She really shouldn't have been surprised by the opulence. After all, Jack was a very rich man. But for some reason, Angela had thought going home with him meant roughing it in a black-leathered, polar bear-rugged bachelor pad with discreetly placed buttons for instant mood music and, God forbid, chairs that would fold back into beds with the flick of a switch.

No, Jack Hodgins was a rebel with a definite cause and foregoing the trappings of the rich just to annoy the board members of the Cantilever Group would fit in perfectly with that agenda.

So this - this wasn't who she thought Jack was at all.

Running her fingertips smoothly over the delicate filigree inspired footboard, she moaned as she left the cool metal and hit the warm gold spun threads of the brocade covering the mattress. She couldn't resist squishing the material and pushing down on the bed to test its softness potential.

"Oh, yeah," she said as her hands disappeared deep into the depths of what had to be pure down. It took all the self control she possessed not to take a flying leap and jump up and down on it. A slight giggle escaped from her throat at that thought.

Artistic senses couldn't be denied for long, however, and she began to forage the room's contents like a hungry bear just out of hibernation. Her eyes drank in the vivid colors and textures while her hands devoured the feast. Taffeta from Persia, chintz and gauze from India, silks from China – this was the heaven she imagined her seamstress mother to be in.

She caught a whiff of something and momentarily shut her eyes to concentrate better. Smiling, she congratulated herself on picking up the slight jungle floor smell coming from the teak below her feet. Opening them again, she couldn't help but savor the tasteful, Asian inspired objects greeting her next: a T'ang horse, a Persian brass tea set, a bronze finial with Garuda – all placed just perfectly in space neither to intrude nor hide, but just "be" with the occupant.

Nothing in this room flashed "Made in the USA" but nothing could distinguish the room as inspired by any one style or country either. Middle East and Asian influences for sure, but it was more of a room designed to transport one in mood and spirit than place. And she was.

The days spent shivering and tasting the tang of vomit in her throat while analyzing that horrible Blair Witch-esque video were almost completely forgotten. Cold chills were replaced by the warm tingles of excitement with each new article that she discovered in her haven for the night.

She had deliberately saved the artwork for last, her mind instinctively catching sight of something she knew she wanted to take her time with. And now her sight was transfixed on the smallish piece a few feet from her.

Reverently she inched forward. With every step, another sliver of light illuminated her cloudy memory. This was something she knew. This artwork was definitely famous, but the reason for it was the puzzle.

It was lovely. The blue alone made her artist's fingers itch to smear it on canvas and all over her body. The composition was flawless as was the attention to detail. Strokes perfect. Lighting not just slapped on to create depth but to set time and mood as well as lend warmth. It was no question a true masterpiece.

With only inches to spare, Angela finally made the connection of artist and title. But that wasn't the conundrum. No, there was something else about it…

"Knock, knock."

Angela jumped and grabbed her chest. She turned and gave the thank God not-ghost Jack a roll of her eyes.

"Did you have to sneak?"

He just gave a jaunty shake of his head and entered gracefully balancing a mug on a silver tray.

"I don't think walking in your own home constitutes sneaking unless that's part of the 9-11 homeland security package. I didn't read the whole thing." Grinning, he offered the tray. "Hot chocolate?"

"Thanks."

Angela took the cup and sipped it, her eyes focusing on the floor instead of the very comfortable bed next to them.

Suddenly, she felt completely off balance. This was a side of Jack she didn't know, and it scared and thrilled her at the same time.

Jack seemed to sense her sudden tension and backed off setting the tray on a bamboo side table. "Are you okay? Is the room…you know…not too scary?"

Angela almost did a spit take. "Scary? Are you kidding? The room is gorgeous. Honestly, I'm completely surprised."

"What? You were expecting a disco ball and porn music?"

"Well…kinda. Yeah."

Stabbing his heart with an imaginary knife, Jack feigned death. "Aw, you're killin' me, Ange." Then, another thought. "Unless," he moved slickly forward, a suave motion that would have made Cary Grant proud, "maybe you're a little bit disappointed?" He wiggled his eyebrows and flashed his best dirty smirk.

"Oh, please." Backing off from his advance, Angela began cruising the room and babbling at the same time. "I'm shacking up in a room the King of Siam would envy drinking the most deliciously decadent hot chocolate I've ever had, and you think I'd trade that for a red-headed Tony Manero and some bow chicka bow wow?"

"Interesting use of the term 'shacking up'." Jack stopped her rambling by pinning her between his arms against the dresser; the finial of Garuda dangerously close to piercing her spine as she arched backward. "My room's just across the hall, but if you think that's too far…."

Now, this was the Jack she knew. A bit sleazy, totally inappropriate and God-those-eyes-are-killer kind of dorky. She could handle this Jack.

"Easy slugger." Setting down her mug, she gently pushed on his chest – not enough to get rid of him but enough to keep him from moving those lips any closer.

"This room was the perfect cure for my heebie jeebies. I plan on sleeping like a baby. A very alone baby."

Jack's smolder seemed to get hotter with her rejection. "Mmm. Whatever you want. Baby." He leaned slowly forward into Angela's shocked face and tenderly kissed her nose. "Sleep tight."

He eased off and headed toward the door. Angela's vision, now free of Jack's hypnotizing gaze, focused on the painting she'd been studying before he'd arrived with the drink.

Turning just before reaching the door, Jack added. "Oh, and Ange. Don't steal the towels. Cotton's not cheap."

Then it happened. All the pieces fell into one scary and unbelievable picture. Or, painting...

"Hold it right there, buddy." Pointing at the art on the wall, "That! That is Gérôme's Pool in a Harem!"

Jack looked in the general area where her finger was wildly circling. "Really? Is that good?"

She stared at him aghast. "Pool in a Harem! Pool. In. A. Harem!"

Jack only looked back and shrugged. "Not arguing with you. You're the artist here."

"No, no, no. That is the original! Not a copy. Not a print. The original! See!"

Angela had moved across the room and was closely scrutinizing every inch. Jack joined her and looked just as closely.

"What am I looking at?" he asked.

"The pigments, the paint strokes, the canvas. Smell it!"

"That's okay. I'll take your word for it."

Angela groaned. "You don't get it. This can't be the original. The original was in the Hermitage in Russia until it was stolen in 2001 and hasn't been seen since. If this is that painting…if…if…this is the original…then…then"

She ran out of steam and words at the same time and looked at Jack for the explanation he was sure to have.

Anytime now.

Jack's once clueless expression slowly, effortlessly and oh-so-sexily morphed into that secret smile that at one time she loved and now only pissed her off.

Silently, Jack winked and, she would swear later when she told Brennan the story, swaggered out of the room.

A few moments later as she sank back into that down duvet and stared at the ceiling bearing a mural painted by…she cringed--she didn't want to know…she finally gasped and had to will herself to breathe.

It only took about ten minutes for the shock to become a little bit of awe and a thrill coursed through her veins. And a mere five minutes later she fell asleep, a smile painting her lips.

This was definitely not the Jack she knew. And damn if that wasn't okay with her.