Grissom woke to the ringing of his cell phone; muzzily he fished for it from the dresser, reaching over the warm body next to him.
He smiled; a very private, possessive little glance, and checked the time before he answered the phone. Nearly five in the morning. "Hello?"
"We have some new developments in your mission," came Miss Lollipop's elegant voice. "One of which requires, and I quote, 'The like Whoa kick-ass Donovan Man, who isn't gay even though Will doesn't believe me,' unquote." Her tone held suppressed amusement, and for a moment, Grissom felt the fond exasperation in return.
"So it's a message from Maynard Ryquist—I assume it's important if you're calling me at this hour—" As he spoke, Grissom felt Miss Chocolate sleepily roll over and press her pert little bottom against his hip. He took a deep, calming breath.
It helped. Somewhat.
"Yes. Your star, William Shafter has recovered sufficiently, and wants to talk to the authorities."
"Ah. Is he thinking of filing charges?"
"Possibly. Several people, myself included, feel this would be an imprudent decision at this time."
"Understood," Grissom murmured. "I'll debrief him then, and secure some sort of agreement for testimony."
He felt the pert bottom shift against his hip; soothingly he patted it.
"Please do that as soon as possible, Mister Whoa kick-ass Donovan Man, who isn't gay even though Will doesn't believe me," Miss Lollipop replied, a hint of a laugh in her lovely voice.
Grissom smiled in the dark. "The perils of an exceptional performance, I assure you."
"I'm well aware of you capacity for exceptional submersion into a role, Mr. Peppermint—it's a diamond in your resume," Miss Lollipop reminded him. "And when you see Miss Chocolate, please have her call in as well—she seems to be currently unreachable."
Grissom's hand argued the point, stroking softly along the sleek curve of his bed partner's hip, but he cleared his throat dutifully. "Trouble?"
"Macy MacDonald is back in the United States, so we may have to terminate the mission early."
Miss Lollipop hung up, and Grissom thoughtfully closed the cell phone, aware of two facts: that the woman next to him was awake, and that the last thing he really wanted to do was to get out of bed.
She seemed to sense his mood, and didn't help matters by rolling over to wrap herself around him, clinging happily.
"You radiate a lot of heat," Miss Chocolate murmured softly.
"You're the catalyst," he replied with amusement. "And you're trying to seduce me. We've talked about this, Frango; I thought we agreed that a seedy hotel in Lincoln County was no place to consummate our relationship."
Miss Chocolate grumbled under her breath and loosened her hold on him. "Yeah, well we only decided THAT after we got to third base last night."
Grissom smirked in the dark, unable to argue and regretting nothing. Miss Chocolate took his silence with a grin of her own.
"I can't see you, but I bet you look smug," she commented.
"I have a prerogative . . . unfortunately; I also have a job to do."
One of Miss Chocolate's hands slid down his bare stomach over the warm and expanded front of his boxers under the covers. "Those aren't the only things you have."
Grissom gave a little grumble of protest and lightly pulled her palm away. "Flattery is a devious method for getting your way."
"Hey, it likes me—followed me home last night, let me give it a kiss—" she teased. Grissom grumbled again.
"We had an agreement—" he reminded her, his soft voice tinged with both regret and desire. Chastened, Miss Chocolate drew in a sigh. She shifted her hands up and stroked his cheeks, then lightly kissed his nose.
"I know, I know. I don't mean to tease. What was the call about?"
Grissom told her as he climbed out of bed and dressed. She watched him as she sat up and turned on one of the bedside lamps.
"So you're going to lay it all out for William, so to speak. What will the Shop do?"
Grissom tugged on his jacket. "It depends what's happened with the information given by Steve Steele. The Candy Shop has several contacts with law enforcement, and many of the anonymous tips that break big cases in Vegas come from us. Given the magnitude of this one, Miss Lollipop is probably going to hand it over to them after drafting up a proviso to protect Dan, Fran, and Tia Carumba from any liability or prosecution."
Miss Chocolate's eyes widened. "She can do that?"
Grissom nodded. "Very effectively too. The economy of this entire town depends on the movie studio; whether anyone admits it aloud or not. Nothing anyone's done here prior to this has been against the law, and chances are pretty good that the films in question were private productions—one shots, if you will."
Miss Chocolate smirked, and rose up, her long lean torso dressed only in a cranberry thong and a simple silver chain around her hips. Seeing her, Grissom cleared his throat, trying to fight the wolfish impulse to sweep her back onto the unmade bed. She sauntered over to him and looked deeply into his eyes, proud and beautiful in her semi-nudity.
"So you're going out to see Maynard and William," she murmured. Grissom reached for her, pulling her up against him, palms sliding down her warm back.
"Mmmmmm—" he murmured, his nose buried behind her ear, breathing in the warm scent of her hair. Miss Chocolate laughed.
"I think I feel a peppermint log—"
"--I'm not going to dignify that with an answer—" Grissom replied thickly even as his grip around her slender form tightened, "Although the unholy temptation to dip myself in chocolate is almost overwhelming . . . " he kissed her throat, then lightly, her lips, and gently stepped back from her.
Miss Chocolate blinked, as the twist of her mouth spoke volumes about her own desire and sense of duty. She lifted her head and crossed her hands over her chest in a self-effacing way, nodding.
"I'll get dressed and call in; see what Miss Lollipop wants. What about Nick and Warrick?"
Grissom checked his watch. "Unless they hear from the Shop, I'd say the three of you keep going on the charade—there are plenty of things still to do to keep the cover going. I'll call and let you know what happens."
"Okay." She looked at him again, and their gazes locked; tender and hungry, shy and happy.
"Be careful," he told her.
She heard what that really meant.
00oo00oo00
Miss Lollipop poured coffee. Across from her, Catherine buttered a slice of toast slowly, looking pale in the warm rays of the morning light. Out in the garden, a few hummingbirds darted around the feeder while soft strains of Pachabel's Canon drifted around the gazebo.
"I feel so . . . " Catherine began, her voice low with discouragement. Miss Lollipop nodded gently.
"He wants you to feel helpless, Catherine. It's a calculated and cruel move on the part of your father, and you have every emotional right to resent it."
"Oh it's more than resentment," Catherine sighed. "Thanks for taking us at such short notice."
"It's all right. I think you, your mother and daughter need to take some time without the senator's presence. You and your family are welcome to stay at the ranch in Montana as long as you'd like," Miss Lollipop murmured.
Neither woman spoke for a while. After several long minutes, Catherine sighed once more. "Did you turn in that tape to the authorities?"
"They're working on it even as we speak," came the reassuring reply, "Although I need to ask if you're prepared for . . . the consequences, should the investigation lead back to the senator."
Catherine looked up, and instead of appearing alarmed, she looked grimly resigned. "I'm prepared. But I won't have the media hound my daughter or my mother. Me, I can put up with the scrutiny, but not them."
Miss Lollipop nodded, and sipped the coffee, making a tiny moue as she did so. The service this morning was Art Deco, in elegant crystal. Catherine tore bits of her toast free and let them drop on her plate absently as her hostess watched her, but after a while, she looked up.
"He's still my father," Catherine pointed out in a low voice.
"He's quite possibly responsible for the death of one young man, and the attempted killings of two more, Catherine. Being your father does not change the facts."
Catherine looked up and nodded. She paused, and then blinked a little; seeing it, Miss Lollipop leaned forward, her attention focused on her client.
"God . . . you don't think . . . Eddie . . . " Catherine began as the horrible though dawned on her. Miss Lollipop paused delicately, and her hesitation was enough; Catherine drew in a sharp breath. "Oh Jesus---"
"We AREN'T going to jump to conclusions," Miss Lollipop ordered firmly. "Your father didn't approve of your marriage, but that doesn't mean he had anything to do with your husband's death, Catherine. Let's deal with things one step at a time and not take on any more than we can handle right now."
These sensible words worked, and Catherine Willows blinked. She looked down at her plate and picked up the mangled fragments of toast in her long fingers, then turned and tossed them to the birds on the garden lawn.
00oo00oo00
Sam Vartann shifted and opened one eye, looking at the warm sunlight straining through the heavy drapes of Portia Richmond's guest room. He felt groggy but relatively pain-free, considering he'd re-injured his shoulder by carrying Portia to the ambulance outside the Mesa Mall doors. The EMTs had wanted him to set her down, but he'd refused until he'd gotten her to the vehicle.
Yesterday had been a hell of a day. Captain Miller had been all over the case, and between the emergency room visits, the police questioning all three of them and later, dodging the media who where following them, he, Portia and Reggie were exhausted. Portia had fought to be released from observation at the hospital, hiring a nurse to keep an eye on her at home.
Reggie volunteered to watch over him; a suggestion Sam endorsed enthusiastically when the drugs in his system lowered his inhibitions and he'd been put to bed.
He squeezed his eyes shut at that last memory, wondering exactly how much of an idiot he'd made of himself, and sat up.
Then he saw her in the big velour recliner. Reggie was asleep, stretched out in the chair, her generous chest rising and falling with every slow breath. Sam blinked, watching her for a moment, feeling the tickly blend of tenderness and desire well up within himself. Reggie's hair was down again and the sunlight was making glints along the flame-colored curls. She wore slacks and some sort of scoop neck sweater, and he loved how utterly innocent she looked in sleep.
Moving slowly—the sudden pain insured that—Sam swung his feet off the bed and rose up, tottering over to the recliner. Quietly, he bent down, a little off balance because of the sling along his right arm, and smiled down at her.
"Hey—"
Sweetly Reggie opened her eyes and focused on him. She smiled. The brilliance of that smile, deepening the dimple on her cheek and showing her white teeth dazzled Sam for a moment and he swayed a little; Reggie reached up to steady him, her warm palm against his tee shirt. "Hey yourself, Sam. You should stay in bed."
"I know. Just needed a minute to check on my girls."
At that, Reggie laughed softly. "Well, Portia's upstairs with Ms. Rialto watching over her and taking her blood pressure every four hours. Delores and her sister are coming in about an hour to take care of the house and lunch, and I'm going to be working on household billing before I take Humph for a walk. Does that clear us all?"
"Captain Miller call back yet? When are they coming by the house?" Sam asked, partially mollified by Reggie's agenda. She nodded.
"Yeah—she said to tell you, quote, you have a hell of a memory, but good call, Vartann, unquote. You remembered Rafe?"
"I remembered him," Sam sighed. "But not soon enough. I hope the police pulled all the surveillance cams from the mall, so we've got some evidence of what he tried to do to Portia."
Reggie nodded, reaching up to touch Sam's chin. It was an easy gesture, absent-minded and sweet. Sam loved it. "Oh yes. And lots of witnesses too, including me. Portia's filing assault charges and wants me to do it as well, but that's minor."
"Minor!" Sam was indignant, "Jesus, Reg, he damned near kills Portia and manhandles you—that is NOT minor!"
"Shhhhh---it's minor because Captain Miller says the crime lab matched up some hairs and fibers from the restaurant shooting to Rafe. They have enough to think he's the one who shot you, Sam."
Stunned, Sam blinked, his thoughts moving through the sluggishness to try to get to speed. Reggie nodded and rose up, forcing him to move back. "Yeah, it's sort of mind-boggling, but true. And I think you need to get back to bed."
"Ummm, okay then . . . " he mumbled, backing up and sitting on the edge of the mattress. Reggie stood up and looked down at him, her hand stroking the side of his face. She bent down, her eyes twinkling.
"You are my hero, Sam Vartann."
He perked up, and impulsively cupped a hand to the back of Reggie's soft hair, reeling her in for a kiss.
It was slightly awkward because of their positions but that didn't matter, not with the sweet softness of mouth on mouth, the happy eager press of their lips. Sam reluctantly let her go a few moments later, feeling wonderfully dazed and grateful to whatever higher powers out there were rewarding him.
"I like that part," he sighed. Reggie smirked and helped him back under the covers of the bed.
"The hero part?" she asked, softly.
"Nah, the yours part," came his peaceful reply.
00oo00oo00
When Grissom reached William and Maynard at the Palm Desert Medical Building off Arroyo Avenue in Alamo he checked carefully to see if anyone else from the Candy Shop was there. Miss Lollipop usually sent an undercover or two for situations like this, and sure enough, Grissom spotted one of the newer recruits over by the vending machine in the lobby.
It was Jujube, looking unhappy to be out of her laboratory, but blending in rather well in the hospital setting, mostly because of her lab coat. He moved next to her and fed a few quarters into the machine, speaking in a low voice.
"Thanks, I've got it from here."
"Good—your man's in room 11. I've got a fake batch of plastique to whip up, so have fun here. Oh, and Grenadine says hi," Jujube murmured, accepting the bag of Corn Nuts from Grissom with a smirk. He shot her a questioning look and she sighed. "The dog's moved into the labs pretty much—would it be rotten of me to admit I like him better than Gum Drop?"
Grissom paused a moment, considering this. "No, actually."
Jujube beamed. "Thanks. I'm out of here—" she gave a little wave and strode off. Grissom watched her go, shook his head a tiny bit and headed for room 11.
Both Maynard and William were there, playing cards, the sounds of the monitors a soft undertone to a conversation.
"If this was poker, you would be SO naked right now—"
"You wouldn't need poker for that. You're just bragging because you're winning, Will."
"True—" came William Shafter's smirk. He looked up as Grissom walked in, and the cheer of the moment faded. Maynard glanced over and nodded, a hint of relief in his tired eyes.
Grissom felt slightly guilty. He moved to the side of William's bed and looked at him carefully. "How are you?"
"A hell of a lot better than I was yesterday," came the guarded reply. "The doctors say I've got some chloroform in my system, and some rope burns around my wrists, but other than that I'm okay. Same for that other guy. What the hell is going on?"
"We need to talk," Grissom soothed him, but William scowled and pushed the cards so hard they spilled over the table edge and onto the blanket.
"Maynard told me to wait, but I'm not buying it, Donovan. This wasn't . . . ." he struggled to put it into easier words; Maynard came around the other side of the bed and dropped a warm heavy hand on his shoulder. Absently William leaned a little towards him.
"—It wasn't what you signed up for, I know. Believe me, none of us had any idea you were going to be abducted, William. We were at Tia Carumba looking around to see what we could find, and the movie was our cover. I don't know how much Maynard has told you, but it's a long story, so let me explain as much of this as I can."
Grissom took care to lay out the story of the snuff films and the Candy Shop's involvement, stressing the need for confidentiality. When he mentioned the confirmation of the first film, William blanched.
"Crap—it was real?"
"Yes. They'd nabbed an undocumented alien thinking that no one would report him missing. However, Esteban Altomira had parents who were looking for him and knew he was supposed to be here, in Alamo. When the buyer wanted a second tape with TWO deaths, the filmmakers got greedy and figured they'd press their luck a second time, and you fit the bill."
"Yeah?" William asked in a guarded tone. Grissom nodded solemnly.
"Yes. You're young and handsome, with no fixed address. The percentage of people coming to Tia Carumba that fit that description is huge, and Steve was counting on that. He was also convinced that even if you did get reported missing that nobody would be searching the studio for you."
"But I got worried," Maynard confessed shyly. William looked up at the big Viking and a sweet smile flickered between them.
"Lucky me—and I mean that. Okay, so what happens to the rat bastards now, Donovan—or whatever your real name is."
"Steve is in custody, along with his partner. The authorities want to know all about the buyer, and at the moment they're interrogating both men to see how far this case goes. Neither one is going to escape justice, William, I can promise you that."
"They're going to jail? Will I have to testify?" came the worried question. Grissom shook his head.
"I don't think so. The Candy Shop has an intricate and complex relationship with law enforcement here in Nevada, but in this case there's enough evidence linking Steve and the other man to the crimes that I don't think they'll need anything else."
William sighed and brushed a few curls out of his eyes. "Okay then. But . . . what about the movie? That was all fake?"
Grissom paused, looking from Maynard to William. "It was . . . in the beginning. But you'll both be paid for the time you've put in, and I know both Dan and Fran would like to have you on the cast list for any new films being done."
A deep sigh escaped William, and Maynard's hand tightened slightly on his thin shoulder in comfort.
"You're alive, Will—that's always the important thing, you know?" Maynard rumbled.
Grissom cleared his throat and nodded in agreement.
00oo00oo00
"The final frontierrrrrrr isn't spaaaaaace---" Bone McBoy sang out, his deep baritone loud and true, "It's here in my heattttrt, that's your pllaaaaaaaceee---"
Chiming in, Mr. Cock picked up the lyric, "Along with my drrrreams, I long for your reeeeeams, my lust flares up in my faaaaaaceeee—"
The song rolled on, and Sara fought to keep from laughing aloud. On the huge bed, both actors were singing their hearts out, naked and sweaty from their love scene but grinning. In the background, two security guards dressed only in tiny red thongs stood guard.
Nick groaned under his breath. "Sweet Jesus, I hope nobody I know ever sees this film."
Next to him, Warrick scowled in agreement. "We're making a pact right now, Nick—what happens in Tia Carumba . . . you know what I'm sayin?"
"Completely, man."
"Not a word."
"To the grave, Warrick," came the hiss of agreement.
For a moment, the two of them continued to stand there, waiting for the duet to end. Nick winced as another thought occurred to him. "What about Sara?"
"She won't talk," Warrick replied, but his tone was uncertain. Nick gave a low whimper.
"Crap—I know that if I had the goods on two buddies of mine being forced to stand around in banana hammocks while seriously alien encounters were going on not four feet in front of them . . . "
"Yo Nick, shut up."
"I'm just sayin—at least it's not Greg. We'd NEVER hear the end of it if it was—"
The song had ended, and a bright flash flared out; startled, both Warrick and Nick looked over to where Sara held out a camera phone, her grin wide.
"So, gentlemen," she purred as Mr. Cock and Bone McBoy left the set. "Negotiations begin at two sick days and coffee brought to me every day for the next week---"
Coming soon: Candy Shop: Resurrection Garden