A/N: The thing about Harry that I think is sometimes forgotten is that he is one scary dude. Yes, he's brilliant and beautiful and a poet and a hopeless romantic on a hero's journey. But Crusaders are also ruthlessly single-minded and bloody. Women have been falling for guys like that for two thousand years.

*sigh*

Me, too.

P.S. Did you know that "ruth" means "friend" in Hebrew? Some translate it to mean "compassion." I find that interesting.

~~Chapter 4

Hong Kong

Harry originally booked an executive suite at the Hong Kong Peninsula Hotel but when they arrived, they found they were mysteriously upgraded to a luxury suite. The front desk gave a vague explanation as to the reason for the upgrade, apologizing profusely for the "inconvenience." Harry protested weakly, participating in the charade.

The rooms were so insanely opulent as to make the executive rooms look like an East End bedsit. The suite was three levels and seemed to occupy an entire corner of the hotel. There was a chef's kitchen — chef included - a gym and a private concierge. The terrace large enough hold a party of a hundred people and had a lap pool. They had a view of the hills and the ocean beyond that.

Harry and Eli casually swept the rooms for surveillance devices. The devices were state-of-the-art - and they were everywhere.

"There's even a wine vault," said Harry. He held up a bottle of Dom Perignon. "A good year."

Eli was unimpressed.

"This is an economy room at a fleabag hotel in Dubai", she said. "The UAE don't fuck around when it comes to ostentatious luxe."

"It is a bit over the top."

She sniffed and folded her arms. "Rock stars and drug dealers think this crap is cool."

"Snob," said Harry.

"I roll with the Queen, baby."

Harry popped the cork on the bottle of champagne and poured two glasses. "Let's have it out on the terrace."

"Champagne makes me silly," she said, taking a glass.

"Oh, stop. You can drink me under the table."

"Wait," said Eli. She left the room and came back with her iPod. She docked it into the suite's sound system. "I have a playlist that I labeled Henry James," she said. "Mozart, Muddy Waters, Tchaikovsky, Zeppelin, Coltrane." She picked up the remote and pointed it at the receiver. "Kashmir" blasted from the surround sound. Harry imagined their watchers snatching off their headsets and rubbing their ears. The music would also serve to muffle their conversation outside. They stood with their heads close, speaking softly, like lovers.

"Eight," said Eli.

"Nine," said Harry.

Eli frowned, thinking. There were goons all over the lobby. She counted eight. Harry saw nine. At any rate, they were probably just the hired help. It told them nothing about who reached out to Harry.

"That's a lot of manpower spent on you," said Eli. "It's such a huge waste. Don't they know you've got the Union Jack tattooed on your dick?"

"Every so often, someone has to make a run at me."

"That bell hop looked Gurkha," said Eli. She shivered.

"Nothing here is what it seems. That's the game."

"You're having fun, aren't you?"

Harry nodded, his eyes shining. "I have to admit, I do get a bit bored sitting behind a desk," he said. "It's nice to get out on a…holiday."

"Well, I think it's time we started to behave like we're on vacation. A toast." Eli held up her glass. "To your penis. Long may he wave."

"Here, here," Harry laughed, tapping the rim of her glass with his.

Eli leaned her forearms on the terrace railing and looked out at the city. Harry felt a tiny thrill of panic when she stood on her toes to peer over the side. He'd jumped from airplanes into the dark, not knowing if he was going to be shot on the way down or get his throat cut when he landed, but he still harbored a slight fear of heights. He stepped back and sat at one of the patio tables.

He took the opportunity to study Eli while her back was turned. She looked like an American tourist in her cotton sundress and cowboy boots. She was slightly taller than Ruth but long-limbed. She was one of those women who was both leanly muscled and voluptuous at the same time. She complained that her breasts made her more vulnerable in a fight but they didn't seem to hinder her as she nearly kick boxed the sand out of the heavy bag in his basement.

XXXXXXX

He met her for the first time at a government function held at Balmoral. He strolled the perimeter of the ballroom, trying to avoid being drawn into conversation, bored out of his mind, glancing surreptitiously at his watch, counting down to the time he could leave without seeming rude. He felt eyes on him all evening but each time he scanned the room, he could see no quick, furtive movement of a person caught in the act of watching him. The orchestra cued up a tango and Harry used the flurry of activity toward the dance floor to camouflage his escape. He was stopped by a touch to his elbow.

"Mr. Pearce."

He turned and looked down at a darkly beautiful young woman who he was sure he had not previously seen that night. He would have remembered this one.

"Shall we dance?" It didn't sound like a request. "Please," she said, staring into his eyes.

"Of course," said Harry.

They stepped into the swirl of other dancers and after a brief battle over who was to lead, they danced. The woman quietly introduced herself and informed him that Her Majesty required his services and if he could be so kind as to follow her once they got to the other side of the room. Harry looked down at her. Her hair was a cascade of thick shiny waves held back with combs inlaid with what looked like small diamonds. He slid his hand from her waist to the small of her back. He pulled her closer so that their bodies were lightly touching. He spun them around, ending in a dip. He held her there a beat longer than necessary, enjoying the weight of her in his arms. He brought her slowly upright, his face very close to hers.

"I'm not carrying a weapon," she said.

"I know," said Harry.

They worked together on the Queen's assignment for a week. Eli could be irrational, argumentative and moody. She didn't like being told she was wrong and she didn't do what she was told.

They were well-matched.

He found himself missing her after their project was complete. A dozen times he reached for the phone - and a dozen times he chided himself for being an old fool. A month later, he awakened to the sound of a soft snore. He kept his breath even and his body still. He searched the room with his eyes. Scarlet slept soundly in her dog bed by the door. He glanced at the clock. It was 3:00am. He felt cool toes pressed against his calf. He carefully lifted the duvet.

Eli stirred. "Couldn't sleep," she muttered and threw an arm across his waist.

His heart thumped once, hard in his chest.

He lay there, breathing in her now-familiar scent.

He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

She did this - not too often - seldom enough though to cause him to begin miss her again. Then suddenly she'd appear in his bed, head buried beneath the pillows, snoring quietly. Most mornings she was gone when he woke. Other times, she stayed for coffee. Some days he came home and there was takeaway food on the table, still warm in cartons, with a note attached that read, "Food, not Scotch." When he was shot by Tom Quinn, she stood silently by the door in his hospital room watching as he shakily dressed after signing himself out against doctor's orders. He didn't ask for help and she didn't offer as he struggled to button his shirt. But she stayed with him for three days after he finally came home, threatening to shoot him again when he tried to go back to the Grid, browbeating him into taking his pain medication and force-feeding him the terrible homemade soups she burned on his stove. That first night, he let her undress him, sit him on the edge of his tub and gently wash the smell of blood and Betadine from his skin with a flannel. He was exhausted and weak from blood loss. He'd gone thirty-six hours without sleep or painkillers. The emotional trauma that came with being shot crashed into him and he buried his face in her body, wrapped his arm around her waist and wept. She stroked the back of his head and said, "Shh. I've got you."

Harry didn't question why he allowed her to do for him what he so resisted from others. It was just nice to let go of some of the control in a relationship.

Unfortunately, that took breaking into his house and crawling into bed with him while he slept.

He couldn't describe the nature of their relationship if anyone asked. He and Eli were perhaps akin to army buddies: intimate and distant, physical but not sexual - not on the surface, at any rate. Harry had to admit that she was the other woman who was strongly featured in his thoughts during the rare occasions that he masturbated. It didn't hurt that she was beautiful. But at thirty-two, she was twenty-five years his junior. She had babies and dogs and a cottage in the country ahead of her. He would not be a part of that.

He wondered briefly if his motives were entirely pure in having her here in Hong Kong. It was true that he needed to know who was trying to turn him, but was this the best way to do it? Sup with the devil and all that.

Best to get on with it.

XXXXXXX