See disclaimer in Chapter 1. Chapter 6, Four Days in Boston by Vplasgirl.

Chapter 6 – Four Days in Boston

At eleven o'clock Friday evening Gil was in his Boston hotel room typing the last few words of yet another chapter into his laptop. This is child's play, he thought as his fingers pounded the last word and period on the keyboard. Sitting back, he let out a tired sigh and smiled. At this rate, his first draft would be completed weeks ahead of schedule.

Becoming a novelist was turning out to be much easier than anticipated. Not that he had expected it to overtax his brain, but to date it hadn't been much of a challenge either. He quickly secured representation from a renowned New York agent at first contact. He had chosen her carefully, and then sent a synopsis of his book along with his credentials. A phone call later, a contract had arrived by messenger. As luck would have it, Debbie Broker already knew him—or knew of him by reputation. He reflected that he would never be able to publicly tell of his first publishing experience without pissing off an entire generation of writers. It had been too easy for him, and he often had to temper his enthusiasm by reminding himself that the book wasn't sold yet, despite Debbie's conviction that it would be an easy sell; the literary world, it seemed, couldn't get enough crime novels.

Wondering if he was just destined to succeed at everything he touched, Gil powered down his computer. The desk lamp bathed a small corner of his room in a warm yellow glow, but outside the night was black. At the window, he looked down at the street, wet and shimmering in the light of ornamental lampposts. But the torrential rain that had kept him in the city an extra day had thankfully stopped.

He wondered if the rain had stopped at the Cape as well, and if so, if Sara was lying under the stars. He should have been settled in her attic room tonight instead of being holed up in an impersonal hotel room in the heart of Boston.

Turning from the window, his eyes fell on the phone on the bedside table. He hadn't spoken to Sara since they dropped her off after their Independence Day outing on Dan's boat on Monday. He left for Boston the next morning, but she'd been sneaking into his thoughts all week, sometimes distracting him at odd moments.

On Wednesday it was during a luncheon meeting with the Dean and his soon-to-be predecessor in the Department of Entomology at Harvard. They met at an unpretentious French bistro in Cambridge, near the Museum of Comparative Zoology where he would be spending a sizeable chunk of his life over the next three years. It was the restaurant's copious vegetarian menu that had brought her suddenly to mind.

The following day, it happened during a meeting with his lawyer to finalize the purchase of the condominium. It was official; he would be taking possession on August 25th, a few days before the fall session began. But he had found himself hesitating as he was about to sign the sales contract, wondering if Sara would want to live in Boston during the winter months. Then startled at the strange and premature notion, he quickly scrawled his name on the legal document.

The woman who had sworn off meat years ago now enjoyed a good steak. The talented scientist ran a B&B and had become an accomplished photographer. She seemed to have gone to great lengths to change everything about her life, and more importantly, cut all ties with her past. Why would he even dream that she still wanted him? How often, over the years, had he doubted that she had still felt something for him in the end? If she had, would she have left the way she did?

Gil lay back on the bed and threw his right arm over his head, letting the memories of their last night together six years ago wash over him. The details should have dimmed over time, but he had relived that night in his mind too many times to have forgotten a second of it.

| MAY 2005 |

There was something in her eyes as she opened the door to her motel room that did him in before he could explain why he had come. She must have seen something similar in his gaze for she never asked why he was there, only took his hand, and drew him into her room with more confidence than she had ever displayed in her personal association with him. Before the door clicked shut, her lips had closed over his in a kiss that seared him to his soul, and years of repressed desire unleashed into his system. There was no place for words then, only passion as nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt and a sure hand guided him to her bed. He was barely aware of his own hands shaking as he quickly disrobed her. They tumbled onto the mattress, and his fingers delved into her hair, angling her mouth toward his for a long passionate kiss that left them both breathless.

"Gris, make love to me," she whispered against his lips. There was something urgent, almost pleading in her request, and it was the sexiest thing he had ever heard. Although sex had been the last thing on his mind as he drove out to the motel on the edge of town where she had been staying after giving up her apartment, in that moment, he was powerless to deny her anything.

He had come to ask her to stay. He had planned to tell her that he loved her, but her near naked body was moving beneath his, and the delicate scrap of white lace barely hiding her sex drove him beyond thought. His tongue sought out her breasts, her nipples, hard and enticing and she moaned. He looked at her face then, at her eyes, gently begging him, and he was swept by a wave of passion and lust so powerful, that he forgot everything he had come to say.

Later, when he was buried deep inside of her, and his heart was pounding at the sheer joy of finally having her, he remembered, but she wasn't listening. Her eyes were closed, and she was making erotic little noises in her throat as he slowly thrust into her, despite the urgent need that drove him, encouraged him to go faster, give to her harder, demanding her release and making him pray that he could control his own until he had satisfied her. And when each pulse of her orgasm drew him nearer to his own, he tried to speak…

"Sara—"

But that was as far as he got.

By the time his breathing and heartbeat had returned to normal, Sara was already dozing, her body curled into his side and her head resting on his chest. He loved the way she felt in his arms, thrilled at being able to look at this face he loved without fear of revealing too much of what was in his heart. No one was looking, and she finally knew, had to have realized with every murmured endearment, every touch, every kiss he had bestowed upon her soft skin. Words had not been necessary after all—not those words, at least—and tomorrow, he would find the right ones to convince her to stay.

Turning off the light, Gil pulled the blanket over their naked bodies and hugged her close to his heart. Soon, he too had found sleep.

The next morning, he awoke with a jolt. He felt Sara's absence even before his eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the shabby motel room, the sun not quite penetrating the tacky, velvet drapes at the window. His breathing quickened as he quickly sat up, taking in the evidence, even as his heart rejected it, that she had left. But the suitcase that had lain open on the room's only chair the night before was gone. So were her handbag and the keys she had discarded on top of the dresser. All that was left was a scrap of paper on the chipped bedside table, which he picked up and unfolded with unsteady fingers.

Grissom,

Thank you for last night … for knowing exactly what I needed. I will never forget you.

Sara

"Dear God … no!"

He left the bed, barely noticing how rough and cheap the carpet felt under his feet, and hastily dressed. He rushed outside, hoping, despite the gnawing suspicion in his gut that she had merely gone to the restaurant across the parking lot. But his heart sank further when he noticed that her rental car was gone.

Frustrated, he strode to the front office and pounded the bell on the counter. The middle-aged woman that emerged from the back didn't bother concealing her annoyance. "Can I help you?"

"The woman in 8B…Sara Sidle, when did she check out?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't give out that information."

Gil yanked his LVPD identification card from his pocket and slapped it down on the counter. The woman looked at it, then up at him. "She checked out twenty minutes ago. Why? What has she—"

Gil pocketed his card and muttered a quick thank you as he left the office. Outside, the already scorching sun beat down on him as he placed a call to Sara's cell phone only to get a recorded message that the customer he was attempting to reach was not available. His jaw clenched, he snapped the phone shut and stood for a long time on the hot pavement, watching the highway traffic speed by. Ten days later, the recorded voice that greeted him announced that the number was no longer in service.

| PRESENT TIME |

Gil sat up on the edge of the bed. He could never recall that morning without feeling a little bit of the heartbreak he had felt then, and for months afterward. The pain had eventually subsided, of course, and when it had, and all that were left were regrets and the occasional melancholic moment, he had been happy to finally be free of her.

It was strange how seeing her again had brought it all back as though it had happened yesterday; not the gut-wrenching pain of six years ago, but an unsettling feeling of anxiety that was with him all the time.

Gil rose from the bed and went to the tiled bathroom for a shower, but as much as he tried to refocus his thoughts, they kept drifting back to Sara and the choices he had made in life.

His move to the East Coast was unfolding according to plan just as his entire career had. And it was hardly surprising. He had concentrated all his energies on work and study his entire life, and his accomplishments were now opening the right doors. Had he listened to Brass who had advised him to find the clock-out button, or to Catherine's, 'You got to lift your head out of that microscope,' he might not have made it to the top of his field. He might not have earned the respect and esteem of his colleagues nationwide, and been touted as having elevated the reputation of the Las Vegas crime lab to one of the best in the country, second only to the FBI's, but in all fairness, his lab hadn't enjoyed the liberal funding afforded only to the FBI.

Despite what it had cost him personally, Gil was proud of his career, and it occurred to him now that he had had few professional failures, none if one considered that a 100 percent solve rate was impossible to achieve. Sustained perfection simply didn't exist. But he had always achieved the lab's goals, and year-over-year had been able to raise the bar.

A few years ago, as the keynote speaker at the annual Entomology conference in Philadelphia, he was introduced by a colleague as a bug lover who led a charmed life. At the time, Gil couldn't disagree with his assessment, but in retrospect, it hadn't been a balanced life. He had devoted it to his career, led by his fascination with the unusual and cautioned by witnessing the devastation of love—beginning with his mother—which had made him leery of romantic entanglements. He hadn't even longed for the companionship of a woman until very late in life, and even then he figured he would pursue someone who would complement him without all the trappings of romantic love.

Except that he had met many women who fit that description, but none who made him want to settle down. He had to lose Sara to understand why. Despite the chaos that loving someone could bring to an ordered life, Gil had never been motivated to commit to someone he didn't feel that bone-deep yearning for.

Perhaps he had never failed at anything because he had never tackled anything he could fail at, such as a loving, committed relationship with a woman.

The hot sprays of the shower failed to warm his body. As he left the bathroom wrapped in the thick robe provided by the hotel, he was shivering. He could turn off the room's air conditioning, but he suspected it wouldn't cure what really ailed him. At the end of August, when the time came to leave Provincetown, would he be reliving the agony Sara had left in her wake when she left Vegas six years ago?

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his gaze falling once again on the telephone on the side table. What was wrong with him that he hadn't even called her to let her know he would return a day later than planned? Instead, he asked Dan to relay the message. Gil sometimes thought he was his own worst enemy.

He abruptly picked up the phone and dialed a number he had already memorized, and then held his breath until he heard Sara's soft greeting.

"Summerhouse."

"Hi."

"Grissom?"

"Yeah." And suddenly realizing how late it was, he quickly added, "I hope I didn't wake you."

"No. I was just going to bed."

"Right. I shouldn't keep you. I was just, uh… I wondered if…" Damn! Gil momentarily closed his eyes and gave his head a shake. "Did Dan give you my message?"

"About not arriving until tomorrow? Yes."

"Good. Good." He was supremely aware of his heartbeat as he searched for something more to say. A moment passed, then, "I'm uh…looking forward to your exhibit." That wasn't so bad.

"I wish I could say the same."

"Nervous?"

"A little."

He smiled and felt himself relax. "Don't be. I'm sure you're as brilliant at this as you are at everything else."

"Thanks," was all Sara said, and in the ensuing silence, Gil wondered, now what? He missed her, but he could hardly tell her that. Talking about the weather seemed too obvious and…unsophisticated. Who was he kidding? He really was a rookie at this. And then Sara suddenly saved him from certain embarrassment. "I heard on the news that the storm hit Boston pretty bad," she said, and hope flared inside him. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who didn't want the call to end.

"Yes, but it gave me a chance to finish another chapter."

"You mentioned it was a crime novel. Would I recognize the plot?"

Gil propped a pillow up against the headboard, and settled back. "I don't think so…at least not from cases we've handled. You may recognize the heroine though. She's a lot like you."

"Really?" Sara seemed genuinely surprised by his admission. "Are you sure you want that novel to sell?"

Gil chuckled. "My editor is already in love with her." As he was. And should be. How else would readers fall in love with his heroine if he wasn't already in love with her? But that was more information than he was willing to share at the moment.

After a beat, Sara asked, "What's her name?"

"Olivia Sharpe," he replied without hesitation. Other than his editor, Gil hadn't shared the particulars of his novel with anyone. Even what he had told Dan was sketchy at best. It seemed too personal, too revealing, a feeling he knew he had to overcome before the book hit the shelves. But interestingly, he didn't mind sharing it with Sara.

"Mmm… nice, strong name, yet… How is she like me?"

"Well," he started, "she is strong, courageous, smart…" He sucked in a breath and very deliberately added, "beautiful, of course," which earned him a throaty chuckle. He hadn't even realized how much Sara had inspired his Olivia until she asked about the novel that first night on her terrace. He had spent the week going back and making minor adjustments so she wouldn't be so easily recognizable to people who knew them. But he hadn't changed the fundamentals of her personality or much of her physical appearance, only tweaked her back-story. He wondered now if unconsciously he had created a character so like her that she would someday pick up his book and know how much she had meant to him. The realization left him suddenly introspective, so he had to force himself to resume a lighter tone. Tongue-in-cheek, he asked, "You aren't going to sue me, are you?'

"Are you kidding? You're way too good for my ego." Was it possible that what he thought of her still mattered to her? Hope flared but for a brief moment, like a match in the wind. "How many women can say they were the inspiration for the heroine of a novel?"

"Right. Well, I hope I do you justice."

"I trust you, Grissom," she said softly, and despite his better judgment, he let the words warm their way into his heart. He couldn't remind her that she hadn't always trusted him, the memory of their last night together still too fresh and raw in his mind. And as angry as her disappearance had made him feel all these years ago, in the rational part of his brain—when he eventually allowed it to surface—he hadn't blamed her. In fact, he was just beginning to realize that the problem between them had been that he hadn't trusted her.

Suddenly he wasn't grasping for something to say…it was all there, perhaps too much of it, but nothing that he was willing to discuss over the phone.

"Sara…"

"Mmm?…"

"Tomorrow—after the exhibit—I'd like to take you to dinner."

"Yes, Dan said you would," she replied without hesitation.

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't he tell you? Oh. He didn't. Well, he said that the two of you would take me out to my favorite Italian place in Truro."

Gil swallowed his disappointment that they wouldn't be alone. But then, they would have plenty of opportunities for some time alone over the next few weeks. "Good," he finally said, "I'll see you tomorrow. Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Grissom. And thanks for calling."

Gil frowned at her perfectly pleasant, damned professional ending to the conversation. He cleared his throat, but his voice still felt scratchy when he replied, "Goodnight, Sara."