A/N: I can't apologize for another long delay between chapters, because an apology suggests that I did something very wrong and won't do it again (promise :-) when I can make no such promise. The reality is that I have very little time to write and am doing the best I can to finish this story. I do, however, thank all of you who continue to be patient and send me notes of encouragement. All I can say about the next chapter is that it will be out as soon as humanly possible.

Thank you to Joan for her valuable insight into this chapter, and to Jo who betas almost everything I write.

Chapter Eleven

The patio lamps behind Patrick Armstrong were casting his face in shadows, yet Gil knew the moment the man spotted him. His eyes shifted over Sara's shoulder, strained in the darkness, then narrowed to cool slits of ice. However, it was a charming smile he directed at Sara when he said, "Well, well. We have company."

Sara turned in her seat. "Hey. You're back. Dan okay?"

"He will be."

Gil stepped up onto the patio and nodded at Armstrong. "Moved up your vacation?"

"An impromptu visit," he said. "I couldn't let another day go by without a little celebration."

"Celebration?"

"Of Sara's success, of course."

"Of course," Gil said in an indulgent tone meant to let Armstrong know he wasn't fooling anyone. Well, perhaps he was fooling Sara. It was impossible to tell. They looked a little too cozy in their cocoon of light with the cheerful chirp of crickets and the soothing lap of waves as background music. There was even the cry of a whip-poor-will joining in the melody.

No melody, however, was as soothing as the sound of Sara's voice when she said, "I've got coffee percolating if you'd like to join us."

She got to her feet and Gil looked at her for a moment, looking for what, he wasn't sure. A sign that she would rather he not leave her alone with Armstrong? Perhaps. But that was more than likely wishful thinking. What was more believable was that she was simply being a good hostess. As always.

The better gauge of his welcome came from Armstrong himself. Now that Sara had her back to him, he didn't bother hiding his displeasure. Gil hadn't expected him to echo Sara's invitation, of course, but he was unprepared for the predatory snarl on the man's face. It was daring him to accept, and because of that, Gil did.

He looked at Sara and tipped his head in the general direction of the kitchen. "I'll give you a hand," he said, and felt Armstrong's glare like pinpricks at the nape of his neck as he followed her inside.

"I didn't think you had any vacancy."

Sara glanced back at him. "I don't." In the kitchen, she got a serving tray from a lower cupboard, set three mugs on it, and filled them with coffee.

"It's a long drive for a quick visit."

"Oh, he's not going back tonight. He's—"

A soft knock and an even softer voice interrupted what she'd been about to say. "Ms. Sidle?" Standing in the doorway was a woman with gray-blue hair, the color of the large roses in her sundress. It gave her a monochromatic look. "Sorry to interrupt…"

Sara smiled. "You're not. I'll be right with you."

"Thank you," the woman said easing the door shut behind her.

"Would you mind taking the coffee out and keeping Patrick company while I take care of Mrs. Sofer?"

Of course he didn't mind. At least that's what he told Sara. In truth, the last person he wanted to be alone with was the unpleasant Patrick Armstrong. He was already steeling himself for it as Sara left the kitchen. The creamer was easy to find in the refrigerator, but he sighed when he just as quickly found the sugar dish tucked into a corner on the counter. So much for delaying the inevitable, he mused as he carried the tray outside.

Armstrong wasn't there.

Gil searched the darkness and finally spotted him at the pond, which so happened to be under the open kitchen window where he could have easily eavesdropped on his conversation with Sara. Well, well… His haughtiness wasn't above a little snooping. It almost made Gil like him a little.

Almost.

He cleared his throat and Armstrong whirled.

"Are the fish all tucked in for the night?"

Armstrong shot him a droll look, and then ambled back to the table. As he pulled a chair, his eyes flicked down to the tray Gil was carrying. "I didn't realize Sara puts her guests to work."

"She doesn't," Gil replied as he reluctantly sat across from Armstrong.

"Aw, Grissom, you can give up the pretense. I know where you sleep at night and as comfortable as I'm sure the Eagle's Nest Suite is, it doesn't compare to the comfort of Sara's bed."

Refusing to rise to Armstrong's bait—although it was difficult to ignore the shot of adrenaline to his vital organs at the possibility that this man was speaking from experience—Gil removed the items to the table one by one and set the tray aside. Then, he deliberately looked at Armstrong like a cat that had already lapped all the cream and slid the sugar dish across the table. "Sugar?"

Armstrong's eyes glittered. "I know what you want, Grissom, but don't for a minute delude yourself into thinking that I'll allow you to poach on my property."

"Your property? Is that what Sara is to you? A possession?"

"You're deliberately misinterpreting. Of course, I used "property" in the figurative sense. Although," Armstrong paused to add sugar to his coffee, "it wasn't that long ago that a woman was considered her husband's property. Surely, you remember the days, Grissom. You're what? Fifty?"

Gil wasn't about to correct him. He deliberately raised his mug to his lips and sipped. "Good coffee."

Armstrong gave his head a shake. "Regardless, there's something to be said for 'love, cherish, and obey'. The world was a much better place when women understood and accepted their role in marriage."

Gil carefully set his cup down. "For whom, do you think?"

"For everyone, women included. By God's design, women are nurturers, Grissom. And as much as the feminist movement brainwashed them into denying their true nature, all their mumbo-jumbo did was confuse them. Look deeper, what do you see?"

"Women who'd rather live in servitude to men?"

Armstrong smirked. "Strong shoulders," he said, "someone to shelter them from life's difficulties."

"And you think Sara is this woman?"

"I hope you were more observant as a criminalist. Isn't the evidence everything to you people?"

"You're right. I'm obviously missing something, so enlighten me, would you? What makes you think that Sara needs a man to take care of her when all you have to do is take one look at this place to know that she's doing quite well on her own?"

Armstrong slowly shook his head and sighed. "I believe you take pleasure in misunderstanding me. I didn't say that all women are incapable of looking after themselves, only that it's not what they want. Sara is doing a remarkable job of surviving using skills that come naturally to her. She's made a home for weary travelers and happily caters to them. She's not hiding from her true nature as so many women do these days. That's what I love about her."

Laughter rumbled in Gil's chest before he could stop it. He'd downplayed his dislike of Armstrong yesterday as nothing more than a natural reaction to a rival. The threat was gone, and his dislike justified. Give a man a rope…

"You find my feelings amusing?"

"Not at all. In fact, there's not much I find amusing about your attitude toward women in general and Sara in particular."

Armstrong looked down his nose at him. "Ah. A feminist, I see…"

"I don't put labels on common sense."

The air suddenly turned chilly. Or chillier. Up 'till then, Armstrong had at least smoothed the edges of his condescension and arrogance with practiced charm. But it was naked animosity burning in his eyes now, potent enough to put Gil on alert.

"I don't know who you think you are, Grissom. But if you think your holier-than-thou attitude is going to intimidate me, you have no idea who you're dealing with."

"I'm getting a pretty clear picture."

"You new-age men…" Armstrong continued as though Gil hadn't spoken. "You're part of the problem, not the solution, you know that? And know what else? Women respond to real men. Bleeding-heart liberals such as yourself don't hold their attention for long, which is probably why you're still snapping at her heels for attention when all you're getting for your efforts is a nice little pat on the head as she sends you up to your room."

This was it. In his thirty years as a criminalist dealing with the worst society had to offer, even having his masculinity called into question by some macho cops on occasion, Gil's control had never been so tested. What surprised him most, however, was his desire to punch something, preferably Armstrong's lofty nose. Not combative by nature, the surge of testosterone that made it difficult to ignore Armstrong's provocation was a new sensation. So, what was it about this guy that made him want to take the gloves off?

He took a deep breath, scolding his body to relax, and then swallowed the rest of his coffee, which had the desired effect of giving his heartbeat time to settle. He would not strike with his fists, not when he had a much more lethal weapon at his disposal. Armstrong, he suspected, was a worthy intellectual opponent, but Gil had an advantage. The man had revealed his weakness.

He slowly put his cup down and gave him a leveled look. "Aren't you wondering where she is?"

"Who? Sara?"

"It's strange that you didn't ask."

"I assumed she was taking care of a guest."

"Assumed? Or heard when you were listening at the window?"

Armstrong laughed. "Now why would I do that?"

"Well… perhaps because you're not as confident in your relationship with her as you'd like me to believe."

Armstrong sniffed haughtily. "Remember you said that when you're serving me coffee again in the morning. Has she fitted you for an apron yet?"

"Very funny, but not as amusing as your so-called feelings for Sara. You say you love her, yet you don't know the first thing about her. If you did, you wouldn't dare refer to her as your property." When Armstrong opened his mouth to speak, Gil lifted a hand. "I'm not finished," he said. "For a man who's been implying for the last," he broke off, made a show of looking at his watch, and was surprised that so little time had elapsed, "ten minutes that you and Sara are lovers, you appear overly concerned about my sleeping arrangements. Thou doth protest too much, methinks comes to mind." The glare Armstrong tossed his way marked the beginning of Gil's true enjoyment in the man's company. "It's from Hamlet," he added smoothly, and when Armstrong bared his teeth and started to get up, Gil tensed, still, uncharacteristically thought, 'Go ahead. Make my day,' and was almost disappointed when Sara chose that moment to join them.

Armstrong flopped back into his chair and turned a charming smile up at her. A real chameleon. "I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me."

"Sorry guys, this took longer than expected." Sara sat down and reached for the cup Gil handed her, although the coffee would be lukewarm by now. "Thanks."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Sofer have to leave earlier than planned. They asked if I'd mind serving them an early breakfast." Looking at Patrick, she said, "And, the Cape Inn has a room available. I reserved it for you." To Gil, she said, "Patrick expected the new suite to be available."

"That's what I thought." Gil bit back a self-satisfied grin. Instead, he got to his feet. "You two probably have business to discuss, so I'll leave you to it." To Sara he said, "Need help in the morning?"

Sara smiled up at him. "No. They asked for a light breakfast, no big deal. It won't throw me off schedule. But thanks for asking."

Gil returned her smile, and then politely nodded at Armstrong. "I hope your bed at the Cape Inn is as comfortable as the ones here."

It was smug of him. He knew it, but he couldn't help himself. After being subjected to the man's moronic views about women and being goaded with his imagined place in Sara's life, he figured he deserved it. But the look Armstrong gave him made him pause. There was something familiar and unsettling in his eyes, and Gil was trying to place it when Sara said, "Goodnight, Gris."

Gil made himself leave despite an uneasy feeling that he should stay. He entered his room in the dark and went to the open window. Sara and Armstrong were still on the patio, chatting quietly, fortunately not loud enough that he could hear their conversation. Gil left the window and moved about the room, turning on some lamps, restless. He detested Armstrong, no question, and not because he was pursuing Sara, although Gil would be lying if he said that hadn't been at the forefront of his initial dislike of the man. Now, it was something more disturbing that fed his animosity. Armstrong was a hypocrite. Deceitful. Gil was sure he'd never given Sara a hint of his condescension toward women, or he wouldn't be here.

Gil wondered how long it would take him to reveal his true persona. He considered warning Sara, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. Sara was a smart woman; she'd figure it out soon enough. She probably wouldn't appreciate his interference anyway. Probably wouldn't believe me. That thought rankled. He'd let Armstrong hang himself. A man like him couldn't hide his true nature indefinitely.

Gil went to his desk and turned on the computer. There was another email from Catherine, which he ignored for the moment. Gut instinct made him open his browser and Google Patrick Armstrong.

When he got 20,000 hits on the name, he sighed and refined his search. Eighty-four hits were more manageable, but after going through thirty of them, he lost patience and limited his search to photos. Armstrong's face came up on the first results page. Gil followed the link to a newspaper article. 'Local teacher arrested for spousal abuse.' He read, without surprise, that four years ago, an anonymous call had tipped police to a disturbance at the home of Patrick and Lena Armstrong. Mrs. Armstrong had been brutally beaten and taken to hospital for treatment. Their two children were placed in Child Services custody until a family member could be contacted.

Further searches revealed that Armstrong had pled no contest to the charge, and was fined 500 and sentenced to 30 days in prison. Since school had been out for the summer, the sentence had not interfered with his classes.

Shaking his head, Gil continued his search, although he had already confirmed what he had quickly suspected of Armstrong. After Sara had told him of the abusive household she had lived in as a child, Gil had read extensively on the abuser's psyche. On a gut level he had recognized the classic signs of a controlling personality in Armstrong, a man who had developed an idealistic view of a woman, believing that he had finally found the one who would fulfill his self-focused fantasies. All Armstrong saw in Sara was a woman who catered to people. A woman who embraced her giving nature and didn't expect anything for herself. He probably had her settled in his house, subservient to him and his children.

Gil was so immersed in his thoughts and the articles that kept popping up on Armstrong, all of them related to the same altercation, that he didn't immediately notice that the voices below were getting louder until he heard Sara say very succinctly, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What is wrong with me?" Armstrong shouted back.

His senses on full alert, Gil pushed out of his chair and rushed to the window. Down on the patio, Sara was trying to break free of Armstrong's strong grip on her upper arms.

"Let go of me!"

Gil didn't wait to witness more. He took the stairs two at a time and sprinted down the hall, past a young couple who had evidently seen or heard the same thing he did and came out of their room to investigate.

"What's going on?" the young woman called after him.

"Stay in your room," Gil ordered without stopping, without thinking that he might need reinforcement. Adrenaline pushed him forward, made his knees forget that they couldn't handle this pace anymore as he took the last flight of stairs down to the main floor. His heart was pounding when he reached the patio and flung open the door just as Armstrong delivered a backhanded slap across Sara's face.

"Get away from her!" His shout startled Armstrong and gave Gil the upper hand. He charged and tackled him, pushed him off the patio. Armstrong fell back, lost his footing and landed on his ass on the lawn. Catching his breath, Gil turned to Sara. "Are you okay?"

She nodded faintly, her eyes wide with shock, her hand cupping her cheek. Then her gaze shifted to Armstrong and Gil looked over his shoulder as the bastard climbed to his feet and straightened his shirt.

Rage was shooting out of his eyes as he stepped back up onto the patio and came at him. Gil's hands instinctively curled into fists, but Armstrong wasn't coming at him with his fists, but rather an index finger pointed at his face. "This is none of your business, you fucking pain in the ass."

"Wrong. And, you have a choice, Armstrong. Either you quietly leave this house right now, or I'll make sure you spend another few months behind bars for assaulting a woman."

Armstrong froze, but quickly snapped out of it. Gil had caught the flash of surprise in his gaze, but his voice, when he spoke, was arrogant as ever. "Well, well. Good job, master sleuth. You found the one black mark on my record. But you of all people should know that you can't believe everything you read. What all those bleeding heart liberals such as yourself didn't report was how she asked for it. The woman never listened, not even when it was for her own good. A man can only take so much provocation before he snaps. And he gets punished for it, as though he weren't entitled to self-defense."

"Self-defense?" Up until then Sara had remained silent. From shock, Gil guessed. But now she was seething. He could feel her anger building, rolling off her, and he instinctively took a step toward her. "Like you were defending yourself against me just now?"

"Shut up, you ungrateful bitch."

And all Gil heard after that was the sound of his fist connecting with Armstrong's jaw. The man staggered back against the table, and Gil lunged, grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "Get the hell out," he said between clenched teeth before flinging him toward the patio door.

Armstrong staggered, but soon regained his footing. He wiped his mouth and looked at Sara. "You…women don't know what's good for you. It's because of me you're fifteen thousand richer today. And you're not even that good. You'll never find another man who's going to go the distance for you the way I did."

"When did I give you the impression that I needed your help? You begged me to do this show." Fearless, Sara stepped forward, sidestepping Gil's protective hand to stand toe-to-toe with Armstrong. "I know guys like you, Patrick. I grew up with one. He constantly demeaned and threatened my mother, and when that wasn't enough to make him feel like a man anymore, he beat her. But in the end, she beat him. She killed him. I'll give you another choice, Patrick. You can stick around and find out if I'm my mother's daughter, or you can leave and never come near me again."

For a moment, Armstrong looked as if he would strike her again, but then seemed to catch himself. Instead, he cracked an arrogant smile and turned to Gil. "That's what you want? She's all yours," he said. "But I'd watch my back if I were you."

"The door's behind yours. Use it."

With a final sneer at both of them, Armstrong finally left.

Gil breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Sara. "Honey, are you okay?" He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, but Sara swiftly tipped her head sideways, avoiding his touch.

"Don't call me that," she snapped. "And don't you dare touch me."

Gil sucked in a breath, his hand falling to his side. With a final, cold glance directed at him, Sara marched into the house.

TBC

A/N: Sorry to leave this story on another cliffhanger, especially since I'm unlikely to post the next chapter for a while. I will try to make up for the potentially long wait with some terrific...romance? All I can say is that some of it is already written, and I'm looking forward to writing the rest. BTW, someone asked me how many chapters were left in this story. I can't give an exact number, but it shouldn't be more than three.