Jolson's, named after the star of the hit talkie The Jazz Singer, was packed to the rafters when they arrived. Frankie had been bowled over by Horatio, who had shown up at her door looking gorgeous in a black silk suit and black shirt. Once again, she reminded herself that they were just friends. As she had secured tickets to the opening night, a table had been reserved for her, and they sat down, thankfully out of the way of the crowds, with a great view of the stage.

"What are you drinking?" she asked, wondering whether this would reveal anything about him. At her birthday, he had had a couple of scotches, but she rarely saw him ever really drink.

"Shall we have a bottle of red wine?"

"Why not?" she laughed, filing that little titbit of information away for future reference. Despite having been allowed a brief glimpse into his soul, Horatio had reverted to type, and gone back to being distant and closed in, albeit much friendlier than before. To her surprise, over the last few weeks, he had proved he did have a sense of humour, a very dry, sarcastic wit that appealed to her greatly, and had turned out to be better company than she had ever given him credit for. She settled down to enjoy the show, pleased that she had made the effort to get to know him better, and not stuck by her first impression.

They chatted a little through the evening, but the music was too loud to allow for much conversation. Frankie was impressed by the band, and was thoroughly enjoying herself. When they played Strangers in the Night, she looked over at Horatio and grinned.

"They're playing our song! What a shame there's no space to dance!"

He chuckled, and replied, "Maybe next time." A shiver ran down Frankie's back as she realised she would like to go out, just the two of them, again, before she reminded herself that she was not interested in him romantically. It seemed as if she had to do that a lot recently.

By the end of the night, Frankie was trying to hide her yawns, but was grinning widely. It had been an utterly enjoyable night, and it seemed as if Horatio felt the same. "Can I drive you home?" Ever the gentleman, she thought, as he held open the car door for her.

She had been amused to discover that Horatio actually had a passion for cars that he never displayed at work, and owned a brand new Mercedes SL 65 AMG, which Frankie secretly planned one day on stealing. It was long, low-slung and navy blue, and, she was assured, had one of the best engines in the world (apparently always excepting Ferraris). It did explain his utter confidence when driving the Hummer for work, as he handled the sporty, powerful roadster with the same panache.

She watched him lazily as he drove back to her condo. If she hadn't been privileged enough to have been told the truth about his childhood, she would have said that this confident, capable man never had a moments doubt in his life. He caught her study and grinned. "What?"

"I just never figured you for a petrol-head."

"A what?" he chuckled.

"Petrol-head. Please, you've never heard of the term? Okay, well, perhaps I watch too much TV, but that's what car programs, especially British car shows, call fellow enthusiasts." The perfect gentleman as always, he walked her to the door of her building. Frankie felt suddenly shy, and couldn't think why that should be. "I had a great time, thanks for coming," she said, aware her voice was suddenly not as firm as it should have been.

He seemed to have caught her mood of sudden nervousness. "Me too," he replied, looking in three different directions before meeting her gaze. She smiled uncertainly as he stepped closer and gave her a hug. This was purely platonic, she reassured herself, wondering why her heart was pounding so fast. She turned her head to drop a friendly kiss on his cheek, and met his mouth instead.

Horatio was kissing her, she thought wildly for a second, before all thought was driven from her mind. She closed her eyes, and gave herself up to enjoying the feelings that coursed through her. He kissed her hungrily, passionately, his hands holding her tight against him. She clung to his shoulders, grateful for the support; otherwise she was sure her knees would have given out. Time ceased to exist while he kissed her, everything ceased to exist but the feel of his body, hard against hers, his arms holding her tightly.

They broke apart, both breathing raggedly, but Frankie kept her hands on his shoulders, unwilling to break all contact with him. His eyes were burning with a passion so intense that it would have scared her, if she hadn't felt the same. For a moment, she saw the real Horatio, the man who cared so deeply about everything, but was too scarred to be confident to show it. She reached up to touch his cheek gently with her hand and smiled shakily.

"Do you want to come up? For coffee, perhaps?" she asked, pleading almost, not wanting to end the moment, this wonderful moment of being allowed to see the real him. It was too late, though, and she could almost see the barricades slamming back into place, shutting her out. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the blue eyes were guarded, his emotions hidden away again. Frankie felt like crying.

"I'm sorry, Frankie, I shouldn't have done that. I hope I haven't compromised our friendship," he said, his voice as coldly professional as it had ever been. He walked away before she could think of a reply, leaving her bereft and as stunned as she had ever known.


Frankie was running on autopilot as she made herself a cup of hot chocolate and sat down to think through what had just happened. She touched her lips gently, unable to believe Horatio had kissed her. Her lips felt tender, kiss-swollen and, despite the way he had left, she felt as high as a kite, flying still from the glorious pleasure of his lips on hers. Who would have imagined that serious, upright Horatio Caine would kiss like that? Now that she had time to think about it, she also felt remarkably stupid. To have imagined that he was dull and indifferent, when she had seen him at work, when she had seen the fervour he brought to his job, and to have assumed that he was only passionate about that? Some psychologist she was.

Putting together some of the background details she knew about him, few and far between though they were, she thought she had the beginnings of true understanding. His father's actions, his mother's murder (she knew nothing about it, only that Horatio had found the body, at only 17 as well), his brother's death, and the few things he had let slip about his ex-wife all led to only one conclusion. He was passionate only about his job because it was the only safe thing to care about. To allow himself to care for someone, and to be cared for by them, had led only to pain and suffering in his life. It was no wonder he shut people out. It was a safety mechanism, a way of protecting himself from further heartache.

Despite that, he had let her in, if only for a minute or so. He had trusted her with the knowledge about his father, and then had let her see the real him. Frankie shivered as she remembered the emotion in his eyes, and longed to be allowed to really get to know him. Wished that he had taken up her invitation, wished that they were even now in bed together, wrapped in each other's arms.

Another shiver ran down her back as she thought that. If his kisses did that to her, God alone knew what making love to him would be like. And it would be making love, she realised, not sex. Yes, he was unbearably handsome, but she wanted more than a simply physical relationship with him. So much more than that, she mused.

This time, Horatio Caine had taken on an opponent who would not be defeated. This time he had met his match, she decided: he would let her in, or, God help her, she would die in the attempt.