Chapter Nine: Blair

IF I KNEW

Finally.

Sighing, I write down the last grade and push the class roster away. Welcome back to academia, Sandburg.

It's just a freshman "Intro to Anthropology" class -- mainly kids who want nothing more than a passing grade to fill up their liberal arts requirement. And, as the token new guy in Rainier's grad student program, at least until I decide on a dissertation topic, I get to be the teaching assistant for this class. Lucky me.

I am lucky as far as the professor is concerned, at least. Dr. Russo is okay. She plainly doesn't understand why I don't want to turn my notes on the Direma into, quote unquote, "the dissertation of a lifetime," and she doesn't understand why I don't even like to discuss it with anyone. But she doesn't harp on it, and she doesn't accidently bring it up much more than two or three times a week. I can deal with that.

What I can't deal with is whatever Jim isn't telling me.

It's nothing I can really put my finger on. Nothing's changed about the way he treats me -- that part of our lives, our relationship, is just fine. Once in a while, though, when I walk into the room while he's on the phone to Steven, he clams up and I can tell he's looking for a way to change the subject. There are times when he "casually" puts something he's reading aside, until he gets a chance to either hide it or get rid of it. Not that I've gone looking or anything....

I just wish I knew what was bothering him. I thought at first that it was something about his new job, that there were things he couldn't tell me. That would have made sense. But he's answered every single question I ever asked him about it -- hell, most days, he tells me about the cases he's working on before I even get a chance to ask.

He's enjoying this investigation job a lot more than he thought he would. I'm glad -- I mean, it was hard enough for me to readjust, and I was only in the jungle for a year. I was really worried about Jim going through a major case of culture shock, since he was down there so much longer than I was. I do my best not to let on, but I've been keeping a real close eye on him.

It looks like my concerns -- well, some of them, at least -- are unfounded. He's doing okay. He made a lot of jokes at first about being a well-dressed rent-a-cop, but he really seems to be getting into it. Once he could put faces to the bank accounts, he began taking it a lot more seriously. I'm glad -- it's so important to him, feeling like he's making a difference. He needed something like this.

His social readjustment is going better than I thought it would, too. He's not a party animal or anything, nothing like that. But he's making friends... well, he's friendly with a few people, which is a start, anyway. We go out to dinner. He's even talking about eventually moving out of the cabin and getting a place in Cascade to cut down on driving time for both of us.

And, to Jim's surprise and mine, he's getting more control over his senses every day. I finally tracked down the material I'd seen on tribal sentinels so I could show it to him. He fits the pattern. We can put a name to it now; I've started taking notes again on the limits of his abilities; and I think that just knowing that he's not a solitary freak gives him the confidence to deliberately use his senses rather than waiting passively for something to kick in.

That's my theory, at least. I'll figure out a way to test it later. Maybe.

So. Back to the problem at hand. If everything in our life is fine, how come I haven't just asked him what's going on? Maybe it's nothing. Or maybe there is some strain between us, and I'm in denial about it. Otherwise he wouldn't have any problems telling me what's wrong. Maybe it's something I've done wrong....

No. It's something outside that's bothering him, if something is really bothering him. If it was about the two of us, I'd know. Don't ask me how, but I'd know.

I wish I knew what to do about this. I suppose I could just ride it out, and wait until he either decides to tell me or until I have something more concrete to go on. It's probably nothing, right? And even if it is something, that doesn't mean it's something I need to worry about.

Bullshit. Who am I trying to kid? If something is bothering Jim, then I do I need to worry about it.

The question is, how do I find out what the problem is? The easy way would be to just ask him, I suppose.

I turn over the possibilities as I stand up and start getting my papers together before I leave. Asking Jim might not be the quickest way to get the answers I need. Maybe I could ask Steven instead. Yeah. That might work -- we get along pretty well, he knows how important Jim is to me.... Yeah.

On second thought, though, that might not be the best way, either. Sure, I'd avoid having to drag the information out of Jim -- but he'll probably be majorly pissed if I go around him, and he'll be furious with his brother -- and that's assuming that Steven even knows what's wrong....

I'm pulled out of my reverie by the ringing of my phone. I stare at it indecisively for a few seconds, wondering if I can get away with slipping out of my office and saying, "Damn, just missed it." No -- that's a risk I'd better not take until I'm a little more established here. Once I've proved myself, then I can duck out on phone calls. Not before.

With a sigh, I pick up the receiver. "Sandburg."

"Hi, Blair! I'm so glad I caught you!" I smile in spite of myself. Dolly, the anthro department's receptionist. Nice woman, a lot more capable than she looks or sounds, but she does tend to speak in exclamation points.

"I was just on my way home, Dolly. What's up?"

"Oh, I kind of figured you would be, so I just took a message and told her you'd call her back tomorrow. She said that'd be fine."

I lean against my desk patiently. "Great. Could you tell me who I'm supposed to be calling?"

Papers rustle on the other end of the line. "Amanda Vaughan. She's in Seattle, and she wants to arrange a meeting with you, and she says any time you want to call her tomorrow will be fine." More rustling. "Do you want her number?"

"No." Dolly is rendered uncharacteristically speechless by my short answer. I manage to keep my voice steady long enough to go on, "That's okay, Dolly -- I'd... probably lose it before tomorrow, anyway. You've seen my office, and I've got too many pieces of paper to cart around as it is. Why don't you just put in my mailbox and I'll pick it up in the morning?" I barely respond to her cheerful acknowledgement and goodbye.

I'm too busy trying not to curl up under my desk.

Even though it's like driving on autopilot, I somehow manage to make it off campus and through Cascade without getting into an accident. What am I supposed to do about this? And how am I supposed to keep Jim from finding out? He's got more than enough to worry about as it is.

I find myself calming down as I get closer to home. Home, where Jim is, where Jim is waiting, where I'll either have to tell him what I've got to face or find a way to hide what's bothering me, at least until I figure out a way to deal with it --

A way to hide what's bothering me.

I pull over to the side of the road as the truth hits me. My God. This is what Jim is going through, isn't it? I don't mean that he's worried about Vaughan's widow -- well, I assume he isn't; the odds are seriously against it -- but he's not really keeping something from me, he's trying to find a way to handle his problem, whatever it might be, without worrying me.

Nice detective work, Sandburg. I allow myself a minute of smug self-congratulation for finally figuring it out before reminding myself that not only do I still not know what might be bothering Jim, and not only do I not know what to do about it, I also don't know what to do about Amanda Vaughan.

I only know one thing right now -- it's time to go home.

So I drive the rest of the way to the cabin, letting myself enjoy the way the autumn sun squeezes through the thick canopy of leaves above, and I'm surprised all over again by how much I feel at home here. The fall colors are dramatically different from the intense emeralds and jades of Peru, and the quality in the air that everyone around here is deluded enough to call invigorating or bracing, instead of just plain cold, chills me to the bone. But it's home, and I love it already.

Jim's truck is already there when I finally reach the cabin. I smile as I get out of my car and walk to the front door. It's not often that he gets home before I do, and he's taking advantage of the opportunity to play one of his Santana CDs as loud as possible. I'm a little curious about the volume -- as sensitive as his hearing is, how is he handling the loudness?

Pretty well, I think as I go inside and make my way to the kitchen after putting my coat away. Supper seems to be well underway -- he's staring intently into a pot, but he turns around as soon as I'm through the doorway. He smiles at me without a hint of surprise. I wonder how long he's been listening for my arrival. He says something I can't hear, and I point over my shoulder at the stereo in the living room.

Grinning, he goes to the other room and turns down the volume to a level so low I can barely hear it. "How was your day?" he repeats. There's already a fire going, taking the chill out of the autumn air. He must have started it as soon as he got in, so the cabin would be warm by the time I got here.

I push the problem of Amanda Vaughan away. She's not something I -- we -- need to deal with right this minute. I join him at the stereo and put my arms around him. "Fine. How about you?"

"Pretty routine," he says easily as he returns my embrace. I can't feel any reserve, any barrier between us. Whatever the problem is, it's coming from something outside of us. Good. Right now, that's all I'm worried about.

Without pulling away from him, I nod toward the kitchen. "Smells good."

"Thanks. It should be done in a half hour or so." He doesn't let go of me, either.

To prolong the moment, I ask, "Are you getting anywhere on that Doyle thing?"

"Yeah, I think so. Thanks for the computer lessons -- it really came in handy while I was checking out bank records."

God, this feels good. Standing here with him, talking about dinner and what we did at work -- I like it. I like being a couple, I like having someone to come home to, I like knowing that someone feels the same way about me....

I'd better stop myself before I overdose on sentimentality. "Didn't that hurt?"

"Didn't what hurt?"

"The music -- I could hear it all the way outside."

"Oh, that," he says casually as we walk into the kitchen. "Well, you know how you told me that if I can turn up my senses, I should be able to turn them down, too?"

I start pulling things for a salad out of the refrigerator. "Yeah. Is that what you were doing?"

He nods. "Yeah." He hesitates, then goes on, "I turned up the volume on the stereo and turned down my hearing. Then I turned up my sense of touch. I was... feeling the music. Hearing the words without actually listening to them."

Putting down the lettuce, I stare at him. "You were... feeling the music?" My mind starts running through the implications. "Are you telling me that you could understand the words of the songs by the vibrations alone?"

Shrugging, he gives the contents of the pot another stir. "Yeah."

"Oh, man, this is incredible!" I start pacing the kitchen. "Of course, you probably know those songs backwards and forwards, don't you? We should try it again with some music you don't know -- the music might actually be a distraction, come to think about it.... How did you distinguish between the singer and, say, the bass?"

Jim gives me a tolerant glance -- more amused than bemused -- as he gets out two plates. "Would you believe years of practice?"

"No, you haven't had years of practice," I mutter as I start looking for something to write on. "We've got to set up some kind of test, see what the parameters are -- "

"Fine. Let's eat first." He puts the plates in my hands and turns me toward the table.

I try. I really try to keep my mind from going back again and again to the question of his senses. Doesn't work. I keep on finding myself mentally drifting off while we eat, wondering about the implications of what he told me. I can't shake the feeling that he was expecting me when I walked in, but if he had his hearing turned down, how would he have known? And man, the fact that he thought of it by himself -- he really is getting more confident about his senses. My fingers twitch, aching for a pencil instead of a fork. Fortunately, Jim doesn't seem to mind.

He even starts to joke about it as we're clearing the table. "Admit it, Sandburg. You love having a live-in lab rat, don't you?"

"Sure. I love all kinds of things about you, Jim. Not only are you a live-in lab rat, you're not a bad cook and you're tall enough to change light bulbs without a stepstool," I toss over my shoulder as I put the plates in the sink.

Coming over to stand behind me, he puts his arms around me. "Is that all?" he murmurs in my ear.

I lean into him. "Not even close." I draw in a sharp breath as his teeth fasten on my earlobe, stinging for just a moment. At the same time, he starts unbuttoning my shirt.

Oh... boy.

Before I know what's happening, my shirt is off and I'm being turned around. Jim cups my face in his hands and kisses me, strong and tender and demanding all at once. Then he's leading me into the living room, and the only thing in the world I want to do is follow him.

He pulls a chair out from the table and guides me over to it; before I can sit down, though, he turns me around so I'm straddling it, facing the fireplace. It's getting impossible for me to think of anything but what Jim is doing, and what he might do next.

A large, calloused, surpassingly gentle hand comes to rest on the back of my neck. That's all it takes for my breath to catch in my throat and for my heart to pound just a little harder. Jim releases my hair from the ponytail, spreading it over my shoulders.

I could turn around if I wanted to. I could stand up, and put my arms around Jim and kiss him and change the whole direction of whatever's going to happen here tonight -- and I think he'd go right along with me. Hell, I know he would. That's what he does. His slogan, pure and simple, is, "Whatever you want, Blair." He likes to let me set the pace, decide how much I want, how far I want to go.

Right now, right here and now, what I want is for Jim to do whatever he wants to do. I want him to hold me, and stroke me, and take me -- I want him to show my body just how much it can experience. I want to feel what he wants me to feel.

I want him to show me -- and I want to show him -- precisely how much he owns me.

I want to show him how much I trust him.

So I loosen my grip a little, but only a little. My hands stay where they are, loosely clasping the back of the chair. I stare into the fire through half-closed eyes. Orange and gold and red, warmth and light and heat.

Heat. Heat from his hands on my shoulders, heavy and easy with the knowledge of his possession. Heat from the solid mass of him bending over me, standing close but not quite pressing against me. Heat from his breath against the side of my neck. Heat... oh, God. Heat from the pliant, nimble moistness of his tongue flicking against my earlobe.

His hands slide down my body as he kneels behind me, resting for just a moment at my waist before traveling down. Almost like he's talking to himself, he murmurs, "The first time I saw you... that was by firelight, too."

Breathing hard -- almost beyond anything resembling rationality -- I say, "The first time I saw you, I... didn't see you. It was just your voice, and your hands, and... and you."

Jim hesitates for just a second before answering me. "I know." I can feel the pressure of his fingers through the heavy denim of my jeans as he traces the outside of each leg. He stops when he reaches my ankles; then, very slowly, very carefully, he pulls them back until they're even with the front rungs of the chair.

The muscles in my thighs protest just a little as my legs are spread even further apart. Jim takes his hands away... and he waits. He waits for me to move my feet back to a more comfortable position, or to get up, or to say no, or to say anything.

Instead of doing any of those things, I hook my ankles around the legs of the chair to make it easier to hold them there.

I don't look around when Jim stands up and leaves me. I don't say anything when he comes back a few minutes later. And I don't move when he very slowly and very carefully uses something soft and thick to tie my ankles to the chair.

Closing my eyes, I try to relax. It's not easy -- my jeans are stretched so tightly against my crotch that even the shallowest breath creates enough friction to enflame me even more. There's a patch of wetness from my leaking cock that seems to grow larger with every breath I take. I want to reach down, try to give myself some kind of relief, but I don't. That'll come soon enough, and probably too soon.

Jim's hands slowly make their way back up, this time caressing the insides of my legs. I try not to make a sound, but I can't keep from moaning as he deliberately avoids brushing against my cock.

The moan turns to a whimper as he starts kissing my back. His hands, strong and sure, rise up to stroke my chest. Needing more contact with him, I try to squirm forward as he starts teasing my nipples. His touch is light and unhurried and anything but playful. Knowing that he's going to make this slow -- that it's going to be on his terms -- just gets me hotter.

"Do you like that?" Jim asks huskily against my skin.

Somehow, I manage to gasp, "Yes. God, yes."

"Good." His fingers continue their attentions to my nipples, pinching the hard, erect flesh just barely hard enough to hurt. At the same time, he starts sucking and nibbling on my back. He works his way up my spine until he reaches my shoulders and my neck. He's leaving marks. He's doing it on purpose. It's not like the tattoo -- these marks can't be explained away or shrugged off as an interesting tribal custom. Until they heal and fade away, anyone who sees them will know exactly what they are and what they mean.

And I love it.

He stands up again. He continues stroking my chest with one hand, while the other rises up to skim along my throat, delicately tracing the line of my jaw. I twist my head around to plant a kiss in his palm as he explores my features. Through all of this, my hands stay where they are.

Trying to keep my breathing steady, I tilt my head back against his chest. He slowly rocks his hips into my back; I can feel his erection pressing against me, still restricted by his clothes, just like mine is. And knowing that this is all it takes to get him hard, knowing that I have the same effect on him that he has on me.... I can't keep still anymore, and my hips start to thrust forward against nothing. I don't need anything -- all I need is Jim being here. All I need is for Jim to be with me.

I choke out, "I'm going to come, Jim. I mean it -- " He grips my shoulders tightly, holding me against him as my voice breaks off. I finally look up at him -- I need to see his face. He's staring down at me, his expression rough and primal and indescribably loving. He's the last thing I see before my vision turns crimson and black and I'm spiraling into a moment that only seems to last forever.

He holds me through my orgasm, stroking me, encouraging and gentling me at the same time. When the last spasms tremble into nothingness, he bends down to kiss the sweat from my face. Looking up at him as I gasp for breath, I say the one thing that's never far from my mind: "God, Jim, I love you so much...."

Jim doesn't answer me in words. He knows he doesn't need to. Reaching down, he unties my ankles and eases me down to the rug in front of the fire. I do my best to help him as he eases my sodden jeans off, but I'm too limp and relaxed to be much use. He doesn't seem to mind.

Then he's naked, too, lying next to me. There are red creases on my inner thighs from where my legs were pressed against the chair, and he kisses and licks at the sore flesh until I can't feel anything but reawakening desire.

With teasing, taunting patience, he kisses a path up my chest, pausing to give each nipple particular attention -- he does seem to like nipples -- before reaching over to grab a small bottle sitting in front of the fire.

I roll over without a word, pillowing my head on my arms as I spread my legs for him. He eases a hand beneath my waist, lifting me just far enough so he can slide a cushion under my hips so my ass is tilted at an angle that'll be more comfortable for me, and more available to him. I jump a little as the first trickle of oil eases down the crease of my ass -- it's still cold, but not for long. Jim's slick hands caress my buttocks, kneading the flesh carefully and, just as carefully, opening me just enough to slip one finger inside me.

Third time. This is only the third time he's taken me like this, and the first time in our new home. It's different from the first time, when fear and desire and frenzy got all tangled up together. It's different from the second, when I had to almost trick him into fucking me. This is so different -- he's so slow, and so patient, and still every bit as commanding and irresistable. One corner of my mind is still detached enough to wonder if it'll be like this every time from now on -- but it's a very small corner. Most of my mind is taken up by the feelings and sensations coursing through me.

Jim eases a second finger inside, and I automatically buck against him. He laughs and leans over to kiss the back of my neck as he slides his other hand around to grasp at my renewed erection. "You want this, don't you? You're hungry for me -- you want me inside you."

Any answer I might have made is lost in the groan that escapes me when he adds a third finger, and my entire body convulses around him as he finds my prostate. Then his hand is gone. Before I can protest, the tip of his cock is pressing against me, and he's an inch inside, and then two, and then he's joined to me, flesh in my flesh, thrusting in and stroking out as I clench around him.

My entire world is the sensation of being filled. His arms around me, hands and lips on my heated flesh, urging me on with grunts and sighs and groans even as he pounds into me. I want to wait, to make it last as long as possible for him, but I can't, and I'm exploding all over his claiming, proprietary hand -- and he's pulled along with me, calling out my name and his love as he buries himself in me for one last, tense, eternal and heartbreakingly brief moment.

When it's all over, we reluctantly separate just long enough to rearrange ourselves. He pulls me halfway on top of him, covering us both with the blanket he snags from the back of the couch. His fingers comb through my hair as he spreads it over his chest. "A little different from the first time," he says, almost like he's talking to himself. He's touching my back lightly, tracing his fingers along the path he made earlier.

Too exhausted to raise my head from his shoulder, I whisper, "Not so different. Your voice, and your hands, and you. That was all I needed to fall in love with you."

"That's all?" Jim's voice is just a rumble deep in his chest.

"That's all. That's everything."

Whatever Jim says in reply -- if he says anything -- is blotted out by the warm haze enveloping me as I fall asleep in his arms.

I wake up slowly in our bed to the sound of running water. I force my eyes to focus so I can look at the clock on the nightstand.

Good. I'm not late yet -- not even close to being late, in fact, and neither is Jim. We'll both have time for a shower and breakfast before we have to head off.

I stumble to my feet despite the protests of my aching muscles, lurch my way to the bathroom -- and I stop in my tracks. Jim's in the shower. I can see the outline of his body through the frosted glass of the shower door -- my God, but he's gorgeous. It hits me sometimes, out of nowhere. Sure, I'd love him whatever he looked like, but... okay, I can't deny the fact that he's so nice to look at, and it's really a definite bonus --

The shower door slides open, and a soapy, beckoning arm reaches out to me. "You going to stand there until you catch cold?"

Well, only an idiot would refuse an invitation like that.

I step into the shower and give Jim a hug, turning us around until I'm directly under the hot water. I mean, true love is all well and good, but warmth is nice, too. He laughs as he runs his fingers through my hair, wetting it down thoroughly. "There you go, making me stand in the cold."

"Hey. Here's an idea." I pull his head down for a quick kiss. "If we do decide to move, let's get a place with a big bathroom. I mean, a huge bathroom... whirlpool tub, the works."

"Hmm." He puts his head to once side, apparently considering it. "You know, they make showers with two heads. Then we wouldn't have to fight over the hot water."

I reach around him for the shampoo. "Sounds great -- "

He takes the bottle from my hand. "Here, let me." I lean against him, eyes closed, as he starts massaging the shampoo into my scalp. Oh. Oh, this definitely feels good. Yeah, a shower built for two isn't a bad idea at all....

I come back to the present when Jim says, "Blair? Can I ask you something?"

"Sure. Anything. Anything at all...."

He laughs. "You're practically purring, you know that?"

"What can I say, man? This feels great."

"It does? Well... good." His fingers continue working the lather through my hair. "Anyway. I know it's not really any of my business, but... how long are you going to let your hair grow?"

"How long would you like it?"

His motions stop, but only for a few seconds. "You're growing it long for me?"

I shrug -- carefully, so he won't stop working again. "Not entirely, no. But I know you like it, and it sure doesn't bother me to have it long, and hell, if it gets you to do this once in a while, I'll grow it as long as you want. Promise to do this every day, and I'll do my best to look like Rapunzel."

He repositions me to wash the shampoo out of my hair, tilting my head back to keep the suds out of my eyes. "You don't have to go that far." His voice changes, becomes softer and deeper. "But thank you." When my hair is rinsed, his tone returns to normal. "There. All done."

"No, we're not." I open my eyes and grin up at him. "I think I need conditioner, too. Wouldn't want me getting frizzy, would we?"

He returns my smile. "Greedy."

"You got it."

We finally make it out of the shower. While Jim's getting dressed, I go into the kitchen. Oh, man. We've still got all the dishes from last night -- why don't they ever show this in the movies? How come cinematic nights of passion aren't followed by hours of scraping dried-up food from plates and pots?

Grimacing, I pile everything into the sink and add a dishwasher to my mental list of appliances I'd like in our (purely theoretical) new place. By the time Jim comes in, I've got coffee made and the eggs are almost ready. As he walks to the refrigerator to get some juice, he drops a kiss on my cheek.

I smile up at him. "Should be ready in a few minutes."

"Great." He puts his glass down, then comes over to stand beside me. Arms folded, he stares into the frying pan.

I look at him; he seems to be thinking about something big. "Jim? You okay?"

He doesn't answer for a few seconds. Then he sighs, tries to smile and can't quite make it -- which really gets me worried -- and says, "Blair, there's something I need to tell you."

For a few seconds, panic clutches around my heart. He's breaking up with me, or he's in some kind of trouble, or the hot water heater is broken and it's cold showers from now on -- I force myself to calm down. Turning off the eggs, I carry the pan to the small table in the corner and dish them out. "What about?"

He waits until I sit down before he joins me at the table. "About Colonel Oliver."

And relief washes over me. Okay, it might be bad, but it's not about us, we can handle this -- is this all that's been worrying Jim? "Okay. What about him?"

Jim won't look at me. "He knows about us."

"Oh." I think about it, then nod slowly. "Might not be the best news, but it could be a lot worse...." I finally realize that Jim hasn't gotten to the point yet. "There's something else, isn't there?"

Still staring out the window, Jim nods. "Yeah. It's... about Vaughan, too."

Vaughan.

I was right. This is a lot worse.

I put my fork down. "Really."

He finally looks at me. Taking a deep breath, he starts telling me a story about Vaughan and a journal and his helicopter crash and blackmail. I'll have to ask him to hit the high points again later, because I can't take all of it in.

Okay, Sandburg. This is no time to freak out. Jim needs you. I make myself think rationally. "What has Oliver asked you to do?"

Jim shakes his head. "Nothing, so far. He might not ever expect anything."

I can't keep the sharpness out of my voice when I ask, "Do you believe that?"

"...No."

"Okay." I shove my untouched plate away. Fingers drumming on the table, I think frantically. I know Jim is watching me, and I know he's worried about my reaction, but this is something I need to think about. Options. There have to be options, there has to be something we can do...

There's only one thing I can think of. "Pre-emptive strike," I mutter.

"Excuse me?"

I meet Jim's concerned gaze. "That might be the only thing Oliver will understand.... Jim. Listen to me. If we make the journal public -- "

"No." He shoves his chair away from the table and walks away.

I follow him. "Think about it, Jim. Publish and be damned. It'd be hell for a while, yeah. But that would get rid of any hold he has over us, right?"

"Wrong." He turns and grabs my shoulders. "That journal might be the only thing keeping both of us alive."

I frown up at him, more confused than ever. "What are you talking about?"

He doesn't let go of me, but his grip eases a little. "Blair, he engineered the crash that killed all of my men -- and I should be dead, too. I don't know how or why he did it. But -- " He struggles for words. "He's using that to buy my silence so I won't betray him. If we make the journal public, then he doesn't have any hold over me anymore. He won't be able to control me -- he won't be able to control us. Right now, I might be useful to him, and he knows I can't do anything to threaten him." Jim's voice becomes lower as he pulls me into his arms. "If he loses his hold on me, he'll decide that I'm too dangerous to keep around. And as for you -- " He breaks off as his arms tighten around me.

I finish the thought for him. "You military types hate loose ends, don't you? And I'd be the biggest loose end of all." He doesn't answer me; he just holds me even closer as I start shaking. God. And I was stupid enough to think that life would be simpler outside the jungle.

This would be a good time to tell him about Vaughan's wife, I suppose -- we could get everything out in the open, and we'd know what's what, and we could deal with it. But it's too much all at once. And really, as far as threats go, it hardly compares, does it?

Okay. We'll deal with Oliver first. I can always put Mrs. Vaughan off for a while, think of some story to get rid of her -- maybe if I wait long enough, this situation with her will resolve itself.

Even if it doesn't, I might not be around to worry about it.