Chapter Eight.

Three days later…

Clarice was relaxing in her new hotel bar (yes she'd been moved 'for her safety') it was extremely late, so late that she'd had to help herself to a drink, it was 3am in the morning. You'd think they'd have someone around, but no, anyway she had been unable to sleep and had begun to feel claustrophobic in her room.

Her legs swung from the tall leather seated bar stall she was sat on, her elbows propped up on the dark polished bar and idly swirling wine around an elegant wineglass the fluted stem long and thin in her hands. The wine was from her private bar in her room, but she had brought it down here with her on her midnight excursion searching for a suitable glass to put it in. Deeming the bathroom toothbrush mug as offensive to drink the exquisite velvety wine from, obviously the expensive lifestyle was rubbing off on her, though she was being careful with her cash, well, the FBI's cash. A small smile curved her lips, until thoughts turn to her business here in Paris and the smile falls down into a frown.

The victim's name was Neil Ingott he was an American car dealer, working for a much larger company as an international financial negotiator. Enquiries at the company had shown that he was fairly useless, despite a brilliant start as a young man he had 'failed to keep up with the times' and apparently had been due to be bumped off (as in fired not killed). He had an ex-wife from an early marriage but no children, he had no partner, but some male friends, and Clarice remembered the intense relief she had felt on hearing all of this. No need to feel guilty (because she did) as she hadn't orphaned any child, any 'lambs'.

Neil Ingott had been the man who had rudely accosted her on the plane, and a hair found on his body contained the DNA of Dr Hannibal Lecter, confirming his killer, so had Dr Lecter killed for her? He really disliked the rude, and had been known to kill for her, (note Paul Krendler) though he may have just found the man offensive to his own sense of manners and politeness (or lack of in the deceased). Even more interesting- all of this meant that Dr Lecter had known the events that had occurred on the plane, since she had not spoken of it to anybody else he must have been on the same plane. That same plane! A few seats forward, or back, across the isle?

Clarice had spent half a day on the phone to Pearsall explaining that somehow Dr. Lecter had boarded an American plane to Paris and nobody had spotted him, had stopped him, had questioned his identity, all of which raised a hell of a lot of questions back home. Never mind that the Paris Police officials and Government were questioning how he had gotten into their country.

Luckily the Tattler's story on Clarice running off to Paris to find Hannibal had not been taken seriously, at least not by the major press, Pierre was being fabulous. He had managed to keep everyone quiet on Neil's murder and everything was Top Secret, hush hush so to speak, wouldn't last long of course but for the moment the Paris people were no wiser.

Clarice heaved a sigh, and took a sip from her glass of wine; she was wearing her latest indulgence, a silk nightie, creamy coloured to complement her complexion with thin spaghetti straps and loose curves. It had been expensive but worth it, it was soft and felt glorious next to the skin, she felt incredibly sexy wearing it too, feminine almost- which she didn't get a chance to feel very often, guns and all.

Looking down at herself she laughed, she had pulled on a pair of jeans to come downstairs, definitely not sexy, her nightie looked like it was a badly fitted shirt, billowing out slightly where she hadn't tucked it in. Then again, when was she likely to be with a man again, the last time she had been seen naked by a man was so long ago she couldn't even remember, and the sad thing was that she hadn't even missed it. I'm a sad old crone/spinster at the age of 32, and then of course, the last man to see me naked, (I'm presuming, since I was out like a light) was Hannibal Lecter. Oh…well, Grrreeat! That says pretty much everything about my love life!

Clarice bowed her head into her hands, her wineglass abandoned empty on the bar top, overwhelmed by her misery and loneliness. "Get some bottle Clarice", she whispered to herself, but there are times in your life, when no one is around, when you admit the things that really bother you, deep down.

Some time passed with Clarice buried in the worst feelings of human emotion, until she heard music- a piano. At first she thought someone was passing in a car, but no it was constant and inside the building, in fact, she got up, it came from the drawing room, where she knew stood a massive grand piano. Cautiously she made her way there, stopping just before she reached to savour the music it was beautifully played, what was it again? She had heard it before, but where was it from? It touched her, full of a sadness and hope and light and dark, she could listen forever if her curiosity wasn't driving her wild, who on earth would be playing at this hour?

As her hand touched the drawing rooms door and carefully turned the handle, the music ceased, suddenly stopping in the middle of an extremely 'legato played' arpeggio. She entered to find the piano seat empty but the last notes still lingering in the air, the strings of the open piano vibrating softly, but when she looked around she could see no one, was she going mad?

Concern etched into her features until she reached the piano stool and sat down, could she possibly try and play that very same music? Concentrating she reached out a cautious right index finger to play an ivory key, it rang out clear but no, it was the wrong note, she experimented, moving down the range of notes till she found the one she thought was correct. Only, when she tried to find the next possible note they didn't sound very good together, she realised that it probably wasn't possible for her to play it, and she was disappointed. Her hands lightly resting on the smooth surface of the keys in (if she had known) a near perfect positioning she tried again, but knowing really that she couldn't, she hadn't learnt piano, recorder maybe, but not piano.

It was a shock when other, male hands suddenly covered her hands, she hadn't heard anyone enter the room, but then again nobody had left either, so presumably it was the mystery piano player. His hands were warm and soft, not so smooth as her own but still soft and supple, they skilfully manipulated hers into a position on the keyboard. The arms encircled her, the body just a decent distance away from her own, but the heat from it warming her, and his breath warm on her part-exposed back. Then their hands moved, it was slower as her fingers didn't know how to move to the music and having four hands complicated things a little. The music began to flow again, occasionally jerky when an octave was jumped or fingering altered, but it was repetitive and she learnt quickly under the man's careful silent tutelage.

Clarice relaxed the music and company working magic on her that she really needed, the tight knot of tension in her shoulders loosened and she leant back onto the muscular hard back of the man behind her. He didn't complain, but stepped forward slightly to support her, and continued his gentle caressing of her fingers as he played.

Her eyes slid closed, the man smelt of expensive cologne and his clothes were soft against her back, briefly she wondered who it was, but the thought was tossed away, perhaps lack of sleep and a glass of wine, relaxing music dulling her usually sharp mind. The man stopped playing, her hands had slid away from the keyboard to rest languidly in her lap, and she opened her eyes again, looking dreamily ahead at the music stand. She hadn't noticed the small white scar on the man's right hand…

"You play beautifully" Clarice told the man whose hands now rested on her shoulders, and were gently soothing in expert patterns. Waves of well being floated through Clarice, she welcomed them; only now did she realise how uptight she had been this last week.

There was no reply to her comment, no verbal reply; instead a light kiss was dropped upon her bare shoulder and she shivered uncontrollably with the sensation of lips rougher than the skin of her body briefly smoothed against her shoulder.

A pause, and then the head lowers and kisses her breastbone (a/n clavicle bone), staying for longer in contact, but she turns and looks to her side and sees the top of his head and something screams very loudly inside of her. Almost imperceptibly she stiffens but he senses it and raises his head, she is shaking so hard now she worries she will upturn the piano seat. He turns away his head, not allowing her to see his features the sudden movement of his body away from hers like a shock of ice-cold water on a hot summer afternoon. For a second she regrets it, he reaches the door, she watches him open it, and then he speaks for the first time tonight.

"It was 'Memory' Clarice" then he bows his head, as if in sorrow and leaves her, alone again, more cold and fearful than before because now she has a new enemy- herself.

She doesn't move to stop him leave, to follow him. Clarice Starling, FBI Special Agent lets Hannibal Lecter, renowned sociopath, and infamous cannibal, walk free.

Why?

Because for just that moment they were equals.

Authors Notes: I hope you loved this chapter, I had such fun writing it- more Hannibal and Clarice, - simply delicious, don't forget to tell me if you enjoyed it too! Ooh, and thank you ever so much for the kind and wonderful reviews you all left for my last chapter. :)