Chapter 10: Store Scene/Rhett 'chaperoning' her on mill trips.

Disclaimer: Still don't own anything GWTW. Still, clearly, obsessed.

Note: Flaky? Absolutely. I'll own it, or "Dixie" will. Thanks for those who still read and review. I've found I crave this particular story, this particular escape, most. Especially at the moment.

Question: Whatever happened to predictability? Answer: It's not everywhere you look. (Ages me, perhaps, but gotta love Full House.)

"I think you're right." Scarlett walked out of the dressing room. Sliding her hands up the teddy-bear soft fabric, she admired how long her legs looked in the skinny black slacks. "I think I will get these ones instead of the dark grey."

"Why not both?"

She froze, her hands perched mid-rub over her hips. Rage flattened her smile and she flipped up her head. What was he doing here?

"Where's Darcy? Where's the sales guy?"

Rhett ignored her.

"Of course, black is black. You never can go wrong with a classic. Grey is a fad."

She ignored him.

"How did you know I was here? Are you stalking me?" She lowered her voice. "Or did those idiots put a tail on me again?"

"It's amazing what a gossipy cat lady and a sweet little sister know about where you spend your days off, especially when you interrupt their afternoon gathering with some chocolate and ice cream."

She clenched her jaw and ground her teeth. Aunt Pitty's and Carreen's scrapbooking parties would have to stop. They forced her out of her apartment every three weeks and now their cutesie-cutting cavorting had permitted Enemy No. 1 to sneak up on her. She smashed her molars into each other.

"Go away, Rhett."

His face melted into mock surprise.

"Done trying on clothes already? Not to brag, but I have been told I know how to dress a woman. Almost as well as I know how to undress her."

Grind. Grind. At this rate she'd wear through her enamel in a matter of minutes.

"Come Scarlett," he gestured to his perfect clothes, "don't you want more of my pearls of fashion wisdom?"

A sneer wrinkled her lips as she ran her snapping eyes up his casual-cool self. He lounged against the entrance to the dressing stalls, arms folded and legs crossed at the ankles, looking like he'd been ripped out of a Ralph Lauren sailing ad and plastered life-size on the wall. Screw it. He could stay here and play model-boy. She would buy her clothes and get out of here. Where had that Darcy kid gone?

"Did you tie the sales guy up? Lock him in a room—"

"Scarlett, honey," the missing Darcy interrupted, walking in—apparently unmaimed—with his arms full of hangers, "those pants look even more fantabulous than the grey ones."

Scarlett contorted her face into what she hoped was a pleasant expression. She watched as Darcy laid his armful on the counter and his eyes on Rhett. The admiring grin of the sales guy popped into an oval.

"Oh. My. Gracious." Darcy turned back to her. He cupped one hand to his mouth, pointing a finger at Rhett through his palm, and whisper-yelled, "Where did you dig up Clark Gable?"

Scarlett had no clue who Clark Gable was. And she didn't care to ask. Darcy buttoned a wink at his new-favorite eye candy and Rhett's red lips twitched. For a second Rhett swiveled his dancing eyes at her—daring her to be jealous. As if! Darcy could have him.

"Name's Rhett," he said, extending his hand. Darcy limply accepted it. All flushed and grinning. Giggling even. Her sales guy was actually giggling.

"You can call me Carole Lombard if it means I can have your number."

Rhett chuckled. No blush. No embarrassment. Acting like he got hit on all the time by men. Scarlett zoomed in on his perfectly-manied nails. Well maybe he did.

"Perhaps another time. I think if I strike out once more with this one," Rhett tilted his head in her direction, "I might consider batting for the other team."

"I don't normally go for switch hitters, but for you Hollywood I will make an exception."

Rhett laughed and Darcy teetered some more. Tapping his fingers in the air, he walked away to a group of new customers. Rhett was throwing her another 'be jealous or be jilted look.' Her eyes quivered as she struggled to resist rolling them. Jealous. That would be the day. She gulped down the malice and took a deep breath. Maybe if she just pretended he wasn't here, he suddenly wouldn't be.

She spun back to her dressing room and slammed the door. Huffing and flaring, she tore the pants off and shimmied into her tight, worn jeans, snatched her purse and crumpled the inside-out slacks into the crook of her elbow. As she slipped on her sandals she noticed Rhett's shoes were loafing outside. New plan. Book it.

Throwing open the door, she pushed past him and bee-lined to the sales counter.

"I'll take these," she demanded, tossing the pants at the stunned sales chick. The girl jumped back. Clicking her fire-engine, nine-inch nails on the fabric, she rumpled her mouth.

"Oh…did, did you want two pairs in black ma'am?"

"What?"

The ditzy sales girl glanced over Scarlett's shoulder. Feeling just as ditzy, Scarlett followed her gaze. Her confusion became irritation. She pursed her lips. Rhett was two feet behind her swinging a bag.

"I got you the grey, too. Darcy was very helpful with your sizes. My memory must not be what it used to be." He spiraled his eyes down her body. "Or you have lost weight."

She pinched her lips until they bled white. Take his peace offering and save some dough or pay for the slacks herself and save her pride? Her hand trembled toward her wallet. Her pragmatism pulled it back. Another long, loud breath.

Scarlett stalked to his side and yanked away the bag.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you."

"I would expect nothing less." A grin oozed over his tan face. "I will never tire of watching you war against something practical like economizing your piggy bank and something intangible like keeping your self-respect. And if you were to begin choosing ridiculous things like morals and values over cold, hard cash, Scarlett, I think you might actually get your wish and never see me again."

She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to tell him to get lost. But she spied his Lamborghini parked right outside the glass doors. His almighty annoyance ran a photo-finish first against the pee-odor miscreants of mass transit.

"Fine! If I can't shake you, then I'm going to make you wish I had." She jammed the bag into his chest. "You're driving me home!"

She marched toward the exit. Rhett trailed a few feet behind. The headlights blinked as he unlocked the car from his key chain and she slipped into the leather seat before he had even opened his door. She leaned back on the head rest and closed her eyes. Counting down from fifty to cool her temper. At twenty five, she tensed when he slid in beside her, but exhaled when the only sound was the rustle of the bags as he tossed them behind him.

In her opinion, the perfect treatment for the both of them was a silent one. It had been her remedy to his constant texts, late-night house arrivals and unannounced visits to her office ever since—but she wouldn't think about the details of that night. The migraines from her head injury had only just stopped a few days ago. No, she wouldn't think about her ruined family heirloom, her severe concussion, waking up in a hospital with her hands cuffed to the bed or how for half a month after the "mistaken arrest" a black SUV had followed her everywhere. Sometimes she almost wished the check hadn't cleared so she could strangle Rhett and end all this stonewalling.

Her cringed-shut eyes started flickering with the crazy-mad tick she now associated with the auction and its aftermath. She commanded herself to just breathe. To stop her lids from wigging out. To get through this first one-on-one with him since the hospital and do her part: pretend to sleep. It worked when he tried to see her at her apartment. Her cool-off countdown recalibrated: this time starting at 150.

The engine revved to life. A sweet growl that roared to a gentle purr as Rhett sped out into the street and onto the highway. It was evening now. Outside the autumn balminess had turned to a damp cool. Inside the breeze of the heater wafted sweetly over her tense face. Soon her fake sleep dozed into real.

She wasn't sure how much time passed. One minute, with the sun burning her eye lids red, she was wishing she had tried on a few tops so Rhett would have picked up the tab on those as well and the next she started awake in near pitch blackness with soft music playing.

"Wh-Where am I?" Disoriented she flailed her arms, making contact with a warm, fleshy sandpaper. She heard a muffled grunt and remembered where she was—at least whose car she was in. She squinted at Rhett in the darkness. He was rubbing his jaw.

"I always thought you could pack a wallop Scarlett, but I think if you chose it, you could have a promising career in women's ultimate fighting."

Blearily she scanned her surroundings. Something was wrong. She could see the stars and not much else. She looked at the clock on the dash. Whoa! That couldn't be right. Two hours? No wonder she felt thatched.

"Is that really the time?" Her muzzy gaze was glued to the green neon numbers. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Yes to your first question and I did try for your second. I got drool all over me for my trouble, too."

She heard the smile in his voice and grimaced, mumbling a sheepish apology—somehow more embarrassed because the solid-REM cycle had actually eaten up her protective rage. How was she supposed to act if not annoyed? After everything that had happened between them, she didn't know how to do normal. She didn't know what normal even meant.

The dullness of sleep was fading and she could make out his sharp features. His teeth gleamed white and his eyes glistened black. He'd taken off that preppy v-neck and had unbuttoned the top half of his lime green shirt. Maybe it was the elegant, navy night covering everything or her slap-happy grogginess but out of nowhere her insides started to boil. And not with anger.

Drowsiness always made her more…amorous. She'd learned that the hard way when she would stay out too late on dates—catch her half-asleep and bam, good-bye inhibitions and hello fatigued-friskiness.

Scarlett quickly looked away from the suddenly-tempting Rhett and smeared the heel of her palm across her eyes. He'd already seen her slop saliva all over herself in her sleep; she would shrivel from embarrassment if he noticed her salivating for entirely different reasons.

She surveyed the outside world again to redirect her thoughts. Her vision had fully adjusted to the dark. Weepy, deep-hued trees and the blanket of a pristine October night arched over them. And if she wasn't mistaken, the ground nearby was moving with sparkles and ripples.

"So, where are we exactly?" She relaxed when she heard a perfectly non-panting voice come out of her mouth. "The Everglades?"

"Close. Lake Redwine."

"Oh."

She had heard of it but never visited the lake. It wasn't that far from the city. Still, that didn't explain why they were here. Parked. Engine off. With elevator music as a serenade. One part of her brain thought it was a pretty breathtaking lookout; the other part thought it could have been a filming location for some of the horror films Rhett used to bring by. She chewed on her thumb nail and tried to think of something to say that wouldn't sound like an accusation. She really didn't want to fight.

"So…"

Rhett picked up the thread without missing a stitch.

"I wasn't going to just let my car idle in your neighborhood—my hubs would get lifted before I could say 'titanium.' But while we're on the topic of your, for lack of a better word, home, I had hoped last month's generous donation—"

Really? He was going there? Maybe she did want to fight. She cut him off.

"Investment, Rhett. My memory's pretty spotty from that night but I do remember you telling me it was an investment. And I know Pork's cced you on our new earnings forecasts. So don't pretend you're not current on what's happening with your investment."

This was the first time they were talking about anything to do with the auction. Not that she had given him a chance. Slamming doors are not exactly textbook openers for serious discussions. She glanced at him. As usual who knew what he was thinking? His mind might be on spelunking in Australia for all she could tell.

"Mea culpa. You are correct." He tapped a finger on his chin. "Semantics aside, I had hoped my money would be enough to move you out of your charming dive. The neighborhood may not be Hell's Kitchen, but it's definitely Hell's slightly less violent breakfast nook."

Scarlett wormed her mouth to the side and snorted in spite of her rising nerves. Not really thinking.

"It's not that bad of an area. Honestly. What's with people? You, Melly, even Ash—"

Her lips froze mid-word. Great. Now she'd stepped in it. Rhett's finger stopped its mini-drum beat. His brows taunted up.

"So you have seen Mr. Wilkes. Does he have enough time for old friends in between his morning show cameos?"

Scarlett thought now as a good a time as any to refurbish her nails. She started furiously scraping off the chipped Razzle-Dazzle pink polish.

"Since you are refusing to answer me, I will have to use my powers of perception to infer that your sudden need to assault your cuticles is a yes. I know I shouldn't be surprised, of course. Why should the great American hero not be exempt from your very loud, very emphatic, oft-repeated insistence—and I quote—that you will never speak to any government rat, devil's spawn spy again—not even if he turned out to be your father."

She stopped her manic manicure and glared at him.

"Don't talk about my father—and where do you get off telling me anything? I can see or not see whoever I want."

"Whomever."

"What?"

"Whomever you want," he blandly explained. "If I'm going to receive a tongue lashing I at least want it in proper English. It gives it something of a naughty Catholic school girl edge, don't you think?"

Her eyes were starting to twitch again. Hello Rhett-induced turrets. With haywire lids she turned back to her fingernails. She envisioned his tanned face as she scratched into her nail polish.

"Now I understand why you don't want to see me. That makes perfect sense. I did save your family business and get you out of jail—"

"And get me into jail!" she yelled, throwing up her hands. "I get knocked on the head by a mannequin in my destroyed family dress—which by the way is the reason my Mammy will hardly even speak to me—wake up handcuffed to a hospital bed and get carted off to some holding cell while guys with bad breath and zero hygiene grill me on what I know about the Asian black market and weapons trafficking!"

"Come on Scarlett, won't it be fun to tell future posterity about your adventures in espionage?"

"I'm not telling our grandkids anything!" she huffed.

"Our grandkids?"

Too late she realized her mistake. His face sparked with something more than just suggestion and for reasons she didn't understand she had to look at her hands. Let the wild mani begin again!

"I'm flattered, but as nontraditional as I am, if I ever do tie the knot, rest assured Scarlett, I'm going to be the one to pop the question. And I won't be getting married for the conventional reasons of better homes and gardens, and health coverage."

Curious she stole a peek at him. He didn't look any different.

"If I marry, it will be because I want something more than that woman's fidelity on the line if she were to stray." His eyes ran down her body, little beads of sweat skittering down her spine. He caught her furtive gaze and leaned in. "I want her money on the line."

He stared for a moment too long before easing back into his seat. Scarlett rolled her head back down. Questions fired off at random in her brain. All smashing and banging into each other at once, leaving nothing salvageable. Was that meant for her? What was that?

"Romantic, Rhett." Her voice cracked. Whoa. When did she become a twelve-year old boy? She cleared her throat. "That'll sweep her off her feet. Or better yet, why don't you bring the lawyer with you when you propose? Nothing says I love you like signing a prenump."

"As it's you who suggested that, I'll take it under consideration."

She shot her eyes back to him but whatever had added that flavor of authenticity to his voice was hidden from his face.

"Now back to the issue at hand, the indomitable Mr. Wilkes."

Her frantic avoidance returned and the nail cleaning sped up.

"It amazes me how teenage fantasies drive the libidos of fully-grown women. Hollywood has tapped that, er, well, as have the major publishing houses. I imagine that even when those underage boys become wrinkly men, soccer moms and coeds alike will still throw their bodies at them."

"I don't need to hear your lectures on—"

"But of course, in your case, your girlhood dream is the boy next door. How…quaint. It almost makes me believe in fairy tales and the Wonder Years and all that mushy crap."

A steel edge sliced into his tone and a steel glint in her eyes. She refused to look at him, buffing her nails with vengeance instead.

"Why do you care?" she muttered. "What's it to you?"

"Friends care about their friends, Scarlett."

"Ha!" She barked and cast him a look that should have withered him into a perfectly-coiffed prune. "Advice on friendship, that's hilarious coming from you."

As usual her comment slid off him like grease on a beef patty. Her stomach growled. She hadn't realized how hungry she was.

"You've been put through the ringer lately. You don't need one more friend complicating your life."

It would have sounded nice, she imagined, had anyone other than Rhett just said that. His sympathy came off more as a sneer.

"You know, Rhett, I think you're just as big of a sap as every other macho guy I've met and all this, " she waved her hand carelessly in his direction, averting her gaze again, "Mr. Cool is a pathetic attempt to hide your jealousy."

"Is that so?"

"Yup. That's so."

"Or, it could just be my insatiable curiosity, and while I won't admit to simple jealousy I will admit to some masculine inclination toward competitiveness driving this line of questioning."

She wanted to ask why he wasn't driving them to a fast food joint but the ring in his voice echoed as a warning bell. Nervously she dug deeper and faster into her polish. Who needed acetone with a…friend…like Rhett?

"I'm sure Mr. Wilkes has his strengths," he continued in that annoyingly silken voice, "everyone has at least one natural talent for something—"

"Yours is to never shut the—"

Flecks of Razzle Dazzle flew into her mouth.

"But I know my strengths as well. And I know that if you could give up this pre-teen obsession with a guy who can't even man up enough to be faithful to his wife—"

"He's never…"

But Scarlett didn't finish. They had shared that kiss. Well, those kisses. The one from his wedding night and the one from only two weeks ago when she first saw him alone. It had been impulsive, chaotic and so messy and hot she still didn't know what to make of it. Except that what she had wanted to feel as so right, had felt so wrong.

Even in the heavy night Rhett noticed her flush.

"To look on a woman is adultery." He smoothly replied, his voice soft as thunder. "And he's done more than just look, Scar, hasn't he?"

He was silent for a minute, setting her further on edge. Her feet weren't just dangling off the cliff. Her entire body was, with her grip slipping every second.

She forced her attention back to the nails, her only distraction from this endless interrogation, glad for the hard-to-scrape glitter. Dig. Dig. Dig. Claw. Claw. Claw.

"While I don't mind what other delusions you have about life or love, I'll admit it chaffs me that you seem to still labor under the impossible idea that Ashley Wilkes is better in bed than me."

Startled her thumb rammed into her cuticle and she drew blood.

"Ouch! Rhett!"

She sucked on the bitter trickle and glared, mumbling with the finger still in between her lips.

"This is your fault, you…you…"

"Yes?" He asked, all toothy and suave.

Oooh. She flicked the finger out of her mouth. Rhett raised his hands in apology. He almost looked sincere. It made her nerves shift into hyperdrive. And at these speeds her anxiety became pure wrath, and apparently her name-calling pure junior high.

"You…you Jack Bauer wanna-be!"

A cricket chirped in that thick pause before his reaction. Snorting so loud it shook the dashboard, Rhett cracked up into low-hyena hysterics.

"I think that's the nicest thing you've ever called me, Scarlett," he said, grinning infectiously. "It almost makes up for ignoring me the last month."

"Oh, shut up," she said without any malice.

She couldn't help but smile a little, suddenly thinking of a different man in her life. The first man and the best man. Her father. Her cuddly, grown-up kid dad who she'd visited earlier today. Her dad who had thought watching '24' was some patriotic duty, who had covered for her when she broke curfew and cried with her when she came in second at her track meets. Her dad who was no longer her dad; just a stooped, crinkly old man who called her Ellen and asked if Maddux was starting for the Braves tonight.

All of the heated annoyance deflated. Pop. Her finger lay forgot as a new sharpness pricked her, in a new place. A surge of sorrow filled the hole in her heart. Without any warning, her eyes misted and a prickle bit at her nose. Memories from her weekly visits flickered in her mind, filmic images steeped in bitter-sweetness. She stifled a sob and whipped her head toward the window. This private pang was not meant for public consumption.

The hot fluorescent lights and neon white walls of the visitor's room always blinded her, the bright-bleached monotony broken up by orange plastic chairs and bolted down brown tables. A few other visitors and staff members would idle around, playing games or talking in hushed chatter. Her eyes would hop from one forgettable face to the next until they landed on a familiar but faded one. She'd take a deep breath and shuffle toward him, planting herself on the opposite chair at his empty table.

"Ellen?"

"No, no daddy," she'd say, swallowing down the pain, "it's Scarlett."

"Ah Puss, you look more like yer mother each an' every day." He'd pat her hand, seeing past her. "Go get her from outside, will you? I found her gardening gloves in the kitchen."

"Daddy…mom..."

He'd smile as though his beautiful wife had just walked through the back door and Scarlett could never finish. She'd bite her lip or chew her cheeks to stop the tears. After a minute her father would wave at shadows and flick his gaze to his watchless wrist.

"The Braves' game should be startin'. Tell me something, is ol' Maddux pitching tonight?"

"Daddy Maddux is retired."

He'd finally look directly at her, a dash of a twinkle back in his blue eyes. The only reason Scarlett managed to hold it together during these weekly meetings was this one, brief look and the words that followed.

"Now Katie Scarlett, what is it I'm always telling you about Gregory Maddux? It's not his arm that makes him a great pitcher. It's that thing between both his ears we call a brain." He'd wink conspiratorially. "Puss, you've got a great face between your two ears, but it's what's behind it that'll make you great."

The twinkle would fade as confusion replaced it. He'd peer at her as though struggling to remember who she was. A spasm of pain would flash across his withered face, followed by a numbing frisson. The absent grin would return.

"Ellen?"

The mental home video sputtered to an end and Scarlett's eyes swirled with tears. She bit down hard on the hand covering her mouth and prayed Rhett hadn't noticed her momentary personal film fest. Or her tears.

"Scarlett?"

Quickly she blotted dry the tears with the back of her hand but did not face him.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" She sniffled, hoping he thought she had allergies, ignoring that tenderness in his voice.

"For…" His voice dwindled into a sigh.

Something shivered out on the water and drew her eye. It was a beautiful night. The moon shone a brassy gold. The lake sparkled like expensive jewelry. The kind she used to own. The kind her mother used to wear. Reflexively she grabbed her neck and stroked the skin where her mother's gold cross had once hung. She slowly exhaled. She knew the tears were dried up; the weary load and daily grind pulverizing them into forgotten sentimentality. All of a sudden she just wanted to go home—even if it was in Hell's Breakfast Nook—and sleep.

"For what, Rhett?" she asked, turning around. "I'm surprised you even know that phrase exists."

"For this," he answered.

He leaned closer and her heart jolted out of its melancholy beat. His lips clamped over her mouth with a bruising intensity. The soft pressure sent a spike of longing to her core. A briny sweetness coated his tongue and breath. She clasped a hand behind his neck, sinking her fingers into the smooth bristles of hair and skin.

"You don't have to be sorry, Rhett," she gasped, "I want this, too."

He groaned and pulled back, his face alive with an unnamed energy.

"Yes, Scarlett, I do."

Something bit her arm and she looked down, but instead of a spider on her shoulder she saw a syringe in Rhett's hand.

"What…" she whispered, out of breath and groggy. The world was closing to black. "Why…"

Note: I hadn't realized what a horrible place I'd left this story. But I will finish it. Not with the frequency of before, but eventually. As of now, it's the only one I intend on reposting.

Oh, and I wasn't trying to propagate stereotypes with Darcy. I based it on my RL friend. Never shy that guy. Hope I didn't offend. Variations and personality types are ubiquitous and random.

And, yes the spy stuff will become much clearer in the next chapter.