DISCLAIMER: They're mine, all mine! No, of course they're not. Meg Cabot owns them, not me! :sigh:
A/N: Thanks once again to Di-Pekka, my fantastic beta and friend:D Author's plea: I crave reviews. :sniffles and puts on dramatic voice: It's all I ask. . .
Michael saw her from the window of his apartment. The rain was coming down in sheets, and she was soaked. Her hair was stuck to her head, and her jeans and blouse were clinging to her like a wetsuit. He realised that she still had at least a mile to walk until she got to the Pelkowski's house.
'She'll catch pneumonia soon,' he thought. Her shoulders were stooped and her head was bowed low; he wasn't sure, but she may have been crying. . .although it could have been just the rain.
A car drove past, splashing a huge puddle all over her. She didn't bother to jump out of the way, and got even wetter. . .if that was even possible. He made up his mind. He ran down to the ground floor, and opened the front door.
"Mi-" he caught himself in time. "Isabel! ISABEL!" He yelled. She turned and looked over the road towards him.
"Come inside and dry off," he called. "I'll give you a lift home!"
"What?" Mia yelled back. "I can't hear you!" The rain was coming down even harder now, overflowing from the gutters and drumming on all surfaces.
"I SAID," Michael began, raising his voice to be heard above the rain. "COME INSIDE AND DRY OFF AND I'LL GIVE YOU A LIFT HOME!"
Shaking her head to show that she still couldn't understand him, she crossed the road. "Come inside and dry off, then I'll give you a lift home."
"Are you sure?" Mia asked.
Michael took hold of her arm and pulled her inside. "Yes," he replied.
". . .so then, when we got to the hospital the paramedics said that they wanted to keep Tina in for 24 hours supervision, but that she should be OK and then I caught the bus as far home as I could, but I had to walk the last 2 miles," she finished.
Michael handed her a mug. "Here," he said. "Drink this."
"What is it?" She asked.
"Hot chocolate!" Michael said. "Don't tell me you were looking for something stronger, Isabel? It's only 10 o'clock!" He finished, pretending to be shocked.
"Well, it's 5 o'clock somewhere!" She replied. "I've had one helluva morning!"
"So tell me," he said, looking at the girl sitting on his sofa dressed in a pair of his trousers and one of his shirts. "You were staying with the guy who tried to drown that girl last night?"
"Yeah. . ." Mia replied. "It's quite scary. Tina- his wife- thought he was having an affair, 'cause he kept coming home late and all that. Imagine. . .God!" She shivered.
There was a pause. "John. . ." she said, after a few minutes.
"Yes, Isabel?"
"I. . .I think you were really brave last night."
"It's my job," he said.
He plonked himself down on a chair, accidentally sitting on the TV remote, turning it on.
". . .and people all over California will, I'm sure, be very relieved to know that the Police have finally caught the man who has kidnapped and killed numerous young women over the past few months. Boris Pelkowski- a relatively unknown violinist- has not lived here for very long- moving to the area in February, as his deceased aunt left him her old house," the newsreader said.
"A spokesperson for Mrs. Tina Pelkowski-"
"What the hell?" Mia asked. "Tina hasn't said anything at all. She doesn't have a spokesperson!"
"It was probably the police," replied Michael.
"-said that she had "no clue what was going on" (the newsreader said this in a tone which implied that Tina was lying) and that she was not suspected of being a part of it at all. Mrs. Pelkowski was apparently rushed to hospital in the early hours of the morning with suspected appendicitis, though reports vary. Our crime correspondent, Chris Sutherton, is at the scene; Chris, what can you tell us?"
"Nothing new, really, Rachel. Neighbors report seeing a police car arrive at the door at around 3:00am, followed by an ambulance at around 7:00am. Mrs. Pelkowski was taken out, clutching her stomach, surrounded by three paramedics and a woman believed to be a house guest."
"Is there anybody in the house at the moment?" Rachel asked.
"Not that we know of, but reporters and journalists are congregating around the house, waiting for someone to come back. This is a huge breakthrough for the police, who, as I'm sure you know, were at a complete loss about what to do-"
Michael turned to Mia. "You don't want to be watching this, do you?" He asked. Mia shook her head violently.
"Bloody press," she ranted. "What are they doing there? Who asked them to get involved? How am I meant to get home? One of them is bound to recognize me!" She paced up and down the room, running a hand through her hair.
"Recognize you?" Michael asked. His head swung up and down, as if he was watching a tennis match as he followed her up and down the room. "And keep still! You're making me sea-sick!"
Mia stopped pacing. "OK. . .John, I'm going to tell you something. . .well, strictly, I'm not supposed to tell you, seeing how I don't have anyone to protect me incase you turn out to be a mad stalker person. . .but I need someone to help me, and you did save me. . .I know a little bit about you; it's not like you're a complete stranger. . .am I babbling? Yes, I am. . .sorry. It's just I need to tell you something very important, but I'm not meant to. . ." Mia was talking very quickly.
She took a deep breath. "Right, you know how I told you my name was Isabel Brown? Well it isn't. I'm. . .have you ever heard of Genovia?" She asked.
"Small country between France and Spain?" Michael said.
"France and Italy, but it doesn't matter. What I'm trying to say is. . .well, to cut a long story short, Tina invited me to spend a few weeks in California with her, but I didn't want anyone to know my real identity, so I assumed the name Isabel Brown, but really I'm called Princess Amelia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldo, ruler of Genovia." She was still talking very quickly.
"Mia, I know," Michael said, cutting across her as she opened her mouth again.
"You. . .you know?" Mia asked.
"Sure I know, Mia. Don't you recognize me? Sure, I had to dye my hair, but-"
"Michael Moscovitz!" Mia cried
"The One and Only!" Michael replied. "I can't believe you didn't recognize me! I know I've dyed my hair. . .and we haven't exactly spoken to each other since the night of the car crash. . .God, I'm sorry. It must have been awful for you. . . "
"It wasn't exactly made any easier by you! The fact that you dumped me after you said that you wouldn't! We were meant to be together until we got married!" Mia said. She clapped her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry- I didn't mean-"
"It's OK," said Michael. "You've every right to be mad at me. I was an asshole, and I'm sorry. But why don't we sit down and talk, now? 'Cause I've got a few things to tell you, Mia. Like how I'm a Special Agent, assigned to protect you, and-"
"Uh, maybe later. I've got to. . .uh, go get Tina!" Mia said, standing up and heading towards the door.
"But you said Tina was in hospital until tomorrow for supervision?" Michael questioned.
"Yeah, she is. I. . .uh. . .I meant to say. . .umm. . . 'I've got to go get Tina's pajamas, 'cause she doesn't like the hospital ones that they gave her'," Mia replied, opening the door.
"Thanks for your help, Michael. I appreciate it. I'll send your clothes back later!" She couldn't have gotten out of that door quicker if she was an Olympic sprinter. "Bye!" She called.
"Bye," he said, quietly, listening to the door open and close beneath him.
He walked over to the window and watched her hail a taxi and get inside. The taxi drove off at a remarkable speed. It was a black car, with the registration B100 KLA.
He walked away from the window, sighing. "That went well," he said to himself. "Way to go, Michael!" He pulled the TV guide out from under the sofa. Perhaps he'd watch a movie, if there was one on. The Director hadn't said anything about him going back- he may as well enjoy his "leave" while it lasted. Perhaps he'd give Lilly a call later. She'd want to know that he'd seen Mia.
The 'phone rang. "Hello," Michael said, picking it up. It was the Director.
"Moscovitz, just a quick note. Could you be on the lookout for a black car, make unknown with the registration plate reading B100 KLA? The Police are looking to, but just so you know, OK?"
"OK, sir, B100 KLA it is," Michael replied, relieved he hadn't said anything about coming back, and hoping the weather cleared up soon so he could spend some time on the beach. "Bye!"
He hung up the 'phone. B100 KLA. . .
B100 KLA!
"Holy. . .!"
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