Chapter One

To Lisbon it felt like the end of very strange dream in which Jane had been Jane but not Jane, completely at a loss, waiting for truth to reveal itself, and fresh out of ruses to help it along. With his half-hearted humour he had scrabbled for firm ground, but she knew he wanted to be caught. When he kissed her and saw how she smiled at him, he had taken on that familiar faraway look; solving the puzzle, formulating a plan. She saw his impulse control start to sputter and fail, and reflexively, fearing chaos might ensue, she almost called his name. Then he sat down again, taking her hands in his own across the table, and for a moment nothing else mattered and words seemed to be pointless things, like ties, or those extra programs on a washing machine. Then she remembered their spartan surroundings and smiled.

"Funny, isn't it?" he said softly. "The truth coming out here."

"In an interrogation room?" She nodded. "It figures."

"I was cornered. Crippled."

"Yeah, well . . . I've dealt with some slippery customers in my time, but you—"

"Should've lawyered up."

"You tried every trick in the book."

"No takesy-backsies?"

"Not funny," she smirked.

"My fingers were crossed the whole time."

"They were not. Don't make me hurt you."

They paused, enjoying themselves so much it was lucky they were parted by a table, and realising all at once that their usual banter, habit of many years, had been a strange, repressed form of flirting. It suddenly seemed perfectly obvious.

"We need to get you out of here," she said, and in her thoughts she added, to some place where we can be alone.

He nodded absently, for in his thoughts, a step ahead, they were both already there.

"I spoke to Abbott outside. He's negotiating with the TSA."

"They told me he was coming."

"He seemed happy to see me. Sent me in to talk to you. Seemed to think we needed a minute."

"Oh he did?"

"Guess I'd better ask him very nicely if I can have my job back."

The man himself appeared, and a quick glance at the clasped hands on the table told him all he needed to know.

"Jane," he boomed. "TSA has agreed to release you into FBI custody. You're scheduled for a disciplinary hearing at HQ in Austin two days from now. Come with me please."

He strode out, directing a nod at the supervising TSA agent, with Jane hobbling after. Outside in the hallway a surprise awaited in the care of a burly attendant.

"Saddle up," said Abbott. "We got you your very own airport wheelchair."

"Ah . . . Thank you," said Jane. "I think I'll pass."

"The speed you're moving on foot we'll miss the next flight, and then the TSA will be seriously ticked off. They want you out of here ASAP. Now," Abbott fished his phone out of his pocket and started texting, "where is Cho?"

"Well this is gonna cramp your style," said Lisbon, sounding a lot more sympathetic than she looked. To Jane at least, she looked like she was trying to act normal and failing hopelessly. In fact, to him, she resembled a heroine in a schmaltzy stage musical who, having fallen head-over-heels in love, is about to burst into song. He gave her a derisive look, and teased from her a crooked little smile. On his returning the same, she feigned disinterest, and when his eye meandered just a little over the loose silk of her blouse—which revealed nothing, so he had to pretend—he prompted a wide-eyed glare pitifully lacking in conviction. It was a game he could have played all day, but seeing Abbott put his phone away he lowered himself into the wheelchair and sighed contentedly, his sense of indignity all but forgotten.

"You mentioned a disciplinary hearing, Dennis?"

"At 1 p.m. in the break room, day after tomorrow. Bring the 'case closed pizza'. But take tomorrow off to . . . uh . . . rest your ankle. And Lisbon, I hope you'll be joining us?"

"If you'll have me back."

"Never wanted you to leave," he smiled. And that was his final word on the matter.

They joined Cho in the main terminal building, waiting with everyone's bags and still looking very 'cop', even while carefully holding up Lisbon's three evening dresses enclosed in garment bags.

"The receptionist at the Blue Bird said you forgot these," he said, as Lisbon accepted them sheepishly. "She wanted to thank you for your stay. She hopes to welcome you both back in the future." He noted the look on Lisbon's face, and the look on Jane's face. And the awkward silence. "Anyone seen a Starbucks?"

"Ok then, let's move people," said Abbott, heading towards the restaurant area and making a bee-line for Starbucks. "It's on me," he announced.

Arrangements had been made for their return to Austin, leaving Fischer behind to wrap things up with the Islamorada Sheriff's Department and local D.A. It was over an hour till the next flight, and Lisbon spent most of it trying to bring some order to her life. She found a quiet corner, retrieved the long to-do list she had written when preparing to relocate, and began to wearily prioritise the reversal of every single entry. Then she made many phone calls, saving the one she most dreaded till last.

She had texted Marcus after abandoning her flight, but only to apologise for the delay, leaving him to assume it was work-related. She'd then had a long night to decide what to say to him, and by the end of it was absolutely none the wiser.

She could explain to him that he had pressured her, constantly, subtly at first, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes not, and that she had allowed it only because she craved the attention, an antidote to Jane's maddening, never-ending silence. She could suggest that honesty was only brave if the stakes were high, and could be a sign, not of morality, but of a severe lack of creativity and finesse. It could be said that when meddling with her career, discounting her feelings was best done out of fear of her refusal—Jane-style—and without the use of emotional blackmail. Also, that even though there had been very little romance in her life, she was pretty sure that 'what the hell' was not a phrase commonly used in marriage proposals. And last of all, she could tell him that she hated granola bars, and he should learn to make a real fuss, or at least some damn toast.

But none of this seemed worth sharing.

Startled by her resentment, she had realised it was misdirected, for it was her own behaviour that really bothered her. She had used Marcus, unthinkingly, as a refuge from her hopeless relationship with Jane, drawn to him only for those qualities that seemed opposite to Jane. She had fawned over him like she was someone else, pretended to share his interests, and turned a blind eye to every failing. It seemed that in Marcus and herself she had found perhaps the only two people in existence who couldn't see through her lies. And it struck her as ironic that, in trying to distance herself from Jane, she had been dishonest, self-centred and impulsive, displaying the same faults for which she criticised him so harshly.

She glanced over at him and then, despite everything, smiled. He was reading Cosmopolitan.

Idiot.

She dialled Marcus's number.

The conversation went much more smoothly than she had anticipated. Her feelings for Jane were no surprise to him; he had simply hoped she would choose him anyway. He wasn't jealous or broken-hearted, just disappointed, very disappointed, like when the Rangers didn't qualify for the playoffs last season. He said his parents were flying in next weekend to meet her and would also be disappointed. They were bringing a house warming gift. As he talked on she wondered what it might be. 'His 'n Hers' bathrobes came to mind, but after a moment's consideration she settled on a 'no pressure' gift card for Bel Bambini.

In less than fifteen minutes it was over.

She scrubbed at her tired eyes and then stared out the window for a while, watching planes taxiing to the runway and baggage carts trundling back and forth. Then she was roused by a rhythmic squeaking noise to find a large coffee and some food on the table in front of her, and a familiar pair of legs clad in grey stretched out at her side.

"Can hear you coming a mile off," she smiled.

"It's antique," he deadpanned, patting his wheels. "Probably worth a fortune."

"Where's your chauffeur?"

"Gary?" He gestured toward the attendant, sitting across the room. "He's giving us some privacy. And watching the flight information screen. I put him in a light trance. He'll wake up when the P.A system chimes for boarding."

"Very funny," she said, taking the coffee. "Thanks, I really need this."

"It's hot," Jane warned as she gulped half of it down. "But I see that's not a problem."

She sighed heavily. "I remember when you started at the CBI you used to drink coffee sometimes."

"That witches' brew? Yeah," he shrugged. "You coppers like to bond over doughnuts and bad coffee. It was a naïve attempt to fit in with my co-workers."

"When have you ever tried to fit in?" she scoffed.

"Well, I learned the error of my ways. But if by coffee you mean the result of passing hot water under pressure through correctly ground and tamped coffee beans that have been stored in an airtight container at room temperature for no more than three weeks after roasting, then yes, I am capable of enjoying coffee."

"No kidding," she smiled, too tired to muster up any of her habitual smack downs, barely able to string a sentence together in fact, and yet still aware of how deftly he was easing away her tension. Watching him as he stole the grapes from her fruit salad, she felt a resurgence of happiness, and observing the languid movement of his lips with some enjoyment—for he even looked good while eating—she recalled their kiss, brief, cautious, but a tantalising hint of what soon might follow.

The blissful but sleepy look on her face did not escape his notice, grapes or no grapes.

"The sad truth is," he began again, "I can be annoying under the influence of caffeine. Rigsby told me. Cho agreed."

As he suspected, she was watching his mouth while he spoke but not listening to a single word, and with a total absence of eye contact, her only response to the sound of his voice was a cute little lopsided smile. Charmed, he waited until she stirred before speaking again.

"I know what you're thinking," he said.

She stared at him, bleary-eyed. "No you don't!"

Her alarm entertained him. He looked her up and down and smirked a little, just to make her squirm. Then he dropped the act. "You're right, I have no idea. But I'll give you a hundred dollars if you'll tell me."

Then he smiled at her with a warmth she was not yet accustomed to, and a rush of adrenaline silenced the buzzing in her head, easily succeeding where coffee had failed. Reeling a little, she actually wondered if Jane's rickety wheelchair was strong enough for two, and what would happen if she jumped him in an airport departure lounge only yards from her boss.

Crap, thought her inner control freak, Crap, crap, crap.

"Hey," he said gently, leaning in closer, "hold still." He tilted her chin upwards. "Let me . . ." With the tip of his finger he lifted a trace of cappuccino foam from her upper lip. "There."

"Oh," she breathed. "Oops." She licked her lips. "Gone?"

High voice.

"Mm hm."

She could see him double, maybe triple checking, and smiled. "Are you sure?"

He looked very sure. Chuckling a little and starting to blush, she looked away. As she contemplated the leftover foam inside her cup it occurred to her that even a milk-moustache could have an up-side, and that suddenly, inexplicably she could quiver like a jelly under Jane's most fleeting touch.

"Financial Times must be a fun read today," Jane observed, looking at Abbott, who appeared to be smiling broadly into the newspaper. Next to him sat Cho, watching his three colleagues with a bemused expression.

"He's subtle, I'll give him that."

"That's some special FBI Top Secret surveillance training in action."

"That's why they pay him the big bucks."

"He could cut some peep-holes," Jane pondered. "That might work. Or maybe he's just happy about the latest OTP news."

"Huh?"

"There's about to be a big merger. Or something like that."

"OTP?"

"OTP Bank Group. One of the largest independent financial services providers in Central and Eastern Europe."

"I thought you didn't read financial news."

"I don't. But sometimes I absorb information against my will. Even a memory palace gets junk mail."

Lisbon rolled her eyes at him and yawned.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" he asked.

"Not much. TSA wouldn't let me in to see you till Abbott arrived, but they put me in a waiting room and I dozed for an hour or so."

"How did it go with Pike?"

"Oh, it was fine I guess. He was fine. I think I feel worse about it than he does. I've been . . . all screwed up."

"Hm. . . Nothing worse than a conscience."

"A pricking conscience."

"Now you're just splitting hairs."

"One good thing at least. I can move back into my house, my landlord hasn't signed up a new tenant yet. Though everything I own is in a big storage container halfway to D.C. Won't be back till tomorrow evening, or maybe the day after, I don't know for sure yet. So a couple of nights in a motel."

"Maybe I can help with that."

"How?"

"Well it's largely my fault you're practically homeless and had to spend the night in an airport. And Abbott says the Bureau will reimburse me for the rooms at the Blue Bird, since everyone stayed there in the end. Fate has offered me a second chance and you deserve to stay somewhere nice. My treat."

"Don't be silly! I'll be fine. And I can pay my own bills."

"Ok Beyoncé."

"It's not like I'm innocent in this mess."

He shrugged. "Since as a rule I don't atone for my sins unless you go all warrior-princess on me, you should take advantage. It would make me happy. And if you're determined to be punished, indulge your masochistic tendencies by meeting me tonight for dinner. Or just a drink, I don't mind," he finished quietly. "I'd like to see you."

She smiled. "Our first date."

"I'd call it a second date. The last decade has to count for something."

That they agreed wholeheartedly was clear, but since Abbott had already seen more than enough, Jane took Lisbon's hand, squeezed it a little, and then placed in it her forgotten cranberry muffin. "I'll speak to Dennis," he said, trying to reverse-turn his wheelchair, "ask if he knows a nice hotel. He knows Austin well. Or maybe he can give his wife a call."

"You don't seem to be moving."

"This thing needs oiling."

"Well you know what they say about bad workmen."

"It's hardly my fault the wheels won't go backwards."

"So if I push you into the ladies' room you'll be stuck?"

"I'm glad you find my impairment amusing."

"Who's laughing? I'm not laughing." She got up to help. "Your brake is on you big dummy, that's the problem."

She parked him next to Abbott and Cho, reserved a seat beside them and then went to the bar and got Jane some tea and another coffee for herself.

Abbott responded to the hotel enquiry with an infinitesimal twitch of the mouth, a clear indication to Jane that he was smirking on the inside. He regretted it at once.

"You smell nice today Dennis," observed Jane.

"Well thank you," said Abbott.

"As does Cho. Lemon oil, orange and . . . bergamot if I'm not mistaken, most likely the complimentary toiletries provided at the Blue Bird Lodge. And judging by the tiny flakes on your tie and the purple spot on Cho's shirt you enjoyed the fresh home-made pastries and blueberry pancakes at breakfast."

Abbott nodded, a little uneasily.

"I'm glad you enjoyed your stay. Now you can impress Chief Agent Shultz with a high profile case finally put to rest. I'm happy that I was able to solve it for you."

"Which is why I was happy to get the TSA off your back," countered Abbott.

"And while you were both eating, drinking and eh . . . talking downstairs. . ."

"You racked up quite a minibar bill," Cho pitched in. "We took care of it."

"And since I gift-wrapped the killer while dealing with, not one, but three gun-toting maniacs hell-bent on revenge. . ."

"We . . ." Abbott trailed off, weakly, "returned your hire car."

"Thank you Dennis, Cho. I appreciate it. So perhaps now you can understand why poor Lisbon, who bears the brunt of my difficult behaviour, deserves to stay in a nice hotel for a couple of days until she has a home to go to."

Abbott called his wife.

Turning away a little, and mostly silent for the first minute or two as his wife talked, he did a good job of keeping his end of the conversation, as overheard by his colleagues, discreet and mostly unremarkable, eventually broaching the subject of hotels.

"It's for Lisbon . . . Yeah, it certainly is. . . I don't know. Maybe, maybe not . . . Heh, heh, I know . . . Not a good time . . . Not really . . . Yeah. He does . . . Hm? . . . No, I don't . . . Ah, yes . . . Yeah, just-eaten-some-bad-shellfish sick."

Throughout this exchange however, he was unaware that his wife's voice, high pitched and animated, was clearly audible to Jane, who was next to him.

"Who needs a hotel? . . . She's staying in Austin? That's great news baby! . . . No way would you keep a leash on Jane without her. . . Better make it a nice hotel then, know what I mean? . . . So she got rid of that guy, what's his name . . . oh you can't say right now? . . . It was something fishy. Didn't you say he talks with his mouth full? . . . And what was it he said on the phone that time, when you went back to the office late . . . You know . . . The time Jane was your boss in that big house. You said he dressed the girls up like they were his Charlie's Angels . . ."

Enthralled, Jane slopped tea on the floor.

"Oh, I remember!" she went on. "He doesn't know what a canapé is! No class, no class at all, makes sense he would propose in the office. No wonder she looked sick to her stomach . . . And he said Jane'd understand?" She finished with a crescendo. "Jane'll understand his foot up your ass, fish boy!"

Abbott chuckled a little and then steered her attention back onto the subject of hotels, whereupon she debated which girlfriends she would call to ask, and reminded him that their anniversary was approaching and he had promised her a long-weekend vacation.

"Relax. I found a nice place," Abbott told her. "Already made the reservation."

Jane turned away, just as Lisbon returned from the restroom.

"What's up with you?" she said. "You grinning like that is never a good sign."

He grinned wider.

"You're like the Cheshire Cat," she scolded. "Cut it out. Is that tea on your shoe?"

They were interrupted by an announcement: "Could passengers requiring special assistance and those travelling with young children please approach the gate for boarding."

Gary appeared, in a hurry.

"Wait," Lisbon stared at Gary, and then at Jane. "I thought you were kidding," she whispered. "Did you . . .?"

"Tip him generously? Of course."

"No . . . Did you—"

"Mr Patrick Jane, please approach the desk for boarding."

"That's me," he said happily, as Gary propelled him forwards.

"TSA just had a word with the senior flight attendant," said Cho. "They're making damn sure he gets on that plane."

Lisbon sighed. "Nothing he likes more than hearing his name over a PA system. Schools, hospitals . . . Airports."

She saw Gary a few minutes later at the bottom of the boarding stairs, folding up the wheelchair. Sticking out of the armrest pocket he found a handful of ten dollar bills.