Thursday, 2:56 p.m.  The farm, pasture

"Yes, I did say an open book."  She was still wondering what had possessed her to make that offer.  And she was all too aware she'd gotten off quite easily this time.  He was a man who seemed to like delving deeply into things, seemed to enjoy poking about endlessly until he was certain he understood everything from all possible angles.  He could have asked a much more difficult question than 'so, you know my work'.  Sam seriously doubted if she'd get off as easily the next time.  If there was a next time.   

The cigarette was back at his mouth and gone again half a second later.  "Are you regretting making the offer?"  The hint of challenge was back in his voice.

"I don't know if 'regret' is the right word, Crowe.  Maybe I'm just wondering why a man who so clearly enjoys baiting me would let me off so easily."

Russell could have said a hundred smart-ass things back to her.  He decided to go with the truth.  "Habit."  He shrugged.  "I wanted to suss you out a bit, just to be sure.  Fans are nice, love.  They pay their money, get a ticket, see the show and Bob's your uncle.  They all but drive the bloody beast that is the industry I've chosen to work in and I do my best to show my appreciation for that as often as I can."  His next words were decisive.  "But I don't make a habit of sharing my personal life with them.  Even if I was certain they'd never go to the press, conversation from a pedestal is lonely and dull." 

"Bet the view's nice," she teased.  Samantha had no illusions about what an ego stroke it would be for a man, for anyone, to have that many people telling you how wonderful they thought you were.  She also realized there was a darker side associated with that kind of blind adoration, but it was human nature to enjoy praise. 

He huffed impatiently.  "Not to mention beyond surreal.  Those people, they don't want to talk to the me you drew in that sketch--the me who talks to his horse and leaves his dirty socks on the floor and makes up stupid songs while he's in the dunny."  He grinned unapologetically.  "They want the man they see on the screen and the simple truth his, he doesn't exist.  I'm no more a Roman general than I am a K&R consultant."  He fixed her with a pointed stare.  "Or did you think I wouldn't figure out the third one, love?"

Samantha's laugh was warm and heartfelt.  "Am I that easy then?"

"No, you're not."  He took a deep drag from the cigarette.  "But someday you're going to have to tell me why all your favorites are so hard on the heart."

Her laughter was gone.  "Someday."  Samantha shrugged.  "Actually, there's no big mystery.  I don't have some tragic sob story or anything.  Maybe I just like movies that make me think.  Or maybe I like the ones that reflect that part of life."  She paused and looked away.  "Sometimes love isn't enough.  Sometimes it's not the right kind of love or it is, but it comes along at the wrong time." 

He was keenly aware she hadn't actually answered his question.  And he also knew exactly what she meant.  Some of the women he'd loved as a mature adult he should have met in his youth, back when he wouldn't have had to give up the things that drove him as a man to make it work, and others he should have met when he was older and ready to settle down.  There were some with whom he had too much past, too much water under the bridge to make it a stable enough foundation to build a family on.  But there was no way he was ready to talk about that so he turned his thoughts back to her.  "Someone hurt you."  He was not expecting her to smile at that, but she did.

"So?  It happens every day, Crowe.  All over the world."  Her smile got bigger.  "I expect I'll manage as well as the next woman."  

He laughed aloud, remembering how she'd said the exact same thing to him about his situation.  "Well, I can see I'm in fine company.  You don't cut me any slack and you don't cut yourself any either." 

"Slack's overrated."  Samantha tucked a windblown lock behind her ear.  "Besides, you're far too cocky already.  Giving you an inch is like an express invitation for you to take the rest of the mile while you're at it."

Russell's mouth twitched.  "That's no fun."  His eyes glittered with amusement.  "I'd rather take the inch than have it given to me."  His face grew pensive.  "So tell me, is that what you were doing in the sauna?  Not giving me that inch?"

Her face grew equally as thoughtful.  "No, that was me making an observation."

"On?"

"On the fact that you might be more successful at getting what you want if you spent a little less time being 'Russell' and a little more time being 'Mr. Crowe'."

"What I want?"  This ought to be good.  There was nothing that irritated him more than people who thought they knew him because they'd seen him give a bloody performance or saw a brief interview on TV.       

Sam nodded.  "A family.  Wife.  Kids..."

Her audacity was astounding, but he wasn't surprised.  Their deal clearly stated she got the right to say whatever the hell she wanted, and damned if he wasn't going to enjoy taking her down a peg or two.  Still, he knew he was being peevish.  He hadn't exactly made it a secret he was looking for those things, but hearing it from her, put so matter of factly, just rubbed him wrong.  "How do you know that's what I want?"       

"Because I have eyes and ears."  Because she'd heard him talk to his father about it.  Because she'd overheard his parents talking about it.  "Because you've said as much yourself in more than one interview-"

"I thought you didn't watch the telly."  His voice was sharp.  

"I don't.  Usually.  I also don't live under a rock."  Sam looked away.  "And I did a bit of checking before I took your mother's commission," she finally admitted.

Russell was shocked and then amused.  "You had me checked out?  Christ, Mark's gonna love that one."  But he knew he couldn't come down on her too hard for that.  Mark had checked her out thoroughly before she got within a thousand miles of the farm.  And Russell was aware of every last detail.  After their unpleasant exchange in the sauna, he'd gotten Mark's file on her and read it, cover to cover.  He knew far more about her than she probably thought he did.  That was fine with him.  He liked to be as informed as possible, especially when he anticipated an argument.  He hadn't walked out here blindly, sketch or not.  "So that's it then?  You think my being 'Mr. Crowe' more often is going to solve all my problems?"

"Hardly."  Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  He was so frustrating, insisting she be honest and forthcoming with him and then getting irritated at her for making what he thought were snap judgments on his personal life.  "And I didn't say it would solve your problems.  I said I thought it would make getting what you said you wanted easier." 

Russell was almost disappointed.  He'd been expecting a battle of grand proportion and this was something of a letdown, not to mention the fact he'd been expecting a little bit more insight from her than that simple admonishment.  There had to be more.  He pushed her a little harder.  "And exactly how does that work?"  That came out more than a little snippy.

Samantha knew she shouldn't, but she rose to his bait anyway.  "I'd imagine it works because there are times it's more appropriate to be 'Mr. Crowe' than it is to be... well, the 'you' that you're sharing with me right now."

"So, that's it?  That's your grand observation?  I'm supposed to grow up and pretend to be some sort of bloody stuffed shirt?  To be a father and a husband, I have to give up being myself?"  To his surprise, Samantha burst into laughter.

"Of course not.  I don't imagine you'd want your wife to be shouting 'oh, God, Mr. Crowe!' against your throat when you're behind closed doors."  The look on Russell's face was absolutely priceless, stunted mullet at its finest. 

Intimate images aside, he never figured she'd go THERE.  He grinned mischievously.  "Maybe I like that sort of thing, love."  He waggled his eyebrows at her and giggled. 

Good God, he really was too much.  Though she smiled, Samantha ignored his playing and continued.  "By the same token, I think if you have a prospective relationship on the horizon, but you're off alone in some far corner of the world shooting a film and the prettiest girl you've ever seen comes up to you and says, 'I want to blow you, Russell,' I'd imagine things might go a little more smoothly back home if you said 'No thanks, and it's Mr. Crowe, not Russell'."  She didn't add 'instead of accepting the offer', but it was clearly implied. 

Still about two seconds back with Sam's soft voice saying, 'I want to blow you, Russell' echoing pleasantly in his ears, it took a few more seconds for what she'd just said to register.  The instant it did, his entire demeanor changed.  His body hummed with anger and it was all he could do to keep from forcing her up against the fence the way he had against the door in the sauna.  "You don't know me.  You don't know a fucking thing about my life," he snarled.

Despite the heat in his voice, Sam turned to face him, eyes cool and clear.  "So, it's never happened then?"

His guilty telltale pause was more than enough answer.  "Who are you to fucking criticize me?"  He spat the words at her.  "Oh, I see now.  It's better your way, better to be dried up old maid who only reads about sex instead of experiencing it for herself."  He'd seen her file.  He knew what her life was like.  "I'd rather be fucking dead than reading about life instead of living it."  His words were low and nasty.  Russell saw pain flare in her eyes and knew he'd cut her deeply.  While they were both angry, at least her words hadn't been deliberately hurtful.  He felt a stab of remorse for his cruel taunt and wished he could call it back... until she spoke again.

"Better safe in here," she taped her temple, "than splashed across the tabloids for all the world to see," she said coldly, being as deliberately hurtful and as honest as he'd just been in his assessment of her.  For a second there was absolute silence.  The rage bleeding from his large body was almost palpable.  Sam stared at him, perversely unable to look away.  His powerful hands gripped the wood of the fence so tightly his knuckles were white and they shook with strain.  Fueled by hurt, she'd gone much, much too far and she knew it.  Samantha was instantly contrite, but before she could say anything, he spoke.

"Get the fuck away from me."  His voice was eerily flat.  He wouldn't look at her.  

The low growl sent shivers down her spine.  "I'm sorry.  That was out of line-"

"Get away from me.  If my hands come off this fucking fence while you're still here-"  He couldn't even finish that thought.  

Her voice was low and soft.  "Shhh... Stop."  Instead of backing away, she moved closer, touching his back in a soothing manner.  He jerked at the light touch, but didn't pull away.  Under her palm, he literally shook with rage.  "Please, listen to me.  I was wrong to say that."  Owning up to her mistakes had always been difficult for her, but she swallowed her pride and humbled herself.  This needed to be fixed and it needed to be fixed now.  Samantha knew if she walked away as he'd ordered her to do, she wouldn't be able to fix this down the road.  He'd have built his walls too high.  No, it had to be now.  Her voice became even more gentle.  "It was unfair of me to say that.  I know you have no control over the press.  I was hurt and I lashed out.  I'm sorry."  She didn't know what else to say so she fell silent, still softly stroking his back. 

All the fight seemed to drain out of him at once, partly because he was aware a very proud woman had set aside her own pain to humble herself for him, and partly because what she'd said was the absolute truth.  A difficult truth to look in the face, but a truth nonetheless.  Mark and the others had been hinting at it for years.  His life would have been easier in some respects if he'd made different choices. 

He nodded once, stiffly, and met her gaze.  Her eyes were dark and sad.  His glittered wetly with too many emotions to name, all held in check far too long.  Despite his success, deep inside he wasn't happy.  Famous or not, he was still a man and right now he felt tired and alone and very much in need of a touch that wasn't teasing or sexual.  Arms still braced on the fence, he hung his head and accepted Sam's soothing caress.  Nobody touched him like that anymore. 

Everyone always wanted a piece of him.  Agents wanted his ear, charities wanted his money, press wanted his time, strangers wanted his name scratched on bits of nothing.  Fans grabbed at him, women teased him, stroking, touching... sometimes with far too much familiarity.  There were occasions he indulged in the quick, no-strings-attached, one night stand kind of sex, but it was hardly as commonplace as it was rumored to be--and it was never with the kind of woman who felt she had the express right to grope him at will because of who he was.  He disliked being treated like a slab of meat, and his dealings with the public often left him feeling like a scrap being fought over by a pack of snarling dogs.   

The slow, rhythmic motion of Sam's hand on his broad back eased him.  Russell couldn't remember the last time someone outside those he considered 'family' had given him a touch meant to comfort.  What he really wanted to do was just wrap his arms around her, bury his face in her hair and forget about the world for a little while.  Unfortunately, while his friendship with Sam was growing, it wasn't quite that intimate so he settled for closing his eyes and feeling her gentle touch on his back.

From the porch, Russell's parents watched the pair talking.  His father spoke first.  "You think they're ever gonna manage a chat that doesn't wind up like that?"  They were too far away to hear what was said, but it was clear from their body language, and from Russell's wild arm gestures, that not all they were talking about was pleasant.  "Been a long time since I've seen him have a blue like that.  They can't even manage to be in the same room without throwing sparks off each other."  

Just because he and his wife hadn't said anything didn't mean they hadn't noticed the tension.  He'd wisely held his tongue about the rest.  He was no green youth.  He understood what it was to want a woman you knew you shouldn't touch.  Russell and Samantha may have had some sort of falling out, but he understood that wasn't all that was at work here.  His son wanted that woman and in lieu of taking his mother's much-anticipated houseguest to bed, he was blowing off steam the only way he could at present--by being an ornery bastard.  Fuck or fight.  His eyes twinkled.  He and his wife knew their fair share about that.  His gaze swung from the couple by the fence to his wife.  "You think keeping her on was the best thing, love?  They don't seem to get on at all."  That wasn't exactly the truth, but he knew she'd get his meaning.    

His wife nodded.  "She's good for him, I think."  It was certain Samantha could get away with telling him things they couldn't.  Or maybe they just had more impact coming from an outsider, she wasn't sure.  While she might not be privy to all the details, she knew her son and she knew what happened under her own roof.  They were clearly working through whatever falling out they'd had shortly after Russell's arrival.  "I like her."

Make no mistake, she was still concerned about the situation, and rightly so.  Now was probably the worst possible time for him to take a fancy to a woman, but she was also aware he'd always done what he wanted where women were concerned, even if it wasn't always prudent.  At least Sam wasn't in the Business.  While Mark had told her Samantha had expressly told him she planned to keep things on a strictly professional level, she was aware some things in life just couldn't be planned. 

Right now, her son needed a friend... Sam seemed to fit the bill well enough, and if that friendship developed into something more?  Well, she wouldn't begrudge them that happiness.  She was all too aware that love was, at best, unpredictable.  Sometimes you had to take it when you could--she gave her husband a glance--even if meant following a frustratingly obstinate and wonderfully passionate man around the world as he bounced from job to job.  Love was never easy, not even when it was good.   

While she knew it was far too early for anyone to even be thinking of china patterns just yet, She hoped that things worked out between Russell and Samantha as friends, and maybe, if it was right, as something more.  He could do worse.  Samantha had always been polite and respectful, and she held her own well enough with the Crowe men, something she very much admired.  They were a hard lot to get on with at times, even when a body did love them to distraction. 

She sighed heavily.  Her son had too soft a heart, too much love to share to live his whole life without a wife and children.  For as difficult as those things could be at times, it was love and family that made life worth living and it was her fondest wish that both her sons would find the same happiness she had.   

Both their eyes were drawn back to the fence as Russell's wild gesturing abruptly stopped.  Even at this distance, his rage was unmistakable.  Clearly, whatever they'd been discussing had just come to a head.  She tossed the dishrag she'd been holding over one shoulder and plucked at her husband's sleeve.  "Come on in, old man, and give them a bit of privacy to hash it out."  She looked back at them, not at all surprised to see Sam's hand on Russell's back, gentling her son's fierce temper.

His eyes danced.  "Hashing it out, love?  Back in the day, that wasn't what we called it when you touched me like that."  He chuckled, but got up out of the chair anyway and followed his wife inside.

"More talk like that, Crowe, and you'll be getting no touching at all."  She flicked the dishtowel at him as her husband pulled the heavy door shut.  He chuckled quietly and followed her into the kitchen.  Let his wayward son to take care of his own problems, he had his hands full with his own woman.