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by LSI |
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Chapters: Prologue 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18
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Chapter Seven The Stratosphere could not be faulted for serving mediocre food, but if the interest two of their patrons gave their meal was anything to go by, one would have to wonder. Sara took her third bite out of a beautiful salad of mixed-greens, nuts, and citrus, but her taste buds wouldn’t have been less impressed had she been eating straw. Grissom appeared to be having a similar problem. He’d spent the last few minutes pushing expertly-carved root vegetables around a veal chop he’d barely touched. “Is your food okay?” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’m not as hungry as I thought,” he said, delicately setting his utensils down on the side of his plate before pushing it slightly away. Sara nodded and did the same. “Neither am I,” she said. She had been hungry, but a different hunger had since overpowered her basic need for nourishment. They’d moved to the adjoining dining room. The clear voice of the female vocalist in the pop band now playing in the lounge wafted to them, every note and romantic lyric of the Whitney Houston song speaking directly to Sara’s heart. As much as she’d managed to keep her emotions under control earlier, she couldn’t just shelve her feelings for Grissom because it was the convenient thing to do. Love didn’t work that way. Being here with him tonight, under an umbrella of romance, was proving to be more of a challenge than she’d anticipated; feigning indifference to him was becoming more difficult by the minute. Grissom seemed just as transported by the music. He sat quietly, contemplating his hands, which now wrapped the stem of his wine glass tightly. Sara knew he was sufficiently attracted to her that it would be easy to seduce him into bed. And, she didn’t doubt her powers of persuasion. But as tempting as it was, she didn’t want him that way. It wouldn’t change anything, and probably wouldn’t get her what she really wanted. She’d just end up hurting more afterwards. “So…are you going to tell me?” she said to break the awkward silence between them. He looked up quickly, his eyes burning into hers. “Tell you what?” He looked nervous; it was almost sweet. She smiled, reveling in that she could throw him off balance. “How you got that little scar on your lip.” “Oh.” “That was the deal, remember?” He visibly relaxed. “I remember.” He took a deep breath. “Would you believe I got it fighting over a girl?” Sara chuckled. “You… Fighting over a girl? Mm... Don’t think so.” Not him—he was more likely to retreat at the first sign of competition. She knew a thing or two about his pride. He would never risk it. “You think I’m incapable of fighting for a girl?” he asked with a slightly wounded expression. “Capable, yes. Willing, no. You’re way too proud.” Her answer seemed to surprise him. But, with a shrug, he conceded, “You’re probably right.” “So, how did you get the scar?” “I fell against the seat of a chair when I was learning to walk and split my lip open,” he said dryly. “Poor baby,” she laughed. “Did anyone kiss it better?” A little devilishness flashed in his eyes. “Are you volunteering for the job?” Sara felt herself blush, but only a little. Her smile faltered and her upper lip quivered as she answered him. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” A look of confusion crossed his face, and his lids dropped, hiding his eyes, and how he felt, from her. She wondered if he knew how expressive his eyes were. They’d often hinted at this attraction for her he’d spoken of earlier. It was only the events surrounding his surgery that had made her think she’d imagined everything she’d seen in them in the past… convinced her that it had been a figment of her imagination. She knew differently now. ‘I almost lost a battle, but I can’t lose the war.’ Did he realize how much he’d revealed with that one statement? He wanted her, but kept fighting it for reasons of propriety. It was almost tragic, terribly sad, and, she had to admit, incredibly romantic. And, it changed everything for her. She took advantage of his veil of privacy to study his face. She finally understood him, at least the part that would deprive him a pleasure for the sake of appropriateness or acceptability. It demonstrated strength of character—a rather rare quality in the men of her acquaintance who would be more inclined to succumb to their desires, and to hell with the consequences. Grissom wasn’t that type of man. She doubted he ever threw caution to the wind for a simple pleasure—at least not intentionally. He was usually the epitome of control. A quality she admired and at the same time dreamed of breaking. None of this came as a surprise to her. But what did, was that she was beginning to forgive him for the hell he’d put her through in the past months, for she no longer felt alone in it. As she looked at him now, feelings of tenderness returned and infiltrated her heavy heart, overwhelming her with their intensity. She knew she was falling in love all over again, and that wasn’t good. But she was powerless to stop it. “How did you get the scar over your left eyebrow?” she asked softly, in part because she wanted to know more about the man who’d captivated her for so long, and in part because she needed a distraction from her musings. If she wasn’t careful, she’d forget all about what she really wanted and surrender to the moment, and to hell with the consequences. He looked up abruptly, a wry grin settling around his mouth. “Why the sudden interest in my scars?” She gave him a faint smile. “They’re part of you.” His gaze darkened to a deep, blue night sky. He eyed her silently for a moment, and then said, “Chicken Pox.” Sara laughed. “Again, she laughs at me.” “Uh…sorry. This is fascinating, really.” He raised a brow. “No, really,” she said, trying to contain her laughter. “Okay, Ms. Sidle, it’s your turn to fascinate me. Tell me about your scars.” “I only have one.” She turned the palm of her left hand up. “You already know how that happened.” He captured her hand in his and held it, his thumb gently massaging the small scar from the injury she’d sustained in the lab explosion. “It’s healing nicely,” he said. “Eventually you’ll hardly notice it. But all scars are not visible to the naked eye, Sara. Tell me about the ones I can’t see.” Since he’d been the cause of most of them, she withdrew her hand from his and looked away before the gentleness in his eyes and the softness in his voice lulled her into a false sense of security and she divulged more than she might have wanted. Fortunately the waiter came, quite concerned that they’d barely touched their meals. “Is anything wrong with the food?” he asked perplexed, evidently not used to returning full plates. “It was fine,” Grissom said. “Uh…would you like dessert, or coffee?” After a questioning glance at Sara, Grissom shook his head. “No, thank you.” “The check then, Sir?” Grissom nodded, and the waiter went away. Sara’s heart fell like a rock to the pit of her stomach, saddened that the evening was coming to an end. Her more rational side argued it was for the best, but it didn’t make her feel better. She tried to hide her disappointment. “There’s this place not far from here that I think you’d enjoy. Would you like to go for a nightcap?” Those were almost the sweetest words she’d ever heard from his lips. Her heart thudded her relief. “Okay,” she said without hesitation. Once Grissom had taken care of the bill, they left, riding the elevator down to the street in silence. The Stratosphere was located at the end of the Strip, far from the main attractions, still, the street was buzzing with a Friday-night crowd of party-goers. They side-stepped a few couples walking arm-in-arm, and then a group of young men and women that scarcely looked out of their teens. One of them bumped into Sara and she lost her balance—not quite accustomed to her heels yet. Grissom caught her by the waist to steady her. “Damn heels!” “Why did you wear them then?” She lifted a shoulder. “They go with the dress.” He threw her a curious glance, but didn’t say anything. Once she’d regained her step, he released her. She immediately missed his touch, but not for long. A few seconds later, he placed his hand on the small of her back to guide her through a nondescript door into a spacious, dimly-lit lounge. They were greeted by the soothing sound of a small orchestra playing an old Gershwin tune; the band’s female vocalist’s impassioned delivery of ‘Summertime’ was in the Ella Fitzgerald style. Although she didn’t love jazz, Sara enjoyed some of it, and here, now, with Grissom, it seemed like a perfect choice of entertainment. The place looked a little pretentious with its plush couches and armchairs, all of them turned toward the orchestra. They chose a sofa at the back of the room. Grissom sat on her left, not too close, but within arm’s reach. Soon, a petite blonde dressed in a black tuxedo-like outfit came to take their drink order. Since they’d already had almost two bottles of wine between them, Sara chose a mineral water with a twist of lime. “Driving,” she said by way of explanation when he looked at her quizzically. “Smart.” He ordered the same. They quietly listened to the song and joined in the enthusiastic applause when it came to an end. “Thank you,” said the singer. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll take a short break, and be back very soon with more Ira and George Gershwin.” “She’s good,” Sara said. “Yes, she is.” “Our timing sucks though. We get here just as they’re taking a break.” “I’d say our timing’s perfect,” he said, as the waitress brought their drinks. He crossed his leg at the ankle and settled back into the couch. A playful gleam lit his eyes. “You still haven’t answered my question.” “What question?” “You were going to tell me about your scars.” “Oh, that.” She took a small sip of her mineral water and set the glass down on the table. She then brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and clasped her hands in her lap. “They’re no different from the scars most people pick up growing up I suppose.” “I’m not interested in ‘most people’. Tell me about yours.” A searing heat rushed through her at his words. Sara met his eyes briefly, and then gave her head a small shake, letting out a nervous breath. This conversation was making her a little edgy, but at the same time, she welcomed the warmth his words had invoked. She’d been cold far too long. “First broken heart. Andrew Johnson; he was thirteen, I was twelve, and when we split up, I thought my life was over. We hadn’t even kissed!” “What happened?” “I sprung up like a bad weed that summer. His friends teased him because I was taller than him. It took him six months to tell me why he’d broken up with me; but I got him back—good.” She laughed at the memory. “Don’t stop now.” Sara felt herself blush. “He wanted to kiss me, well experiment mostly. He’d seen his older sister…uh, French-kiss her boyfriend and he was curious…said he wanted to try it, so I let him. The idiot bit me! I was so mad, I belted him one...right in the mouth. He went home bleeding.” Grissom chuckled. “You’ve got a mean streak, Sara Sidle.” “I don’t think he ever talked to me after that.” She paused briefly then said, “I wonder if he has a scar.” “If he does, I doubt he’s ever told the truth about how he got it.” “I wish someone would explain to me why men are so intimidated by tall women…or strong ones, for that matter?” “Not all men are, Sara. But, hey, any guy who’s intimated by a woman’s height, is not worthy of you.” He pursed his lips and dropped his head. “Touché.” There was a brief silence before she said, “You didn’t say earlier…why our age difference bothers you…what you’re really afraid of.” He looked up quickly, all traces of playfulness gone from his expression. “No. I didn’t.” Sara momentarily regretted having raised the evidently sore topic again. But it had to be done—for her peace of mind if nothing else. His behavior was as confusing tonight as it had been the last two years. She understood his reluctance to have a relationship with one of his employees, but he’d agreed earlier that their professional relationship could change. So that wasn’t the real issue. The only one left was their age difference. Or is it? Had she jumped to conclusions again because he’d admitted to being attracted to her? Being attracted to someone didn’t mean you’d choose them as a lifelong mate. Why had that never occurred to her before? She’d been attracted to Blake four years ago. They dated for six months at least, she slept with him every chance she got, but she'd never once thought of him as a potential husband. And then there was Hank. She hadn’t been in love with him, yet she dated him for a while and had been attracted enough to sleep with him too. Both Blake and Hank had been friends and lovers; nothing more. Grissom
had admitted to being attracted to her, to being tempted, but…what
else had he said? He
didn’t like the distance between them; he wanted them to find some
middle ground; have dinner…as friends.
Damn, why do I always let
my imagination run wild where he’s concerned?
Why do I do this to myself? Because you’re in love with him, a little voice in her head said. Because you want to believe he’s a little in love with you too. Stupid girl! Grissom turned slightly to face her, resting his arm on the back of the couch. His hand dropped loosely not more than a couple of inches away from her left shoulder. He wasn’t touching her, but given her body’s response to his proximity, he might as well have been. “Sara…I’m not trying to be evasive. I don’t know how to tell you—” “It’s okay,” she said quickly, not letting him complete that thought. If that’s how he felt about her, she didn’t think she could bear hearing him say it. “You don’t have to answer that. It…doesn’t really matter anymore. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up again.” He looked at her pensively. She tried to hold his gaze, to smile, to let him know that she was unaffected by him, but she soon found herself getting lost in his incredible blue eyes. She looked away, the abrupt movement dislodging the hair that had been tucked behind her ear. It hid his face from her, but she didn’t need to see it to know he was still looking at her. She was relieved when the band came back. It gave her something other than Grissom to focus on, which she forced herself to do as the players prepared their instruments, and themselves, for the next set. The trombone player extended his slide a couple of times and emptied his spit valve. The guy at the trumpet puckered his lips and brought the instrument to them as if to check for fit. The saxophone player wiped his mouth piece and blew into it. The pianist and the drummer took their seats; the pianist straightened his back and flexed his fingers. Sara watched them intently, so intently in fact that the touch of Grissom’s fingers against her cheekbone caught her completely unaware. She flinched. He pulled his hand back immediately and drew a deep, shuddering breath. As her hair fell against her face again, she realized that all he’d intended to do was tuck it behind her ear, which she did herself now, before offering him a rueful smile. He didn’t return it. The pianist announced the return of the band and introduced the singer who quickly joined them on stage. “If you’re Gershwin fans, you’re in for a treat,” he said. “We’re dedicating this entire set to their music.” The drummer gave them a count with his sticks and the music started. The melody was familiar to Sara, surprisingly familiar since she knew very little about Gershwin’s music. When the singer purred the first lyrics, she remembered where she’d heard the song before. There’s
a saying old, said that love is blind, She glanced at Grissom with a wide smile. “I love this song!” she said in a loud whisper. He looked pleased. “You’re a Gershwin fan?” “I think I’m going to be. I heard this song in the movie, Mr. Holland’s Opus.” She glanced at him and reluctantly admitted, “I don’t know much more about Gershwin’s music than what I learned in that movie.” When he leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I’ll loan you some CDs,” a shiver traveled down her spine. Then, he pulled back, but just a little; he stayed close enough that his heat seeped into her; close enough to send her heart rate into double time. I’d
like to add his initials to my monogram, Sara glanced at the crowded dance floor wistfully, wondering what it would be like to be in his arms, swaying gently to the music. Would he hold her loosely, maintaining some distance, as friends who are not lovers do, or firmly, pressing his body against her own, his breath caressing her cheek? Would he… She could ask him to dance and find out, she thought, but just as quickly abandoned the idea. If he said yes, and it turned out to be all she dreamed it could be, she’d just want more. But worse, if he said no, rejected her again, it would be much too painful, not to mention embarrassing. Either way, asking him to dance wasn’t a wise idea. What she needed to do, and soon, was stop these pointless fantasies about him. He’s my boss, hopefully a friend, and nothing more, she reminded herself…again. Perhaps if she kept reminding herself, she would one day believe it. * * * * * “Do you want to leave?” Gil asked after seeing her glance at her watch for the second time. She’d said she enjoyed the music, but he’d also noticed a sudden change in her mood a good half-hour earlier. “Would you mind? I know it’s still early, but I have a… big day tomorrow. I don’t want to get home too late.” Big day? The hesitant words penetrated his brain, which sent an immediate reaction to his gut. He stopped the question foremost on his mind for he couldn’t ask it without revealing the jealousy she had a knack for infusing in him. “I want to start going over the inventories I got at the ranch this morning,” she continued, sending a wave of relief through him. Maybe Blake Garrison wasn’t a factor in her ‘big day’ after all. “It’s your day off, Sara.” “I know…I don’t want to hold up the case, and I can’t dump this on someone else.” She crinkled her brow and smiled wryly. “They’d hate me.” He remembered his promise. “It’s tedious work, I know. I’ll go in and help you with it.” “That’s okay,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t planning to do it at the lab.” “Oh.” At home then? As tempting as it was, a voice of caution prevented him from suggesting he join her at her apartment to work. “You know, Sara, it could wait until Sunday.” “I know. I just want to get a jump-start on it. I still have a lot to do on this case. The tape of the news broadcast also came in this morning, and I haven’t had time to view it yet.” “It’s going to be a while before we get the DNA results. You’ll have plenty of time to get everything done before then.” Sara looked at him quizzically. A pretty half-smile played on her lips, digging a small dimple just left of her mouth. “Why are you always discouraging me from working on my days off, Grissom? I’d think my boss would be happy to have a workaholic on his team.” “Everyone needs a break once in a while, Sara. Otherwise you burn out. You know that.” “I’m tough. And work relaxes me. You know that.” She was a dynamo all right—driven almost. He’d often wondered why; he doubted it was to impress her boss. “You’re not that tough,” he said, remembering her reaction to the explosion. She’d later acted recklessly at a suspect’s apartment—and with him. He didn’t delude himself into thinking she would have invited him to dinner otherwise. She looked at him silently for a moment. The band had taken another break, throwing their surroundings into relative silence. The place was packed, but the crowd was by no means boisterous…in fact, most were like he and Sara, quietly conversing. “You of all people should know how tough I am,” she finally said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Oh? What does that mean?” A look of irritation crossed her face. It was an honest question, he thought. There might have been any number of incidents to prove her point, but why should he of all people know that better than anyone else? She gave her head a quick shake and looked away. “Never mind.” He found he didn’t want to let this one drop. What was she alluding to? He’d been rough on her at times, but she’d always rebounded easily. He couldn’t remember her ever holding a grudge. But, could she be harboring some deep-seated resentment toward him now? Catherine’s comment about how she hadn’t been the same since her visit to the hospital came back to haunt him. As much as he hated getting into this tonight, he needed to know what had happened that day, and they might not have another opportunity to discuss it. “Sara,” he started tentatively, “Catherine told me you came to see me when I was in the hospital—“ The startled look she gave him made him forget what he was about to say. Her eyes darkened to almost black. “Catherine told you?” He nodded. “I must have been pretty out of it. I don’t remember you being there.” He paused, uncertain how to continue. Then, slowly, he said, “She also said you were upset when you left.” Did he imagine it, or did her eyes mist over? A look of such sorrow crossed her face that his heart ached at the thought that he may have been the cause of it. She turned her face away from him. “Sara—“ She returned his gaze. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said in a definite tone. “If I said or did something to offend you—“ “Please, Grissom.” He let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Sara…we need to talk about it.” “Maybe you do, but I don’t,” she said in a cold, emotionless voice. “Okay, then. I apologize for whatever I said or did to upset you. I didn’t mean it.” She looked at him quizzically for a moment. Her face cleared and a small smile began tugging at her lips. “How do you know you didn’t mean it if you don’t remember what it is?” Gil was surprised, but pleased, by the sudden smile, and he very much wanted to hold on to it. He deliberately kept his tone light. “I never mean to upset you.” “So you may have meant what you, uh…said or did, you’re just sorry it upset me?” she teased. He studied her face in silence for a moment. A blanket apology had been safe, but if he agreed with her now, what was he agreeing to? He was quickly learning that in a verbal debate with her, he’d never be the victor. “I’m revising my earlier statement. You are tough, Sidle.” Her smile widened adorably and his heart thumped. A serious, subdued Sara was difficult enough to resist; when she smiled at him this way, it took all his willpower not to kiss her. He averted his eyes, fighting the dangerous pull of her lips. “Yeah, but you’re safe. I don’t hit—anymore.” “And I don’t bite,” he said deliberately, capturing her gaze again. “At least not by accident,” he added suggestively. He’d missed this—watching her eyes darken at his flirtatious remarks. They didn’t disappoint him now. “Ever?” she threw back at him, pleasantly enough, but he sensed she had deliberately misinterpreted his comment in the figurative sense. Before he could answer she said teasingly, “Since you haven’t always been, uh…aware of your behavior, how can you be so sure?” “Well—as much as I find the idea of biting you…intriguing, I very much doubt I did. So taunt all you like, Ms. Sidle, you’re not going to convince me of it.” Sara didn’t respond, but the look she gave him was disconcerting. He’d assumed he must have said something hurtful in that hospital room to upset her, but what if it was something else? Drugs removed inhibitions; they didn’t make you do something you would not have been predisposed to do, but remembering his many fantasies about what he’d like to do to her…with her…what if he had acted on one of those urges? The thought made him very uncomfortable. “Ready to go?” he said abruptly. When she nodded, he waved the waitress over, paid the bill, and less than fifteen minutes later, they were at Sara’s car in the underground parking lot of the Stratosphere. GIL HAD PARKED on a different level, but had insisted on walking her to her car. She’d argued, but he’d been adamant. He’d worked too many cases of assault on women in underground garages to leave her alone. “I’m trained in weaponless defense, remember?” she’d said, but after his pointed look at her heeled-shoes, she’d relented on a laugh. “Okay, you win. Though, these heels could do a lot of damage, you know.” “Yeah, if you could stand on one foot long enough to use the other one as a weapon,” he’d quipped back. He stood silently by now as she unlocked her car and opened the door. His reluctance to let her go was unnerving. Even if the evening hadn’t been intended as a real date, it had felt like one, and his heart felt heavy at the thought they were unlikely to have another one. “Remember, Sara. No work tomorrow,” he said, not so much because he wanted to extract a promise from her—he knew she wouldn’t heed his advice anyway—but because he wanted to keep her there just a little while longer. “Uh…whatever you say, boss,” she said in mock servility. “I mean it, Sara," he pressed on. "Even you need a break every once in a while.” “Okay, okay. Got it. No work. Goodnight, Grissom.” She smiled briefly and turned to get into her car. “Sara…” The urgency in his voice stopped her. She turned questioning brown eyes at him, and he scrambled for something to say. “I, uh…had a nice time.” “Me too,” she said, softly. “Thank you.” He took her left hand in his and gave it a squeeze. She winced. He immediately dropped it, saddened that she couldn’t bear even the briefest touch from him. “Sorry.” “No, it’s okay. It’s just…a little tender still, that’s all.” He took her hand again, gently this time, and turned her palm up for his inspection. “Has anyone kissed it better?” he asked much as she’d done earlier, except that he hadn’t succeeded in injecting the vital degree of humor into his voice. She had no such problem. “Are you volunteering for the job?” she asked teasingly. Ignoring the little voice warning him that her response had not been an invitation, he brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed the scar gently, letting his lips linger a little longer than he should have. He wasn’t prepared for how intoxicating the feel of her skin against his lips would be. A feverish heat surged through him, and he had to fight the urge to stick his tongue out and stroke her palm erotically, letting her know exactly what he needed from her. Instead, he lifted his head and met her startled gaze. “Sara…” he started a little breathlessly, but she didn’t let him continue. She placed her right hand on his chest and pushed him gently away, taking a step back as she did so. “Grissom, you can’t have it both ways,” she said softly, soothingly almost. “One minute you say we can’t get involved, and the next you’re flirting with me. It’s confusing and…it hurts me. If you don’t want this, we need to put it behind us and move on.” She turned and got into her car, but hesitated before closing the door. She looked at him steadily. He knew she was giving him one last chance to change his mind, and every part of him screamed to give in and take what he could, while he still could. But, a voice of reason, or was it fear, overshadowed his longing for her. “Sara,” he said as she reached for the door handle, “it was never my intention to hurt you. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” She nodded and, without another word, shut the door and left. The symbolism in her departure wasn’t lost on Gil. As he watched her car disappear around the bend at the top of the exit ramp, an intense feeling of loss and despair swept over him. He’d finally driven her away.
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