He walked into my office on a wave of sweetness and sin, the cloud of smoke accompanying him mixing intimately with my own.

"Can I help you?" I asked. My feet stayed on the open drawer next to me.

"Mr. Levine, I presume? I'm Eames," he said, and, well, hell. I'd always thought it'd be a dame who would take my number and burn it to a smoky crisp.

I tapped my cigarette and tamped that thought down. "Just Arthur, if you're going to be presumptuous."

"Arthur, what a pleasure," he purred. Turns out a beautiful smile's deadly no matter who's wearing it.

I wasn't sure why he'd come calling— no ring begging me to catch a cheating wife, no reek of poverty asking me to track down a long-lost rich relative. Gambling, maybe. He seemed the type. I took in his nonchalant clothing, the silver spoon in his mouth, and his mouth.

"What's a guy like you want from a shady someone like me?" I asked. I didn't have to accept anything from him. The stack of past due notices making a lump under my blotter said otherwise, but I was good at ignoring them.

"Why, darling." Eames leaned in close. His slow smile bared imperfect teeth, the only stain on his perfect facade. "Absolutely everything."

I leaned aside and grabbed the bottle from the drawer. "You sure about that? 'Absolutely everything' tends to run up quite the tab," I said. I splashed some whiskey into a second glass and pushed it across the desk. "Have a seat."

Eames watched me as he took a slug, cheaper alcohol than he was used to, I was sure, but he didn't comment. "Why don't you let me worry about that?" he said instead, smooth as a good martini and twice as dirty. I raised an eyebrow at him.

"So what can I do for you, Mr. Eames?"

He started talking, but his story didn't add up. He was a victim, he said. He'd been robbed, he said. But beyond that, he seemed to create more questions than answers.

"Your dreams?" I asked around my cigarette. "You have a suspect you shouldn't identify and don't want to catch, you just want to find out how it is that they're stealing. But they're stealing it from your… dreams."

He grinned, teeth and temptation, but I wasn't going to be distracted by a pair of pretty pouty lips.

"I'm going to ask you one more time, Mr. Eames," I said, the crush of my cigarette in the ashtray a warning. "What is it you want from me?"

He said he'd show me, and even though I told myself I wouldn't dance to his tune, I knew that in the end, I'd waltz and foxtrot and tango as long as he'd have me, long after the crowds went home and the lights went out.

The hotel room was ritzy, no doubt about it. The place stank of dilettantes with daddy's money and too much time on their hands, but when Eames closed the door behind me, I couldn't be sure what his story was. He licked his bottom lip in a way that wasn't an accident.

"Mr. Eames…" I started, one cool eyebrow announcing I wasn't interested, like the liar I was.

"Do you like the room?" he interrupted.

I looked toward the ceiling and walls where he'd indicated. "It's fine," I told him. "My time is valuable, Mr. Eames."

"Valuable?" His mouth quirked up. "What were you doing with it when I found you?"

Two could play at this game. "Just because you want it," I said, lowering my voice, "doesn't mean I have to let you have it."

Eames' eyebrows rose, ruffling his forehead and my concentration, but he was back to observing the room. "It's a nice construction," he said, as if hotel room structure was something clients talked to me about. "Good color, too. I should probably do something about the temperature in here though."

Ah. "Next you're gonna tell me you need to slip into something more comfortable," I said, the scorn in my voice for show, trying to postpone my inevitable demise. Oldest story in the book. "Money should only be money, no matter how long the legs it walks in on," my old sergeant used to say. "You don't mix business with pleasure." Dirtiest cop in the city. Taught me everything I knew. Especially about how you should follow your own rules.

Too bad I was already a fly in a web, and my doom was smirking in my face.

"I can certainly change if you want me to, darling," he said, with a leer and a wink. "Care to join me? It doesn't count here."

I walked to the window and peeled back a corner of the heavy drape. "Hmm," I said, "still Chicago. Thought we'd moved to Vegas for a second there."

But just like that, the landscape started to shift, morphing from the city skyline I could trace in my sleep to a dusty desert horizon broken by an oasis of neon. "Well, I'll be a sonofabitch," I whispered.

Somewhere, a saxophone started to play "Take Five", and Eames threw me a knowing grin. "It can be Vegas if you'd prefer," he said to me, "because this is a dream. You're dreaming right now."

Then the world faded to black.

The warehouse blinked into focus and I sat up in a rickety lawn chair and croaked out, "I'll take the case."

My first instinct was to slam the button again— just take it for one more death ride. Eames' man, Yusuf, put a hand on my chest.

"Steady, mate," he said, penlight in my eyes. "Just gotta check your reactions."

I got ahold of myself.

"What did you think, Arthur?"

I looked at Eames, my throat dry, my heart still racing. "That was… How did you do that?"

"A PASIV machine. At least, that's what it says on the tin. It allows for shared dreaming."

"But… how?" I wasn't used to begging. It was my job to make sure it was the other man who ended up on his knees.

Yusuf was still at my side, taking my pulse and jotting down notes, but I hung on a thread, waiting for Eames.

He shrugged. "Dunno, do I?" He studied his nails. "Got this machine off a bloke in East End, trying to pass it off as 'electromagnetic shock therapy'. Couldn't get it to work, though, until I met Yusuf here."

Yusuf nodded at the acknowledgment and took the stethoscope out of his ears. "He's fine, no adverse reactions to the drugs. Just keep him clean, yeah?"

"Will do, thanks, mate."

Yusuf leveled a reproachful glance at me before he left, and I wanted to loudly infer a few things about his parentage, but I refrained.

"Why were you buying an electromagnetic shock therapy machine?" I asked.

Eames only grinned at me, nails still held up for inspection. "Well, obviously, I wasn't, was I?"

I glanced at the contraption, deceptively small, intoxicatingly close. "No. Obviously not."

I made him start talking and Eames opened his mouth to let the lies spill out. I wrote them down, dutifully recording the drivel he was feeding me, then turned to another page.

"So," I said, licking the tip of the pencil, "Fischer, you said, is the one you think most likely to be stealing things from you out of your dreams. Because, and I'm quoting here, 'why do people steal anything?' Is that right?"

Fischer's name felt oddly familiar in my mouth.

"'S right."

"Uh huh. And what, exactly, is he stealing from your dreams?"

"My ideas, Arthur. My intellectual property. He's going to fleece me for all I'm worth."

I fixed him with my hardest stare, years of walking a beat giving me a nose for horse shit and a stomach for very little of it.

"Mr. Eames, I would venture to say you've never had an idea worth anything in your pampered life. So how about you give me the real story, and we'll skip over what you're planning on making up next."

Eames made a round 'O' with his mouth, a pretty picture I couldn't focus on just now, and said, "I am shocked, Arthur, that you think so little of me. In fact, I would take my business elsewhere—"

"Except you can't," I said. I unrolled my sleeves and rebuttoned my cuffs, and Eames' eyes tracked me. "You can't have just anyone knowing about this, can you? And you've already told me, which means you either have to kill me or pay me." Everything about this situation told me to get the hell out, if I even still could. God damned pretty mouths. "I'd personally prefer the latter."

"So would I, as it turns out," Eames said, his mock appall giving way to a swindler's grin, one that looked far too comfortable on his face. "But the real information isn't going to get you any closer to what I need from you."

"And what is that, specifically?"

"Specifically?" He crossed his arms and leaned back against a desk. "I need to find out how he's doing it."

"Stealing your ideas from dreams."

"Yes," he said, eyes unfocused, running a thumb over his chin. "It's almost like a remote access. The machine I have requires you to be plugged in, as you were. But something long distance…" He trailed off.

I cleared my throat, preserving my dignity despite Eames' unguarded look of hunger. "Why do you need me? There are two of you. Just…" I waved my hand, "one of you attach yourself and have the other one of you follow him."

Eames shook his head. "'S no good, darling. Robert would recognize both of us. That's why we need you."

I gave him another veteran-copper look. "And how would he recognize you, Mr. Eames?"

Eames just grinned at me again. "Listen," he said, unfolding himself and taking a step closer to me. Dangerously closer to me. "Would you want to, I don't know, get a coffee or something?"

I snapped my notebook shut. "I can't, can I?" I brushed past him, the scent of tobacco and warmth wafting toward me. "I've got a job to do." I headed for the exit, mind

whirling. "I'll contact you tomorrow, Mr. Eames, with what I've found out."

"Perfect, darling, appreciate it," he said casually. "Oh, and Arthur? Lay off the booze, yeah? Don't want it to mix with the…" He tapped his wrist, exactly where I'd been attached to his machine. Unconsciously I rubbed my thumb over the thin skin there. Since his statement hadn't required a response, I left calmly.

Information on Eames was hard to track down, and it wasn't. Eames was a name many people had heard. But the more I dug, the more questions I had.

"You mean the big, bald chap. With the handlebar mustache?"

"Oh, right, Eames! The Australian."

"You know Eames? Do you know where he is? Can I talk to him? Can you get him a message?" The doll in front of me was practically salivating on my suit. I crossed her off the list and moved on.

"Eames? Never heard of him. But I know a guy who's heard of him, if you know what I mean."

Finally. Now we were getting somewhere. "This guy have a name?"

"Yeah. Ben. Franklin."

I rolled my eyes and ponied up the dough, the last one in my wallet, in fact, and was rewarded with an address.

"Arthur, love, you owe me a new door," Eames said cheerily when he answered the phone the next day. "The warehouse isn't mine, you know."

"I do know," I clipped. "Do you want to know what else I know?" There was silence on the other end, which was good because I was already biting out words. "Three arrests in the last three months. Six court cases, all of them thrown out, most of them under dubious circumstances. You're wanted for fraud in four different countries. You have a rap sheet longer than my John Thomas, Mr. "Eames". And you want me to help protect your intellectual property? I should turn you in to the police right now."

There was a heavy pause before Eames said thickly, "I hired you to investigate Robert Fischer, Arthur. Not me. I already know about me."

"And why should I help you?" I spat into the handset. I wanted him to tell me. And I wanted to believe whatever lie he was going to toss me.

"Because," he continued, his voice curling in my ear, "as you already pointed out, we both know this ends one of two ways. And an ex-cop with your record," he stressed, "should probably take a paycheck where he can find one."

The threat wasn't unexpected, but it left me with zero ammunition and fewer options. "It better be one hell of a paycheck," was all I muttered.

"You have 24-hours to impress me, Arthur. And as silly as this sounds, I do have extremely high expectations of you, darling. Til tomorrow."

Slamming the phone down didn't help a thing.

Robert Fischer's name, as it turned out, was familiar for a damn good reason. He was a Fischer of the Fischer-Morrow operation out of Los Angeles, and he was worth more money than I would ever make in two lifetimes as a washed-up gumshoe. Maybe three.

"Ari, I need this one," I said into the phone. "Now, I know there's something you can do, there always is. I just need to get close to him."

"How close?"

She was a dame to have on your side, for all the good it was doing me now. Her voice sounded achingly of home though.

"Close enough to look but not touch."

"But I'm looking at this man's picture, and you wouldn't say no to touching, am I right?"

"Ariadne," I said warningly.

"Alright, I'm working on it. Gimme some time."

"You're a peach."

The PASIV was just as elusive as Eames himself and just as sexy. Acronyms meant military, so I started there.

"I'm looking for intel," I said over drinks, which I was sipping instead of slugging and it wasn't going unnoticed. I slid the note rolled tightly around the money across the table. "That's for starters," I explained. "Whatever you can give me is fine. And there's more where that came from."

The amount was decent, especially for basic information, but Freddy took a look at the slip of paper, pressed his lips together, and slid it back. Along with the money.

I frowned. Added more. Slid it across. He didn't even count it before he slid it back, then took my note and crumpled it before dropping it in my drink. Freddy stood, bracing his hands on the scarred wood of the bar table and gritted out, "I don't know nothin' about that, and I don't wanna know. My advice? Stop askin'."

When he left, I fished the paper out of my glass and finished both our drinks.

I went old-school after that. Micro-film, historians, consultants with long memories. Retirees. Veterans. I was about to give up, when I trudged past my neighbor, Miles. It had been a long day of pounding the pavement and I was beat, but something about the way he motioned me into his house got my back up. I followed his hobbling gait through the front door.

"I heard you were asking questions you shouldn't know to be asking," he stated as he poured the tea, cups and saucers already laid out. Damn if I didn't hate being a foregone conclusion.

I sat and spread the napkin on my lap, and watched him peer through his bifocals and splash tea everywhere. "Maybe not," I agreed, "but since I already know to be asking…"

Miles gave me a flat stare and I ran through my mental files of what I knew about the older gentleman. Retired architecture professor, or so I'd thought, one daughter, estranged, wife had passed away before I moved to the neighborhood. Kept his lawn neat and had offered to help when I'd repaved the drive last year, I shoveled his walk when I did my own. Nothing else. What else did people learn about their neighbors?

"This may surprise you," he said as he settled in the creaky wooden chair across from me, "but life-long learners tend to know quite a lot by the time they reach my age."

"This may surprise you," I replied conversationally as I sipped my tea, "but I don't know that I'll be around long enough to find out."

"Mmm. Well, you keep on the way you are, you may be right. If I may, let me impart some of my hard-earned wisdom." I motioned for him to continue. "Secrets that don't stay secret aren't worth very much."

I rolled that around in my head as I rolled the tea around in my mouth. "And how much might this particular secret be worth?"

"More than your life, that's for sure."

His watery blue eyes were matter-of-fact and he blew across his tea before taking a sip. I crossed my legs. "And what if I weren't interested in the worth of this particular secret, so much as its actual secrets?"

"Mmm," he hummed around his swallow of tea, "that, I may be able to help you with. Provided that's the case, of course. Knowledge for knowledge's sake is a bit of a passion of mine, you might say," he chuckled to himself.

I wasn't laughing. "Miles," I started, a momentary flare of panic before I assured myself that was indeed his name, even though we'd never exchanged more than a friendly wave or brief greeting since I'd first moved in. "I wouldn't want to put you out."

He waved a papery-skinned hand. "No trouble, no trouble a'tall. Just let me get my instruction manual."

His strenuous rise to his feet and gimp down the hall were painfully slow. Painful for me, anyway. I licked my lips and folded my napkin neatly.

"Here we are," he announced cheerily as he re-emerged. The textbook in his hand screamed of hours in a classroom, blackboards and report covers and everything I'd hated about school. He set it proudly in front of me.

"Your Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous Device and You." Those textbook authors weren't messing around.

"Now, I would like this back when you're done with it," Miles said. "I believe it's the only one of its kind, and," he held a finger to his lips, "shh. No one knows I've got it. So you just run along home now and stop by any time."

I half thought he was senile until I got home and flipped to the first pages of the book, and the words, "Hello, beautiful," floated out of my mouth.

I flipped through it once, skimming, studying diagrams and pictures of early testing before settling in to read. My hand groped the arm of the chair for my non-existent glass only once.

My phone rang. "Mr. Eames," I said without wondering who would be calling me at this hour. "I have made some strides and I'm just waiting on word from my cont—"

"Darling," Eames purred into the phone, "it is so good to hear your voice."

His voice dredged up images of lips and scruff and slouchy clothing concealing who-knows-what, and I frowned them away. "Mr. Eames," I repeated. "Fancy you calling at this hour. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Arthur, love, the pleasure is all mine," he laughed, and I rolled my eyes at the charade that would no doubt continue every time he called now. "I was simply calling to see how your day was."

"Fine," I snipped, grasping again for a drink that wasn't there and cursing myself as I curled my fingers together and closed the book. "I did a few things. Visited a few business contacts, caught up with an old friend. You?"

"Oh, I never do much during the day," Eames smarmed. "I find it's really the nighttime when things get… interesting."

"Hmm. What can I help you with, Mr. Eames?"

"Not a thing, not a single thing. Just wanted to check up on you, that's all. And now that I've heard your dulcet voice, I'm off to enjoy my evening. Don't wait up for me, love."

Surely the dial tone was an appropriate reassurance that I would do no such thing.

The late afternoon sun beat viciously against my throbbing head and I scowled at it where it crept under the brim of my hat.

Yusuf let me into the warehouse like we'd discussed on the phone. "And it's YOU-suf, mate," he said, like it was my job to know everyone's damn name.

"Just get me hooked up, would ya?"

"Ah ah," he shook a finger, "we wait for Eames. It's not safe to dream alone."

That hadn't been in the manual. "And why's that, exactly?"

Eames rattled the broken door noisily. "Best business practice, darling. Trust me."

He sauntered across the floor, looking good and knowing it. He gave me a once-over. "And why do you need to dream, Arthur, if I may ask?"

I crossed my arms, ignoring the twinge on my wrist where the needle had entered. "You said you wanted me to find out how he was doing it. I need to know more about how it's done."

Eames looked at me carefully before saying, "Alright," like he was doing me a favor. The thrill of dreaming again was inconsequential. I had a job to do.

Cataloging Eames' movements as he hooked himself in, my fingers itching for my notebook, I made small talk with Yusuf. "So. What exactly is in the drugs you're injecting me with?"

He smirked. "Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Lay back, please. Don't want you to fall out of the chair. That would be a rude awakening." He chuckled to himself.

"Ready?" Eames asked no one in particular, and when he didn't get an answer, he pressed a button in the middle of the mysterious machine. What I wouldn't give to get my hands on that.

The liquid flowed into my veins, warm honey wrapped in a down comforter, and I sank. When I opened my eyes, Eames was standing to my left, a gun in his hand as he checked the chamber.

"Where did you get that?"

Eames smirked and tucked it into the back of his waistband, slotting it there like he was born with a gun in his belt. "You ready?"

I ignored him. I pictured a gun in my head, held the image steady. I thought about everything I knew about the gun's construction, the countless times I'd taken a gun apart to clean it, the physics which made it work. My eyes slipped closed as I concentrated. I could practically smell the gun oil, hear the slide of the bullet into the chamber, feel the grip in my hand.

And then there it was. I could feel it press into my palm and I opened my eyes. A perfect copy of the gun in my head now sat in my grasp, and I looked to Eames in surprise.

He quickly covered up his look of shock. "Not bad, darling. Think you'll be able to hit anything with that bean-shooter?"

I frowned at him, even as the street around us changed to a field in the blink of an eye. This was not my first time with a firearm. A row of colorful glass bottles twinkled a challenge in the sunlight from where they were carefully balanced on a fence. I glanced around me, not letting on I'd read that chapter in the manual three times. The colors in his dream felt over-saturated, almost hyper-real. Beautiful, but not exactly realistic if you'd ever actually been to a field in mid-summer.

I raised the weapon in my hand, taking aim, but even before I pulled the trigger, I knew it wouldn't fire. Something I couldn't name felt off. The impotent click of the trigger was embarrassingly loud and I gritted my teeth.

Eames chuckled and I was a professional, I reminded myself.

"It's not bad, darling. But look at it again."

I studied the gun, studying its curves and lines. Then it turned it over. As soon as I did, I saw the odd dimensions of the gun, which felt 3D in my hand but looked 2D before my eyes. It shouldn't have been possible, but there it was. I rotated it, curious, and watched as the anomaly maintained solidity in my hand.

"You tried too hard," Eames said, and I expected a smug condescension, but he just appeared earnest. "You can't fill in every detail; it's impossible. But your subconscious knows more than you do. Try again, Arthur."

Maybe it was the use of my name, the way his tongue curled around the r's, the lack of his infuriating 'darling,' but I felt the rush of discovery, the desire to create, to make him proud. I tossed the useless gun away and, without thinking, filled my palm with the familiar sensation of the gun I'd carried on the force. And it was a heady feeling, like being back in the saddle, but right now I had an audience. I glanced from the pistol in my hand, unflawed this time, to the man standing beside me.

He smiled warmly. "Perfection, darling."

And I was back to wanting to punch him or press him up against a wall. Maybe both. I scowled and fired off five rounds, watching five bottles explode in the sunless sunlight. Then I took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger once more. This time, when the bullet released, it flew in slow motion. The impact to the bottle was an explosion of glass fragments, twinkling blue, which hung in the air and refused to fall.

"Very impressive," Eames remarked, but I knew we had minutes left, and I had a job to do.

I ignored him as ran through the tests I'd set for myself: a change of scenery, a destruction of what the book referred to as "projections" but which just looked like people, and something of my own I'd wanted to try. A paradox.

I turned and shot an angry looking rancher coming across the field, no reaction from my audience, and made myself [ignore] him. The ground became a checkerboard, and as it reached the horizon, the white squares started to shift, becoming bird shaped, and then actual birds, white doves which flapped in place, hovering feet from my face. I grinned.

"Well, now." Eames didn't sound as impressed as I'd imagined. He sounded cautious. Which made him wiser than I'd assumed. "And where did you learn to do that, if I may be so bold?"

"Mr. Eames," I said, turning to face him. "I am good at what I do."

He hummed. "Oh, you're the best. But you've got no imagination."

Around us, the doves' plumage changed to outrageous colors and they took off, soaring straight up in formation before plummeting towards the ground. I held my breath as the first beak hit the earth, shattering it as they continued to dive. The land beneath our feet stayed steady but fractured into islands hanging in the sky. The foliage grew, and grew, and overhung the edges, and a stream I hadn't noticed before ran off the end of the ground, splashing into the clouds below. It was gorgeous.

I rolled my eyes. "Are you done, Eames?"

Eames' eyes narrowed even as his grin widened, less friendly and more predatory. I couldn't convince myself it was a bad look on him, not even as he retrieved the gun from his waistband and pointed between my eyes. "I sure hope you got what you came for, Arthur." And then he shot me in the head.

It's a strange sensation, being shot in the head. There is pain, oh yes, brilliant and sharp and excruciating. But there is a thud as the bullet hits the back of your skull that is the same sound as the beat of your mother's heart from inside the womb. It's the same as a dinosaur's footfall. It's the explosion of a star. Combined with Eames' face in front of you, it's really not so bad.

Waking seconds before Eames was not enough time to quell the nausea that washed over me. It was a damn shame what happened to Eames' not-his-warehouse floor.

Eames waited for me to be myself again, which I wasn't sure was possible, what with the agonizing headache and the life-changing experience of being killed.

"Arthur," he said, elbows on his knees, "I don't believe you've been entirely truthful with me. Care to explain yourself, love?"

He was calm and dangerous. I licked my lips and Yusuf brought me a glass of water. I drank it with a shaky hand and Eames watched me.

"No need to get hysterical, Mr. Eames. I don't believe you've been entirely truthful with me either."

He sat back at that, eyebrow raised, tongue running over his crooked teeth in thought. "Fair enough. I propose we both come clean. You go first though because if I don't like your answer, we won't have to waste time going through my sad story, now will we?"

I looked at Eames' face and knew I was compromised. I knew it as well as I'd known anything in this world. Because I thought about telling him the truth. I wanted to. The whole truth and nothing but the truth til death do us part. But I didn't. But Eames didn't know how far gone I was over him yet, and maybe, just maybe, it might be my salvation.

I rolled my sleeves back down and refastened my cuffs. "Very well," I started. "In my line of work, I've gotta know someone in every port. I've got exactly one contact in the military, and I need him, so don't bother asking for his details or trying to shake him down, for God's sake. He takes money for intel, we catch a drink from time to time, that's about it. I honestly don't know where he gets the information, and I don't want to know." Eames looked skeptical but as I had no intention of telling an outright lie if I could help it, he didn't appear to disbelieve me. Yet. I handed Yusuf back his glass. "But I'll tell you," I said, feeling surprisingly better after the drink, "he looked fucking terrified when I asked about PASIVs. Didn't want to have anything to do with it."

Eames looked at me, assessing. "And yet you got the information anyway."

I raised my own eyebrow and released one dimple. "I can be very persuasive, Mr. Eames."

His eyes twinkled but his mouth stayed a tight line. "And what did this unnamed man tell you, Arthur?"

I spread my hands. "Well, unfortunately, you saw the extent of my knowledge already. I can guess pretty easily that you know more than I do, Eames, both about the PASIV and how to use it. This is military intel, so I know there's more where that came from, but it's damn difficult to get ahold of anything regarding the PASIV without getting your guts ripped out with a beret pin. Believe me. I tried. Whatever they were using it for, they don't want anyone to know about it."

His grey-blue eyes weren't twinkling anymore. "I don't want to know what the military knows, I want to know what Robert Fischer knows. I believe we've had this discussion, about doing the job I hired you to do."

He looked surprised when I grinned at him. "You hired me to solve a mystery, Mr. Eames. And I've been solving mysteries for days. What have you been doing?"

He grinned back, turning that killer smile on maximum damage. "I'll show you. Yusuf, my good man?" He stood and reached in his pocket, pulling out a set of keys. "Don't wait up." He tossed them to Yusuf, who rolled his eyes, and then he picked up my jacket and hat. "After you, darling."

And like the fool I am, I left with him.

Eames strode through the streets like he owned them, and I could only follow, sucked along in his wake. He led us to a nearby joint and took a booth in the back.

"This is your master plan?" I said, unsticking my elbows from the swill on the table. "Get drunk and lose money on poker?"

"Who's losing money?" Eames asked with a cheeky wink. He slid around the corner of the booth, settling to press his thigh up against mine like he did it every day, and signaled the waitress.

He ordered us whiskey while I mapped out the exits. No way was I getting stuck with this check. "So, you promised me some kind of sad story," I said, tossing back the drink and rolling my neck as it flowed to my bones. God, that was good.

Eames watched me with hooded eyes and sipped his own, waving down the waitress for one more. It would be rude not to accept.

"I'm afraid the story isn't so much sad as it will lower your opinion of me, darling." His lips pursed around the rim of his glass, and he must have known what he was doing to me. I shifted in an attempt to put some distance between me and my downfall.

"That's nearly impossible," I said, and Eames laughed.

"In that case, it won't shock you to learn that I am a con man."

I arched an eyebrow and signaled him to continue.

"Imagine, if you can," he stressed, grinning to himself, "a debutante ball. A dashing cad emerges from the crowd to whisk said young woman off her feet, or perhaps her mother, or her aunt. Or, in a few thrilling instances, her uncle."

I shifted again.

"There is a whirlwind romance, an extreme infatuation, and then a gift, gracefully accepted, before the gentleman vanishes into the London fog, never to be heard from again."

"I see. And what happens when the young woman's family warns her away? Or tracks you down?"

Eames tsked. "I am disappointed you hold me in such low regard, darling. To date, that has never happened. Although to be completely honest with you, there have been a few times where the infatuation was less extreme than originally intended, and I've had to lighten the house safe on my way out of town. But otherwise, I have a perfect track record."

"Mmm," I hummed, swirling the drink in my glass as I watched him. "And what does that have to do with me?"

"I use the PASIV to gain intel on my marks, perhaps massage their subconscious to greater levels of infatuation, and, in a worst-case scenario only, you understand, glean the combination to the safe."

The wide hand which had brushed my thigh on the word 'massage' didn't come back and must have been a mistake. I repeated this to parts of my anatomy which didn't seem inclined to listen.

"But lately, the women I've been casing seem to be… less accessible."

I opened my mouth to say something scathing, but the hand was back, a light brush of fingers just above my knee, and I snapped my jaw closed. The hum of noise from the other patrons, the music, the barkeep fell away. The world narrowed to five points of pressure on my skin, separated by the barest swath of fabric, and the rumble of a baritone in my ear.

"It's happened several times, you see." A palm joined the fingertips, a warm spread of interest under cover of a tabletop and low lighting. "I'd begin my campaign," he said, his voice dropping as he leaned closer, "and while the mark appears to be interested…" the palm slid higher, fingers curling toward my inner thigh and my mouth went dry, "... without warning, the job goes south."

Eames' hand, however, was inching north. I licked my lips and wrapped my fingers around the glass in front of me. My second-best pair of pants were growing awfully tight as Eames' fingers reached the apex of my thighs. One solitary pinky, the one I'd noticed had a permanent crick, brushed against me and I cleared my throat to cover the gasp it startled out of me.

Eames stilled, and I scrambled to say something, anything, to keep him from withdrawing completely. What had we been discussing?

"Why…" I licked my lips and tried again, "why do you think Fischer would want to stop you?"

"Ooh," Eames crooned sinfully, "you are good at your job, aren't you?" He smirked at the way my body responded to that. "Well, darling, I am also good at my job. Very," brush, "very," stroke, "good. Sometimes it's a problem that follows me." The palm of his hand passed over the hard length down my leg, and a small moan escaped along with a dribble of my arousal.

"You'd better have a drink, darling, if you can't be quiet. Wouldn't do to be kicked out at the wrong moment, would it?"

I gave the barest shake of my head and raised the glass to my lips.

"Carefully," Eames purred. "Take a sip and hold it in your mouth. I'll tell you when you can swallow."

"Jesus." My hand shook a bit as I followed his instructions. I wasn't exactly sure how I'd gotten to this, but I was burning and he was offering to throw gasoline on the flame, and, well, it would be rude to not accept it.

"Very good," he murmured, pressing his palm along my length as he said it. His eyes faced the rest of the room and I struggled to do the same. Eames also reached for his glass, cool as you please, and wet his lips. Then, knowing I was watching, he dragged his tongue over his bottom lip and mirrored the movement with his thumb. I remembered the liquid in my mouth at the last second.

"Arthur," he chastised as a drip escaped the corner of my mouth. "Better swallow that then."

My eyes slid closed as it slipped down my throat.

"Mmm," he rumbled and thumbed the drop from my jaw. "Do that thing with your neck again."

My eyes snapped open, sure he was mocking me, but Eames' eyes were black with heat and a subtle glance said I wasn't the only one affected by all of this. Slowly, eyes sliding closed again, I rolled my head to the side, long expanse of my neck on full display. A gust of his breath danced over my skin as I felt the pull of muscle in my shoulders, rolling my head as slow as I dared. His hand tightened.

"Open your eyes, Arthur," Eames said. "You are going to get us caught if you keep looking like that." His hand started a stealthy rhythm under the table and I fumbled for the glass again.

"Good, good. That's right. Leave it in your mouth."

It was torture and heaven and my body screamed at me about too many nights spent falling asleep at my desk instead of in someone's arms. It was uncomfortable and not enough, but exactly what I wanted at the same time. My whole being felt balanced on a too-taut wire, one tip either way and I would tumble to my death.

I watched the waitress glance over, smile, take a step in our direction. Eames' hand stopped and I whimpered around my mouthful. But Eames just smiled his charming smile, waved his free hand over the top of his glass and shook his head. The waitress nodded her understanding and turned away. As soon as she couldn't see us, Eames' hand started to go double-time.

If my mouth had been empty, I'd have wailed. If we'd been anywhere else, I'd have thrown myself backward, arching toward that feeling, chasing it, rolling hips and forgetting my name.

Eames leaned close, his lips brushing my ear, closer than he'd ever been. "Swallow it," he growled, and the wire I was on snapped. My hips stuttered forward as my release overtook me, whiskey rolling down my throat. Eames' hand continued a slow stroke, wringing everything out of me as I braced myself with on my forearms on the table to keep from sliding off the bench.

"Fuck," I breathed. The edges of my vision started to return, and while Eames had backed up, I could still feel him, around me, over me. And even more.

"Could do," he said, and while he was aiming for unaffected, his voice was strained. He dropped several bills on the table and slid out of the booth. A quick adjustment which only I could see and a buttoning of his wide-lapeled jacket had him saying, "After you, darling."

One more shudder and I swallowed, following him on weak limbs. He held my elbow as we exited, my cheeks and ears heating as we passed table after table of patrons, my pants a testament to my bad decisions. Luckily, his hotel room wasn't so far away that I had time to change my mind.

The grey streak of moonlight illuminated Eames' bare leg and the rumple of sheets. I studied it as I tapped the cigarette into the ashtray on my chest. Part of me wanted to run a hand over the light hairs on the back of his thigh, and the other part just wanted to run. "I'm very good at my job. Sometimes it's a problem that follows me," he'd said before he distracted the hell out of me. What was I getting myself into?

"So," I said, taking a drag, "your Robert problem which followed you. Did that have anything to do with his divorce I read about in the paper?"

Eames rolled to his side and propped his head on his hand. "Only marginally related. Not my intention, at any rate. But I suppose that's semantics to a man like Fischer. Although overall, I would bet he was madder she gave her divorce settlement to me."

I could feel his eyes on me as I watched the fan spin lazily above us. "So she left her husband for you, and then you didn't want her."

There was a silence next to me and when I looked, his eyes flashed a warning. "She wasn't required to be miserable, darling. And neither am I."

Misery. The curl of smoke from my cigarette wound to the ceiling. I'd seen my share of misery, in this job and the one before. It didn't look like Eames. But I bet it held a pretty strong resemblance to the former Mrs. Fischer. "So, Robert Fischer, energy conglomerate, family of more money than God, is a lovelorn jilted ex, out for revenge." I took another drag and shrugged. "Who knew?"

Eames didn't rise to the challenge. "The drinks you met your military contact for. Those ever turn into coffee and breakfast?"

Freddy's face flashed before me, and while Eames couldn't have known, I had no room to throw stones. Freddy's face looked like misery too.

I finished my smoke and Eames' ice-grey eyes watched me. "Not for a long time," I said. I left the ashtray on the bed as I began to pull on my things. Exit strategies were generally best executed clothed, even if the clothes were still damp in places. I had a 'leave him wanting more' motto to uphold, after all.

I expected him to say something— a witty quip, a drawn-out 'darling,' a dig about the job. But he just pushed himself to sit against the headboard and tracked me with his eyes. I thought about saying something to him as I hoisted my suspenders over my shoulders, but in the end, I just tucked it under my clothing and wished it would go away. It was only when I was ready to go I realized that this time, 'leave him wanting more' might actually be 'me leaving, wanting more.' And I couldn't have that. This face wasn't made for misery.

I dropped the door handle and turned back, to where Eames had just lit his own smoke, the stream he blew at the room swept aside as I came to him. I knew my future held more nights at my desk than it did more of this. And, like a screen door slamming open in a storm, I wanted. I leaned down and took what I'd been craving without realizing: one long, sex-steeped kiss.

His lips met mine, open and giving, like he'd been wanting it too. There wasn't anything between us; there couldn't be. But our mouths thought otherwise. They knew each other, met and held, gave and took. And when I finally came up for air, that door had been ripped clean off the hinges and the storm raged on.

Now was not the time for exit strategies or "baby, we can never be." Now was the time for survival by retreat. Because I would dance to his tune, I would sing and be merry. But I needed to be able to live when the song was over too. And tonight that wasn't looking so good.

Ariadne was a miracle worker.

"Couldn't have done this without you, doll," I drawled into the phone, picturing her amused eye roll.

"I know, Arthur. And you're welcome, since you haven't said it yet."

"Ah, my apologies. 'You're welcome.' Better?"

"Hilarious. I'm sending you your new hire paperwork, your uniform should be there in a few days. Your supervisor will be a… Mr. Browning. Just don't get fired the first day. This isn't easy to set up, you know."

"That's why I said 'you're welcome.' Because you're a natural. I've never seen anyone pick it up as fast as you."

"I'm only doing this for you, Arthur. This is not a full-time thing for me. Stop trying to entice me to the glamorous life of a PI. I've seen the way you live."

"Ah, it was worth a shot," I smiled into the phone. "I'll make sure you get on the expense report."

"Yeah, yeah," she said, and I could hear her smile too. "Keep in touch, Arthur."

Ari had set me up with a custodial job, graveyard shift. Ideal for a sleuth, really. Although I didn't meet anyone named Mr. Browning, I had access to most of the Fischer estate on day one and I didn't have to change my sleep pattern or my drinking habits. My kind of gig.

Misery hadn't made it to my face yet as I emptied wastebaskets and sifted through receipts, but it took up a residence somewhere between my ribcage and my stomach. It crept up sometimes as I explored cupboards and closets, sweeping thoughts and dust bunnies around, but I managed. I kept track of Robert's nighttime routines from inside the estate and his daytime routines from outside and never wondered when my phone would ring.

Misery and I cataloged Fischer's every move for a month. If the man missed his ex-wife, I didn't know how he found the time. Between meetings and flights and time spent at his in-home gym, he was clocking five hours of sleep a night by my count. He didn't have room for pining in the schedule he paid someone else to organize. I managed to get a hold of one of his schedules, even though Fischer's personal assistant shredded everything at the end of the day.

"Shredder broken!?" she squawked loud enough for me to hear. "How is it broken? Hey? Hey, mister?"

I looked up from my broom.

"Do you know how to fix shredders?"

I added an extra slouch to my posture. "Uh, I might, Miss. But I've gotta get these floors done or my boss'll… well, he won't like it."

She blew her straight black hair away from her face in frustration, red lips pursed like a promise.

"I could maybe do it after my shift is over?" I suggested, tasting victory.

"Oh, that would be wonderful. Thank you. In the meantime, do you know where there's a pair of scissors?"

My elation died as I located a pair and watched her hack the schedule into pieces. After she was gone, I took off the note I'd left on the shredder and plugged it back in, then spent the rest of the night taping paper back together.

I bought recording equipment to listen to Fischer's phone calls. I got a membership at his golf club. I found his personal ledger for his checkbook and copied the last six months of his expenses into another one. I knew every damn detail about the man's personal and private life.

"Arthur," Eames' voice purred in my ear. "Darling, it's been an age. Tell me, what have you been up to recently?"

"I don't have it yet, Eames. I'll call you when I do." Dust stirred as I slammed the phone onto the desk. Hanging up on Eames should really feel more satisfying.

The box I'd been keeping Fischer's info in was overflowing and needed sorting. I should have either tossed out the useless stuff or gotten another box. I grabbed a stack of junk mail I'd pulled from Fischer's trash, ready to dump it into my own basket, when a small letter slipped from between two advertisements.

I made a cup of tea and steamed open the envelope. A small, handwritten letter seemed odd. What was odder was that this wasn't a letter to Fischer. It was a letter from Fischer, which had been returned to sender. The cramped, slanted writing crossing the ludicrously expensive stationary seemed to embody the man. I smiled as I read. Earl Grey and secrets. The perfect pick-me-up.

Mr. Janis,

While I appreciate the services rendered to myself and my father in this trying time, I do not believe we require them further. While your concern is noted, our family feels confident we've received all the dream training necessary. Further correspondence regarding this matter will be returned. Thank you.

Robert Fischer,
 Vice President
 Fisher-Morrow Industries

I read the letter twice, sure I'd imagined that pretty little word. Dream.

I called Eames.

"Well, Arthur," Eames schmoozed into the phone, "I didn't expect to hear from you again so— "

"Shut up, Eames. I've got something. You at the warehouse?"

"I will be by the time you get there."

"Good." I hung up on him and shoved everything back in the box, hurrying out of my office. Seeing him again was almost the last thing on my mind.

Yusuf was there too when I entered the warehouse, cardboard box of more information than they needed and didn't ask for, but since I literally had nothing else to show for the weeks I'd been tailing this man, I'd brought it with me. I hadn't found a PASIV. I hadn't even heard talk of anything like it. I hadn't seen any evidence that Robert Fischer was obsessed with Eames or interested in getting revenge, and I couldn't even be sure he noticed his wife was not there anymore. His finances showed a budgeted amount for something referred to as "gentlemen's services", which had been on the books for far longer than they'd been divorced. He was not a lonely man, from what I could tell, and he didn't spend time dreaming, long distance or otherwise.

Eames was leaning against a desk, one long line of lust-inducing thoughts. The box in my arms was heavy and I was ready to be rid of it.

"Before you ask, this is the first break I've gotten in this case." I set it on the desk. "Yes, I've been trying, no, I haven't missed anything, and no, I don't know if additional time will make a difference. Do you still want to see it?"

Eames nodded, and even Yusuf leaned forward. The steamed-open envelope looked smaller in Eames' wide hands— hands which had pressed themselves into my skin and burned themselves into my memories.

"Dream training," Eames said with surprise. He flipped it over and handed it to Yusuf, excitement in his eyes. "Janis. You don't think... ?"

"Yeah, I do," Yusuf said, frowning at the letter. He looked at Eames. "I do."

Eames grinned like a little boy who'd found a tenner in the gutter. "You brought an awfully large package for that, Arthur, but it means more than you think. So I thank you."

I grit my teeth and said what I'd come to say. "Don't thank me. I am resigning from the case."

Eames' eyes widened and Yusuf put the letter down.

"Resigning?" Yusuf asked.

"Whatever for, darling?"

I glared at Eames for keeping up his silly charade when he held all the cards and I'd just folded. "Because I can't call it 'closed', but it sure as hell isn't solved. This is one for the circular file, boys. I have crawled through Robert Fischer's garbage cans and underwear drawers, and there is nothing anywhere related to PASIVs or shared dreaming, except this. I couldn't even find a record of what he paid for 'dream training,' whatever that is."

Eames' eyes sharpened. "What do you mean, you couldn't find a record?"

Record books don't lie. I dug out the copy I'd made of Fischer's ledger and threw it down in front of him. "Here's a copy of his income and expenses for the last three months," I said, "and here are the three before that." I wasn't sure if I should bring up the "gentlemen's services" to Eames. A man doesn't like to hear his good work isn't appreciated.

Eames flipped through the books, making an interested noise. Then he looked at the box. "What else do you have in there?"

I shoved it toward him. "That's my last four weeks. I have been through correspondence, bank statements, schedules from his PA, I've been to his goddamn golf course."

Eames and Yusuf raised their eyebrows in tandem and they both reached for the box.

"Look," I said with a sigh, "I know we hadn't agreed to a price. Normally I'd charge you for my time, but I gotta tell you, this is not really a case I want on my resume. So why don't you two just pay me what you think this mess is worth, and I'll get out of your hair." Your gorgeous, tidily combed, better when it's been tousled by my hands, hair.

Neither of them looked up from the contents of the box.

"Look here," Yusuf said, pointing at something. "And here."

Eames nodded and made the noise again. "See this one?" He pointed to something in the ledger and grinned, and Yusuf grinned back. "Could do something with that."

"Definitely. Browning's name is on all of these checks. Look," Yusuf said. "It's been going on for months."

"Years, more like," Eames replied, and my patience snapped.

"What is this? What are you talking about?" The taste of being in the dark on my own case was bitter.

Eames put down his paper and looked at me. "Arthur, this is good work."

For once, his voice was without a trace of charm, sarcasm, or innuendo. He seemed sincere. I blinked.

The pleading look he gave Yusuf made me question my understanding of their relationship, especially when Yusuf said, "No."

"But Yusuf," Eames said, one step from whining.

"Come on, man," Yusuf said. "We've been setting this up for months. We can't get a new patsy before then."

If they'd been trying to put my back up, they'd succeeded. "Patsy? Excuse me, but what the fuck is going on?"

Eames glared at Yusuf and said, "I'm sorry, darling. I meant to tell you. Actually no, that's not true. I had no intention of telling you. But you are surprisingly useful, not to mention you have a fantastic arse," and here Yusuf snorted and rolled his eyes, "and I'm telling you now."

I crossed my arms.

"There was never any long-distance theft."

I waited for more, but he just looked at me, apprehensive.

"I'm waiting for you to explain what the hell I've been looking for the last month of my life."

"Alright, love, before you get your blood pressure up, let me just say that Yusuf and I were going to pay you, no matter what happened."

"You leave me out of this, you bloody bugger. This was all your idea, every inch of it."

Eames glared at Yusuf. "Very well. I have your check written already. I want you to understand that."

"Eames," I said, patience at a simmer, "I understand that part. Keep talking while you're still able."

Eames, that bastard, grinned his beautiful smirk and I closed my eyes against the flutter in my chest. "I hired you to be visible. I got your name from the yellow pages and I had no idea you'd actually get the job done. Well done, you, by the by. And this," he indicated the box, "is bloody fantastic. I mean, we always figured you'd dig up something, but this is... we've got more information from you than we've been able to acquire this whole time on our own."

"Eames," I said, done now, but Yusuf was done too.

"Fischer was always the mark." Yusuf faced me, a brave man in a cardigan as my right eye started to twitch. "We were going to steal ideas from Robert Fischer. We just needed someone visible, someone Fischer would be able to point to as an outsider if he started to get suspicious. Someone to run interference, do the legwork—"

"And someone to pin it on if it went south," I finished. "You fucking bastards."

"But darling!" Eames said, his face alight like Christmas morning, "you're magnificent! We want you on the team! We'd like to hire you. Full time, for this job. And if you're interested in the one after that..."

"You do realize I'd like to shoot you both in the knees, right?"

Yusuf looked grim and Eames looked like I'd told him he had nice eyes.

I sighed. "You know this is illegal, right?"

Eames shrugged. "You know you're not a cop anymore, right?"

I knew what the Sarge would say. "What's the take?"

Eames told me and I raised my eyebrows. "And you were going to pay me how much from that?"

"Two percent. Standard finder's fee."

"Two—" My eyelid started to twitch again. "This was a month of my life. As in, one full cycle of bills. I had to borrow money for god damn golfing shoes. You—"

"Well, obviously you're getting more than that now!"

"How much." Twitch. Twitch.

"Er…" Eames looked at Yusuf. "Twelve?"

"Thirty," I said.

Eames raised an eyebrow and Yusuf stopped moving.

"Twenty," Eames countered.

"Thirty-five," I said. "More information than you've had since you started, remember? I think I've earned it."

His lips were holding back a smile, I could tell, and it made me want to kiss it out of him. Damn inconvenient, that's what it was.

"Twenty-five for this job, with opportunity for an equal share next time," Eames said and stuck out a wide, warm palm. "Take it, Arthur," his voice dropped. "Please."

I hesitated, eyeing that hand which knew me better than I would admit in mixed company, and still not as well as I'd like. Eames just waited.

"Yusuf," he said without taking his gaze off me, "give us a minute, would you? I'm trying to seduce Arthur to our nefarious cause."

Yusuf rolled his eyes and picked up his case full of vials. "In that case, I'm going home. I'll come back tomorrow at 8 am sharp, Eames. 8 am! Have pants on!"

Eames' eyes gleamed and now it was my lips holding back a smile. As the door closed behind Yusuf, my hand slid into his, palm to palm, giving and taking, asking and promising.

Eames yanked me against his chest and with his lips pressed to mine, said, "Welcome to the team, darling."