He opens his eyes, and is surrounded by blackness. There is not light. He quickly realizes that he is restrained. Handcuffed, to the bed, ankles, and wrists, to a four post bed. There was something over his head. He was in nothing but boxer shorts.

He tries to search his memory, to remember the night before. He comes up empty. Was this supposed to be a game? Or was it real? Was this about kinky sex? Or was his life in danger?

He tries to get a sense of his surroundings. He listens, he hears quiet breathing. There was someone else in the room. He has no sense of time, or the size of the room. Everything is pitch black. He takes a deep breath, instantly regretting it. He inhales the fibers of what's covering his head.

He doesn't hear footsteps, but he suddenly feels as if someone's standing next to him. His feeling is quickly confirmed, when he feels the blade of a knife, against the skin of his neck. He feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

His captor releases the pressure of the knife. The captor removes some of his chest hair, with the knife. Finally Tony breaks the silence.

"Are you going to tell me why I'm here? What did I do?"

He gets no answer.

"Do I know you? Did I do something to you?"

He still gets no answer.

"Is this some sort of game?"

Nothing.

"Can I have some sort of answer?"

He feels the pressure on the bed change. The assailant is no longer on the bed, next to him. He listens, but the captor moves quietly, nearly imperceptibly. He hears a drawer open. Seconds pass, and finally the captor gives him an answer. He hears a gun cock. The barrel is pressed against his temple.

"Ok. You're pissed? I get it," he tries to goad the captor into speaking.

His kidnapper doesn't say a thing.

"Just tell me what you want, and I'll do it."

He feels the captor reach over him, maintaining the gun pressed to his head. Fingers gently trace something on his chest. The cold hands give him goosebumps. He picture the lines in his mind. Finally he realizes what the captor has written.

"No?" he questions.

No, the captor retraces.

"Are you going to tell me who you are?"

The captor once again traces, No.

"A hint."

No, again.

He can't seem to shake the feeling that there is something familiar about the assailant. He can't place it, so he asks another question.

"Do I know you."

This time the captor doesn't trace No, but Yes, instead.

"Yes? What did I do?"

There is silence.

He utilizes his other senses. He starts with what he's heard. Next to nothing, he thinks as the barrel of the gun is still pressed against his head. Whoever it was, was quiet, stealthy, even. Next he moves on to feel. Cold hands. Small, delicate hands. Fingers. He could tell by the fingers, by the way that the pads were worn down at the ends, whoever it was played piano, or maybe spent a lot of time typing. Wow, that didn't narrow it down much.

He takes a breath, trying to use his only other available sense. As he breathes he smells. One sniff, nothing. Second sniff, something. But what? It was something familiar. A smell he had smelled before. What was it, though? Where had he smelled it. It was kind of like flowers, but muted. It wasn't perfume. A candle, no. Too close to be a candle. It had to be coming from his captor. His captor wasn't wearing flowers. Shampoo! Of course. It was shampoo. Where had he smelled the shampoo before?

A light bulb turns on in his head. A woman. His captor was a woman? He was handcuffed to a bed, with a bag over his head, by a woman? That really didn't narrow it down, at all. He had jilted ex-lovers, by the dozen. It could be any one of a dozen of them. It could even be someone new. Where had he been last night? Probably a bar.

Yes, a bar. He had gone out after work, but driving to the bar was the last thing that he remembered. Who had he met? What did he have to drink? Did he pick someone up? Had someone slipped him something?

"You're a woman," he announces.

She traces letters into his chest, with her finger, Good.

He feels the gun being removed from his head. He waits for her next move. He feels the pressure of the mattress shift under him. He takes a deep breath, waiting for what she's going to do next. He feels her straddling him. He sighs, in confusion, and frustration.

She doesn't say a word.

Why wasn't she saying anything? Clearly it was someone he knew. She had a voice that he would recognize. But who was it? His thoughts are rudely interrupted. A finger slowly migrates down his chest. It stops for a brief moment, as his breath hitches. It continues for a few more inches. It stops, when it reaches his iliac crest. The finger rests on his hip bone, for a few seconds.

He feels her weight shift. He can tell she's on her knees, with her feet out, instead of tucked under her. Her skin is soft, freshly shaved. He feels her leg close to his. Was he seriously thinking about her, in that way? A woman had kidnapped him, and he found it exciting? That was sad. She could kill him. He doesn't realize that her finger is no longer resting on his hip. He does notice when her hand touches the inside of his thigh.

He finds himself having difficulty, not losing control. Whoever this was, was toying with him. She was playing a game. A game that she was going to win, if she wasn't careful. Who ever this was knew how to handle him, knew how to push his buttons. She knew what to do, to make him hot, and bothered.

He feels his cheeks flush. The blood rushes through his body. Adrenaline, and hormones raging through his veins. This was not going to be pleasant. He takes a deep breath. He breathes in the familiar scent once again. Flowers. He couldn't tell you what kind, but he knew he had encountered them before. Them, more than one type of flower. A shampoo. What kind of shampoo? Whose shampoo? Whose hair did he ever smell? He takes another deep breath, he gets another whiff of shampoo. It was clear that she had recently washed her hair, because the smell was still fresh. Herbal Essences. Who did he know who used Herbal Essences?

His neurons fire. He comes up with an answer in seconds. The answer disturbs, and confuses him. No, he couldn't be right. It couldn't be her. She wouldn't be that cruel. Yes, she would. She loved toying with him. He must have done something to really piss her off.

She reaches past him, and uncuffs one of his hands. His left hand. His non-dominant hand. He touches her. Her legs. He touches her back. He quickly realizes that she isn't wearing much. He touches the fabric. Silk. His hand lingers on her back. Not on her clothing, but on her hair.

"Ziva, this isn't funny," he tells her as his temperature rises, along with other things.