An evening at home.  It had been a gift to herself; a reward for winning a high profile case that by all rights should have gone the other way if there was any real justice in the world.  People joked about lawyers, but there were moments where even she found it hard to like herself at the end of the day.  Like many upwardly mobile young career women, it was her usual practice to burn the candle at both ends, but somehow, Karina just couldn't face another late night at the office.  Promising herself an extra early start in the morning to make up the lost time, she ducked out early and was in the door of her smart little apartment by half past five. 

The sun hadn't even set yet.  The entire west wall of her apartment was glass and it was startling to see the place lit by the golden light of the late afternoon sun.  It had been months since she'd seen it by anything other than lamplight and the occasional glow of candlelight when the rolling summer blackouts necessitated it.  Thank god she had backups of her backup batteries for her laptop or she might have really suffered...

It was a moot point tonight.  No work.  Instead she showered away the stress of the day, scrubbed her face, took down her hair and changed into low-slung silky lounge pants and a ribbed blue shirt, designer casual.  How long had it been since she'd dressed for herself instead of for the office or for a man? 

It was the perfect night for a quiet evening in.  The crisp fall air made the amber light of the fading sun feel even more fluid and golden as it spilled around the wide open space.  Eschewing her usual glass of wine, she brewed up instead.  A hot cup of chamomile seemed just the thing to tuck up with on a cold autumn night.  Her kitchen got little use, aside from the catered entertaining that came part and parcel with her chosen profession, but like most privileged girls raised abroad, she could manage a decent pot of tea. 

She liked her home.  It was a reflection of her wide varied tastes, and in many ways it was as earthy and open as she was herself.  It was eclectically decorated in a riot of autumnal colors, burnt oranges, deep chocolate browns; warm rich golds shone against a back drop of dark olive and was accented by hints of vibrant crimson and spicy pumpkin.  Natural elements reigned.  Cork floors, recycled iridescent glass tiles, reclaimed wood, natural woven grasses, luxurious wool and silk rugs.  The scent of exotic incense hung heavy in the air.  The floor plan was open and airy; it was one big expansive space save for an organically curved wall of watery glass blocks which provided a modicum of privacy for the modern bathroom and integrated master suite that lay on the other side.

Her bedroom was more of the same; a sort of Old World Tuscany meets modern spa with an erotic twist.  Fresh green and deep coffee brown were set off by a sea of pristine white bedding and mounds of fluffy alabaster pillows.  Large pillar candles in hurricane glass illuminated the driftwood sculptures and leant the room a golden warmth along with the pleasant scent of vanilla.  The opening to her walk-in closet (with extra shelves for a shamelessly impressive collection of vintage handbags) was subtly offset to make a private alcove for the rest of the necessary bathroom fixtures.  She could give or take jewelry or shoes, but she was hopelessly addicted to handbags.  An equally impressive assortment of sex toys, oils, erotica and other carnal accoutrements were locked away in a demure black lacquered cabinet by the bed.      

The sunset's deep honey colored light filtering through the glass blocks was almost a work of art in itself.  Better still when someone was showering on the other side, the hazy suggestive shape of their bodies formed a sort of moving piece of art that matched the tasteful nudes scattered about her apartment.  She favored sensual elemental art; pieces gathered from her many travels as a student before she had thrown herself into her career.  An organic sculpture of a medicine wheel hung over the mantle, African tribal masks, woven reed baskets, Neolithic fertility idols, Mongolian daggers... it was an eclectic mishmash of art that somehow seemed to fit.

The furnishings were all high end, but simple with clean lines and selected for comfort; modern and antique sat side by side with ancient art, reclaimed materials and a slew of futuristic kitchen gadgetry.  She could not survive without her espresso machine.  A wall of books from floor to ceiling revealed her profession as well as her love of a good novel. 

A breezy doorway opened to a modest terrace balcony with a distant view of the sea.  A string of Tibetan prayer flags hung above the balcony, fluttering in the wind; a remnant of her last trip abroad.  A year ago, after things had imploded with Terry, she had been distracted and was in danger of losing a big case.  The senior partners managed to salvage it, but she was directed to take a few weeks off to collect herself.  She chose Tibet.  When she came back, her head was clearer and more focused, but more importantly, it had settled something deeper inside.  She had always been drawn to the peace of that place.  The prayer flags were one of two souvenirs she brought home that trip.  The other was tattooed in black ink, a prayer in an elegant line of Tibetan script down her golden skin.  She wondered what Terry would have made of that.  Liz had hated it.  Logan hadn't much seemed to care.  Nobody else had seen it.  She hadn't done it for anyone but herself so she supposed it didn't much matter.     

Outside on the terrace, there was a small sitting area beside a Zen garden (rocks and sand were hard to kill) and the usual smattering of herbs in pots.  She was no Martha Stewart, but even she could knock together a simple pasta with fresh pesto.  A small statue of the Buddha was tucked between the plants.  Now that she was no longer under her father's thumb, the only token nod to the traditional Judeo Christian beliefs he'd tried to force her to adhere to was the wreath of pinecones hung festively on her front door. 

The cleaner had been there recently.  The space was tidy save for the one place she was forbidden to touch.  An ebony piano sat alone, a dark island that dominated a wide expanse of bamboo flooring.  It was covered with scraps of paper scrawled with song lyrics and random measures of notes.  Pages of sheet music were strewn about in some organizational pattern that made sense only to her.  Her dog-eared old journals full of songs sat in a pile, ready to be taken up at a moment's notice.  Music was her other love, more of a passion than a hobby.  And even that was too much like work tonight.   This evening she didn't want to bleed, she just wanted to relax.

Curling up with her tea, she flicked the button on the fireplace's remote and the faux flames crackled to life.  She would have preferred the real thing, but logistics dictated otherwise.  She couldn't quite imagine herself hauling logs up all those floors.  Still, it felt cozy and the warm ambiance relaxed her as the sun slipped beyond the horizon's edge.  Grabbing the other remote, she flipped on the flat screen hidden discretely away in a cabinet and pulled out her knitting.  It was an unusual hobby for a woman like her, but it satisfied her sensual nature to stroke the various fibers of silk and cashmere.   She had expensive taste in yarn, but more importantly it was engaging enough to occupy her mind while also being repetitive enough to allow her thoughts to drift.  Her fingers flew along while on the screen, Jason Bourne raced to solve the mystery of his past before it caught up with him.  She much preferred action films to chick flicks and who could blame her?  She'd always had a soft spot for violent leading men with a vulnerable side...

Karina had unwound so far that the unanticipated knock at her door couldn't quite seem to break the spell.  The warm cocoon of relaxed, open lethargy seemed to follow her to the door.  Even the unexpected sight of Terry Thorne loitering in the hallway outside her door made only a small ripple in her placid mood.  His charismatic attraction was as palpable as ever and assaulted her senses in such a profound way that his mere presence nearby made her feel as though she had been physically touched by a wild force of nature, though when she took a closer look, he seemed a bit worse for the wear around the edges.  She wondered what had happened and if it played any part in his sudden appearance at her door tonight, but something told her not to ask.  He looked like a man with a lot on his mind and the look in his eyes said he just might tell her if she let him.   

The volatile feelings he stirred in her surged to the fore as they always did when he was around, and yet she could barely muster even a nominal ruffle of surprise at his presence.  Home turf advantage?  One might think so, but for him of all people to intrude in on her private space should have set her alarm bells ringing, and yet it did not.  Maybe she was just tired of fighting it?  Maybe she was just tired - period - and for once his latent demeanor seemed less aggressive than usual.  He didn't appear to be chomping at the bit to nail her - either with his cock or with a wickedly barbed repost - and it was that small change that caught her attention.  In fact, he almost seemed... nervous. 

She shook that foolish thought away, leaning lightly on the doorjamb and meeting his eyes with a soft smile and a question in her eyes.  "Terry....?"  There was real pleasure in her voice.  She was genuinely happy to see him.   

"Karina..."  Terry was glad he was leaning on the opposite side of the jamb.  He was unsettled enough already about this little meeting and her appearance had thrown him further off his game.  He'd nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of her.  She looked soft and young, more like a girl than the couture man-eater he usually traded barbs with.  He could almost feel his body responding to her soft clothes and fragrant, freshly washed hair.  It made all his carefully rehearsed words scatter into the aether.  He was so distracted he didn't even think to peer beyond her shoulder to see what he might glean about her from a quick glance at her private space, anything to give him an edge.  He was wholly focused on her, his professional façade long abandoned in favor of a more intimate approach.  He couldn't maintain that distance with her anymore and he didn't even want to, even if he could.     

He opened his mouth and found himself surprised not just by the raw truth in what came tumbling out, but by how easy it flowed from him.  Even the suggestion of openness from her seemed to be enough to undo him. 

"Forgive me for disturbing you at home.... but... I have recently been thinking on the nature of truth and have come to the conclusion that I can't lecture others on the danger of concealment unless I start introducing a little bit of honest transparency into my own life."  He took a breath and charged on.  "I have spent all my life in denial of my private emotions and I find myself having to bare my soul to people I hardly know, so I think I owe you at least some of that honesty.. and so I am here tonight to put that right."

Karina couldn't have been more shocked by his words, but she let them flow unchecked, sensing that now that the dam had broken, a critical moment was upon them; a watershed.  He had said he owed her.  She owed him, too.  If he was going to go out on a limb, she could, too.  She only nodded; afraid speaking would somehow break the spell.

"I came to your office the other day because I felt I had to warn you.  I didn't want to see you for two reasons," he swallowed, but didn't falter, "A) because I knew that seeing you would get to me, as I am not over you by a long way even if to all intents and purposes there was no 'us' to get over.... and B) because I was riddled with jealousy when I found out about you and Logan and I didn't want to face up to how much his presence in your life had affected me....because..."  he paused for a while before spitting out the rest of this sentence. " ... ya know, that pathetic male thing...... that sad little crisis of confidence we all seem to have when we lose out to a bigger dick....?"

He seemed to be winding down.  Karina could only stare at him in surprise, a warm flutter charging through her at his open revelation.  He still wanted her even after all that had passed between them?  It was frightening and wonderful and it made her head swim.  Her heart was beating fast and she couldn't quite seem to catch the breath she hadn't even been aware she'd been holding.   

"My confidence is pretty low at the moment to start with... Christ, I'm a complete loser, aren't I?"  He started laughing.  "Bet you never thought you were the mother confessor type, eh?"

She knew what it took for a man like that to humble himself so, to reveal such a vulnerability, especially to someone with the ability to wound him deeply.  She had wanted for so long to see him brought down a notch or two, only to find seeing him that way made her heart ache for him instead, and she shook her head in wonder.  Here he was laid bare and all she wanted to do was raise him up.  Her smile was open and warm, and her words equally as honest.  "I only saw him because you shot me down.... I was hurt."  And I wanted to hurt you.  The words were too painfully raw to say aloud, even now.  "I would have much preferred your company.  I still do, in fact..."  She opened the door to invite him in.

He leaned on the door lintel she'd just vacated as she stepped back to draw him inside.  "Can we pretend we never met before in a bar and spent time shagging each other witless and that you stuck a knife in my back in a courtroom?"

"Not to mention the one I stuck in you later at a parking lot near the Phoenix-"  

He flinched visibly at her words, grateful for her honesty even though it stung.  It was a painful wound to lance.   "....Because I have this odd feeling that you are as completely pathetic as I am underneath... and it's time we got to know each other better..."  Mulling over her last words, he merely shrugged.   "Maybe it took that particular knife to wake me up to the fact that you mean a lot to me... and that most of our recent interactions have been about me trying to tell myself you don't... and failing..."

His bashful honesty disarmed her completely- the one weapon she never imagined he'd ever use... but it bothered her, too.   He seemed to be eating the blame for all of this and that wasn't fair to him.  Something inside her broke and unspooled, a loosening.  She touched her fingertips to his lips lightly, halting his words.  "Stop!  I can't bear it... Don't excuse what I did like it somehow did you a favor.  I knew what I was doing.  I am ashamed of myself.  We can't have a fresh start if we don't own up to what we did.  What I did.  All of it..." She took a deep breath and for the first time was able to articulate the confusing feelings that had been rolling in her for so long.  "I wanted to hurt you...  I wanted to hurt myself.  Punishment for... for not being...." She faltered then.  For not being worthy enough for a fine man like you.  Even in this moment of brutal honesty, the painful words stuck in her throat.  "...for not being... enough..."

This time it was his finger on her lips.  "Enough of that now.  I hurt you.  You hurt me.  So we both fucked up?  Seems we're even now.  We're sorry, let's start again... you don't have to hang on the cross for me, though."  There was no room for self-flagellation now.  If he could see that, surely she could as well?  His mood and his heart lightened.  "So, you hooked up with him to get back at me, huh?  And you still prefer to be with me?  Why, you like small dicks or something?"  The both fell about, laughing like kids.

"Terry, you are the biggest dick I have ever met, hands down...."

"You know, you are not the first woman who has ever said that to me."  He sniggered.  "Jesus.  I think we just might be having our first real conversation."

She laughed and he allowed her to draw him inside.  "Whatever will we do now?  We might even be in danger of becoming friends.  Do robots even have friends?  I've been on autopilot so long I can't even remember what that's like..." 

The one-two punch of her offhand comment combined with the visual of the interior of her home hit him like a jolt.  He realized he'd been thinking of her much like he imagined most people thought of him.  Before his little epiphany, he'd had imagined her personal space to be as cold and sterile as her professional one.  His mind had conjured images of chrome and glass and black leather, as if she was the same person behind closed doors as she was at the office.  He was guilty of tarring her with the same brush so many liberally applied to him.  The irony was not lost on him.  He was not a robot and neither was she. 

Her home was warm and organic, open and yet still somehow cozy and welcoming.  It was jarring.  He felt disoriented, a disconnect from reality as if he was dreaming.  It was not often he was so far off the mark.  It was like stepping from one world into another, wholly unexpected one.  Her appearance, too, had gotten to him.  The soft sweetness of a woman.  He had oddly found both to be having a more powerful effect on him than he imagined.  It was probably what finally unleashed him to be so brutally honest.  It was an unusual experience for him in that he typically had people pegged correctly from the outset.  

He recovered quickly, but in that second, it had stripped his armor.  He responded viscerally to what he saw rather than intellectually, feeling the environment more than reading it, starting to look around, not in the way he typically clocked a target, but actually wandering around, enjoying the atmosphere drawing him in.  He could feel himself responding to it in such a physical way.  It was captivating.  He came back to himself a few minutes later, blushed and looked a little embarrassed, like she had caught him doing something private.  In a way she had. 

"I like.... color... texture... curves..." he shrugged as if he had said something wrong.  "As long as there's no cerise..." he held up his hands.  "Bad joke.... Something someone said earlier today..." 

His eyes trailed over her, taking in the way she was in this incredible space.  "You know, I think I always saw you as a sex object - a beautiful one, but a sex object nonetheless - until just now."  She was looking at him oddly.  Christ!  Had he spoken the words aloud?  He was more rattled than he thought.

He thought she might be offended but instead she laughed.  "That is rich coming from the original Tin Man!"

Clasping a hand to his chest, he grinned.  "If I only had a heart, hey?"

"Something like that." She pushed a mug of hot tea into his hands.  "Go on then.  Have a real look around."  That had his eyes snapping up to hers.  The offer had been light and teasing, but still sincere.  "I know you want to.  I want you to, too."  She merely shrugged at his expression.  "Might as well go for broke."  He certainly had.  How could she offer any less and still feel worthy?  She was painfully aware the playing field had to be level with this man; otherwise the slope was slippery indeed.  She settled back into the couch, enjoying watching him wander through her home.  He looked good there.  The nature of such a thought shocked her.

Her home was a feast for the eyes.  He let the details of her life wash over him without trying to categorize them or make sense of what he was seeing.  The overall impression was of natural sensuality, warmth and openness.  He had not expected that, it seemed the antithesis of the woman she had always shown to him before.  He liked the tastefully revealing art she seemed to favor but it was the medicine wheel above the fireplace that kept drawing him back.  Something niggled at his mind.

In the past, every time they had had one of their little encounters, he had guessed at her ethnicity.  Italian.  Black Dutch.  Mediterranean.  Hindi.  Armenian.  Persian.  Iranian.  Mongolian.  She had that Eurasian look but he had never correctly identified it.  He could remember her amusement each time he ventured a guess only to be shot down once again. The pieces suddenly fell into place. 

He turned around and caught her eye. "American Indian, then?"

She nodded.  "Lakota Sioux."  She didn't offer any more and he didn't ask.

However a Sioux woman wound up with a foreign accent like hers, he couldn't imagine.  His line of work had made him an expert at identifying unusual speech patterns and he still couldn't work hers out.  He liked a puzzle, but the rest of apartment was calling to him and he found he couldn't resist looking. 

He wandered about, his attention caught by random things; a painting, a book title, the dagger mounted in an alcove, the clutter on the piano.

"You play?"

She nodded.

"Well?"

She nodded again.

"Sing, too?"

Another nod.

"Give them a tickle for me sometime?"  Karina merely shrugged.  That felt almost too intimate.  Her response seemed to surprise them both.  How could she shag him six ways from Sunday and yet find the prospect of playing for him inhibiting?  Interesting.  He filed that away for later and continued walking.

He couldn't keep from touching the wall of glass blocks.  They were beautiful.  He had thought they would be cold.  The setting sun had warmed them; he felt the residual lingering heat under his palm.  It made them feel almost alive. 

"What's on the other side?"  He thought he could make out the hazy shape of bathroom fixtures, but his mind couldn't quite believe the logical conclusion if he followed that line of thought. 

"Master bath."

The idea of sitting on her couch with a scotch in his hand while he watched her shower though the glass did something odd, and not entirely sexual, to his insides.  Trailing his fingers along the blocks, he stopped at the open archway leading to her inner sanctum.

"May I?"

She nodded, wondering what he was making of her home.  She tried to see it objectively as he must, but failed.  She twined the yarn in her fingers, glad for something to do to keep them busy as he disappeared through the rounded asymmetric opening.  He was gone long minutes, minutes that she spent wondering what he was making of his private viewing.

Terry smiled at what he saw, an almost asexually themed space, yet it was still erotically charged if one was capable of reading the more subtle details.  A smattering of low long upholstered benches were scattered about, good for relaxing on with a good book or not relaxing on with the right partner....The angle of the bank of windows in relation to the carefully placed lighting suggested it had been purposefully created so the wall of glass became one massive dark reflective surface under the proper conditions.  The art here was still tasteful, yet more openly erotic.  He guessed the locked lacquered cabinet by the bed held more than a TV. 

There were no walls or doors.  The organic room flowed seamlessly into the master bath.  The water closet was hidden in a deep recessed alcove, but the shower space was open.  A deep bathing pool was sunk into the floor nearby.  Fixtures hung from the ceiling over a large area of iridescent glass tiles, wide enough to contain all the spray no matter how wildly one wielded the handheld jets.  What would be a hazy obscured view from the couch on the other side of the glass blocks would be a high definition Technicolor show from the bed, which suggested she either liked to watch - or be watched - or both.

The closet was so tidy it could only be the result of a cleaner's presence.  He knew from experience Karina tended to drop her clothing and personal articles whenever and wherever the spirit moved her.  She had more handbags than shoes.  There were no perfume bottles or other feminine clutter.  Strange.  In his experience, women always had a repository somewhere.  He found hers at the back of her closet, a small vanity piled with accessories and brushes, glittery clips for her hair, and the other usual assortment of feminine accoutrements.  It was strange that there wasn't more of it, however.  Something else hit him, a realization something else was missing, too.

He reappeared in the lounge, eyes flicking around.  His suspicions were confirmed.

"Well?"  in her experience, people either loved it or hated it.  For some it was simply too open and revealing.  The thought someone else might witness their private abolitions was too much to bear.

"Phenomenal." He paused.  "Though without properly trying it out both ways, I can't quite work out which view I might like more...." he indicated the wall of glass blocks.  The image of his body pressed to hers from behind while water streamed over them both came unbidden to his mind.  To an observer, their bodies would appear hazy save for the two sets of clearly distinguishable hands pressed up on the wall of glass blocks.  Leverage.  Did he find the idea of being observed with her as compelling?  He did.  He shook that thought away, unwilling to examine it too closely at present.    

She was pleased by his answer, but neither confirmed or denied that he would be given that chance at some point in the future.  "I like the view from this side best," was all she offered. 

He filed that away for later, his mind returning to the other absence he had noted.  Even he had a few snaps around his place.  She had none.  Not a single personal photograph in the whole apartment.  "You don't have any pictures," he commented.  "Vampire run in the family tree?  Or maybe you were raised by wolves?" 

Karina wasn't surprised he had noted the absence. Most people didn't realize until later, but his mind was sharp.  He didn't miss much.  It was one of the things she liked best about him.  She might like a man to act the Neanderthal now and again, but she didn't want him to think like one.

"My mother abandoned us when I was one.  I was raised by nannies and boarding schools.  I have a phone relationship with my father."  

Her mother was a wild child, a hippy Sioux girl who'd fallen in love with a European aristocrat she met by chance at a concert one night while he was partying his way from New York to Los Angeles.  It was lust at first sight.  He had swept her mother off her feet, married her because he was young and cocky and wanted to thumb his nose at his family and the properly titled girl they had already picked out for him.  They had travelled the world until she was born.  They had been in Tahiti then.  Some paradise that turned out to be.  The joke was on them all, really.  Her mother had been trying to escape the Reservation all her life only to find that it was a bigger part of her than she had ever imagined.  After tasting what the world had to offer, she had wanted to take her young family home.  Her father, heir to a Swiss banking empire, was never going to make his home in some American backwater where poverty, alcoholism and teenage pregnancy ran rampant. 

The call of the drum's heartbeat had been too much for her mother to resist.  She had returned to her People.  Her father, with his lawyers and his endless pits of money, had made it impossible for her mother to take her, too, had she even wanted to, and so she had been left behind.  Karina had been carrying that cross so long now that the familiar weight almost didn't seem like a burden anymore.  She would have had a life of poverty with her mother.  With her father, she had led the life of a wealthy privileged child, though it had been quite devoid of familial love and even the simplest affection.  As she got older and began to resemble her mother more and more, her father had made sure he had seen less and less of her; her face too painful a reminder of what he had lost.  She wouldn't wish the childhood she'd had on her worst enemy.    

Her quiet words stopped him dead.  It was less a dramatic pity party and more a comment on the current situation they found themselves in; some version of 'You really want to take this bag of snakes on?'

"I have the same relationship with my son," he said by way of answer.  His bag of snakes was just as big.  Neither one of them elaborated.  "Explains your accent though.  Bloody drove me demented trying to place it."

His comment broke the tension.  She was glad he was so deft at fielding uncomfortable moments.  Most people either immediately started apologizing tritely for something they didn't even understand, or they just tucked tail and ran.  Terry hadn't backed down, but instead had given a hint at his own dark demons.  She wondered about his son, but didn't ask.  It was a night for opening salvos, not an exchange of private confidences.  Only time would tell if things would work out that way.  For now, a tentative beginning was enough.

"My accent?  It's horrid, isn't it?  Spain.  Italy.  France.  Germany.  Switzerland.  Too many different countries and teachers during my formative years.  I'm hopeless, really.  A mix of too many things to be any one of them alone.  Like a mutt."  Mutt.  Bitch.  Half breed.  Filthy savage.  Stupid little squaw.  The taunts of her childhood echoed loudly, even now. 

"I like unusual."  His eyes were gentle as if he somehow sensed her pain.  "You can't know how many hours I spent trying to work it out."  The admission made his own color rise a bit, but had the effect he was after.  It broke the spell of whatever had put that look of old pain in her eyes.

"You can't be serious."

He nodded.  "I've also heard you on the phone before, so I know you speak at least two languages.  Got any others?" A hazy memory surfaced.  His meeting had broken up early and he had surprised her by turning up early for one of their little assignations.  She had been on the phone, arguing with someone in Italian and had snapped her phone shut when she noticed him standing there.  He hadn't much cared at the time, too distracted by the idea of a bit of afternoon delight.  The pieces were beginning to fall into place now, though.  Her father maybe?  Better him than an old lover.  

"Some."  Four romance languages, plus English.  She didn't say which ones and he didn't press her, sensing it was a sensitive topic.  

"Good.  Can't bloody stand stupid ignorant women.  They get on my tits.  Besides, I can appreciate anyone who can curse in several languages."  His tongue peeped out playfully.  "How you have managed to hold back with me so far, I will never know..."

That time she did laugh.  He was good at drawing her out. 

He waggled his brows.  "I speak a few as well.  English and Strine..." he giggled.  "Arvo, billabong, chunder, dinkum, esky... see?  We have our own language..."  He didn't mention the others he knew.  Maybe they had some overlap?  Might be fun to save that for later...

Strine- alphabetized, even.  He was so clever.  Clever and charming.  She was in so much trouble.  "You see!  This is exactly why I always kept you at arms' length- you are too charming by half."  He was going to break her heart.  In that moment, she knew it for certain, and she still couldn't stop herself.

"Funny.  I thought you always kept me at arms' length cos you liked the view..." he struck a pose and then swaggered out onto the terrace, noting the kitchen didn't get much use on the way out.  Christ.  He could bloody pick them!  He shivered at the cold night air, brows drawing together as he took in the Zen garden and the Buddha peeping out from the vines.  He turned that one over in his mind until a snapping sound drew his gaze up.  Prayer flags?  Here?  Who was this woman?  The more he found out about her, the more questions he had.  In the distance he could see the ocean but not hear it.  The sound of the city below drowned out everything else- except his awareness of the woman somewhere at his back.

The cold drove him back inside.  She was waiting for him when he came back in.  Her fingers touched the bandage above his eye lightly, a sensual acknowledgement rather than a direct question.  She didn't ask what happened and he was glad of it.  He wasn't ready to talk about it, but he had the sense she was giving him a kiss, without actually charging the situation with too much intimacy too fast.  He silently thanked her for that, smiling as he realized that though she was pretty far from the Mother Figure he'd gone searching for, she had made him feel better nonetheless.

Karina could tell the wound was recent and that he must have been hurt in some way.  He was a formidable man and it would have taken a lot for him to appear so rough around the edges.  She was good at reading men and his reluctance to say anything suggested more than he knew.  She had the worrisome sense that he might have gone after Logan, and in some way it was to punish him for what Terry suspected he might have done to her.  She hoped she was wrong, but his silence on the subject was telling when he had been open about so many other things.   

She withdrew then, and as she turned, the fading golden light hit her just right.  Her shirt was thin; he could see the dusky shadow of her nipples, but also the suggestion of something else, just under her breast on her left side.  A bruise?  He looked harder.  No.  Not a bruise.  A tattoo.   He didn't think, he just responded, reaching out to touch her.  Catching her ribcage just under her left breast, he ran his thumb down the shadow of her tattoo; breast to hip.  It wasn't a sexual touch, but an intimate one, an echo of how she had touched him moments ago. 

"That's new."

She shook her head.  "About a year old, now."

He did the math in his head, and once again, found himself with more questions than answers.  She would have had to have that done within weeks of their final blowup that had followed the painful events in the courtroom.  At the time, he had not imagined someone with so much ice in her veins being affected by that, but now that he knew better, he wondered if he had been wrong.  Maybe she'd had some things to work through, too. 

He fingered the hem of her shirt.  "May I?"

She nodded.  His hands were cold from the night air, yet that wasn't the reason for her shiver.  Pulling up her shirt just a bit to bare her side to him, he touched her with a single fingertip, tracing the distinct black script from top to bottom.  His hand rested on her hip.  This time the touch was sexual, but restrained.  He couldn't quite make himself turn her loose.  He loved the tattoo.  He had quite the wild streak as well, and it was hitting all the right buttons. 

"What is it?"  Script of some kind.  Given the flags outside, Tibetan was his guess.  It was pretty, but knowing Karina she wouldn't have put anything on her body that didn't have some deeper meaning.  She was not a bimbo.

"A prayer," she answered simply.  It wasn't a lie.  It was a prayer, but the true answer was more complex and best saved for another night.  If there was another night.  She somehow knew there would be.   The thought was as exciting as it was frightening, but she had always liked to play with fire, even as a child.  Perhaps it was because nobody had ever been there to warn her about the consequences.   

"Hmm...  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..."  His eyes danced.  

Hers did too.  "Because you are the biggest, baddest motherfucker in the valley?"

He howled.  "You were right before... I think we are in definite danger of becoming friends."  He was aware she still hadn't given him an answer about the tattoo's meaning.  He nodded to it.  "So?  Prayers?  Let's see.... Our Father, who art in Heaven..."

"Nope."

"Now I lay me down to sleep....?" 

She shook her head, smiling.

"Hail Mary, full of grace...." He chuckled.  "No?  Have a heart, love... not sure I remember any others.  I'm more of a 'walk softly and carry a big stick' sort of fellow..."

Wasn't that the truth!

"Isn't that where it all started?  I seem to recall a big stick somewhere in the mix."  This time, her laughter was rich and warm, infectious.  "Sorry, though..... I hate to break it to you, but I'm afraid it's straight to the bottom of the class for you, Terry.  Wrong religion.  Wrong deity.  Wrong everything."

"I know," he smirked but stopped just short of asking if she was a Buddhist.  "Made you laugh, though."  He couldn't have every deep conversation with her in one night, even if he wanted to.  She appeared to be the queen of secrets and he wanted to take his time unraveling the mystery of her.  "I've never been to Tibet," he added.  "Maybe you can tell me about it some time.  I'd like that."  His last words weren't teasing.

"I'd like that, too."  Flaming hell.  He was well versed.  Was there anything the man didn't know?  

They moved the couch.  He gave up his empty mug.  "More tea, Terry, or do you want something stronger?"  She had stuck with tea, she needed all her wits about her when dealing with him, but there was something calming about it too, cozy and familiar.

He waved away the suggestion of something else, more passive than he usually was about such things, but he was still off balance.  "Tea's fine... Like my old mum used to say, there's nothing like a nice cup of tea for what ails you."  It was the sort of jokey comment that masked the frisson of nervousness he felt even now, but it also betrayed a subliminal yearning for the domestic.  What a surprising twist of fate that he might actually find a taste of that with a woman like her.

They talked until the wee hours of the morning.  He left just before dawn, eschewing her offer of coffee, fruit and croissants.  He had accomplished a fair piece of work and was more in the mood to tuck into a hearty breakfast, something that had once had a face, at least.  Their conversation had touched on a lot of topics, but only lightly.  It was the most tentative of starts, two cautious people just beginning to test the waters before wading in any deeper.  Who could blame them?

They made plans for later in the week, an actual date that involved food and conversation rather than a hotel room and a slew of orgasms; a novel experience for them both, given their history together.  He kissed her on the lips lightly when he left, feeling like an entirely different person than he had when he had entered her home so many long hours before. 

He was different.  Lighter.  Happier.  

Waiting until he was certain he was alone in the hall, he thumped his fist on his leg and then pumped it in the air in triumph, unable to contain the boisterous feeling of success.  There was a spring in his step and an absurd smile on his face that he couldn't quite seem to wipe away.  He had knocked that one straight out of the park.  The feeling was not so far removed from how it had felt as a kid when he screwed up the courage to ask out a girl he liked and she said 'yes'.   

He liked a pretty girl and she liked him back.    

And it was entirely possible they were in danger of becoming more than friends.  

In fact, he was certain of it.