Chapter 19: Walk Alone

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It was the heart racing, blood pumping, muscle weakening sensation that he had felt only a handful of times in his adult life, but it was a sensation he knew far too well: anxiety.

With every step the sniper took, he tried to counterbalance it by moving parallel, frustratingly limited by the obstructions of camera and lighting equipment, navigating the awkward curves and curtains of the stage.

He watched her walk through the vast theater, her familiar figure dwarfed by the roar of the audience, the swell of the orchestra, the blinding spotlights. She had never before looked so vulnerable. He still recalled the cold dry air of the theater, the overpoweringly sweet smell of too many perfumes, the way his dress shoes had been slightly too tight, the way that pink wristband had pinched his skin. He still remembered the sick feeling of dread that filled his stomach as he had pulled out his gun, knowing what had to be done, but still not feeling ready to do it.

He ran as if he were running across hot coals, making as little contact with the ground as possible, scaling what seemed an impossible distance to reach his target, and the moment he felt her body behind him, he knew it was still not over. He felt no pain at first. Nothing. Not even a nudge where the bullet had hit.

Falling to the ground, he felt the scalding stream of blood down his left arm; felt the weight of his pistol, still loaded, in his right hand. With every ounce of strength left in his body, he lifted himself, aimed for the sniper, and fired the only bullets he had left.

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Some time in the middle of the night Rachel shifted in her sleep, noticing instantly that her only source of heat wasn't lying beside her anymore. Her eyes shot open, and she raised her head to find him standing by the window, staring outside between the curtains at the pitch black night. Though the room was frustratingly dark, the embers from the fireplace gave her just barely enough light to discern that he was still completely naked in spite of the cold.

Needing an explanation for the strange scene, Rachel lifted her head further and called out to him in a groggy voice, "Frank? What's wrong?"

His head turned toward her. "Nothing's wrong. Everything is fine." The gravel of recent sleep still clung to his voice. Seeing she wasn't convinced, he turned from the window and walked back to the bed, the long lines of his masculine body traced gently by the soft red light from the fire.

"Lie back down," he told her, this time less defensive and more reassuring.

About to follow his command, Rachel's eyes were caught by the unexpected sight of his handgun sitting out on the bedside table. She was certain it hadn't been there before they both fell asleep.

Her eyes warily drifted from the black pistol back to his face, searching for answers. He noticed the trail of her gaze and explained in an achy voice, "I had a nightmare."

A dark cloud settled in Rachel's chest. His words disturbed her as much as they made her feel seen. She knew all too well the insomnia that followed those nightmares. He didn't have to tell her what that nightmare was about for her to know the cause of it. They both struggled with post-traumatic stress; it was written all over their faces if one of them dared to bring up the subject.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, torso turned in toward her.

Reluctantly, Rachel closed her eyes and settled back down. After a minute of listening to the wind howling outside, she asked him, "Have you ever been to therapy?"

She peered up at him through half-closed eyelids just in time to see him nod his head. "Yeah."

"Bill made me start going about a year after it happened," she confessed. "I stopped a couple weeks into it but I never told anyone. It wasn't working for me."

He stared at her intently. "It takes time."

"Oh, Frank," Rachel sighed, "I'm not patient like you."

Her arm stretched out and her fingers longingly caressed his bare hip. He had goosebumps. "You're so cold," she whispered. She scooted a bit closer and urged him to lie back down.

He gave in, the added weight of his body inviting her closer. She pressed against him, shuddering, as his cold skin stole the heat from hers. She brushed her palms aggressively up and down his back in an attempt to warm him up faster.

She was a bit taken aback when he buried his face in her shoulder, breathing heavy. It was then she realized she didn't need to ask him the theme of his nightmare. She held him tighter.

"I'm right here, honey," she murmured. "I'm right here."

The term of endearment slipped out unintentionally. Rachel blamed motherhood, because the only man she had ever needed to comfort this way was Fletcher. She was tired and confused, she told herself.

Frank's shoulders began to lose their tension the longer she held him, his once shallow breathing becoming slow and deep against her neck. His fingers wrapped around her waist with a tender, kneading pressure.

It was so thrilling, she thought, to feel needed by such a self-sufficient and intimidating man. But then, Rachel herself was self-sufficient and intimidating in her own ways. She wondered if her former bodyguard had ever felt this way about her.

In a matter of minutes it seemed, sleep had reclaimed him. His heart pumped faithfully against her breast, lulling her back to sleep shortly after.

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Rachel wandered downstairs the next morning only after the sun came out. The power had yet to be restored, but the sun provided quite enough light through the windows during the day. She painstakingly dressed herself in several layers in an attempt to keep the cold at bay. Her body still thrummed with the lovely ache of lovemaking from the night before.

She found him in the kitchen, wearing perhaps just as many layers as she was - dark denim jeans and a thick black sweater - but the part that made her giggle was the argyle socks he wore on his feet - old man socks.

"See, it's just not fair," she said as she walked into the kitchen at a lazy pace.

He didn't look up from the counter. "What's not fair?"

"You going about your morning routine all buttoned up like nothing happened last night." She got closer to him and whispered, "Come on, Farmer, you leave me practically bowlegged and act like you just got back from a late shift at work."

He snuck a glance at her as his knife sliced through a grapefruit, a wicked twinkle in his pale eyes. "I'm resilient."

She just shook her head at him.

She sat down at the kitchen counter, leaning on her elbows so her chin could rest on the top of her folded hands while she watched him cut up fruit. He placed a plate of grapefruit and strawberries in front of her, along with a cup of instant coffee. She was surprised to see that the drink was steaming, before she remembered that he had been obsessively boiling water all night and day since the power outage.

She peered up at him suspiciously. "How do you know what I eat for breakfast?"

"I pay attention."

She tentatively reached for her coffee before he stopped her by grasping her hand. "Hold on." With exaggerated effort he began to measure out at least half a cup's worth of sugar into a Pyrex, then tipped it threateningly over her mug.

She squeaked in protest, grabbing at the sugar before he could pour it in.

"What?" He looked innocently down at her. "That's what they do at Starbucks."

"You're gettin' to be too much for me." She swatted his hand away and reclaimed the mug of black coffee, forcing her first sip down without any sugar at all. "Yeah, I can't do that." She set aside her pride and threw in a heaping teaspoon of sugar.

He held back a chuckle and began to cut up a pear for himself.

"Doesn't feel nearly as frigid today," Rachel noticed.

"Yeah, we got ourselves a real heat wave this morning. High of forty-two."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah, I feel like I woke up in Montego Bay."

He laughed at her miserable face. "At least the sun is out."

She mumbled in reluctant agreement as he started thrashing around pots and pans in the sink.

"Jesus, you got a six course meal cooking over there?" Rachel gestured to the four stock pots he had just aggressively set on the stove behind him. "I already have my coffee."

"I'm boiling water for you to take a bath," he said, drying his hands off on a kitchen towel.

Rachel straightened up. "Nice of you to let me go first."

He gave her a clipped smile, then his face turned serious as he stared at her.

She picked at her plate of fruit for a minute, realizing that his eyes were still focused intently on her. She finally looked up at him and muttered, "You can't be staring at me like that while you've got a knife in your hand, Farmer. You're making me nervous."

His fingers twitched as he let the knife go from his grip and it clattered lightly onto the countertop.

"I still don't understand this obsession you've got with knives," Rachel said.

Frank sat diagonally from her at the counter, leaning his elbow casually on it as he continued to stare at her. "It's just a sport. Same as archery or ax throwing."

Rachel's eyes widened as she sipped from her coffee mug. "You do those, too?"

"Sometimes."

"You mean football wasn't enough of a 'sport' for you?" She raised an eyebrow at him.

"When I applied for the secret service, I needed to expand my self-defense skills," he explained. "It's very competitive."

His brief mention of the secret service brought her back to reality again. It interrupted this strange, alternate-universe, never-ending dream where he took her to bed and made love to her all night long and prepared breakfast for her and boiled water for her bath.

That was the first time she felt it. A kind of sickness in the pit of her stomach. A feeling of uneasiness, and a question of 'what are we doing?' It felt so wrong, in the striking white light of morning, to be sitting here with him, nourishing herself out of necessity while he sat there and watched her like the very sight of her was hypnotizing.

The truth, she thought, was often the simplest explanation. This man had nothing in common with her aside from a very strong sexual attraction, and she'd thought that to be very obvious at first. But last night had been so absurdly wonderful that it disturbed her to try and understand it. He had given her too much for only being some woman who got him hard. Rachel knew this, because every other relationship she'd had in her past was just the opposite when it came to the sex part. There was no build-up, no tension, no risk. It had always been just two people who had the hots for each other, fifteen minutes in the sack, and then the awkward hour afterwards waiting to see who would leave first. And usually it was Rachel.

If he had been any other man, she would have left him at the Sheraton, just another conquest. No, she would have left him the very first night they'd slept together . . . But he had left her. It still made her angry when she thought of it. He had chosen his integrity over pleasing her. He had chosen her safety over continuing to sleep with her.

Here and now, he seemed to realize she was sizing him up. He looked down self-consciously, inspecting his hands if only to draw attention away from his face.

"You know, no normal man makes love like that," she blurted in a quiet voice. Her tone was accusatory, but when his blue eyes shot up to meet hers, he looked all too pleased to be accused. She put a damper on his ego with her next words. "It's because you're repressed."

His eyes flitted around her face in that agonizing way again. He was searching for a way out, but he could find none because it was the truth. His obsession with violence in a controlled setting: it was all a mask to restrain the untethered longings of his heart. Rachel had to give up then, knowing she would never truly see into the mind of Frank Farmer. And perhaps it would be for the best, because she did not think she would ever be ready for that.

He looked down again at his hands, absently flexing his fingers. "What do you want me to say to that?" he asked, his lips struggling between a bashful half-smile and a confused pout.

"You don't have to say anything," Rachel told him, "I just want you to know that I recognize it."

He still didn't look at her. "I don't know if you're complimenting me or insulting me."

"Neither," she said gently. "I'm observing you."

His eyes were at once sharp and alert, and in silence they seemed to say 'that's my job.'

"You're not the only one with eyes, Farmer," she reminded him, taking a sip of her coffee.

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He had done his best to try to make her comfortable, despite knowing he could never match the luxury of her lifestyle. It was certainly not helping matters that there was no electricity. He could tell she was suffering from the temperature, but at the same time her playful regard for the situation had not changed. He couldn't help but compare her attitude to that of his ex-wife. Leah would have made him drive her to a hotel the second the lights had gone out. However, Rachel had been radically amused by the situation.

When the bathtub was full and he was out of breath, Frank leaned heavily against the door, waiting for her to undress. When she emerged from the bedroom, holding a towel against her body, she looked disapprovingly down at the tub.

"Seems awful irresponsible of us to waste so much water on just me…"

Rachel did not have to say much when it came to convincing. Her suggestions were always forward and undeniable.

She undressed him as if he belonged to her. If he had belonged to her, Frank thought, he would treasure such moments of powerlessness. It was almost addicting, submitting all autonomy over to her. There seemed to never be a moment where Rachel didn't know what she wanted. She had as much influence over time and space as she had over everything else in her life.

Without the lights on, the bathroom was dim but not dark. There was a window, but even in broad daylight, the woods obscured the light from the sun. With every button she undid, he felt more vulnerable under the intensity of her gaze.

"Have you ever had sex in the bathtub before?" The sultry lilt of her voice made his heart race.

He glanced down at the water and shook his head.

She guided him to sit on the edge of the tub first with his legs in the water. A moment later she was in his lap facing him, her legs on either side of his waist. He shifted, ready to lower them into the water but she stopped him with a hand to his chest. "You have to be inside me first."

Her whisper sent a burst of warm anticipation through his body. With careful fingers he reached down into her lap to caress her.

She closed her eyes, smiling peacefully, and shook her head. "I don't need any foreplay." Her words caused his eyes to widen ever so slightly, and she guided his fingers lower to feel the slick heat that already awaited him. His eyes fluttered closed as her hands cupped lovingly around his shoulders, and with a gentle grip on her waist he joined their bodies.

Her long lashes fluttered with pleasure as he pressed deeper into her. It seemed impossible that any shade of black could be described as vivid, until he looked into Rachel Marron's eyes.

"Oh, my God," she whispered, her body growing limp as he strengthened his hold on her back. He could feel her quivering as she hugged his hips with her thighs and repeated the same soft exclamation in blissful surrender.

She gripped him tightly from within, then released, gripped and released over and over with indecent intention, her dark eyes fixed on the place where their bodies were linked. His breath caught in his throat with each sensation, throwing harsh spears of sound into her sweet stream of whispers. She tilted her head so that her lips barely brushed his earlobe – his Achilles' heel. Just the feel of her breath on his ear could make him harder than steel.

He couldn't tell if it was the tender battle of hot and cold between the water and the room, or the striking contrast of their skin tones as she moved against him, but he had not an ounce of control left in his body. He recalled her words to him earlier that morning, "It's because you're repressed." He knew it too well. Resting his cheek on her soft shoulder, he thrust repeatedly into her until she began to whimper.

He felt he had cheated her because of how fast it happened. He was enveloped in the conflicting sensations of being too lost in pleasure to speak, and being too cold to stay outside of the water. He unleashed everything within her, clutching her body to his with both arms around her back, panting uncontrollably. He became vaguely aware that she was raining tiny kisses all across his forehead. It still baffled him how invested she seemed to be in him attaining pleasure.

Her sinfully soft hands slipped around his shoulders and with a gentle push he found himself in the water, submerged from the chest down. The splash of the water warmed his shoulders and sprayed diamond-like droplets across her bare breasts and neck. She tossed her head back, still riding him slowly, clutching his biceps with tender fingers. He watched her through hooded eyes, face slack with wonder. She had to have known how beautiful she was. He had seen so few women in real life with a body like hers, much less her expressions of pleasure. It did magnificent things for his ego to think he had caused those expressions. To think of how many other men in the world had entertained this very fantasy of making love to the queen of the night . . .

His hands found her thighs beneath the water and aggressively gripped them with all his might. It took just that one nudge to push her over the edge. Her orgasms fascinated him, as sparingly as he'd allowed himself to be exposed to such inappropriate content. He had lived for decades believing that any gratuitous indulgences of the flesh would weaken his personal jurisdiction. Seeing the way Rachel succumbed to such indulgences made him realize just how right he had been.

At a certain point he assumed her shudders were more from the cold, so he tugged her down into the water. Her added weight caused him to slip under, but it was not unwelcome. It had taken nearly thirty minutes to get the hot water into the tub in the first place, they may as well take bathing seriously. She giggled when his head broke the surface again, shaking the water from his eyes. Her smile left him breathless.

Eyes still blurry, he watched her dispense soap from one of the many bottles she had arranged on the side of the tub. With warm, intentional hands she began to wash his shoulders and neck.

His chest tightened in response to the strange, unexpected act of service. He stared at her in adoring confusion. His life had been devoid of romance for so long, even during his marriage; everything Rachel did seemed romantic to him. For a man who spent most of his time alone, even the simple act of being touched was romantic.

"Hope you don't mind that you'll probably smell like–" She glanced at the label on the bottle of shower gel next to her. "–orange blossom and jasmine for the next eight hours." Her angelic little giggle echoed in the cavernous space of his heart.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, his laughter barely just an outward breath. He could not bring himself to look at her then, weakened as he was by the motion of her hands. Those hands which had summoned such beautiful music from the strings of his father's guitar, now touched every part of his body with the same debilitating passion. She touched him in a way that told him she knew he had never been touched this way.

A tiny part of him still wondered if he was being manipulated. That part of him which was never fully able to trust in another human being. Was she a woman who just knew what she was doing, liable to take everything she wanted from him and then smother him in the silk of her web? The thought sent a pang of sorrow to his soul.

He turned from her, staring out the window at the dead trees and glistening snow while she buried her warm, wet fingers in his hair. Because he was a creature of habit, he waited for the moment when she would castigate him for being too quiet, criticize the lack of expression on his face, find fault with his body language, accuse him of being cold. But Rachel did not do those things.

He waited several minutes, resistant to believe she was content with his silence. When he finally felt it safe to do so, he turned and met her eyes. Not a hint of irony marred her beautiful face. She was pure appreciation, the same as her determined hands.

It was so easy to extrapolate, into the void he called his future, when she looked at him this way. They were such dangerous thoughts, but they kept cycling through his mind more and more every day. In a flashing second, he saw their arms joined on a white mattress between them, midnight intertwined with moonlight. He saw her sitting on his lap in her bathrobe with a mug of coffee in her hand. He saw her rolling her eyes and kicking his boots away from the spot where he'd left them carelessly by the front door. He saw her staring longingly across the dinner table at him with her chin poised over her folded hands. He saw her dancing with him on their anniversary, her sparkly eyes wrinkled from years of unladylike laughter.

Then he was blinded by the light.

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed, laughing in spite of herself. "I was hoping the power would stay off for good."

The familiar sound of forced air moving through the ducts above them was never more of a relief to him. "Speak for yourself."

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When she had told him that she felt like having a nap after lunch, he had laughed at her and joked that she sure seemed to sleep a lot for someone who was so energetic.

"Maybe that's why I have so much energy," she'd said cheekily while burying herself in bed.

She had fallen asleep alone, but had woken up two hours later with him asleep beside her. By then the house had warmed to room temperature, and they were not lost in layers of quilts anymore.

It was the strangest thing to see Frank Farmer take a nap. After bearing witness to the staggering stamina he possessed when it came to lovemaking, she shouldn't have been surprised by his very human need for sleep.

He didn't snore. She found it surprising at first until she remembered how he did everything in silence. It was the vulnerability behind laying down his defenses in the middle of the day. She had never known him as a vulnerable person, but since they'd been together alone for so many days in a row now, perhaps he was finally letting his guard down. She supposed she was, too.

Having no one to entertain her, she decided to go outside for a walk. The snow was certainly not her favorite thing, but fresh air was still good for her health. She bundled herself as much as she could and escaped through the front door.

Being half frozen, the lake was quite still. Clouds of ice crystals hovered on the surface of the dark blue water, marbled in intricate patterns. In a way, Rachel thought, it looked like the earth from space.

She could never get over how quiet it was out here. No rush of cars on a nearby highway, no noisy neighbors, no sirens – nothing but the howl of the wind and the crinkling sound of old branches swaying tiredly above her.

Being alone with her thoughts was not something Rachel savored. It often led down a destructive and dangerous whirlpool of emotion. She began to question things in her life, the decisions she had made, the ways she'd handled things in the past. No wonder Farmer was always second guessing himself – he must have spent way too much time on these existential walks in the woods.

Her mind began to wander as she went along her journey, thinking of all the time they'd spent experiencing each other as individuals, and not just as coworkers. It was so different to be with him because she chose to be, and not because he worked for her. There was so much more to him than she'd ever imagined.

As with everything about Frank, the more she discovered about him, the more confused she became. He made love to her as if she had only ever belonged to him. It wasn't the same as before. Not even close. Something had shifted in his behavior towards her, even since the Sheraton. She couldn't place the cause of it, but she knew it had something to do with his willingness to have unprotected sex with her.

Rachel hadn't dared to do anything without a condom since before her pregnancy with Fletcher. She had three good reasons: she didn't trust any of her lovers, she couldn't handle another kid, and a pregnancy would ruin her career. But things were different now. She very much trusted her lover, her son was grown, and she had no real career to ruin anymore.

Already they'd made love twice and not only did he not bring up contraception, but he hadn't even attempted to pull out either time. In Rachel's world, unprotected intercourse automatically implied monogamy. She wondered if he had done it purposefully to show her that he trusted her, or if he had truly just suffered a lapse in judgment from the heat of the moment. She was perfectly capable of bringing the topic up herself, but she had chosen not to. She didn't want to make love to him any other way.

Her head began to spin with all the wild consequences their actions could spur. It had to have been a one in a million chance, she thought. She was more faithful to the pill than to any man, and she was weeks away from turning forty.

Rachel stopped in the snow, breathing hard, staring at her surroundings in a stupor. She had to have been walking for at least ten minutes now. Realizing she should not wander too far, she turned around and began to follow her makeshift path back toward the cabin, shuffling snow around with her boots as she went. When she at last made it back to the house, she noticed that the front door was open.

She cursed under her breath, thinking she had accidentally left it open the entire time. Farmer was going to kill her.

But then she distinctly recalled shutting it before she left the yard.

Her eyes wandered frantically around the property, and that was when she noticed his footprints in the snow.

He was going to kill her. But for a different reason.

She looked in all directions, not knowing what to do. If she went back in the house, he would still be outside looking for her. If she went back into the woods, she might miss him returning to the house. She pulled her cell phone out of her coat pocket and stared at the screen. No service. Another downside to living in the middle of nowhere. The best thing in this scenario, she thought, was to stay put.

About a minute went by, which felt like forever. She was so tempted to just run back into the woods and try to find him. Rachel ten years ago would have done that. But God help her, she was trying to behave rationally for once. Then she heard him calling her name.

She bolted towards the sound of his voice as it echoed through the woods. It had to have been three minutes. Three minutes where she tried to yell back "I'm here!", but she'd forgotten that if she kept moving, he would not be able to come to her.

Finally, they spotted one another.

He wasn't dressed appropriately for the temperature at all. He wasn't even wearing gloves. It looked as if he had just thrown boots over whatever he'd had on and ran right out the door.

"What the hell were you doing?" He roared at her, his face murderous.

She choked on her response, taken aback by his anger. "I just went for a walk. I came right back to the house." She pointed innocently in the direction of the cabin, watching as he tried to catch his breath.

Still panting, he put his hands on his knees and bent at the waist, staring at the ground. "How could you do that to me?"

Stunned as she was that she had caused such a panic in him, she couldn't justify his behavior.

"You were asleep."

He craned his neck to look up at her, an unprecedented look of deep offense in his pale eyes. She quickly realized she had hit a nerve, because in Frank Farmer language, "you were asleep" roughly translated into "you weren't there."

She swallowed hard, trying to maintain composure as much as she wanted to raise her voice like he had. "You're not my keeper, you know. It's not your job to protect me anymore, so quit acting like I'm still in danger no matter what I do. Just let me live, dammit."

She turned around and walked briskly back to the house, never once looking over her shoulder to see if he was following. She knew he would not let her out of his sight.

Author's Note: I cannot tell you how much your kind reviews, comments, and messages have meant to me over the last chapter! Thank you so much for reading. It makes it such a pleasure to write when the audience is so grateful and encouraging.

So...I have written this story ahead to about thirty chapters, and I thought I would be able to wrap it all up neatly there. But I keep lying awake at night with all these ideas that keep popping into my head, and I practically have the outline for a second installment all written out already. So I have a question to pose to my readers: If I decide to expand this story beyond thirty chapters, would you prefer I keep adding chapters to this story, or would it be easier if I published a second story as a "Part II"? Please let me know your preferences either in a PM or review!