Author's Note: Holy smokes. Almost 200 reviews and I'm not even in the double-digits. I guess I didn't realize my idea was that fantastic, but truly I am flattered, shucks guys. *blushes*

Okay, I just want to clear something up about Marianne: her weight issue. This is Marianne's struggle throughout the story, basically the defining road-block she has to overcome to grow and develop as a character. For this reason, it's a big thing in this story and it will be mentioned quite frequently, as this is a psychological issue.

If you're not heavy, you may not understand: this is a huge issue. It can be life-consuming. It's one of those things you think about when you take a shower and get dressed for work, or when you climb the stairs. And, unfortunately, it's something women think about in the presence of hot guys. I'm a plus size girl, and let me tell you, I get really, really self-conscious around guys I am attracted to, so much so that I start worrying about how I look in my outfit or my size. Literally sometimes plus size women get so down they cry at night.

So. While I have no intention of shaming plus size women, I want you all to realize this is an issue Marianne will deal with over and over. It's not a pity thing. It's a real life thing. I will try, however, to space out the mentions of it in chapters, just so it's not overwhelming. Just know that it isn't going to drop out of the story-it is, after all, dedicated to those of us who feel less beautiful. I am excited to have Marianne and Owen together!

Also, be aware (if you're still reading this far). I just started an internship for college that's full time, so updates will get few and far between. I will update when I have a few moments (hours?) so sit tight and just watch for update alerts. I appreciate all your input and reviews! Thanks tons!

Chapter Ten

"Aunt Claire doesn't like us much, does she?"

Zach Mitchell gave his brother a disgustedly confused look as he rubbed the water from his hair with a toweled hand, big bathrobe tied around him. Steam billowed out in a continuous stream from the bathroom where he'd just taken a shower after a late swim, pulling strokes while Gray had been insistent on Skyping their parents. The hot water from the shower had steamed away the mineral water pool, and the hot sun from the events of their day.

"What?" He asked, thoroughly confused by the question. Gray, not looking up from his "nerd-book", or the notebook he wrote his notes from his books he read in, penciled in a sketch as he peered into a dinosaur handbook, well worn and complete with frayed pages. Zach recognized it from when he was a kid.

"She doesn't like us much," Gray raised his head to look at his brother, feet swinging in the air and crossed at the ankles as he laid on his stomach on the plush bed, "She couldn't even talk to us at dinner."

Zach, sighing, rolled his eyes and fell into the other bed, "What are you talking about? She talked." Actually, he couldn't really remember her saying much outside of the conversation about the Polaris side-by-side to be delivered at seven in the morning, or her crude change of subject after having asked Gray about his day.

"Not really. She's boring. And not very nice. I like Aunt Ingrid better." He referred to their father's sister, Ingrid, who was an artist and lived in a studio apartment in Manhattan. Zach was thinking about staying with her after high school and pursuing a degree in food science, but hadn't really explored his options. "At least she hangs out with us." His voice sounded defeated.

Zach fell into the bed, arms spread wide open, eyes closed. "Well, ya never know. She might be with us tomorrow." He then rolled his head to look at his little brother, "Besides. You never take your head out of the clouds to notice anything anyway. With all your nerd stuff and whatever."

Gray, obviously hurt, frowned at him. Wrinkling his brow in anger, he hissed, "It's not stupid. Just you watch. One day I'll become a famous paleontologist who works here with dinosaurs and you'll be taking orders at McDonald's." By the look in his eye and the tone in his voice, Zach wouldn't sworn his brother looked forward to it. Then, cracking a smile, he giggled, "Do you want fries with that, Zach?"

Disgusted, he rolled his eyes and turned over. "Whatever."

. . .

"G'night, little bug. Don't let the bedbugs bite," Owen winked at his niece as she buried herself under the covers of the resort bed, her hair now fallen around her face in delicate, black curls. Owen couldn't help but realize she was the spitting image of her mother, his stark opposite (they were only half siblings). She wiggled her toes at the bottom of the bed, pulled the covers around her chin, and he leaned forward and planted a sloppy, loud kiss on her forehead. Then, quickly lowering his face to the crook of her neck, he nuzzled his chin into her soft skin, causing her to shriek in laughter and playfully push him away, "Or anything else, for that matter."

She giggled at him, "There isn't anything else, Uncle Owen," she rolled her eyes, sighing dramatically. "Besides. I ain't afraid of bugs."

He gave her a surprised look, rubbing his chin. "Really. That's something, because I'm terrified of them."

"You are not!" she insisted.

Their giggles subsided after a few moments before he kissed her forehead again and got up from the bed, reaching over to switch off the bedside lamp. Staring down at her, he had half a mind to spend the night here and not leave her alone again, but he decided against it. She was perfectly fine here in her hotel room with staff at her beck and call, just like a princess-though, being a princess had never really been Sophie's thing.

"I'll see ya t'morrow, eh, little bug?" He turned and headed towards the door, sauntering out, untucking his shirt comfortably. It was hot, he was exhausted and needed a shower, and he was starving. He opened the door and stopped it with his foot, "You up for swimmin'?"

She nodded, sitting up in bed like a lightning bolt, "Yeah!"

He gave her a quirky half smile and waved her back down, "Alright, alright, we'll swim. You have go get some sleep thou-"

"-can Marianne come with us?"

Owen abruptly stopped, clamping his mouth shut and staring at the little girl, who had refused to go down. Her face was hopeful and her eyes deep with waiting as she anticipated his answer. He'd already chastised her on the bike for quickly leaving him and Marianne to a most obvious set-up, insisting that he wasn't shopping for a girlfriend at the moment. He'd only been broken up with Claire for a short while. After their...disagreement he'd decided to not look into anything serious for awhile. And, Marianne really wasn't his type. Sophie, however, hadn't really seemed to care and now was staring at him with soft, sparkling eyes.

He sighed, tromping back into the room to sit lazily beside her bed. He gave her a cheeky grin as if to prepare her to go down softly from what he was about to say. "Sophie, honey, I already told you I wasn't-"

"-she's fun, Uncle Owen. And pretty. I like her." Sophie crossed her arms and raised her brows as if to give him the "I'm-right-and-you-know-it" look. "You like her too." He inhaled sharply at this, trying to retain a sigh. Why this? Why now? "Right?" Her brows perked as she asked the question.

"She's nice and all, Sophie-"

She interrupted-again. "If you're going to be working with her forever you might as well get to know her," she shrugged, "Mom tells me that all the time at school." She then settled back against her pillow, "Annnd she's pretty, and super funny. Annnd you're super handsome and super funny so-" She gestured with her hands.

It was his turn to interrupt, "Sophie," He chuckled, rubbing his neck, "We'll see, ok?" She gave him a frown. Feeling somewhat hurt by her frown, he asked, "What? I said we'll see."

"Ask her tomorrow. She'll say yes." She then gave him the puppy dog face, "Pleeeease?"

Rolling his eyes and groaning in mock disgust, he got up and walked towards the door. "We'll see." He pointed at her. "Get some sleep. I mean it."

She bounced slightly, grinning satisfied. "Ok. G'night. I love you."

"Love you too, little bug. Sleep. Now."

She rolled over, he closed the door, and hurried down the hall towards the stairs.

Where did kids learn this stuff?

. . .

Marianne tied her wet curls up into a t-shirt, standing before the mirror in her red satin robe, white-tank top, and cotton shorts. Staring at her red face, heated from a steaming shower and facial wash, she reached for the bottle of curl relaxer on the counter, sticking halfway out of travel bag.

Spraying some of the cream into her hand, she gazed into the bedroom, where her suitcase was on the floor, contents sprawled around the room. On the bed, her leather thigh holster for her Beretta and KA-BAR lay unbuckled and unsheathed, the heavy armored case for her bow locked tightly in the corner. The bed was frumpled where she'd collapsed the night before, with a buzzing head.

Pulling her hair into a loose braid, Marianne stood in the middle of the bedroom, lights off, moonlight streaming through the ceiling-to-floor length windows. The jungle just outside, though opposing, was serene and quiet, lurking. Sitting Indian style in the middle of the room, she stretched over to the bed and grabbed the switchblade and sharpener and set to sharpening the knife.

Her phone buzzed on top of the heap of clothes she'd abandoned by the door, and she hurried across the floor for it. Snatching the S6, she checked caller ID and found it was Alan. Sighing, she answered, and cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear and set to the knife again.

"Hello," she smiled into the phone, a stray curl from her braid tickling her face.

"Hey. Thought I'd check on you. Howya been, kid? Your first day okay?"

She glanced at the clock. A little after ten, but not too late for him. "I'm good. A bit tired, but not bad. The job went good. I think I kinda blew them outta the water." She recalled the look on Owen's face when she'd gotten his office in order. Marianne didn't think he'd believed her at first that she could do it.

Alan laughed, "Yeah? Good for you. How's your boss? Though you mentioned it was a guy called Owen or something?" He sounded a bit concerned but overly curious. She sighed. She knew it was coming.

"He's ok."

He snorted, "I hope he's not too charming or anything."

She rolled her eyes. Alan was just as hell-bent on getting her off and married as her mother had been, before she'd dropped off the planet. At twenty-six, she might as well be an old maid. "Not really. A bit of a jerk."

"Aren't you sweet."

She got up, tossing the knife onto the bed, padding into the living room as her satin robe skirted around her upper thighs, "I mean, he's nice enough, but he knows he's good looking and doesn't bother to hide it. He's almost as bad as you, Alan." She fell onto the couch, smiling, as he laughed at her. She fiddled with the end of her braid, "Besides. I think he's got a thing with our boss."

"Oh." He went entirely serious, "Sounds like you're a bit more than disappointed."

She diverted her gaze to the cushion of the cough she was cuddled up against, as if he could see her. Her heart hammered slightly and she sighed, "No, not really-he's in his thirties. Not my type."

"Since when is tall, dark and handsome not anyone's type, Marianne? Especially yours."

Marianne snorted, "Nobody ever said anything about being handsome."

He chuckled, but said nothing.

She contemplated his statement, the dark haired man from her past thrashing into her mind like a wild animal and seizing hold of her thoughts like a mad beast. She knew him as Nick Van Owen, a friend of Alan's acquaintance, Ian Malcolm. They'd dated for little under a year while she was a senior in college before Nick had left for Iraq in search of a career in war journalism. The last she'd heard of him was that he'd married and had two sons, taking to wildlife photography in the Amazon, living out of an RV.

"But, enough about your boss. Tell me. Have you seen them?"

The seriousness and wonder mixed in his voice caught her off guard. She hitched a breath, bit down on her lower lip, and thought about telling him about the raptors. She knew he'd kill her and demand that she come home-probably even come and get her himself. Marianne recounted his warnings, like flashing red bulbs on a submarine, signaling her of impending danger. She felt like she'd been struck and was going under. Deciding to stick with the vague truth, she exhaled loudly.

"No, not really. Just a few." Not necessarily a lie, she told herself, her fingers sinking into her hair as she scratched her scalp. The smell of lavender and vanilla overwhelmed her before she added, "Nothing too spectacular, if that's what you want to know."

"I just want to know that you're safe." His tone was biting.

The corner of her mouth lifted in a quirky smile, "I am safe, Alan."

"As long as you are on that island, Marianne, you or anyone else will never convince me of that."

She was silent at this. Marianne, knowing his concern, couldn't argue with him after his past history. She'd read his book, his journal entries, listened to his stories and heard his screams of terror in the night. Marianne couldn't begin to fathom the fear and horror inside of him about this. She lifted up a prayer for him before answering, "I'm not alone out here, Alan."

"If you're referring to God, Marianne, I doubt He'd be step foot on that island, much less be supportive." His lack of faith surprised her, as he'd never really encouraged talk of religion or faith much. It was one of things he'd foregone in his lifetime of pursuing science and factual answers.

"There's opportunity here like anywhere else," she was not only referring to faith but for success as well. She knew while he was negative deep down he wanted this park to succeed, wanted to see people fall in love with history and with dinosaurs like he so had in his lifetime. Deep down she knew he would like to see this place come out on top. "You shouldn't be so negative."

"Not negative, sweetheart. Just realistic. You can't control something that's sixty-five million years out of place." She rolled her eyes at his exaggeration, "Or anything else extinct for that matter." Never much for the millions of years theory, she got up and stretched her legs. Groaning slightly, she yawned and checked the clock on her phone.

"I know. I'm being careful." If you called being almost eaten her first day careful. But, he didn't need to know that. "You know that much about me." She yawned again.

He chuckled, "Yeah, I know. You sound tired." She padded towards the bedroom after clicking the lock closed on the door. Moving to the window, she pulled the drapes and began cleaning off the bed, "I'll let you get some sleep."

"Sounds good," she moved onto the bed and fell onto her back, closing her eyes. "Thanks for the call, Alan."

"No problem, kid. Rest up. Don't work too hard."

She laughed, "You've apparently never seen Owen's office."

Alan snorted, then sighed, "Still got your sense of humor, I see. Take it easy and watch your back, alright? I don't want to have to come and rescue you like-"

She sighed, fluttering her eyes closed. "Alan."

"-yeah, you're right. Sleep well, sweetheart, and call me soon. Say hi to the Rex for me."

. . .

"Claire. Hi. Again."

A smile crept onto Claire Dearing's lips. Their cherry red color had looked perfect in the car when she'd checked, after reapplying safely and spritzing more Victoria's Secret onto her clothes. She'd thoroughly checked herself before getting out of the car, knowing this had to count more than anything they'd gone through if she was going to get him back.

Because she wanted him back.

He leaned against the door. Typical leather vest hung over an open, unclothed chest, Claire found it difficult to keep from staring. He, shifting his weight on his feet to cross one foot over the other, gave her a half smile, looking disheveled and exhausted. He smelled of tequila, exhaust, and...animal. Claire moved past him into the tight, unorganized bungalow type A-frame, glancing around the room where clothes were thrown around, dishes were unwashed, and motorcycle parts dotted the countertops.

She rubbed the back of her neck with her fingertips, giving him a glance as he kicked the door closed. Stuffing his fingers into his pants, he carefully entered the room, eyeing her carefully as if she were going to pounce him. Her lavender dress tickled the tops of her knees, her heels clicking against the floor as she moved to set her clutch on the table, which was littered with paperwork. He followed her, but she brushed past him, their shoulders touching. As Claire passed by a pile of park policy papers, she wondered if Marianne was going to organize his house too.

Or anything else.

"You want somthing to drink?" She whirled around as he gestured to the fridge. "I gotta couple of Coors cold and some tequila if you want any."

She wrinkled her nose and then laughed lightly. "You know I hate tequila."

He shrugged a shoulder, gave her a smirk, and pulled open the fridge. "You hate a lot of things, Claire." He pulled out a Coors, slammed the bottleneck against the counter, popping the top off. He took a long drink, the glass sweating in his hands, a dribble of alcohol running down his stubble. Claire had all she could do to keep her hands off him, much less her eyes. She hadn't slept with anyone in a long time...and she'd never slept with Owen, though she'd been dying to. Butterflies roamed her stomach and her chest whizzed like it was a top wound tight. "Which brings me to my next question. What brings you out here, Claire? Seems you've been...driving a lot lately."

She could tell he wasn't catching on. She stepped towards him, like a tiger would step towards its prey, feeling much like a huntress. She wondered if he was always this gullible, this easy, or if he was just playing. But, when he stopped mid-drink as she was within arm's reach, he watched her, and she knew it wasn't playing. He was genuinely off his guard. She retorted, clucking her tongue, "Well. I certainly didn't come to drink."

His brows shot up and she thought he paled. Maybe it was the lighting. "Well...ah...what did you come for, Claire?"

She gave him a stare, one that she had used many a time in highschool, and ever more often in college. Her girlfriends had called it the knee-knocker look, because it sent men to their knees faster than she could say Bob's your uncle. Lifting a delicate hand, she placed it on his shoulders, running her fingertips down his arm and then stopping to squeeze his bicep. Her stare lingered, but then she looked up at him, and found he'd been watching her hand as if he'd never realized she had one. They locked eyes a moment, her heart racing with excitement, the air getting heavy. Her body was on fire.

Standing on tip-toes, she stepped forward, tipping her head slightly to the left. Letting her eyes droop closed, she released a breathe, his masculine smell overtaking her nerves. She felt as though she'd burn into the floor. Lifting her foot into a delicate pop, she slowly raised her arms to wrap around his neck. He dropped his hand that held the bottle to his side, standing there, looking at her with a slightly furrowed expression. It sent her heart racing. "I think you know what I came for, Owen. I think we both know."

"Claire, I-"

She interrupted, moving a manicured finger to his lips. He quieted, "Shh. Don't say anything. Don't..." She moved in closer, her eyes fully closing, and she could feel his breath. The warmness of his body caressed her, and she was almost ready to relax and lean into him...

...when she staggered forward, the air empty.

Her eyes popped open, she tripped over her feet, staggering to keep balance. Squealing, Owen rushed to dip and assist her, Claire shooing him away furiously. He stepped back from her, away, and she whirled around to face him. Chest heaving for air, she glared at him. "What are you doing?" She demanded.

"The better question is, Claire, what are you doing?" He took a drink of his Coors, "I thought we were over."

"Well, yes, but-"

He gave her a sarcastic look, "But what? So now you want to be friends?"

Her mouth fell open to protest, but she could form no words. She glared at him. He wagged a finger at her, squinting his eyes closed to make a point, "Owen-"

"No, wait. By what you were insinuating, it sounds like you want to be friends...with benefits." He smacked his lips together, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, baby, but it doesn't work like that." He leaned against the wall, one arm supporting him, the other the Coors still in hand. "I'm not that desperate, Claire."

"Well. Never have I been more-"

"-presumptuous? Stuck up? C'mon, you can say it. Desperate?"

Furious, she stomped a foot at him, lunging around practically springing for the table to retrieve her purse. Pulling it into her body, she hurried towards the door, flinging it open. Blood pumped madly through her ears, eyes seeing nothing but red, rageful, pools. Her heart burned with indignance. That arrogant, ignorant, pompous pig! How could she have let herself fling her body at him as if he were God's gift to women? Storming down the steps, the screen door closed and she felt him staring at her. She whipped open the door to the coupe, staggering over the soft grass in her heels, practically falling inside with a plop. She glared at him, door still open.

"Goodnight, Claire." He taunted her.

Pausing, chest rising rapidly to catch her breath, she slammed it closed for emphasis. Whipping the car on and slamming it into drive, she roared out of his yard and down the road towards the resort. She shook her head, body trembling with rage.

She really hated that man.