A/N: Here it is-a new chapter!

Gil Grissom's Romance

Chapter 8

"It's—uh—just what it says: It's a request for a leave of absence—six months…"

Gil Grissom would never understand women—he had no idea why Sara had thought she should leave the lab because of a little meat he left in the refrigerator. Or that's what he thought it was about—or was it because he had not noticed she was a vegetarian? And he really did not know why Catherine was in his living room going on and on about—he realized he had not followed her conversation since he had made the phone call for a plant to be delivered to Sara.

Quickly, concentrating on Catherine's words, he caught up with the one-sided conversation.

"You are the favorite professor, Gil! Everyone wants in your class—a seat on the front row—to be called on by you!"

Taking a sip of his drink, he pulled a chair near the sofa and sat down across from Catherine, asking, "What do you mean? I'm lost." Another taste of his drink; he had mixed the wrong portions into the glass. He got up, walked back to the kitchen and emptied the contents into the sink. As he mixed another drink, he realized Catherine had not slowed her monologue.

"Gil, everyone wants to be the teacher's pet—Sara is no exception. She looks at you like I feel about Sam!"

At the mention of Sam Braun, Grissom jerked his eyes in Catherine's direction. She took it as a sign to continue.

"From the time I was old enough to—to know anything, Sam has always been around. He was there, turning on the charm, telling me I was smart and beautiful and saying I could do anything! When I walked into the room, I wanted Sam to look at me first! Of course, what he wanted was my mother—took me a while to figure that one out. Anyway—I've never thought of Sam as anything but a father figure. He was special—that's how everyone at the lab looks at you, Gil! And—and Sara wants to be special to you."

Emptying the bottle into his glass, he was more perplexed than ever. He asked, "Are you comparing me to Sam Braun?" Had she called him a father figure?

Catherine snorted, rising from the sofa and coming into the kitchen. "What I'm saying, is this: You are the man." She stressed 'the'. "Nick wants to be just like you. Warrick wants to be just like you. Sara—well, Sara—she wants to be the professor's favorite student. Or maybe she needs a father figure—has she ever mentioned a father to you?"

Before he could respond, Catherine continued, "Of course she hasn't—she doesn't talk about anyone—has she ever said anything to you about her parents? Her family? Does she have a family?" She paused to breathe. "I don't know who my father is—probably will never know—but Sam has always been around and he always made me feel like I was—was a princess—his princess! That's how Sara is—she wants you to make her feel special." She took a quick drink from her glass before continuing—changing the direction of the conversation to her mother.

Grissom tipped the glass to his lips and swallowed. Wishing she would leave, he said nothing. His home was his refuge, his sanctuary; he had learned at an early age to enjoy the quietness of being alone and all of Catherine's talk made his head hurt.

Finally, after talking about her mother for another ten minutes, Catherine switched the conversation. "What ever happened to Lady Heather? Have you seen her again?"

Eyebrows shooting up with surprise, Grissom asked, "Why would I see her again? The case is closed."

Catherine's eyes narrowed. "You two seemed to hit it off—I thought—maybe—I thought you might—you know—meet again."

Grissom's mouth twisted into a smirk before he frowned. "Catherine, I don't…" shaking his head he let his words die as she tossed back the last of her drink.

She said, "I've got to go—already later than I should be. Thanks for the drink—and try to remember. Sara—Nick—Warrick—all of the lab—they want you to notice them. Especially Sara—I don't think she has much of a social life." Catherine laughed, a quick chuckle, before saying, "Maybe you and Sara need to spend more time together. She'd love that."

And with that, she flipped her blonde hair with one hand, waved fingers at him, and walked out of his front door.

Peace and quiet came in her wake; the sudden and absolute silence was a relief. Grissom opened a cabinet, retrieved another bottle, and poured a generous amount in his glass. Walking around the table, he was pleased with how his home looked—it suited him. He picked up a small carved stone—a gift from his mother. Running his thumb over the image etched into the smooth surface, he thought about another gift—in a box in his closet.

He had never given an answer to Catherine's question; truth was he had not seen the woman known as Lady Heather since the time he had spent with her weeks ago. She had sent him a package—a book and a decorated mask—and he had called to thank her. That had been the end of any communication with 'Lady Heather'.

Walking to his sofa, he toed off his shoes and stretched out. Not that he had stopped thinking about the woman, he acknowledged, as he stuffed a pillow behind his head. Heather was a charlatan, a pretender, if not a con artist, well disguised behind expensive trappings, chosen carefully for classic surroundings—silk walls, Oriental carpets, oak furniture, the finest china. A beautiful woman, he thought, remembering afternoon tea as they had discussed her business.

Scoffing, he punched the pillow. Heather's business was sex—even if she wanted to deny, insist no actual sexual intercourse occurred—what happened inside the walls of the palatial house was sexual. And in his mind, it was deviant behavior to have someone crack a whip across one's backside or crawl around on hands and knees acting like a dog or be chained to a wall. His thoughts caused him to shake his head. He knew one thing—it wasn't for him. Physical torture in the guise of pleasure was as cruel as any other brutality inflicted by humans.

Somehow, Catherine's conversation circled back into his mind. She had compared him to Sam Braun. He was not Sam; it made him uncomfortable to think Catherine would compare him to a man who was a casino mogul with probable connections to organized crime. It almost made him ill. She had also called him a 'father figure'—he was not anyone's parent—he certainly did not want to be Sara's father.

Sara. Sara who threatened to resign, to leave the lab. He did not want that to happen. Sara. He would be her mentor, her advisor, her teacher—not her father, cringing as he thought of Catherine's comparison.

He shifted; he could usually sleep stretched out on his sofa but today, his thoughts, the running words of Catherine, made him uncomfortable.

He checked his watch, got up and ambled into the kitchen again. Picking an apple from a bowl, polishing it on his shirt, he turned to look through the windows at the familiar view of the city. Lifting the apple to his mouth, its scent strong and sweet, he immediately thought of Sara.

Irritated with himself, he shoved the thoughts away and turned from the windows. Quickly, he crossed the room, pulled open a drawer and removed several items. Work—intense, time consuming, precise work on his passion—from a small envelope an iridescent beetle slid into his palm. It would take several hours to relax and mount the various insects he had stored.

Spreading supplies—pins, tweezers, mounting board, a small syringe, and several bottles across the table, his jumbled mind relaxed for the first time in hours. His fingers manipulated the beetle as he carefully inserted a pin, concentrating on the display he desired. By the time he had worked on four distinctive beetles, his mind was relaxed; for the first time in weeks, he slept without dreams.

A few days later, working with Sara in a chilly ice rink, she asked, "Since when are you interested in beauty?" And, quite unexpectedly, he replied, "Since I met you."

A/N: Thank you for reading! More to come! A very special thanks to those who review!