Disclaimer: There are several universal truths in this world that we all know exist to the core of our being, so much so that we don't need them to be proved to us. Such as the more we learn, the less we know; that we're always incompatible with our own starsign; that Johnny Depp has a fit ass; and that Rogue and Gambit belong together. Not to mention, of course, that we do not - and never will - own the following characters in any way, shape or form. Because Marvel do. Dammit.

A/N: Thanks to all those who've reviewed so far - your comments are much appreciated - we love you all! If there's any character you'd like to see popping up, let us know and we'll see what we can do! Enjoy the latest installment - Spice x

Mix 'n' Match

(6) Blessings in Disguise

Ugh.

I wake up on Friday morning to find I've been drooling all over my pillow. Don't you just hate it when that happens? I sit up groaning and wipe my mouth. I just can't shake the feeling that I've been dreaming about kissing that Cajun swamp rat. It might be easier to forget if only for the fact that it was the best dream I've had in ages. I was in a sexy red nightgown, and he was dressed in this debonair suit... And the way he took me in his arms and ravished me and...

Stop!

It's only a dream! I can't keep torturing myself like this, considering the fact that I can't even stand the guy! But then, why are my cheeks already burning red, and how come he manages to haunt my dreams even though I have no control over my subconscious whatsoever?

Great – now not only is my body betraying me, but my mind is as well. Face it, Roguey – Remy LeBeau is bad news. So stop thinking about him already!

I take a quick shower, then go and check my mail. While I'm waiting for the coffee machine, I leaf through the pile of envelopes. Bills; bills; bills; a free catalogue from a bridal company. What the hell is that doing in there? Must've been from when I ordered that dress to wear to Jean's wedding. Damned junk mail! I chuck it in the trashcan. The last thing I want is to be reminded of weddings.

The rest of my mail is all fairly regular stuff, until I get to the bottom of the pile. A long, thin, blue envelope. Hmm. Never seen one of these before. I pick it up while I'm pouring my coffee and read the official stamp on the front. 'CALDECOTT COUNTY GENERAL HOSPITAL', it says. As soon as I read it, I freeze. Caldecott County General Hospital. What...Why...? After all this time, for what possible reason could they want to contact me now? And how did they find out my new address? Unless... ...

Suddenly my throat's burning and my heart's beating a mile a minute. I can't open it, I just can't. I slip it back at the bottom of the pile of bills, then busy myself getting some breakfast ready. But once I have the bowl of cereal in front of me, I find I don't have the appetite to eat a thing. I stare at the pile of letters. Come on, Rogue, I think, you're not suddenly turnin' chicken now, are you? You always knew you couldn't run away from your past. Just open the darn thing already!

No – I can't do it. The thought of it leaves me feeling sick to the stomach. Instead I grab my coat, purse and keys and run out, leaving my bowl of cereal untouched.

All of a sudden, facing L&L and another day of Remy LeBeau seems a whole lot more appealing.

-oOo-

It just wouldn't fit.

No matter how she folded it, rolled it, or sat on it, that accursed purple velvet Armani coat just refused to fit into her suitcase. Betsy sighed in exasperation and promptly spilled out the contents of her suitcase onto the floor. Better to start again from scratch than to crease up the expensive coat anymore than she had already. And really, she was only going to be staying in the UK for the weekend. She had enough clothes here to clothe an entire community in Ethiopia or something. Neal would definitely not approve, she told herself sternly. This time round you're going to break the mould and travel lightly! Think economical, Elisabeth, think economical.

Just as she'd managed to convince herself that she didn't need the purple coat after all, the doorbell rang. She knew instinctively who it was.

Neal.

Her heartbeat sped up to a mile a minute, her nerves collapsing completely. Here she was, packing to leave for that very evening, yet she still hadn't even told her boyfriend about the change of plans.

It really wasn't her fault though. Neal had had some sort of conference to go to in Montreal, and she hadn't had the chance to tell him. Sure, she could have called him, but that would have been so impersonal.

The doorbell rang again, and she snapped out of her internal reasoning. Forcing her feet to finally walk over to the door, she inhaled deeply and opened the door.

"Hey honey," he greeted her brightly, with a smile to boot.

"Hi, luv," she greeted half-heartedly.

"What's wrong?" he questioned as he stepped into her apartment.

"Oh...nothing," she lied and closed the door. When she turned around, he pulled her into his arms for a deep kiss. When they finally pulled away, he smiled at her and said, "I've been missing that, darling. So, are you all set to go?"

"Yeah...I'm all set to go," she answered awkwardly, but at least she was telling the truth. She just didn't mention that it was Britain she was all set to go to.

"Good. I hope you're packing light. We're only going to be there for three days and I know how you have a habit of over-packing," he stated with a hint of condescension.

"Actually..." she began sheepishly, "here's the thing, Neal. Please don't be mad."

"Don't be mad with what?" he asked suspiciously, a look of disapproval already glazing over his face.

"Well... I have this dinner with my family and I can't go to Geneva," Betsy finally spat out all in one breath.

"What?" Neal burst out in shock and exasperation, "Betsy, why didn't you tell me sooner? How could you not have told me? Your plane ticket isn't refundable, and I've booked a hotel for us and everything! I'm going to have to tell everyone else that you're not going, and now we're going to have shuffle people around just to fit everything round your plans!" He paused, glaring at her and giving a cry of frustration. "This is so irresponsible of you, Betsy. Why didn't you just tell me the truth – that you don't give a damn about Geneva at all!"

Betsy blinked, unable to believe what he was accusing her of.

"Neal, I'm sorry," she apologized desperately, her guilt soaring. "I just utterly forgot that this weekend is my father's Annual Braddock Foundation Gala and my entire family's expecting me there. You know I'd rather be with you than with them but I can't miss this event. It's the only thing they ever ask of me, and I just can't let them down." She paused, seeing how angry he still looked. "Look, Neal, I'm truly sorry. But the gala's really for a good cause too, you know. It's to help fund my father's cancer research. And as for the plane ticket – look, I'll pay for it, it won't be a problem."

"This isn't about the price of the plane ticket!" Neal exploded, his eyes flashing. "The point is that you obviously don't care about our cause, Betsy. Why do you even pretend you do? Let's face it – you've been brought up in a world of egotistical, self-centered values, and a leopard never changes its spots! I was stupid to think you'd ever change!"

That was the last straw for Betsy, who was now on the verge of tears. To hear him accusing her of being selfish when she was thinking only of her family hurt her to the core. Looking into his eyes, she couldn't even see a hint of the passionate, inspirational man she had fallen for at that charity event eight months before. All she saw was a patronizing man who would never be satisfied with the way she chose to live her life. And it was her life, goddammit! Neither him nor her mother had any right to tell her what to do!

"I do care, Neal!" she finally raged at him despite her despair. "Just because I can't make it to one event does not mean that I've thrown all my morals and beliefs out the window! So stop accusing me of otherwise! As for my family, it's my duty to be there for them whether you or even I, for that matter, like it or not! I thought you could at least try to understand, but if you can't, please just leave because this is one responsibility I'm determined to uphold." She finished, desperately fighting tears back. She was determined that he wouldn't see her cry.

"Well, I won't keep you then," he replied between clenched teeth, and promptly stormed out the apartment.

Betsy slammed the door shut behind him and let out a frustrated cry.

The weekend was looking grimmer and grimmer as the minutes went by, and she had an inkling that it was only going to get worse.

-xXx-

"This is hopeless. I just don't know which one to choose. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother getting out of bed in the mornings."

Yes – it was a familiar situation for everyone's favorite rich bitch. Practically every morning Emma Frost would get out of bed and ask herself the same old question – which one should she choose? One day it'd be either the Gucci red power suit or the magnolia white Armani one. The next day it'd be a toss up between a handbag by Coco Chanel or Yves St. Laurant. Really, the amount of trouble she had getting dressed in the mornings was practically tantamount to a day's worth of work. Who knew that making decisions could be so stressful? And that wasn't even taking into account the executive ones she made at Frost Industries. And the way things were going now, Emma wondered whether she shouldn't just employ someone to make her decisions for her. If she did then she'd have at least half her day back.

Currently though, it wasn't clothes or shoes or perfume or purses that were bothering her. Right now she was sitting in front of a pile of nondescript resumes and had just interviewed half a dozen nondescript men. It amazed and irritated her that all the gardeners currently looking for employment in New York appeared to be clones of one another.

"I mean, does every one of them have to be in the 55-65 age bracket?" she mumbled to herself, as she flipped a page over. "I suppose it doesn't matter who I hire. They're all the same anyway."

She was about to resort to eenie-meenie-miney-mo tactics when someone knocked on the door of her lounge.

"What is it?" she snapped after tutting in frustration.

A sheepish Kristin opened the door and timidly popped her head round the corner.

"Ms. Frost, there's a man to see you about the gardening job," she announced. Emma scowled.

"Oh, send him away. I've seen enough boring men today to last me a lifetime!"

"But Ms. Frost, he told me he had an appointment to see you ten minutes ago," the German housekeeper insisted.

"Kristin, are you really as deaf as you appear to be?" Emma retorted rudely, "I don't want to see him! I don't want to see another one of these awful people! Not to mention he's ten minutes late for his interview, which hardly recommends him to me. In fact, when you send him out, tell him if he really does want a job he'd better get his act together and try turning up to his interviews on time for a change."

Kristin bobbed her head meekly.

"Alright, I'll tell the young man."

She was just about to leave when Emma stopped her after a split second of reflection.

"Wait a minute."

Kristin turned. "Yes?"

"Did you just say young man?"

"Uh...yes, ma'am."

Emma and began rifling through the pile of resumes in front of her. Near the bottom she found one that seemed to have escaped her notice. 'Robert Drake' it read on the front. Aged twenty-four years.

"Send him in," Emma ordered brusquely. Kristin nodded again and left. A minute later there was a knock at the door, and in came a familiar young brunette, still dressed as if he'd been spending a day at the beach. Emma did a double-take as he strolled in, looking at his surroundings in awe. In the hectic rush of the past seventy-two hours, she'd completely forgotten about the strange guy who'd turned up on her doorstep the other morning.

"You?" she couldn't help but spit out. She suddenly wished Kristin had sent him away. Remembering the god-awful embarrassment she'd made of herself in front of him the other day, she found herself feeling so flustered she could barely get any words out. Her outburst did nothing to help his already overloaded nerves as he saw her obvious surprise at his appearance.

"Yeah," he grinned awkwardly, "I guess it is me." As soon as he said it, he seemed to realize how stupid the introduction had sounded. He laughed nervously, and looked around. "Wow," he commented awkwardly, stopping in the middle of the room and gawking at her collection of diamond-ware in a display case by the mantelpiece. "You sure have a beautiful house, ma'am."

For a few seconds all Emma could do was sit and stare at the guy. She found her cheeks reddening as she recalled the fact that this was one of the few guys to have ever seen her practically in the buff. Not to mention her fluffy blue slippers! If there was one thing she would gladly have done at that moment, it would have been to hide her face in shame. But Emma was never one to shy away from a challenge and so she cleared her throat and tried to regain her composure.

"Robert Drake, I presume," she said, trying to make her voice as cold and imposing as it usually was, but it came out kind of shaky. The brunette laughed self-consciously again.

"Oh yeah, Robert. Well, yeah, that's my name, but nobody really calls me that nowadays, not since I was about five anyhow... Except for my mom that is, when she gets mad with me... But my mates and my professors and everyone, they all call me Bobby... Or the Iceman sometimes, cos, you know, I like the cold and I'm kinda like the only guy who can go round in winter with just a Tee and some shorts on, y'know..." He paused when he saw the confused look on Emma's face, then took a deep breath. "Just call me Bobby," he finished.

Emma gave him a dazed look. This guy talked a mile a minute!

"Fine. Bobby. Won't you take a seat?"

He sank into one of her plush leather couches gratefully as she glanced quickly over his resume.

"So," she began after a moment, trying to sound as professional as she could, "you're in grad school. What is it you're studying?"

"Environmental Science," he replied. "I'm in my final year."

"And what made you decide to take a gardening job of all things?" she questioned rather incredulously.

"Uh, well..." He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, "I got fired from my job in Burger King last week and I really need the money to get me through this last year of grad school, so I figured I'd give this a shot." He shrugged. "Hey, this pays better than getting burnt on a daily basis by the oil the deep fryer spits out at me. Goddamn machine hated my guts," he muttered as an afterthought.

Emma desperately tried to straighten out the smile that was beginning to form on her face.

"And have you had any previous experience gardening?" she asked quickly.

"Not unless digging out the weeds in the backyard counts," he half-laughed. "It was mom's way of punishing me when I was in my teens. But hey! I can tell you all you need to know about the effect an interglacial period would have on your crocuses in the spring..."

"Uh, that won't be necessary," Emma cut in briskly, before he could start babbling on about...whatever he was talking about. "All I need right now is someone to get all the dead leaves out of my ponds before all my koi die on me."

"Koi?" Bobby repeated, nonplussed.

"Fish," she replied dryly. "Very expensive fish."

"Oh." Bobby put on a beaming smile. "Well, that's no problem. Dead leaves? I can handle dead leaves. And weeds too. Yup. And I noticed the paving on your driveway is starting to come loose...You know, I can fix that too. Had to sort out my parent's drive last Christmas when..." He halted abruptly as he saw her bewildered look. "Oh God, I'm going on again, aren't I?" he said, blushing. "Look, I'm really sorry, it's just that when I get really nervous I start talking and talking and I can't stop..."

"Nervous?" Emma cut in before he could start again. "Why on earth should you be nervous?" After all, she'd never been nervous in her entire life.

"Well, I dunno," he began, scratching his head again, "I just thought... that after what happened on Tuesday and all that... Well, you know what happened... And I saw you there wearing just this towel and I thought... Well, to be honest, I don't even know why I came here anyway, I mean, you obviously think I'm an idiot – what beautiful and intelligent woman wouldn't? I guess I just thought that if I came back here for the interview that..." He trailed off, looking bemused. "Well, I guess I don't know what I thought."

By now Emma could barely contain herself, let alone stop the smile from lighting her face. That was the first time anyone had called her beautiful and intelligent to her face. Apart from daddy, but he didn't count because... well, because daddies just didn't.

"Do you talk this much when you're not nervous?" she asked him outright. He sneaked a look at her, and seeing her expression was less severe, he smiled a genuine smile.

"Not this much," he confessed. "But still too much for my own good."

Emma found a laugh threatening to escape her lips. She let it out. Kind of. It came out sounding a bit like a bark. Jesus H. Christ!, she thought in sudden realization. I'm going to have to work on that laugh!

"Really, Mr. Drake," she assured him, still feeling uncomfortable at the moronic, simpering feeling he gave her, "there's no need to be shy." She paused and half-smiled. "Considering I made just as much of a fool of myself as you did, I think we're pretty much even now. Now I'd much prefer it if we both forgot about it and started again like we'd never met one another until today. Now," she picked up his resume with a business-like air, but the smile was still on her face, "everything here looks just fine. Since it's the winter, I won't be needing a gardener every day of the week anyhow. I suppose you'll need as much time as possible to study, right? For the time being, how about we try to fix your hours around your schedule?"

Bobby stared at her from wide eyes.

"Does that mean what I think it means?!"

"Well, I don't believe I know what's going round that insane head of yours right now," Emma quipped, standing up with that stupid grin still plastered onto her face. What the hell was she doing?! "But if you're thinking that I'm hiring you, then yes, you'd be right."

She didn't think it was possible that his smile could get any wider, but it did. In a second he too was up on his feet and vigorously shaking her hand.

"Ms. Frost, I don't know what to say! This is just great! How am I ever going to thank you?"

"Right now, by keeping my fish alive, Mr. Drake," she replied, looking down at her hand, which he was still shaking at break-neck speed. "And perhaps by letting my hand go some time today?"

He stopped shaking. "It's a deal, ma'am!" he grinned. "But on one condition."

"What's that?" she asked curiously, wondering how anyone had the nerve to bargain with her.

"Please...just call me Bobby."

He winked, knowing he'd caught her slightly off guard.

"Alright – Bobby, we'll play things your way. But I'll only call you Bobby if you stop calling me Ms. Frost." She smiled slyly at him. "From now on, call me Emma."

-oOo-

I sit at my desk, absent-mindedly doodling across my assignment papers with a pen. My first big assignment from Mr. LeBeau, and I haven't a single shred of anything intelligent to show for it. Except for the flower patterns I'm currently scribbling onto my briefing notes. I'm supposed to be coming up with some new ideas for L&L's new perfume advertising campaign. I'd spent the entire previous night wracking my brains to think of something impressive, but kept on getting distracted by the Sex & The City Night on cable TV. Twelve hours straight of sex-crazed, man-eating 30-somethings seemed infinitely preferable to Mr. LeBeau's boring marketing project.

Watching the TV, I wondered whether this was the way my life was going to turn out. A thirty-year-old almost-has-been, casually going through a string of men and never finding 'Mr. Right'. There was a time life had seemed so much simpler, when the question of 'Mr. Right' seemed to have been answered.

Hah! So much for that.

I pause to see my doodles have changed from flowers into a waterfall-like cascade of petals that blot out most of the briefing notes my 'boss' had given me. Great. Now I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing anymore. Oh well, the presentation's still four hours away. I still have time to make up for the past three days of unproductiveness, right?

I shuffle through the various photos of Ororo Munroe, the face of the new campaign. She looks absolutely gorgeous; not to mention, she looks like a woman who has her life sorted – unlike me. Shit, Rogue, get a grip! I know what's the matter with me – I'm still brooding over the letter I got this morning.

Just when I think I've finally got an idea for the new campaign, Kitty pops her head round my cubicle.

"Hey Anna! Whatcha doin'?"

"Hey Kitty. Nothin' much really. Just bustin' mah brain over this new ad campaign." I slap the Ororo Munroe photos back onto my desk and let out a heavy sigh.

"Really? That's exactly what I was just going to talk to you about," the younger girl says. I look up at her, hearing the excitement running through her voice. Her face is literally beaming.

"What's up?" I ask her curiously.

"Ohmigod, Anna, it's so exciting!" Kitty sits on the edge of my desk, grinning as she launches into her tale. "Just now I was talking to Lila Cheney – you know, Mr. LeBeau's secretary? And she told me – get this!" She leans in close to me, lowing her voice for dramatic effect, "Ororo Munroe has just walked into the building! For a meeting with Mr. LeBeau!"

"Really?" I raise an eyebrow and cynically feign surprise. "Well Ah'm sure he'll have no end of fun with her."

"C'mon, Anna, aren't you excited?" Kitty persists. "Dammit, girl, you're no fun! She's like the most famous supermodel in the world, and she's right here in the same building! Lila says she's coming up right now!"

"Pfft," I retort rudely. "Well, Ah'm sure Miss. Lila will be happy t' tell you all the juicy details. Although Ah expect she'll be sufferin' a bit of the green-eyed monster once she sees her precious Mr. LeBeau lickin' supermodel butt." I pause and shoot a curious glance at Kitty. "What is it with Mr. I'm-God's-gift-to-women anyway?"

"What? You mean Mr. LeBeau?" Kitty asks.

"Uh-huh. Ah'm surprised you ain't on first-name terms with him, sugah, the way he encourages 'being on good terms with his staff' and all."

Kitty chuckles.

"I take it he's already made a bad impression on you," she remarks wryly.

"You think? The guy's a creep, sugah, and Ah ain't that desperate for a man. Besides," I add, pouting, "Ah'm sure he has more than enough gals round here to make a 'good impression' on. Can't think why he'd be bothered chasin' after me."

"You're kidding me, right?" Kitty stares at me. "You must be the only girl in this place who doesn't have a thing about Mr. LeBeau! It's kinda sick really. All he has to do is step into the room and the next moment all the ladies are on the floor. Just about everyone I know would kill to get their hands on a piece of that man!"

"And you?" I ask, eyebrows raised.

"Me?" She laughs. "Okay, I'll admit, when I first came here, I was hot for him. But everyone is. It's like some crazy rite of passage here. It died down after a week or two. Besides, I only have eyes for one man in this place."

She pauses, a wistful look suddenly glazing her eyes. Ah hah! No doubt about it, from the look on her face, the gal's in love.

"Oh c'mon, Kitty, yah can't just stop there!" I persist. "Y' have t' tell me who he is now!"

She breaks out of her reverie and lowers her voice again.

"His name's Peter Rasputin. He's on Mr. LeBeau's creative team, same as you. He's so smart and talented and my God, you should see his paintings! They're absolutely the most beautiful, gorgeous things you'll ever see!"

Yeah, I know the guy. Remy introduced me to him along with the rest of the creative team the first day I arrived here. Tallest guy I ever saw, with thick black hair, bright blue eyes and a real body-builder's frame. Quiet, kind and shy, the sort of guy you know you can rely on and take home to your mother. Not to mention, he sure was some looker. I just got the feeling he just wasn't my type. Plus, I didn't particularly want to go snatching other girl's love interests either.

"Ah know the guy," I nod, smiling. "You got taste, sugah. Looks like you beat me t' the chase."

"Anna!" she exclaims, shocked.

"Hey," I grin at her slyly, "Ah'm just kiddin'. But if Ah was desperately lookin' for a man, he'd definitely be near the top of mah list."

Kitty laughs. "I suppose I should be glad you're not desperate for a man then. He's mine!" She pauses, her eyes glinting at me mischievously. "But just for the record, and just to satisfy my curiosity – where exactly would Mr. LeBeau be on your list?"

"Well," I playfully pretend to think about it, "he does have an accent, which is a definite pro. And gorgeous eyes, which is another point in his favor. And my friends and Ah agree that I definitely have to stop the current trend of dating blue-eyed, blond-haired prigs, and he definitely doesn't fit into any of those categories. However," I continue impishly, "he also happens t' be the most irritatin', dirty, cocky, perverted and arrogant Cajun swamp snake Ah ever saw, and in that case –"

"In that case, it sounds like he should be goin' at de bottom of your list, chere," that annoyingly sexy Cajun drawl sounds from the doorway of my cube. "Unless, o' course, you have a thing about dirty, cocky and arrogant perverts, in which case, he should be at de top."

Shit!

Kitty turns round guiltily, although I don't really know what she has to feel guilty about. I still sit there, my face burning, not daring to turn. Roguey, when the hell will you stop making an ass of yourself in front of this guy?? Rule number 4: – Never talk about someone unless you know they're not there listening to you.

Well, one thing I'm not, and that's the shy and retiring type. I finally turn around slowly to brave the inevitable. Remy's leaning against the frame, that insolent grin curling his lips. Usually, every inch of my being would be rebelling against this man. I'd be sticking up a big, imaginary middle finger in his direction. Heck, if I was in a really bad mood, I'd be sticking a real finger up at him. So why is it that all I want to do right now is kick myself?

"Kitty," he addresses the girl next to me, "I want you to get some coffee and have it sent to de presentation room. We'll be needin' enough for eight."

Kitty seems to be stunned into silence because she says nothing and scuttles out quickly, leaving the two of us alone. Together. Again. Damn!

Once she's gone, Remy looks over me, obviously amused at the whole affair.

"One t'ing I gotta ask," he begins from his place in the entrance, "do you have a thing 'bout dirty, cocky and arrogant perverts?"

"Even if Ah did – which Ah sure as hell don't – you'd still be bottom of mah list," I spit out vehemently. I don't like the way he makes me feel one little bit. That damnably handsome Cajun!

"Quoi?" He puts on an injured countenance. "Don't de fact dat I have de right accent and de right eye and hair color do anyt'ing t' recommend me t' you, p'tit?"

Oh God. My list of embarrassing moments involving Remy LeBeau has just about reached epic proportions. I'm beginning to wonder just how much of my conversation he actually heard.

"Even if you were the last man on earth, Ah wouldn't touch you with a ten foot barge pole," I glower, standing up quickly to rearrange the papers on my desk while hoping he doesn't see how flustered I'm getting. I just wish he'd go away, but he simply laughs.

"You're gonna have to find somethin' a lot more effective than a ten foot barge pole to fend me off, chere," he tells me in that low, seductive accent. "B'sides, I'd rather not wait until we're de last couple on earth b'fore I get t' find out just how 'frank' you can be wit' me." All of a sudden he's standing right behind me, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body as he stands so close we're almost touching. I freeze, but not with disgust. It's the fact that I'm feeling this sudden jolt of electricity between us...

I step out of his way like lightning and whirl round to face him. Last night's dream is suddenly teasing through every fiber of my body.

"Get a clue, Cajun!" I hiss. "It ain't never gonna happen b'tween us! Not in any way, shape or form! Ah know exactly what your game is! Y'all see meh as a challenge, but Ah'm tellin' you right here, right now, that we ain't evah gonna make it happen! We have about as much in common as...as a priest and a whore!"

"I dunno," he banters back lazily. "One Cajun swamp snake, one Mississippi river rat... Sounds like a match made in heaven t' me. 'Sides," he adds with a grin, "us Southerners should stick t'gether, non?"

I suppress a growl – as well as the urge to wring his neck.

"Is there a reason you actually came here, Mr. LeBeau?" I manage to ask through clenched teeth. "Or did you just want t' eavesdrop on how far down you are on mah list?"

"Much as I'd love to spend my time here workin' my way up dat list of yours," he begins with that seductive smile, "I'm afraid de fates have other ideas in store for us. For the moment, anyhow," he adds suggestively. "I take it Kitty was tellin' you about a certain very distinguished VIP currently walkin' round the building?"

"Ah'm sure you're dyin' t' tell me just how 'cozy' yah are with Ms. Munroe," I retort, "so why don't y'all just spit it out an' have done with it?"

"Au contraire, chere, dis be de first time dis Cajun's ever met wit' de belle femme," he replies, looking over my shoulder at the papers strewn across my desk. "And I hope you've got somethin' t' show for dat presentation assignment I gave you, 'cos it seems Ms. Munroe wants to have a look-see what my creative team's come up with for her ad campaign. Now."

I glance back over my shoulder at the sum total of my work over the past few days – an array of attractive doodles a five-year old could've come up with.

Oh, shit.

-xXx-

To be continued...