Chapter Four: Coincidence Is Fate Playing Matchmaker

Three days later . . .

"We should really stop meeting like this."

Tim jumped as a figure sat down next to him on the park bench. His entourage of guards, of course, was not happy with the fact that Tim was sitting in an open space. They'd wanted to surround him with a perimeter, and have Gibbs and DiNozzo accompany him on the bench.

Tim had refused. He was sick to death of being confined to his home or workplace, so he had demanded to be allowed to sit and each lunch in a quiet and secure park: alone (well, alone as someone being trailed by more security than the President could be).

But, obviously, it wasn't as secure as they thought.

Tim turned to his right and had to do a double take. While he recognised the voice (how could he not), Danielle looked nothing like the previous times he'd seen her. This time, she was blonde instead of dark haired, pale instead of olive-skinned and her eyes were blue, not brown. She was wearing a pair of short running pants and a pink tank top.

To anyone walking past (including his guards), it looked as though Tim McGee was chatting to an American jogger, not an international assassin.

"You, uh, um . . . You look different," Tim managed to say after his moment of shock.

Danielle shrugged. "Gotta blend in with the locals," she replied in a thick American accent. "Do I pass?"

"Uh, yeah . . ." Despite everything, Tim was still a man and couldn't help being drawn to the smooth strip of skin underneath her bellybutton, the bit not covered by either the top or the shorts. He marvelled at how someone with rich and exotic skin like Danielle could turn so pale.

'She must be a pro with the make-up,' Tim concluded to himself.

Distantly, Tim could hear Danielle saying something to him, but he couldn't stop his eyes as they swept over her body, taking in the perfectly shaped curves and . . .

"You liked something you see?" Tim jerked back and he could hear the smirk in Danielle's voice.

"What? No?" Tim blushed furiously.

"Pity," Danielle pouted.

"Oh, I mean . . . it's not . . . you are . . ." Tim stuttered, feeling as though he was a boyish teenager on his first date.

"Relax," Danielle laughed. "I'm winding you up."

Tim managed to nod, but feared if he tried to speak, he'd sound like a pubescent teenager.

"Are you always this easy to fluster?" Danielle continued, still smirking.

Tim shook his head, but at Danielle's disbelieving look, changed it to a slow nod. Tim sighed, "I don't usually do this kind of thing well?"

"Oh?" Danielle feigned a look of confusion. "What thing?"

"Girls . . . women," he hastily amended. He gestured to himself. "I'm not exactly Mr Stud here."

Danielle lightly brushed her hand over his shoulder. "One day," she said quietly, "I am sure you will make a woman very happy."

"Maybe," Tim echoed. He paused, shook his head and asked, "What are you doing here?"

Danielle replied curtly, "Jogging."

This time, it was Tim who gave her a disbelieving look.

"I was," Danielle defended.

"And you just happened to choose this particular park," Tim retorted.

Danielle nodded. "Mmhhmm."

"Are you here to kill me again?" Tim sighed. How much longer was this going to continue for?

"What do you think?" Danielle replied coyly.

"I gave up trying to figure you out a long time ago," Tim muttered. And he had. Since the third encounter with Danielle three days ago, he'd called on every bit of armchair psychology he had ever researched in order to make sense of Danielle AKA the Shadow. He'd come up with nothing.

"Long ago? You have known me for less than two weeks," Danielle pointed out.

Tim paused as Danielle's perfume wafted across his nose. Roses. Again. It seemed like that was the only constant with her, the perfume. Then . . .

"It feels like forever," Tim murmured.

And it did.

---

Two days later . . .

"Are you stalking me or something?" Tim hissed in a low voice and he leaned over the checkout counter.

Donning a Safeway uniform and auburn hair, Danielle smiled back from behind the counter. "I am working."

Tim groaned and was ready to bang his head against the counter. "How do you know where I am all the time?" he muttered.

Danielle shrugged as she swiped the box of cereal in Tim's basket. She did a double take and commented, "Dinosaurs. Cute. And to answer your question, if I told you, I'd have to kill you."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Aren't you anyway?" Tim said in a low voice so he wouldn't attract the attention of Gibbs and DiNozzo who were trying (and failing) to look subtle by flicking through a magazine or studying a tin of peas.

Why he hadn't told them that, for starters, the Shadow was female and that they'd been barking up the wrong tree the entire time, or that she'd been following him around, was beyond him. Something deep down told him that maybe – just maybe, Tim was enjoying the chase.

Danielle shrugged again. "I'm open to negotiations."

"You're impossible," Tim sighed as he handed over his credit card. "What kind of assassin are you anyway?"

"A good one," Danielle replied simply, handing back his credit card.

"Why should I trust you?" Tim muttered darkly. "This is all part of some mind game, isn't it. Hit me when I'm down and all that.

"Maybe." Danielle shrugged for a third time. "You should know me by now."

"I've met you a grand total of four times," Tim replied, almost sarcastically. "The first time you tried to kill me. The second time you tried to kill me. The third time you messed with my head. The forth you ambushed me in a public park. What am I supposed to think?"

"Trust me."

"That's rich, coming from the assassin," Tim laughed bitterly.

Danielle looked hurt for a moment, but as always, her impassive mask was back on her face in seconds. She forced a fake smile as she said, "Thanks for shopping at Safeway. We hope to see you again soon."

With his mood suddenly soured, Tim stomped out of the supermarket unaware of the lingering scent of roses following him across the parking lot.

---

Five days later . . .

"I shouldn't be surprised, should I?" Tim sighed, sounding tired and resigned as Danielle's head poked out from behind a bush of flowers. "All I wanted was a simple bunch of flowers for my mum and I can't even do that right!"

"May I recommend the chrysanthemums?" Danielle supplied helpfully. She was blue-eyed again, but had long, dead straight light brown hair, and was wearing a modest skirt and blouse.

Tim sighed again and shot a look at Gibbs and DiNozzo who were loitering awkwardly outside the florist. Tim guessed going in flower shops wasn't high on their priority lists.

Noticing Tim's glance, Danielle commented casually, "They are not very good, are they. They have not noticed that I have been under their noses for over two weeks."

"I guess you're just good," Tim replied, without really thinking.

"I will take that as a compliment," Danielle answered. "And yes, I am good, aren't I?"

"Not modest at all, are we?" Tim shot back as he shook his head at another bunch of flowers. "I need something special. It's my mum, after all."

"How sweet," Danielle remarked, sounding totally sincere. "Does she have any favourites? I could make you up something?"

"A florist as well as an assassin?" Tim observed. "Interesting combination."

"I am good at a lot of things," Danielle said in a sultry voice. "Floral arrangement is just one of them."

"They offer flower arranging as an elective for Assassination 101, do they?" Tim retorted.

Danielle frowned. "Since when did meek Timothy McGee develop a backbone? And no, my mother taught me actually." She looked faintly sad. "Palm reading was not her only talent."

Any argumentative streak Tim might have had fell away as he realised that Danielle sounded, at this moment, just like a little girl who missed her mum.

"I'm sorry," Tim said softly.

"You have already said that," Danielle pointed out, equally as quiet.

"But I am."

"I know."

They fell into a slightly awkward silence until Tim asked, slightly bravely, "Was it your mum that, you know, made you, uh, want to, um . . ." He blushed and trailed off.

Danielle suddenly became very interested in the long stemmed, red rose in front of her. "That, and my brother. And my sister."

Tim hesitated as he started to ask, "What . . ."

Danielle shook her head and cut him off. "It is a long story. A long, dark story that I would rather forget ever happened."

"You shouldn't bottle things up, you know," Tim counselled automatically.

"And what makes you qualified to make such a suggestion," Danielle snapped. "You're just a writer."

Danielle's remark about him being just a writer hurt, but he hoped that he didn't let it show. Instead, he asked, "What do you recommend for my mum?"

Danielle looked thoughtful. "Chrysanthemums, fennel, yellow poppies, maybe a bit of lavender and roses. Dark pink roses."

Tim, who knew nothing about flower arranging, nodded. "Sounds great," he said honestly.

The mention of roses prompted him to ask boldly, "What's with you and roses?"

"Huh?" Danielle looked up from collecting the various flowers she'd just rattled off.

"Roses," Tim repeated. "Every time I've seen you, you're different. Different hair, different eyes, etcetera. But I've noticed that the only constant is your perfume. Roses." Tim shrugged.

Danielle turned away from Tim and fiddled with a bunch of lavender. She didn't say anything for a long time, and Tim was slightly worried that he'd offended her. Then . . .

"I like roses," Danielle said simply and quietly. "They . . . they remind me of what I can never have."

Somewhere deep inside him, something broke just a little bit. It was, literally, practically heart-wrenching to hear her tone of voice. Tim didn't know how to respond (and wondered if she'd elaborate), so he said nothing.

"They symbolise the movies I would watch as a child, with my older brother and younger sister," she continued quietly. "The Prince Charmings and the happy endings, and all that. I held onto that notion of a happily ever after for a long time?"

"What happened?" Tim breathed. He was captivated by the story.

"My sister died. My brother died," Danielle murmured. "I knew then happily ever afters did not exist."

"Sure they do," Tim tried.

Danielle whirled around and glared at him. "Not for people like me."

Tentatively, Tim reached out and gently brushed his fingertips over the back of her hand. "One day," Tim said firmly, "you'll get your happily ever after."

Danielle smiled sadly and wistfully at him. "It would be nice to believe that."

She turned around and picked up the bouquet of flowers. "Your mother will love these. She is very lucky to have a son like you."

As Danielle rang up the total cost of the bouquet, Tim wandered over to the rose display and plucked the best one he could find.

"I'll take this as well," he said, walking back over to the counter.

Danielle looked up and said, "Okay, I'll add it to bou . . ."

Tim shook his head and pulled out his credit card. Danielle swiped it with a confused look on her face. Taking back the credit card and picking up the bunch of flowers, Tim laid the rose on the counter in front of Danielle.

"It's for you," he said simply. Then, he turned and walked quietly out the door.

Gaping as he walked away, Danielle looked down and saw a perfectly formed, long stemmed red rose.

---

Two weeks later . . .

"I'll call you tomorrow Abby, I promise," Tim said cheerfully to Abby who was on the other end of his cell phone. "Yes. The men in black are here. I'm perfectly safe. Yes. Yes. Stop worrying. I'll call you tomorrow . . . Goodbye."

Tim flipped his phone shut and pulled out the keys to his apartment. They jingled as he twisted them in the lock. Before he stepped inside, he bade goodnight to Gibbs and DiNozzo who acknowledged him with a nod. He pushed open the door, stepped inside and dropped his keys on a bookshelf.

"Jethro," he called.

The dog barked and Tim looked in the direction of the bark. Jethro was happily eating out of his food bowl.

'Hang on,' Tim thought, 'I haven't fed him yet . . .'

Barking, Jethro scampered over to the door of his bedroom and barked louder. Rushing over to his dog, Tim was only slightly surprised to see a silhouette sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Hello, Timothy," came Danielle's voice. She was back to her cascading brown hair and olive skin. "I am taking you were not expecting this."

Tim shrugged though Danielle could not see him. "I don't know what to expect anymore, honestly."

As Jethro ran back to his food, Danielle turned around and smiled softly. "I guess that is about correct."

Tim gaped at her and pointed to her face. "Wh-what . . . what . . ."

Danielle reached up and gingerly brushed the purpled bruise on her left cheek. She shrugged. "A misunderstanding."

"But you're hurt." Tim continued to gape before snapping out of it and dashing over to the bed.

Coming to a halt in front of her, Tim said gently, "Let me see." He reached out to touch her face.

Danielle pulled away and said, faintly amused, "Are you a doctor as well as a writer?"

"If you can be a florist, then I can be a doctor," Tim replied, noting how Danielle stiffened at the mention of the florist. "Seriously, it looks nasty."

"It is fine," Danielle said airily, brushing away Tim's concerns. "I have had worse."

"I bet you have," Tim agreed. "But you are in my house now and it would be very un-gentlemanly of me to let it slide. I'll get some ice."

Praying that she wouldn't disappear while he was fetching the ice, he cautiously listened for any sounds of escape as he retrieved the ice. He didn't hear any. But, he mused, Danielle could easily leave without making a sound, so that idea was kinda pointless.

He was glad to see that, as he walked back into the bedroom, Danielle was still sitting in the spot he'd left her. Walking up to her, Tim wrapped the ice in a tea towel and gently pressed it against her bruised face.

She flinched and he grinned. "I thought you've had worse?"

She tried to glare at him, but failed. "It is cold," she pouted, sounding like a child.

"Stop complaining," Tim chided as he sat down next to her.

"Yes, sir," Danielle replied, slightly sarcastically, though her words sounded a little distorted as the ice was already starting to numb her face.

Tim grinned. "That's better."

They sat in comfortable silence for a little while before Danielle gently grabbed Tim's wrist and pulled it and the ice away from her face.

"I think it is sufficiently numb," she commented. "I bet you could stick a needle in it and I'd not notice."

Tim, though he might not agree, took the ice away from Danielle and dumped it on the bedside table.

"So . . ." Tim started hesitantly after another pause. "Who did that?"

"It does not matter," Danielle replied stiffly.

"It matters to me," Tim said softly.

"Why?" Danielle challenged. "I am here to kill you, after all."

"Well, I haven't seen much evidence of killing," Tim replied, matter-of-fact. "And I care because, for an illogical reason, I like you."

After a moment, he added so softy that Danielle almost didn't pick up on it, "And I care about you."

Louder, Tim concluded, "And you are officially the strangest assassin I've ever met."

Danielle managed to crack a smile. "And you have met many assassins, have you?"

"No," Tim shrugged, "but I have read about them."

"Not the same," Danielle retorted.

"I guess not," Tim conceded. He paused. "Seriously, who did . . ."

"Can you just drop it," Danielle snapped. "Please, just leave it."

"I don't condone violence." Tim reached out and lightly brushed Danielle's bruised face.

"I gathered that." Danielle didn't pull away from his touch. She looked just as entranced as he did.

She reached up and gently wrapped her fingers around his. Bringing them to her mouth, she kissed them lightly.

Then, to only the slight shock of Tim, she leaned in and kissed him.

Unlike that first kiss in the bar those few weeks ago, this one wasn't fuelled by lust and electricity, but passion and longing.

He kissed her back as she moved her hands to his head and threaded them through his hair. His own hands reached up and cupped her face as he deepened the kiss. Even though she was an assassin, Tim thought, she was one hell of a kisser.

Gently, as he nipped at her bottom lip, Tim pushed Danielle onto her back and straddled her waist. His left hand trailed down to the neck of her blouse and popped open the first button, revealing the soft skin beneath.

Somewhere deep down, a voice was telling him that this was a bad idea: a very bad, bad, clichéd idea . . .

He ignored it.

---

The next morning, Tim rolled over lazily and was startled when his arm flopped into empty space. His eyes flew open and he scrambled out of bed. The other side was still unmade, as though someone had been sleeping in it. That was, however, not what had caught Tim's eye.

On the pillow was a perfectly formed, long stemmed red rose and attached to it was a two-worded note written in a feminine and loopy script.

I'm sorry.