4

Clarice slept until late afternoon when the red rays of the setting winter sun woke her from her siesta. It seemed she was destined so far to only encounter Lecter by night. She groaned in transient pain and rolled to one side, pushing her body up with her arms. Her eyes alighted on her medicine, placed thoughtfully within reach of her bed. She swallowed and considering lying still until the pain eased but the temptation to return downstairs was overwhelming and she pulled herself upright ignoring the warning twinges in her side.

He had laid a dress over the end of her bed. It was classically stylish and black but less revealing than the Gucci he had bought for her last summer.

'Dressing for dinner, huh?' she muttered, 'Very 'Hannibal.'' His Christian name felt naked without its partner 'Lecter.' And she said it again more slowly, 'Hannibal'; it sounded curiously soft.

-- --

The music filled the room just enough, not overbearing but nor was it too quiet to appreciate. He closed his eyes and allowed the notes to twinkle colourfully in his mind, a pleasing mixture of pale blue and sunlight yellow. The scent of the wine in his glass drifted up to him and he allowed his senses to drink it in, the beginning, he supposed, of an evening filled with senses.

'Clarice, you timing as always is impeccable,' he said over his shoulder.

She jumped a little in the doorway where she had not been able to help but watch him.

'You are wearing the skin cream,' he remarked, 'I hope you like it, I doubt you had a change to appreciate it last time.'

'Not really, no,' she admitted, 'They took it away from me.'

'Pity,' he turned, 'I believe a lady should have some indulgences in her life.' His eyes fell to her dress which clung to her slim frame, covering the marks of trauma he had seen across her belly in the hospital . 'You are a little thin, Clarice,' he observed, 'The hospital food does not suit you.'

'I'm anticipating you've prepared something better for us tonight?'

'Of course, it will be ready shortly, it is a little early to be a civilised hour but I suspect you will be too hungry to wait until eight...please... take a seat,' and he bent to pull one from the heavy set dining table. She sat gratefully while he poured her a little wine studying her curiously. 'You are not curious Clarice as to what it is I have prepared?'

Or whom.

'Should I be?'

You mustn't ask Clarice, it spoils the surprise. His words floated back to her.

'Very well,' he said softly. 'A surprise it is.'



He excused himself and drifted back to the kitchen. When he was out of sight Clarice dragged her eyes from where they had been following him and looked around. Outside the sun was falling quickly, bathing the trees with crimson highlights.

If he put Jack Crawford on a plate before her would she care? It was easy to let him do what he wished while out of her sight, his current persona was almost charming enough to allow her to forget. It was a path of least resistance which she longed to embrace but her mind challenged her to challenge herself. A long bath and a comfortable bed had done much to relax her, not to mention the curiously reassuring presence of Lecter himself. Surely though she could not justify this feeling of contentment; not at least while he was in the kitchen preparing what may turn out to be one of his more 'legendary' meals. The image of Paul Krendler's culinary lobotomy whistled through her mind. The sound he made as his jaw dropped drooling, Lecter dissecting away the meninges, the frontal lobe, carefully frying the brain in garlic.

This area is thought to be the seat of good manners, I doubt Paul will miss it much.

Was he doing something similar now? To the former patient who owned the house? Her mouth became dry and her relaxation lifted replaced with the first signs of tension.

You had to think about it didn't you?

'Why am I here?' she said aloud. She glanced back cautiously towards the kitchen, sure he had heard her.

Maybe he has drugged me. This is all too easy. It's just falling into place and I don't want to fight it. That's not me. Is it?

She couldn't answer. The damn music was distracting her, she had heard it before, in Lecter's make shift cell in Memphis. The same gentle piano music which had accompanied her as she'd walked to their last interview; the music he no doubt played later while murdering the officers who stood guard over him, while dissecting Pembury's face to wear as a mask to his escape. He had chosen it deliberately for this meal no doubt, to make her remember. But why would he want that, why would he want her to remember the atrocities of that night?

She thought of the cell, bare in the centre of a great hall, the music filling it to its high ceiling. Lecter in white, his sketches across his desk and the bars separating her from him. They discussed Jame Gumb, they discussed death and the hideous psychological profile of a killer. Outside of the Baltimore prison cell she had seen him in before he portrayed himself in a subtly different manner. Take away the bars of his cell and the spectacular room he was kept in was more befitting to his character. Give him the luxuries of music and art and he revealed a little more of himself.

She had responded in kind.

She had told him of her childhood and her fears, of the screaming lambs that woke her nightly as she searched for Catherine Martin. She had cried and in the final moments of their conversation she had seen a single tear form in his eyes in response.

She had often thought of it, the tear and the brief touch they shared as he handed her her casefile through the bars. She had tried to discover for herself what it meant. Did he feel for her, did he 

sympathise, was he merely sickly triumphant at his discovery of her vulnerability? She didn't think so, she believed that something had passed between them, connecting them all too briefly and changing her forever.

She looked down at her wine and then back at the kitchen, all the while the music elaborating her memories.

It was not the violence of that night he wished her to remember, but that moment.

-- --

She could hear him humming as he cleared the dinner things from the table. The occasional ring of crystal as he rinsed glasses. The surrealism of the situation was not getting any less. Dinner had been uneventful and uncannibalistic as far as she could tell, but then she didn't have much experience in the area. Clarice wandered closer to the fire and felt its heat on her legs. She was fuzzy with wine and food and her body was relaxed. He had of course been the perfect gentleman, pouring her wine, toasting her health, and every now and then through the glow of the candlelight between them she had seen him smile at her with a warmth that was unfamiliar to his face. She had been shocked by her reaction, the deep seated burn that washed through her as his hand closed over hers on the table.

Without thinking she dropped to her knees by the fire and gazed into it. Just as she had as a child on her uncle's farm. Loosing herself in the flame while the heat of it eased her muscles. Everything about the room was comforting and she felt her eyes close as the warmth fire caused her cheeks to tingle and burn.

He was standing over her, a glass of port in his hand. He looked amused.

'Comfortable down there Clarice? You'll spoil your dress,' he teased. She made to move, like a scolded child but he gestured for her to remain, handing her the glass and with an elegant movement joining her at the hearth. He rested one arm over a propped knee and regarded her as she sipped, the dark liquid staining her bare lips.

Uncomfortable in the intensity of his gaze she said 'Thank you for dinner, it was lovely.' But she had not fooled him; he knew only too well why she felt compelled to speak.

'You must learn to relax Clarice, leave your academy training behind and simply enjoy,' he winked at her again and she blushed, immediately berating herself for such a response on her behalf. She shifted uncomfortably and he pursed his lips in amusement.

'You're enjoying this aren't you?' she said accusingly.

'Well of course, I have long desired to enjoy your company.'

I think it would be quite something to know you in private life...



'That's not what I mean and you know it.'

'Ah, a flash of the Old Clarice,' he said biting his tongue between white teeth in his amusement. He saw her expression and relented. 'Let me assure you Clarice that I am not here to humiliate or to tease, unless that is you want me to...'

The innuendo was painfully sharp and she blushed again trying to rein in her feelings. A mixture of irritation and wanton desire ran through her.

'I'm sorry Clarice, that was uncalled for, please forgive me. Know that I mean you no harm... in any way. You have been free to leave from the moment you got here; the choices have always been yours.'

'They don't feel like mine at the moment...' she said but on reflection what he had said was true. She didn't think he would have stopped her if she'd taken his car and driven home. He had gone out of his way to make her comfortable and somehow she didn't think it was his style to drag on a game this long. If he wanted her dead, she would be dead. If he wanted to damage her he had had ample opportunity.

'What now?' she said.

He raised his eyebrows. 'Now?'

'Well you probably have a plan.'

'Not anymore,' he replied simply, 'My 'plan' as you so coarsely describe it was merely aid you in your liberation from the FBI and your rather dreary lifestyle and I have done that.'

She bridled at the words.

'Come come Clarice would you deny it, life has hardly been fulfilling for you of late. I daresay,' his tone changed, 'It has been somewhat lonely.'

'Yes,' the word was out before she had meant to form it.

'Yes,' he said sadly. 'I fear that at least some of that is my doing.'

'Dr Lecter you were missing for ten years I don't think you can claim to have influenced my choices in that time.'

'Can't I?' he held her eye and she looked away. 'Clarice you have never been far from my thoughts, I feel I may be right to assume that I was never far from yours.'

'That's very arrogant of you Dr,' she tried.

'Arrogant, maybe,' he conceded, 'Accurate, yes.'

She felt herself suddenly tiring under his analysis and rubbed distractedly at her left shoulder. The atmosphere changed subtly from the defensive clash of wits to one of sensuality. He followed her hand and without a word moved so that he was behind her, gently lifting her hair to one side. Clarice held her breath trying to ascertain if she felt fear or longing, if she anticipated pain or...



He dropped his lips to her shoulder and let fall a gentle kiss. Then with his hands he softly began to ease the muscles there, stroking down the length of her arm in gradually elongated movements. Finally he took her hand and wrapped it across her body, shifting himself so that he encircled her. Imperceptively Clarice moved backwards against him, savouring the warmth of his body accentuated by the heat of the fire. He waited and at last she relaxed into him, closing her eyes and breathing the scent of his cologne and the unique scent beneath of his skin. She felt his lips again at her neck.

She waited for his next move but it did not come, restricting himself to holding her and caressing her shoulder, the nuzzle of his mouth against her skin. With her body she tentatively suggested he move further but he ignored the direction of her hints. Minutes passed and still he had made no effort to pursue the situation.

In her mind Clarice waxed and waned, her body and heart telling her one thing, her critical intellect another. The turmoil went on and he seemed aware, keen that if she came to him it would not be on the spur of a moment but because it was desired by every element of her. She let her free hand slip to his thigh just above the knee and felt the muscles there beneath the soft fabric of his dinner suit, but when she attempted to explore further he merely replaced her hand gently to a more platonic spot.

'All good things to those who wait,' he said quietly, continuing his slow assault. A few more minutes and he pulled away, a final kiss on the tender nape of her neck, and replaced her hair carefully over her shoulders. Clarice was left on her knees by the fire, the burn of his mouth on her skin, and her thoughts whirling in confusion. He did not touch her again that night.