April 23rd

She woke with a start at the feel of someone's hand on her shoulder. "J'viens," she mumbled, as she tried to climb out of sleep.

"Wake up. You're dreaming." The rough, deep voice wasn't her father's. Dana blinked and turned her head. A man sat next to her on the couch—Greg. He looked better, his expression more alert, his eyes clearer.

"Mmm . . . sorry if I disturbed you," she said, and sat up slowly, stretched a bit. "What time is it?"

"Six, more or less." His gaze darted away from hers. "I was going to order some takeout."

"You don't have to do that," she said.

"I know I don't," he snapped, then pulled back. "Just because you crammed my kitchen full of food . . ." He fell silent, clearly at a loss as to what to say.

"I like to cook," she said quietly. "Let me make you one of my favorites."

She heated up some impulse-purchase vegetable spring rolls in the oven while she made beef pho, fragrant with cinnamon, lemongrass and black pepper. A cold, drizzly rain had begun to fall outside when she brought the tray through to the living room and set it on the coffee table. House sat up as she perched beside him. "That smells incredible," he said. "I don't know where the hell you got everything to make it though."

Dana removed the makeshift cover on one of the oversized coffee mugs she'd used as a soup bowl, and pulled the plate of garnishes and spring rolls a little closer. "At the store down the street. It's one of the few dinners that's healthy and tastes good too," she said, as she uncovered the other cup and claimed it for herself. "Life doesn't offer bargains like this very often. Might as well take advantage of it."

She watched him devour most of the spring rolls as he emptied his bowl. While he ate she finished her soup, walked over to the fireplace and went on her haunches to examine the hearth and firebox. Both needed cleaning, but the wood stacked on the hearth was dry if a bit dusty.

"TV's more entertaining and a lot less work," Greg said behind her. "Besides, you can just turn up the thermostat."

For answer she removed the ashes from the firebox, stacked two logs in the grate, and took some kindling from the basket on her left. "Georgia fat-pine, very nice," she said as she arranged the sticks under the logs. "Too bad we don't have some dry pine cones. They snap and pop. That's a lovely sound on a rainy evening."

"You're all about pleasing the senses, aren't you?" Greg said as he handed her a lighter. Dana nodded, unperturbed by the derision she heard in his words.

"Might as well savor life when you get the chance," she said as the kindling caught and sent up bright flames to lick the underside of the logs. Within a few minutes they too began to burn. She closed the glass doors almost shut for safety's sake. "Besides, this will help with dessert."

"You're so determined to take care of me," he said as she sat next to him on the couch.

"Of course I am."

"Would you have done this for anyone else in that ER?" He watched her closely as he spoke.

"Probably not," she said. That took him by surprise.

"So I'm a special case," he said slowly.

"You're you," she said. He didn't reply as she collected cups and plates and took them to the kitchen. When she returned she had a tray with two steaming mugs of coffee, a box of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows and several bars of Equal Exchange dark chocolate.

"S'mores?" Greg rolled his eyes. "Why, of course. It's the perfect dessert to follow a healthy dinner."

Dana chuckled. "Don't knock it till you've tried it." She opened the marshmallow bag and popped a soft white cube into her mouth. "Got anything to roast these on?" she said as she chewed.

They ended up with chopsticks. Greg showed her how to make the marshmallows hot and gooey enough to melt the chocolate without falling off. Soon enough two s'mores were ready to eat. Dana sat on the floor pressed gently against Greg's good leg as she munched her treat and watched the flames. The room was warmer now, more cheerful and intimate. Greg seemed to sense the change as well.

"I always made popcorn in the fireplace at our townhouse," he said. Dana wondered who made up the other half of the 'our' in that sentence. Plainly it was someone of significance; Greg had no history of any long-term close relationships as far as she could tell, or at least none he spoke of. "We had one of those big cast iron poppers. The thing weighed a ton but worked perfectly. Made nice fluffy popcorn. We used to season it with bacon salt. Awesome stuff."

"Bacon salt?" Dana considered it. "Hmm . . . maybe."

"Everything's better with bacon," Greg said. She chuckled.

"I once went to a restaurant where we were served thinly sliced crudités and a lighted candle for the first course. The waiter poured the candle wax over the vegetables. It was clarified seasoned bacon fat."

"Nice," Greg said. Dana shook her head.

"Sounds better than it tasted." She finished a last corner of graham cracker and dusted her hands, sipped some coffee. "Want another one?"

"Nope." Greg reached into the marshmallow bag. "Just roast one of these. I like 'em burnt."

Dana did as he asked. When she handed Greg the stick, the marshmallow began to slide off. Dana caught it. Her slight hiss of pain changed to a rueful chuckle as the soft insides melted and cooled over her fingers. Her amusement faded when Greg took her hand and guided it to his mouth. She waited, her gaze locked with his. When his tongue touched her she released a held breath. He licked the sticky treat just as the kindling flames had done with the logs: soft little touches at first, slow and caressing. Without conscious thought she sat up a little to give him better access, closed her eyes as he suckled her fingers one by one; his tongue stroked each digit. When he released her she came back to herself, startled by the lack of contact. She looked at him. Greg watched her, his gaze a mix of speculation, amusement and arousal that started a glow of heat deep in her belly. Dana scavenged a damp napkin from the table and wiped what was left of the marshmallow from her hand. Then she eased his knees apart and opened his bathrobe. She smiled at the sight of a sizable bulge under the soft fleece of his sweats.

It took some careful maneuvering, but after a bit of work on both sides he was naked from the waist down. Dana leaned forward and took gentle hold of his erection as she began to encourage him to grow. She teased him when she used her tongue in much the same way he had—slow, languorous strokes, to draw him in further as she suckled him. His hands crept up to tangle in her hair as she slowly increased the rhythm, eased him into hardening but didn't force him to work for it. He made a sound, a whimper caught somewhere between pain and pleasure; the simple human need in it tugged at her. Dana slid her hands around to hold his hips and took in the entire length of him, felt him quiver. She didn't push him however, just kept up a steady pulse until at last he released—not an explosion, more of a spilling over as he shuddered and relaxed. She eased him out of her mouth. His hands slid down to her shoulders to rest there, inert. When she looked up, it was to find his head tipped back so that she couldn't read his expression, but as she observed him he exhaled, a long deep sigh. Dana smiled a little. Endorphins kicking in, she thought. In silence she got up, went to the bathroom to wash her hands and rinse out her mouth. On her return she found him with his head turned toward her, his hooded gaze searching, vulnerable. She sat on the couch next to him, broke a small piece off one of the chocolate bars on the coffee table, and put it on her tongue. Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

"You taste like s'mores," he said when the kiss ended.

"You look very sexy sitting there half-naked but I'm sure you're cold," she said in reply. He made a derisive noise.

"I'd rather see you half-naked," he said, and gave her a speculative glance. Dana chuckled.

"That could be arranged."

He ended up with his sweats back on and next to Dana while they watched a movie together. It wasn't exactly cuddling, as he was still too sore for much close contact, but she did take his hand in hers at one point and he didn't object or pull away. He had lovely hands, as she had once told him; strong, callused, lean. She glanced at the piano. "Do you play?" she asked, though she already knew quite well he did. He nodded.

"Sometimes."

Dana heard the wariness in his words, so she didn't pursue the subject. She turned her attention back to the movie and felt him relax a bit. He's private about his music, she thought. He's such a romantic and doesn't even know it.

"What are you thinking?" He sounded suspicious.

"That it's about time we checked out those clean sheets I put on the bed," she said. His clasp tightened gently.

"I . . . I won't be able . . . this soon after . . ." He sounded uncertain, hesitant. Dana rubbed her thumb over his palm in a slow circle.

"Then we'll just wait till morning," she said. He was silent a moment, and then he made a noise that could have been a laugh.

"A practical woman," he said, and struggled to his feet. "Okay. Tomorrow we'll see what we can do with some double-sided tape and a blue pill or two."

While he used the bathroom, she banked the fire and closed the safety doors, then took the leftover s'mores ingredients to the kitchen to stow away in the small pantry that served as a storage area. She put the rest of the soup, garnishes and rolls in the fridge, mixed some oats with cold water and a pinch of salt and set them to soak, then went to her backpack and took out necessities. She hadn't planned to stay overnight anywhere; maybe she could borrow a tee shirt to sleep in.

When she entered the bedroom it was to find Greg turning back the covers. He moved slowly, and it was clear he was in a fair amount of discomfort. Dana returned to the kitchen, took a croissant from the bag on the counter, put it on a plate, snagged a bottle of water from the fridge and went into the bedroom. She set the food and water on the night stand beside Greg. He stared at it, then at her. "What's this?"

"Something to save your stomach lining when you take your meds," she said.

"I'm old enough to make my own decisions," he said. Dana shrugged.

"That's true. I'm just giving you the option." She tilted her head. "Mind if I borrow a shirt?"

"You don't sleep naked? Spoilsport," he grumbled, but dug through a drawer and tossed her a tee. When she emerged from the bathroom half the croissant was gone, the water bottle down by a third of its contents.

"It'll be your fault if I have to get up to pee in the middle of the night and wake you up," Greg said, and pushed the covers aside for her. Dana climbed in and lay on her side. She faced away from him as he brought the sheet and blanket up over her and turned out the light. With a soft groan he settled in behind her. A moment later she felt his hand slip under the tee shirt and cup her breast with the lightest of touches. She let his fingers trail over her side to her hip, as his palm slid over her skin. It was a gesture of exploration, but it also felt comforting. She relaxed and enjoyed his tenderness.

"Dana," he said after a moment or two. His rough baritone was softer, more intimate. She liked the way he said her name. "It means 'of the goddess Danu'."

"And Gregory means 'one who watches'," she said, and stretched a little. When he gently pulled her to him she didn't object. His arm went about her waist. "Bonne nuit," she said softly. His warm breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck.

"'night," he murmured. Dana put her hand over his and felt the gradual loosening of sleep come over him. She wasn't far behind.

When she woke the first faint light of morning stole through the window on the other side of the room. She couldn't see the clock from where she lay, but her internal sense of time told her it was probably somewhere around seven—she usually woke up about then most days. Greg lay next to her, snoring softly. With as much stealth as she could muster she got out of bed, shivered a little in the cooler room air, and headed for the bathroom. Upon her return she found Greg propped on one elbow as he squinted at her. He frowned, his hair tousled; he looked formidable and endearing at the same time. "Whatsa matter?" he wanted to know. Dana perched on the edge of the bed and put her sweater and jeans down beside her, ready to pull on a clean sock from the pair she'd taken out of her backpack the night before.

"Nothing," she said, "getting dressed," and gave a little squeak when a long arm reached out to ease her down.

"Not yet," Greg said.

When she rose again she was used up in the most delicious way, her mind and body thoroughly soaked in lovely afterglow. Greg lay stretched out on the bed. A beatific expression softened his strong features. Dana leaned down to give him a slow, lingering kiss. After it ended she said "I'm going to take a bath, and then if you don't mind I'll play your piano."

"I think you already did," he said. She chuckled softly and straightened, then went off to take care of business.

When she emerged clean and dressed it still rained; the windows were streaked with drops. As a consequence the morning was raw and damp. She swept up the hearth, stacked a couple of logs and started a new fire, then sat down at the piano. It was a beautiful instrument, well-used and cherished if the patina on the keys was anything to go by. Dana paused. She remembered mornings at practice in Florence, as golden Italian summer sun streamed over her shoulders; crisp fall afternoons in Prague, snowy winter evenings in Paris, chilly spring dawns in Boston . . . a kaleidoscope of images fell one after another through her mind's eye, clear and bright. Without conscious thought she began to play. The touch of the keys under her fingers was like a meeting with an old friend. The notes moved through the quiet room unadorned, melody and harmony united in simple brilliance.

At the end she became aware of someone beside her. She let her hands rest on the keys with some reluctance. "Shown in your true colors as a sentimental romantic, playing a waltz," Greg said. "Chopin, opus sixty-nine, number two. You're a professional."

"My father was. He taught me well, but I don't have anything like his immense talent."

Greg was silent a moment. When he looked at her again, she saw the light of recognition in his eyes. "You changed your name because you're Alex Desjardin's daughter. 'Desjardin' is the French equivalent of 'gardener'."

"Yes." She touched a key and pushed away apprehension. "It makes life a little easier."

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. It's excellent blackmail material." Greg glanced down at her hands. "My last music teacher felt your father's interpretations of Chopin were among the best in living memory. I have several of his recordings."

Dana smiled, though it was hard. "I won't disagree." She looked at him. "Would you play for me? Please?"

Greg shook his head. "I'm not—" He stopped when she put a hand on his arm.

"I don't expect perfection," she said. "Play whatever you like. I have a feeling I'll enjoy it." She hesitated. "If it's easier for you, I'll go out of the room."

After a moment he nodded. She slid to the end of the bench and stood, then went into the kitchen.

She'd just loaded rinsed plates into the dishwasher when the first notes of the 'Aria', the opening theme of Bach's Goldberg Variations, sounded in the room. Dana closed her eyes and listened. Greg had a precise touch, both firm and sensitive—exactly right. Mon pere would approve, she thought. He doesn't rush either, just like he didn't with me. She remembered his kiss, slow and sweet, and shivered a little.

Bach ended and blues began. The contrast was striking, but the style was the same—assured and confident, his enjoyment in the expressive nature of the music quite evident. Still, there was a pensive quality she found rather sad. When the piano fell silent she came into the room. Greg looked out at the wet weather. His thoughtful expression suited him; he had a melancholic disposition under the bravado and prickliness, a trait she had noticed in him from the start. He turned as she approached, his loneliness replaced by something almost like fear. Dana stopped by the piano bench. "You're an excellent musician," she said. "My father would be pleased to hear you play both Bach and the blues so well."

"I'm no Glenn Gould," he said, but he relaxed a little despite his harsh reply. Dana smiled.

"There was only one, thank goodness," she said. "I don't think the planet could handle two at once," and he snorted in amusement.

She made a hot breakfast in deference to the weather—oatmeal with butter, brown sugar and cinnamon, accompanied by coffee and croissants warmed in the oven. Once again he ate well, and stowed away the majority of the food. Dana sensed that if she weren't there he wouldn't have bothered with much more than the coffee; he needed so badly to have someone care for him . . . She set the knowledge aside and asked "How are you feeling?"

"Better," he said. "You can go now." He didn't look at her.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe beyond helping out a bit, I might actually enjoy your company?" Dana said quietly. "Because I do, you know."

His gaze swung to hers, more speculative than angry. "I pay you to have kinky sex with me. If you want to keep me as a client, you have to say that kind of thing."

Dana shook her head. "You come to me for therapy. This is quite separate from that, at least it is for me." She drew a deep breath as comprehension dawned. "Ah. Nice try."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he muttered.

"Pushing me away so I won't get any closer," Dana said. Greg stared into his coffee cup and said nothing. "You don't have to. I'm not here looking for undying love or a new living arrangement. You need a little help, I'm in a position to offer it."

"And the sex?" He sent her a piercing glare. "Was that 'helping'?"

"It made me feel better," she said in complete truth. "I hope it did the same for you."

"So you were just taking care of me there too." Greg sounded bitter. Dana reached out to touch his hand.

"Maybe a little, but it's more about a delightful opportunity to explore impressive architecture," she said, and offered him a cheeky smile. After a moment he gave a reluctant chuckle, and his expression lightened a bit.

They spent the rest of the morning in the living room. Greg watched tv, while Dana curled up next to him as she read. The phone rang twice; he checked the caller ID both times. The first call he ignored and let go to the answering machine, the second he took. "What? Why are you bugging me? . . . I'm fine. No . . . no . . . yes, she came by. Don't even try to make me believe she didn't give you all the dirt and you're just calling to confirm what she said . . . Yeah, my therapist . . . No. I said no . . . I'm good. No, I'm not living on two week old takeout and beer. Breakfast? Let's see . . . three week old takeout and beer. Wilson . . . Wilson. I'm kidding, jesus. I had oatmeal." Greg rolled his eyes. To Dana's surprise he handed the phone to her. "He doesn't believe me," he said. Dana took the receiver with some hesitation.

"He did have oatmeal. And a croissant and coffee."

"I'm sure he paid you to say that," the man on the other end replied. He sounded exasperated.

"As a matter of fact the only payment was the one I made for the groceries at the store down the street," she said, tongue firmly in cheek. "Not to mention laundry soap and bandaids."

There was a brief silence. "I see," the man said. "You must be Doctor Gardener." He sounded dubious of her title.

"Yes," she said. "I work with Doctor Nolan."

"Ah." Awkwardness replaced annoyance and disbelief. "I see. House . . . he's okay?"

"And you are?" Dana asked, all sweetness. Greg snickered.

"Uh—Doctor James Wilson. I'm an old friend."

"I see," Dana said, sounding doubtful, as she deliberately imitated Wilson's attitude.

"Yeah okay, I deserved that," Wilson said, to her surprise. "Listen, do you need anything? I can swing by at lunch—"

Greg held out his hand. Dana gave him the receiver. "No," he said, and hung up. "Problem solved."

"You know he'll come by anyway," Dana guessed. Greg dipped his head in acknowledgment.

"We'll get a free meal, and he'll have a chance to scope you out. Win-win."

"What do I get out of it?" she asked, amused.

"Besides the entertainment value?" He flashed her a smile, brief but genuine. She caught her breath at the way it transformed his features just for that moment, showed the strong and yet vulnerable man inside the formidable fortress he'd built. "Not much."

Somehow I doubt that, she thought, but said nothing.