Saturday 3:47 a.m.  The farm, downstairs study

Russell's fingers tightened on the bottle in his hand as he rounded the bottom of the stairs and realized he wasn't alone.  His sanctuary was occupied.  The woman--clearly in her own world--was sitting on the floor, her back resting against his favorite chair, eyes closed with her foot bouncing in rhythm to whatever music she happened to have on in her headphones.  Although the only light came from the fireplace, he could easily make out both her smile and a nice pair of legs, partially covered by a footy shirt--one of his, by the looks of it.  That fact alone was enough to set off alarm bells in his head.

Who the hell was she?  And more to the point, what the fuck was a strange woman doing in his house at three in the morning wearing little more than his footy shirt, slouchy socks, and headphones?  The woman looked to be in her late twenties, too young to be one of his mother's crowd and too old to be one of his niece's little girlfriends.  She also seemed a tad too comfortable to be some crackpot fan sneaking in for a perve, but with the way his life had been going lately, he couldn't be too sure.

"Mark!"  His bellow caused the woman's head to snap around, meeting his eyes with a startled stare.  The look on her face was enough to convince him all was definitely NOT well in the Land of Oz.  He supposed he could have dealt with her himself if he really wanted to.  He probably outweighed her by a good six stone, but he was tired, jetlagged, and at the moment, not entirely sober.  Fuck it.  Why have security if not for situations like this?  "MARK!" 

While the woman fumbled with her headphones, Russell tried to remember if any of his good mates, some of whom occasionally crashed here without notice, had acquired a new girlfriend in the last few weeks.  He didn't think so, but between the jetlag, the alcohol, and the emotional upheaval he'd recently been through with his fiancée, or rather his ex-fiancée, he just wasn't up to dealing with this situation tonight.  Although the decision to call off the wedding had been mutual, it wasn't without its headaches.  Add to that an interminable plane ride and a nasty bit of winter weather during the long drive to the farm, and it was understandable why he wasn't exactly at his best.  Right now, all he really wanted was a familiar beer, his favorite chair, and some blessed bloody peace.

Her eyes flicked quickly over him.  It was apparent from the surly tone of his voice and his rigid body language that the situation needed to be diffused immediately.  The woman stood, finally untangling the headphones from her long, dark hair.  "Sorry.  I didn't mean to give you a start.  And there's no need to call for reinforcements."  Her eyes sparkled briefly before she realized his flat stare wasn't going to be altered by a few light-hearted words.  She tried the direct approach.  "It's okay.  I've already been cleared by Mark." 

The look on Russell's face said he'd only believe that when it came out of Mark's mouth, and not a second before.  She supposed that was fair enough, considering what she'd heard his life had been like in recent months.  The wedding was still weeks away and the press and the tabloids had been relentless.  The Crowe family didn't speak to her of his personal matters, but the rocky road to his upcoming nuptials regularly made the evening news.  

His icy green stare got colder.  "And you would be?"

"Sam... um, Samantha."  She felt like an idiot of the first water for her inelegant stammering.  It had been a long time since a man's presence had flustered her so completely.  But then again, it had been a long time since she'd met a man who radiated raw physical power the way he did.   

Russell's eyes narrowed.  Hmm...  An American then, if her accent was any indication.  Great.  He grit his teeth.  Despite her lackluster introduction, he was a little surprised that she returned his stare without the slightest bit of hesitation.  He knew he could be intimidating in close quarters, especially to women.  But before he could respond, she started talking again. 

"Really, I'm sorry.  I didn't think I'd be disturbing anyone."  In fact, his mother had expressly told her that Russell would be abroad for several months.  To be blunt, Sam had specifically planned to be at the farm when Russell wasn't.  Her work was everything to her.  She threw herself heart and soul into her painting and she hadn't wanted any distractions, especially of the attractive--but already attached--male variety.  Thank you, no.  "You, uh... you weren't supposed to be here."  Just peachy.  There she went with the idiotic stammering again.   

Russell's eyes widened briefly at her audacity.  "This is my home, love.  Where the fuck else would I be?"

Before she could answer that loaded question, Mark appeared on the landing at the top of the stairs, sleep rumpled, but clearly at the ready.  One look at the scene below and he knew instantly what had happened.  He should have known Russ would need to unwind before he took himself off to bed and it just figured he'd run into Ms. Douglass before someone had the chance to make a proper introduction.  Mark's hurried flight slowed, and he padded wearily down the heavy wooden steps. 

"No need to shout the house down, Russ."  They might be on a farm, but even the chickens weren't up this damn early.  If he wasn't careful, he'd wake his parents and then all hell would break loose.  "This is Samantha Douglass.  She's the artist your Mum hired on."

"The what?"  Russell recalled the conversation now, but his mother had clearly said painter, not artist.  Months ago she'd said she wanted to have a painter come and stay at the house to do some work for her while he was off on his honeymoon.  He'd been higher than a kite the afternoon he'd agreed to that, his mind filled with wedding plans and his heart full to bursting.  She could have asked for the moon and he'd have agreed.  He remembered telling his mother they'd be gone at least three months, first on their honeymoon and then later setting up a secondary residence outside of London that he'd intended to use as a home base during his next European press junket.  He didn't care what work she wanted to have done as long as none of the people she hired talked to the press.  He also vaguely remembered Mark mentioning something about a painter on the flight here, but God only knew how many beers ago that had been. 

Fucking perfect.  He couldn't even have a good sook in private anymore.  Russell took a long swallow from his beer.  When his Mum had said painter, his mind had conjured an image of a heavyset workman in dirty white coveralls whose crack showed when he bent over too far.  He had most definitely not envisioned a slender brunette in an all too familiar footy shirt, listening to music and sketching in HIS personal sanctuary. 

"The painter, mate."  Mark smiled tiredly.  He had, after all, been on the same godawful flight Russell had been on--nineteen interminable hours, two uncomfortably long layovers, and now this.  Normally, Russell was on top of everything.  He was not one to let even the smallest detail slip through the cracks.  The fact that he'd handled this situation with less than his usual aplomb said a lot about the toll the last few months had taken on him.  Whereas Mark normally would have ripped into him pretty good over something like this, this time, he wisely kept his mouth shut.  He knew all too well how difficult things had been lately. 

"Right."  Russell nodded curtly to Sam.  "Sorry.  It's been a long week."  He fought the urge to scrub his large hand over his face and offered it to her instead.  "I'm sure you can understand the importance of security, especially here."

His grip was firm, but brief, and his palm was cold from holding the beer.  "Of course."  Samantha nodded and there was a long awkward moment where the three of them all looked at each other in silence.  Finally, Sam smiled shyly.  "Well, it's obvious I've appropriated the master's chair."  She'd sat in it earlier, thinking to herself that she felt too small all alone in the large, overstuffed chair.  It was a deliciously sinful shade of red, but far too large for her petite frame to feel cozy sitting in it, so she'd wound up on the floor resting against it instead.  It was a chair made for a man, or rather made for a man and his woman.  Yes, it was the perfect size for a good cuddle... or for lovemaking--   

Blushing at the direction of her thoughts, and feeling all of twelve instead of twenty-nine, Sam removed her headphones and CD player from his chair and stepped back, wondering briefly if he'd ever made love in that generous red chair before she could grab a hold of her wild imagination and wrestle it into submission.  Though her comment about the 'master's chair' could have been construed as unkind, it contained no malice, just a touch of wry amusement.  Looking at Russell, it was more than obvious the chair was his.  Perhaps a bit large, even for him, but she knew how men could be about their chairs.  She met Russell's eyes.  "You look like a man who could use a good rest in his favorite chair." 

That she seemed to want to move her things because he was simply a man in search of a comfortable chair, and not because he was Russell Crowe, The Actor, pleased him on more levels than it probably should have.  It had been a long time since someone unknown to him had done something for Russell Crowe, the man.  Longer still since that 'someone' had been a woman.  And he couldn't remember the last time someone had done something for him and had not expected anything in return.   

Busy gathering the rest of her things from the floor, Sam missed the look that passed between Mark and Russell.  Mark shook his head almost imperceptibly, letting Russell know that Samantha had not yet been made privy to the recent happenings in his private life.  Thank God for small favors.  The last thing he wanted right now was the attention of yet another woman.  It was an arrogant thought perhaps, but also apt.  Women had been throwing themselves at him all over the world for years now.  Why should this one be any different?  In the beginning, he'd enjoyed it.  What man in his right mind wouldn't?  Now older, wiser, and quite a bit more jaded, he was just tired of it. 

Hell, he was tired, period.

Letting his gaze linger over Samantha's dark hair and creamy skin, Russell wondered if her reserved professionalism would last after she heard the news.  The press release was due out on Monday.  They'd managed to keep a lid on things for six weeks, but as the wedding date loomed closer and they began to miss deadlines, catering orders and the like, the press began to smell blood in the water.  Finally, they'd just decided to issue a joint statement and retire to their respective homes for some much needed privacy in the wake of what was probably going to be the biggest tabloid story of the year.  Bloody bastards.  He was a person, not a headline.  Russell took another long pull from his beer as he watched Sam reach for the last of her CDs.        

"I'll just grab the rest of my things and go to bed."  She slid a dog-eared sketchbook into her satchel and efficiently began tucking away her charcoal pencils into a flat strip of leather that had various pockets stitched into it.  She rolled it up quickly and tied it with the practiced ease of a motion repeated countless hundreds of times, gracefully rising to her feet as she did so.  Despite the situation, Russell found himself intrigued by the familiar, almost sensual way she handled the tools of her trade.  It wasn't surprising really; people who had great passion for what they did always interested him.  What was life without passion?  A sorry waste of oxygen, in his opinion. 

Her long, slender fingers stroked the smooth buttery leather and he wondered if she'd let him examine her tools more thoroughly at a later date.  The way she touched them reminded him of the way the artist who'd painted most of the frescos for the Gladiator set had handled his tools.  As curious then as he was now, in the cantina after shooting, Russell had struck up a conversation with him.  Interesting man.  In broken English he'd told Russell that all art was about passion and you could tell the true masters from the rest of the lot by the way they touched their tools. 

Quiet into his cups at that point, Señor Alvarez had also told him that great artists touched the implements of their craft the way they would a lover, and the ones who didn't might achieve technical perfection, but they'd never have the spark that made their work truly great.  Feeling her eyes upon him, Russell suddenly felt the urge to forget that odd bit of knowledge as he watched her fingertips absently caress the worn leather and wondered what kind of lover she'd be.  Would she be as sensual touching a man's body as she was with her tools?  As familiar?  As unhurried?  He suddenly wondered if he'd had too much beer or not enough.  Fuck.  He rolled the bottle between his fingers and took a sip.  Yes, most definitely not enough.             

While attempting to decipher Russell's unreadable look and trying to retain what little professional dignity she still possessed, Sam grumbled inwardly, mentally cursing her stupid internal clock.  She'd only been in this country two days.  If she hadn't still been stuck on U.S. time, she'd have blissfully slept through this whole fiasco and had a chance to make a proper first impression in the morning instead of...  Sam suddenly became aware of her appearance.  Crap.  She sighed heavily and looked down at her attire--or rather, his attire.  Double crap. 

No wonder he'd looked at her as if she'd lost her marbles.  He probably thought she was some whack-job fanatic.  That issue aside, she could see why he still might take offense.  She was a highly sensual person who understood the intimate nature of wearing another person's clothes.  The fabric that had rubbed against his skin now rubbed hers.  It carried both their scents, had rested against bare flesh, both male and female...  God, wearing his clothes?  Could this be any worse? 

Samantha lowered her eyes.  "Please accept my apologies."  Why did her suitcase have to be lost?  Why did his mother have to offer her his shirt?  Why did she have to be cold enough to put it on?  Why on God's green Earth did Russell have to catch her wearing it?  Life could be such a bitch.  "I'm not usually in the habit of wandering my client's homes in the wee hours of the night dressed... well, like this."  She couldn't actually bring herself to say 'dressed in your clothes.'  That was entirely too intimate to say aloud to a complete stranger, especially one whose eyes had been spitting green fire at her not more than a minute ago.

Mark chuckled.  Russell barely cracked a grin.  Who the fuck cared what she wore, as long as she left him in peace.  Still, he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.  The faint purple smudges under her eyes indicated she'd had quite a time of it trying to adjust to the vastly different time zone.  Well, he could certainly sympathize with that.  It happened to him often enough. 

Still unable to read Russell's expression, Sam gestured to her attire.  "This has an explanation as well.  Regretfully, only one of my suitcases made it here.  The other's on Mars."  Sam hefted her satchel.

Russell grudgingly supposed that was another point in her favor.  He'd been with enough women to know how out of sorts they got when their luggage disappeared unexpectedly.  Actually, he was a little surprised she hadn't hied herself off to town to buy an entirely new wardrobe.  Most of the women he'd known well would have.       

"Mars?"  Mark couldn't help but comment.  He'd been in communication with Russell's mother and knew the 'painter' had arrived, after he'd had her thoroughly checked out, of course.  And only after she'd signed an ironclad confidentiality agreement, but there hadn't been any mention of lost luggage in any of their conversations--apparently, she'd thought the situation well in hand. 

Samantha shrugged.  "Well, Japan last I heard, but it might as well be Mars for all the good it's going to do me there."  Sam smiled, pulling her large mass of unruly, dark hair over one shoulder.  "The airline's confident my bag will arrive in Sydney sometime tomorrow..."  She paused and looked at her watch.  "Um, make that sometime today."  She rolled her eyes, letting them see exactly what she thought of the airline's attempt at smoothing over their screw-up.  They'd already proved themselves more than inept on the first go-round.         

"Good thing we Aussies don't stand on formality."  Mark's eyes glittered.  "And God knows, it's certainly not the first time anyone in this household's had a bag lost by those drongos at the airport."  Mark looked Sam up and down.  It was so like Russell's mother to just handle it without making a fuss.  Considering what his family had become accustomed to dealing with in recent years, a lost bag was hardly a blip on the radar. "Looks like she's got you sorted in the meantime though, doesn't it?"  He grinned at her.  "Can't go wrong with the red and green, can ya, love?"

She plucked at the Rabbitohs jersey.  It fell nearly to her knees and resembled a tent more than a shirt.  "So I've heard."  Sam smiled at them both.  "Well, gentlemen, I believe I've caused quite enough trouble for one evening."  She started towards the stairs, giving Russell a wide berth.  "I think it's time I said goodnight."

"G'night, love."  Mark nodded at her.  

Russell only grunted.  His eyes came to rest on the number on her back as he watched her gracefully climb the stairs.  Fuck-all if she wasn't wearing his jersey.  He wasn't too sure how he felt about that.  Still, he cocked his head and leaned out just a touch for a better look at her legs as she neared the top of the stairs.  He might be tired, but he was still a man--and despite the fact he wasn't looking to get involved with anyone right now, she had a damn fine pair of legs... not to mention the fact he'd always had a thing for women dressed in a man's footy shirt.  There was just something sexy about it.  Probably because most of the women he'd known hadn't worn anything under it.  He leaned out a little farther to see if he could answer that question, but it was impossible to tell.  A moment more and she was gone.  Now he'd never know.  Fuck. 

Mark caught him looking and raised his eyebrows.

He flipped Mark the bird.  "Piss off."  What a bloody wasted day.  He couldn't even manage a good perve.  Feeling like shit warmed over, Russell dropped heavily into his chair and patted his pockets, looking for a cigarette. 

Mark tossed him the packet resting on the mantle.  "Have a smoke.  Have a beer.  For fuck's sake, have a kip."  He grinned.  "But do us all a favor and forget the sheila."

Russell lit the cigarette and closed his eyes as he took a deep drag.  He exhaled blissfully and tucked an arm behind his head.  "I reckon you're right."  But for the first time since he'd wandered downstairs, he smiled.  "Beauty pair of legs though, mate.  Absolute beauty."