Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.

By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com

Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment.

ATTENTION: Rating has changed! This is now R rated.

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Chapter 11

BRASS

Vegas isn't exactly a homey kind of town--not the places I see, anyway--but it does have its beauties, and Lake Mead is one of them. It attracts zillions of tourists every year, but the locals love it too, water in the desert. Gorgeous. I didn't used to get out there much, besides going to my favorite restaurant, but that's changed.

I've always wanted to try this. Not that I'd ever admit it out loud. But the temptation has been there for years, ever since I found out that the Aladdin's kitchen puts these things together. Without someone to share it with, I didn't have an excuse.

Not a problem now.

They deliver, but I just told 'em I'd pick it up myself. Saves the carrying fee and it's on the way. I have a blanket in the back seat and a little cooler filled with diet sodas; the basket comes with a bottle of wine, but Heather can only have one glass and I'll keep it down to one myself. We're both working later anyway.

I pull up in front of Heather's place, feeling a little like the teenager I once was, though my car now falls into the "sensible" category rather than the "hot" one. Before I can even shut off the engine Heather's out the door, smiling all over her pretty face, and I have to just sigh and appreciate. She's wearing shorts.

Okay, they're long shorts--they nearly reach her knees--but they do show off the curves of her calves in just the right way. She has a bag in one hand that she tosses in the back seat before she drops down next to me.

"Hey, beautiful," I start to say, but her kiss cuts me off before I get past the B, and I don't mind at all. I slide one hand up to the back of her neck and enjoy myself.

When we pull back, I can't keep the grin off my face, and Heather doesn't look too displeased either. She fastens her seatbelt and gives me another grin. "So where are you taking me?"

It amazes me how she can make me feel playful. "That's for me to know and you to find out." I laugh at her moue and back out of the driveway.

We've been to the lake before, once for dinner and once just to walk around, but this time I'm headed for a cove that not so many people know about. One of the little-known side benefits of crime-fighting is finding out about nice places that aren't overrun by people, as long as you can ignore the fact that a crime took place there. I got over my squeamishness decades ago, and I doubt it'll bother Heather if she asks.

It takes a bit of scrambling to get down to the beach, but it's a pleasure helping Heather down the rocky hill, and once we're there, we have the little slice of shoreline all to ourselves. She spreads out the blanket under the old tree near the water, and I set down the basket, taking a minute to look around. The lake's shining in the afternoon sun, and there are boats out on the water, but none of them are nearby.

When I turn back to Heather, she's spreading sunscreen on her arms. She meets my gaze with an apologetic shrug. "Pale skin is part of the mystique," she explains, and I smirk.

"Then let me help you with that."

I kneel down behind her where she's sitting on the blanket. She's wearing a nice red tank top and her hair's in a ponytail, so I don't have to worry about getting the ointment in it. Reaching around her, I put my palms over the white smears on her arms and begin massaging them into her skin, enjoying the warmth of her in front of me and the fragrance of her hair. I spread the stuff up over her shoulders, rubbing it in slowly, then squirt a dab more into my hand to cover her back above the edge of her top, and the skin of her neck. As I slide my palm down over the base of her throat and across the tender skin below, I can't resist leaning into her, and she makes a low purring sound. "You're not playing fair," she murmurs.

"Who says I'm playing?" I retort. But much as I'd like to take this to its logical conclusion, this is too public a place. So I turn her to face me, and with the bittersweet memory of doing the same for a fairy-boned five-year-old, I anoint her cheekbones and the straight line of her nose.

She rewards me with a kiss. "Your turn," she says, taking back the bottle, but I shake my head.

"I don't need it, Heather, I'm pretty impervious already."

"Just your face then," she insists, and I let her pull off my sunglasses and apply the lotion. Another kiss lands on my chin, and then she's rummaging in the basket.

HEATHER

Who would have guessed that this man, who presents such a hardened image to the world, is a romantic at heart?

And who would guess that Lady Heather, she of the iron will and leather whip, would be such a sucker for him?

Not I...not if you asked me a year ago. But life has a way of changing one's mind.

Jim's version of a dawn picnic for night workers is delightful. I unpack the basket, shamelessly curious, and slap his hands away playfully when he tries laughingly to stop me. I love to watch him laugh, love it when he crinkles his eyes and shows his teeth in a moment of unguarded amusement.

The food looks scrumptious. There's paté and crackers, a salad of strawberries and blueberries, and cold roasted chicken with fresh rolls and butter. I recognize the house brand of wine; Jim must know how good the Aladdin's food is too.

He uncorks the bottle and pours, and I spread a little paté on a cracker and lift it to his mouth. He pretends to snap at me, and I squeal a bit, which makes him grin through the mouthful. That sets the tone for the afternoon--sensuality and play.

I don't get enough of either, and neither does he.

"Tell me something that nobody knows about you," I say, carefully stripping the skin from my chicken breast and licking my fingers. Lemon and pepper, mmm.

Jim spears a few berries on his fork. "Like what? Deep dark secrets?"

"Doesn't have to be," I demur. "Just something you've never told anyone."

"Hmm." His eyes narrow, and one hand rises absently to rub his chin while he thinks. I love to watch him thinking, too, to see that sharp intelligence at work.

"I took figure skating lessons as a kid," he says finally, and while his smile is still in place, I can sense a subtle shift in his emotions. He's pretending to keep it lighthearted, but part of Jim is still a little embarrassed at the memory.

The gift of his trust...it never fails to move me.

I give him an encouraging look. "This was before you were into hockey, I take it."

He shrugs, but the tension is easing off a little. "It's how I got hooked on hockey, actually. Before that it was football like all the other guys."

"So how did you end up on the ice in the first place?" I ask, nibbling at my chicken.

"I already knew how to skate, and one of the figure skating teachers saw me doing tricks on the ice. She talked my mom into it." He sets aside his empty dish and reaches for his own piece of chicken. "Didn't take me long to get out of it, though."

I lift a brow, and he chuckles. "I told my dad I'd rather play hockey," he explains. "That was that. I think he was kind of relieved."

I have to laugh along with him--not so much at the idea of a good fifties father wanting his son to play a more "manly" sport, but at the image of a little dark-haired mischief-maker speeding across the ice. Jim doesn't have a lot of photos on hand from his childhood, but the few I've seen fascinate me.

"Your turn," he says, pulling a roll apart.

"Hmm," I parrot, and we share another grin, but the fact that springs to mind will be an equal gift of trust.

"No one outside my family knows this," I say slowly, laying on the drama to disguise the quiver in my belly. I don't think he'll laugh, but...

Jim takes a bite of his roll and gestures encouragingly, and I go on. "I was in a beauty pageant when I was eight."

His brows go up, and I can tell he's surprised. "I'm having a little trouble imagining that," he says mildly after a moment, and I shrug.

"It was my aunt's idea. Mother never would have bothered with something like that. But Aunt Anna had three boys and no daughters, and she thought it would be a great way for us to spend some time together."

For a moment I'm lost in the memory--being young and shy, but enjoying the attention, the pretty dresses and the makeup. And then learning just how tedious the whole thing could get--the endless waits, the hot lights, the merciless scrutiny.

"You didn't like it," Jim says softly, and I realize my expression must have given me away.

"I liked parts of it," I tell him honestly. "But not enough to keep going."

"Did you win anything?" His expression is only curious, and I shake my head.

"Not a thing. Aunt Anna was a little disappointed, I think." I sip my wine. "So when were you last on the ice?"

Jim sets down his chicken leg and reaches for a napkin. "It's been a while." He looks a little wistful, and a thought strikes me.

"We should go skating some time." I know Vegas has at least one rink.

His mouth quirks. "Do you know how?"

"Well, no." And we both laugh. "But I'm sure you can teach me."

BRASS

Can I teach her? Sure I can. And I have to admit that the idea of Heather helpless and giggling in my arms, cheeks pink with the cold, is a tempting image. "You'll get bruises," I warn, and she shrugs casually.

"That's what concealer is for."

"Okay, it's a date." I have to chuckle, wondering a little at the idea of the two of us--middle-aged and cynical--going on a date that would fit right into my teen years. But hey, I'll take it.

My teen years were never this good, anyway.

We spend a long time in the shade, nibbling at the food and teasing each other. Behind the sensual facade of Lady Heather is someone with a wicked sense of humor and a sweet evil grin, and it's a privilege to know her.

The sun's getting low but it's still warm, and I'm halfway tempted to stretch out next to her and take a nap. But Heather has other ideas. Pulling off her sandals, she stands up. "Let's go wading!"

I lie back and put my hands under my head. "Leeches," I say lazily, and she shoots me a dirty look.

"Nice try." She sashays down to the water and steps carefully into it, and I stay where I am for a while, admiring. For one thing, she keeps bending over.

Finally, though, I can't stand it any more, and I take off my own shoes and socks. Lucky me, I'm wearing shorts too.

The water's warmer than I expected, and Heather smiles at me as I walk slowly over, feeling my way along the sandy bottom. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist."

"If I get any leeches you're pulling them off," I grumble, just to hear her laugh.

So we poke around, taking our time, looking at plants and letting minnows nibble our toes. The sun's closing in on the mountains when Heather picks up a small rock and gives me an appraising look. "Are you any good at skipping stones?"

I find one of my own and give her the look right back. "Hometown champion," I reply loftily. "My record's never been broken."

"Ooh, a challenge!" She bounces the rock in her palm to test its weight, and then there's that evil grin. "A competition's no good without a prize."

"Yeah? So what's my prize?"

"Better watch that ego, Captain, it might get...punctured," she purrs, then glances around conspiratorially before leaning in to whisper in my ear.

I feel my brows going up. "Seriously?"

She pulls back and nods, and I give her a slow grin of my own. "Now that's incentive."

"And what do I get if I win?" she asks, and I don't give it a moment's thought.

"Right back atcha, sweetheart." Heather laughs, and I add, "Twice."

I love it when she blushes.

HEATHER

I've said it before--I'm competitive. I hardly think Jim expects me to be the girlish wimpy type who will lose on purpose so her boyfriend will feel good for winning, but this is a bit trickier than I thought it would be. I'm competitive, and I'm also very good at this.

Oh, we've played games before, cards mostly though we branch out into Monopoly and backgammon every so often. It's give and take, both of us playing cutthroat but neither of us taking it too seriously, and usually we're pretty evenly matched.

Well, we're evenly matched again, but it's not quite so casual.

If there's one thing I understand, it's male egos. I handle them every night with an expert touch, inflating or deflating as the customer requires. I deal with female egos too, but they tend to run along different channels entirely.

We skip stones. We're still playing, on one level, but it's not a joke, we're really competing. And as we rack up successes and losses--bounces and distance and misfires--what I already knew becomes even clearer. I don't want Jim to lose, but I don't want to lose either. We hunt for stones along our little beach and compliment each other for particularly good throws, but we're both intent on the next turn, the next toss.

The sunset's gorgeous, and as the disk slips behind the peaks we're suddenly in shadow, running out of time to finish our game. I have three stones in my hand; Jim has two; without really saying anything, we decide that these will have to be our final tosses.

Our tiebreakers, in fact. For a moment I wonder what it would have been like if we'd grown up in the same town, and how a young Jim would have taken it if a pigtailed little girl had been his match in stone-skipping. Probably not well...

I make my toss. We're even, though the lead has shifted back and forth pretty constantly, and the beautiful clean four-bouncer puts me one ahead. Jim squints thoughtfully at the lake, and swings his arm in a careful arc, and my lead vanishes.

My second toss is a complete flub, sinking like...well, like a rock. I can see it's on the tip of Jim's tongue to offer me a do-over, but I wave him on. There's a funny solemnity to this now, almost as though we really are kids participating in a time-honored childish ritual. But it's also underlaid with the sensual promises we made each other, and that gives it a distinctly adult flavor.

Jim's last toss is a masterpiece--six bounces. That puts him one up, and he shoots me a glance that is half-apology, half-challenge, with just enough smugness in it to remind me he's human. On impulse, I stick out my tongue, and listen to him chuckle as I step forward.

It's a beauty of a throw if I do say so myself. The rounded rock speeds along, touching down on the surface and lifting off again like a meteor too impatient to land. Four skips--five--six--

A curve of dull silver as big as my forearm breaks up into the air, and my stone is gone, down the gullet of a fish that could probably take on most fishermen and win. It vanishes below, leaving only ripples, and Jim and I exchange glances, both of us slightly stunned.

"I think that's a tie," he says at last, his voice soft.

"The gods of the lake have spoken," I agree, and shiver. Twilight has arrived, and I suddenly realize that I'm chilled.

BRASS

I can see the goosebumps on Heather's skin, but I have no jacket to offer her, so instead I put an arm around her shoulders. "We should head back up the hill before it gets too dark," I say regretfully, and she nods.

But before we move to pack up the picnic, I pull her into my arms. I might not have a jacket, but there's more than one way to warm a person up.

Man, she's got a sweet mouth. I love the way she slides her hands up and plays with the hair on the back of my neck. I love the way she doesn't hesitate to rub up against me. I love the little sounds she makes when I kiss her.

By the time we pull apart, we're both a little too warm. Heather plants one more kiss on my chin--she seems to love it, though I don't for the life of me know why--and ducks away, gathering up the picnic stuff efficiently. I shake out the blanket and fold it up, then take the basket away from her. "You can carry the cooler," I tell her when she pouts. I'm all for equality, trust me--you can't work with the women I do and feel any different--but the fact is that guys are better built for hauling than gals. And it makes me feel better, anyway.

I stick the blanket under the arm carrying the basket, and take her hand, and together we scramble back up the hill to my car. The lights in the parking lot come on as I slam the trunk shut and climb into the driver's seat. Glancing at my watch, I sigh.

"We've still got an hour at least before work starts," I say. "Anything in particular you want to do?"

Heather shoots me a look I can only call smutty. "Well...the game was tied," she suggests, and if my attention wasn't fixed on her before it sure is now. But I shake my head.

"Sweetheart, even one of those prizes is going to take more than an hour."

She nods, blowing air into her bangs and looking a little frustrated, and I can understand that. I still feel a bit like a teenager--in a car at night with a really hot chick, but with a curfew looming up.

"I feel like I'm sixteen again," Heather comments, and I blink. "All anticipation and no follow-through."

It's weird, how our thoughts are the same. We look at each other, then at the back seat of my car. There's nothing on it but a newspaper; it would be a little cramped, but--

Heather raises her brows in one more challenge, and I start the engine. There has to be a dark corner in this parking lot somewhere.

See Chapter 12