10. TERMS OF ENDEARMENT

Lisbon sat in her office at the end of a very long, very satisfying day. It was mid-May now, and she felt that her life was back to normal. She had worked determinedly to bring herself back up to physical peak, had cleared her psych evals weeks earlier with flying colors. She had lived her life by the philosophy that there was a place for everything in both her personal and professional life, and everything was in its place . . . Almost.

Shifting her eyes away from her computer screen, she looked to where Jane lay on her couch, his eyes lightly closed, body completely relaxed, a small smile on his face as if he dreamed of something fresh and innocent. She knew better.

She didn't know what was up with him lately. Every time she turned around, he was there, following her, watching her. His eyes would seem to drift momentarily around their surroundings but always came back to her. Even at crime scenes, his attention was divided between her movements and the matter at hand. He also touched her more for no reason, his hand at the small of her back as they walked together or resting on her arm as they spoke. He stood and sat closer, so close that she could feel his warmth at her side or back. He would lean in to whisper to her, seeming to want to conjure an intimacy that he needed for some reason. Conversely, when they rode in the car together, he rarely spoke, looking out the windows as if he were trying to memorize the passing scenery. Even then, his hand would gravitate across the console between them, nearly touching her sleeve. And he frequently requested that Cho accompany them into the field, appearing to rest easier when the three of them were together.

Her being taken had affected him as deeply as it had her, but as she was getting better, putting it farther behind her each day, he seemed to be worsening. She was beginning to wonder if maybe he wasn't the one that should have been seeing the department shrink. Of course, that wouldn't be anything new. She sometimes thought his actions indicated that at the very least a good, a stiff drug protocol would have been in order.

But this. This was different. It was like he was afraid he was going to lose her. It surely wasn't in the usual sense that a person would think such a thing of another. They weren't like that. He wasn't like that, and while she had to admit that recently she had felt a kind of draw to him (which she had easily and smoothly put in its place), she wasn't foolish enough to believe it was because he had any kind of natural feelings for her beyond the odd friendship they had constructed coupled with her being necessary to his quest to kill Red John. Was it more like he was concerned he might . . . misplace her? Like she would get covered up under mounds of paper on his desk or incorrectly shelved with his books? She had difficulty believing it would be anything more personal than that. But no, the looks he shot her way, the few times he had turned away then looked back to where she had been standing to find she was no longer there, the relief when he had finally found her with his eyes again told her it was something else. She was not qualified to wade through this, but she knew there was no way he would ever talk to her about it, let alone the good doctor.

She needed to reestablish some boundaries. They had always worked for her in the past, kept her out of trouble and free from difficult involvements and entanglements. He had seen her frightened and vulnerable. They had slept in the same bed—an embarrassment she had worked weeks to overcome while he seemed to think nothing of it, exhibiting neither the guilt she would have assumed he would feel nor the awkwardness she would have counted upon. She had come to realize Jane was fiercely protective by nature, a tenacious guardian of anything he viewed as his, if only for selfish reasons. She guessed their tenuous friendship made her more his right now than anything else in his life outside his quest for vengeance. She chose to ignore the wariness itching at the edges of her consciousness that there was something more to it.

Yes, boundaries were the answer, along with the defenses she had been putting back in place. Anger, irritation and annoyance: her tried and proven anti-Jane formula along with the bickering she knew they both used as a shield against meaningful conversation. Stay away from banter. It was too flirtatious and had become more so lately.

"So, have you puzzled it out?"

She had not been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed the subtle changes in his features, even though she was sure he had meant to convince her he was sleeping. Was he slipping, or was she getting better at reading him? Or maybe she just had more experience now watching him actually sleep. At any rate, she had recognized the exact instant he'd become aware of her watching him as well as the instant he had decided to call her on it.

"I'm afraid that day will never come."

He opened his eyes, and she saw the question forming there before it dropped from his lips. Thankfully, her phone rang. She wasn't sure what answer she would have given him.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

She hated these cases.

They had been called to investigate the murder of yet another bigwig. Ryan Larson was actually the son-in-law of a bigwig, a prominent long-time state senator. Larson had been found bludgeoned to death on the drive leading up to Mrs. Honoria Dunston-Carlisle's Beverly Hills home during the first big garden party of the season. At seventy-eight, she was still quite the social butterfly. She had married Mr. Carlisle fifty years ago and moved to California from her family home in Connecticut, the perfect blending of East Coast blue blood fallen upon hard times and West Coast new money. Mrs. Dunston-Carlisle stood in her solarium wringing her hands and wailing.

"How could this happen? Everything was planned so beautifully!"

"Mrs. Calisle—"

"Dunston-Carlisle." Yes, never forget the Dunston.

"Mrs. Dunston-Carlisle. I assure you the CBI will do everything in their power to solve Mr. Larson's murder."

Lisbon ignored Jane's mocking smile as he turned from the long table still laden with hors d'hoeuvres behind Mrs. Dunston-Carlisle and mouthed "suck-up" at her. Just like she ignored his plate stacked with exotic-looking finger foods and the tell-tale bulge in his left jacket pocket. She hoped none of the household staff noticed the CBI consultant stuffing his pockets with party leftovers.

"Well that's all very well, Agent Lisbon, but what am I to do? Two months ago, several of my guests were robbed of their jewelry—which has never been found and returned—and the party before that, one of the valets made off with a guest's Ferrari, and now someone is murdered right in my drive!"

Jane had sauntered over apparently ready to join the conversation.

"Surely, Mrs. Dunston-Carlisle, such events can only enhance your reputation as a hostess. You have to admit, they do lend a certain cache to your social functions . . . which would explain why you're secretly wondering just how you're going to top this."

He motioned languidly to where Ryan Larson's bagged body was being loaded into the back of an ambulance. Mrs. Dunston-Carlisle turned a brilliant shade of eggplant, and Lisbon struggled between whether to hiss angrily or laugh. Unable to give words to her indignation, Mrs. D turned and swept out the French doors and across the lawn to tell her assistant what to do with the centerpieces. Lisbon, glad of this glint of normalcy in the man next to her, swept her eyes sideways at him. He felt the mock reprimand in her gaze.

"Oh, come on. I knew it, and you knew it. How could I reasonably be expected to not say anything?"

"How indeed," she mumbled dryly before she turned to look accusingly from his eyes to his plate to his pocket and back again.

"What?" he asked around a mouthful. "These are for the guys. You don't expect me to not bring them anything, do you? Being forced . . . to work out there," he moved his hand in a circular motion in the general direction of 'out there', "working over Larson's body while we have access to this wonderful food?."

She rolled her eyes as she stalked away from him in search of the next witnesses to question. And there were plenty. Plenty of the most vacuous, insipid, and just plain idiotic people she had ever encountered. None of them seemed to be able to pay attention to anything. In spite of the fact that someone had picked up a paving brick and bashed in Ryan Larson's skull less than fifty yards away, no one at the party had seen a thing. Nearly every piece of viable information they had was gleaned from the victim himself. Ryan Larson was handsome and healthy, the epitome of physical perfection except for the gaping gash that now ran along the left side of his skull, indicating the killer was probably right-handed. There were no other signs of struggle, and he had been hit from the front. He had known his murderer. And wrapped around his fingers had been a long silver chain sporting a pendant in the shape of half of a heart.

By dividing the task of conducting interviews three ways—Lisbon with Jane, Van Pelt with Rigsby and Cho on his own—they managed to wade through the guests' statements. One by one, they released them with the notice that they may want to ask them questions later. Lisbon would rather drive an ice pick into her eye.

One interview, however, stood out from the rest. Kimberly Nesbitt had proven evasive and passive aggressive, and Lisbon's interest had been piqued for those and other reasons as well. She had sat at the little lawn table across from Ms. Nesbitt, Jane lounging in his painted wrought iron chair between them back to taking in the surroundings, when the young woman had become so angry at one of Lisbon's questions that she had half risen out of her chair in a threatening manner to answer before she stormed away. As the young woman had leaned across in front of Jane, her low-cut blouse had fallen further open, revealing more of her ample cleavage. Jane leaned forward in his chair, suddenly more interested in what was in front of him than whatever was across the lawn. Lisbon had almost kicked him under the table at his seeming indiscretion when she remembered that with Patrick Jane the obvious was not the usual. She would ask him about it later.

When they returned to their temporary office at the local police station to compare notes, Lisbon remarked that she would like to ask Kimberly Nesbitt a few follow-up questions, and Jane eagerly agreed that would be a good idea. Van Pelt's repeated attempts to reach the lovely Ms. Nesbitt were unsuccessful, however, and Lisbon didn't know whether she or Jane was more disappointed to learn that there was no current home address for the young socialite.

"We could call Mrs. Dunston-Carlisle." He had taken to emphasizing the first half of her last name every time he mentioned her.

"Why? What could she tell us?"

"Well, Kimberly Nesbitt was at the party . . . "

"And if she was invited, Mrs. D. would have sent her an invitation."

"Exactly."

"Van Pelt?"

"On it."

Kimberly Nesbitt's invitation had gone to the home of her best friend where she was currently residing in the guest house on the property. Kimberly Nesbitt's best friend was Amy Larson, the murder victim's widow.

Bright and early the next morning, Jane and Lisbon were at the front security gate outside the Larson mansion waiting to be buzzed in. Jane wandered along the perimeter of the fence, doubling back to say he had seen Kimberly Nesbitt getting into her car wearing workout clothes and carrying a gym bag and heading away from the house, probably toward a rear service entrance on the property.

"I guess we're headed for the gym, then."

"Well, we'll have to hurry, Lisbon, she's getting away."

"The people who live around here only go to one kind of gym, Jane. Very expensive and very exclusive." She was already getting back into the SUV. Realizing she knew where she was going, he followed suit.

"What put you onto her?" Jane asked, sincerely curious.

"Actually, it was your reaction to her."

"My reaction?"

"Mm-hm. When she leaned across the table and her blouse fell open."

"Her blouse?" It was as she thought. He hadn't even noticed the cleavage.

"You were bored with the interviews until she got mad and leaned toward me and her blouse fell open, and you suddenly got interested. Knowing you're completely immune to the . . . 'charms' (said with a smirk) of a woman, I knew it had to be something to do with the case. That and the fact that she got so angry and didn't want to answer a few simple questions. Now that I know she didn't tell us she's been living with the Larsons, I'm even more interested in her."

Jane had been looking at her intently as she spoke, so she wasn't surprised by the fact that he responded but rather to which part.

"What do you mean I'm "completely immune to the charms of a woman"?

"Well, . . . you know." She shrugged not taking her eyes off the road.

"No-o-o," he said shaking his head in bewilderment, "I don't. What makes you think I'm "completely immune" to women?"

"Well, you never—you don't—I've never known you to . . .," she made a sweeping motion toward him. "You know."

He looked down to where his hands lay loosely clasped in his lap and realized he was slowly spinning his wedding band around his ring finger.

"I wouldn't say I'm exactly immune," he muttered. For some reason it didn't set well with him that Lisbon could think him completely untouchable.

She took her eyes off of the road for a moment and really looked at him. He had been more like himself this morning, working the case and engaging in conversation and some mild bickering. And now, he was suddenly withdrawn and almost sulky. She didn't know how, but she had managed to either hurt or insult him or a combination of both. She was immediately contrite, even though she didn't understand.

"Jane, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. You've just never shown any real interest in a woman since your . . . since you started working with the bureau. I know you have your mind on . . . other things." This was exactly not the kind of conversation she should be having with him.

"Yeah . . . other things."

She reached over and laid her hand on his left wrist, barely curving her fingertips around it. He released his hold on his ring and slid his right hand over to grasp hers and hold it in place as he turned to look out the window. These last few weeks she had retreated into herself again, walling herself behind decades-old defenses, leaving him feeling surprisingly destitute. He had missed her, and her touch felt good, warm and reassuring.

Her reflex was to pull away, but he had been there for her during those dark weeks in a way no one else could have been, so if he needed her hand for a while, she could let him borrow it. After a few minutes, without looking at her, he stroked her wrist a couple of times then released her and she brought her hand back to the steering wheel. They rode the rest of the way in silence.

When they reached the gym—or rather, the health and bio-wellness salon—Jane realized how exclusive the facility was. Lisbon's badge would get her in, but only so far, and only if she was willing to use a bit of unpleasant muscle. He decided there was an easier way.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Honestly, how did she come to be in these situations?

She had stepped to the welcome desk and briefly scanned a brochure entitled "Embrace Enhancement". From behind the counter, a perfectly symmetrical blonde, Inga by her I.D. tag, looked up with eager anticipation to inquire how she might be of assistance. Lisbon was reaching for her badge when Jane's arm snaked around her from the other side, his hand covering hers and effectively hiding her shield. She froze in the partial embrace then gave over when she heard him slide into his "slickster" voice.

"Yes . . . Inga," he read her I.D. where it rested provocatively on her own "enhancements" then flashed her a winning smile. "My lovely wife, Teresa, and I are new to the area, and she's interested in a membership at your salon. We were hoping she might be able to get a quick tour."

"Well, usually . . .?"

"Patrick." Another engaging smile.

"Patrick." She nodded and smiled back. "Usually we only give tours by appointment so one of our wellness counselors can show you the salon and tell you how our various programs work and how we can tailor a plan for your optimum success.

"Uh-huh. Inga, that sounds like just what my wife is looking for. We don't really have time for the whole introduction today. Is there any way you could possibly just let her have a look around in your workout center?" He looked the blonde beach body up and down in a way that said he regarded his wedding vows more as guidelines than anything else.

"I think I can arrange that Patrick," she purred back at him.

When Inga leaned over to retrieve a pass card from one of the bottom drawers, Jane looked down at Lisbon and winked. He turned back to listen to Inga's well-rehearsed spiel, and Lisbon let herself zone out. "It could be worse," she thought to herself. "So far he's only called me Teresa and his wife. Not that smarmy 'my lady' he used when he pretended to try and pick up that hooker for a three-way—" She thought back to when he had introduced her as his wife at the rehab clinic "—or that awful—"

"How's that sound, Babe? You want to go back and have a look around in the women's center?"

She cringed. "That sounds great." Her voice was too high and too bright and utterly unconvincing. Good thing Inga wasn't paying any attention to her. They were halfway down the long corridor that led to the workout center when she realized Jane's arm was still wrapped around her waist, his hand resting over the clip of her badge and his thumb rubbing in small circles against her hip where it curved away from her waist. Walking along behind an undulating Inga, she discreetly swatted at his offending appendage. He simultaneously pulled her against his side and brought his thumb and forefinger together above her shield to pinch her before releasing her, and she gave him a killing glare. As they approached the double doors at the end of the hall, their guide chattering on about the benefits of spa rocks, Jane leaned over—a little too close for her comfort—and whispered into Lisbon's ear.

"Don't you want to know why I'm interested in Kimberly Nesbitt?"

She looked up at him, her bewilderment at realizing she had not finished the case-related conversation in the SUV written plainly on her face. He carried on in a conspiratorial whisper just before she left him to pass through the doors.

"She was wearing a pendant on a chain long enough to keep it out of sight under her blouse . . . the other half of the heart."

Lisbon and Inga exited the workout room a few minutes later and Jane looked up from where he was perusing meditation literature. Lisbon was definitely harried. He looked at Inga to thank her for her help, but her glare told him the cover was blown. He shrugged at her in feigned apology and hurried after his very angry boss.

"Lisbon! Wait up! Lisbon! Slow down, woman!" He caught up with her in the parking lot and took hold of her elbow then stopped hoping she would do the same. He didn't expect her to round on him.

"Kimberly Nesbitt was argumentative—almost combative—and I couldn't get anything out of her. She was, by the way, wearing the half-heart pendant. She's extremely angry and intends to call my superior to let her know just how angry. Inga threatened me with security. And . . . Babe? . . . Really? Seriously, Jane, do I look like the type of woman any man in his right mind would refer to as babe?"

He regarded her for a moment, tilting his head slowly first one way then the other, his right hand rising to cradle his chin.

"Pumpkin?"

She rolled her eyes and huffed at him before turning to walk away as fast as she could without actually breaking into a run. He followed her, hands extended, palms up.

"Muffin? . . . Sweetcakes? . . . My little gumdrop?"

"Shut up!" she tossed over her shoulder, trying to quicken her pace. Even as she had felt her ire building through the whole ordeal, she had felt a surge of comfort. This was familiar. This was the way they had always been together. Maybe she had been overanalyzing before, seeing things that weren't there. He had probably just needed time to reorient himself and accept that everything was all right and he could let go of whatever had been worrying him. He followed after her, slowing to not quite catch up. She realized he was hanging back but didn't want to look at him or otherwise engage him. Instead she slowed to a pace just slightly faster than a saunter.

She had been speed walking in that way she did when she was trying to get away from him, using short, choppy, angry little steps. This slower pace was much better. He wondered idly how she moved like that, sort of a combination of sway and swivel. Must be the weight of her gun. And the cuffs and phone and Taser he knew she sometimes carried. Completely immune indeed. She was wearing her charcoal gray jacket that stopped short of just covering her hips. Between her height and build, he was sure Lisbon had to have her slacks altered to fit her just so. Exactly what did one tell one's tailor to achieve that look? And could you take in the rear to perfectly cup my—.

"Jane?" She had rounded on him again, wondering why he hadn't caught up and irritated about it even though she had been too annoyed with him to want to walk with him, infuriating man that he was. She had caught him, his eyes aimed exactly where they shouldn't be. He lifted his gaze to hers and swallowed, not sure how to play this off. She turned her head barely to the side.

"Were you just . . .?" She let the question hang. Not wanting to ask it in case she was completely off base but not trusting him to walk behind her anymore, she stepped toward him, grabbed the outside of his jacket sleeve just above the elbow and pulled him alongside of her as she continued to the SUV.

She doggedly kept her face turned away from him, not wanting to see his expression—didn't want to see if he still had that look in his eyes. She didn't want him to see anything either. This . . . whatever "this" was was getting out of hand. She needed to work this case, stick with the job, establish more than a semblance of normalcy. Boundaries, she reminded herself.

"Come on. We need to talk to Amy Larson."

She needed to be on her guard. He had enjoyed all of this too much and not in the usual "I'm-pulling-a-con-and-getting-under-Lisbon's-skin-at-the-same-time" way. His arm around her, his thumb patterning against her hip, the wink, even the way he had said her name—all had been accompanied by a warmth that was not part of his usual play. And just now, when she had turned around and caught him . . . She realized her breath had hitched. Well, she knew that look. And if she had seen it in any other man's eyes, she would have known exactly what he was thinking. The thing was, she didn't think he realized what he was doing. Jane was quietly and almost completely out of control—at least the control he usually so tightly exhibited. She didn't think mere boundaries were going to do the trick.