Chapter Four

It was a frighteningly nice car. The seats were plush and leathery, the air was comfortably warm, the stereo was gently playing something that sounded like Vivaldi, and not a single bump in the road jarred either passenger. She still didn't want to be there.

"Tell me you're just having a hard week, because if you're always this paranoid-psychotic you need a keeper," Jareth said, sounding halfway between a groan and a chuckle.

Sarah bristled, ignoring the goose bumps caused by an icy coat and wet pants sticking to her. "As a matter of fact, I am having a bad week. It started last night when I first saw you, and I doubt it's likely to improve over the next six days unless you turn out to be some sort of recluse," she snapped. She did not need a keeper! It was his fault that she was so off balance.

Jareth shrugged, seemingly unaffected by her temper, though the dim lights of the dashboard briefly caught the smile that played across his face. "Where do you live?" he asked, slowing the car slightly as another gust of wind tried to blow them into a ditch.

The abrupt question caught her off guard. Grudgingly, she had to admit that it was very kind of him to drive her home, but she didn't like the idea of him knowing where she lived. Of course, the alternative was probably going to his place, which was definitely somewhere she had no desire to go. Rather dealing with him on her own territory, she gave him directions. Briefly, she wished that there were more back-roads they could have taken so that he wouldn't realize how close they lived to one another.

The ride was mercifully and horrifyingly short. She was ten yards from the safety of her front door; unfortunately, so was he. By now Jareth had to realize that they lived a measly two miles apart. Sarah could escape him now, provided she could outrun him to the house, but good chances were he'd just show up later, probably unannounced and expecting her cooperation as most annoying neighbors were wont to do. She eyed him as he started to undo his seatbelt. So which was the lesser of two evils: him inside her house right now or him outside her house, demanding who knows what, later?

There was really no contest between the two.

Sarah bolted from the car, made it to the door, and was fumbling with her key when he slammed one hand against the door and the other one on the wall just past her ear, leaving her trapped between a jammed door and a man that was either extremely amused or slightly pissed.

Though her wild dash had entertained Jareth, he'd be lying if he said it hadn't irritated him. He'd been nothing but polite to this woman (perhaps a bit sarcastic and mocking, but only playfully so), had rescued her from a five mile trek through gale-driven sleet, and she was still acting as though he were some sort of serial killer waiting to strike. It chaffed; he'd been on his best behavior so far and the nymph was still letting some misconception color her actions. For a moment it made him wonder what had happened to her to make her distrust so badly, to make an otherwise delightful woman back herself into a world of fantasy. Who was this man she thought him to be, who she wanted so desperately to escape?

She wiggled a bit, stepping closer to the door, which brought him back to the present.

Jareth generally considered himself an honorable man. He was assisting this woman home and making sure she didn't get hypothermia or pneumonia; the honorable thing to do would be to ignore temptation, to forget about his growing lust, for the time being, and see to it that she was properly taken care of.

Unfortunately, he considered himself more basely mischievous than honorable, and resisting temptation had never been an easy thing for him to do.

He leaned into her sweet curves, further trapping her against the door. Resting his head on her shoulder, lips close enough to brush the curve of her ear, Jareth murmured lowly, "You're the damnedest woman I've ever met." And when she shivered he couldn't help but catch her small hoop earring with his teeth and give it a delicate tug.

"Look, it was really nice of you to see me home, but we're here now and there's really no reason you shouldn't be on your way," she stuttered quickly, trying to crane her head away from him, but succeeding only in laying her forehead against the door.

He started to shake his head but the motion turned into a nuzzle, mid-gesture; he was too close to her to do much else. "I don't see any other cars here; you live alone, don't you? You're sopping wet, freezing cold, your car is miles away, and the phone lines are probably down. What shall you do if you suddenly take ill out here by yourself; go to a neighbor? Darling, I'm the closest you've got. So we can go inside now and get you warmed up before you catch something, or you can wait until you're delirious with fever before seeking out some help. Either way, it comes back to me, so let's not be stubborn about this, alright?"

Jareth slipped the key ring out of her frozen fingers, backed both of them up a few paces, and opened the door.

Sarah was sitting in her bedroom, trying desperately to regroup.

The enemy had invaded her territory now, and there didn't seem to be anyway of getting him to leave. Calling the police would definitely work but, damn her luck, he had been right about the phone lines being down. She could probably escape out one of her windows, but she really didn't have anywhere to go, and in this weather without a car the idea was nothing short of suicidal.

It was frightening how quickly he had taken things in hand. The second they had gotten through the door he had started navigating her kitchen as if he had lived there just as long as she had, putting the kettle to boil while ordering her to go change into something warm and dry. Her last glimpse, before darting up the stairs, had been of him pulling out two mugs and the sugar bowl from the correct cabinet on his first guess.

The only thing more frightening than his unerring accuracy was the few seconds she had spent plastered to him, back to front. Jareth hadn't kissed her, hadn't moved his hands from their stationary positions; okay, so there'd been a bit of nuzzling and nipping, but his teeth hadn't made any actual contact with her skin, so it really shouldn't have made her feel as light-headed as it had. Sure, the panic had still been there, trying to guide her actions, but that decade of attraction, which had seemed to go into hiding the second she had seen him, was slowly creeping its way back into her perspective.

That single tug on her earring, that brush of teeth against cold metal, had stirred a hunger in her deeper than any achieved by men who had actually laid their lips to her skin. How was it that this man could get a greater response out of her by doing practically nothing, while others had done their damnedest and left her feeling nothing but cold? Her hormones were obviously twisted.

Sarah took a fortifying breath, somehow knowing that a few more minutes would find him in her room to see what was taking her so long, and made her way down to the kitchen as slowly as was humanly possible.

Jareth was leaning lazily against her counters, idly stirring a steaming cup, which he handed to her, then proceeded to the other mug for himself. Despite his insistence that he help her, it struck Sarah as strange that he should bother himself with her comfort at all. She wasn't used to being taken care of; even when living with her own family, she had been expected to do most things for herself. Which begged the question, "Why do you care?"

He looked up from his hands, a smile playing about the corner of his lips, and raised a brow. "It bothers you, doesn't it?" Jareth asked quietly, a laugh rippling his rich voice. "You strike me as the sort of girl who refuses to relinquish control until she absolutely has to."

"I asked for an explanation, not to be psychoanalyzed," Sarah snapped, trying to ignore the wonderful heat seeping back into her fingers from the mug.

"You have no idea how tortured I've been these past two and a half months: deadlines creeping up on me, ideas that refused to be written, characters that were flatter than a collapsed flan, and no matter what I did I couldn't make any of it right. So I packed all my things up and headed out into wild country, but I knew unless something happened, good chances were I wasn't going to have any easier of a time writing than before," his long fingers twirled a spoon as he spoke, the motion so fluid it seemed as though the spoon could keep going long after he had let go.

"And?" she asked irritably, trying to figure out how what he was saying had anything to do with the question she had asked.

"And then you came along," Jareth replied, sounding oddly triumphant. The dim kitchen lights sparkled in his hooded eyes, making them shimmer like mysteriously bright sapphires, and his smile was just a shade too predatory for Sarah's comfort. "You stood on my doorstep last night looking like a lost angel, sweet and endearing features gilt by the setting sun." He chuckled. "And then you opened your mouth and revealed that you are, quite possibly, a lunatic. I have to thank you for being insane and overly suspicious though, because had you not yelled out about a Goblin King, I rather imagine I'd still be fighting an uphill battle with my own writing."

She rolled one hand in the air, wordlessly urging him to continue.

"You eased my writer's block, which I figure puts me deeply in your debt. The best way I know how to pay you back is to make sure you don't get yourself into any trouble and, after today, I can see that I'm going to have to be rather vigilant to achieve that goal." Jareth set his mug down, pushed his lean hips off the counter, and caught either side of her face in a ghostly-light caress. "I rather like the thought of having you around; perhaps you can dispel the rest of my writer's block." When she opened her mouth to protest, he quieted her with a finger. "I'm not a man to be dissuaded, minx; you might as well get used to me, because I'm not going anywhere until this book done."

His little green-eyed beauty backed up, visibly disconcerted by his nearness and physicality. Poor thing looked as though she wanted to run back up to her room. When she took another faltering step away he realized that she intended to do just that, so he started circling her. She circled with him, never allowing him at her back, and not seeming to notice how he was crowding her further into the room, insinuating himself between her and the door.

"You can't just barge your way into somebody's life," she said stubbornly, glaring at him.

"I beg to differ, you did so last night. Now, for better or worse, we're stuck with each other," he replied, amused at the little bubble of space she tried to constantly keep between them.

She stomped a foot, like an angry child. "We're not stuck at all! All you have to do is turn around, go home, and forget you ever met me. It's really not that difficult."

Jareth shook his head. "No writer would so callously ignore a muse. Besides, I imagine it would be an exercise in futility, trying to forget you." He hadn't been kidding when he had said he was stubborn; she was too interesting to let go, his mysterious minx. It was better that she learned now, early on, that when Jareth set his mind to something all other possibilities ceased to exist. He wanted to know this woman; hewould know this woman, and any attempts on her part to dissuade him would simply enliven the chase. She had a hard time letting someone take care of her? That was nothing compared to how he intended to insinuate himself into her life. She had trouble relinquishing control? Well, she had better get used to the idea because this woman needed a keeper and he intended to be it.

Her lips pursed and her glare intensified as she came up against the counters he had previously been leaning on. "I want you out of my house," she said simply.

Slowly, he realized; he would have to ease her into this slowly. That didn't stop him from kissing her, however. The opportunity was just too good to pass up. She was a cornered little treat, almost completely at his mercy. His lips slanted over hers, hard but teasing.

He had expected resistance, the hissing and spitting of an enraged cat, but he was met with eager enthusiasm. The only fighting Jareth received was for control. Her lips worked gently under his, and he felt the nip of her teeth at the same moment her hands balled in his shirt, pulling him closer. Slipping his own hands around her waist, he crushed her against him and growled a warning. The woman was delusional if she thought for one second that he wasn't going to be the one pulling the strings.

And in that moment he saw that their relationship would be exactly like this kiss: playful and passionate and a constant fight for dominance.

Jareth pushed past the seam of her lips, using clever fingers to wring a gasp out of her, and swept his tongue into her mouth. His blood erupted with fire. There was something sweet and addictive about her, a subtle taste that a man knew he would want to sample over and over. And he would, he knew, at every opportunity possible. His body strung tightly at the endless possibilities he could imagine before them. If one kiss felt like heaven, how would two feel? What would it be like to run his hands over her without two layers of clothing between them?

All too soon her lips tore away from his own. She looked so lovely, flushed and panting, such a dream come true that he was beginning to think a short fling in Maine wasn't going to be nearly long enough with this woman.

A quiet hiss fled him as she shifted about, brushing against a part of him that was only too eager to make her acquaintance. She stiffened under him, as if suddenly coming back to herself. "I want you out of my house," she repeated, voice infinitely huskier this time around.

A fighter to the end, Jareth thought with admiration. That suited him just fine; it would make breaking her walls down just that much sweeter. With a last nip at her lips, he let her go. "Alright," he agreed, figuring he had pushed as far as he was going to be able to for this day. "But I'm coming back tomorrow to check on you."

She wouldn't open the door; that, Sarah knew with absolute certainty. A man who could make her fly apart so thoroughly, while still filling her with a bone-deep distrust, was someone to be avoided.

He was halfway to the door when he paused and turned back to her. "What's your name?" Jareth asked, that infuriating laugh back in his voice.

Too bewildered to wonder why he didn't already know or how he could kiss a stranger like that, too weary to consider whether he was the Jareth she knew acting out a very elaborate game, she told him. "Sarah."

He smiled, a quirk of the lips so dashing it would have left her weak in the knees had she not already been operating on overload. "Sarah," he repeated, making it sound like a wicked, sensual promise, before quietly making his way out.

She watched him get into his car from the window, watched as the headlights turned out of her drive and slipped into the night. The man was positively dangerous, she decided. There was no way she was letting him back in tomorrow.

After a quick scan, she found the key ring he had commandeered, ironically set atop her latest Corbett novel. With shaky fingers she hung the ring on its nail in the kitchen.

It took her a few moments to realize that the key to her backdoor was missing.

A/N: Hmmm… I'm still not sure if I'm satisfied with this chapter or not. What did you all think?

Please Review!

Disclaimer: The plot is relatively mine, the clichés are public domain at this point, and I do not own anything that came from Labyrinth.