The bold bits at the beginning are what joins this part now, if those of you are confused as to what they were at the start :) it is the bit about his intentions...

Chapter sixteen:

Rose was stood beside her mother on the tour of the ship led by Thomas Andrews. On the way, Cal had heckled Colonel Gracie as they had passed the squash court and Gracie had missed a serve, Cal had been lightly smug since with his arrogant manner shining through at every chance, he had to show just how his talents seemed to exceed that of others. The air was still and stuffy, turning thicker by the minute. Her mother wafted her fan about every now and again, pleasantly engaged in what Thomas Andrews had to say about the magnificent ship but to her, there was nowhere else for her attention to waver aside from the game of squash which was currently taking place between Mr. Dawson, and her fiancée.

Mr. Andrews had suggested that the two able bodied gentleman indulge in a friendly game and since Cal seemed to participate in any sort of activity which would create a rivalry with Mr. Dawson and perhaps leave him red faced, he was more than willing to share the court with the man. Her mother, although quiet, seemed in favour of seeing Cal entertain the others on the tour as though any attention drawn toward him could not be bad for the sake of the family.

Cal had served brilliantly, and his face was entirely pleased.

''The basic principle of squash is to keep hitting the ball against the front wall until your opponent cannot successfully get it back – either by the ball bouncing twice, or them hitting the ball out of play.'' Mr. Andrews explained as the gentleman played brilliantly, perhaps on par with the other. '' If a ball in play touches the person who last returned it or anything he wears or carries before it hits the wall, the player so touched loses the point.''

It wasn't the game which enthralled Rose so, but the agility of the certain man playing it who had removed his jacket to play, and now, the top of his collar had come loose and his tie hanging to the side all in a disarray whereas Cal was barely breaking a sweat. The flat muscles at the back of Mr. Dawson's neck shifted as he bent for the ball, to strike the front wall once more. Another point gained. She wondered what it would be like to encounter the tough muscles of his chest, the catch of his shirt buttons. He was the only solid thing in a kaleidoscopic world. If she touched him on the knotted muscle; would it tense and ripple beneath her fingertips just the way that it did when he moved to save or to serve? Would his hair, so wonderfully long and loose fall into his eyes the way it did when he watched with such precision how to strike the ball? Her hands had felt the bulging muscle of his upper arms once. Rose had never seen him like this before; so flushed and orientated. So, determined. It was what her father used to gingerly refer to as ''animal spirits.'' A man who was so hell-bent, focused, razor-sharp and determined. Perhaps the type of man that her papa had aspired to be. The sounds Mr. Dawson made when playing, she wondered, were they primal? It was a primal need to be closer to him. When he had played with her tongue in such a sinful way, Rose had felt the need to pull him closer to her, to cradle him within her and to feel every inch of the way that his bare skin would feel beneath her innocent fingertips.

Cal was completely perspiring suddenly in a way which Rose had never seen, lunging for the squash ball but even when he did hit, it seemed with be with less precision than how Mr. Dawson did. Perhaps the game would go on for a length, and the bridge tour would cease for Rose had very little interest in the mechanics of a ship, well, not anymore, and it was then, Mr. Andrews called time on the game.

''Halt!'' And Rose seemed to snap from the day dream. ''Mr. Dawson wins.''

There were a few claps of other passengers who were joining them on the bridge tour, and Mr. Macauley the gymnasium instructor handed two fresh white towels to both men to dry off. Mr. Dawson, spoke with Cal and responded with a short nod, seeming to contemplate a spot on the groundwork with undue concentration. He was very still, seeming to listen for some nearly imperceptible sound. Lifting a hand to the back of his neck again, he rubbed it as if to soothe a warning prickle. Slowly he turned and looked directly at Rose. A little shock went through her as their gazes met. Although they were standing several yards apart, she felt the full force of his notice. His expression was not tempered by warmth or kindness. In fact, he looked pitiless, as if he had long ago found the world to be an uncaring place and had decided to accept it on its own terms. As his detached gaze swept over her, Rose knew exactly what he was seeing; a woman with a temper. One which he had been the recipient of. A woman who was perhaps too short for the curves of her figure with the rosy cheeked wholesomeness of the DeWitt family. Perhaps now that his little dalliances were well and truly ended with her, Mr. Dawson would see her for what she truly was. With one final open appreciate glance over his lean form, Rose felt his gaze fall onto her and her midriff felt as though it was soaring out, miles above the sea. Mr. Dawson looked away from her. Without a word or a nod of acknowledgment, he walked to the back entrance of the gymnasium which would be their next stop on the tour. His pace was unhurried, as if he were giving himself time to think about something. There was a distinctive ease in his movements. His strides didn't measure out distance so much as flow over it like water.

''I will return to the stateroom to freshen up.'' Cal was in her ear, very quietly, his breathing out of sorts. ''I will accompany you to dinner this evening.''

''Yes, darling.'' Rose turned to smile. Her mother was in deep conversation with Mr. Andrews, always eager to ensure that an acquaintance made was a thorough one and he would be no different; having been the master shipbuilder of the greatest ship to ever sail the Atlantic, no doubt she would be pecking at him for scraps of information to drop into conversations with the ladies at tea. Rose reached the door into the gymnasium and Mr. Dawson stopped and turned to face her. They were standing close enough for Rose to detect the scents of male exertion and warm skin. His unfastened waistcoat, made of luxurious white brocade, hung open at the sides to reveal a thin white linen shirt beneath. As he moved to button the waistcoat, Rose saw a quantity of bare skin through a button on his shirt. A ripple of nervousness went through her, leaving an unfamiliar heat in its wake. Her corset felt too tight, her high-necked collar constricting. Flushing, she brought her hand to her face and walked on past him, ignoring the brief conversation which he had with Mr. Andrews.

The gymnasium was modern, to say the least and as Thomas Andrews described in depth each piece of apparatus and its uses, her mother was beside her huffing in apparent boredom. The gym included parallel bars, weights, punching bags, and Indian clubs. The stationary bikes were attached to large dials that provided users with an approximate distance they had virtually travelled. Making routine appointments to utilise this room and its personal trainers quickly became normal. It was open to the ladies and gentleman at different times of the day with the gym instructor in attendance at all times to be on hand to extend his knowledge to those in need of it.

''This here is the state-of-the-art rowing machine, which of course, is just as handy as the sport itself.'' Mr. Andrews turned to Ruth. ''Would you care to try your hand, madam?''

''Do not be absurd, I cannot imagine a skill that I should likely need less.''

Mr. Andrews politely laughed. ''How about you, Mr. Dawson, you certainly owned the squash court, how about a little rowing?''

Mr. Dawson stepped forward without so much as a slight hesitation. ''I think I may, I do believe that my uncle Eric was the rowing champion at Harvard.'' He stepped into the seat, and began to lunge and pull, his back and arm muscles working in a tandem as he rowed as fast as he could and with such an ease that Rose wondered just how vigorous he could row a real boat given the chance to.

''It may run in the family,'' Mr. Andrews chuckled, as he continued to explain the functions of other machines.

Rose turned about to examine the rest of the gymnasium. A coloured map depicting the travel routes of the White Star Line attracted her attention and she stood before it, as though she was gazing at a Picasso or a Degas. A tiny determined frown hitched between her eyes and she had an unholy urge to turn about, to see Mr. Dawson's exertions as he worked with the rowing machine and felt the urge for him to snatch her up and carry her away somewhere to do something uncivilised. Barbaric, even. These feelings always lurked a bit too close to the service. Staring at the image before her in annoyance, she followed the lines of the voyage with her eyes and each of the countries surrounding it. Tracing one with her fingers, she felt the coolness of the map beneath her heated fingers and became aware that the group was leaving.

''The next stop will be the engine room,'' Mr. Andrews announced, and Rose turned about to see the passengers already exiting via the door to the deck. Her mother was hot on Mr. Andrew's heels with only one small glance behind to ensure that her daughter was following.

Above her, the punch ball loomed and Rose hit it with her fist, hard as she could. There, now she was perhaps as much part of this man's world as others were. Mr. Dawson was lingering behind, fiddling with attiring himself properly once more when Rose passed him without even a sidewards glance and she pushed the door open, feeling the fresh air from the deck hit her face and awakened her senses.

''Miss. DeWitt Bukater?''

His voice stopped her very tracks, there on the threshold of the gymnasium and the deck. Turning, she regarded him with a curious gaze.

''Yes.''

''May I speak with you?''

Rose heard the hums of voices, and music coming from somewhere, and footsteps going to and fro. She noted there was a peculiar expression on his face or rather lack of expression which indicated that he was dealing with some strong or private emotion. The interior, she noted, was empty of people aside from them both. She stepped inwards, allowing the heavy door to close with a loud shriek of unoiled hinges.

''Yes, if you must.''

Rose's heart began to drum with furious force. Force. He looked like something from a dream, a dark enigmatic ghost. He approached her slowly. The closer he came, the more it seemed everything around her was unravelling, falling away, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. Jack's breathing wasn't quite steady. Neither was hers. After a long pause, he finally spoke.

"Gypsies believe you should take the road that calls to you, and never turn back. Because you never know what adventures await." He reached for her slowly, giving her every opportunity to object. His face was created for sin . . . the brooding mouth, the angular jaw, the topaz blue eyes shaded by long straight lashes. His hair needed cutting, the heavy dark blonde locks curling slightly over the back of his collar. Rose's throat cinched around a quick breath as she saw his fingertips approaching her cheek and she ducked towards the window to retreat.

''What?'' His rambles made no sense to her at all. ''You said that you wished to talk, Mr. Dawson, so speak and not in stupid riddles."

Mr. Dawson smirked. She waited stiffly for a response. His eyes flashed dangerously, somehow and it ignited the flame of fire within her once more.

''Mr. Dawson, stop playing game with me. You sought me to speak and yet are utterly silent. If you haven't seen that we are again, alone, in a confined space and we have already acknowledged the fact that you had every intention of—ruining my reputation.'' She exhaled to see his face, which was still half soaked in amusement and it sparked a rage in her that she had never felt in her life. ''Oh, for heaven's sake, leave me alone, I am engaged to Cal. I love him. I love Cal.'' The final words were said with about as much desperation she could muster just in order to make him believe it to be so. He had to believe it.

''I would believe that if I already knew the truth. If I didn't know what his intentions are.''

''His intentions? Just how would you know what they are, Mr. Dawson?''

''I may be male, Miss, but we are not all gentleman. I will say that much. I have been hurled all insults, been the forefront of much gossip but I have never been seen as a man of Society. Almost. They say. Almost a gentleman. But his intentions are entirely selfish, he cares nothing of you or your wellbeing. You're trapped and you'll die if you don't break free.''

''And I suppose you are the one to save me, Mr. Dawson? Then what, would your intentions be completely honourable?''

There was a pregnant pause. All silence seemed to be deafening. Crackling. The air about her seemed to be completely useless and breathing was difficult. It wasn't the strength of her corset stripping away the last remnants of oxygen, it was awaiting the answer which could change the course of her life. Everything.

His blue eyes pinned her to the spot. His hand tenderly at her cheek. Her stomach was a riot. His lips were set in a straight line, as though he was as troubled as she was.

She supposed he wouldn't answer. She supposed he didn't have an answer. A handsome man like he, with money readily available, would never have an intention to settle or marry but simply roam the world without a real goal in life aside from exploration, freedom and perhaps cavorting with ladies of leisure. The ones who were available. Widows...courtesans...perhaps, even the odd married one. What was she, a virgin, engaged to be married to his rival? An enemy perhaps. Hockley steel of Philadelphia and Dawson Steel of Boston had been competing for the latter half of the last century. It wouldn't cease now.

Jack Dawson stood, both of his oddly trembling hands upon her cheeks. A grim sigh was exhaled and then she tilted her head, taking in his hauntingly beautiful face and then raised a brow.

''You have no intentions, Mr. Dawson. For all your words, yes, have been impressionable to me, but now, faced with it, there is nothing to be done. I will marry Cal. I love Cal.''

A deep rumble came from Mr. Dawson, his hand left her cheek momentarily to rake through his hair in that commanding, frustrated way and her attempts to look away from him were fruitless. She did want a response, if not for her own entertainment.

''You're the most amazingly, astounding, wonderfully angry woman that I have ever met in my life.'' A covert smile deepened the corner of his mouth but then it disappeared. ''I would never have enough to offer you, I know that, but been as involved as I am, I cannot let you just slip through my grasp.''

''I am not yours to take.''

''I know that. The choice would be yours. To be trapped with them, for the rest of your life. For the fire that I have grown to love about you, to you burn out or to find some kind of freedom.''

''It's not up to you to save me. I am not in need of saving-.''

Jack stroked his thumb over her skin. It was soft to touch. He was in too deep with her and telling her such things he knew he was at risk. Rose raised her white gloved hand to touch his. It lingered as she searched his face. He was offering her a way out. One which she never had been given before. He was serious; she could see so in his face.

''You don't need saving. You just need to set yourself free. I would be there within reach if you required anything."

His voice was etched with hopefulness. She grasped his hand tighter. His closeness left her paralysed to the spot. He had such an effect on her it was frightening.

She couldn't breathe; his face was an inch or so from hers. If she stayed any longer, the tension would grow stronger. She had to stick to her word. Her eyes met his, glancing to his lips and then back as her stomach sank at the utter realisation of one thing; she could never leave her world. Whilst she still had some rein on herself, she found her voice.

''And then what? For you have said numerous times that your intentions towards me would be less than honourable.''

''Yes, for God's sakes, I am a male with eyes and appreciate a female-''

''I bet you do.'' Rose remarked quickly, but he cut her off again.

''But I have a sense of honour. My career is a difficult one and I have been faced with an impossible choice. Love is a luxury for most people, and it may never be one for me but I would never marry you just to keep you as a possession, as a pet.''

''No,'' Rose was shaking all over. ''You would marry me because you had ruined me. Out of duty of purpose. Probably because you would have gotten me with child and done nothing to prevent it!'' Screaming out the last of the words with such a power that she even frightened herself, Rose lowered her lashes; she couldn't even look at him as the words spewed from her mouth, in part, she heard her own mothers shrill voice from breakfast that morning and realised this was the reason for her use of ammunition towards him.

''Rose?'' His voice was laced with the same soft hope. ''Do you really think that of me?''

''Yes!'' She sharply lifted her face to his. ''Jack, you no longer have a right to be here.''

Rose removed her hand from within his and moved her body away but still kept herself leant against the window, as though some support was needed for her unsteady legs. Concentrating upon the leather strap of the electric camel, just something to provide a slight distraction, she heard his breathing slow and he stepped back, as though he had been scolded. There was a gentle shudder to her body, as though it was taking all of her strength to not give in.

''Jack, leave!'' She cried, her voice echoing around the gymnasium. It was frightening even for her to hear. She was swimming in something far deeper than she could ever even have anticipated.

He stood before her; shaking with anticipation. Trembling from a surge of every emotion possible but as he straightened his back, and gained eye contact, Rose broke into a million pieces.

''I might have behaved appallingly. I have stolen some of your innocence, just from those few kisses, I know that, I know I was too involved. I am, too involved.'' He raked his hand through his hair, those flaming blue eyes bearing down on her hotter than the sun. ''But I will say now, Miss. DeWitt Bukater than you may think so little of me to ruin you if I had the chance to and whilst that idea is probably the most damn appealing thing, I could never do that to you. I am not him. I care for you. I'm not the Devil.''

Being robbed of her breathe, Rose found that she had dug her nails into her palms and despite wearing gloves, it was painful. His eyes bore down into hers with such sincerity that she dare not move in case her legs gave way and buckled.

''No, you're not the Devil. Perhaps you are worse. Because your game is a form of torture to me. You kiss me and then discard me without even a second word, or when you did speak it was a reminder that I should walk away from you.''

''You should.''

''But then you follow me.''

''Yes.'' He remained painfully still. ''I have.''

''Well, walk away from here, and cease thinking that I am yours to save because I never was and never will be.''

He was left there with wide eyes, staring into space.