I do not own The Mentalist.

As of this writing (May 2015) I am revising the original story, and now that the series has ended, there is no need for spoiler alerts. I have abandoned my original intention of applying the language of Henry James to this story. And although I had read online that Jane was to go undercover to investigate a mysterious blonde, I wrote the story before I saw the episode with Krystal, and it plays out quite differently. I also created the Mark Johnson character before Marcus Pike appeared in the series.

The lovely dark-haired woman in her forties sat at her desk at the FBI, looking distracted and trying to appear busy. Across the room, lying sprawled on a brown leather couch, an indolent man, also in his forties, was staring at the ceiling and avoiding eye contact with the woman. Unlike his co-workers who all wore suits, this man was dressed casually in a rumpled white shirt, dark jacket and pants, and very old and worn shoes with new wool socks which were a gift from the dark-haired woman. The man was handsome in a scruffy way, with more than a day's growth of beard, tousled blond curly hair, and slightly squinting, sharp sea-blue eyes which noticed and observed everything. He was of middle height, but taller than the woman, who was petite and slender, but who possessed a physical strength which belied her delicate appearance. She was impeccably dressed in a dark blue pantsuit and silk shirt. She had large, light green, almost transparent eyes, an exquisite nose, slightly parted lips barely concealing perfect white teeth, and a pale Irish complexion sprinkled here and there with freckles. Her long dark hair was pinned back in a bun, but it didn't make her look severe. Her physical appearance was one of beauty without any flaw. Several of the men in the office would crane their necks to get a glimpse of her, but she never returned their glances except to smile faintly and say hello in passing.

Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane (for those were their names) were not speaking to one another because they had quarreled a few days before, and both were deeply hurt and offended. They had quarreled because they were in love, but not lovers, both too shy to initiate a romantic relationship, and unsure how to speak to each other, since Teresa had once been Patrick's boss at the California Bureau of Investigation for ten years; she had been a police detective and senior agent, and he was a consultant.

Patrick was a mentalist with an extraordinary gift for reading people, coupled with genius-level intelligence and experience in being a con man and fake psychic. He closed every case he worked on rapidly and often almost single-handedly. Trained by his father to be a con man, Patrick was making a good living as a psychic when he made the fateful mistake of going on television and insulting California's most notorious serial killer, who went by the name of Red John. When Patrick returned that evening he discovered the bodies of his wife and young daughter gruesomely murdered, and an angry note from the serial killer. Thus began his ten year quest for revenge against Red John.

He suffered a mental breakdown and was hospitalized for a time. When he was well enough to leave, he was determined to get access to the Red John case files and read everything that might lead him to the killer. This was how he met Teresa Lisbon, who convinced her superiors at the CBI to hire him as a consultant after witnessing his remarkable powers of observation and deduction. she kept him on as a consultant even though she knew that eventually he would ruin her career because he constantly alienated and insulted important people in the course of his investigations. She struggled with her conscience, but finally decided that it was worth ultimately giving up her career if lives could be saved and criminals brought to justice because of this strange, stubborn, angry, vengeful man. She knew Patrick would ruin his life if he were allowed to murder the killer of his wife and daughter. She also believed that the killer should be captured, tried, and convicted according to the law. That is, until she became aware of the terrifying power Red John had: his network of minions was so extensive that there was no prison that could hold him for long. Not only was he a serial killer, he was also the ringleader of a vast organization of criminal police and FBI agents known as the Blake Association. The truth was, part of her wanted Patrick to get his vengeance. And she had the misfortune to fall in love with him.

It happened so gradually that she didn't even notice it. She thought they were just close friends, they worked together as partners, and of course he wasn't emotionally available because he still loved his dead wife-he still wore his wedding ring. She understood. She even understood his desire for revenge and vigilantism, though she didn't condone it. She was a woman who had a deep faith in God and a love for the innocent who are harmed every day by the guilty. She had the determination to stop the guilty ones, her belief in The Law being almost as strong as her belief in God. Yet slowly but surely, Patrick Jane was undermining her faith in the justice system. He held it in contempt, and often told her that doing the right thing would necessitate breaking the law. She had on occasion, even before she met him, surreptitiously broken the law, but only to protect the powerless when the law failed them. She was malleable, not rigid. And Patrick could read her, no matter how she tried to hide her secrets and her personal life. She often felt naked under his gaze, terribly uncomfortable and blushing when he revealed knowledge of things that he couldn't possibly know.

And although Teresa didn't know it, Patrick began to love her from the moment they met. He didn't know it either. But he was drawn to her from the first and instinctively wanted to protect her-he even shot and killed a man who would have given him information on Red John because this man would have killed her. She didn't want to be protected. She was fierce. She could take down men twice her size and she was the only fearless person he had ever known. The only thing she was afraid of was her own feelings. The one thing he could never quite read in her was the true nature of her feelings for him, which she kept well guarded under a cloak of professionalism. She insisted that all members of her team use surnames only; they called her "Boss," except for Jane, who would not recognize any authority. So they were "Jane" and "Lisbon" to each other, they addressed each other curtly and professionally, and they never spoke of their feelings. Before he finally caught up with and killed Red John, he told her that she had no idea what she meant to him. He had once, long ago, said "Love you" and then denied remembering having said it.

Patrick was forced to flee the United States as a fugitive wanted for murder, and he lived for two years on an island off Venezuela. The former con man was like quicksilver rushing through Teresa's hands. She could never make him be still long enough to tell her anything meaningful. And in the course of his search, he had conned her, lied to her, hurt her, and disappeared without saying goodbye. He never expected to return to his native country, but the FBI tracked him down and made him an offer to drop all charges against him if he would work for them.

He wrote to her every day, sending the letters through friends who delivered them safely to her.

She read the letters in front of the fire in the evenings, smiling through tears. She never expected to see him again. But she could not love another man. She was now working as a small-town sheriff, living a quiet and uneventful life, when she was suddenly summoned to the FBI headquarters in Austin, Texas, where she found herself face to face with Patrick Jane after two years of separation. He had insisted that the FBI hire her to work with him, and of course he assumed she'd jump at the chance. She bridled at the idea, chastising him for not caring about her and controlling her life. She said that he ran away from her again.

He meekly listened to her during the following speech:

But I ran back, he protested.

How was I supposed to know? I thought you were gone again forever.

Okay, you're right. I'm sorry, Lisbon. I didn't think about you.

Well you rarely do.

Well that's not true.. I made you one of my demands. I'm not joining the FBI unless they make you a job offer.

That's my point. What makes you think I'd want to work with you again? You are difficult and exhausting, and maybe I don't want to put the rest of my life on hold to be your sidekick. Have you ever even thought about that?

No. I hadn't considered it.

You think you know what's good for my life. But you haven't been a part of my life for two years.

He had felt the sting of it, because hadn't he written her letters? Hadn't he missed her every single day?

But she would have retorted, That's not the same as being there in person. Well, he couldn't be there. He'd have been arrested and thrown into prison. And he'd intended to leave his former life behind, including her, until he found that he couldn't live without her. When the FBI made their offer to him on the island, he presented his terms. First and foremost, he wasn't working for them without Lisbon. They had to hire her too. She had a job that was an insult to a woman of her brilliance and skill. He knew she couldn't be happy. The FBI would provide the stimulation and challenge, the excitement she missed from her years with the CBI. It was his fault that there was no longer a CBI for her to go back to. He owed it to her to get her a real job. But of course the real reason was that he wanted her there with him. He hadn't even formed a plan of how he would approach her, what the nature of their relationship would be. He desired her. His previous contacts with women since his wife's death were meaningless. If he could have her, he would finally have a woman he loved, the only woman he could ever love.

But then Krystal came between them.

She was a woman in her late twenties, a dazzling blonde, tall and slim, elegant, refined. His cover was that he was an eccentric millionaire who liked beautiful women, fast cars, gambling, and racehorses. He asked her out to dinner as part of an undercover operation to solve the murders of three DEA agents, and she was the main suspect in the case.

Krystal turned thoughtful blue eyes upon him from across the small table in the luxurious restaurant. Waiters with nervous faces scurried around with plates of glistening aromatic food. Poached salmon, lamb chops, filet mignon, fine red wines, French cheeses, desserts. Patrick, now newly clean-shaven and wearing a beautifully tailored designer suit courtesy of the FBI, and new black shiny Italian loafers, but without Teresa's socks, smiled at her. It was a forced smile, a practiced fake smile, used to gain the confidence of widows and old ladies in order to relieve them of their money. But as it grew slowly across his serious face, it was like the sun coming from behind a cloud.

"You're not eating anything." He'd ordered for the two of them, and he had begun to eat with relish, but her plate remained untouched.

"Oh…I guess I just forget about food when I'm with a fascinating man." Her answering smile was also forced, just as practiced and fake as his.

"Hmmm…I guess I don't allow even a woman as intriguing as you to stop me from eating. It's delicious. Just try a bite of the steak. And the wine. It's a 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild. I know you'll love it."

She lifted the wine glass in her graceful hand and sipped delicately. "Wonderful. I do love it." She narrowed her eyes and looked directly into his. "So, you're an international man of mystery?"

"Not quite," he answered with a laugh. "I'm very boring. Nothing to do but count my money. You'd be amazed at how unexciting my life is."

"Were you ever married?"

"Yes. My wife died."

"I'm so sorry. Was she…was she beautiful?"

"Yes. And good. An angel."

Krystal's eyes were full of amusement. "Well, you'd better be prepared, I'm no angel."

"I'm tired of angels. I like a woman who can tempt me to to bad things."

"Such as?"

"Oh, I don't know. I have a lot of vices."

"I can't wait to see what they are."

Patrick Jane's face had begun to turn serious again, but he forced another smile.

"More wine?"

She held the glass out to him and he poured from the bottle.

"You haven't told me anything about yourself. Gorgeous woman like you must have men fighting over you. What do you do?"

"If I told you high-price escort, would you believe me?"

"No. I can tell you would never do anything like that. You don't have to sleep with men for money."

Her smile became a little less amused.

"You're right. I'm a woman of independent means. A poor little rich girl. My father left me a fortune. I've been trying to figure out how to spend it. I've already given quite a bit to charities."

"I thought you said you're no angel."

"I lied."

And so the conversation continued. The evening turned into night, and the other diners finished their desserts, paid their checks, and left. Patrick and Krystal were the last ones left in the sumptuous room, watching the dying candle flame flicker out.

"Shall we?" Patrick got up, graciously pulled out her chair, and offered her his arm in a courtly manner.

Half-drunk, she nestled her head on his shouder as he circled her with his left arm.

He was clear-eyed and absolutely sober as they walked toward the hotel.