered huskily. "Because I said to," she said, her body going rigid, "Now."

Ian dropped his hands away from her and backed up a step, putting distance between them. He turned away and rested his heated face against the cool tile. "I'm sorry," he mumbled into the wall, "You should probably go. It would be best." She took his forearm gingerly in her fingers and pulled him out of the shower to stand on a towel she'd placed on the floor. "It probably would," she murmured, "But I'm not going anywhere until I put that salve on your back and get you to bed." He made a soft sound in the back of his throat and started to reach for her. She sidestepped him and added, "To sleep." She rubbed his wet hair with another towel while he tried to look anywhere but at her soaked tee shirt. He failed miserably.

Sara cleared her throat. "Okay," she said, "You need to get out of those wet briefs." He looked directly into her eyes. She had a moment to think that the gold had darkened to a deep amber before he said, "Sure." He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and prepared to pull them down. "Whoa," she cried, grabbing his hands to stop their motion, "Wait a minute. Have you got a pair of pajama bottoms you can put on? Where are they? Don't take those off until I leave." He shook off her hands, frustrated. "Bureau, second drawer," he said, pulling down the briefs. She got a reprieve. He had a struggle getting them off because they were sopping wet and there was a substantial obstruction in the way. Sara turned quickly and returned to the bedroom, pulling a pair of gray silk pajama pants from the bureau drawer. She heard him turn off the shower.

To forestall a repeat performance of the image that was branded on her brain, Sara hurried back to the bathroom. She pushed her hand, holding the proffered pajama bottoms, through the doorway. "Here," she said, "Dry off and put these on." He took the pants from her hand, then kissed it. She yanked back the hand as if he'd bitten her instead. She snorted at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. "We should have finished off with the cold water," she mused. "I could use some help," he said hopefully. "Uh huh," she replied, shivering, "I think you can manage. Hurry it up so that I can change too." A moment later, Ian came out of the bathroom clad in the gray silk pajama bottoms. "I'll be right back," Sara said, darting past him into the bathroom. She came back out quickly, modest again in her white terry robe, carrying the salve and a clean towel.

Ian was sitting on the bed, head down and eyes shut. Sara sat next to him. He lifted his head to look in her eyes. "Sara, I apologize," he said, "I didn't mean to push. That wet tee shirt dazzled me. I claim temporary insanity." She grinned at him. "That's a pretty sorry excuse," she said. He grinned back. "Best I can do," he replied. "Accepted," she said, "Now, give me your back." He sighed and turned away from her, presenting his broad, battered back to her view. Pressing salve on to her hands, Sara very gently rubbed it into the lashes on his back. For the most part, Ian stayed still, eyes shut, only occasionally flinching from her careful touch. When she was finished, Sara wiped her hands on the towel.

"All done," Sara said, voiced hushed with empathetic pain. She leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his bare shoulder. Ian swung his body back around to face her. They stared for a moment, eyes locked, then simultaneously leaned toward each other until their lips met. The first kiss was barely a tentative touch. The second kiss pressed, slanted across firm lips, licked a little. The third kiss held until lips parted and her tongue slipped into his mouth. He moaned deeply when her tongue tangled with his and his arms tightened around her. Sara's head had started to swim so it was a moment before she realized that Ian was pulling her down toward the bed. She gripped his upper arms where she held him, digging in her nails. She tried to pull back but she could feel that he was utterly lost in the kiss.

Sara gripped his arms hard to stop his descent. She retracted her tongue and broke the kiss. "Ian, no," she gasped, "You can't lay down on your back." As she pulled away, he followed her blindly, eyes shut, lips straining to reconnect with hers. "Please," he begged, "Don't stop." "Hey," she said, a little sharply, "Open your eyes. Look at me." He finally found some brakes and his eyes flew open. They were a hot, smoldering amber and were huge with disappointment. She started to reach out a hand to soothe him but stopped, realizing that she knew that look. Then, she started to laugh. Color flooded his cheeks and he pulled back, really upset now. "I'm glad that I amuse you," he said in a tight, hard voice. "Oh, I'm sorry," she snorted, "I couldn't help it. It's that look on your face." "Really," he said, still angry, "What look is that?" She chuckled again and said, "It's the exact same look that Hannibal gets when you tell him no."

Ian's anger fled as suddenly as it had arisen. His lips twitched. He couldn't help it. He knew exactly the look that Sara meant. He was a sucker for it. The damn dog used that look to play him like a violin. He laughed with her. Then, he dropped his head, covering his eyes with his hand. "God, that's so embarrassing," he murmured, "I've picked up my dog's mannerisms." She pulled his hand away from his eyes and kissed it. "Not at all," she said, "It's pure Nottingham. You've learned to take and use whatever works best. You really had me there for a moment. If Hannibal hadn't already used it on me, you'd have had me." He looked into her eyes and the heat came back like a flash fire. "Would I?" he asked, his voice a sexy growl, "Have had you?"

Sara drew in a shaky breath and stood. "That's something we'll have to find out another time," she said, "When you're not beat all to hell. Right now, you need to lay down on your stomach and go to sleep." Ian sighed, stretching out on his stomach on the bed, turning his face sideways on the pillow. She reached down to pull the sheet up to his waist, leaving his back exposed. "Do you want me to get you some pain medication before I leave?" she asked. "No thanks," he mumbled, "Thank you for your help, Sara. No one has ever taken care of me like that. It was wonderful and very kind of you." She reached down to push back his damp hair because she wanted to touch him again. "That's okay, Ian," she said, "I'll check in on you tomorrow to see how you are. Goodnight." "G'night, Sara," he murmured, already half asleep. When she let herself out the front door, Sara was smiling softly.

Ian was dreaming of Sara. She was kissing him, her lips parted, her tongue rubbing against his. He made a soft sound of delight and inhaled deeply, surrounded by her fragrance, sensuality and Sassafras. Sassafras? His eyes fluttered open. Light was flooding the sleeping loft from the skylight above the bed. Ian was still lying on his stomach, his face pushed into the pillow. His vision cleared and a steaming mug materialized a few inches from his face. A hand graced with a very distinctive bracelet was holding it. Golden eyes went wide. "Sara?" he mumbled, voice still fuzzy with sleep.

"Rise and shine, pal," Sara said, "I'm assuming that you like Sassafras tea since you're the one that put it in my cupboard." Ian started to roll over so that he could see her better, but Sara reached out to grip his shoulder. "Don't lay on your back, Ian," she said, "Remember?" Instead, he sat up, dragging the sheet to his waist. That gave him a vivid reminder as the skin across his back pulled and pinched from the new scar tissue already forming there. His genetically enhanced healing powers had kicked in. "Thank you," he said, taking the mug, "You didn't have to do this." Ian took a sip of tea and smiled. She'd put honey in it. It was good. "Damn right I didn't," she agreed, "Enjoy it while you can." Sara reached out to brush back a dark, silky curl that had tumbled across his forehead, her stern look softening. "How do you feel?" she asked.

"Much better," Ian said. He put the mug on the table beside the bed and, reaching out, took her hand in both of his. He brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on her palm. Head down, he murmured, "You were very kind to me last night, Sara. I'll never forget it." Color flooded her cheeks and she swallowed hard, gently disengaging her hand from his. "You needed a friend," she said, embarrassed by his gratitude, "I was here. Just like you were there for me after the fire. That's all." The thick-lashed, golden eyes lifted and locked with hers. He was fully awake now. "Is it?" he asked huskily. Lost in those molten depths, she had to remember to breathe. "Is it what?" Sara asked, voice shaky. Suddenly nervous about how far to push their tenuous bond, he backed down. Ian shrugged and mumbled, "Nothing, I guess."

Still uncomfortable, Sara glanced at her watch. "Jeez, it's late," she said, "Do you want me to walk Hannibal for you before I go to work?" Ian smiled and shook his head. "No thanks," he said, "I'm okay. Really. I can do it." Sara frowned. "I saw that back," she said, "I touched it. You're not okay. You should stay in bed today. And, you get a reprieve from having to show up at my party tonight. I know you're all broken up about that." He dropped his eyes. "It's not your friends, Sara," he said softly, "I'm not comfortable with groups of people. I've never learned any social graces. I'd be hopelessly awkward and I'd wind up making them feel awkward too." She reached out and drew one finger across the back of his hand. Not expecting the contact, Ian shivered. Sara pretended not to notice. "Personally," she said, "I think you're selling yourself short. I think you'd do just fine. You might even enjoy yourself."

Looking at her again, Ian replied, "Another time." Sara nodded, standing. "Another time," she agreed, "I have to get to work." As she headed toward the ladder, Ian called, "Thanks again for the tea." She just waved a hand in reply but when she turned to climb down the ladder, she was smiling. A moment later, he heard her talking softly to the animals and then he heard the front door close behind her. He rubbed his hand absently where it still tingled pleasantly from her brief touch. Picking up his tea, Ian carefully got out of bed. He went into the bathroom carrying the mug.

Ian had almost finished pulling himself together so that he could take Hannibal for his morning walk when the mirror said, "How's the back, my boy? Has the tender loving care of the Wielder taken you well along the road to recovery? Then again, perhaps it was the effect of that wet tee shirt and its jolt to your libido that got those old recuperative juices flowing." This observation was followed by a wheezy, lecherous cackle. Something in Ian snapped. He shut his eyes and, with a primal growl, drove his fist into the center of his own reflection. Glass flew everywhere and the perverted mirth issuing from the mirror's soulless depths was abruptly cut off. Ian opened his eyes, pulling air into his lungs with a sound like a wrenching sob. Startled, he realized that his hand was badly cut and was bleeding copiously all over the sink.

Ian blinked and drew a large piece of glass out of the back of his hand. He ran the hand under water and wrapped it tightly in a towel. He went back out to sit on the edge of the bed, still applying pressure to stop the bleeding. Ian sighed deeply and shut his eyes. "That was stupid, Nottingham," he thought, "You've got to think of Sara before you antagonize him like that – sending in one of the others isn't an idle threat. You've got to play this out until you know his plan and you can come up with one of your own to counter it." Driven by that thought, Ian dressed quickly and headed for the hall mirror. He stood in front of it, at attention, and said, "Sir?" In the moment that followed, the absurdity of having a conversation with a mirror hit him again. "Where are you, O Evil Spirit?" he thought and almost smiled.

Ian started when the mirror hissed, "What happened to the bathroom mirror, Ian?" The tone of his master's voice quickly drove all humor from his mind. "I'm sorry, Sir," Ian said contritely, "I damaged it. I took some pain medication and apparently there was a chemical interaction. I was not myself." The mirror snorted. "Are you recovered?" it asked. "Yes, Sir," he replied, hands clasped in front of him and eyes lowered. Ian was now the poster boy for docility. "Very well," the mirror said imperiously, "The Wielder is ready, Ian. Take it from someone with the experience to recognize the signs. No more excuses. You become her lover this weekend or you are recalled and one of your brothers takes over. This is an ultimatum and is not open for discussion. Do you understand?" Ian's eyes raised and flashed once before dropping again. "Yes, I understand," he quietly replied. "Good," the mirror said, "You can go."

Ian turned to find Hannibal waiting patiently, his leash grasped between his teeth. He took the leash from his dog and snapped it to Hannibal's collar. "We've both got one of these," Ian said softly, gently tugging the leash, "Don't we, boy." He scratched the big dog's head. "The difference is," he added, "Your master loves you. Are you ready for your walk?" Hearing the word "walk," Hannibal became the model of doggy enthusiasm. He laughed and took his dog down the steps and out the front door. Unfortunately, the walk would have to be a short one this morning. Although he'd inadvertently managed to weasel out of Sara's party, Ian had promised her that he'd have some work done before her guests arrived. He intended to deliver on that promise.

Sara was running late. She flew through the door of the loft at 7:30 ready to order the pizzas and get changed. Danny and Lee, and Jake and Vicki, were due to arrive at 8:00. Sara flicked the light switch and froze, her mouth dropping open in shock. The floors had been stained dark cherry and polished to a shine. Her loveseat and chair sat on a large oriental rug in rich gold and burgundy. Between them, an old steamer trunk in deep brown leather had been placed to serve as a coffee table. On the trunk, a riot of stark white calla lilies and bright red anthuriums filled a burgundy crystal vase. A smaller oriental rug, a match to the first, was spread beneath the dining table and chairs. A second vase of flowers, this one dark gold, was centered on the table. The total effect was stunning.

"Ian," she thought. Sara itched to keep the rugs, which were perfect, but tomorrow Mr. Nottingham would just have to send them back to wherever he'd filched them. She would not be further indebted to him. Then, she forced his persistent presence from her mind and hurried to order the pizzas and change. Danny and Lee were right on time. Jake was late picking up Vicki so they were about a half hour late arriving. Although it was a pleasant evening and everyone was very impressed with her new home, Sara found that she was restless and distracted.

Danny and Lee had been acting like honeymooners since they'd found she was expecting their second child. Jake, after finally accepting that Sara would never return his interest, had set his sights on Vicki. They had only been dating a couple of weeks but their relationship had started to deepen. They had quite obviously become a couple. Sara felt like the fifth wheel. Trying to block unwanted thoughts from her mind, she had more to drink than usual and was more than a little tipsy by the evening's end. She was also depressed and lonely. After her guests had left, she held out for half an hour and another glass of wine. That's when she found herself outside Ian's door, key in hand.

It was 11:30 on a Friday night. Unless he had a hot date – a thought that sent a surge of adrenaline rushing through her – he was probably asleep in bed. "I should knock," she thought. Instead, she slipped her key in his door and opened it. Sara had to stifle a scream when she immediately came upon both Hannibal and Clarice, standing guard and eying her curiously. She dropped down to her haunches, scratching one head with each hand. "Where's the boss?" she asked them. Clarice widened azure eyes and yawned before she sauntered off to wherever she'd been sleeping before her human's human disturbed her. Hannibal gave Sara's hand a friendly lick then galloped off to join his sister.

"I shouldn't be doing this," Sara thought as she slunk through the loft, "He's entitled to his privacy. If he's in bed with someone, I'll kill him." She shook her head, wondering where that thought had come from but glad that she'd left her gun at home. The sleeping loft came into view, the bed bathed in moonlight pouring in through the skylight. It was empty. Sara let out the breath that she didn't know she'd been holding. "That leaves the roof," she thought, "The pool or the hot tub." She actually felt her heart start to beat faster. The memory of Ian that she'd been carrying around with her for days leaped into her mind unbidden. She stopped on the spiral staircase, eyes glazed. All those smooth golden muscles, she thought. "God help me," she thought, "I want that body wrapped around me tonight."

Sara stood still another moment, briefly struggling with the possible consequences of her actions. Giving over to desire, need, loneliness, and a bit too much wine, she softly growled, "Fuck it," and continued up the stairs. Once on the roof, she knew the way. Coming around the tall, flowering bushes, she immediately saw that the pool too was empty. She slipped quietly down another path, around another bush, and found him in the hot tub. Ian's head was tipped back, resting on the lip of the tub. His eyes were closed, long curling lashes forming sweeping ebony fans against his pale cheeks. That wild chocolate mane of his was down around his face and, because of the steam and humidity, was a tumbled mass of loose, shining curls. He looked very relaxed, long legs stretched out straight, ankles crossed, hands resting beside him on the floor of the tub. He was so still that she could barely see him breathing.

And, that beautiful, hard-muscled body was completely, magnificently naked. "He's obviously not expecting me," Sara thought and came perilously close to letting out a nervous, strangled giggle. A moment later she had to acknowledge that her heart was racing, her breathing was labored, and her panties were soaking wet with arousal. "What's wrong with me?" she thought desperately as her hands began to push her shirt over her head of their own volition. Soon, all her clothes lay in a scattered pile and Sara stood naked by the steps into the hot tub. She was shivering both from the slight breeze that wafted through the garden and from her own audacity. Ian still hadn't opened his eyes. She wondered suddenly if he were asleep, or maybe he was just playing possum and watching her every move through those thick lashes.

Sara carefully eased down the steps into the hot tub. The water lapped slightly in displacement. Ian's head tilted a fraction and Sara froze, waiting for his eyes to open and pin her there like a captured butterfly. "What am I doing?" she thought, panic fluttering in her stomach. When his eyes stayed shut, Sara almost turned and bolted. A couple of images held her in place: Lee cuddled against Danny on her new loveseat, Jake's light head bent to Vicki's dark as they shared a private moment. "I want that," Sara thought, "And Nottingham has been drafted." She wondered how he'd react to the news. With another intestinal flutter, she realized too that she wasn't just visualizing a quick roll in the hay – although pure lust was a strong ingredient in the mix – she was visualizing a relationship. She was visualizing Ian as a companion. Sara could see them having long, leisurely meals, watching movies, swimming in the moonlight, cuddling in front of a fire with the animals. She didn't understand when or how it had happened, but it had and it felt right.

"This next part is a little tricky though," Sara thought. She eased herself down on her knees facing him and studied his still face. "He's really gone," she thought, "Maybe he's meditating or something." In fact, in his mind, Ian had just started to construct his "Sara Hot Tub Fantasy" and he was taking his time, getting all of the details right. God, after all, was in the details. Sara watched as his sensual lips curved in a perfectly wicked smile. She couldn't help but smile back. He was unconsciously transmitting an incredibly erotic combination of unstudied innocence and toe-curling sensuality. "Okay," Sara thought, "Here goes." Holding her breath, she ran the tips of her fingers lightly from the inside of his left knee up his inner thigh to stop just short of his groin. Ian gasped, his hips arching. It felt so real, he thought, as his blood shot South. It had never felt this real before.

Her fingers made the return trip. Ian's eyes flew open. He sat up with a jerk, both hands rising to cover his burgeoning erection. He blinked once and again, obviously expecting her to disappear. She didn't. "Sara?" he asked hesitantly. Ian's eyes traveled to her exposed breasts, bounced back to her face, dropped to her breasts again. "Sara?" he said again, disoriented, "What?" Feeling woefully inadequate in the role of seductress, Sara shifted her arm to cover her breasts and dropped her head. "I thought I'd come up and see whether you wanted to…" she mumbled, then continued after a long pause, "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea." Sara started to pull back toward the steps still covering herself and averting her eyes.

"NO," Ian screamed inside his head. "No," Ian said, reaching out to catch her free hand and pull her gently back toward him, "It was a very good idea – with one condition." He stopped dead, looking at her again. Awe drifted across his face. "My god, you're so beautiful," Ian whispered. Sara felt heat rise in her cheeks. "Me?" she replied softly, "Look at you." Ian did just that, realizing that in pulling her back, he'd exposed himself completely. He blushed. Attempting to cover himself again at this point would be ridiculous, Ian thought, so he tried to relax with it. Sara was doing the same thing. Their eyes met and it was almost as if they could read each other's minds. The embarrassment fled and they laughed together.

"What's your condition?" Sara asked, still smiling. Ian looked directly into her eyes and stroked her hand. Sara fought to control the shiver that slid through her. "That, whatever happens between us tonight, you won't hate me or yourself for it tomorrow," he said. Sara's face went blank for a moment. Although she had no intention of sharing her thoughts with Ian, she found his condition surprisingly perceptive. Linking her fingers through his, she said, "Agreed." After a moment, her lips twitched. She couldn't resist it. "What would you have done if I'd declined?" she asked. He didn't miss a beat. "I'd have drowned myself," he replied. That made her laugh. Grinning, Ian brought their joined hands to his lips. She felt his soft beard brush against the side of her hand. His firm, warm lips kissed her knuckles to be teasingly followed by a long, slow lick from his hot tongue.

Sara noticed that Ian's eyes had darkened to smoldering amber. Without breaking that eye contact, she slipped her free hand under the water and gently wrapped her fingers around his straining erection. Ian's whole body went rigid. His eyes squeezed shut and he made a soft, desperate sound at the back of his throat. He grasped her hand and hissed, "Sara, please. I've wanted this for such a long time. My ability to keep control may not be very good. Would you mind if I just concentrated on you for a while?" Although she wasn't about to relinquish control and she wanted to put her hands all over that gorgeous body of his, they had time. She could find no fault with his request. "Okay," she said softly, adding, "For now."

Ian nodded, understanding. "For now," he agreed. Watching her face, Ian gripped her hips and lifted her on to his lap, facing him. She moved easily through the steamy water. Sara settled herself on his stomach, feeling his taut muscles respond beneath her and his arousal press against her bottom. Their eyes locked again, Ian leaned forward to slowly outline the contour of her upper lip with his tongue. Eyes shut; she felt his warm breath as he gave her lower lip a long lick and then a careful nip. Sara groaned and, digging both hands into his thick hair, pulled his mouth to hers. They kissed again and again, lips pressing, slanting, and dragging across each other. She felt his hand splay across the small of her back, pulling her closer, stroking and petting her. His other hand was now deep in her hair, his fingers twined through its dark honey strands.

They both pulled back for a quick breath, immediately coming together again. This time, her lips parted and Sara darted her tongue quickly in and out of his mouth in invitation. Ian took her invitation, sliding his tongue deep inside her mouth and exploring as if he were mapping a new route to Paradise. They were straining hard against each other now and her legs had risen to lock around his hips. Done exploring and eager for contact, his tongue tangled with hers. Their tongues teased and stroked each other in a sinuous, intoxicating dance. When they finally parted, gasping, Sara rested her forehead against his. "Dizzy," she panted. "Me too," Ian breathed, voice husky, "You taste incredible, like strawberries."

Sara smiled, dragging her nails lightly along his jaw, through his short beard. "You taste dangerous," she whispered, studying his face. "Not to you," he replied, looking deeply into those sea green eyes, "But maybe you need another taste to confirm that." Sara grinned. "Maybe I do," she agreed. They both took a breath deep enough to dive to the bottom of the ocean and came back together hard. The kiss was searing. Their tongues moved together in a hot tango that had her fingers clutching his hair to pull him closer and him dragging both arms around her to bring her tight against his body. When they broke the kiss, Ian's head fell back to rest on the lip of the tub. His lip was bleeding a little where she had bitten him. His eyes were shut and his chest was heaving. Sara's head came forward to rest on his muscled shoulder. It was trembling. Her heart was hammering so loud in her ears she thought it might explode. "God, Sara," Ian gasped, "You're like a drug."

Sara lifted her head. "You think?" she asked him, smiling. She watched his mouth curve wickedly. His eyes were still shut. "I think that I'm not really capable of forming a coherent thought," he said. "Then don't think," she suggested smartly. His head lifted, eyes opened – hot and fiery gold. "Alright. You too," he said, voice smoky and seductive, "Shut your eyes and just feel." Her breath hitched. She felt like she was falling head first into those molten amber pools. The image of a mongoose stalking a snake rolled across her mind. Then, she shut her eyes. Sara lifted her head as she felt his warm breath against the side of her neck. She filled her hands with his silky hair as he gently nipped and licked, giving her a sweet, sucking love bite followed by a slow, soothing caress from his rough tongue.

Using his lips, teeth, and tongue, Ian worked his way up to her ear and then back down her neck to her chest. Sara was panting, her head thrown back and her lips parted. She clutched handfuls of his soft curls as if they were anchoring her to the planet. He was teasing her again, driving her crazy. His mouth felt wonderful, creating little shocks of pleasure wherever it went but, so far, he'd steered clear of any major erogenous zones. Even as she thought that, Ian's mouth closed around her nipple, sucking hard. The jolt of pleasure was so intense that Sara's whole body arched like a bow. A low moan escaped her as she ground her sex against his hard stomach muscles. Down there, she felt like a cauldron of magma poised for eruption, her own feminine volcano reaching critical mass. She wanted Ian right now; she wanted him buried deep inside her.

Tugging on his hair, Sara dragged Ian's head up from her chest to stare into passion-glazed dark amber eyes. "Now, Ian," she growled, "I want you now." As she watched, his eyes cleared and something like panic skittered across them. "What's the problem?" she thought impatiently. She could feel his erection pressing against her behind, hot and hard and throbbing. He was certainly ready. His hand brushed against her cheek. "Sara…" he started. But Sara was adrift, tossed about in the steaming tide of her need for him – and she was tired of waiting. She gripped his shoulder and leaned forward, lifting her hips. Slipping her other hand beneath her, she grasped him to guide him inside her. As soon as she had him positioned, she literally impaled herself on him, taking him in her to the hilt.

It took seconds. Ian's eyes went wide and a soft, shocked cry was torn from his tight throat. Between one moment and the next, he had suddenly come to the nexus of all his fantasies. Sara tightened her muscles around him and started to piston her hips, drawing him out almost to the point of release and then pulling him back in until she engulfed him completely. Trying to recover as a myriad of new sensations washed over him, Ian panted raggedly, moving his hands to Sara's busy hips. The next time she pushed herself down on him, Ian arched his hips up to thrust deeper inside her. It produced an incredible sensation, leaving them straining against each other and groaning. "Harder," she gasped, digging her nails into his shoulders. Ian obliged her. She looked in his eyes and picked up the pace. Under her fingers, she felt a tremor run through him. "Oh god," he breathed, shutting his eyes.

Sara's slid her fingers into his hair, now damp with sweat. She gave it a little tug and said, "More." Ian's eyes opened to burning golden slits. "Need leverage," he gasped, "Roll over?" Sara's eyes fell on the entrance to the hot tub. She stopped moving and just stroked his hair. A tiny crease formed between his brows. "Don't stop," he begged. She smiled. "Can you keep us together and move us over to the steps?" she asked. Ian glanced at the small flight of five steps descending into the hot tub. "I think so," he said hoarsely. Ian slipped one arm around her and pulled her tight against him. Sara locked her arms and legs around him. Using his other hand, Ian pulled them along the curve of the hot tub until they reached the steps.

Ian turned Sara until her bottom rested on the third step. He knelt on the bottom step. She pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him thoroughly. Looking in his eyes, she said, "Hard and fast, Ian." He did as she asked. Balancing himself on his hands and knees, Ian slammed into her, causing a series of tidal waves to geyser from the hot tub. Sara came violently, spasming around him. A moment later, with Ian still thrusting wildly inside her, she felt another orgasm start to build. As she watched, Sara saw Ian's muscles ripple with tension. A deep, soft growl issued from low in this throat, his jaw tightened, and his eyes fluttered shut. Sara slipped her hand around the back of his neck, under his wet hair. "Look at me, baby," she said. His eyes flew open and locked with hers. "Sara, Sara," he gasped and climaxed, shooting hot jets of life into her core. At the same time, Sara's second orgasm struck her and dragged her right along with him.

Although Ian had collapsed on top of her, the water kept his weight from being uncomfortable. His head was wedged between her neck and shoulder, and she could feel his ragged breath against her skin. Sara stroked his back gently, feeling a wave of tenderness for him wash over her. He was trembling. "Are you okay?" she asked. Ian fought to find some vestige of control, some way to pretend that his whole world hadn't just shifted on its axis. Nothing would ever be the same. He took a deep breath and lifted his head from her shoulder. He knew that he was still shaking and he struggled to make it stop. In another moment, he had it mastered. Ian studied her face as if he was memorizing every line of it. "I'm fine," he said softly, voice back under control, "How are you?"

Sara grinned; amused at the banal turn the conversation had taken. "I'm good, thanks," she said. Now, Ian saw it too and grinned back at her. "Is this where I tell you to 'have a nice day'?" he asked. She laughed. "Some wine might make it better," she mused, "Got any?" He nodded. "I'm sure I can find some," he said, "Want to move to the bedroom before we prune?" She pushed a damp lock of hair back from his forehead. "Okay," she agreed. Already regretting that they had to disconnect to change venues, Ian eased himself out of her gently. He turned and sat on the step below her, sighing. Sara sensed his quicksilver sadness and shifted onto his lap, putting her arms around his neck. His arms immediately encircled her, pulling her closer to him.

Pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, Sara whispered, "No regrets, Ian. Not tonight, not tomorrow." Ian turned his face to slant his lips across hers. "My only regret is that I cannot stay joined with you forever, my lady," he whispered back, "Withdrawing from you makes me ache." "Well," she said, now nibbling on his very tasty ear lobe, "That's easily remedied. Let's go to the bedroom so that we can soothe that ache of yours." Ian stood, lifting her in his arms, and carried her out of the hot tub. He set her down on the grass path and picked up a large towel to dry her off. Sara smiled, enjoying his attentions. No one had dried her after a bath since she was a kid. His touch was wonderful. When he'd finished, Ian turned to dry himself. She caught his hand as he lifted the towel. "Let me," she said.

Ian watched her for a moment, eyes hooded. Then, he handed Sara the towel. She bent at the waist to carefully dry his long, sinewy legs. As the towel rubbed higher along the inside of his thighs, he made a sound like a soft growl and his hand covered hers. "Don't play, Sara," he murmured, "Or we'll never make it to the bedroom." Sara smiled, enjoying the effect that she had on him, but she shifted the towel to his broad back. She noticed with some amazement that it looked considerably better than it had the night before. Almost finished, she drew the towel down his left arm and over his hand. Even in the dim light, she could see that he'd recently cut himself badly. "What happened here?" she asked. Ian pulled his hand from hers, embarrassed. "I was careless," he said, turning away, "It's nothing." That reminder was like shoving his head in a bucket of ice. From the moment that she'd first touched him, he'd completely forgotten about the cameras.

Ian took the towel from Sara's hands and wrapped it around her, hiding her from view. "Wouldn't want you to catch a chill," he mumbled. "It's a little late for that," she said, grinning. "Humor me," he said, face still averted. She tried to see his expression. He sounded funny. "Ian?" she said. A moment later the breath whooshed out of her as he swept her up in his arms. Sara flung her arms tightly around his neck. "What the hell are you doing?" she asked. "Taking you to bed," he replied. Sara's eyes widened. "You're going to carry me down that spiral staircase? Are you nuts?" she asked. His lips twitched as he paused to consider that. "I don't think so," he said. They'd reached the top of the staircase. "Ian," she said, "Put me down. You'll kill us both." He looked into her eyes, all humor gone. "I'd never harm you, Sara," he said softly, "But, if it scares you, don't look."

Sara took his advice. As Ian started down the narrow stairwell, she buried her face in his fragrant neck. When they reached the bottom, she lifted her head. "You're not planning to carry me up the ladder, are you?" she asked. "No," he said, turning to the sleep loft. Ian lifted her in his arms until her bottom slid onto the platform. As she rose, he climbed the ladder to join her. "Well," she said, "That was certainly an adventure." Sara started to pull off the towel and Ian caught her hand. "Wait," he said, mind frantically searching for plausibility, "Let me do that in bed. It will be like unwrapping a present." She searched his eyes for a moment, then leaned forward to kiss him soundly. "Okay," she agreed, "How about that wine?" "Right away," he said, grabbing his robe from the bottom of the bed and slipping it on.

Ian startled Sara by leaping down from the platform to head toward the kitchen. The sound of nails clicking over hard wood told her that Hannibal had roused from sleep to see whether Daddy was giving out treats. Sara smiled. Daddy was definitely giving out treats, she thought. In the kitchen, Ian's mind roiled with ways to protect Sara from the voyeur's lens. Popping the cork on chilled Chardonnay, he thought, "I'll just be sure to keep her under the cover. If that doesn't work, I'll try to block her with my body." He pitched the corkscrew back in the drawer and slammed it. "I'm damned if I'll let him drool over her again," he thought rebelliously.

Back at the sleeping loft, Ian put the opened wine and two glasses he carried up on the platform. Levering himself with his strong arms, he vaulted the rest of his body up on the platform. Lounging on the bed, Sara whistled appreciatively before she said, "Showoff." His lips curved in a sexy grin as he sauntered toward the bed, pouring the wine into glasses. "I'm continuously trying to find new ways to hold your interest," he explained. She grinned right back. "Oh, don't worry," she said, "My interest isn't flagging. Yet. And my brain is chock full of ways to use that athleticism you just demonstrated." Ian smiled and handed her a glass of wine. Sitting next to her on the bed, he put the bottle on the bedside table.

His own glass of wine in hand, Ian turned to Sara and clinked his glass against hers. "Got a toast?" he asked. She looked deep into those smoky golden eyes. "What's that line that Rick says to Louis at the end of 'Casablanca'?" she asked, "Oh yeah, I've got it." Sara clinked her glass against his and quoted, "'Ian, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.' And now, it's my turn." Sara took a healthy swig of wine, set down her glass, and pushed the robe off of Ian's shoulders.