Wednesday - two days later

Sitting at her desk with her hand resting on the phone, Kitty couldn't help recalling the first phone call she'd made to Greg House – the one that had resulted in him nick-naming her the "pain pest". Although it had been over a year ago, she still remembered it with astonishing clarity. She spent a great deal of her day calling people, interrupting their schedule, mostly to ask them for money, time or some other favour, and so she was used to knock backs. She was even used to people occasionally being quite rude, perhaps even insulting. But nothing had ever come close to the phone call with Dr House – then or since.

Someone had suggested that he might be the right person to head up a new committee looking into alternative therapy treatments for chronic pain: acupuncture, aromatherapy, meditation and the like. She'd been told that Dr House himself had suffered an injury that left him in chronic pain – an infarction if she remembered correctly – and the board had agreed that approaching a senior and well-respected doctor, who just happened to be a pain patient himself, to chair the committee would be a wise and appropriate move.

Kitty's past meant she was more than familiar with bad language, and she was even familiar with having it directed at her. She'd occasionally been called a whore before, and back then perhaps she'd been able to understand why. But when she was being Catherine Brecht, Executive Director of the PRC, she wasn't prepared for it, she was wearing the wrong costume. It had affected her in a way she hadn't expected.

But he was mistaken if he thought she would give up that easily. Since that first, fateful call, she'd made it a task to call him every two months to remind him about the PRC and to invite him to contribute his time or his money, or both. He'd begun referring to her as his pain pest, because she refused to give up at just leaving a message. She called him from different phones from different locations so he couldn't recognise the number. It had become almost an amusement, trying to break the great, irascible Greg House. It was never quite fun, but it was a challenge and Kitty didn't back down from a challenge.

Now, thanks to Andrew's bequest, the challenge was even greater. Since she'd left House at Princeton Plainsboro two days previously, she'd increased her call schedule quite dramatically – from every two months to every two hours. And, according to her watch it was time again. So, after taking a long swallow of her strong morning coffee, she steeled herself and picked up the phone.

"Dr House? This is Catherine Brecht," she began, trying to sound bright, trying to sound as if it was the first time she'd said those words.

"Catherine? I don't know anyone called Catherine." His voice was carefree and she knew he was playing with her. Again. He must be enjoying these calls on some level, she realised, because otherwise he simply wouldn't answer his phone.

She sighed. "It's Kitty. Kitty Brecht."

"Oh, Kitty!" He pretended to be surprised. "I haven't heard from you in ages. I'd say it's lovely to hear from you, but it's not."

"I just thought we could discuss—"

"No. Goodbye."

The line went dead. Faster than usual – maybe he was with a patient. Kitty sat back in her office chair, shaking her head. She recalled Einstein's definition of insanity, something along the lines of doing the same thing and expecting a different result. Well, if that was the definition, then she definitely was. Insane. Certifiable.

That was now the eighth phone call to him since the will reading. Each call had gone almost exactly the same. First, he pretended not to know her until she used the name Kitty. Then he'd rebuff whatever approach she'd come up with to get him to reconsider taking up the position with the PRC. She'd offered him a site visit, a personal meeting with the board, a chance to review the Council's operating plans, whatever – she'd wracked her brains to think of a way to capture his interest. None of it had worked.

There had to be something he was interested in, she'd thought. So she'd done some research, even calling James Wilson whom she knew only vaguely. But everything she'd gathered told her nothing of importance. She'd found that Dr Greg House cared about – in roughly this order – solving puzzles, bourbon, music, monster trucks, and some daytime medical soap opera that Kitty had never heard of. He also appeared – like her – to spend a significant amount of time alone; he had no family and, according to Dr Wilson, who'd mentioned it without Kitty asking, no wife or current girlfriend. It wasn't much to go on, and it wasn't anything she could use to build a case for him to reconsider the position with the PRC.

Kitty sighed and sat back heavily in her chair. She hated giving up. It was hard-wired into her DNA to fight and keep fighting. Her mother had drilled it into her since grade school. And look where that attitude got her, a little voice piped up in Kitty's head. She shook her head to get rid of the thought.

Andrew had always told Kitty she was a fighter. She smiled, remembering the way he used to tease her, calling her his little Jedi Knight and ruffling her hair proudly. Then her smile faded, as usually happened when she had warm thoughts about Andrew. Somehow her brain seemed unable to remember good times with him without immediately calling up one of the less pleasant ones.

Kitty got up from her desk, turning to look out the window as the bile rose in her throat just thinking about the night Andrew had proudly introduced her to his friends, announcing she'd won the top prize in her MBA class. And how later the carpet, expensive as it was, had burned her knees. She stifled the urge to retch and coughed shallowly instead, covering her mouth with her hand to try to hold in her revulsion. The men had always liked her being part of Andrew's parties. The men had liked her.

Until the past few days, she'd thought that the public version of "Kitty" Brecht had been buried a long time ago. But she had to admit that every now and then a small part of her popped through into Catherine Brecht's world; whether it was charming a potential donor, smoothing over an administrative problem or even putting on her brave, "I don't care" facade during difficult situations. That was one that Kitty had perfected and Catherine wasn't above bringing Kitty out when the situation warranted it. When she had to fight hard. And she'd spent the past six years fighting hard for the PRC, making a difference – a small difference – but a difference to people who lived in pain.

She wasn't going to let Greg House get in the way of her half-million dollar bequest. Regardless of what a prick he was to her on the phone.

Then it clicked. She let out a small laugh as she realised she had the solution.

That repulsive memory, vile as it was, had brought her the answer. Men liked Kitty.

Greg House was a man. A lonely man, by all accounts.

A man who already called her Kitty.

It was simple really. He didn't stand a chance.

-

-

House was packing up for the day when he saw the shadow of someone at his door from the corner of his eye. If it was Cuddy with a new patient she was going to get a very quick, unequivocal dismissal, possibly invoking threats to her job, her home and her person. If it was anyone else, he'd be even ruder.

"Dr House?"

House rolled his eyes as he recognised the voice. He should be able to recognise it instantly by now, he realised, having heard it on the phone so many times in the past two days. He actually been kind of enjoying their phone war and had noticed the lack of phone calls from her that afternoon after he'd hung up on her during the morning. Clearly she'd decided to give up on the telephone and give the personal approach a try.

"I'm leaving," he said, his voice brooking no argument, refusing to even give her the courtesy of looking up at her. He stood up from his seat at his desk and shoved his iPod into his backpack in demonstration of his intentions.

"I'll only take a moment of your time."

Kitty's voice had a new tone to it, one he hadn't heard before. It was smooth, like warm caramel; bewitching. He looked up and remembered all over again how attractive she was; her shiny blonde hair, blue eyes, curves in all the right places. She was wearing a simple black dress with a skinny belt that emphasised her waist, and toweringly high heels that thrust her butt and her chest out in a manner that was entirely pleasing to the eye. Smart, sophisticated, and sexy as hell, was House's conclusion.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and the over-large diamond in her earlobe sparkled at him. The reminder of his father's ownership of her rankled, and House wondered why she'd decided to wear the earrings, knowing that she didn't particularly like them.

"I don't have a moment for you," he said, knowing it was what he was supposed to say, part of their game. "Not unless you've decided to give up on this whole PRC thing and you're here for another ride." He waggled his eyebrows. "In my car. Or otherwise," he added.

She smiled, clearly refusing to let him bait her. It was obvious to him now that the day of the will reading had seriously upset her. Right now she was the picture of calm, female-executive confidence, something she'd been striving for when they'd driven back from New York, but that had been a transparent pretence. Now he saw her usual mode of operation, he was a little regretful that he'd never consented to one of her regular requests to visit the PRC. Of course, until recently he hadn't known what she looked like. He wondered what might have happened if he had.

"I'm not here for a ride. Not yet, anyway." The flirtation in her voice was unmistakable.

She took a seat opposite his desk and crossed her legs neatly. As she no doubt intended, House's eyes were instantly drawn to them. His mouth fell open as he saw the dress had some kind of concealed split that gaped at the side. He had a full view of her shapely leg encased in black nylon stockings, a wide band of lace at the top of her thigh and just a hint of her bare skin above it. House actually felt the blood rush through his body and his heartbeat pick up, sending a jolt to an organ he didn't often find responding spontaneously like that these days.

With deliberate effort, House closed his mouth, swallowed hard and sat down again. He also found himself checking outside his office, wanting to know if anyone else was enjoying the view he had. But no, he realised that with the way she was sitting, the view was his and his alone. He smiled, feeling bizarrely pleased about that.

Kitty gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. "I was thinking that with all the drama around Andrew's will reading, we didn't get things off to the right start. You're Andrew's son; Andrew and I were close. I wondered if maybe we should put aside all of that for a moment and make an effort to get to know one another?"

"Really?" House wanted to sound blasé, but his voice came out with a bit of a squeak. He actually wasn't all that familiar with having women come on to him. At least, he figured that was what she was doing. Or maybe she wasn't and he was misreading it – it wouldn't be the first time that had happened. He cleared his throat and deliberately lowered his voice. "Really?" He raised an eyebrow in what he hoped was a sarcastic, yet suggestive quirk.

She shrugged. "What can it hurt? I'm finished for the day; you're finished for the day. How about we go get a drink? Maybe something to eat? If it doesn't work out then neither of us have lost anything except an evening of our time."

House had the vague sense that he was being played, but found himself not particularly minding. He wasn't going to work for the PRC no matter what, so having a drink with an extremely attractive blonde couldn't really hurt, could it? Just having her sit down like that had given him enough masturbation fantasies to last him for a month; House could only imagine what watching her eat a meal might do to him.

"You buying?" he asked.

"Sure."

"I'm driving," he said, standing up again and picking up his backpack and cane.

"Great, I got a cab here. I was hoping I'd get another chance to ride in that gorgeous car."

House laughed, reached under his desk and pulled out a spare motorbike helmet. He tossed it to her and she just barely caught it, her face a picture of surprise.

"Guess again."

-

-

As she picked up a piece of broccoli in her chopsticks, Kitty thought that she really couldn't have hoped for the evening to turn out better. At first she hadn't been at all sure about things would go. It had been a struggle to get on the motorbike without displaying her lingerie to half the world, but he'd been surprisingly sensitive after he'd found out she'd never ridden one before. He'd run through a quick list of do's and don'ts and been careful not to accelerate too hard to start with. Once he could tell she was comfortable he tightened her grip around his waist and let out the throttle. Kitty felt her stomach lurch but then the excitement of the ride gripped her and she laughed with exhilaration. She was still laughing when he'd pulled up at the bar, and she could tell that he was unashamedly thrilled that she'd taken such delight in it.

They'd had a quick drink at the bar. Kitty had done most of the talking, telling him about her day, about a funny interaction she'd had with a research scientist who was studying various forms of pain relief for fibromyalgia, talking to fill up space while he sat there. Kitty had the unnerving feeling of being opposite a human MRI machine; it was as if he was trying to see inside her. So she talked and he pretended to listen.

But it was his idea to have dinner. He took her to a Chinese restaurant, said it was his favourite, but then belied that by being obviously unfamiliar with the layout. She called him on it and when he laughed and admitted he'd only ever had take-out from there, Kitty felt like he finally began to relax and enjoy himself.

"So, favourite album of all time," he said.

They'd been playing the usual twenty questions of a first date since the food had arrived. Kitty found herself starting to relax and enjoy the evening. She inwardly warned herself not to lose sight of her purpose, not to get carried away with being the subject of a man's interest. Not that that was particularly unusual, but what was unusual was the fact that Kitty found herself welcoming it. Returning it even. Sincerely. She found herself watching as he picked up a shrimp and sucked it into his mouth, licking his fingers clean of the sauce. She shook her head and looked away, studying the plate of chicken and cashews intently. Now was not the time for her long-dormant sex drive to revive itself.

"Um, too hard," she said, finally answering his question. "Can't choose just one." She picked at her food.

"No, you have to choose one so I can tell you mine."

Unable to help it, she looked back at him and smiled. "You just have a really cool one, don't you, and you want to show off?"

"Yeah."

"Go on, tell me."

"Not until you tell me first."

"Mine's a cliché," she warned.

"So is almost everyone's."

"But not yours."

He shook his head. "Not mine."

"Okay. It's not exactly an album, as such, but I love Bach. Particularly the Toccata and Fugue. If I could only take one piece of music to a desert island, that would be it." Kitty felt her cheeks heat up with a blush. It was such a corny choice, she rarely ever told anyone about her love of that particular piece – it was too personal. She wondered why she was discussing it openly now.

But rather than scathing, House looked impressed. "Nice cliché," he said.

Embarrassed, Kitty turned the conversation back to him. "So go on, amaze me with your choice."

"Edward Benson, A Song for Silver," he said proudly. "The best jazz guitarist that no one's ever heard of."

"Oh my God, Edward Benson? Really?" Kitty asked eagerly.

"You've heard of him?" He was as excited as a little boy and Kitty almost felt bad for teasing him.

She laughed. "Nope."

His face fell before he laughed, and Kitty was reminded of what it was she was here to achieve. Teasing him wasn't going to get it. It was just that she somehow kept letting down her guard. Thinking that this was a real date. She had to keep focussed.

"Tell me another favourite," she encouraged.

"Favourite what?" he asked, annoyingly eating yet another shrimp with his fingers.

"Anything."

"Sexual position?"

Inwardly she rolled her eyes at how juvenile it was, but outwardly she smiled daringly and lifted her chin in challenge. "Go on then."

"You first."

"A lady doesn't talk about things like that."

"Ah," he said knowingly. Maddeningly.

"What?"

"That means it's woman on top."

"What?"

"Well, if it was missionary, you'd say that. Even a lady would say that. But anything more adventurous, then you get embarrassed and avoid the question. The next most common position after missionary is woman on top."

"What, that's a known fact is it?" Kitty was cross. Mostly because he was right. Not that she was going to admit it. Well, it used to be. Who knew? It had been so long since she'd had sex, she had no idea what position might be good anymore.

"Yep, it is. Have you tried the shrimp?" He lifted his chopsticks and pushed a shiny shrimp at Kitty's face. Too surprised to do anything else, she opened her mouth and let him feed it to her. As if it was a perfectly natural thing for him to do, he returned his chopsticks to the plate and fed himself a piece of Chinese cabbage.

"I thought you were going to say The Cranberries," he said through his mouthful.

"What?" Kitty was dangerously unsettled. Feelings that hadn't been part of her life for over a decade were swimming warmly through her pelvis. She swallowed her mouthful of shrimp and picked up her wine glass, taking a long sip, hoping the alcohol might settle her nerves or, at least, numb her a little to his charms.

"Favourite album," he explained. "You knew all the words to that Cranberries song in the car the other day."

"Oh, right," Kitty said faintly. "Well, I like that too."

"Favourite book?" House asked, continuing to talk and eat as if totally at ease. Which he probably was, Kitty thought darkly.

"Favourite book? Oh, that's a little easier" Kitty felt she was back on safer ground. "I love the book Perfume by Patrick Suskind; I can't tell you how many times I've read it."

"Why's it so good?"

"It's just written so beautifully, such lush descriptions. It has this amazing way of describing scents and scenes. You feel like you're immersed in that world when you read it."

"What's it about?"

"It's about a sociopath who becomes a perfumer in Paris in the eighteenth century. He creates the perfect perfume by killing these young women he becomes obsessed with and . . . uh . . . distils their skin for their scent. Eventually his perfume causes . . . ah . . . well . . . a massive orgy." Kitty's voice began to falter as she spoke. Suddenly they were talking about sex again and this time it was her fault.

House grinned. "Sounds like my kind of book."

"What's your favourite book?" Kitty asked quickly, trying to change the subject.

"Lesbian Prison Stories," House said smugly.

This time Kitty let the eye roll out. "Of course it is."

House turned his attention back to the food, pushing an eggroll around the plate with his chopsticks. "Actually, it's Catch 22 by Joseph Heller," he said quietly.

"Why?"

"The fight scenes," he joked. Kitty thought there was probably more to it. She was learning that he mocked anything important, covered his emotions with jokes and deflections. And yet somewhere in there was a man who suffered – she could see the pain in his eyes. And it wasn't just physical pain. Kitty was familiar enough with both types to know what to look for.

But that wasn't what she was here for, she reminded herself. Tonight's goal was all about getting him hooked. She had no intentions of doing anything more than raising his hopes; giving him a taste of what might be his if he took the time to get more involved with her – and, by default, with the PRC. Of course, nothing would actually eventuate. Kitty didn't do that anymore. With anyone. But she could kiss him, she thought. That might be okay.

She reached over, just far enough for the side of her breast to brush "accidentally" against his arm, and grabbed a piece of beef from the sizzle plate. She leaned back and popped it in her mouth, closing her eyes and making a show of enjoying her mouthful, feeling his eyes on her.

"That's yummy," she said, opening her eyes and smiling at him.

He looked a little stunned. Good.

"You didn't tell me your favourite," she said, reaching over to pick up another piece of beef."

"Favourite what?" This time it was his turn to be confused.

"Sexual position."

He laughed and repositioned the plate of beef between them. "You really want to know?"

"Why else would I be asking?" She didn't want to know. She was almost sure.

"Reverse cowgirl," he answered, picking up a piece of beef and putting it in his mouth, closing his eyes and copying her blatant show of ecstasy. Mocking her. "And," he continued, "from the Karma Sutra I like the Tigress."

"But they're the same thing!" Too late Kitty realised what she'd said.

House shook his head in rebuke. "And to think, I thought you were a lady."

Kitty had no idea what to say next. She settled for picking up her glass. "Can you pour me some more wine, please?"

"Delighted." His eyes sparkled with mischief.