Three hours later, the agony had him staggering. Eames shuffled his way along the wall of his cabin and fumbled for the light, trying hard not to vomit, and feeling a rare panic. The pain was bad enough, but under it was the terror that kept coming back to her last words because Eames didn't think Sally Malone was a psychic.
He fumbled for the folding door to the bathroom and reeled in, blinking against the harsh light, and trying to focus on his reflection. Haggard was too kind a word; Eames looked every inch as bad as he felt, which was saying a lot. "Damn," he grunted, and leaned heavily on the sink waiting for the throbbing at his temples to die down.
It had started at the gaming tables, and although he'd switched from scotch to water, the pain had gotten stronger. A stop at the little coin vending machine pharmacy in the men's room for ibuprofen hadn't halted the growing pain, but Eames wasn't ready to head to the clinic just yet.
He thought hard—or as hard as the pain let him—reliving every step of his day in an attempt to figure out what had happened. When he reached the memories of Sally, Eames blinked, and rapidly pressed a hand to the back of his neck. A tiny sore place under his fingers made him wince, but trying to see it in the mirror was impossible. He fished out a shaving mirror from his kit and used it with the bathroom mirror to get a better look.
Tiny, but there was a red cut. Too long to be an injection, and too small to probe easily. Eames swore, loudly and viciously.
When he'd finished cursing Ambrose, Somno Tech, Sally Malone and the rest of the world in general, he stuck his head under the sink and ran the cold water in an attempt to cool his brain.
It didn't help, and Eames dried his hair roughly with a towel, threw it to the floor in a fit of pique, and left his cabin, making his way forward to deck three, suite three, prepared to vent his righteous wrath on the resident there . . . or at least demand an explanation if not an outright cure from her. He rapped hard on the door, letting the pain in his knuckles distract him from the throb in his head.
"It's open," came the muffled invitation. Eames debated storming in, and thought better of it, moving cautiously inside the little foyer.
"What the hell did you do to me?" he demanded huskily, and stopped.
Sally Malone was stretched out on one of the sofas, wearing a low-riding pair of black sweat pants and a cut-off pink tee-shirt that exposed her muscled stomach and a fine gold chain around her waist. Eames stared, caught up in a quick surge of testosterone at the sight before remembering his situation. He reluctantly shifted his glance to her face.
"I did offer the carrot first," she murmured, closing her book and sitting up. "You should remember that."
"Yes, well you can take your bloody carrot and shove it . . ." Eames broke off and closed his eyes, trying to regain control. He pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke in a low, rapid voice. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. But I'm in agony here, and if you're responsible, I'd like relief. Now."
"Dream with me," Sally murmured, and pulled a Synchronizer out from the bottom shelf of the coffee table. Eames stared at it a moment, frowning.
"What?"
"There's a medication in the sedative that will give you relief for about seven hours or so," Sally told him forthrightly. "Five minutes of dreaming in exchange for being able to sleep through the night. Dream with me every day for the rest of this cruise and at the end I'll have the migraine chip removed from you."
Eames swore with increased venom, the foul words rolling out with clipped maliciousness until the air in the suite held a faint blue tinge. Sally barely blinked, and by the twitch in her cheek seemed to be biting back a smirk. She waited until he wound down, then handed him a bottle of water. For a moment he looked as if he would throw it back at her, but with a grunt of sullen resignation, Eames viciously twisted the cap off and chugged it.
She spoke calmly. "The sed vials are locked in the safe, and the extractor is in the ship's vault. I didn't want to do it this way, but you made the choice."
"Oh don't throw this back on me thank you very much!" he growled. "This is blackmail. It's worse than blackmail, it's slavery!"
"I need what you can teach me, Julian," Sally sighed. "Ambrose pressures me, and in turn I pressure you—the world is a cruel place. On the other hand, you can be feeling better in sixty seconds. We go under, you start training me—things get better."
Eames sat heavily on the sofa next to her, eyes closed. "You're a bitch, you know that?"
"Yes, I do," Sally assured him. "But I come by it honestly. Ready to feel better?"
In response, Eames grudgingly held out his arm. Sally flicked open the catches on the case, and as he watched her, he noted the curve of her ass.
It was instinctive, and Eames understood that his libido had no qualms about responding to stimulus, no matter what else might be going on with his body. Carefully he stretched out on the sofa, grateful for the water. The tiniest scrape of the microfine needles at his wrist, and-
It was depressingly familiar: the main laboratory of Somno Tech, chrome and tiles and carefully neutral colored carpet. All of it, right down to the two-way mirror overlooking the main sleep bay. Eames gave a theatrical sigh and shifted to look at Sally, who gave a shrug.
"Wanted to give us a setting we both knew, for starters. I only dabble in dream design, Julian; my forte is symbolism and Jungian therapy. How's your head?"
"Better," he admitted grudgingly, and then looked down at himself. The lab coat was a good fit, and he realized that Sally's assessment had been thorough. "All right, this is your Dream, so let's start with what we both know. And for the record, once this week is over, I look forward to never seeing you again, got it?"
"Got it," she replied calmly. They began walking down the hall together, and Eames gave a shiver as memories returned. He took a left at the first junction, heading for the main floor stairs, his pace quickening. Sally followed him, a few steps behind.
He woke with a shudder, sucking in a deep breath as he returned to consciousness. Out of quick habit, Eames dropped a hand to his pocket and fished out the antique ivory Mah Jong tile, lightly hefting it in his fingers. He re-pocketed it as over on the other sofa, Sally gave a sigh and opened her eyes. "Ugh. Okay—" she muttered and rubbed her wrist. "Sorry, this particular Sed blend gives me a touch of vertigo."
Eames touched the back of his neck. "Forgive me if I lack a bit of sympathy, darling. All right, you've been well-drilled in the basics, and yes, you've got a Somno Tech maze depressingly well laid-out, more's the pity. I hope you brought files on some people to try and duplicate though."
"I did," Sally replied, and sat up, reaching for her bare feet, stroking them. Eames liked the view of that quite a bit, particularly where the low cut of the sweat pants revealed the dimples at the base of her spine.
"God I'm famished," he announced to the room in general. Sally stretched a moment more, then reached over for the suite phone on the side table.
"I'll order if you pack up the machine. What do you want?"
Eames bit back a suggestive remark and rubbed his chin. "Whatever catch of the day is fresh, and some rice. Salad too, if they've got it, and some cheesecake."
"I can see you're not going to be a cheap date," Sally grumbled.
"I'm worth it every penny, believe me," he bantered back, grateful that the headache had abated. Rolling to his feet, Eames squatted and packed up the machine after checking that the lines were coiled and sanitized. He snapped the case shut just as Sally finished the order, and looked over at her on the sofa.
"So. What's the Sally Malone story? If we're going to be playing teacher and student for the next week, I'd like to know just who the hell you are and what Ambrose has over you to drive you to this sort of subterfuge."
She flinched, just the tiniest bit. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think," Eames rose, looming over her with a serious expression, "that you do. Ambrose Heath has all the creative drive of a sea slug, darling. He would have never thought of tracking me down—at least, not on his own. But if someone suggested it to him, I could see him agreeing to it. And anyone tracking me down would be fairly desperate for the training. Tell me; what's that old windbag threatened you with to drive you to this?"
She eyed him for a long moment, and then shook her head. "No," Sally told him softly. "It's not germane to the situation, Julian. I'll be glad to give you any other details you may need about me, but not that."
He blinked, immediately intrigued. "A woman with secrets. Well I hate to tell you this, but I'm very, very good at finding out what I want to know, Sally. I have . . ." he leaned over her further, his smirk very self-assured, "a very big . . . carrot."
Unexpectedly, she giggled. It was a sweet sound, one of seductive agreement, and Eames grinned himself at it, willing to give up his questions for the chance to do other things with the woman on the sofa.
"Yes, I'm certain that you do," she replied, smiling up at him. "But room service is going to be here in a few minutes, I wouldn't want to interrupt anything fun before then."
"Ah," Eames nodded thoughtfully. "Food. Yes, fortifying ourselves first is very wise, I think."
Sally refrained from rolling her eyes, but the dimple in her cheek deepened. "You're absolutely sold on your own sex appeal, aren't you?"
Eames pursed his lips slightly. "Which one of us has all that lovely skin exposed? Which one of us is supine? Which one of us invited the other to this cabin?"
"Who's shifting the blame now?" Sally laughed throatily. "It's not my fault if your hormones respond to a little . . . stimulus."
"I wouldn't call it a little," Eames told her, and dropped a swift light kiss on her mouth before straightening up and running a hand through his hair. "And I was serious-what's a lovely girl like you doing working for a flatulent koala like Ambrose? Details, darling, details—might as well get in some practice with those, eh?"
He watched her sit up, amused and pleased to see that Sally's cool demeanor was slightly rattled. She shifted a little on the sofa and sighed.
"Sarah Catherine Malone. Born in Chicago, grew up mostly along the East coast of the US. I've got one sister, older—Jill—she's married now, so I am an aunt three times over. Let's see—I was the difficult child, but I managed to graduate and earn my degrees on my own. Was engaged, but we broke it off mutually, and—"
"—mutually?" Eames interrupted, looking at her curiously. "As in mutual mutual, or as in the 'one of us found out something about the other' mutual?"
Sally paused for a second, and shrugged. "I wasn't ready."
"Ah." Eames wondered what she wasn't ready for, but didn't push. "Very well, proceed."
"Thank you. I like—let's see, ummm, good steak, movies with lots of explosions, live theater and collecting books about Spain."
For a moment neither of them spoke and in that pause, a little knock on the door announced room service.
Eames let the waiter in, holding the door for the trolley and tipped him generously as Sally pulled silver covers off of the plates. The scent of broiled steak rose up and she sniffed it appreciatively.
"Dinner's on."