A/N: Shortish chapter, but it made sense to break the story this way. I'll post again soon. Thanks so much for your lovely comments - don't forget to leave me love!

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Kitty had almost managed to forget about the unpleasantness of the afternoon at the lawyers' and her eagerness to get the PRC matters sorted out had dimmed. She still had time up her sleeve. For now, the sun shone down, the wind rushed through her hair, and she'd managed to settle on one of those radio stations that played a great mix of oldies, most of which were in her CD collection at home. Adding to the peace was the fact that her driver had shut up for a while, seeming satisfied with what he'd uncovered so far.

She supposed it didn't matter what assumptions he made about the type of relationship she'd had with Andrew. With his father, she reminded herself, sneaking a look over at him. Yes, he definitely looked a little like Andrew. Behaved a little like him too, which opened up a whole heap of nature versus nurture arguments in her mind. She wondered why he needed the cane. His face bore the etchings of someone who lived in pain – Kitty had seen that enough in her work to know the signs. But he had a strong profile and he still held himself straight – no hunching over with the weight of living in agony. From experience, Kitty knew that probably said a lot more about his will than his injury. He was clearly strong. And it wasn't just the pleasingly bulging arms that told her that. She wondered why he didn't shave. It wasn't quite a beard, just enough stubble to make it look as if he hadn't been bothered to clean himself up for the world.

Would it prickle if she kissed him?

Suddenly he turned and gazed back at her, as if he'd felt her eyes on him, and Kitty was shocked by her own thoughts. Where had thinking about kissing him come from? One side of his mouth inched up in a lopsided smile, a knowing lopsided smile that Kitty felt bring the blood rushing to her cheeks. She had the strangest sensation that he could see inside her, just as Andrew had; that his gaze made transparent the carefully put together mask she wore. Of course, it was an entirely different mask now to the one she'd worn as a twenty-four-year-old when she'd first met his father.

"I don't know much about Andrew Barnes, but he had excellent taste in women," House said, raising his voice to be heard over the radio and the road noise.

"Eyes on the road!" Kitty scolded, not sure what else to say.

His eyes flicked back to the front, but Kitty still felt the heat of them on her.

"He did," House continued. "I mean, I'm sure that Rachael was a looker back in her day. My mom's a babe. And you're hot."

"What?" Kitty couldn't believe he was putting her in the same category as Rachael and his mother. It was vulgar, and obscene, and she'd bet a psychologist would have a field day with it.

"Just paint me a sign and call me Oedipus," he said cheerfully.

Kitty had no idea how to respond to that, but had to stifle the urge to giggle. It was funny. Wrong, but funny.

Instead she cleared her throat and looked out the window. Looking at him wasn't good for her composure. She wasn't sure if it was the vague resemblance to Andrew or just the man himself, but he unsettled her. Unsettled her enough that she'd blurted out details of her relationship with Andrew just like that. She supposed it didn't really matter, but still, she'd been upset enough to let something slip and he'd immediately picked it: Andrew had saved her. Let him think what he wanted, Kitty thought. She wasn't going to let that happen again.

Looking up from her reverie, Kitty found they'd turned off the freeway and were heading towards Plainsboro.

"Hey, where are we going?" she asked, realising that she hadn't actually told him where in Princeton she wanted to go.

"My work. I have to check in on a patient."

"What, now?" Kitty was annoyed, she'd been away from work for the whole day, she needed to get to her office and check her emails at least. "Can't you drop me off first? I have to get to work before the day ends too," she made a show of looking at her watch.

"It'll only take a minute."

"Yeah, right," Kitty muttered. She knew doctors and their "minutes", but she could tell from the set of his jaw that he wasn't going to be deterred. She sighed. "Which hospital?" Kitty figured while he was busy she could perhaps do a little networking, bring her usual scheduled visit forward. Then, she'd just get a cab back to the office. That way the day wouldn't be completely wasted.

He picked up his cell phone without answering her. "Wilson?" she heard him ask. There was a brief conversation which centred on the other person being in the car park for some reason. Of course, Kitty realised, he wanted to show off the car.

"Which hospital?" she repeated again, once his call was complete.

"Princeton Plainsboro," he answered without looking at her. They took a left, and Kitty recognised the road, they were only a minute or two away.

"Lisa Cuddy," Kitty said. "She's the Dean, right? She's great." And flexible with her diary too, Kitty thought. With any luck she might be able to get a meeting with her to discuss cooperative funding for the next research project. That way this detour wouldn't be a complete waste of time.

He gave her a quick look. "Great? Dunno about that. She's my boss."

"You report to the Dean?" Kitty asked shrewdly. "So you must be a head of department." Kitty recalled the words of the lawyer. He'd said they'd made sure that this scheme of Andrew's would work. The Council had to have a senior doctor as Chair and, as a head of department at one of Princeton's major hospitals, this guy definitely qualified. Kitty felt like an insect in a spider's web, getting spun more deeply into someone else's trap with every passing hour.

"Yep, diagnostics," he answered, smoothly pulling the car into a disabled car space.

"Oh," Kitty said mildly, while her brain tried to place why that rang a bell. Suddenly the pieces clicked together and she turned to face him, stunned. "Oh shit, you're Greg House."

"At your service," he said, giving her a mock bow.

Kitty felt her stomach turn over.

Before she could react further, a guy called out to them from across the car park.

"House! Oh. My. God!"

House gave her a wide grin before getting out of the car to meet the man who was rushing towards them. The two of them stood admiringly in front of the car, while the new guy asked a battery of questions.

Kitty just sat there feeling sick. She might as well kiss the trust fund goodbye right now. Greg House was the biggest pain in the ass this side of the equator. And she knew firsthand that he had no love of the PRC.

She forced herself to swallow down the sense of defeat. She'd never given up easily in her life. It was no time to start now.

-

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House couldn't have been more pleased by Wilson's astonished look: if his eyebrows went any higher, they'd crawl off his face.

"It's got a seven-speed sports transmission and a six-liter twin-turbo engine," House explained. "It just purred along the freeway. And my leg doesn't hurt after all that driving!" he added. "Leather seats. With warmers in them for the winter."

"You still owe me five hundred bucks," Wilson said, jealousy starting to peek through.

"I know," House said, forcing himself to look mournful about that, but inside he was jumping up and down with glee. If he'd known a simple automobile could make him this happy, he'd have gone and bought one ages ago.

"And what about the blonde," Wilson asked under his breath. "She an optional extra with the car?"

"No she's . . ." House paused, unsure how to describe how Kitty fitted in to the picture. Saying she was his father's ex-mistress would be satisfyingly shocking, but for some reason he didn't want Wilson to know that.

Before House could explain further, Kitty got out of the car and walked over to them.

"Dr Wilson," she said, holding out her hand to him. "It's nice to see you again. I'm not sure if you remember me—"

"Catherine, right?" Wilson answered, shaking her hand. "We met at a fundraiser?" he asked uncertainly.

"That's right. The PRC dinner in November."

He nodded. "That's it."

"Catherine?" House asked, curious. He'd only heard her referred to as Kitty. He guessed Kitty could have been a pet name, or a derivation of Catherine.

Kitty ignored him. "Dr House was kind enough to give me a ride back to Princeton after we met at the will reading. The estate included a bequest to the PRC," she explained.

"Ah, that's great, you guys do important work," Wilson said.

Kitty glared at House, as if trying to drive home exactly what Wilson was saying. House didn't care, there was no way he was going to do the bidding of a dead man.

"Did Dr House tell you about the rest of his bequest?" Kitty asked.

"There's more?" Wilson said, turning to House in surprise.

"No, there's not. Just the car." House turned and began walking towards the hospital, catching Wilson's arm and pulling him with him. "I need to get inside and talk to my team. Find out what's happening with what's-her-name."

Kitty walked along with them. "Actually there is more. He was also bequeathed a house in Spring Lake and an apartment in Paris, with just one small catch."

"Small catch," House muttered.

Wilson pulled his arm from House's grip and stopped to face Kitty. "Really? An apartment in Paris?"

"And a lake house," Kitty confirmed.

"I'm not doing it," House said with finality.

"Unfortunately Dr House is not entitled to the properties unless he takes on the position of Chair of the PRC for a year."

"What?"

"I'm not doing it," House repeated.

Wilson started laughing. "Are you sure your biological father didn't know you well?" he said through his mirth.

"Why?"

"Because this is just the sort of ironic bullshit that you would usually love."

"What?" House was getting angry. He didn't want to think about the rest of the bequest so he couldn't have second thoughts about giving up a property portfolio probably worth a million dollars. Maybe more. It was easier not to think too much about it.

"Greg House as the Chair of the Pain Research Council. It's fantastic." Wilson said, laughing again.

"Pain Research Council?" House asked. So that's what the PRC is, he realised. Not prostitutes' rights. Not rejected cats. Not even painters of the Renaissance. Then he realised something else and whirled around to face his blonde driving companion. "Catherine? Catherine Brecht from the Pain Research Council? The pain pest?"

"At your service," she said wryly.