A/N: Happy Spring! Thank you for reading! And additional thanks to those who review!

Gil Grissom's Romance

Chapter 4

The training conference was a tremendous success. All of Grissom's evaluations were marked 'exceeded expectations' and he had dozens of questions at the end of each session. Professionally, to him, it was a mark of accomplishment; the interest from exhibitors, companies who had state-of-the-art equipment, had presented him with an idea that could make his lab—the Las Vegas Crime Lab—the top lab in the country.

The dinner—the one with Sara—had gone extremely well. She was the most beautiful woman in the room; a simple black shirt and a purple and gray scarf made her stand out in a room of silk and sequins. They were both relaxed, laughing at the artificial sophistication surrounding them. When their food arrived, after the initial surprise, they had laughed until tears came. The food had been art on a plate, small amounts on a large plate and not very filling.

Sara had whispered, "Where's the bread basket?" which caused even more giggles.

The opera, a performance of Idomeneo, was a brilliant performance—and Sara fell asleep in the third act. He should have selected something else, he realized, as her head dropped against her hand. He shifted his shoulder to give her additional support and she slept for fifteen minutes before jerking awake for the last five minutes of the performance.

"I don't go to the opera much," she said as they left the theater. With his hand on her back, he felt her soft laugh. She added, "As a matter of fact, this is the first time I've ever been to a real opera."

The cool night air seemed to invite a walk and as they walked, they found it easy to talk; she asked questions about the performance and he gave an answer or explanation.

Waiting to cross the street, Sara asked, "Are you hungry? As an apology for taking a nap, I'll buy you something good to eat." A soft giggle, "Our dinner was—what was it called?"

"Not enough," Grissom said.

Laughing they started up the street; fifteen minutes later, still walking, Grissom asked how far they were walking for food.

"Around another corner. I promise it's worth it."

And it was. He ordered strawberry cake that was seven inches tall and five inches wide and ate all of it. Sara ate an equally large piece of chocolate cake. They had laughed as she raked a spoon across the plate, gathering the last few crumbs of chocolate.

And then they had walked for hours, through public squares and narrow pedestrian alleys, into Chinatown, passed temples and churches, checked out several noisy bars, and finally found a quiet spot on the top floor of his hotel. Sara knew the city, telling him of historic events, pointing out Victorian houses, the kaleidoscope of cultures, and colorful murals of landmark events. Exhausted feet finally found his hotel—and the restaurant.

"I should go home," Sara said as they gazed across the lighted skyline of San Francisco; the staff making noises that indicated they were cleaning up, waiting for the last few customers to leave.

"Stay," Grissom encouraged. "It's almost dawn—this will be our last chance to talk." He glanced at her face. "I leave around noon. Plans have been made for several of us to go to the airport together."

Sara stifled a yawn, gathered her jacket and small purse, saying, "I really need to get home, change my clothes and be back at the conference by nine—we'll see each other before you leave." She glanced at her watch. "It's nearly three—tomorrow—rather today, is my off-day so I can sleep this afternoon."

He tried again. "I'm not ready to sleep—or for you to go. We can talk—that's—that's what I like about you." He chuckled, adding, "I'll bet the front desk has a toothbrush. You can make an appearance at the conference and then go home."

Staying in her seat for another moment, a perplexed frown on her face, Sara asked, "To your room—just to talk?"

Feigning surprise at her comment, he placed his hand on his chest, saying, "Only honorable intentions, Miss Sidle—only to talk."

She stood and with a quiet laugh, she motioned for him to stand, saying, "Okay—we'll talk. I want you to explain some of that new equipment you were so interested in at the exhibits."

Laughing as he stood and placed several bills on the table they had occupied for nearly two hours, he said, "Talk—as good friends. I trust you, Sara."

They sat on opposite sides of the table in his room and went through the stack of information and items he had collected, including brushes, fingerprint powder, a casting kit, and several different sets of latex gloves. They talked about DNA and extraction procedures for drugs.

She picked up a folder and opened it. "What's this?"

"I'm applying for auditor training to visit forensic education programs—not that anything will come of it—but something I think I'd like to do at some point." He sat back, thought for a few minutes and then said, "Maybe I'd like to teach in the future."

"You would be a good teacher!"

Smiling, he reached into one of several plastic bags scattered on the table, withdrawing something in his hand. "How are you at fingerprinting?"

Sara grinned, "Pretty good. I still practice—better at taking prints from the living than the dead or surfaces."

Holding out a brush and a small container of silver print powder, he said, "Try this stuff—supposed to be the newest out there."

They spent an hour placing their fingerprints on various surfaces as Sara practiced lifting prints. At last, she collapsed on the sofa, claiming hunger and tiredness prevented her from lifting one more print.

"The refrigerator is still full—you want something to eat? Or I could call room service," Grissom suggested. "Look, the sun is almost up."

They stood at the window and watched as the sun began to kiss the highest points in the city. The sky was clear and cool, amplifying the full spectrum of sunlight.

Grissom leaned his forehead against the window and watched the streets far below as morning sun brought brightness to spaces that had been dark and shaded only moments beforehand. He had not left Sara's side for twelve hours and he already missed her.

Stepping back and sitting in a chair, he said, "Come to Vegas, Sara. I'd like to show you around." He grinned, saying, "Payback for—for showing me San Francisco. It's a beautiful place—seeing it through your eyes, with your enthusiasm. I want to show Vegas to you."

Three months later, Sara Sidle found herself on a plane flying to Las Vegas. Hating to admit, but knowing it was true, she was confused about the growing relationship with Dr. Gil Grissom. They always talked about work—lately he had included a research project he was working on—rarely spoke of any personal life. But neither did she except for the occasional visit to see her mother.

The night they had spent together—the last night he was in San Francisco—still puzzled her. He had made no suggestion that could have been construed as romantic or sexual. Yet, she remembered every touch; the warm blue eyes that were receptive and expressive. He was relaxed around her, hands in pockets as he talked and very much in control of his gestures. Not movie star handsome, not even athletic handsome, but she could not take her eyes off him. With him, she wanted to hear every word he said—wanted his words to be for her.

Which was an odd feeling for her. And she was nervous.

The jet approached Las Vegas, flying over mountains before it descended to the airport, giving Sara the impression of landing inside a bowl. She could see the spread of houses for miles around the 'center'—the casino buildings appearing as pieces on an unfamiliar board game.

Uncertain and anxious, she made it off the with only her carry-on bag, she moved quickly through crowds of expectant and noisy tourists. Going outside the entrance for 'arriving passengers', she carefully took her bearings and walked across several lanes of traffic.

Following Grissom's directions, she was standing across the street from the correct airline and gate number. After fifteen minutes, she checked the sign again and decided the traffic jam in front of her must extend for miles. She checked her cell phone several times. Finally, after another ten minutes of watching vehicles crawl past her, she leaned against a concrete column and called Grissom's number.

She left a cheery message when his phone rolled to voicemail.

Nearly an hour after she landed, she heard a quick high squeal, only two seconds, that she recognized as a law enforcement vehicle horn. She looked up and in the long line of vehicles, she saw a black SUV flash blue lights. An arm appeared and waved. She waved back.

It took several minutes for Grissom to maneuver his vehicle to curb side. Before stopping, he was apologizing, "I am sorry! Can't believe I'm so late! I got tied up at work."

"Its fine—I knew you would be here." Then the smell hit her nose. She smiled in an attempt to stop her gag reflex. She knew he had been working a decomposing body—one in an enclosed space.

For a few seconds, there was an awkward moment as he got out of the vehicle, a horrific stench spreading into the air; Sara kept a clenched grin on her face even as her hand went to her nose. With one finger, she pressed her upper lip as her throat tightened.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry. You can guess where I've been."

Nodding, Sara noticed she wasn't the only person within twenty feet who noticed the smell.

Grissom took her bag and placed it in the back seat. "I'm happy you've come—at last! I'll run the air and keep the windows down. It won't be so bad. I hope."

As they left the airport, he told her what had caused him to be late—multiple bodies, dismembered, in plastic bags, found out in the western desert.

"One of the bags broke open as we moved it. It was human soup—I was standing in a shallow grave—no identification found—I realized you would be waiting so I came like this."

Sara, her face in the wind, asked, "How were the bodies found?"

A quiet chuckle. "You won't believe this—a convicted murderer admitted to leaving his accomplice, whom he killed, in the desert. We found that body within a few yards of where he said it would be. The others—the coroner thinks the three were left about six months ago and our convicted murderer has been in prison for three, no, it's been nearly four years."

"So instead of one set of remains, you've ended up with four? That will be interesting to work."

He laughed. "I've left it to the others. No straining and sifting and smelling like decomp! I'm off for two days."

By now, with fresh air blowing in the windows and cool air from the vents, Sara could laugh and look at what he pointed out as they passed casino after casino. She said, "I'm afraid I've never been much of a gambler." She laughed again, adding, "Actually, I was banned from a college group because they figured out I was counting cards."

Together, they laughed and talked about Vegas, the casinos, and gambling. As Grissom pulled into a garage, he said, "I'm taking you in the back way. It's easier—I think." He pulled the key out of the ignition and sighed, saying, "There is one thing I haven't told you. You know I like insects—study them—and—and I have a few as—I keep a few in an aquarium."

Sara leaned forward so she could see his face, puzzled that he was suddenly quiet, almost timid. A thought came into her mind. She said, "Like fish, but you keep bugs? You don't keep spiders, do you?"

Her comment made him smile. "I have one at work. At home, here, I have roaches. In an aquarium where they stay."

She giggled. "Roaches—you have roaches as pets?"

"You don't have to see them. And I don't pet them—I feed them. And sometimes I race them."

Sara bit her lip trying to prevent her laughter, but then a snigger escaped. At first, he acted offended that she would consider his insects subject to laughter, but then he joined her in laughing.

"Come on, let me show you around."

Sara quickly realized Grissom was secretly delighted as she complimented his place and especially pleased when she commented on his framed butterflies, his books, and the kitchen.

"This is a great place—so much space—so much light!" She said as she followed him through the open space of his home. She gazed at the high ceiling, looked out of the tall windows, and admired the gleaming floors.

He waved toward one of two closed doors. "My guest room is this way. You'll have your own bathroom—anything you need, just let me know!" And with a flourish befitting a doorman at the Ritz, he opened the door.

The room caused Sara to audibly gasp in surprise. Windows set high in the wall let in light but no sun. The bed, covered in a pastel-colored spread, had an aged patina not found in new furniture. "Grissom, this is a beautiful room!"

Placing her bag on a small bench, he pointed to a short hallway, saying, "The bathroom is through here. The closet is here." He pushed open a sliding door. "I'll tell you a secret—my mother was downsizing and insisted I take this furniture."

Smiling, Sara said, "And it fits perfectly." Slowly, she completed a turn, realizing his mother was probably responsible for the sophisticated and feminine touches in the room. "Does your mother visit often?"

Hesitating, suddenly quiet, his hands went together; his fingertips met in a motion she had come to recognize as one of uncertainty. He said, "She—she lives near Los Angeles right now." He did not answer her question but changed the subject. "Unpack and then we'll—we will eat. I—I need to shower—get this stink off me." He paused before asking, "Are you okay? I—I'm sorry I was so late."

"I'm fine," she said. Sara was still standing near the door; the spacious bed separated them, but at that moment, as he met her eyes, she knew he wanted more than forgiveness for his tardiness.

He left her quickly, closing the door behind him as he did so.

The door closed and Grissom stopped in his steps. What was he doing, he thought. Sara, a young woman with the world at her feet, was in his guest bedroom—and his breath had stopped in his chest at her beauty. What was he thinking—she was fifteen years younger—was he chasing after her like some old rooster?

He was accumulating an arsenal of happiness tied to her—and it scared him to death. He would not—he could not—become necessary to someone or have someone become necessary to him. Closing his eyes, he listened, hearing Sara move around.

Pinching his nose, he walked toward his bedroom, into the bathroom, and a long, hot shower. Sara was here; he had promised an enjoyable weekend. She was his friend; he was hers. Enough.

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