Elyssa didn't like to name it. To her, it was a four letter word for destruction. She didn't like to talk about it or even remember it, but she'd been forced to do so many times, because it had happened to her. It was real. She thought of it as her own personal line of demarcation, a border as darkly ominous as the infamous Mason-Dixon line, a division as invisible yet profound as that between B.C. and A.D. Cold and sharp as the cut of a knife, the incident divided her life as nothing ever had. Before November 9, 1995 was happiness, security, her talent and all her dreams for the future; after it, only pain and confusion.
For Elyssa Ryan, one ugly, violent night changed everything. When it was over, familiar streets no longer seemed safe. Strangers she passed looked unfriendly, even hostile. Her own boyfriend Rob changed from a soothing presence to a potential threat; and when she held him at bay, he severed their relationship. And he was not the only casualty of that night. Even her friends seemed different afterwards. They were awkward around her. First they'd stare as if curious about what visible damage she'd sustained, then their gazes would slide away, as if direct eye contact with her for too long a time was uncomfortable. She'd become Typhoid Mary, a sideshow freak -- an object of pity and curiosity. A victim.
Or maybe that's all in my head.
She wasn't sure if the changes she perceived were in herself or in them, if they were acting strangely or if she was suddenly seeing them with a new and painful clarity -- with eyes that had been shocked open. The only thing she was sure of was that as the weeks went by, they all quit calling or coming to see her. The people closest to her, the people she'd counted on, were fading away when she needed them most.
Even time turned against her. Nights became small ordeals. Sleep wouldn't come to her tired eyes, or peace to her haunted mind. Her days weren't much better. No matter what time of day she painted, she couldn't seem to find the light. Her colors were dark, her brushstrokes alternately listless or savage, as if they'd come from some other hand but her own. Her paintings had always been mirrors of her feelings, her soul. If that were still true, then they now reflected feelings she'd never dreamed she could have, and a soul she was no longer sure was entirely her own.
She slowly realized that though the event itself was over, her fears hadn't ended. They'd merely taken on new forms: fear of familiar things, familiar faces that now seemed strange; fear that one day she'd look into a mirror and find that the dark line that had slashed across her life had shadowed her own face so much that she could no longer even recognize herself. Everything around her was drifting, uncertain. She fought the pull of numbness, the temptation to let herself stop caring about anything. To hide in grayness, hide from the shadows and the light in a twilight netherworld where nothing could touch her. Finally, she began to fear that unless she changed her life somehow, the magic would leave her hands, and she'd lose her creativity and stop painting altogether. She'd sink into the shadows behind her new and dreadful Mason-Dixon line, and that black night's victory over her would be complete.
She couldn't let that happen. Finally, she knew that there was nothing left for her to do but leave. Somewhere, somehow, she had to start over.
So Elyssa Ryan quit her part-time job, said goodbye to her sister, packed her bags, turned in the key to her apartment, and headed out of the city in which she'd grown up. In the pearly light of early morning, she drove down quiet, deserted streets, away from the only home she'd ever known, toward an uncertain future. Her smaller canvases were stowed safely in the back of her car, the larger ones in the rented trailer she'd hitched behind it. Fear and hope battled uneasily for the empty seat beside her. She knew she was taking a chance. She didn't have much money, and she didn't know what she'd find in Chicago. But she knew that to stay where she was would've been a kind of death.
Standing outside his best friend's opened apartment door, Ray Vecchio tapped his foot impatiently. "Come on, come on, Benny! I haven't got all day! Hell, I don't even have a minute!" he added, unable (as usual) to resist punctuating his point. "If I'm not in the squadroom in ten seconds, the Lieutenant'll have my butt for breakfast!"
Fraser headed obligingly for his door. But all at once, just as Ray was congratulating himself that they might just make it to work on time after all, he saw Fraser halt, his eyes widening as if he'd forgotten something. He held up a finger and turned towards his wolf. "A moment, Ray, if you please."
"Ah, no, no!" Ray groaned. "Come on, Fraser, can't you let it go just this once?"
Fraser shook his head as he bent to ruffle the wolf's fur. "We've been over this before, Ray," he said patiently. "If I don't say goodbye to him before I leave in the morning, it hurts his feelings."
"So he pouts a little," Ray shrugged, though he already knew the cause was hopeless. "Big deal."
Benny shot him a look over his shoulder. "You might think it was, if you had to sleep a few feet away from an annoyed wolf."
Unable to argue with that, Vecchio fell silent, watching in annoyance as Ben cupped the animal's jaw gently in his hand. Their gazes locked in a silent, unblinking, incomprehensible stare that went on and on and on...
Ray sighed. Worrying about the finer points of etiquette towards a wolf was totally beyond the bend and then some to him, but where politeness was concerned, he'd learned just how inflexible Benny could be. He'd seen this peculiar farewell enacted often enough to know that there'd be no budging Fraser until it was over, no matter how much in a hurry he was, or what dire threats he uttered.
He'd told Benny once that he didn't understand what the hell they were doing. How they could be "saying goodbye" when neither of them uttered a sound? Benny had looked offended, and swore that though he and Diefenbaker were motionless and utterly silent at such times, they were still "communicating."
Whatever. And just to make things even stranger, though Diefenbaker was supposedly deaf, Fraser sometimes talked out loud to him. Not like a normal guy would to his dog, mind you -- oh, no. That would be too ordinary for Fraser. Too normal. Simple commands like "Here, Dief," or "Sit, boy," wouldn't do. Fraser held conversations with him, as if he were talking to another human being, for Crissakes; as if Dief understood every word he said! Weirder still, from the wolf's reactions, Vecchio suspected that might somehow be true, though even Fraser's claim that Dief could read lips couldn't account for it. He'd often seen Dief react unmistakably to what Benny said, even when the Mountie's back was turned!
The way they communicated was too weird for words, and he'd long since given up trying to figure it out. Maybe the wolf's only pretending to be deaf, or maybe Fraser uses secret hand signals or some kinda strange Canadian telepathy with him. Hell if I know! It was as much a mystery to him as the whole water into wine thing at Mass. The only thing he knew for sure was that it worked. Dief didn't always obey Benny, but if he was ever in trouble or needed help, the wolf was always there, no matter what. In fact, though Ray was loathe to admit it, Dief had saved both their hides more than once.
For that kind of loyalty, I'd kiss him goodbye every morning myself, he reflected wryly.
It was so early, as Elyssa trudged up and down the stairs unloading her car, that no one else was around. She was grateful for that. The solitude allowed her to save her breath for hauling paintings, boxes and luggage, instead of making idle chitchat. Maybe if I'm lucky, I won't have to meet any of my new neighbors until I've had a chance to settle in, she thought. Hard on its heels came a darker thought: Hell, maybe if I'm really lucky, I'll never have to meet them at all.
Six months ago, such a thought would never have crossed her mind.
That was then, she thought. This is now...
She was more cynical now than she had been, and she didn't like it. Shadows, shadows everywhere. She banged her suitcase into the wall with more force, perhaps, than was strictly necessary as she struggled upstairs with it in one hand and a box of clothes in the other. Paint flaked off the wall onto the floor from the impact. "Damn!" she swore, feeling guilty. Well... It isn't as if the walls of this place were in perfect condition to start with, she rationalized. They're so old they're crumbling.
As she struggled upwards with her arms full, she reflected ruefully that her own apartment wasn't much better. The up side was, it was fairly large, with a living room/kitchen, bathroom and a fair-sized bedroom. The down side, that it was old and in need of renovation. The paint on the walls was peeling in several places, and the fixtures looked like they'd been installed in Eisenhower's day. Its two big selling points for her, though, were the large windows on its northern side, which provided good light for painting, and very reasonable rent, as prices went in Chicago.
I'll have to scrub it all clean and repaint, but for now, it'll have to do. It's all I can afford, until I find a job and get on my feet again.
All at once, as she neared the top of the stairs, she saw a man standing in the hallway by the open door of an apartment a few doors down from hers. She would have to pass by him, whoever he was, to get to her own place.
Damn.
Fighting down a tiny, now-familiar frisson of fear, she took a deep breath and stumbled upward towards him. Disheveled and overburdened as she was, she knew it was useless to try to look inconspicuous. She settled for uninteresting as she topped the landing and started down the hallway with a purposely cold, don't-talk-to-me look. But it failed to discourage him. His eyes focused on her intently. She glared coldly at him in return. He was about six feet, and slender enough so that he looked a bit taller. He had a big nose, thinning dark hair, alert green eyes and an air of confidence that bordered on cockiness; and he was wearing a coat that she knew hadn't come off of any department store rack.
What are you doing here dressed like that? she wondered as she neared him. He looked like he was going to be a problem. His most noteworthy feature so far was his stubbornness. Despite her overloaded state and chilly expression, he hadn't moved aside as she approached, or offered to help her either. He stood right in the middle of the hall, hands shoved in his coat pockets, blocking her path as his eyes moved over her in a measuring glance. She tried to tell herself that his interest was merely casual, but she felt her pulse accelerate anyway as she halted near him.
"'Scuse me," she said. The words were terse, barely polite. But they were better than what she was thinking, which was unprintable; and she willed him to hear them as a command, rather than a request. Still, he didn't lift a finger to help her, or budge even an inch from his position blocking the hallway. Dropping her suitcase for a second, she pursed her lips in exasperation.
"Excuse me!" she repeated, louder that time, turning up the volume in case he was deaf as well as rude.
Forgetting about his hurry to be gone for an instant, Ray eyed the irritated woman who'd dropped her suitcase inches from his left foot with considerable interest. He'd been to Benny's place so many times that he knew most of his neighbors -- and certainly all of the ones on this floor -- by sight now. She wasn't one of them, and the box and suitcase she was carrying were added evidence that she was a new arrival.
God only knows what she's doing moving into Fraser's crappy old excuse for an apartment building. She must be either poor and desperate or crazy, he thought. Most likely poor -- her suitcase had seen better days, and she didn't look crazy. She was slender, with pale skin and big green eyes, and so pretty that the old work shirt and baggy jeans she wore couldn't quite disguise it. Beneath the nondescript scarf she'd tied around her hair, it was long, thick, and a beautiful shade of reddish gold; and his sharp eyes detected curves in all the right places. He wondered idly if she was deliberately trying to hide her good looks under those drab clothes, and why.
Then that idle speculation was forgotten as an idea arrowed across his mind: Fraser likes women with long hair...
He was worried about his friend. Ever since that thing with Victoria, he'd been quieter, paler -- he just wasn't himself. He never talked about her anymore, but Ray knew his heart was still sore. For a while, he'd had hopes that Jill, the beautiful blond physical therapist Benny had met in the hospital while recovering from his wound, would snap him out of his funk. But it hadn't happened. Despite the case they'd worked on together, once Benny was well enough, he'd left the hospital without so much as a backward glance at her.
What a waste. Ray sighed to himself. God, to have the Mountie's life! Beautiful women throwing themselves at you everywhere you go. I could deal with that! It was criminal that such luck was wasted on the oblivious Canadian.
Still, oblivious or not, Benny was his best friend, and Ray knew he needed someone to help him forget Victoria. This woman seemed a good candidate for the job. She was attractive, and since she had no wedding ring or significant other trailing her upstairs with her belongings, probably available as well. Better still, she was evidently moving in right down the hall from his buddy. Best of all, the timing was right: here she was, right at Fraser's door, practically wilting with the effort of dragging all her stuff up the stairs, just when he was due to come out.
What a perfect set-up! he exulted. I know Fraser; one look at her and every polite, Canadian gene in his six-foot body will snap to attention, and leap to help her out. And after one look at Benny, she'll probably let him. I've never met a woman yet who's immune to those baby blues and Boy Scout manners, not even my own sister. (Especially my sister.) All I have to do is get them together, then just step back and let Nature take its course.
Somehow, he thought it would. Unlike Jill, his pretty physical therapist, this woman was going to be living in close proximity to Benny. He couldn't help but run into her a lot. Hopefully, repeated encounters with her would get his juices flowing, and his male hormones would rush in where politeness feared to tread. (Despite his ignorance of his effect on women in general, his affair with Victoria proved that Fraser did have them... )
And if I can just get him away from that damn wolf for a second, he thought, he may get a chance to use 'em again!
"Benny!"
Elyssa stared angrily at the man blocking the hallway. Despite the fact that she'd nearly dropped her suitcase on his foot, he hadn't moved. This guy wouldn't take the hint if I hit him over the head with it! Which is what I'm gonna do, if he doesn't move in about two seconds.
"Benny!" he yelled, so suddenly that Elyssa started. Then, with a lightning swift change of mood, he smiled at her. "Hiya." But before she could open her mouth to answer him, he was bellowing again. "Hey, Fraser! You better get out here, or I'm gone on the count o' three! One! Two -- "
Elyssa could do no more than watch, bemused, as a man who had to be Benny stepped out of the open apartment door ahead of her, just before his volatile friend could yell "Three." "Understood, Ray," he said, shutting it hastily behind him.
Elyssa blinked at Benny. She hadn't meant to pay any attention to him -- whoever he was, if he was a friend of this rude guy with the penetrating green eyes, she didn't want anything to do with him. But she couldn't help it. He was impossible to ignore. She stared at him, unable to believe it.
A Mountie in full dress uniform: boots, hat and all. My neighbor down the hall is a Mountie! she repeated to herself, dazed. A Mountie named Benny? Oh, this is too weird!
It was so bizarre that she forgot her own flushed appearance and the weight in her arms as she tried to take it in, to take him in. He didn't look like a "Benny." That was a teddy bear-type nickname, and there was nothing cuddly or childish about him. Tall, dark- haired and broad-shouldered, with clean-cut features, a square jaw and bright blue eyes, he was very handsome. But it wasn't his looks that struck her: it was his uniform. More precisely, his thick, bright red coat. Immaculate and blazing scarlet as an October maple leaf, it held her riveted. It was the first thing she'd seen since coming to Chicago that looked real, its crimson the first color that had come alive for her since it happened. It almost seemed to glow in the dim, dingy hallway, like a flame. It made her feel that he was someone special, that she could trust him. She stared at him, shocked by her unexpected reaction.
I must be crazy. He's not some kind of guardian angel, she reminded herself, dizzied by a wave of conflicting emotion. He's the furthest thing from it. He's a man. One of the enemy.
Still, she couldn't seem to stop looking at him. She told herself she was staring merely because she'd only seen Mounties on TV before, never in real life. So he was exotic, a curiosity, something completely outside her experience. She'd have stared at a Bengal tiger, too, had it suddenly appeared in the dingy hallway; and the fact that he was wearing a terrific color, a red so vivid it sang, didn't make him one bit less dangerous than a tiger would've been.
She knew that. Nonetheless, her mouth went dry as he nodded politely at her.
"Good morning, ma'am," he said. She longed to get away, to push by him and his sharp-eyed friend without a word, but something held her back. Maybe it was the way he smiled at her with genuine friendliness, as if he hadn't noticed the way she was gaping rudely at him. It surprised her so that she tore her eyes from his wonderful uniform for a minute and studied his face. His blue eyes were so clear and guileless they disarmed her, made it hard to feel the anger she'd been using to keep men at bay. But she saw something else in them too, something almost familiar. Hidden behind his smile, in the depths of his eyes, was something at odds with the meticulous perfection of the rest of him: something raw, painful, like an open wound.-
He knows, she thought, stunned. He knows about darkness and shadows...
"It's... nice to meet you," he added.
Without meaning to, she wondered what had happened to him.
When she didn't answer him, for a second, she could've sworn that his smile faltered. He drew back instinctively, as if he realized she'd seen a little too much in his eyes, peered a little too deeply into him for comfort. But he said nothing more.
His friend Ray wasn't so polite. When she didn't answer the Mountie's greeting right away, he grinned as if he knew exactly why she'd been struck dumb. A wave of embarrassment swept over Elyssa. Benny the Mountie really was very handsome; no doubt Ray was used to women staring at him. But she hated being the source of his amusement, especially when he was mistaken as to the reason for her stare. She had no way of explaining that it had nothing to do with lust, that she was a painter and the incredible red of his jacket was singing to her, that it made him shine like a fiery angel.
If I said that, they'd both think I'd lost my mind. Correction: that Ray guy would think I was lying, and that I really am in lust with his friend, no matter what I said.
"Hi," she croaked reluctantly at last, trying her best to sound cool, calm and unimpressed. Trying, if she was honest with herself, to prove Benny's unpleasant friend wrong in his cynical first impression of her as some drooling, would-be Mountie groupie. She bent to pick up her heavy, overstuffed suitcase, thinking wryly that he couldn't have been further off the mark.
"I'm Benton Fraser," the Mountie said, his smile widening as he reached out to take the suitcase from her hand. "I see you're moving in. I'd be happy to help you with that-- "
Prompted, perhaps, by his courteous offer, his rude friend finally offered to lend a hand, too. "Yeah, here," he said. "You take the suitcase, Benny, I'll take the box."
No doubt they really meant to be kind. The problem was, they both moved towards her at once. Ray reached for her box, and Fraser bent forward to take her suitcase at the same instant. When the dual pairs of strong male arms, one pale and one darkly tanned, reached out for her, a flashbulb popped in her mind. All at once, she was back in her old apartment -- with them. With the gloved hands, the hands that hurt...
A wave of nausea rolled over her; her pulse roared in her ears. She started in fear, backing away from the two men so violently that she bumped into the wall. The impact put her back in the here and now and she fought to stay there, not to let the memories overpower her. But the men were too close for comfort, the situation too similar.
A voice inside her shrilled that she was cornered -- outnumbered -- in danger.
"No!" she said aloud, more shrilly than she meant to, fighting it. Caught between past and present, her hands tightened on the suitcase in a white-knuckled grip. She fought to regain control of herself, to calm the wave of incipient panic that had risen inside her. I don't need any help, she tried to say...
She'd needed help that night, though, had needed it so desperately -- but there had been none. No escape from those hands, rising and falling ruthlessly until they were stained with her blood...
The memories rose up and choked her. "Don't!" she cried hoarsely.
The two men stared at her in silence, obviously perplexed by her unexpected, adamant rejection of their help. The one named Ray looked surprised and a bit irritated; but the Mountie's gaze was strangely compassionate. This time, it was his eyes that reached inside of her. She felt like he could see right into her soul, if she let him.
And that was the last thing in the world she wanted.
She looked away and cleared her throat, forcing down her fear. "I don't need any help, thank you. I just need to get by you," she finished pointedly, suddenly consumed by a need to get away from both of them. She wished heartily that she'd never met either of them. Moving into this new place had been hard enough for her, without running into men who reminded her of --
"Of course." The Mountie moved out of her way obligingly. His friend shifted aside just enough to let her pass.
"So, you two are gonna be neighbors," Ray observed cheerfully as she edged by him, evidently willing to overlook the way she'd just freaked out in front of them. "That'll be nice, Miss-what'd you say your name was?"
She inched by him gingerly, careful not to touch him as she passed, and made for the safety of her partially open door with a distinct feeling of relief. "I didn't say," she retorted, nudging the door wide with her foot.
Ray waved at her, apparently as oblivious to her fear as he was undeterred by her resulting rudeness. "Well, if you need anything, just call Benny here," he said. "He's--"
She slammed the door shut behind her before he could tell her just what Benny was besides large, vividly red, and strangely disturbing. She didn't like the way he'd almost gotten past her iron-clad defenses on their very first meeting. She put her suitcase and box of clothes down with a grimace as a distressing thought struck her. The Mountie's bad enough. What if that other guy, Ray, lives in this building too?
Oh, God.
"Hmm." Looking in the direction of his new neighbor's door with a slight frown, Fraser made a little humming noise that he only uttered when he'd seen something that piqued his interest. Ray smiled to himself: his little plan was working just fine. But then Fraser turned towards the stairs without another word, and his heart sank. Obviously, the Mountie had no intention of going after the woman, interested hum or not.
I don't believe this! Ordinarily, the guy sticks his nose into everyone's business! Of all the times he could've chosen, Fraser has to pick now to get uninvolved?
Ray wasn't about to let him off the hook that easily. Annoyed that his cunning little plan to introduce his friend to a pretty woman had gone so unexpectedly awry, he grabbed the Mountie's arm before he could get away. "What're you doing, Benny?"
The Canadian turned deceptively mild blue eyes on him. "Leaving," he said, all innocence. "I thought that's what you wanted. Aren't you in a hurry to get to work?"
"I couldn't make it on time now if I flew, Fraser!" he snapped. "But that doesn't matter. I wanna know what that was all about."
"What, Ray?" Fraser had that patient look he got when he was being either peculiarly Canadian, or annoyingly dense. Sometimes it was hard for Vecchio to tell the difference.
"That!" he shook an exasperated finger in the direction of the woman's apartment. "I've never seen anything like that!"
"Like what? I admit, that woman's suitcase was a little old, but it was still perfectly recognizable-- "
Ray gritted his teeth. "I'm not talkin' about her suitcase, I'm talkin' about the way you just acted!"
Fraser blinked at him with total noncomprehension.
"That was your new neighbor, Fraser," he pointed out. "She's female, carryin' about twenty pounds more than she weighs, practically a poster child for 'Women in Need of a Mountie's Assistance' -- and you just let her walk away without even opening the door for her! What's the matter with you?"
Fraser's eyebrows lifted in sudden understanding. "Oh, that," he said vaguely. "Well, I did try to help her, but she declined my offer of assistance." He started for the stairs again as if that explained everything, or as if the incident were so trivial it was hardly worth mentioning. With anyone else, Ray had to admit, it would've been. But with the Canadian, it spoke volumes.
He strode after him, unable to let it go. "'So she said no!" he shrugged. "Since when has that ever stopped you, Benny? I mean, Chivalry is a religion with you! And there was a woman needing help, which is the kind of thing you live for, and--"
"She said she didn't need my -- our -- help. And though she was a bit nervous, she seemed perfectly capable."
"Capable! That was a damsel in distress if I ever saw one, Fraser!" Ray sputtered. "She practically had the words 'Help me' written all over her! Normally, I wouldn't have been able to pry you away from her with a crowbar, but you didn't even stop to get her name! What's up with you?" he asked as he clattered down the stairs at the Mountie's heels, perplexed by his friend's incomprehensible behavior. "Are you sick?"
Fraser turned, so suddenly that Vecchio had to rock back on his heels to avoid running into him. "Not that I'm aware of, Ray." His voice was quiet, but his eyes were forcefully direct. "I am, however, trying to learn to leave well enough alone." He didn't say another word, he just turned to open the door to the street. But he didn't have to. Ray got the message, loud and clear. Fraser had seen through him and that "accidental" meeting with the redhead in the hallway instantly, had known he was being set up, and why; and he hadn't liked it. Though it had seemed like a good idea at the time, Ray could've kicked himself for it now. In trying to make Benny feel better, he'd only managed to stir up old memories. The sudden pain Ray saw in his blue eyes robbed him of speech.
Damn that bitch Victoria! he thought for the thousandth time, as they headed silently for his car. It wasn't only Fraser that she'd hurt. That woman had poisoned everyone she touched, including him. He was a cop, he'd dedicated his life to upholding the law -- but she'd caused him to shoot his best friend in the back, and left him with a hatred so deep that he knew if she ever showed up again, he'd kill her.
He'd never felt like that about anyone in his life, not even the scum he'd helped put in prison. But none of them had hurt someone close to him so deeply. None of them had etched white-hot lines of pain around the eyes of his best friend, made him scared even to come near a woman again. Any woman -- even to offer her his help.
Damn her!
Elyssa finished hauling the rest of her things up to her new apartment without further incident, but while she was unpacking, she couldn't help thinking about the two men she'd run into in the hallway. They were the strangest pair: a polite, handsome Mountie, so perfect he was almost surreal, and a cocky, streetwise -- what? She had no idea what Ray did for a living.
For a moment, she let herself speculate. Judging by that expensive coat he's wearing, I'll bet he doesn't sell shoes, that's for sure. Drug dealer? she theorized. Mafia hit man? She smiled to herself. Neither was very likely. For one thing, he didn't seem hard or dangerous -- cynical and stubborn maybe, but not evil. And despite the way he'd mock-threatened and shouted at Benton Fraser (or maybe because of the way the Mountie had allowed him to), she had a strong feeling that they were good friends, maybe even best friends. So Ray could hardly be a criminal.
Wonder what he is.
She shook herself mentally. She was devoting too much time to thinking about the two men. She felt a flicker of resentment at her own weakness. She'd come here to work, to find the light again, not to get involved with anyone. She'd promised herself she would live quietly here, keep to herself and paint, yet she hadn't even made it to her place before being waylaid by two strangers who'd forced her to remember.
She vowed not to let that happen again. She had no interest in her new neighbors here, and no time for men, Mounties or otherwise. Men were on the other side of that line now, of that ugly slash that cut across her life. On the other side, in the past, with no way to cross over into her present; no way to touch her. And for now, that was the way she wanted it.
But when she closed her eyes that night -- her first night in her new apartment -- the Mountie's red coat burned brightly in the darkness behind her eyelids, and his quiet smile and wounded eyes followed her down into a troubled sleep.
A few days later, Elyssa fumbled with her keys as she tried to get her door unlocked without spilling the two big bags of groceries she was holding. For some reason -- maybe because the second lock was so new -- her key didn't seem to want to turn in it. She heard footsteps coming down the hallway behind her, but before she could turn to see who it was, one of the bags slipped out from under her arm and hit the floor with a resounding thud, spilling a bottle of milk and several bags of vegetables out into the corridor beside her.
"Damn!" She twisted the key angrily in the door until it finally opened, put her remaining bag inside on her living room floor, then turned to pick up the fallen one. "Oh!"
The Mountie knelt behind her, calmly picking up the mess. She realized it was his boots she must've heard approaching earlier. He was still wearing his uniform, hat and all, so either he'd just come home from work or else he wore it all the time. "Sorry," he smiled up at her as he shoved cucumbers back into her bag. "I didn't mean to startle you, I just thought -- "
He just thought I needed some help. Again! This is the second time he's done that, she thought, unreasonably annoyed. What does he think, that I'm some helpless little female who can't fend for myself?
She bent to take the bag from him, so suddenly that he looked up at her in distinct surprise. "It's okay," she said tightly. "I can get this." She was acting like a witch, and she knew it. She'd all but snatched her groceries back from him, when all he was trying to do was lend her a little friendly assistance. But she couldn't help herself. She had reasons for her attitude, and she didn't have to explain them to him. "I'm fine, I don't need any help," she said. She couldn't bring herself to soften the words with a smile, but she did manage not to snap at him. It was the best she could do.
To the Mountie's credit, he didn't seem to take offense; nor did he try to argue the point. He rose to his feet with easy grace as she stood up, propping the bag up onto her hip to prevent any further accidents. "I see you've installed another lock on your door," he said, pointing to it casually. "That's a good idea. This isn't the safest of neighborhoods. Unless you have a wolf, that is."
She stared at him in surprise. What the hell is he talking about? A wolf? Is he crazy?
He didn't explain, he just smiled at her; and she forgot both her mystification and annoyance when he did. There was something about his smile that was so innocent, so warm that it was almost irresistible. She had to freeze her facial muscles to keep from responding to that sunny beam, but she managed it. The Ice Queen freezes out Nanook of the North...
But she took no pleasure in being chilly to him. In fact, she wondered how long she was going to be able to keep it up, in the face of his wonderful smile.
He tipped his hat politely to her. "Good night, Miss," he said.
She stared at him as he walked down the hall to his own apartment and opened the door. She noted with surprise that it wasn't locked; and she was even more surprised when he swung it open and a large, powerful gray and white dog padded rapidly towards him. "Hello, Dief," she heard him say as he took off his hat and reached down to ruffle the animal's fur.
No, not a dog, she corrected herself, as he shut the door behind him. A wolf! My God -- he lives with a wolf!
She wasn't sure if he was crazy, or if she was. But she wanted to paint him so badly she could almost taste it.
Almost a week passed by, though, before Elyssa saw Benton Fraser again. She spied him in the hallway outside their apartments when she was on her way to work one morning. He was in uniform, as always. She was beginning to wonder if he slept in it, too. Not that she minded. He looked great in it, and the sight of his red jacket almost made her mouth water. He doffed his hat to her automatically as she walked towards him.
"Good morning," he smiled, and she realized that there was something about him that seemed trustworthy, even to her now paranoid sensibilities. It's hard to distrust a man with such flawless manners, she thought. I wonder if they're all like that where he comes from?
"Hi, Mr. Fraser," she replied. "I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself before. My name is Elyssa Ryan."
"It's nice to meet you, Miss Ryan," he murmured.
Then, before she could stop herself, she blurted out what had been preying on her mind since her first sight of his marvelous uniform. "You know, I'm an artist, and I've been wondering..."
He moved closer to her, until he was only about a foot away, and she faltered. It wasn't so bad talking to him from a few feet away, but his nearness unnerved her. He was big, so broad-shouldered and overwhelmingly male that despite her need to talk to him, she suddenly felt fearful; and she hated that. Her therapist had told her that such a response was only natural, and that it would fade in time, but she still despised herself for it. It made her feel like a coward, and that was the last thing she wanted to feel like, especially in front of a Mountie.
"Yes. I noticed you carrying paintings, the day you moved in," he put in helpfully, as if he sensed her nervousness.
"Yes. Well... I've been wondering," she repeated, ignoring her fear, "if you would help me with something. I know we don't know each other very well, but I'd really love to paint you, and--"
"Paint me?" Fraser echoed, blinking in surprise.
"I mean, your portrait. Paint your portrait, I mean," she stuttered, aware that she was babbling but unable to control it. Her mouth seemed to have a mind of its own, and she'd gone too far to stop now. "I'm working part time, but that's just to pay for my art supplies, until I get started painting again. That's my real vocation." She stopped herself, wondering why she was telling him so much. After all, he was a relative stranger...
She noticed that he looked a little hesitant. "This wouldn't be a commission, you understand," she hastened to reassure him. "I'll do it for free. You can even have it when I'm done, if you want. It's just that I really need a subject. I need to practice, to start painting again, and I don't have any friends in Chicago yet since I just moved here, and--"
"I'd be delighted, Miss Ryan," Fraser said.
"It's just that I've never met a Mountie before, and your uniform is so colorful, and-- what?" Elyssa stopped short, suddenly realizing that, against all odds, she'd thought she'd heard him agree to her mad proposal.
"I'd be happy to pose for you," Fraser said, smiling at Elyssa Ryan's wide-eyed look of surprise. He found her nervousness charming, though he sensed it had its roots in a fear of men in general, which was troubling. But fear of the opposite sex was something he now understood very well. He was trying to get over it himself, without much success. Moreover, Miss Ryan seemed to be a nice person; and her offer to paint him for nothing was very generous -- as well as harmless. Surely nothing bad could come from such an innocent thing as painting a portrait, he reasoned. In fact, the more he thought about the idea, the better he liked it. Maybe if he let her do it, and they became comfortable with each other, it would help them get over their problem with the opposite sex. They might even become friends.
Besides, he found the discovery that an artist was living right down the hall from him fascinating. He loved art, and though he'd resisted Ray's blatant attempt to get them together, he'd been hoping they would meet again. Elyssa Ryan had intrigued him from the first. There was something mysterious about her.
She's young and very attractive, slender with long, pretty, red-gold hair, yet she's single and seemingly unattached. Divorced, perhaps? Maybe she had an abusive husband. Maybe that's why she shies away from men, he thought.
"Oh, thanks! That's wonderful, Mr. Fraser," Elyssa said. She smiled suddenly, white teeth showing beneath softly curving lips in the first genuine smile he'd ever seen on her face, and he blinked. Why had he thought she was merely pretty before? When she smiled, her green eyes lit, her nervousness disappeared, and she shone.
She's beauti--
He cut off the thought, so shocked by it that he took a step back from her before he could stop himself.
She frowned, unable to conceal her surprise at his withdrawal. "We can start right away. Tonight, if you want. That is, if you really want to do this," she added.
She was giving him an out, a chance to change his mind. He cursed himself for a clumsy fool. She was one of the few people he'd met in Chicago who'd actually offered to do something for him, and he hadn't been very gracious to her in return. "I'd very much like to do it, but on one condition," he said. "I want to pay you for it, Miss Ryan."
She rewarded him with another of her remarkable smiles, and this time, he didn't shy away from it. He tried to banish the specter of Victoria, to remember a time when winning such a smile from a pretty woman would've made him wildly happy, rather than afraid. Somewhat to his surprise, he felt a cautious sense of pleasure steal over him as she beamed at him. It was the first time he'd felt anything but uncomfortable around a woman in months, and it reinforced his decision to let Elyssa paint him.
"That's nice of you, but I wouldn't feel right about that, since it was my idea," she said, quietly but firmly. She'd forgotten her initial terror of him enough to assert herself a bit, and he liked the more confident woman who emerged as they talked. It gave him hope that they might indeed become friends, given time.
"Well... how about this, then," he compromised. "I'll sit for the portrait, but you keep it once it's done."
"Oh, no," she protested. "It's a lengthy process, and--"
"I'm afraid I must insist," he said. "If it's a lengthy process, then you'll be putting a lot of work into it. So you should own the piece once it's finished."
She frowned a little. "I don't understand."
He raised an eyebrow, unsure what it was he'd said that confused her.
"I mean, if I keep the portrait, what do you get out of the deal?" she asked.
A typically American way of looking at things, he thought, bemused. "Well... I get the pleasure of participating in the artistic process, of course, of having myself immortalized. And the pleasure of your company, as well. That seems more than adequate compensation."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. The pleasure of your company? That's really forward. What was I thinking?
Elyssa was silent for a moment, and Fraser held his breath, thinking he must've offended her. But then she gave in. "All right," she said at last. "It's a deal, Mr. Fraser."
He smiled at her and out of habit, offered her his hand to close the bargain. This time, she was the one who backed away, her face tightening with instinctive dread. He let his hand fall back to his side, feeling a pang of sympathy. What in God's name happened to her, to make her so fearful of even casual contact with a man? He suddenly realized how hard it must have been for her to ask him to pose for a portrait; for surely that would involve them being alone together, most likely in her apartment.
He silently applauded her courage, his conviction that this artistic endeavor she planned would benefit both of them growing by the minute. "Good. Well, that's settled then," he said. "I have to leave now. I'm afraid I have to get to work, but I'm free tonight, if you'd like to get started on the portrait."
She blinked at him in surprise. He suddenly realized that though she'd offered to start right away, she hadn't really expected him to take her up on it. Or maybe the prospect of being alone with him was more daunting than she'd thought it would be. For whatever reason, her smile was a little forced. "No, actually, now that I think about it, I can't start tonight," she demurred. "Besides, I think I'd rather paint you by natural light. Can you come by on Saturday at about eight a.m., Mr. Fraser? Would that be okay? And can you wear your uniform, please?"
"Certainly." He nodded, then turned to go. But as he walked away from her, he couldn't help thinking that, at the last, she'd regretted her impulsive offer. It made him wonder why she'd done it. Maybe it was just as she'd said: she needed to practice her art, and he was the only person she knew well enough in Chicago to ask.
But he could sense that she was a little afraid of him, even so.
He considered the problem as he headed down the stairs toward the street. If that were true, he'd simply have to show her that there was no need for it, that he could be trusted. He'd never hurt a woman in his life--
Except the only woman I ever loved. Her, I betrayed. Her, I put in prison.
He shivered as he stepped out into the street. My blood must be getting thin, he told himself, trying to explain it. It's been too long since I've been home. It was true enough. As he stepped out onto the busy sidewalk to begin the long walk towards the Consulate, he felt hemmed in, trapped in the belly of the huge, noisy beast that was Chicago. He felt a wave of longing for the clean, cold, open spaces of the Territories that was so strong it made him ache. It was never really quiet here, not even in the dead of night. There was always the hum of traffic, the far off roar of the L, sirens and yells... He missed the deep northern silences profoundly. He'd lived in this loud, crowded city for almost two years now, but he still felt like an outsider. He wondered if Elyssa Ryan did, too.
Yet he couldn't go home. Not yet. Sometimes, in the depths of his soul, he feared that he never would. He was as much a prisoner here, in a way, as Victoria had been in Alaska.
He straightened his jacket and set his hat firmly back on his head, taking a small measure of comfort in their familiarity. Sometimes, small things were all a man could call his own. That, and the knowledge of who he was. Striding off down the street, he concentrated on the paperwork he had waiting on his desk at the Consulate, and banished all thoughts of home and women, past and present.
At least, he tried to.
The following Saturday morning, Fraser stood in the center of Elyssa Ryan's living room floor, twirling his hat in his hands nervously as Elyssa studied him critically from behind her easel. It was their first portrait session, and he didn't know what to expect. He'd anticipated that she'd be very nervous at having him in her apartment, but though she did seem different today, it wasn't due to fear. If anything, she seemed more calm and businesslike. Her eyes had lost their usual guarded look. They were sharper, almost piercing. It was as if being involved in her work gave her a strength she lacked otherwise. She stared at him silently for a long time, and he found her direct green gaze strangely disconcerting. He cleared his throat. "I've never posed for a portrait before," he told her, "but I've read about some portraits done by artists like Van Gogh and Sargent..."
"Read about them?" Elyssa murmured, never taking her eyes off his face. She smiled slightly, absently, and he wondered if he'd unwittingly said something stupid.
"What I meant was, I've seen reproductions of them in books," he answered, forging ahead blindly in the hope that he wasn't making an idiot of himself. "I haven't had a chance to view the originals, since I've never been to Europe, but my grandmother had an extensive library in Tuktoyaktuk, and I read a lot while I was growing up."
"Tukto what?" Elyssa echoed, sounding so much like Ray for a second that he blinked.
"Tuktoyaktuk," he repeated obligingly. "It's in Canada. In the Northern Territories, to be more precise."
"Oh," she nodded, coming towards him suddenly. "That's right. You're from the great frozen north, aren't you?"
"Yes. Though I wasn't actually born in Tuktoyaktuk, I just grew up there. I was really born in Inuvik. Then when I was seven, after my mother died, my father and I moved to Alert. Then after that, my grandmother raised me--"
"In Tuktoyaktuk," Elyssa finished for him.
"Yes," he agreed, obscurely pleased that she'd pronounced the name perfectly that time, though her attention was obviously focused elsewhere. "Tuktoyaktuk is actually as far north as one can go, and still be in Canada," he explained.
"I see." She moved closer to him, nodding absently.
"It's on the Coronation Gulf, south of the Arctic Ocean and west of Greenland," he confided, warming to his subject. He concentrated on reeling off facts and statistics about his background as she studied him. She circled him from mere inches away, with the same quietly intense look she'd had since he came in; and up close, her searching gaze was powerful. There was nothing sexual about it, but it was so focused, so concentrated that it was like a beam of light traveling over and into his body. Women had stared at him many times before, but no one had ever looked at him quite like this: not just in appreciation of his surface, of hair, eyes and skin, but deeper still, as if she could see through to the bones and muscles that lay beneath them. Or perhaps to his very soul. Her gaze had delved into him that way the first time they'd met, and it both fascinated and disconcerted him. Looking back into her unwinking, thickly lashed green eyes dizzied him oddly.
The sensation was disturbingly familiar...
Another blink, and in his mind's eye, he saw a snowy Alaskan mountainside. It was cold, so cold... He'd stared into a pair of beautiful dark eyes one night and felt like this. Like he was falling without moving...
He fought an instinctive surge of fear. God, not again!
That night in Alaska, he'd written that strange new feeling off as an imbalance of the inner ear. This time, he knew what it was -- or at least, what it might become. And the prospect frightened him so much he couldn't face it.
You're being ridiculous, he scolded himself. It's not that, I just feel a little embarrassed because she's studying me so closely. That's all.
That had to be it: he just felt a bit nervous because no one had ever subjected him to such intense scrutiny before. Except perhaps Ray's sister, Francesca. But Elyssa was nothing like Frannie. Thank God! Whenever Frannie got this close to him, she always managed to get her hands caught in totally unexpected places inside his uniform from which it was embarrassing to try to remove them, especially in front of Ray.
He didn't believe Ms. Ryan would do anything like that, but she was so close he could feel her breath warm on his face, and her gaze clear through to his bones. He forced himself to look away from her and down at the floor for a second. Tugging at his collar, he asked, "Has it gotten warmer in here?"
"You look nervous, Mr. Fraser. Relax, I'm just trying to get a feel--"
Oh, God! First Francesca, now her! His eyes flew to hers in consternation.
"For what kind of person you are, I mean," she finished softly, smiling wryly at his obvious misapprehension. "This isn't a come-on, I just need to study you for awhile before I start sketching you. It's what I always do before I paint. To be a good portrait painter, you have to get to the truth, to what's inside people, you know? It's about more than just how they look."
"Of course," he said hastily. "I understand." And he did. Thank to Ray, who had explained to him what a 'come-on' was some time ago, he even understood the American slang she had used. He tried hard not to blush, not to let her see how idiotic he felt for assuming she would try to seduce him, when they'd only just met. Francesca and Victoria had made him too wary of women. He was going to have to bear that in mind, to try to relax a little around Ms. Ryan. "I'm sorry, I just-"
She smiled again, and for a moment, for the first time, he saw real warmth in her eyes. "It's all right. Lots of people are nervous at first. You'll get over it, I promise. Can you turn towards the window for me for a moment, please, Mr. Fraser?"
He did so, and she walked away again, back into the center of the room. He drew a deep breath of relief even as he tried not to think any more about why her nearness made him uncomfortable. He wasn't attracted to her, of course; that would mean he might've had ulterior motives when he'd agreed to have her paint his portrait, and that simply wasn't the case. If he had any expectations at all about what might happen between them, they only included friendship. Besides, after his experience with Victoria, he'd promised himself he wasn't going to do more than look at a woman for a long, long time.
But he'd never expected that a woman would look at him like this. It was completely unexpected, and totally riveting.
As her eyes roved over him again, he suddenly realized that she was doing what all good policemen do: trying to gauge his character, to see inside him to the truths that lay beneath his words, his face. That bit of common ground set him at ease, and his discomfort faded away as he watched her. He returned her gaze calmly, wondering what she would see in him, hoping that she would like it.
After a time, he forgot about himself and became absorbed in watching her. He felt a surge of admiration for her, a sense of excitement about what she was doing. He'd never considered having his portrait painted until she'd asked him, but he was suddenly very glad he'd agreed to let her do it. He loved art, and judging by the quality of the paintings she'd stacked neatly against the far wall, Elyssa was a talented artist. It pleased him to think that now he would be a part of her work.
"Would you do me a favor?" he asked, after a long silence. "Would you call me Benton?" he asked, hoping that small informality would set them both at ease. "Or Benny, if you like. Ray calls me that. Ray Vecchio is my best friend. I believe you met him the day you moved in."
"Yes, I remember, Benton," she said. He was gratified that she'd called him by his first name, but he couldn't help noticing that she didn't offer to let him use hers in return. He stifled a sigh. There'd been something in her voice when he'd mentioned Ray that made him wonder if he'd said or done something to offend her when they'd met. He hoped not. Ray was really a wonderful person, but he had a knack for making people angry on very short acquaintance. Fraser had never been able to figure out if that was accidental, or if he antagonized people because he actually enjoyed it. In any case, he hoped Ms. Ryan would come to appreciate Ray's finer qualities, as he did. The policeman had become such a fixture in his life that it would be hard for him to be friends with anyone who really disliked him.
But Victoria hated Ray -- and I would've gone away with her.
He shifted on his feet, remembering that night, hating the memory of his weakness, his inability to let go of her, which was insane after what she'd done to him.
Victoria. She was long gone, and yet she wasn't. She had a good deal to do with his decision not to tell Ray about this art project he'd embarked on with Elyssa Ryan. He'd wanted to at least a dozen times, ever since she'd first proposed it, but every time he'd opened his mouth to tell Ray about her, Victoria's memory had held him back. She had not only wrecked his life, she'd almost ruined Ray's too. He'd never quite been able to forgive himself for that, for the fact that his messy personal life had hurt his best friend, and almost ruined his career. Not to mention that bullet, meant for her, that Ray had fired and (Benny knew) never quite forgiven himself for.
It was safe to say that his last relationship had been a disaster of major proportions. And how could he know how this one would work out? He had no idea if it would last, if they'd become friends as he hoped, or if he'd ever even see Ms. Ryan again, after she finished working on the painting. This time, he knew better than to drag Ray into the relationship before he even knew what it was going to be.
Besides, he knew that Ray had been worrying about him ever since Victoria had left. Ray thought that the best cure for his broken heart was to 'get right back up on the horse that threw him,' so to speak, and try dating another woman. But he didn't feel he was ready for that yet, which was one of the reasons he'd agreed to this portrait painting idea. It had seemed to him a safe way to get to know an interesting woman, without any romantic expectations to complicate matters.
At least not yet.
Now why had he thought that? He shifted on his feet again a little nervously. Looking away from her green eyes, he forced his mind back to the subject of Ray. For now, what his best friend didn't know couldn't hurt him, and that was definitely the way Fraser wanted it. Besides, once Ray found out he was seeing a woman regularly, no matter how innocent his reasons for it were, he would try to make sure their relationship became romantic, he knew it. Beneath his tough, cynical exterior beat a passionate heart that really believed in love; he knew that, too. But after his experience with Victoria, Benton wasn't sure he agreed. Love had torn his life apart like a whirlwind, and left him reeling. So he decided he wasn't going to tell Ray anything about his portrait, or Elyssa Ryan, until some time had passed, and he had some idea what, if anything, was going to come of it.
There was also the salient point that what Ray didn't know about, he couldn't tease him mercilessly about, either. There was that.
Elyssa frowned slightly as he smiled to himself. "Sit in the chair, please," she murmured, as if unhappy with his pose. "Let's try that."
There was only one chair near him, so he turned it around and sat in it, with his back to the window. "How is that?"
She pursed her lips, shook her head. "No, that's not right either. Can you try straddling the chair instead?"
He obliged, but she still wasn't satisfied. "No, there's still something missing..." She tapped a slender finger on her lips for a second, and he stared at the small gesture in fascination. She really does have remarkably pretty lips, he thought before he could stop himself, mesmerized by the tiny movements of her slender finger against her ripe mouth.
"Aha!" Elyssa snapped her fingers, so suddenly that he flinched.
God, had she read his mind somehow? Deduced his random, lascivious thought?
"Of course -- the wolf!" she breathed.
That was so unexpected he just blinked at her, totally taken by surprise. "Diefenbaker?" he asked, when he could finally remember his wolf's name.
"Yes, your wolf. He's what's missing! I've noticed that he goes everywhere with you. He has to be in the portrait, too."
She seemed quite definite about it, and he stifled a groan. Diefenbaker wasn't in his good graces at the moment. He'd lectured him severely on the subject of theft many times, but Dief refused to listen. So he was frequently forced to reimburse various angry vendors whose wares the wolf had pilfered. His latest theft, from Mr. Somi's deli down the street, had been bolder than ever: he'd snatched a large roll of salami out of a customer's bag in broad daylight. Coming hard on the heels of Dief's latest run-in with the hot dog seller around the corner, that bit of thievery still rankled.
Nonetheless, Fraser knew what Elyssa meant: he and Diefenbaker were a team. Two Canadians adrift in Chicago, they had to stick together, and they always did -- except when the wolf was busy stealing meat from someone, anyway. So he supposed Dief should be in his portrait too. Still, he couldn't help feeling that Dief didn't deserve to be immortalized at the moment. What would they title the painting, he wondered: "Portrait of a Mountie with the Worst Beef Thief in Chicago"?
Elyssa noticed his hesitation, and blinked at him. "I mean, that won't be a problem, will it?" she asked politely. "He seems well trained..."
Fraser shook his head wryly. He was never sure that he'd trained Dief at all; sometimes it seemed to him that it might've been the other way around. After all, didn't he feed the wolf regularly, and make sure he was safe and well cared for? But when had Diefenbaker ever listened to him about anything?
Still, Dief had jumped into icy, raging waters to save his life; and into several other equally dangerous situations since, for the same reason. It was a debt he could never forget. (Even if Dief had chosen to let him, which he didn't.) He loved Diefenbaker, and he knew Dief loved him, but he hadn't been kidding when he'd warned Ray never to let a wolf save his life. He was still paying for that, in ways Ray couldn't begin to imagine.
But Elyssa was the artist. And if she felt Dief needed to be in the portrait with him, who was he to argue?
He forced a smile as he got to his feet. "Having Diefenbaker in the painting won't be any problem at all. Excuse me for a moment. I'll go get him."
A couple of weeks later, Benton showed up a little late for their session. Elyssa was relieved when he finally knocked; he was normally so punctual she could set her watch by him. 8:00 a.m. every Saturday morning, rain or shine, he was here. So when he hadn't showed up by 8:25, she'd worried. She'd even gone to his apartment and knocked on his door, only to find no one home.
"Fraser! Where were you?" she asked, when he finally knocked on her door a few minutes later.
When she swung it open, Benton stood there with Dief at his heels. "I'm sorry we're late," he apologized. "I thought you might be hungry, so I went to get us some breakfast, and I'm afraid Diefenbaker got into a little trouble at the butcher's," he explained ruefully.
"In any case, I hope you like these," he brightened, smiling almost shyly as he dangled a large brown bag in front of her enticingly.
Elyssa blinked at him in surprise. She wasn't much of a breakfast eater ordinarily, but whatever was in that bag sure smelled good...
"I'm sure I will. This was really nice of you, Benton," she smiled. "Come on in."
"Thank you kindly, Miss Ryan."
"You know, we're spending so much time together lately, I think you should start calling me Elyssa, instead of Miss Ryan," she heard herself say as she followed Benton and Diefenbaker into her apartment.
"Elyssa," he smiled, trying it out with evident delight. But it struck her that her relief at him turning up safe and sound was almost too strong; as was her pleasure at his unexpected gesture. She got herself firmly under control. They were getting to be friends now, and she'd let him use her first name, but there was no way things could go any further between them. She even had sudden doubts about the wisdom of what she was doing now. Eating breakfast with him at her place was kind of intimate, almost like a morning after, or at least a date; and she wasn't sure she liked the idea. She hoped he wouldn't expect anything for it in return, as men usually did.
I'm going to have to have a talk with him, make it clear that our relationship ends with friendship. Period.
But some fifteen minutes later, she'd changed her mind about the dangers inherent in breakfast with Benton Fraser. The man was a marvel.
He'd brought an amazing variety of food: warm, luscious cinnamon rolls, lemon- topped rolls he'd called "hot cross buns," several kinds of bagels with cream cheese, peach and strawberry yogurt, orange juice and coffee, as well as fresh bananas, apples and strawberries, and "wheat bread for toast, if you prefer."
A half hour later, Elyssa wiped the last trace of cream cheese off her lips as they sat at her little dinner table. "This was delicious. All of it," she told Fraser. She'd shared a cinnamon roll with him, tried a few bites of a hot cross bun, dipped the fresh fruit they'd cut in a bowl of yogurt, sampled several of the bagels (with a little cream cheese), and washed it all down with the delicious fresh orange juice he'd brought. "Oh, I'm full! Benny, you're going to spoil me -- or fatten me up," she teased him.
"Actually, most of what I brought was quite nutritious, according to the American Medical Association," Benny said calmly.
She blinked at him. "You're kidding me, right?"
"Yes," he admitted, smiling a little. "I didn't have time to check with them before I made my selections."
Elyssa laughed out loud. It was the second or third time he'd made her laugh that morning, and it felt nice. Benton has a good sense of humor, but such an oddly formal way of speaking... Probably the result of being brought up by a librarian grandmother, she thought.
For a second, she remembered other breakfasts she'd had with Rob, before he left her. He'd always wanted her to cook breakfast for him, then sat and read the paper silently while they'd eaten it. There hadn't been much conversation, and less laughter. Breakfast with Benton, by contrast, had been fun. She also knew, from the different bags the food had come in, that Fraser must've visited a market plus several delis to get all of it; and she was touched.
Rob never did anything like this for me, she realized. Looking back on it, she hadn't asked very much of him; nor had he given much. She wondered if that was why he'd found it so easy to let go of her, when things got tough.
"You didn't have to go to so much trouble for me, Fraser," she said, to distract herself from her unsettling memories.
He smiled at her. "It was my pleasure," was all he said. Common, mundane words, but somehow, she knew they weren't just a platitude to him. He meant them. He was genuinely kind.
"Well, thank you."
"You're welcome."
A small silence fell between them after that, and Benny looked around as if searching for something to say. His eyes fell on a card she'd taped to the side of her kitchen cupboards. It was a gorgeous reproduction of a blonde Botticelli angel with lustrous feathered wings, against a light blue sky. Her sister had sent it, with a private message: "A guardian angel for your new place," it said. "You should be watched over by the best, Sis."
Benny studied the angel on the card for a moment, then murmured, "That's beautiful. Is it a Botticelli?"
"Yes," she smiled, impressed. His variety of knowledge constantly surprised her. She'd already discovered that he knew a fair amount about Indian and Eskimo art, and that he liked the English artists Turner and Constable as well as Van Gogh, but she'd had no idea he knew anything about Italian Renaissance painting. She took the card down and handed it to him. "My sister sent me this. Said I needed a guardian angel," she told him.
"That's a nice thought," Benny smiled, studying the card. She was struck by the gentleness of his expression, by his beauty. Botticelli would've loved you, she thought, grateful that she'd gotten the chance to capture him on canvas. She remembered suddenly how she'd thought his red jacket made him glow like an angel, the first time she saw him, and wondered if it was a sign. He'd been nothing but kind to her ever since, and he made her feel safe. She thought maybe Jennie didn't need to worry -- she'd already found a guardian angel in a fiery red uniform.
"I've always wanted to visit Italy some day, and see some of Botticelli's work. I love Renaissance art," he said as he put the card down on the table.
He'd surprised her yet again.
She smiled. "I do too! All that gilt gold and those rich, deep blue skies... It's gorgeous. I love Michelangelo and Leonardo, Fra Angelico and Raphael and Botticelli, Ghiberti and Cellini. So much talent flourishing at once, they really had 'an embarrassment of riches' in 15th century Italy."
"Yes. What's your favorite painting?" he asked curiously.
She laughed. "Oh, that's hard, there're so many! I love Raphael's Madonnas, and Leonardo's 'Virgin of the Rocks.'"
"Leonardo da Vinci was a genius," he agreed, his eyes lighting as he warmed to the subject. "I used to stare at a reproduction my grandmother had of the 'Mona Lisa' when I was a boy, and wonder how he blended the edges of her smile so mysteriously."
"Yes, sfumato," she explained. "That's the technical name for it, but I still think it was magic. He had magic in his hands."
"Just like you," he said, smiling at her.
She smiled back at him before she thought, and for a second, their eyes locked. She nearly blushed at his compliment. I'm happy, she thought, surprised. Happy just being with him, talking to him.
Oh God.
Elyssa Ryan smiled into Fraser's eyes, and his heart leapt. Things were going so well between them, he could hardly believe it. He always seemed to mess things up with women, given the chance, but though she was as wary of men as a deer in hunting season, so far, she seemed to like him.
He'd taken a chance, getting breakfast for her like this when he had no idea what she liked, or if she even ate breakfast, but she'd accepted his gesture graciously, and seemed to enjoy everything he'd brought. She'd talked with him quite comfortably while they ate. In fact, she'd been so relaxed that she'd laughed out loud more than once.
It had all turned out better than he could've hoped. He liked to think their relationship was getting stronger with each meeting, that they were becoming friends. He found it hard to imagine his life without her anymore. She was becoming important to him, and he wondered whether she looked forward to seeing him as much as he did her.
When she thanked him for breakfast, he thought maybe she did. And when she showed him her Botticelli card and they started talking about art, her eyes lit up instantly. She talked animatedly, her love for the subject shining out of her, and he could've sworn that, for a moment, she was more than comfortable with him, she was actually happy.
But when their eyes caught and held, something changed.
She stood up suddenly, tearing her gaze from his. "That was a good breakfast, but I need to get this cleaned up now. I need to get started painting," she said, her voice taut with an emotion his Mountie ears disturbingly identified as fear.
"It's okay," he said gently, frowning because he didn't understand the reason for the sudden chill between them, for her changed manner. "I'll help you clean up," he offered, to try and smooth things over, wondering all the while what she was afraid of. But as he reached out to pick up a plate, his hand brushed hers and she flinched visibly; and he had his answer.
Me. Me, damn it. Still.
"No, that's okay!" Elyssa said hastily, as Fraser rose to his feet to help her. "You bought breakfast, the least I can do is clean up."
"All right," he said at last. But he looked downcast, and she wondered if he'd seen the way she'd jumped when he'd touched her accidentally. A wave of embarrassment swept over her. She hated that little reflex, hated it, but sometimes it just happened. She hoped fervently that he hadn't been insulted by it, that he hadn't noticed. She gathered up their plates and carried them into her little kitchen, avoiding his eyes. She hated herself for spoiling what had been a fun time, but her feelings for him confused her. He probably thought she was afraid of him, but the truth was, she was more afraid of herself. He had a way of getting to her, of gently waltzing right past her defenses until he was suddenly close to her, and it unnerved her. He was so open and honest, and sometimes when he looked at her, she wished she could be that way too... But she couldn't. Not anymore.
She had to operate within boundaries, perimeters that kept her safe. He has to stay on his side of the line, she thought. He has to. The only problem was, he blurred that line she'd drawn so carefully between them as artist and model more and more, every time she saw him. He was already becoming her friend; but she couldn't let him erase their boundaries any further. It had to stop there. It had to.
No matter how much I like him, he's still a man.
As Elyssa and Fraser were heading into her apartment one day for another painting session, Elyssa dropped her keys. They both dove for them at the same instant -- and knocked their heads together painfully in the process.
"Ow!" Elyssa muttered, rubbing her forehead. Then they both burst out laughing at the mishap that had rocked them back on their heels.
"I'm sorry," Fraser said automatically, smiling as he swept the keys up in his hand and helped her gently to her feet.
"Oh, don't be sorry," she smiled back. "That was probably my fault. I've never been very graceful. Are you all right?"
He made a dismissive gesture. "I'm fine. Are you okay?"
She nodded. His smile faded, but he kept on holding her arm and staring down into her eyes long after she'd regained her feet, and his gaze was oddly intense. It was the first time he'd ever touched her for more than a second, and the first time the contact felt personal. She was a bit surprised that it didn't bother her; but oddly enough, he seemed the one who was really affected by it. She stared up at him curiously. "Are you sure you're all right, Fraser? You look like you just saw a ghost."
She was just teasing him to lighten the mood, but it didn't produce the relief she expected. Fraser dropped her am, but his face paled suddenly, and clouded as if a shadow had passed over it. Maybe it did, she thought. Maybe I reminded him of something -- or someone -- he's tried to forget. She'd seen that look in his eyes before. He never spoke about it, never voiced what his thoughts were at such moments, but suddenly, somehow, she knew what was at the heart of the pain she'd sensed in him.
"You must've loved her very much," she said quietly.
Fraser stared at her, frozen solid suddenly, so still he hardly even seemed to be breathing; and she knew she'd been right. A woman had wounded him, a woman had put those shadows in the depths of his handsome blue eyes. Her heart went out to him. He looked down at his boots, his face white and drawn as he stared blindly into a tragedy in his past, into his own heart of darkness. He swallowed hard. "Her name was Victoria," he said huskily at last.
He must've lost her. But it isn't love in the past tense, Elyssa thought. He still loves her. Her throat tightened, even as something inside her that she hadn't even dared to acknowledge died quietly. She let him go reluctantly and edged away. "I didn't mean to upset you, Benton. I'm sorry. Maybe you'd prefer not to do a session today?"
He caught her as she turned away, surprising her. "No! It's all right, Elyssa. I want to."
She eyed him closely. "Are you sure?"
His gaze was rock steady now. "I'm sure. Actually, if you don't mind, I'd like -- to tell you about her. About Victoria, if you'd care to listen."
For a moment she wavered, not at all certain she wanted to hear about Victoria. She wasn't jealous of course, she just didn't want to know about a woman cruel enough to wound eyes as kind as Benton Fraser's.
But for some reason, telling her seemed to matter a great deal to him. She remembered how her own friends had drifted away after it happened, become like strangers to her, and her heart went out to him. He was a strong man, but she wondered if he'd had nights like hers, nights so dark and deep you wondered if you would ever come out the other side to see morning again. She wondered if he'd lain awake through those endless times like she had, wishing he had someone to talk to, someone who could drive his demons away.
She wondered if, like her, he had found no one in that empty darkness at all.
"Come on in, Fraser. I'll fix you some tea, and you can tell me all about Victoria while I paint," she smiled.
Lightning flashed outside, so close that it strobed Fraser's apartment for an instant with its harsh white glare. Hard on its heels came a clap of thunder that rattled the windows. Diefenbaker padded to the side of Fraser's bed and whined softly, almost apologetically. He never had liked storms. Odd for a wolf born and raised in the wild, but there it was. They just unsettled him.
"It's okay," Fraser said softly, as he reached out and ruffled his fur with understanding hands. Dief laid his head on the bed beside him, comforted by his stroking fingers. "I wasn't sleeping anyway."
But that wasn't because of the storm. In fact, despite its noisy pyrotechnics, he hadn't paid much attention to it. After all, once you'd been through winter storms in the Territories, Midwestern weather had little power to impress. No, what was keeping him awake -- what had been keeping him awake with increasing frequency lately -- was thoughts of Elyssa Ryan. They tended to steal into his head at the oddest moments: while he was on his way to the Consulate in the morning, even if he was with Ray, he found himself studying faces they passed on the street, searching for her in the crowds. While eating lunch with Ray at the precinct one day, Louise St. Laurent had come in to talk to him, and he'd found himself comparing her red hair with Elyssa's, rather unfavorably. (It was uncharitable of him, to be sure, but the thought that Elyssa's hair was far thicker, and a lighter, prettier shade of red as well, had crossed his mind before he could stop it.)
And that was only the first of many such unruly thoughts. Most recently, Elyssa had even stolen into his mind in the middle of a lecture by the Dragon Lady. He bit his lip, remembering the painful scene.
Ray got him to the Consulate all of three minutes after his shift was scheduled to begin that morning. Since they'd been delayed in a good cause, he hoped no one would notice; but Thatcher was waiting for him just inside the front door. She lined him up against the wall in what was becoming an all-too-familiar position lately, her brown eyes cold as ice.
"Are you or are you not a Constable in the RCMP, Constable?" she demanded in a distinctly unpleasant tone, as her eyes bored into his. He'd opened his mouth to point out the inherent illogic in her question, but shut it again when he remembered that she wore a sidearm, and seemed angry enough to consider using it if provoked. He'd then considered telling her that he'd been delayed because he and Ray had been duty-bound to stop and render emergency first aid to the victim of an auto accident they'd encountered on their way in; but though it was the truth, he decided against it. The Inspector didn't seem to like Ray very much, or appreciate his involvement in Vecchio's casework, either. Bringing his name up at such a time might only annoy her even more than she already was. (It was hard for him to tell what was a safe subject of conversation with Thatcher, since most everything he did or said seemed to make her angry.)
After careful deliberation, he decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Staring straight ahead, keeping his expression as neutral as he could, he answered simply, "Yes, sir, I am."
Evidently, it wasn't the answer she'd been looking for. She stiffened even more. "I know that, Fraser!" she hissed, so angrily that he'd flinched. "I want to know if you know it!"
Oh dear, he'd sighed to himself. That question made no sense either. Since he'd just stated his rank, how could he not know what it was? Her leaps of illogic were beginning to dizzy him. He had no more idea how to answer her latest question than he had her first, so he settled for staring stolidly at her while she began to cite every instance of dereliction of duty, real or imagined, that he'd committed since she'd taken over her post at the Consulate.
It was a surprisingly lengthy list; and a debatable one as well. But she was in such a bad mood that he knew better than to argue with her. Somewhere in the midst of her recitation, his thoughts unexpectedly drifted away. In his mind's eye, the Inspector's cold dark eyes were replaced by Elyssa's warm, lovely green ones. He remembered how she'd smiled at him during their last few portrait sessions. He knew she was finally starting to trust him, and it meant a lot to him.
"Are you laughing at me, Fraser?" The Dragon Lady's voice rose an octave suddenly, and he came back to earth with a jolt. With a faint sense of panic, he realized that he had no real idea what she'd been saying, or why she would think such a thing.
"No, sir!" he said fervently.
"Then why are you smiling like that?" she demanded, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
He felt himself flushing. He wasn't smiling -- was he? Maybe it was just that she'd noticed his momentary, uncharacteristic woolgathering and mistaken it for amusement. Yes. That had to be it.
Still, he drew the corners of his mouth down into a frown, just in case they had in fact been misbehaving without his knowledge or consent, as she kept insisting. "I wasn't smiling, sir," he said hastily, telling himself that since he hadn't been consciously aware of the gesture, he wasn't really lying. After all, one couldn't be held morally responsible for actions taken by one's subconscious -- could one?
But he had no time to consider the finer points of that moral dilemma, because Thatcher took a step closer to him, her eyes stabbing into him like twin laser beams. "You-were-smiling-Constable!" she said, biting off each word with an audible snap of her teeth. "I think I know a smile when I see one!"
Oh, dear. She's mistaken my denial for criticism of her powers of observation. This conversation isn't going well at all!
Where was his dad, anyway? He cast a sideways glance in the hope that he might've turned up somewhere over the Inspector's shoulder, but no such luck. That figures. I could've used some fatherly advice right now, but he only seems to appear at the most inopportune moments, rather than when he's really needed, Fraser thought, with a trace of pique.
He shook his head, trying not to look desperate. "No, Inspector, that's not what I meant!" he explained. "I mean, you certainly would recognize a smile as such, but I wasn't smiling just now. I would never smile at you, sir."
Thatcher's eyes widened in surprise. He suddenly realized what he'd said, and that he had, in fact, just dug himself deeper into a hole which was rapidly assuming the proportions of a bottomless pit. "What I meant is..." Unsure exactly how to rephrase his faux pas, he cast about for an alternate explanation, and felt a red wave of embarrassment creeping up his neck and into his face. God, he was only making things worse! Ray often claimed that he had a tendency to babble. He knew in his heart that it was true; and that unfortunate trait only seemed to get worse when he got flustered like this.
"What I meant is, as my superior officer, I accord you the highest respect," he said at last, choosing his words with extreme care. "I would never mock you, sir. And I will endeavor never to be late for my shift again, for any reason."
That mollified Thatcher at last. "See that you're not, Fraser," she sniffed, turning away from him at last. But before he could relax even slightly, she rounded on him again. "And one more thing: I'd better not see that goofy smile on your face again when you're being reprimanded, Constable, or you'll be guarding icebergs up in the Yukon before you can say, 'Oh, dear'!"
"Yes, sir. Understood."
"Dismissed, Constable."
He put his hat back on and went back to his post with a distinct feeling of relief that lasted only until a disturbing thought struck him. If Thatcher was right, and he'd been wearing a "goofy smile" during that lecture, then Elyssa Ryan had to be the cause of it, because he'd been thinking about her when the Inspector "went ballistic," as Ray would say.
Lying on his bed in the darkness as the storm raged outside, he tried not to think about the implications of that. He couldn't be feeling a romantic interest in Elyssa, could he? It was too soon, and Victoria had hurt him too deeply -- hadn't she?
But I told her about Victoria. I've never told anyone else that before, but I told her everything: how I betrayed her, how she betrayed me, murdered Jolly and tried to frame both Ray and I. I even told her how, after all that, I would've gone away with her, if Ray hadn't stopped me.
The only thing he'd left out was the fact that Ray had done that by accidentally shooting him. Elyssa hardly knew Ray yet, and he didn't want her to think less of him for that. God knew, Ray had torn himself up over it enough inside already.
The real wonder of it all was, Elyssa had understood. She'd listened quietly while he related his dark tale of love, pain and betrayal. She hadn't made any comments, just waited patiently until he'd poured it all out. Then... He would never forget what she'd done next. Instead of judging him, instead of telling him that he'd been a fool and he was better off without her, as his father had done, she'd gone to him, put her hand on his shoulder and said simply, "I'm sorry, Benny, that Victoria ever hurt you like that. You deserve better."
Elyssa's green eyes had been sad, but full of a warmth that stunned him. Their eyes locked, and he'd realized that in her compassion for him, she'd forgotten to be afraid of him. She'd stayed beside him and stroked his shoulder gently for a moment; and the amazing thing was that while she'd touched him, he'd forgotten about his pain as well. He'd covered her hand with his own and held it wordlessly, grateful for her friendship.
That moment was everything he'd hoped for when he'd first agreed to let her paint his portrait. For a moment, their souls touched and they drew strength from each other. Her understanding had moved him deeply. Still, he wasn't sure that she was right. Sometimes, he thought he and Victoria had gotten just what they deserved, for not loving enough to trust each other.
Even so, he'd never wanted another woman the way he'd wanted Victoria. The intensity of it had overwhelmed him. He shifted restlessly under his covers, remembering the feel of her in his arms, the way her hair had cascaded over him while he made love to her...
Elyssa has long hair too, he thought. Long, beautiful hair.
He stiffened, stunned that thoughts of the new woman in his life had even intruded into his memories of his former lover. Even there... He flushed as he realized that part of him had been wondering how Elyssa's red-gold hair would feel against his skin.
A wave of pure fear turned him cold. So. He did want Elyssa. He wanted her badly. He was already half in love with her, and falling deeper into it every day. But the realization frightened him. Love was painful, dangerous, destructive -- his last love had nearly killed him. And those were just his feelings on the subject. Considering what Elyssa's were likely to be turned his fear to near panic.
She's been terribly hurt. She doesn't trust men at all. She's only just learning to trust me. If I so much as touch her, I'll spoil that. She doesn't want me, she feels only friendship for me. If she knew I wanted her she'd be repulsed, maybe even frightened; and her friendship is too valuable to risk. I don't want to lose her like I lost Victoria.
He threw off his covers, and rose to his feet in a sweat. So far, he'd been a perfect gentleman with Elyssa, but now that he'd realized what his true feelings were, how could he continue to maintain his distance from her? Sooner or later, he would have to speak out, to do something about it.
You can't do that, he told himself, pacing the floor barefoot in his agitation. You'll just scare her off.
But how can I not? I'm a man, not a plaster saint. And I love her.
You loved Victoria too, and you ruined it.
On and on the debate raged inside his head, half of him urging caution, repression, and the other half insisting that he take a chance and follow his heart. Unable to escape his past and unsure how to keep it from repeating itself, he hugged himself in the darkness as he moved blindly across the floor. But his own arms were cold comfort, and the room was too small to contain his agitation.
Finally, he knew that if he stayed in his small apartment for one more hour, even one more minute, he would go mad. Victoria's ghost still haunted this room, and on nights like this, she was so near he could almost see her. He needed fresh air, needed to get outside, under the stars. Some nights he walked for miles in the darkness, trying to find some measure of peace. If nothing else, it tired him so that he could sleep.
He turned on his lantern, swept up a pair of jeans in the yellow glow of its light, and pulled them on. Dief barked softly at him, his tail wagging hopefully. "Yes, you can come," he answered, grateful even in his pain for the wolf's presence. If not for Dief, he would be completely, utterly alone on nights like this.
"She's not coming back, son," his father's voice repeated in his head. "And why on earth would you want her to?"
Because she was the only woman who ever loved me. It was a bitter truth. A lonely one, that stung him even now. He shivered as he pulled on his boots, feeling the sting of unwelcome tears at the back of his eyes. He swallowed hard. "Let's go," he said tersely to Diefenbaker.
They headed out the door into the dark, silent hallway. The storm had died away, and even without his watch, Fraser knew instinctively that it was almost midnight, and that everyone else was asleep. But as he headed for the stairs, he suddenly noticed a light on in Elyssa Ryan's apartment. His heart beat an uneasy tattoo against his ribs as something pulled him towards the slender shaft of golden light that showed beneath her door.
Don't be a fool, a little voice inside him whispered. Don't do it. She'll only hurt you like Victoria did.
But he wasn't listening. The darkness was too much for him tonight, the loneliness unbearable. More than that, he knew somehow that though Elyssa was beautiful like Victoria, the resemblance between the two women ended there. Elyssa wasn't cruel, and she had no reason to hurt him.
But there's a darkness at the back of her eyes, the voice of doubt whispered in his head. You know it, you've seen it. And a man put it there. You know that, too. Maybe that's enough of a reason, for her.
He drifted like a ghost to her door, and listened quietly for a moment. When he heard no sound from within, he wavered. Maybe she's asleep like all the others, he thought, trying to find excuses to escape. Maybe she fell asleep with her light on. I can just leave, and she'll never know I was here. He hesitated. His desire to escape the confines of the building was strong. The streets below were calling him.
But he knew how dark and empty they would be, and wondered suddenly if he was doomed to spend the rest of his life wandering down them alone.
He knocked at Elyssa's door.
After a moment, when there was no answer, he set his jaw and turned to go. But just as he did, he heard a tiny rustle of movement from inside, and her door opened a few cautious inches, just enough so he could see the edge of her face above her chain lock, and one wide green eye. "Benton?" she asked, surprised.
He tried to smile, tried not to look as desperate as he felt. Drawing close to her door, he said quietly, "I'm sorry to bother you, Elyssa, but..."
Ray's voice sounded suddenly inside his head, cynical as always. "But what, Benny? You got her up at an ungodly hour, now what're you going to do? Ask her to borrow a cup of sugar, tell her one of your boring Inuit stories? What?"
Elyssa suddenly opened her door wide enough so that he could see her; and to his surprise, though she was barefoot, she was wearing jeans and a button-down sweater that she hadn't had time to just put on. She was still dressed, as if she'd never gone to bed. She hasn't been sleeping either, he thought, with a faint sense of shock. But as she stared at him, her face pale and vulnerable in the shadowed hallway, he saw the shadows in her eyes again, and he knew why. He wondered angrily who had hurt her like Victoria had hurt him; what ghosts kept her awake on lonely nights like this.
"I know it's late, but I was just going for a walk," he said quietly, "and I wondered if you'd like to come."
His heart beat painfully in his chest when she didn't answer him. As much as she'd come to trust him, he suddenly realized what he was asking her to do: go out into the dark, in the middle of the night, with a man she hardly knew. And while he didn't know exactly what had happened to her, he knew a man had done it; and that it had been so bad that a man's very touch was now enough to frighten her. So his request was by no means a simple or a small one, for her. She stood there wrestling silently with her fear, unable to answer him.
As she hesitated, Diefenbaker moved to sit at her heel, gazing raptly up at her with what looked like an adoring smile. Really -- the way Dief acts when Elyssa's around, you'd think she was a female wolf, he thought, amused. But Elyssa was staring at him so intensely that she didn't even notice Dief. "It'll be all right, Elyssa," he said, very softly. "Diefenbaker won't let anyone hurt you," he finished, willing her to understand what he meant -- that anyone included even him.
Elyssa blinked at him, her green eyes going wide with wondering surprise. She looked down at Diefenbaker for a second, as if she needed time to compose her features. He knew that for once, he'd said just the right thing; and that she'd understood him perfectly.
Diefenbaker won't let anyone hurt you -- and neither will I. As she bent her bright head to pet his wolf, he felt a fierce surge of protectiveness for her. He realized that he felt the same way about her that he did about Ray: if anyone tried to harm either of them, he would kill them if need be.
He'd been wrong. He wasn't halfway there, he was already in love with Elyssa Ryan.
When did my feelings for her become so strong? he wondered. It was hard to pin down the precise moment. Was it when she looked deeply into his eyes, that first day they met? When she somehow knew, without him having to tell her, that he'd been deeply hurt by a woman? Or when she'd touched him gently and said she was sorry that Victoria had hurt him so?
He didn't know. He only knew he wanted her with him tonight. Wanted it more than he'd wanted anything since Victoria had left. In the taut silence, he stretched out his hand to her. He didn't know where this would lead, but he knew he had to do it; and not just for his sake. She was hurting, too. He understood the darkness in her eyes too well to leave her alone tonight.
"All right," she said at last. "I'll come with you." To his disappointment, she didn't take his hand, but she smiled at him as she straightened, and her eyes were soft and luminous. "Come in for a second, Benton, while I get my coat and shoes."
"Thank you kindly." He breathed a sigh of relief as he followed her into her apartment, aware that her inviting him in at such an hour was a show of trust in itself. He honored it by staying just inside the doorway, not venturing a step towards her room while she finished dressing. It was enough that she'd fought her fears and won, at least on this occasion; enough that she was coming, and more than enough that for once, on this dark night, he wouldn't walk the streets alone.
But when she came out a minute later, looking heartbreakingly young in a dark, oversized peacoat and white sneakers, he found himself wanting more.
"Shall we?" he asked, holding his desire ruthlessly in check as he held her door open for her.
"Sure." She looked a little scared, but determined; she even tried to smile as she went by him. He admired her courage, and vowed he wouldn't do or say anything to make her uncomfortable. Of course, his concern for her wasn't entirely unselfish: his need for her was as strong as the shadows in her eyes. He would've followed mutely ten paces behind her if necessary, trailed her like a wolf, in order to be near her.
They moved silently down the stairs together, Dief at their heels. When they were out on the street, Elyssa paused, looking both ways, then pointed left. "Let's go that way," she said firmly, wanting to exercise a bit of control.
Fraser didn't mind. He smiled at her with the first deep, genuine happiness he'd felt since he'd been shot. Maybe someday, he thought, she'll trust me enough to let me help her banish her shadows.
Tonight, it was enough that she was here with him. "My thoughts exactly," he agreed.
They walked off into the night, so close together that they were almost touching.
Elyssa could not have said, afterwards, how far they walked that night. It must've been a long way, but the time flew by, and the walk didn't tire her. In fact, it exhilarated her. Fraser was such a comfortable man to be with. He didn't push or pry, didn't tell silly jokes or try to impress her; and the come-on she'd feared when he'd showed up unexpectedly at her door never materialized, either. He didn't try to hold her hand as they walked, or even touch her. He just walked beside her and talked, with an honesty she'd thought nonexistent anymore and a wistfulness she doubted he even realized, of his former home in the Territories, and his love for the land and its people.
More remarkable still was the fact that she never once felt afraid while she was with him. She had never ventured out onto the city streets at night before. Alone, that was unthinkable, and she had no friends here yet with whom she could go; at least, she hadn't known she did until tonight. But as they walked along quietly together, she realized with a sense of shock that Benton Fraser was just that: a friend. He made her feel completely and utterly safe.
"Diefenbaker won't let anyone hurt you," he'd said, and she'd had the strangest feeling that anyone included him. Those words had won her over as nothing else could have, and now she was glad. With his simple invitation, by taking her where she was too afraid to venture on her own, he'd given her back a part of her life she'd lost the night she was attacked, given her back a freedom she'd thought was lost forever. He'd been nothing but kind and giving, in fact, since she'd met him. He was so understanding that it both drew her and made her suspicious. It had been hard to believe that a cop could be so compassionate, that a man could be so gentle. Hard for her anymore, at any rate.
But no longer. As they walked side by side down the darkened, quiet streets, she sensed what she'd felt about him all along, while she was painting him: that he was genuine, a man who was what he seemed to be. There wasn't a phony bone in Benton Fraser's body. There couldn't be, or she would've seen it while she was painting him. He had to be a decent man or he wouldn't be here with her, demanding nothing but her presence and the pleasure of her company. She felt a warmth steal over her as they moved, and when he turned his head to look at her, she let it blossom into a smile.
He smiled back, a little puzzled. "What was that for?"
"I just realized, you're my best friend in all of Chicago, Benton," she said lightly, so that he wouldn't see how she was nerving herself to do something much bolder.
"You told me that you don't have any friends in Chicago at all," he returned, straightfaced but teasing her a little. Taking a deep breath, she slipped her arm through his, bringing them dangerously close together. It was the first time she'd touched him so intimately; and he understood instantly how significant that small gesture was. He stopped moving for a second, and shot her a glance of genuine surprise.
"I changed my mind," she smiled, enjoying the fact that she'd shocked him a little. Benton was always so calm and unshakable, it wasn't easy to do. She held her breath, wondering what he was going to do about it.
True to form, he didn't make a fuss, or try to turn the gesture into an embrace. He just raised his eyebrows and murmured, "Ah." Then he kept walking.
But she wasn't fooled. He held her arm firmly against him, and the smile that stole quietly over his face as they walked was something to see.
Ray Vecchio slumped in his chair at 7:30 a.m. one Friday morning, bleary-eyed from an all-night paperwork session prompted by Lieutenant Welsh. The Lieutenant had explained things to him very clearly: either he clean up the mountain of backlogged reports, papers and assorted files on his desk, or he'd be directing traffic for weeks. Welsh had concluded his little fatherly lecture by putting a hand on his shoulder and saying, "Don't think of that as a threat, Detective. Think of it as a promise."
Vecchio had. So he'd spent the night at his desk, attacking the papers that seemed to breed there when he wasn't looking. He'd just finished when a familiar red coat materialized beside him. Fraser. He had to stifle a groan. It wasn't that he didn't want to see him, it was the timing of his visit that he didn't like. Oh, God, he thought. If Benny's here this early, it means he's probably got another neighborhood purse snatching or some other equally diabolical case for me to look into, and I'm so tired I can't see straight.
He just wasn't in a petty theft mood, at the moment. "Whatever it is, Benny, I don't wanna know about it," he croaked, cradling his aching head in his hands.
The Mountie deposited a large white bag on his desk. Warm, delicious scents wafted to Vecchio's tired nose. "I think you do, Ray," he said.
He lifted his head, coming alive in spite of himself, sniffing at the wonderful aroma pouring from the bag.
"Cinnamon rolls," Benny said with a slight smile, answering his unspoken question.
"You brought me cinnamon rolls?" Ray sat up in his chair, smiling up at his friend in delight, his bad humor melted away by the thoughtful gesture. He'd mentioned casually about a week ago how much he liked them. Trust Benny to have listened and put the information to good use.
Benny smiled back. "Cinnamon rolls, assorted doughnuts, and coffee. From Mrs. Hemmel's bakery down the street. She even threw in a few doughnut holes for you, too."
Vecchio suspected she'd thrown in the extra doughnut holes for Fraser, not for him, but he wasn't about to complain. After a whole night of writing reports and scouring his files for any leads he might've missed, he was starving. Fresh cinnamon rolls, doughnuts and coffee sounded (and smelled) like heaven. He opened the bag eagerly. "Thanks, Benny, you're a saint," he said, meaning it. "But how did you know I was here?"
"I called you last night, and your mother said you were 'pulling another all-nighter'," Fraser explained, proud of his rapidly expanding knowledge of American slang. "So I deduced that you were 'all-nighting' here."
Ray smiled. Trust Ma. I'm surprised she didn't send Fraser by with milk and cookies. "Have a seat." He pulled up a chair for the Mountie beside his desk, drank deeply of the steaming coffee, then bit into a big, soft chocolate doughnut gratefully. "Mmm, God, this is good. Ya wanna help me eat some?"
Fraser shook his head, and remained standing. "No, I'm afraid I can't. I've got to get to the Consulate early, and get caught up on some paperwork."
Ray grimaced as he chomped on the warm, sugary treat. "I know the feeling." Still, he was disappointed. He wanted to make up for snapping at Fraser earlier. "Hey, how about shooting some hoops tomorrow morning?" he suggested, taking another sip of the hot coffee. "I'll spring for lunch after."
Fraser opened his mouth as if to say yes, then closed it again. "I'm sorry, I can't. Not tomorrow," he said.
Ray squinted at him as he took huge bites of his doughnut. Benny, busy on a Saturday morning? Come to think of it, that makes two Saturdays in a row now that he's been just 'busy', no explanation. His curiosity was aroused. "What, you involved in a charity project somewhere?" he guessed. "The local girls' school having a bake sale, and you volunteered to make pemmican?" he teased.
Benny blinked at him. "I don't think dried deer meat would be appropriate fare for a bake sale, Ray," he protested mildly. "But that's not it, no."
He shifted a little on his feet, still not saying what 'it' really was, and Ray's curiosity intensified. Fraser was usually more than happy to tell him all about his life. When he kept silent about something, it usually meant that something was wrong, or that he'd been asked to keep a secret. But he didn't seem nervous, so that meant he was most likely keeping some kind of secret.
"I... uh... Well," Fraser mumbled. "Would Sunday be all right, perhaps? For our game, I mean."
Now he's trying to change the subject! Ray suppressed a smile at Benny's blatant attempt to divert him. Fraser was the worst liar in the world, as transparent as glass when he was trying to hide something; and right now, his body language was practically yelling "I've got a secret!" He was staring fixedly at some point on the wall over Ray's head, afraid to meet his eyes, and clutching his hat with nervous hands.
Oh, yeah. He's definitely hiding something, he grinned to himself, his weariness forgotten as he scented a mystery. The more Benny tried to evade him, the more perversely determined he became to find out exactly what was keeping him busy on Saturday mornings lately.
"Lemme think," he murmured, pretending to consider Fraser's question but really using the next few seconds to examine his friend closely for clues, instead. Fraser was immaculately dressed as always, not a hair out of place. But that wasn't surprising or even unusual -- Fraser always looked that way, even after chasing a suspect at full speed through alleys and over rooftops for several miles. Ray often suspected he must glue his hair to his head before he left for work every morning, because in all the time he'd known him, he'd never once seen him even take a comb to it. Yet it always looked perfect.
Still, now that he thought about it, there was something different about Benny this morning. Something that had been there for some time now, but that he just hadn't paid much attention to. He snapped his fingers, so suddenly that Fraser flinched. "You're smiling!" he said.
"What?" Fraser asked, stiffening guiltily. He wiped the expression from his face. "No, I believe I was asking if you want to play basketball on Sunday," he repeated, looking as blank as he possibly could.
Ray ignored the question, grinned broadly as he reached for a cinnamon roll. "Too late, too late, Benny, I saw that!" he crowed. "And now that I think about it, you've been smiling a lot lately. I thought maybe it was one o' your strange Canadian phases, but now I understand. It's a woman, isn't it?" he teased.
"No!" Fraser shook his head adamantly.
Ray raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"I mean, I haven't been smiling a lot," he said.
"Oh yes, you have!" Ray shot back. "Just a little smile -- not so's anyone else would notice, but then I'm not anybody. Besides bein' your friend, I'm a trained observer, and I'm tellin' you, your lips've been curlin' up for weeks. Come on!" he teased, enjoying the hell out of this. "You can tell me, Fraser. Who is she?"
At that point, he thought the Mountie would finally come clean out of sheer embarrassment, and tell him what he'd really been up to lately. But to his amazement, Fraser opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again helplessly, while a slow crimson flush crept up his neck.
Ray blinked at him.
"Oh my God," he breathed, rocking back in his desk chair, in shock. "I was right! It is a woman!" That had been a shot in the dark, but he knew instantly from Fraser's overly innocent expression and obvious blush that his aim had been true. Benny was involved with a woman! He'd been seeing her on the sly, and (in typical, irritatingly chivalrous fashion) never said a word about it. Vecchio sent up a silent prayer of thanks that his friend had finally managed to get over the terror of women Victoria had left him with, even as he prepared to rib him mercilessly about it. "Benny, you hound!" he grinned, secretly delighted.
"I don't know what you mean, Ray -"
"What's her name?" he insisted.
"Ray, I don't -"
"Come on, Benny! I'm a detective, remember? You've been wanderin' around for two weeks now with a goofy little smile, you're never around on Saturdays but you won't tell me what you're doin'-- "
"It's art, Ray," Benny muttered, fingering his hat.
Ray sat up in his chair again, brought up short. "What?"
"I've been... involved in an art project on Saturdays," he said defensively. "That's all."
An art project! Hmmm...
Vecchio narrowed his eyes at him. He'd been so sure he was right, that Benny had a new girlfriend... But Fraser didn't lie. Still, the flush that had been creeping up his neck had spread into his face now. A sure sign that he wasn't telling the whole truth, either. So maybe I was half right, he thought hopefully. Maybe Benny's 'art project' involves a woman somehow.
"Now, about that game," Fraser cleared his throat. "I'd be happy to play on Sunday if you--"
Ray grinned again, even more wickedly. "What kind of art project would that be, Benny? The one you've been doin' on Saturdays, I mean."
"Uh... Portrait painting, actually," Fraser said, tugging at his lanyard as if it were choking him.
"You're painting a portrait?" Ray echoed in disbelief. He knew Benny loved art, but he hadn't expected that.
"Well, no, actually. I'm... having my portrait painted," Fraser explained. "By someone else. Another person, that is."
"That would be an artist person, I believe," Ray said wryly. Fraser was so nervous now that he was babbling; still, he'd been careful not to mention who the artist was. Which only meant, of course, that he was going to have to pry that out of him. "What's his name?" he asked, apparently casually, taking another drink of his coffee.
Benny looked down, clutching his hat. "Ryan," he croaked. His cheeks had flushed a nice, rosy red by then, that matched his neck.
Ray waited. When no further information was forthcoming, he swooped gently in for the kill.
"Ryan what?" he asked sweetly.
Fraser edged away. "Well, actually, Ryan is the artist's last name, Ray," he hedged, vastly uncomfortable. "Listen, it's getting late, and I really should be on my way to the Consulate--"
Ray put his feet up on his desk, stifling a laugh as he watched his friend's strategic retreat. "What's his first name?" he called.
"Goodness, I really am late," Fraser muttered, almost sprinting for the door.
"His name, Benny!" Ray yelled.
Fraser jerked to a reluctant halt by the squadroom door. He was so red by now that he almost matched his uniform.
I haven't seen him this discombobulated since he did -- well, whatever it was he did with my sister that night, Ray thought. Whoever this woman is, she's really gotten to him. Though he was several feet away, he saw Benny swallow hard before he answered.
"Elyssa," he said at last, very quietly.
Then he was gone in a flash of red, before Ray could say another word. But it didn't matter. He'd gotten what he'd wanted.
He leaned slowly back in his chair, his grin fading away as he realized the truth. Fraser breathed that woman's name like she was the answer to a prayer. He's not just foolin' around with her, he's in love!
Benny's in love -- with an artist! And he didn't tell me.
He was hurt. This was big stuff, this was major. Benny was his best friend, closer to him than his own father had ever been. And here he was head over heels for a woman for only the second time since he'd known him, and he hadn't introduced them -- hadn't even said a word to him! He'd done the same thing with Victoria, too. What, I'm not good enough for you to introduce to your bimbos, Fraser? he thought resentfully. He crushed the Styrofoam coffee cup Fraser had brought him, then threw it in his basket angrily, brooding over it.
Why didn't he tell me?
"Maybe he doesn't think you're good enough, Raymondo. He wouldn't be the first," a sardonic voice said from behind him.
He swiveled around in his chair, his mouth twisting in an unconscious grimace. A short, dark-haired Italian with cold eyes stood a few feet away from him, dressed in a blue sports shirt and jeans. "Dad! What a lovely surprise. How's the weather in Hell these days?"
"Or maybe that Mountie's smarter than he looks," Carmine Vecchio sneered, ignoring his jibe. "Maybe he's afraid you'd try and shoot his new girlfriend, like you did the last one."
He stiffened unconsciously, his face reddening with anger. "I didn't shoot Victoria, okay?" He crunched a wad of paper in his fist, squeezed it until his hand hurt.
Carmine snorted. "That wasn't for lack of tryin'."
He glared at his father. "I didn't wanna shoot at her, I had to! I thought she had a gun! I thought she was gonna kill Benny!"
"Oh, sure, it was all a big accident," his dad said, his lip curling in total disbelief. "Save it for the newspapers, kid," he sneered.
His hands clenched into fists on the arms of his chair. "What the hell are you tryin' to say? Don't mince words, Pop! Tell me what you really think!"
"I think maybe that big red weirdo you hang around with doesn't want you to meet this bimbo because he knows you'll be jealous o' her!" Carmine snapped. "Because he knows you shot him on purpose, to keep him from going away with his last one -- to keep him here with you!"
Ray swallowed hard, filled with a black fury he couldn't control. "If you were still alive, I'd knock you on your butt for that!" he snarled. "As it is, do me a favor and go back to Hell!"
His father wagged an angry finger at him, his eyes cold as ice. "Don't you talk to me that way, boy! You show some respect!"
He surged to his feet. "NOW!" he roared, throwing the paper he'd wadded up right at his dad's head. Carmine Vecchio disappeared at last, and the squadroom was silent except for the sound of his own heavy breathing. He just stood there for a moment, uneasy in the sudden quiet, trying to get hold of himself.
That was all a bunch of bullshit, he told himself. Total bullshit! He would never be that selfish, he would never hurt Benny deliberately -- never. Nor would he ever willingly hurt someone Benny cared about. That thing with Victoria had been an accident, pure and simple.
But was it?
Had Benny hidden his latest girlfriend from him because he feared he'd act jealous, maybe even hurt her?
No, that's crazy. That was Carmine Vecchio talking, the man who had never believed anything but the worst of his son.
Wasn't it?
Then how come Benny didn't tell me about her?
He slumped back down in his chair and chewed moodily on the end of a pen, thinking about it. Fraser was the best friend Ray had ever had, or ever would have; he knew that. He was kind, generous, brave, sensitive, and sharply intelligent; everything Ray Vecchio, tough guy, secretly wished he could be. He trusted Benny completely, but for some reason, when it came to his girlfriends, Fraser didn't seem to trust him; and that sucked.
It was true, he'd warned Victoria that if she ever hurt Benny, he'd kill her. But that was for Benny's sake, not because he was jealous. It was also true that he hadn't kept that promise, and that he'd shot Fraser by accident instead. He'd never been able to forgive himself for that, though Fraser had long since.
Or did he? Doubt tore at him. Maybe his dad was right, maybe Fraser had kept his latest relationship a secret because he was afraid he'd be jealous of his new girlfriend, or at least suspicious, because of Victoria.
Jealous, no, he thought. Suspicious, yes. After what Victoria had done to Fraser last time, he'd promised himself he would check out the next woman who came close to him up, down and sideways. He wasn't going to fail in his duty to protect his friend a second time.
So if he's in love, then I'd better get my butt in gear, and find out who the hell this Elyssa Ryan is.
She wasn't a mutual acquaintance, that was for sure. He'd never heard her name before. He reached for another doughnut, the wheels turning in his mind. He was going to have to do a little digging, but that was okay. He was good at that, and this was Fraser, after all. He wolfed down a huge bite of cheese danish, thinking about it. If you don't turn out to be clean as a whistle and sweet as honey, you're gonna have Ray Vecchio to deal with, he promised Elyssa Ryan silently.
And if you try to hurt Benny, look out.
Ray found out who Benny had been seeing the easy way: he staked out the door of his apartment early one Saturday morning, when Benny'd told him he was having one of his portrait painting sessions, or whatever the hell they were called. He lurked in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs leading to Fraser's apartment, waiting for him to walk out so he could follow him and find out who his mystery woman was. He figured she must live fairly close to Fraser, since he didn't own a car and had never asked Ray to drive him to her place.
But when Fraser finally came out of his apartment at 7:59 a.m., uniform on, hat in hand and Diefenbaker at his heels, Ray was shocked to see him head for an apartment just down the hall from his!
He knocked and the door swiftly opened. "Good morning, Elyssa," he heard Fraser say.
"Hi, Benton," a woman answered happily. "Isn't it a pretty day?"
Benny disappeared into her apartment before Ray could even get a glimpse of her; but that didn't matter. He knew who she was. He recognized her voice.
Dio -- that's the woman who just moved in down the hall! he thought, stunned. The curvy redhead I was tryin' to get him together with! She's Elyssa Ryan!
At first, he smiled to himself, pleased that his amateur matchmaking had worked after all. He wanted to see his friend happy, and for a second, he considered giving up his plan to check Ryan out. Benny's seemed happier since he's been dating -- well, seeing -- or being painted by -- well, since they started doing whatever the hell it is they're doin' in her apartment every Saturday, he thought, bemused.
He'd half turned to go when he suddenly remembered something. The morning he'd met Elyssa Ryan sprang to life in his mind: the slender redhead had backed into the wall, going pale as if she were frightened when he and Benny had offered to help her carry her stuff in... He'd passed it off as shyness then, but on reflection, he wasn't so sure.
Something's wrong with her, his cop sense warned. I've seen enough fear on this job to recognize it, and that woman was petrified of both of us that morning, for no good reason.
He couldn't let that go. Victoria had almost killed Benny before, more surely than his bullet. Fraser needed a good woman this time, or he didn't know what would happen to him. And the weird way she'd reacted to both of them that morning didn't exactly convince him that Elyssa Ryan fit that bill.
So it was back to plan A: check her out. He thought about it for a moment. She hadn't been in Chicago very long, probably not long enough to have much on record here, but what about checking out where she'd come from?
A smile spread across his face. Rental records for Benny's building would be on file, and ridiculously easy to access. Benny wouldn't even know he was doing it. And once he found out where Elyssa Ryan had been before Chicago, he could check for a police record in both cities.
He headed out of Fraser's building and down the street, satisfied that at least he'd found a place to start.
But as he walked away, he hunched his shoulders a little. Somehow, though he was doing his duty to his friend, it was rather cold comfort. Part of him would rather have been in that woman's apartment, sharing the morning with his best friend and Elyssa Ryan. But Benny hadn't asked him to.
He kicked at a piece of litter on the sidewalk. Yeah. What a pretty day.
He shoved his feelings down deep inside, and walked even faster.
One morning as she was stroking crimson lake onto her canvas, blocking in Benton's jacket, Elyssa realized that once his portrait was done, she was going to miss him. Miss him very much. So much, in fact, that it disturbed her.
Well, it's not like you'll never see him again, the voice of common sense told her. Just say something. Tell him you'd like to stay friends with him once the painting is done.
But she couldn't. She wanted to, but the words just wouldn't come. She stared moodily at his face instead. She'd looked at it for hours as she worked, but she never tired of it. It was beautiful, almost too beautiful to be a man's, with gorgeous bone structure, broad cheekbones, full lips and handsome eyes. It was at once strong and gentle, just like Benton himself; and though she'd told herself that she wasn't going to commit the hoary old cliche of falling in love with her own model, she knew, in her heart, that he'd had a definite affect on her. She tried to imagine her Saturday mornings without him and his wolf, tried to imagine her life without him in it, and it seemed really empty.
Botticelli would've loved Benton. I think I might, too.
She put down her brush, shocked at herself.
Fraser had been looking down at Diefenbaker when she'd paused. But with typical perceptiveness, he looked up instantly when the movement of her brush stilled.
"Is something wrong, Elyssa?" he asked innocently. She had the insane urge to tell him the truth, to widen his sky blue eyes by saying, "Yes, something's very wrong. I've been sitting here wondering what it would be like to kiss you, Benny. I'm afraid I have feelings for you, and -- "
I'm afraid.
Fraser looked up at Elyssa. She'd put down her brush and was staring at him with such a look of consternation in her eyes that he was disconcerted. He was becoming an experienced artist's model. He hadn't said anything, had hardly even moved in almost an hour. So what could've disturbed her so?
"Is something wrong?" he asked. She didn't answer him for a long time, but their eyes locked, and for a moment, something extraordinary passed between them. He could've sworn that he could read her thoughts. He felt fear in her, dark and cold, but something warmer too. Something so like his own unspoken longing that for a moment, looking back at her, he froze, forgetting even to breathe.
He wondered if she could tell what he was thinking, too.
Get up, you fool, a voice told him. Go to her!
He rose slowly, like a man under a spell, and took a step towards her. "Elyssa?"
She started, as if she'd been under a similar spell and the sound of his voice had broken it. "Don't, Benton!" she said, with the same tightness he'd heard in her voice the first time they'd met. Her eyes hooded over, the emotion that had flared in them swiftly erased as her defenses arose again, stronger than ever.
She's still afraid. But I'm not sure if it's of me or herself.
Still, her words were a definite warning, and he stayed where he was, his heart in his boots. He knew he'd lost his chance. The delicate moment was shattered, the surge of feeling between them gone. Elyssa had put up her walls again, and hidden behind them as she always did when he came near her. He knew somehow that if he even tried to talk about what had just happened between them, or how he felt about her, she would send him away. He tried not to let her see how much her withdrawal hurt him.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice gentle as usual now. "I didn't mean to snap at you, but please don't move like that when I'm painting. It ruins things."
He resumed his stance by the window, sought her eyes again until he had her attention, reluctant though it was. "I wouldn't want to do that," he said very quietly.
He had no doubt she'd understood him perfectly. Her eyes fell guiltily and she put her brush down for a moment, almost as if she couldn't go on. He struggled against the urge to comfort her, but he controlled it this time, knowing it would only make things worse. He had to wait, be patient... Those were the skills of a hunter and a good policeman, and he'd mastered them long since. Still, frustration rose in him. He'd been waiting for people all his life, it seemed. Ever since he could remember. Waiting for his father to come home, then for his mother to come back after she died, then waiting for someone, anyone else to love him...
When Victoria had come back to him, he'd thought the waiting was over at last. But he'd been wrong. She'd left him too, and the waiting had begun all over again. The loneliness that he could never speak of, never reveal to anyone.
Until Elyssa came into his life. She was the only woman he'd ever trusted enough to bare his heart to. He'd told her things he'd never told anyone else, not Ray -- not even Victoria. But there were some things he hadn't told her: like the fact that he was tired of waiting; that he wondered if he hadn't waited too long already; that he was afraid, sometimes, that all those years of waiting had simply withered his heart away inside of him, so that all that remained was just the empty shell of a man.
But he couldn't say those things to her, because Elyssa hadn't opened her heart to him yet. She kept hers locked away. Her fears and her secrets were hers alone to know, and hers alone to share... when the time was right.
He set his jaw so hard it hurt, wondering if the time would ever be right.
And he waited.
By the time he'd regained his control, Elyssa had too. She dipped her brush in her palette and lifted it to the canvas, an artist again, safely focused on her work. "Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to paint my sister?" she asked, a slight smile curving her lips.
It was an obvious attempt at diversion, but he didn't try to stop her. She needed to retreat for a moment so she could feel safe, and he let her. He even pretended not to notice how her unsteady her hand was, despite her light tone. "I don't believe you did," he replied.
She stared hard at the canvas, refusing to look at him as she stroked slowly at the portrait. "Well... I was six years old, and I'd just discovered Cerulean Blue," she said, her smile widening at the memory. "It was my favorite color, and I decided that Jennie would look really pretty covered in it from head to toe-"
"No doubt your mother objected?" he put in, smiling obligingly. But his mind wasn't on her story, and he felt far from cheerful.
How long will it be before you trust me, Elyssa? he wondered, aching inside.
Waiting.
One Saturday morning, Elyssa rose early. Jolted from sleep by one of her nightmares (they were infrequent now, but still terrifying), she pulled on her robe and paced pensively to the window. Trying to banish the afterimages, she told herself, "It was just a dream." A litany so familiar by now that the words were worn soft in her head. The only problem was, that wasn't entirely true. What had wakened her were memories, not just a dream, which made them much harder to dispel. Though she couldn't feel the place where it had been broken anymore, she rubbed her collarbone unconsciously and peered out into the darkness, trying to read the sky to see what kind of day it was going to be.
Although the weather didn't matter so much, since Benton was coming over.
The thought lightened the old pains that were clawing at her, so she clung to it, called up his image in her mind like a nightlight, to push the darkness back a little. She envisioned the tall, strong, crimson-clad Mountie with his wolf at his heels.
Did I remember to get some treats for Dief? They'll be here in a couple of hours.
She grabbed her hairbrush, padded into the kitchen on bare feet and quickly checked her refrigerator. Good. There's still a cinnamon roll left in there for the wolf, and orange juice for Benny, too. He didn't like it if she fed Dief sweets, he said city life was making him soft. But Diefenbaker loved them so... She'd just have to slip him a bite when Benton wasn't looking.
Elyssa started coffee brewing, then gave her long hair half a hundred strokes with the brush while it percolated, until the tumbled mass hung smooth and shining from her shoulders. She smiled a little, thinking of the surprise she'd bought for Benny the other day, wondering if he would like it.
But the feeling of disquiet left behind by her nightmare lingered stubbornly, like day-old coffee on her tongue, and she knew she'd have to do something about it or it would bother her all day. She didn't want it to shadow her mood so she couldn't enjoy the little surprise she had in store for the Mountie when he arrived. What could she do, to get herself out of her funk?
She drank her coffee and made her bed while she thought about it. She'd straightened her room and gotten dressed before the answer came to her: exercise. Sometimes when she got blue, exercise helped her snap out of it.
It's worth a try...
Fraser straightened his uniform carefully one final time, and looked at his watch. 7:59 a.m. Close enough, he thought. It would take him precisely thirty seconds to get from his apartment to Elyssa's door. He looked around for Diefenbaker, his mouth open to tell him to come, only to see that he was already poised alertly by the door, an eager, wolfish grin stretching his jaw, his eyes bright with anticipation.
He narrowed his eyes at him. "Don't think I don't know why you've been so keen on this whole project," he said reprovingly. "You're not interested in art at all, you just love the sweets Elyssa's been feeding you."
Diefenbaker barked several times, his tone distinctly sardonic.
"That's different," he said firmly as he headed for the door. "I appreciate her artistic skills. She's a very talented painter -- "
The wolf cocked his head, huffing at him.
"Looks have nothing to do with it!" he retorted, with an exasperated shake of his head. "You have no understanding of the artistic process."
Diefenbaker growled, his tail twitching slightly, impatient with the lecture, wanting to be gone.
"Well, if we're late, you have no one to blame but yourself,