There came a time in every man's life when he had to admit defeat. He had to give up and admit that sometimes, a woman really did know best. For Christopher Chance, that time was...not now. Even though the elevator felt like it was taking a century to move up and every move he made sent a sharp, glaring pain shooting through his ribs. He was still not willing to admit defeat. He wouldn't. Although the pain in his ribs was horrible; he could fake it. He didn't need a woman - Ilsa - to take care of him. No matter how horrible the pain was. It was just a cracked rib, he could hide it. Take care of it himself. He didn't need Ilsa going all mother-hen on him.

Jumping out of a three-story window had sounded like such a good idea at the time. Like the perfect way to completely throw off his target. Well apparently, his target had caught onto his brilliant-at-the-time plan and had come tumbling out of the window after him, sending them both crashing to the ground below. Any other time, grass would have softened the blow but having a two-hundred man tackle him was more than he, or his ribs, could take and the sickening crack that had follow had quickly alerted him to the problem, he now had.

"Hello?" He yelled, stumbling off of the elevator and into the lobby. "Anyone here?"

The sharp click of stilettos on the hardwood floor made him cringe inwardly but he faked a smile and stood up straighter. She slipped out of her stilettos and leaned up to kiss him. Okay, now this he could most definitely handle.

Well so he thought.

His natural instinct was to pull Ilsa closer to him and that meant having to slip his arm around her waist which wouldn't have been a problem, if his cracked ribs weren't making any movement impossible. Swallowing the pained groan that threatened to escape him, he slid his arm around her waist and tugged her body against his, sending her abdomen on a collision course with his ribs - his very cracked, very painful ribs.

"Ow!" He yelped like a wounded puppy and pushed her away before he could control his actions.

"Are you alright?" Ilsa asked him, reaching for his arm to keep him from stumbling back into the wall and possibly injure himself further.

"Just sore." Chance brushed it off, "Don't worry about it. I'm going to go shower."

As he stumbled off to take a shower, she couldn't help but notice the way he was walking. He was limping and she could see his arm tighten against his ribs, as if he was cushioning them. Already knowing that unless he wanted it, helping him would be useless, she brushed it off and plucked her stilettos off the floor, walking back into her office to get some work done. Whatever was going on with him, he'd tell her soon enough.

Oh Dear God!

When had walking up that flight of stairs become such a challenge? He used to be able to jog up that flight of stairs with no problem and still have oxygen left in his lungs. Now though, not only was he in an immeasurable amount of pain, but oxygen deprivation was also becoming a problem.

"I should have just shot him," Chance muttered, working to get his t-shirt over his head. However, with a cracked rib, moving his arm in any direction only intensified the pain and he was finally forced to give up and rip his t-shirt.

Once he had successfully rid himself of his t-shirt, which now lay in a pile of ripped cotton on his floor, he limped into the bathroom and examined his injuries in the mirror. His skin was noticeably darker around the cracked ribs and various cuts and scrapes littered his chest and abdomen. All in all, he looked as if someone had taken a whip and savagely beat him with it - and he felt that way too. He was in more pain than he could ever remember being in.

The icing on the cake; he had to hide it for eight weeks until his ribs healed.

Well Crap!

xxx

If Christopher Chance had taken her for a stupid woman than Ilsa Pucci was pretty sure she should be greatly offended by it. She was most definitely not stupid and if he thought you had to be a doctor to spot someone in more pain than he was willing to admit, than she was going to make it so that he was a lot of pain for a very long time. It had taken her an hour and not being able to concentrate on work before it finally hit her. The odd walk, the yelping when her stomach touched his ribs, and the amount of time it had taken him to walk up a flight of stairs.

He had cracked ribs.

She didn't have to be a doctor to spot the symptoms. She had grown up in Belfast, Ireland. Cracked ribs were a part of life for anyone in Belfast, especially those in the middle of the fight she was born into. Her father had at least one cracked rib, at any given time.

"Mr. Guerrero," She caught the older man before he could escape to the conference room.

"Yea, Boss?"

"Is Mr. Chance suffering from any injuries?" She questioned him softly, careful to keep her voice low enough that only Guerrero could hear it.

"I can't tell you." Guerrero shook his head and started off to the conference room. "Sworn to secrecy."

"Your son," Ilsa started before he could get to the conference room. "Has a birthday coming up soon, doesn't he? I imagine he'd like something special from his father. If you'd like, I could pay you in advance so that you could be well prepared for your son's birthday, but only after you've given me the information I need."

The offer he couldn't refuse. Silently apologizing to his friend, he turned around to face Ilsa. "He has cracked ribs."

"Thank you, Mr. Guerrero." Ilsa smiled sweetly, "You'll have your money by the end of the day. Cash, right?"

"Nothing else."

She let him go back to whatever he was going to do in the conference room and looked up at the loft above the main office. She wiped the triumphant smirk off of her face and headed up the stairs, determined to get it out of him one way or the other. She slipped a few extra buttons through their button-holes and opened her blouse up a bit more, displaying a fair bit more of her cleavage than Mr. Chance was accustomed to seeing.

"Mister Chance," She walked further into the loft and found him collapsed on his bed, still in his jeans. Her eyes widened and stung with tears when she saw the scratches and scrapes on his chest and abdomen. "Goodness, Mr. Chance, what happened?"

"Ilsa?" Chance groaned, not even bothering to try and keep up his pain-free facade. It was useless, she had already seen too much. "Leave me alone."

Ilsa raised her eyebrows as if daring him to say that again as she sat down on the bed and examined the cuts and scrapes. "What did you do?"

"Jumped out of a three story window, that's what." Chance growled, resisting the urge to yowl in pain.

"Well that explains the cracked ribs." Ilsa muttered as she stood up and made her way into the bathroom to retrieve a first-aid kit.

Chance's eyes flew open. She knew. Oh God. This was not good. His careful planning of different ways he could he hide how much pain he was in were shot straight to hell. How could she have known? He said he was sore and...Guerrero. That was all he needed to know. Ilsa had probably bribed Guerrero with the promise of a new weapon or some cash. Guerrero would give up anything if he was given proper payment.

"I must admit, you hid it extremely well." Ilsa rattled off, plopping back down on the bed with the first-aid kit and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in hand. "But you forgot one little thing."

"What?" Chance growled, closing his eyes and preparing himself for the sting of hydrogen peroxide.

"I grew up in Belfast with a father who had at least one cracked rib at any given time." Ilsa told him, ripping open the paper covering on a gauze pad and pulling the pad out. She opened the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and covered the top with the pad before tipping it over and soaking the gauze with hydrogen peroxide.

Belfast.

So that's how she knew. Growing up amidst a civil conflict, she knew first hand what a man with cracked ribs looked like.

He hissed through his teeth as the hydrogen peroxide seeped into his open wounds. His eyes widened and he couldn't help the gasp that escaped him when she accidentally brushed over the cracked rib. Now that was pain. God, not even Guerrero's torture hurt this bad.

"Do you have any Tylenol?" Ilsa asked him softly, when she got no response, she put the lid back on the hydrogen peroxide, cleaned up her mess and stood up. "Just as I thought. Be right back."

She slipped back down the stairs and into her office. She put her high heels back on and grabbed her purse before slipping out of the office to make a drug-store run. Within twenty minutes she had purchased Tylenol, more gauze and another bottle hydrogen peroxide as well as Neosporin and an ice pack. The longer she stayed in business with Mr. Chance, the more she felt like she was taking on the role of mother-hen. A role she wasn't sure she could play. Not after knowing what happened to Marshall.

It was a painful role to play.

Shaking her head, she grabbed the bag from the cashier and made her way back to the office to continue caring for Mr. Chance. If he needed a mother-hen then a mother-hen she would have to be.

xxx

Three days and six doses of Tylenol later...

He was not perverted.

He wasn't.

At least that's what he's trying to tell himself these days. Although with seduction on legs clicking around in those high heels that made her legs look a million miles long, he wasn't sure how long he could maintain that particular facade. It wasn't that he didn't like the woman, he did- he'd even go so far as to say he adored the woman-then again, that might have been because she provided the money for their operation along with the steady income he was currently enjoying.

It helped that there were certain benefits that could be enjoyed from having enough electricity between them to keep the entire state of California lit.

Definitely helped.

What did not help was having a cracked rib and having to resist the temptation of Ilsa walking around in one of those pencil skirts she favored. The ones that hugged her every curve, along with the aforementioned high heels that she liked to wear.

This was not conducive to not being a complete and total pervert.

Now's usually the time when he'd be kissing her senseless but because breathing is painful enough as it is with one cracked rib, he did not want to find out what would happen if he gave in and kissed her. So he had resigned himself to the fact that until his ribs healed, he would not be kissing her senseless.

"Need anything, Mister Chance?" Ilsa walked over to his bed, a sassy swing to her hips.

He shook his head, letting his eyes skim over her body. Her sensual curves were put on display in that pencil skirt and the soft curves of her hips looked terribly inviting. Ah crap, she looked terribly inviting. He was a man after all. He managed to keep from saying the "you" that was desperately trying to pop from his mouth and answered her with what sounded like something between a meowl and a groan. He was almost one hundred percent positive that Guerrero's torture was more pleasant than this.

"Mister Chance, my face is in an upwards direction, not wherever it is your eyes are at the moment." Ilsa snapped at him.

He let his eyes drift back up and found her arms crossed over her chest. He flicked his eyes up at her face as she sighed in a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

She adored him, she did.

Sometimes though, those more wholly male and slightly perverted tendencies of his could be annoying. However he was in bed cracked ribs and was essentially at the mercy of his caregiver. Which in this case was her.

Oh the things...

Bad Ilsa!

She shook the dirty thoughts from her head and made her way around the bed until she was at his side. She sat down on the edge of the bed and gently pulled the blankets away from his stomach. The nasty red scratches and scrapes didn't seem to be getting any better and the bruise that formed from his cracked ribs had already turned a rather sickening shade of purple. Yet somehow, he still managed to look absolutely, freaking amazing.

She might have to reconsider that whole at her mercy scenario.

xxx

After eight weeks of only moving to shower or use the bathroom, taking pain medicine and stealing perverted glances at Ilsa's body while she took care of him, Chance had just about lost his mind. He couldn't have been happier when the doctor, a man of Guerrero's choosing whose legality was probably questionable, declared him free to move around as he wished. Not only had he endured eight weeks of pure, unadulterated pain while his rib healed, he had also endured another form of torture.

Only this form of torture had a name.

And he fully intended to pay her back for every single minute of that seductive torture she had unknowingly subjected him too. Or maybe she did know, after all she had, had a sly look in her brown eyes when she left his place the other day.

"Ilsa," He called, jogging down the stairs intent on finding his benefactor.

"Well I see you're healed." Ilsa noted his shirtless form.

Either the man knew what he was capable of doing to her and used it to his full advantage or he had no clue, which she highly doubted, and just walked around in idiotic bliss. She didn't know, but either way, her pen dropped to the floor when he walked into her office wearing nothing but a pair of jeans that accentuated his shapely rear.

Her mouth dropped open, her eyelashes fluttered as if she was about to lose consciousness and she could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. It wasn't as if she hadn't seem shirtless before, she'd been witness to that joyous occasion more than once, but usually he was freshly showered, trying to use his abs to apologize for some idiotic mistake or trying to get his way by taunting her with his gorgeous body. This was something different. This wasn't Chance trying to do anything or get anything from her, this was just Chance in his home environment.

"And I see your shirt is buttoned properly," Chance teased her softly, "I was beginning to think you were going for inappropriate there for a while."

She looked down at the white blouse, in which all the buttons had been buttoned to keep her work appropriate but not too conservative and back up at Chance. "Yes well, you certainly enjoyed it."

"No..I just..." He fumbled for an answer that wasn't going to make him sound like a pervert but found none. "Ilsa.."

"Relax," Ilsa smiled as she stood up from her desk and walked over to him. "That was my intention."

"So how much?" Chance asked knowingly.

"How much what?" Ilsa asked him in confusion.

"How much did you pay Guerrero to tell you what was wrong with me?" Chance smirked knowingly, watching as her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

"You knew?" Ilsa narrowed her eyes and poked a manicured finger into his chest. "You smug bas-"

"Ilsa," Chance cut her off, laughing softly in amusement. "I don't mind. In fact, it was kind of nice having someone take care of me for a change."

"Don't get used to it, Mister." Ilsa laughed.

"Oh, too late." Chance laughed, wrapping his arms around her waist. "See I already did."

"Mister Chance." Ilsa smiled up at him, "If I kiss you and you push me away, I'm going to rebreak your ribs."

"My ribs are fine. I won't push you away." Chance leaned down closer to her, "If anything, I'd say you weren't close enough."

With that said, he pulled her tight against his body and threaded his fingers in her hair, pushing it away from her. Ilsa reached up and wrapped the long elegant fingers of her left hand around his wrist, holding his hand where it was as he crashed his lips against hers. If he had any residual pain, he ignored it and delved deeper into the kiss, unable resist after eight weeks of having to do just that. If resisting temptation meant he could kiss her as much he wished than you could...count him out.

To hell with resisting temptation because of broken ribs, he'd find a way to kiss her.

Eight weeks was long enough; too long.

To my dear Niagaraweasel and Cedricsowner, you two, my goodness, I don't know what I would do without you! This story would never have happened, believe me! Thank you so much and after taking all day to write, I have to say it was well worth it! I hope you both love it as much as I do. It was so much fun to write and I hope you have fun reading it.

Leave me some love, Dolls!

I love you all!

RobertDowneyJrLove