A/N:

One last chapter before my regular life reclaims me. Everybody has been so wonderful about this one that I couldn't resist. Your reviews have keep me in permanent squee all day long. I'm so glad you liked the last chapter. If you thought it was spicy, well, remember, this is "very much M." You may want to approach some of the upcoming chapters with your oven mitts on.

If, after the first twenty minutes, you don't know who the sucker at the table is, it's you. ~Author Unknown

Mary was packed up and out of the hotel in 45 minutes, including a fast conversation with John Patrick. She'd been light on the details except for what he'd need to know for plausible deniability, and he'd never batted an eyelash. She'd slipped out the kitchen entrance and into a waiting taxi, knowing that John Patrick would make her farewells to her father. She hadn't had the time to find him on the gaming floor, hadn't taken the risk that Marshall might have backup already stationed somewhere in the hotel waiting on her.

The taxi took her across town to a U-Store-It facility, the kind with units large enough to require big metal garage-type rolldown doors. She paid the taxi driver, waited until he was gone, and walked down the rows of units to hers, A-7. She took out a small ring of keys and opened the regular door that sat to the left of the larger door, went in, and switched on the light. It was just as she'd left it.

Shelves lined the wall, and they were mostly empty. A large battered trunk sat at about waist level, a heavy padlock fastening it shut. This she ignored. Four or five cardboard boxes were at the top near the ceiling labeled in Jinx's childish hand with labels like "Baby Clothes" and "Christmas Decorations." These were also not her goal. She knelt near the back of the unit and pulled a heavy old-fashioned canvas tarp off a square shape revealing a small safe. She quickly worked the combination and opened it. Inside were several small pouches and boxes. She picked up one or two, weighing them in her hand, opened them and took out one or two items, and put the rest back in, relocking the safe and covering it again.

Then she stood, dusted her hands off, and turned to the object taking up the majority of the space in the unit. She flicked back the corner of another canvas tarp, and ran her hands lovingly over the curves of the vehicle it had concealed, a custom-tuned British racing green Dodge Charger. She took the the key out of her pocket and deactivated the alarm. She popped the trunk and put her bags in before sliding in the drivers' seat. For a moment, she just sat, savoring a moment of anticipation. She pushed a button on the roof console, and the rolling garage door slowly slid up with a rusty groan. She slid the flat key into its ignition slot and turned it. The illegal police interceptor V8 rumbled contentedly.

Damn, I love this car. It would go from zero to sixty in 6.2 seconds and top out around 150 mph. She'd had it up that fast more than one hair-raising, adrenaline-pumping occasion. It wasn't the fastest thing she'd ever driven; it couldn't begin to compare with the V10 fury of a Ferrari or that one gorgeous time she'd been in a Koenigsegg, but for her daily purposes, the heavy muscle car with its lunging panther lines had no equal in her eyes. She slipped a CD in the player, grabbed her sunglasses from the seat beside her, and pulled carefully out of the storage bay.

Time to get the hell out of here for awhile. A roadtrip will be nice. Haven't just driven for a long time...at least not in something I owned. She smiled, headed for the interstate and pulled out her cellphone. One last thing to take care of, though....

---

Since her departure, Marshall had had a lot of time to think about Mary Shannon. Part of him, a very large part of him, was so mad at her that she'd managed to do this to him and at himself that he hadn't somehow prevented it that he could have ripped that headboard down and wadded it into a ball of twisted metal. When they find out about this at the office, I am NEVER going to hear the end of it. He'd been trying unsuccessfully to free himself since she'd gone, and had only managed to cut little rips in his arms with the edge of the plastic zip ties, the pain fueling his anger.

Another part of him, a part the angry side was trying hard to ignore, found her admirable. She'd certainly had him at her mercy, bound and helpless in her place of power, and yet she'd done nothing, really, more than ask him to leave her alone. She hadn't hurt him, threatened him, hadn't even really tried very hard to bribe him. She'd cornered him, trapped him, and had done it with a great deal of planning and flare. He was usually the one who did the snaring. His quick bright mind found that alluring and fascinating.

The third aspect of him, one that had been dominant while she was in the room and confused him still when he thought of what had happened between them, wished she would just come back, settle herself across his lap, and kiss him again, maybe let his hands loose this time so he could actually participate a little more thoroughly. This part of him was still wondering around in a fog, and every time he looked down and saw that tiger-striped thong where he'd flung it off his foot when she'd left, it emerged to replay some of his favorite moments from their encounter, the unique and addictive taste of her mouth, the maddening little sounds she made as she'd shifted against him, those wicked nails undoing him slowly....

The angry side beat down the horny one again, and he shook his head in frustration. How the hell was he going to get out of this mess? He couldn't reach the phone, couldn't get off the bed.... She'd promised to send housekeeping in to get him...and how mortifying is THAT going to be...but if she didn't keep her promise, how long would it be before his office started searching for him? Twenty-four hours? Hell. Going to be a little messy in here in twenty-four hours.

He stared up at the ceiling until he must have dozed off. The sound of the door opening had him jerking awake. He saw a maid peering around the corner of the door as though afraid, and when she saw him, she began speaking rapidly in a language Marshall did not understand and backing out of the room.

"No. Wait! Help me, please!"

The door closed automatically behind her, and Marshall ground his teeth. So much for Mary's housekeeping release. Wonder what else she had in mind?

A few minutes later, the door opened again, and Marshall heard the maid's voice speaking rapidly in the hall. A masculine voice answered her in soothing tones and someone entered the room, a man with silver hair and golden brown eyes. Marshall had seen his face before, although they'd never been formally introduced. Probably every Marshal in the service, at least every one in this area, knew this man.

John Patrick Shannon came to stand at the end of the bed and just looked at the scene before him. His face was completely impassive. They do say he made his first million at the poker table. Of course, the second million, well, that took a cool head and a steady hand, too.... Neither man spoke, both taking the measure of the other.

"Seems you've had a bit of trouble here, Mr. Hunter," Shannon's voice was deep, rich, business-like. He gave no indication that Marshall's being bound to the headboard in his pajamas was in any way an unusual occurrence or that he knew who he was.

"Ah, yes. It would certainly seem that way. I would be most grateful if you could cut me down, in fact. I am supposed to be checking out today, and I do have pressing business elsewhere."

Shannon smiled, but it did not touch those agate eyes. His eyes are Mary's eyes, only hard, hard. Hers are never that flat, that shuttered. Marshall watched with a flicker of alarm as Shannon reached into his pocket and removed a butterfly knife with a wicked seven inch blade. What the hell is it with this family and their damn cutlery? Does everybody in the whole Shannon clan carry a sword?

Never removing his eyes from Marshall, John Patrick's hand gracefully worked the butterfly knife so its wavy blade showed. For a long moment, Shannon simply stood and looked down at Marshall. He could kill me right now and get rid of the body, have this suite completely stripped and refitted in such a way that even leucinol would never show the bloodstains, and tonight another couple could be celebrating a honeymoon or anniversary right in this same spot. He kept his breathing slow and even. He would not show fear to this man. And he knows I know it.

John Patrick stood just another moment, the knife gently weaving through the air, and then he smiled another not-smile. "Let's see about getting you loose then, shall we?" Shannon slid the blade under the zip ties one and a time and they snapped as though they were gossamer. Despite the fact that the blade was razor sharp and it had to slide along Marshall's skin, it was under such skilled control that at no point did it even scratch him. Marshall's arms fell, and he felt the pain of the hours they had been hanging there set in. He rubbed at his shoulders once they were free, gently ran fingertips across the bloody cuts from where he'd pulled at his restraints.

Shannon was still standing with his knife in hand a pace or so from the bed. Marshall was moving careful and slow. His Glock was in the drawer of the bedside table, but he had no illusions about who would be faster if he lunged for it, especially with his arms in their current state. Suddenly, Shannon's hands moved in a blur and the butterfly knife was folded up, disappearing again into the pocket of that suit that had cost him more than a month of Marshall's salary. Shannon put a gentle, almost paternal hand on Marshall's shoulder and squeezed.

"Whatever you were doing last night to get into this situation, Mr. Hunter, I suggest you might want to discontinue it. It seems like it might be dangerous to you. There've got to be safer pursuits than ones that leave you tied to bedposts and send anonymous calls to hotel front desks to have you turned lose in the morning."

So that's how she plans to cover him. It's a brilliant thing. He can always claim he didn't know she was here. Who's to prove any different? Who here in their own personal kingdom is going to step up and admit it?

Marshall nodded thoughtfully. He stared Shannon right back in the eyes, no trace of fear in his bearing. "Thanks for the advice sir. I'll surely keep it in mind. The next time I take up that particular pursuit, you can be sure I'll be much, much better prepared for whatever it might have to offer me."

Something flickered in Shannon's eyes, something that might have been amusement, and he sketched the sign of the cross over Marshall briefly. "Then God and his angels go with you, boy. You're going to need all the help you can get."

---

Marshall had thoroughly searched her room, but of course he'd found nothing except a folded-over piece of hotel stationery lying in the middle of the unmade bed. It had a quickly sketched Marshal's star on the outside of it, and inside a note that read:

Lovely Marshal Marshall Mann,

I guess you got out of the zip ties, hmm? Shame, that. Part of me wishes I could have just kept you like that. Would you have liked to have been...kept? The only thing I really regret is that I didn't think to take a photo. I guess all those wonderful images I'm carrying around in my mind will have to do it for me instead. Well...at least...

Until the next time,

Mary

His brain simply blanked out, took a little scenic tour on him when he read the note, his hand convulsing, crumpling it a little, as he pictured being kept...Jesus...what does that even involve? He smoothed the paper out on the table and slipped it into an evidence envelope. I think I'll make a photocopy of that for my private file, too, though. I should continue to make sure I have all copies of all relevant documents in mine. The horny third of his mind snickered at him. Yeah. Private file. Riiight....

---

Mary hadn't been to this small Southern town in years. It was microscopically tiny compared to everything she was used to, but she desperately needed to drop off the radar for awhile. Hell, I'm not even sure they've heard of radar here yet. This is about as far off the grid as you can get. I'm talking Flat Earth, Here there be Dragons territory...

John Patrick maintained a home here because he needed something within easy reach of his Mississippi gaming interests on the coast and in Tunica. While he had other houses, far more posh in other locations, Mary had chosen to hide out in this ancient house because it was, she figured, the last possible place on earth anybody would think to look for her.

She turned down the drive, passing down the alley of old oak trees and over the bumpy bricks. John Patrick had called ahead to have the house opened and cleaned, but it wasn't large enough to require a staff, and since she was trying to hide out, that would have defeated her purposes somewhat anyway.

She pulled the Dodge around behind the house and into the two-car garage modified from an old carriage house. It had gotten her from Las Vegas to Mississippi in record time, and she'd enjoyed every lush minute of it. She slid out and grabbed her bags, heading for the door, the needed key already in hand, one of the items she'd taken out of the safe at her storage unit.

The house, while not completely secluded from the others in this town, was set well back on its own large property giving it a pleasing feeling of privacy. It had an access to the river as most of the older homes did on the backside of the lot, and, most importantly to Mary, two ways to drive off the property other than the front gate.

She took her belongings inside, went upstairs to the room she'd thought of as "hers" since the first time John Patrick had brought her, Brandi, Jinx, and her Dad here so many summers ago, and began to get settled in for the duration.

Let's see you find this, Marshall.

---

He was having a bad time of it. There were no leads. News had leaked out at his office that she'd tied him up and left him. Thank all the angels there are that they didn't seem to know about the other. Of course, I did leave some very gaping holes in my report. Didn't lie... he thought quickly to stave off that nagging little voice that had been bothering him the past two days about omitting certain details.... just didn't think it was anybody's business but my own that she sucked my tongue down her throat and rode me like a pony.... The teasing he'd already received just from being caught and tied was monumental. Packages of zip ties were appearing everywhere, on his desk, in his truck, in his coffee mug in the breakroom.

When he sat down that morning and found all the double handles of his desk drawers had been ziptied shut, he ground his teeth in frustration, whipped out his pocket knife since he couldn't get to any scissors, and began to cut his way into his desk while he listened to the snickers of his fellow Marshals. If it's the last damn thing I do, she's going to pay for this. I don't know how. I don't know when. But some way, she's going to pay.... The middle desk drawer opened to reveal all the items inside that could be ziptied together had been. The handle of the scissors were ziptied together twice. Pens and pencils had been bundled together and four or five ties had been used for each cluster. His stapler had been put in a drawer, drawn tightly down with eleven ties.

He looked in the drawer with dismay, looked around the room at the howling mass of law enforcement, eyebrow arched, stood and grabbed his coat, and calmly said, "You're all a bunch of fiendish, evil, bored bastards. I want you to know that," which only made them all laugh harder, and he stalked out of the office. They must have been ziptying for hours last night to do all that. Jeee—zus. I have to get out of here...

His phone suddenly rang as he headed down the stairs. He looked at the number. It was McNeil. He'd contacted McNeil the day before in the hopes that his little rabbit might know something else that would be of use. Come on bunny boy. I need something good today. He answered, listened, and a huge smile spread across his face. Suddenly the ziptied stapler didn't seem like such a big damn deal anymore.

He was going to Mississippi, birthplace of Elvis, Hospitality State. It was time to get back some of his own.

---

Mary's days fell into a smooth routine over the next week. She got up every morning and went for a run around the neighborhood. She stopped to talk to Mrs. Larkin about the Garden Club yard competition, the most important event in the octogenarian's life. Mrs. Larkin was a rabid gardener, deathly earnest about the prize, and this year, if she did not win it, most likely salt was going to be sewn into the winner's perennials. Mary liked the sassy old lady in her green plastic shoes and her tie-died shirt.

After her run, Mary would spend some time doing business online or on the phone. Even though she wasn't able to run her crew onsite, she was still able to set up jobs for them from a distance. She itched to be able to be there with them, helping them to take those beautiful fast cars, to drive them just for a little while, before turning them over to whoever had ordered them. There were other things she did, as well, other things she stole, but there was nothing that made her as happy as sliding behind the wheel of a huge, fast, sleek machine and feeling all that power at her disposal.

Mary made a few trips into town. Her fourth day there she browsed around the little shops and found something to send Jinx for her birthday, something small and old and fragile, exactly the kind of thing Jinx would like best. For herself, she bought several books in a local bookstore run out of an old converted house. She ate barbecue at an outdoor restaurant and took a stroll down to the boardwalk near the river to watch it flow slowly by.

Feels like my life is doing that right now. Damn Feds. If they would just go away, I could get out of this place and get back to doing what I do best... She sighed and pushed away from the railing. It was time to go home. Clouds were rolling in. There was going to be one of those famous Mississippi thunderstorms, and she didn't want to get caught in it.

She showered and put on an old tshirt and a pair of men's boxers which were her version of pajamas. She read one of the paperbacks until she felt sleepy, listening to the rumble of thunder getting closer and closer. She put the book down when the power went out a little while later, knocked out by the storm, the only illumination that of the flashes of lightning strobing through the oak leaves outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. She lay staring up into the darkness for a few minutes more, the irregular light provided by the storm giving the room a strange pale glow each time the lightning fired, and then rolled to her side to sleep. She didn't hear the back kitchen door downstairs open, no alarm to warn her of the entry, of the slow quiet footsteps coming up the stairs toward her room in the blackness of the stormy night....

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