Criminal Minds Fic, Call Me

[mingsmommy]

Title: Call Me
Author: mingsmommy
Rating: FRAO/NC17
Parings: OFC/Rossi, Prentiss/Rossi
Spoilers: Lauren and in to Season 7
Author's Notes: smacky30 betaed this under extreme stress, when she was desperately tired and horribly over-worked. She is the best and I would be lost without her. I love her to itty bitty bits.
Warning: This story deals with prostitution and violence and flawed characters. Not everyone will like it.



He’s a really good guy.

That’s really important to understand. Because a lot of the men I deal with? Aren’t.

Oh, not all of them but a lot. In this town, in my price range, there are really only two types of men who contract for my services. The first type is the power guy...the man who is so impressed with how much money he has and the power he thinks he has, he has to throw that money around and feel like he’s exerting some of that power.

That type of guy? He rarely gets a second appointment.

The other type of guy? He understands that this is a transaction. I am giving him my time and body in exchange for payment.

That makes it sound clinical, doesn’t it?

But it’s not. Usually these are the nice guys, ones who want a genuine connection, but because of the lives they lead and the demands on their time (whether it’s from a corporation or a country), can’t find a way to make it happen. So, they call; we spend a few hours in a nice hotel room, sip a little champagne, have some fun, sometimes even take a little nap or shower together. We talk. I mean sure, they like the sex, but more than anything I think it’s the intimacy of after that holds the real appeal: lying naked in bed and talking about the Nationals or what a mess traffic was around the Capitol that day or doesn’t it seem there are more tourists than usual this time of year? When it’s over, we go our separate ways until the next time. It’s a clean transaction. Neither of us thinks we have power over the other beyond the exchange of services for payment.

So, my agent...no, I don’t have a pimp or a madam, I have an agent. Some people call them handlers, but I prefer the term agent. She works for me; she makes my appointments and gets me new business in exchange for a small percentage of my earnings. Anyway, as I was saying, my agent made an appointment with this new guy for me and she told me he had one condition. I couldn’t speak.

No, I wasn’t speechless, that was the condition. He didn’t want me to speak. As kinks go it’s not the craziest I’ve ever heard. Hell, it’s not even in the same hemisphere as some of the crazy I’ve heard. And it would certainly make up for the congressman who wanted me to talk non-stop. Still, I was pretty sure he was going to be a power guy, since robbing someone of their ability to communicate is a fairly big power play.

I almost say “no” but then I remember that when the next semester starts I am going to have to cut way back on my appointments and really get serious about my thesis. And money in the bank is never a bad thing. So, I say yes.

A wary yes, but yes.

There was no preference stated about attire, so I went with the basic little black dress. It's not slutty, because, trust me, in this price range, slutty is not a good thing. It hits me about an inch above the knee, shows a little cleavage, it clings a little, but not so much it would cause unnecessary attention. Again, drawing unnecessary attention is something that is a no-no with my clientele.

I'm almost to the agreed upon hotel when Kendall, my agent, texts me the room number and a reminder not to talk. Kendall knows I remember, so she must have sent the text on the instruction of the client. It's a little irritating, and I have a feeling this will be my only appointment with this guy if he needs that much power and control. But, I'm here, and my gun is in my purse, I'm not afraid and I'm not backing out now.

He's booked a suite, which at least means he's not cheap.

I know it's hard to believe anyone could pay the amount of money for a few hours of my company and still be considered cheap, but it's surprising how many guys will book the cheapest hotel room they can. It's not like I expect the Presidential Suite (though I visited a few of those one time with an actual president...I won't say of which country), but don't order a bottle of Dom Perignon and drink it out of a Dixie cup, you know?

Surprisingly, I find I'm a little nervous as I ride the elevator up. Like I said, I'm not afraid; I'm just not sure how the no talking thing is going to work. I wonder how I'll be able to smooth over any awkward moments. Then I scold myself for worrying, because I'd pretty much decided this was a one-time deal anyway. Who cares if it's awkward? And, besides, if it doesn't work I can always say "sorry", arrange to refund his money and be on my way.

When he opens the door, I know I've seen him before, but that isn't unusual either. The majority of my clients are either on television or in the news on a fairly regular basis. Kendall said he wasn't a politician, so I hadn't bothered to do any research.

He's probably in his mid-fifties, but I'm only guessing. He's dressed in jeans and a black button down. My first impression is that he's fit and he looks like he's taken care of himself, but he has circles under his eyes and more than a couple of crows’ feet. He steps back and lets me in.

The light is dim, but there's no hiding that he's good looking. Idly, I wonder if he's one of those men who has always been handsome, or if he's gotten better looking as he's aged.

He reaches for my wrap, and he's very close, in my personal space. For a second, I'm irritated, thinking he's crowding me, but his cheek brushes my hair as he takes the wrap and then he moves away pretty quickly and hangs my shawl up in the little closet near the door.

Vivaldi is rolling gently out of some cleverly concealed speakers and it keeps the silence from becoming overbearing. I don't know what he wants me to do and I can't ask, so I'm trying not to look like I'm at a loss, though I have a feeling I'm failing.

He hands me a glass of wine, a deep red that seems to cling to the sides of the glass. Normally, I prefer white, but this isn't about me and my preferences. Though, honestly, this red may make me change my mind. The first sip rests on my tongue then blossoms without any of the bitterness a lot of red wine has.

My date (I wasn't provided with a name and I didn't think to press Kendall for it), looks like he's having one of those "What the hell was I thinking?" moments as he takes a sip from his glass, and I'm prepared for him to change his mind. While I'm waiting for that to happen, I sidle over to the sideboard to take a look at the label on the wine. I don't mind if he backs out, but I do want to know what this wine is for the next time I need a red. Something I do, I don't know if it's the way I walk or the way I'm trying not to be obvious, makes a tiny smile lift one corner of his mouth and I feel a lot of the tension leave the room.

Whatever doubts he was having, he's not having any more.

He holds out a hand and I think we're headed to the bedroom, but he guides me to the sofa instead. We sit side by side, listening to the music and sipping our wine. I pretend to be actively listening to the music, just to give the illusion that I'm doing something instead of just not talking.

When there's only a little bit of wine left in the bottom of my glass, I feel his fingers on my arm. It's a light touch, a gentle stroke of a finger up my arm, then back down. I don't make any sudden moves; just turn my head to watch him. He's not looking at my face though; he's looking at my arm, watching the path his finger is tracing. Eventually, he moves to my collarbone and my neck, touching with the lightest amount of pressure.
Then, very gently, he moves his hand against my jaw, sliding under my hair. His thumb is stroking across my skin as he leans forward and sets his lips against mine.

It's slow and it's soft and it's gentle...it's seduction.

Which is...different.

It's not bad. Actually, it's kind of nice, but it's not at all what I'm used to. Most guys know their credit card has already been charged. I'm a sure thing, and there's no need for seduction. I mean, not all of them skip the foreplay, but there's a big difference between foreplay and seduction, and this is definitely seduction. It's as though there's some doubt about where this is going to end.

It's not that I mind. It's sweet, really, and certainly a pleasant change.

Then I realize his eyes are closed and it hits me.

This is a fantasy.

Not a fantasy of making love to a beautiful woman or a kink fantasy, but a fantasy about a specific woman.

Suddenly the no talking thing makes sense.

I must look like her, but he's afraid my voice will ruin the illusion.

Poor guy, I think. And then I wonder who? Is it an ex? A subordinate? A co-worker's young wife? It's got to be somebody unattainable, or why would he be here with me instead of laying this kind of seduction on them?

The why or who don't really matter, but trying to figure out this piece of the puzzle makes it easier to relax and melt into the kiss. I move on instinct and touch him, one hand on his neck, fingers of the other hand rubbing through the hair at the nape of his neck.

That gets a reaction, and I realize he likes to be touched. So I let myself touch. I trail my fingers against the skin of his neck, run my hands over his shoulders, and the kiss gets a little more intense. His thumb is stroking against my chin and my mouth opens under his.

Let me say right here, the man knows how to kiss.

A lot of men, speaking both from personal and professional experience, do not know how to kiss. Or rather, a lot of them don't know how to kiss well. Some of them seem to think their tongue is a conquering army.

Not this guy.

He opens my mouth with his and dips in, not like he's trying to conquer or control, but like he wants to taste me, like he wants to know everything about me and he can find out everything he needs to know with his tongue in my mouth and his hands on my face.

Only it's not me he wants to know about, it's some other woman and he wants her very badly.

He's moved to my neck and I just keep touching him; touching his arms and shoulders through his shirt, the sides of his face and neck, the exposed skin of his forearms. The more I touch, the more he seems to like it. His respiration rate has increased and his hands are on my sides, sliding against the black dress, pressing against me with a little bit of pressure and a lot of heat.

We go on like that for awhile and things keep heating up and we're just making out. And yes, I admit, I'm in to it.

He's not trying to dominate or control me, he's not interested in me at all. There's a woman he wants and evidently, I am as close as he can get to her right now. That allows me to relax. I don't have to be on guard, I don't have to be afraid; I just have to look the way I already look and not say anything.

Besides, it's been years since I've been seduced. It's been years since I've made out for an hour on a sofa. He's a handsome man, he's a fabulous kisser and while I'm not about to fall for him, there's no rule that says I can't enjoy the experience.

His hand is stroking against my thigh, half on the dress, half on my skin, when I unbutton the top two buttons of his shirt. He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine as I let my fingers rest against the newly exposed skin of his throat. His pulse is pounding, but he's still not looking at me.

That's okay.

I want him to have this night, this fantasy. Because I know what it's like to not have what you want, to not be with the one you love. And even though we haven't said a word, I can tell he's a good guy.

Slipping my hand in to his shirt, my fingers touch the warm skin over his collarbone.

"Bedroom," he rumbles. He has a sexy voice, though it's a little disconcerting to hear him speak after the silence between us. But when he takes my hands and gently tugs me up, I allow him to lead me in to the bedroom.

It's far dimmer in the bedroom with only one small lamp in the corner giving off a warm glow and I'm glad. It'll be easier for him to completely fall in to the fantasy that I'm the woman he really wants to make love to.

He comes up behind me and moves my hair over one shoulder and thoroughly kisses my neck as he pulls the zipper of the dress down. I let him ease the dress off my shoulders and over my hips. I'm expecting him to just toss the dress aside when I step out of it, but he surprises me and hangs it on the hook on the closet door.

I'm impressed.

When he turns back to me, I look down, letting my hair fall forward, to partially cover my face. I want him to be able to look without destroying the illusion.

I still have my heels on; they're open-toed pumps, whichallows for various seductive poses. But I don't want to try anything fancy or too forward since I don't know what the fantasy woman is like. So, I just rest in a classic stance, one foot slightly in front of the other. Not exactly come hither, but not exactly unattractive either.

The lingerie I'm wearing is certainly not the most risque in my collection, but it's still a far cry from sensible. The bra is black lace with a thin red ribbon threaded around the edge and the panties match, with the ribbon meeting in a bow at each hip.

He'll want to untie those bows, like he's unwrapping a present; good guys and not so good guys are all pretty much alike when it comes to lingerie, as long as it's tasteful. Some men like the gaudy stuff, but most of the men I deal with prefer the classics. From his age and demeanor, I'm willing to bet my date tonight has an appreciation for traditional aesthetics. I'm sure he'll like the idea of his woman in these pieces. Let him add that to the fantasy. Let him think about undressing her; let him imagine it's her hips, her panties, her skin.

When he gets close again, he slides both hands under my hair and cups my face and kisses me again. His eyes are closed and this kiss has moved from seduction in to foreplay. It's hot and it's hungry and, whatever else is going on in his head, the fantasy is working enough that he's turned on.

I'm kissing him back for all I'm worth. He's not really my type, but I want this to work for him. I want him to believe she wants him as much as he wants her.

It might sound weird if I say sex has very little to do with what I do. The sex is probably only ten percent of it, The rest is really more about wish fulfillment and psychology. I know a lot of people judge people like me and yeah, I get why to a certain extent. But there's also a lot of hypocrisy and misogyny in that judgment too.

It might have been an accident how I stumbled on the opportunity to make money this way, but it was a fully informed, conscious decision when I started making appointments. Within eighteen months, I'll have my doctorate and zero student loan debt and hopefully, enough money tucked away to either buy into or start my own practice. I don't smoke, I don't do drugs and I don't drink more than four glasses of wine a week. Condoms are a must. I go to the gym six days a week and the doctor every six months. I'm not a victim and I don't intend to be.

I'm not a hooker with a heart of gold, either. But if I have the opportunity to offer a client something and it fulfills a need, a wish or fantasy and doesn't hurt anyone? Why wouldn't I do it? The whole point of this is for him to feel pleasure; who’s to say that has to be limited to the physical? If there's an emotional payoff? Well, good for him, good for me. And good for business.

So, I don't have a bit of trouble kissing him back while I'm unbuttoning his shirt. I'm not frantic about it, though. I'm going at a measured pace, because I don't want to appear more aggressive than fantasy woman would. Only now I'm starting to think of her in capital letters, Fantasy Woman. I must be doing okay, because he's not shying away from my hands or my mouth. His hands are big and warm and everywhere. Smoothing stripes down my sides, sliding across my stomach, splayed across my back, and finally, cupping my ass.

I peel his shirt off with a smile and toss it towards the chair by the door; thank goodness my aim is decent and it flutters down, mostly on the chair. Since he was so careful to hang up my dress, if his shirt had landed on the floor, I'd have been compelled to go pick it up. And nothing kills the mood quite like stopping to tidy up.

He doesn't stop to see where the shirt lands, he just pulls me up against him and buries his face against my neck. First of all, that makes my heart clench and I wonder again why he can't have Fantasy Woman. Second, when he pulls me up against him like that, there is no hiding that he's very, very hard and unless I'm wrong (and I seldom am) very well endowed.

Now, I'm running my hands all over him, his shoulders, his biceps, his back, and I realize my first assessment was pretty accurate; he is very fit. There's a lot you can hide with the right clothes and very little you can hide without any.

He's kissing his way across my collar bone and shoulder, then down over my chest, and his hands move from my ass up to the clasp of my bra. Then I feel the material loosen around my chest and again, I'm impressed. There wasn't the slightest bit of fumbling; just a simple flick of two fingers and the bra is unhooked. In my business? That's practically a superpower.

The bra straps have barely cleared my hands before he's easing me down onto the bed.
He may still be avoiding looking into my eyes, but he is in no way avoiding looking at my body. He's touching me and looking at me like he's trying to memorize me. Maybe he is. His hands sweep over my shoulders and down my arms, then back up. His touch is very light, almost a tickle, but not. He's concentrating now, watching his hands move against my skin. He deliberately avoids touching my breasts as he glides over my body, down to my stomach, over my hips. He does stop and toy with the little bows at my hips, fingering the tips of the ribbons, but not tugging on them. Yet.

After he moves away from the ribbons, he runs his hands down my legs with that same light touch. When he gets to my feet, he eases my shoes off and drops them off the end of the bed. Then he moves back up my legs, and I can feel each of his fingers on my skin. Hell, at this point, it's like I can feel every single skin cell in his hands. Yes, I admit it, this is getting to me. He's going so slowly and his touch is so light and I sort of want to scream at him to touch me, really, really touch me.

But this isn't me here on this bed. It's someone else. And it's this man's fantasy, so I make myself breathe through it, let myself relax and let my client do what he wants to do.

He does pull on the ribbons on his trip back up my body. But he doesn't push the material aside to look at me. It stays in place over my body; if I move it'll be gone, but right here, right now, there is the tiniest illusion of modesty.

Then he bends his head and I'm prepared for some testosterone driven thing, like him taking the panties off of me with his teeth or something. Instead, he places a soft kiss against my left hip, then my right, and then he rests his cheek against the exposed skin there.

It's tender, bordering on reverent, and my throat is thick and my eyes are stinging. He doesn't just want to fuck Fantasy Woman, he loves her.

I let my hands ruffle through his hair as I wonder if it's completely unrequited or if he had her and lost her. Whichever way it is, he's got it bad for her. I'm not sure why I care so much, but it makes me hurt for the guy.

He moves against me and kisses his way across my hip and over my stomach. He's started those maddeningly light touches again, but at least I'm getting a little more pressure from his mouth. Then he's kneeling over me. He's still wearing his jeans, but I don't know why. As hard as he obviously is, they have got to be uncomfortable.

Then he bends his head and takes one of my nipples in to his mouth, and I don't much care whether he's uncomfortable or not, as long as he never stops doing that. He uses his lips and his tongue and suction and heat and dear heaven, if I thought the man was a good kisser, then he's an artist at this.

When he releases one breast and moves to the other, the cool air hits my flesh still wet from his mouth and I feel like I'm going to come out of my skin. But that's nothing compared to what happens to my pulse when I feel his hand flick away the little bit of material covering my sex. I feel like every nerve ending in my body is at attention when he cups me. And when his finger slides against my labia, then up to my clit, I nearly come off the bed.

The man certainly knows his way around a woman's body.

As a general rule, most of my clients want me to have an orgasm because it makes them feel better about themselves. But most of them don't put any effort into it either. They just sort of expect it to happen while they're having their fun. So, yes, I do a lot of faking. I never deliberately lie, but I do try to make it good enough that they don't ask.

Well, this guy? He's getting an A for effort and an A plus for skill. There's no fumbling or searching. He's circling my clit with his thumb and he's sliding two fingers up and in, all while licking my breasts and sucking my nipples.

It's not long before I feel it starting to build. I feel my toes curling and my heart is slamming and every nerve ending is tingling. I can feel it tightening in my belly and along the walls of my vagina. I'm so wet his fingers are making squelching noises as he finger fucks me. I have to keep reminding myself not to talk, because I do want to talk, but all I'd be able to say would be "oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," so I settle for moaning and groaning instead.

It's been so long since I've had a real orgasm with another person in the room, I'm almost embarrassed by how hard it hits me. I'm sweating and panting for air, and I don't even want to think how my hair looks but he's grinning as he gives me a quick kiss and slides off the bed to finish undressing.

I watch him pull off his boots and socks then unbutton his jeans. He's careful pulling down the zipper's tab, obviously not wanting to catch any wayward flesh and that makes me smile. As I suspected, he's big. He's a little longer than average but thick and right now he's very, very hard. I want to touch him, to stroke him, maybe put him in my mouth and suck him, give him a little bit of the same type of pleasure he just gave me, but he's already rolling a condom on.

And that's three times in less than two hours he's impressed me.

Condoms are a requirement. Non-negotiable. But you'd be surprised how many guys think they're so special they shouldn't have to use one and attempt to renegotiate at the last minute.

Really? You're about to fuck someone who gets paid to fuck people. You don't know how many people I've been with, you don't know who I've been with, but you want to fuck me without a condom? You're an idiot.

One particular lobbyist offered me an additional two thousand dollars to let him ride bareback. Really? You think my life is worth two grand?

I walked out.
Not this guy though. I really like that he's not an idiot.

When he climbs back on the bed, I'm expecting him to dive right in, but he spends another ten minutes kissing me and touching me. I'm ready to scream again, but decide to be an active participant instead. When I rise up to reach out and cup his balls, he tenses, but in a good way. Then I stroke him through the condom. He's heavy in my hand, radiating heat through the thin latex, and I barely have time to wish he was bare in my hand so I could really feel him before I find myself flat on my back again, with a good looking, well hung, very turned on client between my thighs. Good, I think, because he has me turned on again.

I've had appointments with people I didn't really care for, but I really like most of my regular clients. Even if I generally concentrate on making them feel good, it doesn't mean I can't feel good. Just because I usually don't have an orgasm, it doesn't mean I don't enjoy being touched; I do enjoy it. Both of us feeling good just makes it a win-win.

But I have the feeling with this guy part of the turn-on for him is making sure I...well, really, she, whoever she is, is turned on and then satisfied. He's putting in the effort and, as far as I'm concerned, it's paying off.

When he bows over me, kissing me again, I reach down between us and bring him inside me. He flexes, I lift to him, we shift and adjust until he's fully seated inside me, but he never stops kissing me. I let my hands wander over his shoulders, down his back, up his sides and kiss him back as my body stretches around him and adjusts.

Honestly, as hard as he is I sort of expected him to...well, as my friend Cheryl puts it, start banging like a screen door in a hurricane. But, no. Once he's all the way in, he just holds there like he's savoring it, like nothing is ever going to feel this good again. He's breathing heavy but he's pressing these tiny, sweet little kisses over my face, my neck, my shoulders...everywhere he can reach.

When he finally moves, it's in long, slow strokes; pulling almost all the way out and sliding all the way back in. I wrap my legs around his waist and let him in deeper.

It's good. It's really, really good.

The man has skills and he obviously cares deeply about the person he's pretending I am. How could it not be good? Of course I'm responding; even if it wasn't good for me, I'd still be responding as if it was, but there's no need to fake it right now. My hips are moving with his, setting up a counter rhythm, and if the look on his face is anything to go by, it's pretty good for him, too.

I know he's not having sex with me; he's making love to Fantasy Woman. Sex is about the body; it's physiology, stimuli and response. It's goal oriented and predictable to a certain extent. Love making is about so much more than the body; it's about the heart and the mind, emotion and erotica. When you combine the physical with the emotional, well, it can be incredibly overwhelming, especially for women. But men are not immune.

I wish he could have her, I think as he kisses me again.

I let my hands move down and run them over his ass. He hisses and starts moving a little faster. That's good. Then he raises up, changes his angle and he's bumping my clit every time he moves. And yeah, that's even better.

It occurs to me that if he was with Fantasy Woman he would be looking into her eyes and telling her how much he cares for her, telling her he loves her. Instead, he's watching my breasts bounce as he fucks me. I wonder if maybe even in the fantasy he can't tell her how he feels, he can only show her. As far as I'm concerned, he's doing a helluva job.

But then he starts thrusting a little harder and frankly, I stop thinking about him altogether, other than what he's doing for me. Not very professional of me, I know, but when you get to a certain point, to the point where orgasm moves from possibility through probability straight into inevitability, the world narrows to nerve-endings, sensation and muscle contractions and professional doesn’t matter. His body keeps nudging my clit. When I gasp, he moves one hand down and presses against my clit and that is all she wrote. I'm gone. I've heard a lot of people describe the perfect orgasm rolling through them like an ocean wave. But I was in an earthquake once, I saw the earth rise and fall in peaks and valleys, cracking the asphalt and making buildings wobble. That's always what it's like for me, riding the momentum of something that is far beyond my control, rolling both with it and through it, coming out on the other side panting, all the tension wrung out of my body, completely relieved, totally relaxed.

I'm making noises that almost sound like tiny sobs when I come back to myself. He's still pumping into me, but it's gentler, and he's bent over me, making soothing noises. I wiggle a little, open up a little more and he groans, thrusting into me again, hard. I cup his face in my hands, pull him down and kiss him, hot, wet, dirty and tender all at once. I feel him shiver, and he makes a noise against my mouth that feels like a combination of a moan and a sob and he comes.

We're both panting louder than the Vivaldi, and the lovely room smells like sweat and sex. He presses a kiss against my shoulder and rolls off of me to toss the condom in the wastebasket by the bed. Then he rolls back to me, pulls me against his side and says, "Sleep."

It sounds like a good idea.

I wake a couple of hours later and I'm alone.

There's a note on the bedside table, along with an envelope. The note reads:

Check out time is noon. Feel free to order from room service if you'd like, it's covered. Thank you for everything. There's a scrawled something that could be a name or an initial at the end...it starts with a D or an O.

The envelope contains cash, a twenty-five percent tip.

Nice.

I tuck the note into the envelope and put the envelope in my purse. I take a long hot bath in the ridiculously luxurious bathroom then I get dressed and call down to the concierge and ask for a cab. He's already left a tip for housekeeping on the table in the living area. Classy.

The cab is waiting when I make it downstairs and I tip the concierge and the doorman.

The cab driver isn't chatty, thankfully, and it's a silent ride back to my apartment in Georgetown.

Clarisse, my cat, is meowing at me as I come through the door. She ate before I left, and she's not due to be fed again for another six hours, but she's lousy at telling time. So I go ahead and feed her, hoping she'll let me sleep in a little in the morning.

After tossing the little black dress in the bag to go to the dry cleaners, I put on an old soft t-shirt and my favorite sleep pants. I check my messages; take a quick look at my e-mail, but there's nothing worth staying up for.

So, I crawl into bed and turn off the lights. Clarisse hops up and takes her place behind my knees and I smile. Before sleep takes me down again, I think about tonight's appointment. I hope tonight was close enough to his fantasy. More than that, I hope he's either able to have Fantasy Woman, or if he can't have her, I hope he's able to get over her soon.
Nobody should spend their lives wanting.
***
Supervisory Special Agent David Anthony Rossi.

Deviance was on the reading list for my first Criminal Psychology course when I was an undergrad. I devoured the rest of his books that summer. No wonder he looked familiar; his picture is on the dust jacket of six of the books currently in the bookshelf by my desk. I cited Deviance a couple of times in my Master's thesis.

I didn't know he'd gone back to the FBI though. But, according to his website, which looks like it was set up and is maintained by his publisher, he came out of early retirement a few years ago and he's back working with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. It looks like he's working on a new book, but the site doesn't give details.

His biography page on the site mainly talks about his professional achievements, awards, commendations, book sales and literary awards. It barely touches anything truly personal.

Google and Wikipedia are much more obliging. He's been married and divorced three times. Not really surprising considering his age and the work he does. The last divorce was more than a few years ago, so I don't think Fantasy Woman is one of his ex wives. Of course, I can't be one hundred percent sure. Google Images is sadly lacking photographs that are easily identifiable as any of his wives. After awhile, I decide to search the news feature for his name. That returns hundreds of thousands of results. He gets interviewed a lot and does a lot of expert testimony and consulting. Add that to news about book releases and signings, along with whispers of movie deals and that's a lot of news articles.

I'm not really expecting to find anything, but I click on the links where it looks as though it's a fairly recent case he worked. About the seventh or eighth article, I find her. They're standing beside each other, behind a man in a suit with a very serious expression. I'd say it was some sort of news conference; hard to tell from a still.

It's not exactly like looking in a mirror, but I definitely see the resemblance. Her legs are probably a little longer and my breasts are probably a little bigger, though admittedly it's hard to tell in the suit she's wearing. My lips are fuller, but her mouth is wider. She wears bangs and I sweep my hair to the side. She's older than I by a good ten years, but probably younger than he is by fifteen. But, other than that...

It would be easy to believe we are, if not twins, then sisters. We have the same dark hair, same dark eyes and the same pale skin.

I look for a name. There are a few other women referenced in the article but the only other one listed as a BAU team member is Emily Prentiss. I bookmark this article in case I need to come back to find it again. Then I enter Emily Prentiss into the search bar on Google Images.

Bingo. It's her.

There are several pages that pull up her official FBI headshot. And, yeah, my first assessment was correct; I am just a tiny bit bigger through the chest than she is and she has this amazing, wide smile. She's gorgeous.

There are a couple of thumbnails showing her at other press conferences or emerging from courtrooms. Then there are a couple where she's in formal wear, waved hair falling softly across her shoulders, posed with men in tuxes and women in designer gowns. I click on a couple of those links and discover she's the daughter of Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss.

As I move over to the next page, I wonder if that's why he feels like he can't have her, because she comes from a prestigious family and while he's wealthy, he might not feel that's enough for her family. Or maybe it's the age difference. Or maybe...

The first image at the top of the next page is Agent Rossi and several other men carrying a coffin into a cemetery. The words funeral of Emily Prentiss run under the picture, and my hand actually starts shaking as I click the link to the article.

I read the story of how FBI Agent Emily Prentiss, daughter of Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss was kidnapped and killed by a terrorist she had helped put in prison seven years prior while working undercover in conjunction with the CIA and Interpol.

Moving back to the news search, I find every article I can about the case and the death of Agent Prentiss. Several of the articles show photographs of her funeral, and in each one there's David Rossi, face a picture of pain and grief. I mean, nobody looks happy, but how could anyone look at his face and not know he was desperately in love with her?

Then I snort at my own romanticism. He probably just wanted to nail her.

Okay. That was cynical, even for me, even when I know it's my own fear of intimacy that makes me want to counter my sappy thoughts about true love and hot sex involving Emily Prentiss and David Rossi.

Though this does answer one of the questions I asked myself last night. I'd be willing to bet my savings account she had no idea how he felt about her. Last night was an expensive and elaborate fantasy. Along with his grief, I'm sure he's suffering because he never seized the opportunity to tell her he was in love with her or pursue a relationship with her.

He's probably suffering from some serious remorse today.

I doubt he'll call again.

Only a month later, he does.

Same caveat, no talking. I tell Kendall to accept the appointment and I start looking for something to wear.

In most of the pictures I've seen of her, she's on the job and she seemed to wear pant suits for the office and court appearances. Candid photos taken from various press conferences and crime scenes show a range of attire from slacks and jackets to jeans and sweaters when they're working a case; it seems to depend on rural versus urban and the time of year. And let me just say, the woman knew how to wear a pair of jeans. Whether he realized he loved her before she died or not, he had to know he wanted her. She wasn't just hot, she was elegant, obviously smart and from everything I can tell, a complete badass. A woman like that is going to be a major turn on for a man like him.

I'm still debating between the suit and jeans when Kendall texts me that I have a package at the office from David Rossi and she'll courier it over.

It's perfume. Shalimar. Not something a woman would buy herself. But as a gift from a lover or a well-to-do parent? Yes.

Scent is the strongest memory associate of the five senses, stronger than sight or sound.

I remember how he'd leaned forward when he'd first taken my shawl. My hair had brushed against his cheek. And now I know; I wasn't wearing the scent he'd been unconsciously expecting to smell. That's why he'd looked ready to back out before I did whatever it was I did that made him decide to stay in.

So this tells me the fantasy worked on some levels, but not all the way.

I wonder, as a profiler, someone who works figuring out the ugliest part of the human psyche, what does he think of his own fantasy? Since our first appointment, I've spent a stupid amount of time researching the man; everything the internet has to offer. I've listened to interviews with him and read some not so flattering things some former colleagues have had to say about him. He's arrogant, but he owns that, has even written about how his reputation and behavior have impacted several cases. He seems relatively self-aware. One of the things he wrote in Deviance was about how fantasy was natural, that everyone had fantasies. The problem occurs when you're trying to force your fantasy on other people...that's where it stops being fantasy and becomes deviance.

He knows I'm free to say yes or no. He knows I'm not emotionally involved. He knows it's a clean transaction.

What he doesn't know is I am about to rock his world.

I settle on a suit: classic black, white blouse, but a skirt instead of pants.

It's the same hotel, the same suite, but the music is different. It sounds like the Brandenburg Concertos this time, but it's a little difficult to tell through the door.

He answers my knock and his eyebrows go up when he sees what I'm wearing. Not in a bad way, but I've surprised him, I can tell.

This time when he moves to take my jacket, he lingers a little and I hear the inhale. I've read enough about Emily Prentiss to know she was a strong, confident woman, so I turn as he slips my jacket off and kiss him.

If this is an unrealistic sex fantasy where he really just wants to dominate and control her, then I've just shattered it for him. If this is about him wanting to make love to someone like Emily Prentiss, I’ve just made it better.

Okay, I'm going to say it. I don't know why I care so much. I feel sympathy and compassion for him, but that's fairly normal when there's a client I like. We've all got some hurt we're trying to recover from. We all crave intimacy, yet a lot of us are afraid of it. But I want this fantasy to work for this man. Maybe it's because he's obviously still grieving her death, maybe even hating himself for the opportunities he never seized, and I have far too many of those. Maybe it's just that deep down I believe if you can ease anybody's pain you should.

Like I said, I don't know.

I just know I want it to work for him.

His arms go around me and he's kissing me back.

There's a flutter of relief in the middle of my chest knowing I got it right.

His hands feel big as he cups the back of my head and he keeps kissing me. It's closed mouth and slow, but there's enough heat and pressure to it that it's on the opposite end of the spectrum from chaste.

After awhile he seems to realize we're standing in the middle of the room kissing and my suit jacket is clutched in one of his hands. He moves away and hangs the jacket up.

Then he hands me a wine glass; still a red but not the same red. It's lighter and a little fruitier. It's probably just as expensive as the one we had before, but I don't go to check the label. Part of my plan requires we stay in this room so I go around the desk on the far side of the room and move to the large picture window beyond. There's a pretty fabulous view of the Washington Monument and there's something about this city at night that is more breathtaking than any other city in the world. Not that I've been to every city in the world, but I've been to a few and when it comes to nighttime views, nothing really compares to DC.

He comes to stand beside me and we sip our wine, look at the view and listen to the music rise and fall. After awhile, he sets his glass down and I do the same. He pulls me close and runs his thumb over my cheek. Yeah, that's another thing she and I have in common, we have the same cheekbones. When he sets his mouth to mine this time, I'm not shy about kissing him back or touching him. I let my hands wander all over him. His skin is warm and his muscles are firm and he's every bit as good of a kisser this time as he was the last time.

He's not as slow to touch this time either; his hands are sliding over my shoulders and down my back, brushing along the sides of my skirt. It seems to take forever for him to touch my stocking covered thigh, but it doesn't take long from there for him to slide the skirt up and find the exposed skin of my upper thigh. He steps back, pulls the skirt up and sees the black satin garter belt and matching thong.

Which is how I end up bent over the desk, skirt bunched around my waist while he fucks me from behind.

I hope he's able to make this desk his desk at the BAU in his mind. Whether he's able to or not, he's clearly in to it. As for me? With my pumps on, the desk hits me just about clit high and I'm three orgasms in before he starts to shudder.

We make it to the bed eventually, but I'm not sure how.
***
I don't remember going to sleep, but it's just after four when I wake. The sheet beside me is cool and the pillow doesn't look like anyone's head has rested there recently.

The note is a simple "Thank you" with the scrawl below. For the life of me I can't figure out if it's just a fancy D with a trailing squiggle or if it's supposed to be "David" or "Dave". Either seems possible, if completely illegible.

There's an envelope this time, too. I tuck it in my purse without looking inside.

I wonder if he slept, or just waited for me to go to sleep before he left. The last I remember he'd been holding me, but I'm pretty sure that's part of the fantasy, too. The intimacy of after might be a bigger part of the fantasy than the sex.

Of course, if this was a real date, I'd be upset and angry if I woke up alone, but this isn't real, at all. I have nothing to do with it. Having to deal with me afterwards would endanger the fantasy.

I'm actually willing to believe he's not a sneak out in the middle of the night type of guy. Normally.

But this isn't normal.

I stretch and feel the sheet slide against my bare skin. For a few minutes I consider going back to sleep, but as luxurious as this is, I want to wake up in my own bed in my ratty t-shirt and comfy sleep pants, with Clarisse snuggled up behind my knees. So I get up, grab my purse and go to the bathroom.

The overhead light is what would poetically be called "unforgiving". But I'm not a poet, so I'll settle for horribly harsh. My make-up is mostly gone and what's not gone is smeared under my eyes; I sincerely hope most of that happened in my sleep after Dave left. There are four small red blotches on each hip that will be fingerprint bruises tomorrow. I tell myself to remember to put some vitamin K cream on them when I get home. I should go looking for some ice if I want them to be minimal, but I don't have another appointment scheduled until Thursday; between the vitamin K and a decent concealer they won't even show.

I dig an elastic out of my purse and put my hair up in a high ponytail so it won't get wet and I step in to the shower stall. The floor is damp and there are drops of water along the tiles and I know he showered before he left. I think about that for next time, maybe getting him in to the shower and blowing him, but then I remember the harsh lighting and know that won't work to preserve the fantasy. I'll have to think of something else.

It turns out I do blow him the next time, but not in the shower. We're in bed and the light is dim; he strokes my face and runs his fingers through my hair the whole time and I'm careful not to look up as I suck him. He doesn't come from the blow job; he stops me with a hand on my shoulder and then spends thirty minutes kissing me and touching me, before we make love.

Again, I know he's not making love to me. It's her, I get that. And, believe it or not, it makes me happy to know that even just for those few minutes, even if it's only in his head, he can have her.

***

I have a hair appointment a few weeks after that. Dave hasn't called again, but I think he probably will. So when Richard, my stylist, starts giving me grief about never changing my style, I tell him to give me bangs.

They're not as short as the pictures I've seen of hers and I can still sweep them to the side, but with the bangs, the resemblance is even more striking.

Dave must think so, too, since I find myself on top the next time I see him. Not my favorite position, but it is an opportunity to work him over pretty good. We're both sort of desperate and frantic and it's hot and it's good. When he comes, he closes his eyes and I'm able to look at him without being afraid of ruining his fantasy.

I pretend to be asleep several hours later when he slips out of bed and goes to shower. By the time I hear him put the envelope on the nightstand, I've relaxed enough that I am almost asleep, but I feel myself smile when he brushes my hair away from my face.

When the fall semester starts two weeks later, I tell Kendall to keep my regular Thursday night gig with the gentleman from the Netherlands. The only other appointments I'll accept are with David Rossi.

Five appointments in six months hardly qualifies as a frequent client, but I have a ridiculous soft spot for him.

In late September, after pulling a frustrating all-nighter working on the third chapter of my thesis, I turn on the television for a distraction while I eat a banana and some yogurt. The morning news shows are crowded with stories of the death of Ian Doyle, a major gun-runner on the terrorist scene, at the top of the FBI's most wanted list.

It takes a minute, but then it clicks, why the name sounds familiar. Ian Doyle is the man that kidnapped and murdered Emily Prentiss.

My heart starts thumping and I rush to the computer. There's never enough information on the news. I read everything I can find. Interpol has been tracking him since his escape from Boston; there was evidently a fairly ugly gun battle in Bellarus and Ian Doyle now probably looks like a bad guy in a Quentin Tarantino movie.
Several of the articles touch on the death of Emily Prentiss and more than one shows the photo of David Rossi and the other men bearing her casket.

Dave.

My heart hurts for him. While this will eventually provide closure and a chance to begin to heal, at this moment everything is probably stirred up again. Still, there's no way around grief, there's only through it.

I doubt I'll see him again.

That's okay. That just means he'll be moving forward. My feeling is the same six months in as it was the first night I met him. No one should spend their life wanting.

***

Two weeks later, Kendall couriers over an envelope. It's ecru, textured and heavy, obviously very expensive. The note is brief and sweet, thanking me for the time I spent with him and wishing me well followed by his scrawl (which I still can't make out). There's also a certified check, payee left blank, that is the equivalent of two appointments. I suppose I should be surprised, but I'm really not.

I think about sending him a note in turn, but decide it's best to let him have the last word.

I'm glad he's moving on, but I can't deny I'll miss him.

Ten days after that the morning news shows are abuzz with the story of Emily Prentiss, back from the dead. It seems she'd been in whatever the international equivalent of witness protection is. Her hair is shorter than the last pictures of her; it's about chin length and a very good look on her. The clips show her arriving at Dulles, flanked by her parents, security on either side of them, all of them wearing sunglasses and blank expressions. No one offers a comment for the press as they exit the airport and climb into a waiting limo.

I am half shocked and half giddy for days afterward. But, above all, I'm hoping Dave has enough sense to seize this opportunity, no matter what their age difference or her family's status. He's a smart man; he needs to act like it.

I'm in the middle of a revision on chapter four a little over two weeks later when a Google news alert pops into my inbox; a story about FBI Supervisory Special Agent and world-renowned author David Rossi getting into a scuffle with some paparazzi outside Emily Prentiss's new home.

I grin for two days.

Time passes and the damn thesis gets written, though sometimes I wonder if I'll ever finish it. A little over a year after the resurrection of Emily Prentiss, the gentleman from the Netherlands has returned to the land of tulips and windmills and I am happily out of business. I'm set to defend my thesis in about a month and I will be hooded in December. Currently, I'm working on a paper with one of my professors; while I'm not planning on a life in academia, it never hurts to publish. I am feeling pretty good about both the present and the future.

The call from Detective Ruben Washington blows all of that to the wind. "Commodore is out of appeals." I think that should be good news, but from the tone of the good detective’s voice, that's not the whole story.

"So?" We've been on this journey together for ten years. There's a sub-textual shorthand in the way we talk to each other.

The sigh is heavy. "He's starting to confess to other murders."

I nod at the phone. I shouldn't be surprised. "That'll delay the execution."

"No one ever said he was dumb." There's a bitterness there that makes me sad.

This time, I'm the one who sighs. "Do you need me to come in for an interview?" Every time something new has happened, I've been asked to come in for an interview.

"Somebody will probably want to talk to you, but it's not gonna be me this time, kiddo. The new confessions aren't from my area." He pauses and I hear the clink of ice on the other end of the line. "Just wanted to give you a heads up."

"Thanks." There's a little stretch of silence between us, loaded with all the things that two people who've been through Hell together don't dare say out loud for fear of making them more real. "Can I take you and Jean to dinner next week?"

There's a snort. "Jean is..." The ice clinks again, and when he speaks it's slow and serious. "We're taking some time apart."

I've never been Jean Washington's number one fan, but she's tolerated my presence in her life with more grace than most women would have, and I really can't imagine Ruben with anyone else. "What happened?"

The story unfolds over the next hour. I give him a little feedback, make a couple of suggestions, and we make plans to meet for dinner the next week. We don't mention Commodore again.

In some ways it doesn't feel like it's been ten years, and in other ways, I can't believe it was this lifetime. I was a sophomore at GMU. My boyfriend and I were living together on the sly, but I knew when my parents found out we were engaged they'd be okay with it. Jeff was working with a landscaping company to earn money to buy a ring and then we'd tell them.

Jeff was raking leaves at the home of Kendall Smith, who, unbeknownst to him, or really anyone, was a high-class, high-paid call girl. Joseph Commodore was one of her clients. He became obsessed and tracked her from the hotel on their last appointment. He decided Jeff and the other two guys on the landscaping crew were too close and he killed them. Two bullets to the back of the skull. Nobody knows why he decided to kill Kendall's four year old son, but he did. Kendall tried to run and he shot her too, but she was still alive when I came looking for Jeff when he didn't make it home for dinner. She's been in a wheelchair since. They caught Commodore when he tried to cross into Canada two days later.

I suppose it's the nature of grief to try to understand, but I admit, I became obsessed. I haunted the police station, attended every press conference and minor hearing, I took classes in criminal psychology, devoured David Rossi's books on criminal and deviant behavior, changed my major from Pre-Law to Psychology. I shadowed Ruben Washington, became friends with Kendall Smith and tried to learn about this life she'd chosen. She taught me, albeit reluctantly. She tried to talk me out of it, and when she knew she couldn't stop me, she became my mentor and my agent.

Some people - people like the person I used to be - would talk about survivor's guilt or self-destructive grief. I can't look at it with that much detachment. I just know it helped me live after Jeff died.

I don't have any regrets.

***

My address is on file so I'm expecting a visit after my conversation with Ruben, but, other than a very nice lady attempting to give me a copy of Watchtower, no one knocks on my door.

Besides, Kendall usually gets a call or a visit before I do. She'll let me know when it's coming.

Unless, of course, it's a team from the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit who've split up and are doing simultaneous interviews. They find me in the office I share with one of the other grad students. The man in the lead has skin the color of caramel and is so ripped I can practically count his six pack through his shirt. The second man is Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi. Caramel muscle man introduces himself as Agent Derek Morgan and he's getting ready to introduce Dave to me when I see recognition hit his face. I can't blame him for not recognizing me instantly or really, at all. The bangs have grown out, my hair is in a ponytail, I'm wearing comfortable jeans and a Killers Are We Human t-shirt. I look like a grad student, not someone you would pay an insane amount of money to have sex with while you're pretending they are someone else.

"Morgan." He clears his throat. "I'm going to have to excuse myself from the interview. I didn't realize I knew Miss Thomas."

Agent Morgan's forehead wrinkles in about a half dozen wavy lines and I give a little laugh. "Agent Rossi was kind enough to give me some citations for my Master's thesis. I'm not sure we were ever formally introduced." It's not a lie. Technically. But I prefer Agent Morgan not get curious.

His forehead clears and he shrugs. "It's okay, Rossi. I got this."

Dave gives me a long look and I smile at him. He nods and leaves the office. It's only later I realize that was the first time he ever heard me speak.

Agent Morgan is kind and sensitive and really cute. If I'd met him under any other circumstances, he'd probably ask me out. If I'd met him under any other circumstances, I might have said yes. He asks his questions and I tell the story about Jeff being late when Jeff was never late. I explain that I'd sweet-talked Tony, his boss, in to giving me the last address where the crew was working. Then I drove across town and their truck had been parked on the street but there was no one outside. I told him about trying the door to the garage and finding Jeff, Trent and Hector on the floor there along with the tiny, bloody body of Tyler Smith. And, finally, about finding Kendall and performing CPR until the ambulance got there.

He asks about Commodore and the trials and Detective Washington. He asks all the questions that I've been asked dozens of times over the past ten years. It is oddly perfunctory for both of us.

When he's done, he thanks me and says I'll be notified of any new developments. I shake his hand and avoid saying "You're welcome," without seeming rude. He leaves just as a text from Kendall comes in.

FBI looking for answers about Commodore.

Some questions have no answers.

***

Saturday is warm but not hot, and the light is starting to get that golden quality that's unique to the beginning of autumn. It's a beautiful morning and I don't have too much on my mind, so it's nice to be leisurely and enjoy myself. I've abandoned Clarisse and my housework to sit in the sun and sip a latte at one of the outdoor tables at The Daily Grind while I review the final draft of the paper. I treat myself to an apricot scone with the interior promise to go to the gym and for a walk later today.

When the shadow falls across the table, even though I wasn't expecting it, I'm not surprised. I smile up at David Rossi. "Is this serendipitous or should I be alarmed?"

"Neither." He makes a gesture of inquiry towards the chair across from me. At my nod, he seats himself. "I was coming to talk to you, but left when you weren't home. I just happened to see you as I passed by."

"So a little alarming with a bit of the serendipitous thrown in." I make myself not reach up to smooth my hair. It doesn't matter how I look and it's just a nervous tic anyway.

He frowns. "Alarming?"

"You were coming to talk to me?" I start to reach for my coffee, then realize he doesn't have any. He also appears to be eying my scone. "Do you want coffee?"

"No." He shakes his head. "Why would my coming to talk to you be alarming?"

I give a small, sharp laugh. "Oh, I don't know. You're an FBI agent investigating a case I'm involved in? You're a former client who came to see me at my home?" It's not that I'm afraid, but he has crossed a boundary.

He frowns harder. "I'm sorry. I didn't think of it that way." I can tell from his tone he hadn't thought of it that way. Considering what he knows about Commodore and Kendall, it probably is fairly horrifying to him that he didn't think of it that way. That's why professionals normally don't deal with people from their personal lives; they stop thinking like a professional. He tilts his head. "Would you like me to leave?"

I shake my head. "No." Sighing, I lean forward and get honest. "It's actually nice to see you." Then I get really honest. "Any time anything comes up with Commodore, I get a little tense. I know I don't have anything to be afraid of with you; I just wasn't expecting to ever see you again, much less in a professional capacity."

His eyebrows go up. "Ditto."

The different ways those sentences could be shifted around make me blink and I surprise myself with a giggle, and that makes him smile.

Relaxing back in my chair, I sip my coffee. "It's good to see you, Dave." As I told Agent Morgan, we've never been formally introduced, but, considering everything, I feel pretty comfortable calling him by his first name.

"I just really wanted to see how you were doing with all this." His voice is gentle and so is his smile.

Shrugging, I put the cup back on the table and push the scone toward him. "It sucked then, it sucks now, it's always going to suck. But it sucks a little less every year. And life moves on."

There's a hesitancy in his expression and I'm not surprised when his next words bump right up against that personal/professional line. "It looks like the information Commodore is coughing up is fairly accurate. It'll probably delay his execution by several years, especially if he keeps adding to the information."

"His dying won't bring Jeff back to life. My memory of Tyler Smith's brains splattered all over that garage is not going to disappear the day they execute Joseph Commodore." There's no bitterness in my tone, just fact. "It'll just be another body to add to the pile."

He looks at me thoughtfully. I know he gets it; I know he's seen horrible things and lived through a lot of pain. I know he knows you can't unsee the things you've seen, that sometimes the best you can hope for is faded memories. I know he knows you never get over grief, you just learn to fit it in to your life.

Though one time in a million, things end way better than you think they're going to.
"How's Emily?"

The look of surprise quickly morphs in to a grin. He shakes his head. "You would have made one hell of a profiler."

"You really think so?" I purse my lips and tilt my head to look at him. "'Cause you would make a lousy therapist."

The sudden bark of a laugh he gives causes several people to look over at us. The attention doesn't seem to bother him at all, and I remember all the reasons I always liked this man. Still, I keep looking at him expectantly, waiting on an answer to my original question.

Dave smiles, shakes his head again and answers quietly. “Fine.” He pinches off a corner of the scone and puts it in his mouth. “She’s fine.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, and he laughs gently. “There were some adjustments,” he concedes. “Apparently coming back from the dead isn’t always a smooth transition. But she’s doing well.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” And I am, but he’s not telling me what I want to know. He's not stupid. I let the silence stretch out without my gaze leaving his.

Throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender, his smile turns into a grin. "We're together."

Now I'm the one grinning and I decide to give him a little grief. "And yet, I don't see a wedding band?"

Pulling a face, he pushes his thumb in to the scone crumbs on the plate. "Last time I checked, you don't have to be married to be with someone."

"Really?" I give him a doubtful look. "That's what you're going with?"

He's probably sorry I ever started talking, but he manages to snort out a laugh before he says, "We're currently negotiating the landmines of the no fraternization policies at the Bureau." He puts his thumb to his mouth, sucking off the crumbs. "But if we can't work it out, I'll retire again."

"I'm really happy for you." And I am; he's a wonderful man and from everything I've read and seen, she is an amazing woman. Besides, he loves her. That's enough to make me happy for the both of them.

"She knows...about you."

I remember the first night, how he'd kept surprising and impressing me, but this goes way beyond that. It takes me a minute to absorb, and when I'm finally able to speak I ask something that is absolutely none of my business. Blame it on the surprise or finally being able to talk to him or my incessant curiosity about human behavior, but I rest my chin on my hand and ask anyway. "Was she flattered or horrified?"

"An equal measure of both?" He seems to reconsider, then amends somewhat ruefully. "We weren't together before, and I felt the need to be upfront with her before we did get involved, so probably just the slightest bit more flattered; but the scales could have tipped depending on her mood."

I nod. "That's probably the way I'd feel about it, too." I smile. "Depending on my mood." I don't ask if she knows he's here now, something tells me she does.

He pushes the remainder of the scone back toward me, then reaches in to his pocket and withdraws a business card and a pen, quickly jotting something on the back. Then he hands it to me. "Cell, office and e-mail are on the front; home is on the back." He stands. "Use any of them if you ever need anything."

His tone is so reassuring and sincere, it makes my eyes sting. "Thanks," I manage to choke out.

"Take care," he says and bends to press a gentle kiss to my forehead.

I put my hand on his arm and have to swallow hard before I can respond. "You too, Dave." I manage a smile. "Be happy."

Something passes over his face, a trace of sadness, an understanding of grief, but over all of that, gratitude and joy. He nods. "I am."

That's good, I think, watching him walk away.

Good guys deserve to be happy, and like I told you from the beginning, he's a really good guy.

Fin.