Title: Still Waters
Disclaimer: Almost none of these characters are mine.
Rating: Eventually M, but I am starting with T.
Summary: There's a new girl in the midst, and she causes unrest wherever she goes. Romance for all characters – and a case, too.
A/N: Chill out there – I haven't forgot about Lost and Found. Stop throwing stuff at me. I'll go back to it.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Marciano Liberante refilled his glass watching as Carissa curled spaghetti around her fork, her lovely lips curled into a permanent smile. She'd be the perfect mistress. He was sophisticated, dressed immaculately, drove a sports car and lived in a luxury villa. A woman like Carissa was the one thing he was missing – and she was only twenty four.
Rumoured to be a virgin, too.
Not that he especially believed it. But if others did, he could play the 'I pulled a virgin' card. Carissa was a mystery, too. No one knew exactly where she came from, or even why she came to D.C. It barely mattered, anyway. She'd only been there four months and already, people knew her name. Her face.
"So," he said, refilling her glass, too, "I have a proposition for you, Carissa." Her dark brown eyes rose, glassy with alcohol. She looked lovely, with her olive skin tinged pink from the summery evening.
"Oh?" she said, setting her fork down, as though they were going to walk business. Perhaps it was business. Without money, of course. Carissa's reward would be publicity. Italian women, he had noticed, loved it. Their bodies could be flaunted and their exotic European accents would be heard around the globe. Carissa would make an excellent model, he knew, and she could make her own money off his name. Marciano didn't mind.
"Yes," he said, clearing his throat. "I have a few events coming up within the next few months," Carissa pursed her lips and he interrupted her expression as silent excitement – that perhaps she'd grown up hoping one day, she'd be sitting at a table with a handsome successful man, and he'd ask her to become his mistress. "I would like it very much if you'd accompany me… if I need you…" Carissa lifted her napkin, patting her lips – not that there was any errant food there. She was an immaculate woman.
"Marciano," she said softly, "I'm not a prostitute…" He was stunned by her brisk, unappreciative response. "I wouldn't want to be called your 'mistress' because a dislike the implication that I rely on anyone," she folded her hands atop the table, as though she were conducting a very important meeting. Marciano, unabashed by shocked that Carissa had read his mind with such accuracy, kept his gaze firmly on her face - a wayward glance at her breasts could destroy everything.
"No one suggested that you are a prostitute, Carissa," he said, laying on the charm he had inherited from his father. "Nor would I let them." By 'them' they both knew he was referring to his many staff. He had no doubt that this woman knew what his 'business' entailed. He also knew she wouldn't know just how much of it he did. It didn't matter. She was interested in fashion, socialising, dancing and looking pretty.
"Fine," she said at last, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I'd be honoured to be your date, then." Her accent, thickly Italian, turned him on. She was proper Italian, he thought. Not the clichéd Americanised type, with the feisty sleaziness. Carissa was demure yet beautiful, and as she tipped her wine glass towards her lips, he could almost have believed the virginal rumour circulating.
"Why did you come here?" he asked, reaching out to stroke her olive hand. She dressed modestly – without too much jewels. Carissa looked at him through thick lashes, her full lips pursed into a tight, luscious pout. She wore navy linen and a satin camisole, her dark hair pulled into a clip at the nape of her neck, a string of pearls resting above her clavicle. She represented subtle class.
"I wanted to experience something outside of my little town," she said. "My parents are simple people… they appreciated my art, thought I was a talented little musician… but…" she pressed her fingers to her cheek, crossing her legs. "I would like something else… something more." Marciano nodded as though he understood – he was merely being polite, however, for he was given everything growing up. His father, Giuseppe Liberante, had ensured all three of his son's didn't know the meaning of 'simple life'.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Carissa Romano unclipped her hair, shaking the tresses free, as she slipped into the darkened SUV, kicking her shoes off with a weary sigh. "If I wasn't once a master criminal," she said, "would I be here?" Next to her, dressed in a government issue suit, Special Agent Seeley Booth smirked.
"If is a small word," he said, "with a big meaning. You were always designed to be a criminal." Carissa huffed, pouring herself a cup of coffee from the thermal flask that was tucked between the seats. "Besides, you can't say it isn't interesting… all this deception." Booth started the engine, reversing from the parking lot.
"Oh sure," Carissa said, stirring sugar into the beverage, "there's nothing better than being hit on my a sleazy wannabe Italian." Booth glanced sideways, lifting his eyebrows.
"Liberante is Italian," he said, stopping for a red light. Carissa clicked her tongue, lifting her foot and massaging the arch.
"No, he's American. Born and bred. His father was Italian, and a lousy one at that." Rolling the window down, she coaxed summer air into the vehicle. "I came to America four years ago-"
"When you were twenty?" Booth asked, incredulous. "You had everyone, even Liberante believing that you arrived here off a damn boat." Carissa unclipped the pearl necklace she wore, tossing it into the glove compartment. The sooner she was able to shed her 'lure Liberante' outfit, the better.
"Papa wanted me to go to college and I didn't want to," she began casting a luminous glance his way. She ought to have been wildly attracted to her superior, but Booth, with all his charm and ego, was not her type. She wanted a quiet, unassuming guy who didn't think he could have any woman he wanted. "I preferred life on the edge."
"Edge of crime?" Booth interjected.
"Whatever," Carissa said shrugging her shoulders with effortless ease. "Crime provided an income during dire times. I got involved with the Columbians by chance… and when I realised I was good at this whole… what is it you Feds call it…? Infiltration? I decided I might as well benefit from it. Which is why I came to you," she paused, "well not you exactly-"
"Yeah," Booth said, waving his hand, "I got it. You came to the FBI because you thought you were… what? Useful to us?" Carissa nodded. "That's confidence for you. Is that inherited too?" She blinked slowly, running her thumb along the Styrofoam cup she held, leaving an indentation where she touched.
"Fuck you, Booth," she said. "If Liberante didn't want to do me, you'd be screwed." He laughed, for there was something strangely erotic about a demure woman like Carissa, swearing without impunity. She'd been doing it for awhile now, he could tell. "I'm good at what I do-"
"Fucking crime lords? Yeah, there's something to put on a résumé: Special Talents: Can get a drug dealer into bed in less than two months and gather enough evidence to convict him without a doubt'. Excellent." Carissa threw him a withering look, disliking the implication that she had 'fucked' anyone. At first, she had genuinely liked Desiderio Galván. He had introduced himself at a bar in New Mexico saying 'Hi, I'm Desiderio, my name means 'longing' and I am… for you…' She had thought his line was the tackiest she'd ever heard. But he was hot. And attentive.
"My résumé," she said frostily, "was good enough for the Federal government." Booth shrugged inside his jacket, his broad imposing shoulders filling the car. He looked good. Tailored and professional.
"Well, you were the only one who applied for the job," Booth smirked, turning to the left, to the grounds of the Jeffersonian Institute – he'd been threatening to take her there all week, to introduce her to the team of scientists who brought criminals to their knees. Since she had once been on the wrong side of the tracks, meeting with people whose career revolved around arrests made her feel a little uneasy.
"Booth," she whined, "I'm tired. Do we have do to this tonight?" The agent killed the engine in a spot that said 'Reserved' – she imagined it wasn't his place.
"Yes. We have a body." Suddenly her interest was aroused. "Pulled out of the river earlier this evening. He's… fresh… we think he might be Mario, but the fishies have been at him, I'm afraid. Which is why we're going to Bones." Carissa had heard the woman's name mentioned at least fifty times since she'd joined the team. Bones, his pet name for the FBI's anthropologist. "I have to warn you, though, she won't appreciate your humour." Booth said, opening the door, "so be gentle with her." Carissa slipped out, smoothing the wrinkles in her linen pants, hating that the fabric creased so easily. "And as for her team… dysfunctional to say the least… but…"
"Relax Booth, I'm not meeting your family." He glared, tucking his keys into his pockets.
"Thank God they're not," he said, shaking his head at the thought. "I'd have Zach strangled in a minute." Carissa glanced at him again, smirking at the look of distaste on his face.
"Is Zach the artist?" she asked, falling into step beside him as he strode towards the automatic doors of the Medico-Legal Lab. Booth scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets, swaggering like an Alpha Male. She imagined he donned this façade every time he visited the people he called 'The Squints'.
"No! The guy doesn't have an illogical thought in his head. He's Brennan's dog a.k.a. assistant." Carissa chuckled, picturing in her mind a geeky kid with horn rimmed glasses and ten pens and a calculator tucked into his pocket. Booth painted a grim picture. "No," he said again, "Angela is the artist. She's fairly normal. A little wacky and talks too much but…" he shrugged, "she's a good friend to Bones. Bones needs a good friend." Carissa stepped inside the building when the doors breezed open.
"Anyone would think you didn't like these people…" she commented, silenced by the curly haired man with crazed blue eyes as he descended the stairs, swiping his card and glaring.
"Nice going man," he said, sounding less than pleased, "Freaking Saturday night and you just have to find a stiff, don't you?" He threw his hands into the air, barely glancing at Carissa. She folded her arms over her torso, not used to being ignored, especially not by men.
"Jack," Booth said patiently, "meet Carissa Romano," Jack's eyes flickered towards her briefly. "Carissa, this is Dr Jack Hodgins, Brennan's entomologist." Jack held up a latex hand, too dirty for hand-shaking.
"I'm no one's entomologist," he said, straightening his spine, "and unless Miss Romano knows how to dissect waterborne insects to determine exactly how long flesh has been rotting on a river bed, I don't really have a lot of time for coffee and a chat." He was off in a flurry of blue, towards a bench littered with Petrie dishes, charts, pens, and microscopes.
"Charming," Carissa said, strangely amused by him. "He's one of those people that no one takes seriously, right?" Booth nodded once, watching as Jack wheeled a stool across the floor, muttering to himself. "Slightly insane as well… this is a regular fun house…"
"Fun? Honey you're in the wrong place for fun…" Together, Carissa and Booth turned. "Booth's new squeeze?" Angela asked, two cups of coffee in her hands. "I would shake, but…" she shrugged.
"Seems no one wants to shake on an introduction today," Carissa said, "and no, I am not Booth's new squeeze – Non sono quello disperato." Angela chuckled loudly. "You understand Italian?" Carissa asked, tilting her head slightly, ignoring Booth's pointed, irritated glare.
"Enough to know that was not a compliment," Angela said. "Booth, swipe your card, I can't do everything you know." She demonstrated that she was juggling the cups and Booth sighed, passing his clearance through the machine, which beeped access. "Won't you invite your friend in?" Angela said, stepping into the quarantined lab. "She's tough enough to handle the abuse."
"Angela, this is Carissa Romano. Carissa, this is-"
"The artist… I got it, Booth." Behind them, the machine beeped – denying access which was accompanied by a growl.
"This machine," Zach Addy said, "is easily duped by anyone who wanted to gain entrance," he swiped the card again, and again, he got a decline. "Have I mentioned this before?" he asked, and Booth nodded, eyes wide.
"You mentioned something about electronic strips once," he replied, "but as soon as you opened your mouth, I zoned out. Sorry Zach…"
"…and," he continued, ignoring Booth, "even though I should be a recognised user, I am still denied access." He stamped his foot, turning the card and passing his eye over it.
"It looks like the machine likes you as much as I do," Booth quipped. Behind the assistant, a tall woman dressed in an open lab coat stepped up, passing her own card through. It allowed her in at once, and Zach followed behind. "Bones," Booth said, although Carissa needed no confirmation of who this woman was. She radiated the kind of cool, unwavering intelligence that was unmistakable. "Where've you been? Checking your mail?"
She turned her artic blue gaze towards him, snapping gloves unto her hand before turning towards the covered gurney.
"I cancelled a date for tonight," she said, "the third this month. Be a little nicer, huh?" Booth shrugged off his jacket, his lips twisted with a smirk, and Carissa noticed that his shoulders seemed to ease in the presence of these people. It was hilarious that he tried to pretend he disliked them – for it was obvious he was fascinated by them. "So," Brennan said, "John Doe number-"
"Not John Doe," Booth interrupted, "Mario Antinozzi." Brennan sighed, slipping her hands into her pockets, her fingers curled into visible fists through the fabric.
"He's John Doe until we officially identify him, Booth," she said, "and your gut instinct isn't going to cut it in court." She paused, turning her eyes to Carissa. "Who are you?" she asked, as if only noticing her for the first time. Booth cleared his throat.
"Bones, this is Carissa Romano," he was growing tired of saying her name, especially since, without the Italian accent, he thought it sounded stupid. "She's working with me on this case."
"Oh," Brennan said.
Carissa watched the woman's assistant, peering into the empty sockets of the newly revealed corpse. His dark hair fell over his forehead and he looked enraptured, fascinated, a person who truly adored their job. "Hi," she said, stepping next to him, no longer intrigued by Temperance Brennan, "I'm Carissa," she said, and Zach straightened, turning his dark eyes towards her. He shifted awkwardly.
"Yes," he said, "Agent Booth has already introduced you." Apparently he could listen and work at the same time.
"True," Carissa said, endeared by his awkwardness. "But he didn't introduce you…" It felt as though everyone in the quarantined lab was rolling their eyes at the brazen forwardness she displayed – every single one of them aware of her attraction towards him. Except Zach himself.
"I'm Dr Brennan's assistant," he said. "Are you the person they've hired to be Marciano Liberante's hooker?"
Behind her, Booth slapped his forehead and groaned.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Lots of distractions today, so I apologise for mistakes.
Please review!
