AN: A pre-Festivus miracle! Happy holidays, y'all!

Chapter 6

Rhett was pleased to watch the flower—Miss O'Hara, he corrected himself—start in shock, but then she pasted a bright smile on, anyway.

"What are you talking about?" She laughed lightly, and he was amused when it sounded very forced.

"I said you'd never get away with it." he repeated. "For starters, did anyone ever tell you you're a terrible liar? Your father will stop you before you get halfway to New York."

The flower blanched. Then she leaned forward and said, a touch too insistently (a sure tell, Rhett noted—if the flower really hadn't been Miss O'Hara, she wouldn't have been bothered by the mistake), "You must have me confused with somebody else."

"Who are you kidding?" Rhett asked. "It's all over the front page," at which point, he helpfully proffered the newspaper with the two-inch headline and the flower's picture splashed underneath. 'Rich Father Spreads Dragnet to Keep Her from Joining Aviator-Husband in New York' read the smaller headline below. Rhett could've written a better blurb in his sleep. And in even smaller type, 'He shall never be my son-in-law,' says magnate. Rhett smirked to himself. Mr. O'Hara sounded like a smart man.

The flower gripped the paper, turning it over, as if through sheer force of will she could make it say something else. He stood, pocketing his cigar case inside his jacket, and looked over her shoulder. "You know, I've always been curious to know what kind of a girl would marry a front-page aviator like Ashley Wilkes." The flower turned and lifted her chin. She was endearingly stubborn, for a brat. "Take my advice—" he paused for dramatic effect, "grab the first bus back to Miami." he continued. "That guy's a phony." he added, nodding toward the paper.

Her eyes flashed, the clear green darkening with anger. She folded the paper up with quick, jerking movements and shoved it back at him. "I didn't ask for your advice."

Rhett sighed. "That's right. You didn't." He took the paper back, deliberately brushing her fingers with his. She snatched her hand away at the contact, and he grinned wolfishly, before turning to pick up his suitcase. As he made to walk off, however, she clutched at his arm. Rather like she had clutched his lapel while she slept. It had been a new experience, waking up to her, being slept… on—and not an entirely unpleasant one. Her perfume wasn't the cloying sort one so often noticed at balls, like being socked in the face with a bouquet. It was light and pleasing, with a hint of lemons, wholly incongruous with her extremely high opinion of herself. Even so, he couldn't resist needling her. He looked down at her hand and back to her upturned face, and raised one lofty eyebrow.

"Y- you're not going to tell my father, are you?"

"What for?"

The flower removed her hand from his arm, and regarded him suspiciously. "If you play your cards right, you probably could get some money out of it."

Rhett rocked back on his heels, and studiously stroked his mustache. "I never thought of that…"

Then in a surprising repeat of this morning and a minute ago, she gripped both of his lapels with urgent fists. A most unladylike gesture. Rhett smiled, a genuine—and genuinely disarming—expression, at her earnest face. She looked down at his crumpled overcoat in her hands, and he sucked in his breath.

When she looked back at him, any nascent warmth of feeling he might have had dissolved under a cold wave. Her eyes were hard as nails, and her words brought him back to his senses.

"Listen, if you promise not to do it, I'll pay you. I'll pay you as much as he will. You won't gain anything by giving me away as long as I'm willing to make it worth your while. I've got to get to Ash—" she stopped, and licked suddenly dry lips. "I've got to get to New York without being stopped. It's terribly important to me. I'd – pay you now, but the only thing I had when I jumped off the yacht was a wristwatch. I had to pawn it to get these clothes." Her hands fluttered as she talked, gesturing to her wrist, her skirt, resting on his chest again. It would have been cute if she weren't such an overindulged little thing. "I'll give you my address, and you can get in touch with me the minute you get to New York." She started to dig through her wallet, and Rhett decided to put an end to the charade.

"Never mind." he interrupted. "You know, I had you pegged right from the jump. Just the spoiled brat of a rich father. The only way to get anything is to buy it, because you can't understand anything that isn't dollars and cents. You're in a jam, and all you can think of is your money." He tilted his head and regarded her speculatively. "It's never failed you, has it? Until now. Did you ever think of just asking? Saying, please mister, I need your help." She paled at this, and he felt the corner of his mouth curl down. "No, you wouldn't," he scoffed. "Then you'd have to get down off your high horse for a minute. Well, I'll tell you something, and maybe it'll take a load off your mind: I'm not interested in you or your problems. You, Ashley Wilkes, your father—you're all a lot of hooey to me."

Rhett turned on his heel and walked away leaving the flower opening and closing her mouth wordlessly, like a little goldfish, her pale skin now streaked pink with rage. He wasn't sure why her offer had angered him so. He could have used her money. And if she hadn't offered it, he probably would have been incensed by that, too. Whatever the reason, he didn't feel like examining it now.

He stalked off in search of the Western Union office, mentally preparing his message along the way. However irritating and high-handed, the flower should still prove useful to him.

~nb~

A little blonde was working the desk in the telegraph office. "Do you send telegrams here?" Rhett asked brusquely, unceremoniously shoving his hastily scrawled missive across the counter to her. Her tightly curled ringlets bounced as her head swiveled up to his.

"I'm just fine, thanks, and how are you?" she replied with a smirk, her tone just this side of caustic.

She was pretty, and less infuriating than the flower already. He grinned back at her, his eyes twinkling, as she took his script and began to read it out loud into the machine. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a cigarette.

"To 'Henry Hamilton, care of New York Mail, New York. Am I laughing. The biggest scoop of the year just dropped in my lap. I know where Scarlett O'Hara is—" At this, she looked up at him, and her curls bounced again. She covered the microphone with a hand and asked excitedly, "No, do you really?"

What was it with that girl, Rhett wondered, refraining from rolling his eyes. People were so damnably interested in her. Of course, he couldn't really be irritated at the interest; he especially didn't mind that said interest was going to get him his job back. But why? Just another useless child of a rich father. He shrugged lazily; if it worked to his advantage, who was he to care how people spent their time? There were certainly worse ways.

Motioning toward the machine, he muttered impatiently, "Go on. Go on, send the telegram." He struck a match and lit the cigarette in his mouth.

The girl continued in the same halting, clear manner, "How would you like to have the story, you big tub of-" she frowned and peered at his handwriting, "tub of-" she paused again.

"Mush. Mush." Rhett explained.

"Tub of mush," she finished. "Well, try and get it. What I said about never writing another line for you still goes. Are you burning? Rhett Butler." She finished the transmission and turned back to him. "That'll be $2.60."

"Send it collect," Rhett replied, letting his eyes twinkle again. She smiled.

"Collect?"

He had already turned, making his way to the door. He pivoted back, his hand on the doorknob. "Collect." he confirmed, tossing her a wink for good measure. Then he left the office, wondering how he'd pass the time for the next eleven hours.