DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVES

Donovan packed his and Stasia's things as quietly and as quickly as possible.  While doing this, Stasia sat in the middle of the bed with her magical spoon.  He had no earthly idea what she found so fascinating about that damn spoon.  Any time he tried to take it away from her, she cried as if her best friend had died.  The moment he arrived home, he had made a couple of phone calls.  The first was to his ex-wife.  It was curt and forced, but basically he told her that he was taking their daughter to see his parents in Florida.  She hadn't sounded very pleased with that idea, but she didn't really argue, either.  The second call was to his parents.  They had only seen Stasia a few times since he and Remy had been married.  It was about damn time they saw her again.  Up until now, Stasia had primarily been exposed to Remy's family.  It had irritated Donovan when they were married, but it really bothered him now.  He shook it off.  His parents had been thrilled when they heard he and their granddaughter were coming for a visit.  He hadn't mentioned his ulterior motive, of course, but there were a few little things here and there he had never told his family.  Anneliese and Kane Donovan supported their son, but they'd have a hissy fit if they knew some of the things he had to do on a daily basis.  They weren't oblivious, of course, but they didn't know everything.  He wasn't sure how he felt about that, but it mattered little.  They were thrilled to have him and Stasia and couldn't wait for their arrival. 

*  *  *

Tore Raynor, once known as Keith Ahiga in another life, had stationed himself in a nice luxury hotel suite.  In a few days, he would have a house, and then he could send for his wife and children.  They were still in Brazil waiting for word to come.  He glanced at an ice bucket with champagne.  He had always hated fucking champagne.  It was a pussy drink.  He wanted something harder.  Whiskey?  Scotch?  No, none of those.  He wanted vodka.  It was the only thing that would satisfy him.  Perhaps as soon as he caught his breath, he would order some from room service.  Every time he drank vodka, he thought of the jomfru [virgin].  Of course, his lingering thoughts weren't anything close to gentle.  He had nothing but disgust for the woman.  He had used her mind as well as her body.  Actually, he hadn't planned to take her on that first night.  It was in the plan, but just not that soon.  He wasn't stupid.  He was aware that she had found him attractive.  She stared at him enough when she thought he wasn't looking.  He had had orders to seduce her, eventually, only to extract information from her.  However, she had been very tight-lipped about everything.  Either that, or she didn't know any more than he did.  Whatever the case, he had been a bit lonely and a lot horny.  He had lied about being married, of course, but he needed that back-story to gain sympathy from her, and it worked.  The jomfru wasn't exactly his type of woman, but she was the only one available and in close proximity.  When he encountered her maidenhead, it had become an unexpected surprise, but a nice advantage.  He could easily rule her.  He would be her first, and she would fall all over herself to please him, to do exactly what he wanted.  Of course, he hadn't figured that she would be the exact opposite.

The more he took her, the further she seemed to drift from him.  What was his solution to that problem?  He began to take her more and more, spending as much time in bed with her as he could.  It had become a ridiculous ritual.  Night after night, she gave herself to him, and he tried his best to prod her, but she would not talk.  He often wondered if she saw some of his extracurricular activities.  If she did, she never said anything after they were spent and lying quietly in each other's arms.  Eventually, he grew tired of the game, tired of sleeping with her.  The fascination of her virginity had faded after the first dozen or so times he made love to her.  It became a chore.  She was a turn-off.  She had no 'good' qualities, not like a woman he would find attractive.  He didn't need someone like her sticking around.  Besides, he had other places to go, other people to see [as the old cliché goes]. 

He stroked his chin for a moment.  When he left, he thought it amusing that she had been targeted as part of his double agent operation.  How wonderful.  That was another unexpected surprise.  He hadn't liked when she somehow weaseled out of it.  But what could he do?  He reached over and grabbed the champagne bottle.  He was too lazy to order his vodka and he needed a drink.  He popped the cork off the bottle and turned it up and drank deeply, dribbling champagne on his chin.  His thoughts were drawn to the child.  When did he find out about him?  He hadn't known the jomfru was pregnant and probably wouldn't have cared if he did.  However, he had heard from some international grapevine that she gave birth to a boy.  His interest immediately grew.  A son.  The jomfru had borne him a son.  He had always wanted a son.  He had made many plans and attempts to kidnap the boy, but none of them had been successful.  It was close to impossible to abduct the child of a CIA operative.  Yet, he had found a crack in that security hadn't he?  Upon first seeing the boy at a distance, he noticed that he looked just like him, but he had her eyes.  It didn't matter.  He had a son and he would damn well take him, letting his new wife raise him with the child she was carrying. 

Raynor hadn't counted on the jomfru fighting him so vehemently.  What was he to do but run?  Run with his son?  She mattered very little to him.  He had come after his son and he wouldn't hesitate to gun her down.  But then the accident happened, the horridly tragic accident.  He hadn't meant to throw his son like that [or had he?].  He wasn't attached to the boy by any stretch of the imagination, but he was his son.  He had a biological connection.  He had tossed the child down, hoping only to bruise him just a bit so he could make another attempt later.  He had no idea he would be run down by traffic.  He had no idea at all.  He hadn't grieved the death of his son.  His wife gave him another six months later.  He gave little or no thought to the boy's mother.  She was completely inconsequential, a woman he had screwed and left behind.  Raynor never thought of her or the boy again. 

He was completely and thoroughly amazed to run into the jomfru again.  By then, he had risen to power in South America thanks to his mid-east connections.  He had no idea the CIA was tailing him.  However, they had their own double agents in the field, and he was given a list of every single operative.  He saw her name and noticed she had a new partner.  He knew of her partner as well.  He had had dealings with him.  He could settle two scores at once.  Somehow, those plans were thwarted as well.  It didn't matter.  He knew how to skirt the CIA and their assassins.  He had many double agents protecting his interests.  Any time one was near him, he was immediately notified.  He had no worries, no fears.  He could live the good life and perhaps come to power in the states.  It would be a nice change of pace for him.  Now if he could just get his wife and children home to him.  He missed them very much.  Living alone didn't sit well with him.

*  *  *

Donovan stood outside the home of his parents with a smile on his face.  Although he hadn't been raised here, it still seemed like home.  The flight and the stress had exhausted him.  He had no idea how he would find Pax, but he had some time to think about that.  Leaving the bags outside for the time being, he carried his daughter to the front door.  He didn't have time to knock.  His mother burst out of the door with tears of joy streaming down her face.  Donovan felt a little embarrassed at her display of affection.  After all, it hadn't been that long since they'd seen him last.  His mother hadn't changed much.  Her long black hair was still shot with the same lodes of gray, her dark eyes shined with vitality, and she looked nowhere near her age of fifty-five.  Anneliese embraced her son and kissed his cheek before she turned her attention toward her granddaughter.  As with Pax, she took to this new person with curiosity and wonder.  She was kind of like Daddy in a way and Daddy seemed to like her fine.  She ushered her son and granddaughter inside.  It was particularly hot and humid that day.

As soon as they were inside, his mother told him to put the child down.  "Mom, she'll pilfer," he said.

She waved her hand dismissively.  "So?  She's two.  Let her pilfer.  Besides, you can't stand there and hold her all the time."

He shrugged.  "Okay, don't say I didn't warn you.  I thought you'd want to childproof your home first."  He set Stasia down on her feet and she began pilfering immediately.  "Where's Dad?"

"Getting something special for dinner.  We're making all your favorites."

Donovan sighed a little, but actually couldn't wait.  He could see it [and taste it] now:  T-bone steak, wild rice pilaf, a gigantic baked potato, and pecan pie.  Uh.  Just the thought of it made his stomach rumble.  Damn.  Despite the circumstances, it was good to be home.

"By the way," his mother called from the kitchen, "we've invited Graciela from next door.  She's a nice single girl.  Very young.  Loves children."

Oh Jesus.  "Mom, that isn't necessary.  Uh, I'm already…involved."  Could he call what he had with Pax 'involved?'  Could he?  Damn.  Just when he had started feeling normal, she had to enter his mind and sour him.  When he found her, he was going to make her life hell right before he made mad love to her.  "I don't think she'd appreciate my having a casual date.  She can be a little…possessive."

"Oh, is that right," she called again.  "I can't wait to meet her."

Oh yes you can.  He couldn't imagine bringing Jonella Paxton into his parents' home.  He had a feeling they hadn't really taken to Remy, and she was nothing like Pax.  How the hell would they react to her?  He caressed the nape of his neck and sighed a little.  He needed a shower and some rest, because after he settled a bit, he was going to find Pax one way or another.

*  *  *

That evening after putting Stasia down for the night [her grandparents had worn her out], Donovan sat up with his mother and father, listening to various stories of family goings on.  As with his mother, he noticed that very little had changed about his father.  People often said that Kane Donovan was an older version of him, but he didn't see it.  During their conversation, his parents didn't mention his and Remy's divorce once.  He was more than grateful for that.  He knew they were curious, but they completely respected his boundaries.  Around two that morning, Donovan excused himself and slipped into the guest room they had prepared for him.  He took a long shower in the hottest water he could stand and felt it working the tenseness out of his back.  When he stepped out and toweled off, he hit the sheets au natural, but then remembered where he was.  Shaking his head a little, he dug a pair of pajama bottoms out of his suitcase and slipped into them before getting into bed.

For a little while, he wondered how he was going to find Pax.  Miami was a gigantic city with so many people.  There were a couple of safe houses around town.  Would she have gone to one?  He wasn't sure, but it was possible.  First thing in the morning, he could go.  It couldn't hurt.  It was actually a good starting point.  However, it seemed too easy, too convenient.  He settled under the covers and turned to his side.  He couldn't begin to imagine what he would do or say.  He hoped he could control his temper, he really did.

The next morning, his parents were more than willing to stay with Stasia while Donovan went prospecting for his missing lover.  His daughter had taken to them and she didn't seem distressed when he left.  Good.  He wanted them to have this chance to know their granddaughter.  He borrowed his dad's car and drove around for a little while, getting his bearings.  He knew little about Miami, but with a good map, he was sure to find the safe houses.  One was more open, and he assumed that if Pax were going to go to one, she'd choose free over closed any time.  He pulled over and glanced at the map, sweating like hell.  The air conditioner didn't work and he was a little annoyed.  He found the street where he was currently parked and noticed that the free house was on the other side of town.  He wondered if he should risk driving out that way or go to the closed one first.  Debating for half a second [any more than that and he'd have a fucking heat stroke], he decided to make the trip.  As hot and as annoyed as he was, he could only imagine how he'd feel once he laid his eyes on Jonella Paxton.

*  *  *

Pax had wanted to go to a safe house, but she really had no choice, not until she found better footing elsewhere.  The agency was working on something special for her, but she wasn't in a big hurry to do anything.  She needed the time to sort out all the fucking drama that plagued her life.  If it weren't so fucking hot, she'd go outside.  She needed air and sunshine.  It might improve her mood.  Honey, nothing will improve my mood.  She growled in frustration and put on a pair of sneakers, anything else, and her fucking feet would be fried.  She stepped outside in the blinding sun, not realizing that Frank Donovan was swiftly approaching her from the north.

I can't believe it.  I fucking cannot believe it, Donovan thought as he neared the short driveway.  He hoped the heat had made him hallucinate.  Otherwise, he was looking right at her.  He threw the car into park and killed the engine.  Wiping the sweat off his face with the back of his hand, he exited the vehicle none too quietly.  At the loud 'chunking' sound, Pax stopped and turned around.  Stalking toward her was one pissed off, sweating, hot-blooded, angry as hell man.  Oh shit.  It was time to get the hell out of Dodge [again].  Damn it.  What the fuck was he doing here?  How the fuck had he found her?  God.  No one could ever hide from those fucking federal agents.  Usually she would stand down any opponent she faced, but not this time.  Out of all the threats he'd ever made to her, this time, he was going to kill her.  He really was.

Donovan watched in disbelief as she ran off like a gazelle with her long ass legs.  Oh hell no.  Did she think she would get away from him?  Not such a damn good idea.  Heat stroke or not, he was going to fucking chase her down if it took two days.  He took off running after her, not saying a word, only deep breathing, and controlling the rage bubbling up inside him.  There was plenty of time for rage once he caught her.  She ran around the little house, likely going for the back door.  Another idea that was pretty lame.  It was the first place he'd look.  He ripped around the house after her and her hand was on the doorknob.  Just a few more inches, and he'd have it.  She almost had the door open when she felt a body slamming up against her back.  She yipped in surprise as he dug his fingers into the soft flesh of her waist.  Caught.  Goddamn it.  I'm caught. 

Using the door for leverage, she slipped her body halfway inside and drew back with her elbow, catching him a good one in the chest.  God.  She couldn't stand how he fought without making a sound.  It was a CIA thing.  The blow only knocked him back a step or two, and his arm shot out.  He took hold of her elbow and jerked her back.  She bared her teeth at him like an animal and jerked violently forward, positioning his hand between the door and the doorjamb.  You bitch, don't even think of it, he thought.

"If you don't let go, I'll fucking break your hand, Frankie.  Do it, I swear to God."

"Idle threats piss me off," he growled.  "If you were going to do it, you already would have.  If you don't fucking let me in, I'll drag your ass right back out.  How public do you want this to be?"

"Fuck off," she roared.

Next door, they heard a voice call out:  "Do you need any help over there, ma'am?  Is that man bothering you?"

Almost at the same time, they shouted back, "Lover's quarrel, mind your own business!"

With Donovan distracted, she yanked her arm out of his hand and slipped inside.  He moved quickly and inserted his body between the decreasing space.  It hadn't mattered to him.  If the door closed, he would have broken a window.  On the run again, she dodged furniture to find a safe room.  He knew the layout of these places pretty well, and he darted in the opposite direction.  As soon as she rounded a corner, he met her.  She slammed right into his chest with an unexpected 'oof.'  He took hold of her, clamping his hands on her forearms.

"The chase has ended.  You're caught.  Now stop fucking around," he said in a low, severe whisper.

"I hate you," she screamed.

"So you've said many times.  Cut the shit.  How many times do I have to tell you that."  He pushed her backward, into the small dining room and she yipped again when her ass hit the edge of the table, pinching it.  "What the fuck were you doing, Pax?"  When she didn't speak, he shook her.  "Tell me.  You came to Miami to settle personal CIA shit, didn't you?"

"What the hell are you talking about," she demanded.  "What personal CIA shit?"

"When are you going to stop playing games," he asked through gritted teeth.  "Stop it, goddamn it, just stop it."

She had no idea what he was talking about.  "You have wasted your time coming here.  Why the hell can't you just give up and go on?  And what's with this personal shit?  Tell me, Frankie, because I'm fucking confused."

Something told him she was telling the truth, yet something else made him believe she was lying.  She had fucked with his mind so much that he didn't know what to think anymore.  He released her and yelled out an aggravated 'ahhhhhh.'  He turned away from her for a moment, walking a few steps forward.  He thought she'd take the time to escape again, but she didn't.  She stood watching cautiously, wondering if her death was imminent as soon as he caught his breath.  When he turned back around, he fixed her with a heated gaze.  Oh shit.  Here it goes.  He made his two steps back and put his hand on her throat.  She closed her eyes, waiting for the squeeze.  It never came.  Instead, his lips captured hers hard and possessively.

When she realized he wasn't going to kill her, she relaxed just the slightest bit and returned the kiss, snaking her arms around his neck.  He broke the kiss after several minutes and looked at her.  What did she have on?  Shorts?  Tee shirt?  Hmm.  A challenge, but not difficult.  He kissed her again, his hand traveling down her side, and he grasped her shorts.  What the hell was he doing to her?  He dragged them down roughly, pulling her forward just a bit to get them off.

"On the table, now," he said against her lips.

She didn't argue with him.  She was actually a little afraid to, thinking that he still intended to kill her.  She got up on the table, the wood cold against her bare ass.  He leaned her back, his lips moving up and down the inside of her legs.  Uh uh.  This wasn't happening.  She leaned up again and took a handful of his shirt.  She kissed him and he worked her out of her tee shirt.  He cupped her breasts through her bra as she broke away from his lips and cried out a little.  She worked furiously to get him out of his jeans, and when he stepped out of them, he came toward her again, his teeth nipping her neck none too gently.  Goddamn.  He liked it rough sometimes.  Jesus.  She stripped him out of his shirt, ripping it in the process.  He didn't care.  Didn't give a shit.  Not at all.

"Lay back," he demanded.

"Now wait just a fucking minute," she grumbled.  "I'm not some ditzy…ditzy…oh Jesus."

He'd made his command and then brought his hand down between her legs just as she was about to complain.  He was rubbing, stroking, touching, and dipping his fingers inside again and again.  Uh God.  "Lay back," he commanded against her neck.  "If you don't, I won't stop."

"Who says I want you to stop," she asked breathlessly.  "I should have broken your fucking fingers," she said through a low moan.

"Really," he said, biting her neck, but never quite stopping.  "I thought you liked my fingers."

"Goddamn you," she moaned.  "Goddamn you."

"Do you," he asked.

Rub, stroke, dip.  "God, stop," she cried.

"Tell me, Jonella.  Do you?"

Dip, dip, dip.  "Jesus Christ.  You win, you fucker, you win.  I like them; I like them inside me, all over me.  Happy?"

He smiled against her neck.  "A little.  I won this round, didn't I?  You're not off the hook by a long shot.  We'll finish what we need to finish, I can promise you that.  Now lay back."

During his entire little commentary he had never let up.  "I don't want you," she said gruffly.

"What I'm touching is telling a different story.  Lay back, Jonella.  Do it."

She laid back.