Disclaimer: As if I would be cool or rich enough to own something as awesome as The Mentalist. Get real. Same applies to anything else that is recognizable.

Rating: T due to some suggestive themes. Implied, not explicit.

Lisbon POV.

Not for the first time since Patrick Jane came into my life, I find myself questioning the Lord as to how He could be so very cruel.

Why am I being tested like this? What did I do wrong in a past life in order to deserve having Patrick Jane be foisted on me? Just when I think I'm starting to get a handle on the man, he goes and does something that makes me doubt everything I thought I knew about him.

Things started out typically enough. I spent most of the day today trying to keep a lid on his usual jackassery while we processed the crime scene. Once or twice my hand floated almost longingly to my gun and it took all my self-control not to pull it out and shoot him. Not to kill of course, but maybe just an arm or a leg, anything just to wipe that infuriating "I'm-all–that" grin he's forever sporting off his face. Or at the very least, I could've hit him over the head with it.

But no. As usual I managed to reign myself in. Really, I deserve an award, or a massive pay rise if I'm going to be expected to put up with this total idiocy day in and day out.

But on the whole, it was a pretty run-of-the-mill day with my totally insane consultant.

It was what happened next that was the kicker.

He came to my office after everyone had gone to 'cheer me up', or so he claimed. Normally how this goes is he turns up out of the blue with a peace offering of some kind (strawberries today) and that awkward half-smile he only puts on when he's begging my forgiveness for the millionth time.

Luckily, he hasn't yet seemed to have figured out that when that half-smile morphs into a real one I can barely remember my own name, let alone whatever it is I was mad at him about. And I swear if he ever finds out, I'm on the next plane to Antarctica and I'm never coming back. Ever.

But today things went a little differently. After he managed to win me over in about three minutes, he left. I went after him to say thank you. And then it happened.

He kissed me. Patrick Jane kissed me.

I'm still trying to get my head around this as he melts away into the darkness of the corridor, like a phantom. Oddly appropriate, considering the way he haunts my dreams most nights. Of course some of those dreams are more…pleasurable then others, so to speak. Like last night for instance when I dreamed the two of us got stuck in the elevator and…

Whoa, extremely dangerous train of thought right there. It's gotten hot in here all of a sudden and I can feel my blood pressure reaching a level that can't possibly be healthy.

Why does he affect me this way? It was only a kiss on the forehead for heaven's sake and here I am, leaning against the corridor wall, trying to remember how to breathe.

Oh God, I need a drink. A very, very stiff drink. I swear the man is hazardous to my health.

Slowly, coherent thoughts are making their way back into my frazzled brain and in the interest of my mental and physical health, I come to a decision. This has gone on long enough. I am going to kick this ridiculous infatuation with Patrick Jane if it's the last thing I do.

As of now, I will see him as simply a colleague and subordinate. He is a useful member of the team, a valued asset and nothing more or less.

I can do this. I can. Project Jane-Detox begins now.

But then I remember the way his lips felt on my skin and the tiny amount of resolve I managed to conjure up shatters like glass.

Well, maybe I can start tomorrow.


I walk through the office in a state of Zen-like calm. So far, my Jane-Detox is going well, even if I've been reduced to avoiding him as much as possible, to the point of nearly diving into my office when he swaggered out of the elevator like some blond, well-dressed cat who just got the canary.

Emily Dryer has just arrived and Rigsby is handling the initial interview. She seems pretty shaken up by Justine's death and for some reason emotional people just don't seem to mesh well with Cho's in-your-face interrogation technique. Go figure.

Instead he is fielding the numerous tip-offs from the 'concerned citizens' of California, whom I expect are more inclined to acknowledge their civic responsibility due to the reward being offered by Ackerman for information on his fiancée's death.

Van Pelt is busy trawling through the couple's finances and with Ackerman's two architecture firms, as well as his considerable family fortune, it'll keep her occupied for most of the day.

Jane of course, is on his couch, engrossed in a Sudoku puzzle. Just once, it would be so good to see him using his time usefully for a change. I sigh in exasperation as he painstakingly fills in another square. God forbid he should take on any actual work. I think I'd die of shock.

A knock at the door and Rigsby comes in. He looks troubled.

"How's it going with Dryer?" I enquire.

"She's definitely upset, and she admits there was friction between her and the victim but she's holding out on me, boss. I think we need to send Jane in."

"Keep trying, she'll give it up eventually," I say encouragingly. Anything to avoid having to actually talk to my consultant. I'm really not in the right frame of mind at the moment.

"I can't find an angle to get at her," Rigsby persists. "Anytime I even touch on her relationship with Justine, she clams up."

I sigh. Why me?

"Fine," I respond, shortly. "Go back to her and I'll tell Jane."

"Yes boss."

He leaves.

OK Teresa, deep breath. You are a calm, objective professional. You will simply tell Jane what you need him to do and then send him out. You will not engage in his childish games in any way.

Cool, calm, collected. I repeat it like a mantra.

Pulse rate: steady. Blood pressure: normal.

One, two, three.

"JANE!"

In a flash, he's leaning against my doorframe, hands in pockets, grinning like the Cheshire Cat on steroids.

"You called, senorita?"

"Rigsby wants your help with Dryer."

"Anything for you."

Of course, it's too much to hope for that he will leave me alone that easily. He absent-mindedly runs a hand through his hair as he continues to survey me.

In my dream the other night, it was my hand running through those soft, blond curls… No Teresa! Mind on the job.

Pulse: Quickening. Blood pressure: Rising.

This is going to be harder then I thought. The man oozes charm without even trying. No ordinary woman would stand a chance when he set his sights on her. Not that I'd be stupid enough to actually think he would have the slightest interest in me, he could have his pick of anybody. I'm OK but I'm no Miss America after all.

I know I shouldn't care about Jane's taste in women, but I feel my mood sink a bit at the thought of him flashing that smile at someone else. She'd probably be tall and blonde and drop-dead gorgeous, everything I'm not. As much as I want to pretend this doesn't upset me, I feel a slight pang.

No, shake it off Teresa. The aim is get him out of my head, not to think about him more.

"Rigsby's waiting for you. Get going."

He looks the tiniest bit taken aback at the sudden dismissal.

"Something wrong?" he asks, scrutinizing my face for some kind of clue.

"No. Why would there be?" I say, more forcefully then I mean to.

"Now, now. Sharing is caring my little buttercup. So why don't I make you a nice cup of tea and you can tell me all about it."

I hate it when he uses that patronizing tone, it really does bring out the worst in me. But he just doesn't seem to realize that I want him out of my office. Now. Either that, or he doesn't care.

My money's on the latter.

"I have a better idea," I snap. "Why don't you do as you're told for once in your life and go give Rigsby a hand!" I'm almost shouting now, and the grin starts to waver a bit.

"Okay, I'll bite. What have I done this time?"

"Jane, just you being yourself is enough to make me want to have myself committed."

He frowns thoughtfully. "That's a little vague there, Lisbon. Anything specifically bugging you, besides the apparent rudeness of my very existence?"

"I couldn't even begin to know where to start," I respond, wearily. "Now will you please go help Rigsby?"

"If you insist."

"I insist. Last time I checked, that's what we're paying you for."

"What? Helping Rigsby? That's a task for someone far greater than I. The man is an emotional train wreck just waiting to happen."

Don't laugh. It'll only make it worse.

"You're a consultant. Go…consult." And for the love of all that is holy, get out of my office. I can't be held accountable for my actions with you standing there, looking like you've just finished modelling for GQ Magazine. I mean seriously, how much temptation should one woman have to endure?

"Sure. Ciao, bella." He winks at me and disappears out the door.

Spanish and Italian endearments? Spare me.

Groaning I slump onto the desk, resisting the temptation to bang my head against it repeatedly. Nicely done, Teresa. Well played.

The idea was to take back some control in this weird little relationship of ours but instead all I managed to do is make myself look like a total nutcase. This is going to be hard work.

You know things are bad when Jane begins to look like the sane one.

The phone rings, breaking me out of my Jane-haze.

"Lisbon."

"Agent Lisbon! How's the case going?" The overeager voice of Detective McKay assaults my ears.

"We're working on it, Detective McKay."

"Please Agent Lisbon, call me Brandon. Anyway my boys have come up with a few theories that I thought I'd run by you. Got a few minutes?"

"Sure. Let's hear them."

The next fifteen minutes pass on case talk and I have to admit Sausalito Homicide have some good leads.

"We'll get cracking on these first thing in the morning. Thanks Detec…uh Brandon."

"My pleasure. Keep in touch."

He rings off and I heave a sigh of relief. As usual, Jane was right about him. When he cornered me at the crime scene yesterday and asked me out, I mumbled some garbled excuse about not dating during a case. The truth is, I wouldn't go out with the guy if you paid me.

"Brandon?" An incredulous voice says from the doorway.

Patrick Jane cuts a formidable figure with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

"Since when are you and McKay on first-name terms?" he demands to know.

"Jane didn't you ever see 'The Little Mermaid?' You mustn't lurk in doorways. It's rude."

"The Little Mermaid was my daughter's favourite movie," he says quietly, and I can hear the thinly disguised pain in his voice.

There is silence for a moment as the tense moment hangs in the air.

"Justine Lyons caught Emily Dryer stealing from the till at the boutique they worked at," he informs me. "She reported it to the owner even though Emily begged her not to. Now she's on probation."

"Do you think Dryer killed her?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"I looked in her eyes. I didn't see a murderous spirit there."

"OK, anything a little more concrete?"

"She has an alibi for the time of the murder."

"Which is?"

"She was in a disciplinary meeting about the cash she stole. Ironic huh?"

"Is someone going to vouch for that?"

"Rigsby's looking into it right now, but seems to me that's she's a dead end."

I nod once, which he takes as invitation to come inside and sit down.

"What did McKay want?" There's something a little off about his tone, his voice is a tad higher then normal and he's looking at me with such intensity that I feel that I should look away.

"Gave me a list of people we should look at. Seems like Justine Lyons had quite a few enemies."

"Of course. Attractive, wealthy young women often have to bear the jealous barbs of other women, as well as the rejected pride of other men that they have spurned."

"I guess being rich isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"Not sure about that. The benefits far outweigh the drawbacks in most cases. So," he adds casually. "Did McKay say anything else?"

I shake my head.

"No renewal of his offer from yesterday?"

"Nope."

"Ah. I expect he's biding his time until the case is closed, then you can't blow him off with the same excuse as before."

Why the sudden interest in McKay? I can't help but wonder. Unless…but no, it can't be…

"I didn't blow him off."

"Yes you did."

"Didn't."

"Did."

"Fine, if he asks again, I'll go out with him. Happy?"

A strange expression passes over his face. "Only if you are."

Oh my God. He's jealous. There's no other explanation. But that must mean…he loves me!

A big part of me wants to lock the door, pin him to my desk and have my way with him. I've been longing to taste those lips for real and I'm dying to find out what kind of body he's hiding under those three-piece suits.

A bigger part of me says to wait a while and let things play out.

He loves me, but he just isn't man enough to say so. Well, two can play at this game.

I'm going to drive him crazy. I'm going to make him want me so badly he's not going to have a clue what to do about it, and just when he thinks he's made a breakthrough I'll pull back, just like he's been doing to me all this time. Let's see how he likes it.

Project Jane-Detox is over. I wasn't going to stick to it anyway. Just like the diet I went on in tenth grade and then caved in and ate chocolate cake on the very first day.

I hope he can handle what I'm going to throw his way, because I'm playing for keeps.

Pretty, pretty please review. Tell me what you liked/didn't like/ hated with a fiery passion so I can tailor the story accordingly.