CHAPTER TWO
" . . . Sorting the obvious ones into various tables. Skulls on one, femurs and pelvises on another. I want someone at each bin clearly checking off each bone as it comes in, and another person giving it a preliminary DNA swabbing and cleaning. Take your time—these remains aren't going to disappear, and we want to do this right the FIRST time, boys."
The cadets, all ten of them, looked serious. Simon nodded, then waved at Sara standing next to him.
"Ms Sidle here is coordinating the information and samples between the field and the crime lab, so all evidence moving off-site goes through her first. Nothing, and I mean nothing, goes anywhere other than one of these tables or bins. You never know which bone might be the casebreaker, so be diligent and professional. Any questions?"
There were a few, mostly about bone identification, and after that the cadets moved to their stations inside the big tents, working industriously at the long tables. Sara glanced at the first one and with a pang of sorrow counted ten skulls of various sizes. Simon sighed, and carefully took his jacket off. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and glanced her way.
"Time to get to work, Sara dear—"
Side by side they measured and logged in each the skulls, writing down the statistics and building them up into potential profiles. A few hours later, Sara emailed the files to Quantico then took a bottled water from Simon gratefully. Outside the tent, night had fallen, and he gestured for her to follow him out.
The dig was huge now, with staked off areas and police barricades surrounding it. For so many officers and scientists, it was surprisingly quiet, and Sara appreciated how seriously everyone was taking the case. Simon led her over to an empty picnic table and climbed up on it. Overlapping lights from some of the work areas gave it a soft glow, and Sara was grateful for the chance to get off her feet. She sat down next to him stretching her legs a bit.
"So?"
"So?"
"So do I win a dollar or not?" Simon flashed a grin at her, his expression making it clear he already knew the answer. Sara fought the urge to smile back, but gave in and nodded.
"Yes you do. He did indeed mention your marriages." Sara paused and added, "I'm sorry for your losses."
Simon's face tightened for a moment; he looked down and murmured, "Thank you, but I never lost them. They only died, Sara."
A quiet moment passed between them, and he looked up into her compassionate gaze. She cocked her head, and he fished into his pocket, pulling out a wallet. The photos were well-worn along the edges, much loved.
"That's Hanna, my first. Married her right out of college in '54. She died of cancer in '62. Good woman, trained me about putting the toilet seat down among other things."
"Other things?" Sara's eyes twinkled. Simon looked to the sky.
"Never you mind, Sara. Secret things a man can only learn from his wife. Moving on, this is Ophelia. Met her on a dig in East Africa '65 and married her in a Zulu ceremony. Strong woman, lovely eyes, brave, brave soul. Died in childbirth six year later. We couldn't get to the field hospital in time."
"I'm so sorry—" Sara stammered, looking at the black and white photo of the short, dark woman standing next to Simon, smiling up at him. He gave a gentle smile, touching the photo.
"It's all right, my dear. We were together at the end, and our sons are everything best about their mother, trust me. And this is Amie, my one-time rival for department chairmanship at the University of Tennessee. We fought like cats and dogs all the way until I proposed to her during a committee meeting. She had it struck from the record, but said yes—" He grinned.
Sara glanced at the photo, noting the petite curviness of the woman. Simon sighed, taking it from her and glancing at it.
"A drunk driver swerved and forced her car off the road. We'd been married for almost twelve years. I miss the way she used to sing in the shower."
Sara bit her lips, trying to fight the welling sadness building up in her chest. Simon's words were so light, but full of quiet emotion, and she wasn't sure how to look at him. He lightly rubbed her shoulder.
"No tears, Sara. If anything, they've taught me courage. And this was Claire." The last photo was of an African American woman with long Rastafarian braids and a stunning smile.
"She didn't want anything to do with me, and I finally figured out why, but it didn't matter to me one damn bit. Married her even though we both knew it was just a matter of time. AIDS does take its toll."
"God, Simon—" Sara choked, not sure how to deal with any of it. He sighed heavily and patted her shoulder again, then let his arm slip around her.
"There is a reason for everything, Sara. You're every bit as bright as Gil says you are and then some. I've shown you my history here, so you know me better."
"It's—" she wanted to say something comforting, but nothing came out. Simon chuckled.
"--Sad? Only parts of it. I've had thirty-one years as a happily married man, and five children in that time. A lot of good years, Sara. A lot of love and laughter. I took chances and the reward for that was a richer life."
"—Yeah, I guess so," Sara reluctantly admitted. Simon laughed is deep rumbling laugh.
"It's important to live a life, Sara. To take chances. I suspect you know how to do that. And I suspect Gil . . . doesn't."
Sara pulled away from Simon, startled, but he merely winked at her and carefully put the photos away into his wallet again. She swallowed a moment, then began to climb off the table after him.
"Grissom takes chances—" She protested, weakly. Simon shot her an arch look, and slowly headed back into one of the tents, leaving her in the semidarkness.
"So we've got a grand total of thirteen intact skulls, fragments from about six others and an odd number of bones . . . " Grissom muttered, looking over the report printout in his hands. Sara nodded, pointing and drawing his attention to a line further down.
"So far. Simon has tentatively started sorting out those he suspects are part of the original burial site from the others, but there aren't as many. Only two so far are definitely Native American, and that's only because we've found artifacts within the bones themselves—the arrowhead, and a string of beads on another," Sara told him. Grissom nodded, setting the report down and taking a moment to look at her. She was leaning over his shoulder, looking a little pale but much more animated than he'd seen her look in a while. He paused.
"Not getting bored working with Simon yet? It's been a week—"
"Oh no! It's incredible—I'm picking up so much from him every time we even look at a bone! He's brilliant, and I can't believe how many cases he's been a part of," Sara gushed a little, her tone more enthusiastic than Grissom wanted to hear. He cocked his head and tried to smile but for the first time it was an effort.
"Yes, he's got quite a . . . reputation," Grissom replied, a little flatly. Sara looked at him, and for a moment her expression twisted a little.
"Grissom—I got the impression you two were close colleagues, that he's your friend. The way Simon talks about you seems to back that up."
"He is," came the quick, slightly flustered response. Sara picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk.
"Then what's the problem? He's charming and old-fashioned, but he knows his stuff like nobody's business, and if anyone's going to find out who these people were, it's him."
"Sara—" Grissom began patiently. It was hard to go on when she looked at him like that, eyes so velvety and bright in the soft light of the high intensity lamp. He sighed and stumbled on, "Simon Munro is very good what he does for a living, I have no problem with that. But he's also a bit of . . . a ladies man."
He felt his face flush; something that hadn't happened around Sara in a while, not since she'd asked him out oh so long ago, a memory he'd wanted to purge away and couldn't. Hindsight and regret dogged it every time it came to mind.
"A ladies man—" came her flat statement, softened by the tiny smirk on the corner of her lovely mouth. Grissom had an insane impulse to kiss it off of her, but merely nodded instead, and turned his gaze back to the report.
"Yes he does. Aside from having married four times, he's rarely been without female companionship as long as I've known him."
Uttering more would be gossiping, and Grissom reasoned to himself that merely stating facts would be enough for an astute woman like Sara.
She chuckled softly.
"So what are you saying here, exactly, Grissom? That you're worried Simon's going to seduce me away from the glamour of the nightshift in Vegas to go off with him to parts unknown?"
"Noooo . . . " he replied even as his pulse jumped and he fought the urge to nod. Sara set the pencil down and stood up, pulling herself out of the circle of light on his desk. Out of the shadows her voice came, soft and husky.
"You can always assign Nick or Greg to work with Simon—"
"No! Sara, I'm not worried, especially. I just wanted you to be aware that Simon can be a bit . . . flirtatious. It's just his way."
Why did that have to sound so—petulant? He wondered to himself as he looked up. Sara nodded.
"Yes. I don't mind." She walked towards the door, adding, "It's a nice change of pace."
Grissom watched her walk out, feeling a slow surge of misery work its way up his throat. His hands slid along the desktop, nudging the pencil that had been in her fingers, and slowly he caressed it, as if trying to absorb her touch from the thing.
A change of pace? Simon was working her as hard as anyone, hell harder since they were all on the clock, and yet Sara was smiling about it. Grissom concentrated, and a faint smile crossed his mouth as memories rose up. Early days—re-enactments and easy breakfasts and off-the-wall experiments—and a part of him suddenly understood the little element of those bygone days. The missing element.
He managed a wistful twist of his mouth.
Nick looked over a Warrick, and shook his head. The small scrap of material in the bindle was barely enough to pick up with tweezers, but it was one of the very few clues they'd been able to find from the site. Four days of intensive, hands and knees searching had turned up only three bindles of note, and this tiny rag was the largest thing they'd found so far. Carefully Nick laid it out, and snipped a miniscule portion for chemical analysis. Warrick leaned down on his forearms and studied the bit of cloth as it lay on the light table.
"The edges look burned. Not fire, more like acid."
"Yeah, that's what I was thinking too. Smells like dirt, but there's a sharper odor to it. Sulfuric? Hydrochloric maybe?"
"Possibly. We'll know more after we test it. Sara and Simon find any trace of chemicals on the bones?"
"Yeah, the preliminary report mentions some unusual stains, but everything's still getting processed," Nick griped a little, putting the snippet of cloth under a microscope. In the focus of the lens, a faint pattern came out, vaguely floral in design. Nick frowned.
"Fiber seems to be cotton, but not refined. Has a print to it, I guess—"
Warrick sauntered around the table and took a look at the slide; his frown matched Nick's.
"Definitely a print, nothing unusual or unique, still—I feel like I've seen this, or something like it before."
"Yeah, me too. Something . . . grandmother-like."
Warrick backed away from the eyepiece of the microscope and shot his partner a dubious, amused look. "Grandmother-like?"
Nick flushed a little, but held his grin, "Okay, laugh if you want to, but yeah, I stand by my comment. Grandmother-like. Nothing definite."
"I think the word is grandmother-LY. If there IS such a thing."
Both of them pondered that for a moment, then Warrick shook his head. Nick dropped the tiny section he'd cut off into a test tube and sealed it. Without looking up, he murmured, "So . . . about Sara . . ."
"What about Sara? You mean her and Simon?" Warrick scoffed, back at the microscope. The pause dragged on, and he finally glanced over at Nick, who was grinning.
"Hey, stranger things have happened, man—more common than you think: younger woman, older guy—"
"Nick, you've been sniffing fumes from the fingerprint chamber, man. Sara is not interested in an older guy." There was a pause; Warrick looked away, his expression bland. "At least, not THAT older guy."
Nick's grin widened and his eyes crinkled as he fought off a chuckle at that comment.
"Sharon Tualele, dead. Masao Tualele, dead. We have her prints on the knife, we have HIS prints on the knife. We have three wounds to his shoulder and upper back, one slash through her throat, and no buttons on his shirt, bruises behind her knees and no clear picture of what happened . . ." Grissom muttered to himself, examining the photos of the scene. It wasn't a new case—the Tualele double murder had happened a year ago, and although there was no doubt it had been a crime of mutual passion, the logistics of it bothered him. Periodically he pulled the photos out and went though the steps in his mind, trying to act it out. It was a mental distraction, the equivalent of solitaire, nothing more.
Sara wasn't due in for another seven minutes. Grissom knew she and Simon were out, some event Simon had talked her into, some perfectly innocent outing that she deserved and probably liked, an afternoon's escape from the heartbreaking work out at the bone yard, as most people around the lab were calling the site.
Something—fun.
"Downward stab angle, not possible for Sharon, at five foot three to inflict on Masao, six foot four . . ." he muttered, "Given the depth of penetration of the blade. Unless Sharon was on a chair or counter, but she'd only have time for ONE stab, not three—"
Six minutes. Grissom shifted his chair so it wouldn't seem as if he were watching the hall outside his office.
"And if she WAS on a counter, that doesn't explain why Masao didn't just leave, or turn around and knock her down. Buttons in a small scatter area near the stove, NOT all over the kitchen, so whatever struggle occurred was fairly controlled, but he wouldn't rip his OWN buttons off—"
Fun. It would be easy to have fun with Sara, Grissom mused. She probably bowled, and liked flea markets, and movies with impossible car chases, and she certainly fed ducks. For a moment he pictured her shredding a waffle and flinging pieces out into a pond, laughing at the mild chaos the food created among the waterfowl. He thought of trying to out throw her, of making a bet and deliberately losing just to have her laugh at him . . .
Two minutes.
"Bruises around the back of Sharon's knees and thighs . . . pressed against something? Finger shaped, but no sexual assault or rape. . Abuse? No, prints were the only marks on her, no history of battering . . .
And Simon. Certainly Simon would know about having fun. The man had charm by the boatload. Catherine thought he was debonair, Jacquie loved his faint accent; oh yes Simon could charm the pants off anyone.
That last thought made Grissom clench his teeth. Gripping the crime scene photos a bit harder, he rasped out to himself, "Crime of passion, but circumstances unclear—"
A soft clatter of footsteps made him look up and relief flushed through him, quickly chased by a hard pang of surprise. Sara gracefully swung through the doorway, clinging to the frame as she hummed, Simon standing just behind her shoulder, hands shoved in the pockets of his blazer.
Legs.
And pirates.
"—Buttercup darling am I!" Sara warbled in a slightly breathless voice, "Hey Grissom, they ran late and we TRIED to get out of the crowd, but it was insane! I can't believe how many people decided to go see the matinee along with us."
It was hard for him to reply, what with his tongue on the verge of hanging out. Sara in a skirt. Sara's legs on magnificent display under a short plaid skirt. Legs, for God's sake, long and sleek, ending in some sort of heeled loafers with buckles—legs---
"Did you have a nice time?" he asked, setting the photos down and taking a moment to calm his pulse rate. Sara nodded, coming to perch on the edge of his desk, unfairly bringing nylon covered temptation within arm's reach. Grissom sternly forced himself to look up into her face.
"Wellll, considering Gilbert and Sullivan isn't exactly my thing, and we were about a mile up in the wings, yeah. I had a great time."
"Sara is a natural contralto, and prone to humming her way through a libretto," Simon commented with a soft chuckle. Grissom forced himself to join in. He set the photos down, but Sara scooped them up, staring them over. Simon stared over her shoulder at them as well.
Grissom stared at Sara's curves, accentuated through a black sleeveless ribbed turtleneck and hoped he wouldn't end up having to breathe in a paper bag. That was not a work outfit. That was not a court outfit. No, that was a Sara having fun outfit, and clearly the fun was being had without HIM.
"That's an impressive angle," Sara muttered. Grissom glanced down guiltily, but Simon reached over and tapped the photo of the shoulder knife wound, his mouth pursed.
"Certainly. They must have been in a battle royale, locked in combat to both end up dead."
"It's not the what, but the how that I'm having trouble picturing," Grissom muttered, "Sharon was only five three, not nearly tall enough to do this."
Simon, laughed, shifting creakily towards the door, pausing only to turn his head back to speak.
"She would have been, if he had her up over his shoulder, Gil." With that he ambled off, leaving the two of them in the office.
A beat, a single pulse of energy filled the room.
Grissom rose up, his eyes bright, his concentration total and fierce. He turned to Sara.
"Of course. It fits." He handed her a marker as he spoke. "Downward strike, bruises---Sara, how much do you weigh? Still under a hundred and thirty?"
"Grissom, that's none of your bu—hey!"
He squatted slightly, strong arms wrapping around her thighs. Grissom lifted, picking her up off her feet, and Sara wobbled, bracing her hands on his shoulders as she rose up into the air.
"Whoa! Grissom!" she yelped uncertainly, trying not to struggle, but definitely startled. He grunted a little, but locked his arms tighter around her legs, and spoke in a slightly breathless tone as he battled with a serious overload of sensory input. Warm, sweet armful of Sara . . .
"Sara, you've got a marker, stab me with it! We're fighting, I've picked you up and you've got a weapon—"
She glanced down at the top of his curly head now pressed against the left side of her ribcage and trembled a bit, then brought the pen down to hit his broad back. Grissom tipped his face up to look at her with excited impatience. Sara could see his nostrils flare a bit, could feel his grip tighten in such a way as to make her stomach do a happy, happy somersault deep within her.
"Okay, um, I stabbed you . . ." she pointed out, her hair falling down past her cheeks as he continued to look up at her. For a second Grissom just held her, then she watched him swallow and clear his throat.
"Stab me again, left shoulder, then again . . ." came his husky demand. She did, the Sharpie striking him each time. He shifted his grip, and Sara felt his fingers behind her knees just as one of her shoes fell off, clunking to the floor. Grissom took a step over it.
"So you've gotten the blade in three times, and I'm enraged now, furious but mortally wounded, trying to crush you but I'm not near your neck. I start to loosen my grip . . ."
Sara felt herself slide down the length of Grissom's frame, the press of their bodies shockingly warm as she rubbed against his torso. He was definitely . . . contoured. Sara gained an instant, up-close, highly personal appreciation of Grissom's physique as his loosened grip. Gravity tugged, but his arms around her relaxed with grudging reluctance; by the time Sara's feet touched the floor again, several interesting situations had developed.
Grissom's shirt was missing buttons; four of them had been scraped off in the full body press and now were rolling in small circles on the floor. Further, Sara felt a bit of a breeze backside now that her skirt was bunched up around her hips, crumpled there by Grissom's hands. Stunned, she looked into his astonished face.
" . . . And I cut your . . . throat . . . " he trailed off, caught in the moment, keenly aware of every THING about Sara: her scent, her warmth, her quick breathing, her wide charred mahogany eyes, dark and enticing . . .
Outside the office door, Simon checked his watch, smiling faintly. He then shifted himself off the frame and stepped back in, drawing an exaggerated sigh as he dropped his hands to his hips.
"Sara my dear, your slip is showing," he stage-whispered with mock courtesy, even though a great deal more than that was visible through Grissom's tightly clenching fingers.
With a mortified squawk, Sara wriggled away from Grissom and savagely smoothed her skirt down again, then lifted her chin up, striving hard for dignity that wasn't quite available at the moment. Grissom on the other hand looked like an astounded understudy for Ernest Hemingway as his damaged shirt hung open, along with his lower jaw.
Sara jammed her foot back into her shoe, not looking up.
"Interesting method of deduction, Gil," Simon added gently as he herded Sara out. "Must play havoc on your Workman's Comp at times. Come, Sara, we have pelvises to go before we sleep . . ."
He walked with her down the halls towards the front of the building, and with every step Sara shifted gears, moving faster until Simon was forced to extend his already considerable stride to compensate. Outside the doors, she turned on him; face still red, but expression flinty.
"Okay, what the hell was THAT all about, and don't tell me you don't know, Simon. Save the courtly gentleman act for Catherine and level with me."
Simon cocked his head and looked at her, then drew a long slow breath. He gestured to her car, and Sara followed him to it, climbing in the driver's seat as he took the passenger one and buckled up. They turned out of the parking lot before he broke into a deep chuckle.
"Oh I knew this Dies Irae would come, sooner or later, but I expected it from Gil since he knows me better."
"Start talking, Simon."
"Very well, Sara Sidle. In the course of the last two weeks, I have been making some recalibrations on an unbalanced equation that's been bothering me for some time. The middle of this equation should have a plus sign, but that symbol is sadly missing, with the two elements standing without true purpose in their function."
Sara shot him a glare before turning her gaze back to the road. "Can we can skip the algebraic metaphor and get to the point? I'm running out of patience."
"As am I, Sara, but very well," Simon agreed, sliding his long hands over his bony knees. "Gil first commented on you to me in an Email almost three years ago. I'd known him for almost a decade, and since this was the first time he'd ever mentioned a woman to me in glowing terms I was pleased for him. Grissom's always been a very private man, but a good one, and I had always hoped he'd find someone special."
"And?" Sara prompted, a little less belligerently. She was listening, and trying not to let her focus stray from his words back to the sensual memory of Grissom's arms around her. His hands on her backside. The car headed for the tents of the crime scene as the streetlights came along the development road and Simon frowned a little.
"And I heard about you in each subsequent note. Nothing particularly personal mind you, just comments about current cases, or experiments, but it was enough for me to know he'd developed more than just a professional interest in you. My polite inquiries about yourself were for the most part ignored, and I let it pass—at times I suspect trying to pry information out of Gil Grissom requires a court order or a mafia enforcer."
Sara tried not to grin at his imagery and aggrieved tone; Simon gave her a long-suffering look and continued.
"Nevertheless, when he called me out over the matter of the bones, I was delighted that a side benefit to the trip would be a chance to finally meet the esteemed Ms. Sidle."
"Ah." Sara muttered after a quiet little pause. "Sorry to disappoint."
"You didn't, Sara," Simon replied softly, "Gil did."
"Excuse me?"
"Dear, in one of my bags lies a bottle of 1996 Chateau Mouton Rothschild Pauillac that I intended to hand to you both as a gift. Considering that the occasion for which it was intended has not yet arrived, I am loathe to let matters stand as they are. Therefore, it occurred to me that perhaps a little judicious action on my part could speed things along."
Sara's grip on the steering wheel tightened so hard that her slender fingers looked like bones. Very slowly, she kept her vision straight ahead as she spoke in a measured monotone as they pulled up into the dirt parking area behind the tents.
"So based on a few Emails and your own erroneous assumptions, you thought you'd take it on yourself to play matchmaker for me and Grissom." Sara gave a quick bark of a laugh, tinged with disbelief and disappointment, "I don't believe your audacity, Doctor Munro. Did it ever dawn on you that Grissom and I . . . aren't? You know. THAT way?" She choked slightly. Next to her, Simon snorted and shook his head.
"No. The moment I introduced myself to you Gil Grissom's hackles went up as clearly and quickly as a guard dog on his home turf. I don't think he was aware of it at the time, but there you have it. The man's besotted, and anyone with half a brain can see it, Sara. Even your colleagues are aware of the situation."
Sara shot Simon a panicky look; he reached over and unhooked her seatbelt, smiling mildly at her.
"No. There is no situation, Simon. Grissom and I are nothing more than co-workers in a professional capacity. He's my supervisor and I'm his . . ."
"--Exactly. I'm glad you understand, Sara. So because Grissom is smitten, but apparently unable to, as the vernacular goes, get in touch with his feelings, I decided the best way to move him forward would be through the time-honored tradition of jealousy. Granted, I'm not the rival I once might have been, but my track record speaks for itself, a record that Gil is aware of."
Sara's eyes widened, and her pretty mouth moved, but no words came out; Simon smiled at her impishly and climbed out of the car. By the time he was in the tent, Sara was after him at full steam.
"How DARE you!?" She fumed, moving to the table of pelvises and donning latex gloves in angry, jerky motions. Simon had already begun rolling up his sleeves in his methodical way, his gaze sweeping over the table.
"I dare because I'm right, Sara dear. I dare because I'm an old man with a last few chances to help the living--" He held up one of the cracked bones, caressing it lightly, "--Instead of the dead. Consider it—I do good work here. I bring closure and justice and peace to families. But I look at the skeletons sometimes and wish that someone had helped these people before they were nothing more than pitiful remains in my fingers."
Sara bit her lip, keeping her anger in check as she watched his face tense up; Simon raised his eyes to meet hers and they gleamed.
"What was it Shakespeare wrote? The good is often interred with the bones . . . Sara, forgive me my presumption, but it seems to me that an opportunity to make two good people happy while they're each above ground has some nobility to it. I've laid four wives into the earth, and will probably join them within a few years, but I at least had the courage to love."
He held the bone out to her. "Tell me now that you'd rather live with regret than love, and I'll stop."
"Simon—" she muttered softly, taking the bone from him, looking at it to keep herself from meeting his blue gaze, "It's not that easy. If it was, don't you think something would have happened by now? But we're talking about Grissom here. He's—complex. Unknowable sometimes. Frustrating and brilliant and just very . . . Grissom."
Simon shifted closer and laughed, a deep rumble as he looked up to the top of the tent. Sara felt some deep knot in her chest begin to loosen, and she carefully set the bone down again.
"Dear God, Sara, if Grissom wasn't in the picture I would DEFINITELY court you in all seriousness! The man needs a proverbial wake up call—and I think your re-enactment clinch probably jumpstarted matters quite nicely. I didn't plan that, but I do believe it'll be on his mind and libido for a while."
Sara blushed in a hot wave of humiliation at the reminder, and averted her face to keep from making it worse. Simon passed her a clean toothbrush from the bin of them at the end of the table. She took it with more force than needed, but he smiled and whistled a few bars of Modern Major General ; Sara gradually smiled as began gently cleaning the upper edge of the pelvic cradle in her hands.
The two of them worked for a while, moving in a busy tandem of cleaning and measuring as time passed. When Simon cleared his throat she looked up; he winked.
"I hope I'm back in your good graces, then?" he asked. Sara tried to frown but found she couldn't; at best a twisted grin crossed her lips.
"Simon, you are waaaay too old and distinguished to be playing Cupid, but yeah, I'm not angry with you anymore. Your intentions are good, if slightly skewed, and don't have a chance in hell of working, so—"
"I beg to differ," Simon broke in impatiently, "And all I ask is for a little . . . co-operation in this venture. Grissom's complacent and far too fond of the status quo. He adores you but in my opinion, he needs to know the threat of loss, Sara. Not death or departure, but loss to another man. And I would be delighted to be that man, my dear. The mere thought of me winning you over will either get Gil moving or give him ulcers—what do you say? Will you take a chance and see if we can't compel him?"
Simon's impish expression was back, lighting up his noble face and making his eyes sparkle. Sara thought of a thousand reasons to say no; serious, mature, sensible reasons to simply shake her head to refuse this insane, impossible scheme. Lots and lots of reasons---
She nodded, not trusting her voice.