i) Heavily influenced by 'The Action Heroine's Handbook' and... er, alcohol.

ii) 'The character of every act depends upon the circumstances in which it is done' Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr

X

He couldn't stop the smile from forming. It had been a close call and he'd very nearly gotten caught. However, in the years since his escape, he'd learnt to walk the very fine line that existed between being caught and remaining free whilst taunting those who sought to capture him. In all honesty he was surprised to have seen them so soon. The clues he had sent hadn't been too explicit - he'd have guessed it would have taken another twenty-four to thirty-six hours for Broots to decode. Ample time for him to finish his pretend and even to stick around to soak up the end result if he so wished. That was always something he enjoyed, seeing other people's lives get back on track; probably because, in stark contrast, his own continued to veer down unchartered territory.

So he'd been prepared, as always. Calculating in that mysterious 'X' factor, the chance that she would turn up early, had been something he'd learnt early on in the chase. Always have a plan 'B' and always have more than one escape route. Miss Parker was, amongst many other things, a formidable woman and he knew it would be to his detriment to underestimate her.

When he'd seen the trio that made up his pursuit team approaching he hadn't hung around. Unfortunately they hadn't either. He kept the smile as he glanced over his shoulder, knowing it would add to her annoyance. Not too long ago Miss Parker had re-established 'the rules' of their little game and since then he had been steadfastedly obeying her orders: he ran and she chased.

At least he had managed to tie up the loose ends to his pretend before she'd arrived. The only thing he had left to do was escape. Again. Taking a sharp left he glanced backwards again. There was only her now. Sydney and Broots, though both mindful of keeping up with her, usually found it an impossible task. It always came down to her and him he mused idly, taking a quick right down an alleyway. Fate? Destiny? Two other words were probably more applicable: the Centre.

He could hear her following him into the alley, the familiar rythym of her high heeled footwear not too far behind him. She was persistent. Stubborn even. And infuriating. How she ever managed to keep up with him in that footwear though was a mystery - if only she'd swap those shoes for something more appropriate she might catch him one day. Then again, if she were to do so he'd just run a little faster because, as much as he loathed the Centre hunting him down like a dog, he did enjoy being chased by her. Mystery solved.

As much as he enjoyed it - the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rush, the mere sight of her - it always had to end eventually. If she ever caught him... well, he didn't like to think about that. He risked another glance over his shoulder, one final look at her before he played his trump card and disappeared. He was not, however, anticipating her next move. This was beyond the 'X' factor.

She wasn't pointing her gun at him, as he expected. In fact he didn't see her weapon at all though to be fair he was distracted because what she did brandish was something ultimately more effective. She was flashing her cleavage.

For someone used to running whilst constantly looking over his shoulder he suddenly found it incredibly difficult to remain on his feet. Of course, normally he wouldn't have spent so long with his neck craned over his shoulder. He only managed a few metres before he lost his footing, his head still turned, and hit the hard ground still trying to spy her. Lying there on the cold floor he took a few moments in an attempt to contemplate the situation. He must have imagined it - surely? He was going crazy, that's what was happening; all those Centre experiments had finally caught up with him. But staring into the early morning sky all he could see was her. And a certain part of her anatomy.

Somewhere inside his head he recognised that he needed get straight back up and keep running yet he stayed where he was. He felt a little dazed but he was sure he hadn't hit his head; he knew this had more to do with shock. And then he thought of her again and the surprise hit him once more proving his theory. The urge to flee tried to convince him that he'd imagined the whole thing, that he'd only seen what he wanted to see and that he needed to go. Now. But even in his dreams she never looked that good.

He raised his head slowly, using both elbows to prop himself up, and found his huntress sauntering towards him, a wicked gleam in her eyes. And her blouse still half unbuttoned, offering him another, somewhat closer view, and indisputable proof. This was no illusion. He swallowed hard, his eyes lingering on the delicious mounds of flesh just barely visible. It occurred to him then that she might not be aware of what she'd done. She didn't seem to be making any move to reclaim her modesty and there was no reaction to his quite blatant staring. Had this all been an accident?

"Look what I caught," she beamed, coming to a stop at his outstretched feet.

He swallowed again at her throaty tone and forced himself to look at her face. She was still smiling triumphantly and he chided himself for allowing himself to be so distracted.

She slowly withdrew her gun, the action making her blouse scout out various other positions, each seemingly more revealing than its predecessor, before resettling in its original position. It was almost as if she was teasing him. Maybe she was. Jarod felt his mouth go dry and found it increasingly difficult to breathe. And to look her in the eye. Despite the situation he was currently occupying he felt incredibly turned on. He forced himself to think of something else, anything but her.

"Five years, Jarod," she said bending down to his eye level, which quite frankly didn't help his situation any, "And this is all it took."

He barely heard her words. Somewhere his brain registered the fact she was admitting her intent and that he had fallen - quite literally - into her trap but right then it seemed that, despite his best intentions, every drop of blood in his body was rushing towards his lower half. As she'd crouched down he'd gotten another eyeful and in an attempt to look away from the source of his distraction his gaze had encountered her legs. Long, shapely legs that were barely covered to begin with were now even more exposed as her skirt had ridden up as she'd descended. He tried to swallow again but now he was finding it incredibly difficult to do more than one thing at once and he was still having enough trouble breathing as it was.

It was only the movement of her gun, held firmly in one hand, that kept him from acting on his impulses as reality began to re-assert itself. She was still his huntress, he was still her prey. He tried hopelessly to focus on this fact and on possible ways out of his predicament. She raised the gun to his chest and smiled.

"Gotcha."