1. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Emergency Department

The curtained area suddenly seems devoid of air, and Clark Durand wishes he hadn't decided to check on Martina Rosenoff's status. He casts a wary look at the man to his left, stepping back unconsciously to get more distance between him and Noah Morgan.

Noah pays no attention to him, instead directing his deep brown gaze to the shorter, more muscular man beside Martina. "No," he says in response to Mike Fiore's immediate question upon learning his name. "I wasn't aware you've been searching for me. Should I know who you are -- and why I'm the object of your hunt?"

"I'm Detective Fiore, Skyfalls Police Department. And I've been investigating the death of David Reilly."

"Ah." Noah's handsome face falls into a sober expression. "I see."

"I'd be grateful for a chance to talk with you." Mike glances down at Martina, then returns to Noah. "But now's not the time. Maybe tomorrow morning you can come by the station?"

"I'm afraid tomorrow's out of the question. Perhaps after the weekend?"

"Uh, time's kind of important here."

"So is my out-of-town appointment. I assure you I'll be available first thing on Monday."

"If I want to be assured, Mr. Morgan, I could make sure you're there tomorrow myself."

Martina frowns, obviously displeased at Mike's change of attitude towards the man who rescued her. "The only way to do that is to arrest him as a material witness," she says quietly. "And I doubt you'll get a judge to agree to a warrant this late on a Friday."

"Well put." Noah smiles softly at her. "Now who's the knight in shining armor?"

Mike holds his breath for a few seconds in an attempt to clear his head. "All right. Monday morning, then. But I want an address where I can find you."

"As I said, I'll be out of town over the weekend."

"Then let me know where you'll be on Monday. Just in case I need to drop by to remind you," Mike adds with a cool smile.

Clark barely pays attention to all this, trying to sort out his own thoughts about everything that's happened today. Was Noah's appearance in the garage a timely coincidence? How could it be, after Noah had already threatened Clark and his family? But then why was Martina involved? Noah couldn't possibly know that she agreed to be Clark's attorney, or even that she was a friend.

Someone's talking to him, and he blinks in response. When his bleary gaze reveals that Mike and Martina are now off in conference a few feet away, he realizes that the voice was Noah's. "What do you want?" he asks sharply.

"I said I'll give you a lift home." Noah smiles at him, like a wolf performing an act of charity. "I suspect you have some things to ask me."

Clark starts to shake his head, but the pain makes him think better of it. "Forget it. I'll see if Mike and Martina can--"

"You don't trust me? I did save your life, didn't I?"

"I don't know, did you?"

Laughing, Noah shrugs his well-shaped shoulders. "A cynic after my own heart. I promise you'll get home safely, Clark. And shouldn't you let Ms. Rosenoff be with her lover? It looks as if they have a few things to discuss on their own."

"How did you know Mike and Marty are --" Clark hesitates, then smiles crookedly. "Wow, you just know everything, don't you? Now you've been spying on Martina too?"

Noah chuckles again. "I appreciate your lifting me to the status of omniscient being, but all I am is observant. The relationship between those two is obvious. One can always tell with couples. They fit, so to speak."

"Really? Did you and David fit?"

Noah's smile doesn't change -- in fact, he doesn't seem to have heard the question. "Are you going to accept my offer or not?"

Curiosity gets the better of his caution, and Clark slowly nods his head.

2. Clark Durand's House

42 Adams Street

Blown under the porch roof by the wind, snowflakes alight on Beth Durand's curly brown hair, and on the pale rounded swell of her cheeks. Tristan Campbell resists the impulse to brush the dampness from her face, determined to keep his emotions in check. Besides, from the furious flash evident in her dark, reddened eyes, he doubts she'd welcome the gesture anyway.

Standing on her brother's front porch, he blocks her path to the front door. "I want to talk to you."

" Talk." Her upper lip lifts in a sneer. "Yeah, right. You only ever want to do one thing. Now move away from me."

"Not until we have this out." Tristan tries not to be daunted by her bitter tone. "If you're cold, we can move this inside, but--"

"I am cold. And I am going inside. But you can't come in." She starts to push by him, but Tristan steps to the side to keep her from reaching the door. "I said go away!"

Tristan fights the urge to take hold of her arms, drawing her to him. As it is, his strategy has changed since he first decided to confront her earlier this afternoon. He'd planned to remain angry, cold, in control of every word that passed between them.

But now that he's seen her, his anger has deflated. She's different from the passionate, powerful woman he's spent so many nights with over the past two months. Today, despite the fire in her furious gaze and the determined set of her jaw, she looks tired and vulnerable. For the first time since he met her, her face lacks any trace of makeup, and looks much younger than her thirty or so years.

He can't help but feel protective towards her -- despite the games she played with his heart, the lies she rattled off with the ease of an expert con artist. Somehow he has to try one last time to reach through the barrier between them

Taking a deep breath, he tells a small lie himself: "I didn't come here to argue with you," he says, lowering his voice. "Truth is, I've had a day to think about this, and I realize that in a way, I'm better off now." He smiles weakly. "Two days ago I was making an idiot of myself with the wife of my business partner. Now suddenly I've learned I wasn't doing anything of the kind."

"You thought you were. You didn't care that it was a bad thing to do, don't act like you did!"

"I did care. At least, part of me did. But the part of me that wanted to be with you was stronger." Searching her eyes for some sign that she's listening, Tristan steps closer to her. "Doesn't that mean anything to you? I'd never done anything like that before -- I've never taken such risks before, thrown away every moral caution I possessed, to be with someone else. And it was all for you."

"No, it wasn't. You only cared about that." She points at his crotch, her face red. "You're all that way. You want sex so bad you'll do anything!"

Tristan suddenly shivers -- from the cold, and from the obvious disgust in her voice at the thought of their affair. Refusing to let himself be hurt, he inhales and tightens his stomach muscles. "Is that what you think? How can you say--"

"I don't care! I want to go inside!"

"Not until we get some things straight." Unable to rein in his temper any more, Tristan lets his voice harden. "You can pretend to be indignant all you want, but you and I both know the real story. You were playing some sick game with me, and Danielle for that matter."

"Don't talk to me about her!"

"Fine. Then explain your behavior to me. I want you to tell me the truth -- you have to! You owe me that much. "

"I 'have to'?" Her eyes narrow. "I don't have to do anything. You can't make me anymore."

"I never made you do a thing! Are you seriously claiming that--"

"It made me sick. Everything you made me do, I hated it! And I hate you. You and Amanda, but she's not around and I don't have to--"

"Who the hell is Amanda?"

There's no mistaking the guilt in her sudden shifting eyes. When she doesn't respond, Tristan takes a step closer, every fiber in his being alive with the sense that he's uncovering some kind of mystery. "Answer me," he says quietly, capturing her darting gaze with his own. When she refuses to speak, he clutches at her coat sleeve. "Damn it, answer me, Elizabeth! Who is Amanda?"

3. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Fifth Floor

Daphne White walks up to her father's hospital bed, arms wrapped around herself. His eyes are closed, and for a few seconds she contemplates running out and claiming that she hadn't wanted to wake him up.

But Doug White's eyes open, and his head turns infinitesimally in her direction. Although he looks exhausted and in pain, the intensity of his gaze makes it clear that he wants her to come closer. Daphne swallows and sidles up to the bed.

For some time she just looks down at him. "Hi Dad," she says hoarsely. "It's ... it's good to see you awake again."

Naturally there's no verbal response, since the breathing tube prevents his speech, but Doug blinks a sort of greeting to her. His right hand fumbles towards the side of the bed, where Daphne sees a pad and pencil resting on a small night table. She leans forward to take them, placing the pencil in his fingers and slipping the pad beneath his palm.

you look tired.

"I am. I've been here since I found out. I slept some during the afternoon, but ... oh who cares about me, Dad. What are you feeling? Are you -- are you in a lot of pain?"

He doesn't bother writing anything, and he doesn't have to -- the agonized expression says it clearly enough. Daphne grimaces. "But they're giving you stuff for it, aren't they? I thought that's supposed to help the pain."

not all of it.

"I'm sorry." Daphne looks down at him, seeing her own reflection in his eyes. "I mean I'm really sorry, Dad. Could you -- do you remember hearing me talk to you before?"

He looks at her for some time, and then writes: no.

But she doesn't believe him. "Maybe you do, a little bit. Or maybe you'll remember it later. And if you do, I want you to know that I didn't mean it." Her burning eyes have no more tears left in them, but her throat is painfully tight. "I'm sorry I'm a bad daughter. And that you've been unhappy with me. And that I haven't been paying any attention to what you've been going through after Mom was arrested -- I'm so sorry..."

His weakly moving hand stops her. me too daphne. dont cry yr not a bad dghter.

She shakes her head. "No. I am. It's just that ... sometimes I'm so self-absorbed. I'm always thinking of how everything affects me. Even before when I was talking to you. I said all those things without thinking at all how you would've felt if you'd heard them. You know? And I'm always paying no attention to Tyler, and I don't even know anything that's going on with Michelle and Kaisha and -- and God, I'm even doing it now!"

Deep within the pain of Doug's dark eyes, there's a sparkle of amusement. His pencil scratches again.

dont worry. He hesitates, and then adds with a raised eyebrow. Like father like daughtr.

Despite herself, Daphne smiles, and Doug's face looks pleased. For the first time in years, they share a joke.

4. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Third Floor

Outside Elaine Wagner's Room

Rena Carlson hesitates before entering her friend's mother's room, chewing on a thumbnail as she contemplates what to say to Elaine Wagner.

Only moments ago, she heard that her two best friends were attacked in the hospital garage -- one of whom is Elaine's son. Thank goodness Clark's injuries are minor, but Rena knows that would be little consolation to a worried, bed-bound mother. And Rena also knows that she herself is no poker face, even when she's not exhausted after thirty-seven hours of emotional turmoil and no sleep. Can she really keep Elaine from seeing the concern for Clark that's probably written all over her?

She doubts it. And she wouldn't be here at all if she hadn't promised Clark while visiting him briefly in the ER to check in on Elaine before leaving the hospital.

"You can fake it," she chants, frowning at herself. "You've lied to patients before." A passing orderly gives her a curious look, but Rena ignores him, takes a deep breath, and enters the room.

Elaine's dark russet-colored hair looks even darker against the white of her pillow and her pale complexion. Her eyes are open, staring up at the ceiling, and Rena can tell she's been crying.

"Lainie," Rena says quietly, hurrying to her side. She pulls a tissue out of the box on the nightstand and gently dabs Elaine's cheeks. "What is it? Is there anything I can do?"

"Rena?" With difficulty, Elaine tries to find Rena with her gaze -- not an easy task with her head forced into a single position due to her neck traction. "I'm -- I'm all right. I was hoping to see Clark, though. Is he here?"

"No you're not all right, I can see that," Rena says, brushing past Elaine's question. "Are you in pain? Do you need more--"

"I'm not hurting much. The other nurse just gave me something." Elaine hesitates, as if debating whether to continue. "But I'm worried that ... that it might be giving me hallucinations."

Looking up at the IV, Rena frowns as she examines the small label. "Tramadol isn't usually known for that. Dizziness and nausea, but not ... Why, are you seeing things? Hearing things?"

"I don't know. It might have been a dream, but it seemed so real. Rena, they wouldn't let just anyone in to see me, would they?"

The tremor of fear in Elaine's voice is impossible to miss. Rena pulls up a chair and sits down, leaning over to rub Elaine's hand. "Not if you requested that we allow visitors on a permission-only basis. Was someone in here that you don't want to see?"

"I don't know," Elaine repeats, distressed. "It -- he spoke to me. I even smelled his cologne..."

"Well, there are such things as olfactory hallucinations." Rena waits a moment. Despite her concern for Elaine's welfare, she feels a little relief at having something to take attention away from her own worries. "Who do you think was in here?"

Elaine lifts her fingers to curl around Rena's hand, whispering: "Will you promise not to tell Clark?"

Oh God, not another secret... Rena closes her eyes wearily, but keeps her voice neutral. "Of course, Lainie. If it'll help you."

"Thank you, Rena. It's -- it's my ex-husband. I dreamed about being at the newspaper again, and saw him there. And when I woke up -- at least, I thought I was awake -- I felt as if he was in the room with me. And I smelled the cologne I gave him years ago. Chaps," she adds resentfully. "I used to love the scent, too."

Rena listens, fear tensing her muscles. She knows the barest details about Clark's father, since her friend finds it difficult to talk about, but she knows Jack Durand inflicted a lot of damage on his family ... at least, on Elaine and Clark. "But he's in prison," she says, staring at Elaine. "Isn't he?"

"Yes. We're supposed to be informed if he's eligible for parole, and I always have been, but things can slip through the cracks--"

"But they rarely do. Elaine, I'm not saying it's impossible, but in all likelihood it was a dream, considering your physical condition and the meds you're on.. A very frightening and vivid dream, I'm sure, but still..." Rena moistens her lips. "Look, let me talk to security and to the people at the front desk. I'll make sure that every visitor wanting to see you is cleared by you, Clark or Beth before they're issued a pass. How does that sound?"

"All right," Elaine says slowly. "But could you make that just me and Clark? Because Beth has always had a -- a different feeling about Jack. I'm not sure I trust her to keep him away."

Nodding, Rena stands up. "Okay. And don't worry about Clark suspecting the real reason behind this. If he asks why he has to approve of all visitors, I'll just tell him it's new hospital policy."

Elaine glances at her through heavy eyelids. "Won't he know that's a lie? He's a doctor."

"So? In his line of work he doesn't have to deal with visitors, lucky guy." Rena bends down and gives Elaine a quick kiss on her forehead. "Now go to sleep, please, Elaine. You're forcing yourself to stay awake, but you need to rest."

The older woman quietly thanks her. "You're such a blessing, Rena. I'm so glad Clark has you..."

Giving Elaine's hand a final squeeze, Rena slips out of the room, shutting the light behind her. Alone at last, Rena backs up against the wall, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of everything that's occurred over the past twenty-four hours: all the fear and concern about Greg, Doug, Daphne, Elaine, Clark, Martina -- and especially Jem.

She shuts her eyes. She dearly wants someone that she can lean on ... someone to cradle her, to be as strong and comforting as she's had to be all day for everyone else.

As if in answer to her prayers, she feels a familiar pair of arms slipping around her shoulders, drawing her into an embrace that's both powerful and tender.

"Come on, Rena," Greg White murmurs into her hair. "Let me take you home. To my home. We can order some pasta and pizza and eat until we fall asleep in each other's arms."

Rena looks up at him. "Greg," she says soberly. "I've never heard anything that sounds as absolutely perfect as that proposition."

Together they head sleepily to the elevator, meeting up with Daphne before at long last leaving the hospital behind.

5. Jem Van Doren's Apartment

Seven River Drive

Lying in his bed for the first time in months, Jem Van Doren looks up at the ceiling, watching the dancing shadows cast by the light of the streetlamps through the tree branches near his windows. He breathes heavily, although his exertions with Chelsea Stanford were finished more than a half hour ago. Now she lies beside him, semi-conscious as usual after lovemaking, her right arm flung over her eyes despite the darkness of the room. He can feel her own relaxed breathing, not to mention the slight pressure of her left arm, which -- accidentally or not -- has draped itself across his stomach, her hand casually resting atop his penis. The light touch of her fingers curling gently in her sleep is a delicious tease, and if he weren't so preoccupied with other issues he'd be enjoying himself a lot more.

But the truth is, ever since this last raucous session concluded, Jem hasn't been able to concentrate on anything but Jonnie Adair and the threats he made this afternoon. And neither of these is particularly helpful in furthering Jem's sexual activities.

He glances over at his alarm clock, with its green digital numbers glaring 7:08 PM at him. Since Jem habitually keeps his clock fifteen minutes fast -- a somewhat pointless trick he's always played on himself in the mornings to make him think it's later than it really is -- this means it's actually about ten to seven. A few minutes here and there don't really matter -- it's still about eight hours since Adair graced Jem with his grim presence.

But even Adair, who pounded Jem senseless in a parking lot and looked at Rena Carlson like a rottweiller looks at a pile of ground beef, isn't the person he fears most. Jem's knowledge of the mob hierarchy isn't all-encompassing by any stretch, but he doesn't think Adair's graduated from enforcer to hit man -- not yet. That role is probably being played by someone else -- someone only Dean Nelson knows, and who's only seen by outsiders about five minutes before they're no longer able to see anything any more.

I'm gonna get them the money, Jem tells himself, almost whining in his own head. Why the hell aren't they happy with that?

It's just not fair. Here he is, about to collect enough insurance money to pay back his damn debts and have a little left over to rebuild the paper, and suddenly Cameron Nichols and Jonnie Adair and even goddamned Bucky the Torch are holding their hands out for even more.

Thing is, Jem understands Bucky's point of view. Jem hates being blackmailed, God knows, especially by a guy who's just as guilty as he is in the near-deaths of Doug White and Elaine Wagner. But at least Bucky's threat is nice and straightforward: Give him extra money or he goes to the D.A. to cop a plea, making sure Jem's charged with conspiracy to murder or whatever charge Norman Mitchell feels like throwing at him.

But Cameron Nichols? This one makes no sense. A super-powerful corporate mogul -- or someone he's involved with -- lends Jem thousands of dollars, only to insist that Jem turn over the newspaper to pay back the loan.. Now that Jem can pay him back in plain ol' cash, Nichols isn't happy, he's sending goons like Adair out to see if Jem's good luck was due to a little case of arson.

But why? Someone with Nichols's resources could just as easily buy any old building and start up his own newspaper, if he's got some kind of journalism bug. Sure, the Record is established with a nice subscriber base, but it's not even in Nichols' home turf of Cornwall. Is Nichols that determined to get a head start in Schuyler Falls?

And for that matter, is the reason he's now so interested in learning the truth behind the newspaper fire simply that he doesn't like Jem having outmaneuvered him? Is the man that vindictive?

Jem exhales slowly. If he is that vindictive, maybe he really will make good on those threats against Chelsea and Rena. Someone that nasty wouldn't think twice about hurting some bystander in order to reach their goal.

Swallowing, Jem turns his head to stare at Chelsea. At first, Dean and Jonnie were threatening her -- not surprising, since she was probably seen visiting Jem. Now, thanks to Chelsea's decision to push her rival for Greg's affections off on Jem, Rena's now in the line of fire. Somehow Nichols found out about the check Rena gave Jem, and he must've had someone watching the house to see Rena coming and going all this week. And thanks to Adair's visit today, which coincided with Rena's return to Jem's apartment, the little thug has the impression that Rena knows all about the fire origins.

Jem feels Chelsea's fingers tightening around him, and he closes his eyes, ignoring the sensation to the best of his abilities -- not to mention the best of Chelsea's abilities, which even when she's sleeping are obviously plentiful. This Princess really knows how to work with her hands...

Somehow he forces himself to return to his more serious, decidedly unpleasant train of thought. If Rena's now the major potential victim -- God forbid, Jem adds, suddenly feeling a stab of concern at imagining anything happening to the sincere, compassionate little nurse -- there's not much Jem can do about that.

But at the very least, he realizes gradually, he might be able to take advantage of this unfortunate situation in order to keep Chelsea out of harm's way.

In other words, Jem thinks unhappily, bad luck for Rena ... good luck for Chelsea. Not an ideal trade-off, but it's better than nothing. And God help me, better than nothing's all I have right now.

Turning over with some difficulty, Jem faces Chelsea and brushes her arm away from her face. She blinks groggily, making a low sound in her throat, and frowns. Her face is so porcelain perfect, Jem stares at it in the moonlight for a moment before leaning forward to kiss her.

"Again?" she mumbles between kisses, although despite her supposed irritation her body is pressing up against his. "Whassat, four times now? Thought you were s'posed to be injured."

"Five," Jem whispers, slipping his hand between her legs. Unlike her, his eyes are wide open, since he wants this to be burned into his memory. "But don't worry, Princess. It's gonna be the last time."

Not understanding the full meaning of his words, Chelsea just smiles lazily, obviously deriving a great deal of pleasure from his fingers' rhythmic movements. And Jem's face remains still and sober as he watches her.

6. Clark Durand's House

42 Adams Street

As Tristan Campbell again demands to know who Amanda is, Bitsy clamps her teeth down on her tongue, furious at herself for being so stupid. She contemplates telling him -- that'd be pretty funny, he'd be even more messed up than he already is. But despite the hatred she feels for Amanda -- and for Samantha for starting the whole awful thing as usual -- Bitsy can't betray the household. It's just not right, and it's the one rule that Bitsy and the others follow religiously.

But things have gone too far, and she's no longer willing to continue the conversation. This is boring, she thinks sullenly, turning away from Tristan to look at the street and the unfamiliar car pulling into the driveway. Let her deal with it.

And so Bitsy relinquishes control, slipping backwards with a grin of satisfaction on her small, smug face.

Tristan also turns at the sound of the approaching car, and momentarily forgets his own question when a stranger exits from the driver's side door. Tristan hears a gasp from Beth in front of him. Her body slumps backwards a little, as if she's lost her balance, but before Tristan can help straighten her, she moves away, hugging herself. She seems to have forgotten all about him -- her gaze is focused only on the man exiting the car.

The tall, muscular blond man in a black leather coat also ignores Tristan, returning Beth's stare with a curving smile on his wide lips. Obviously they know each other. The sudden realization that there could be other men in her life makes Tristan's temples pound.

But the man doesn't greet her. Instead, moving around to the passenger's side, he opens the door and helps someone else out -- Clark Durand. Tristan relaxes a little, guessing that Clark is the object of the stranger's interests.

Clark's thick brown hair is disheveled due to a bandage near the crown of his head, and from the wince on his face, it's clear that he's in pain.

"Oh my God," Beth says, her voice utterly unlike the sharp, angry tone she'd used during their conversation. She staggers forward, clutching the porch railing. "What did you do to him?"

"I'm all right," Clark mutters, pushing himself away from the light-haired man to navigate his way through the snowy path up to the house.. "It's no big deal. And Noah didn't do anything."

The other man chuckles. "Rather ungrateful of you, isn't it?"

Beth hastens to Clark's side, pulling at his arm to help him up the stairs. "What happened? Why are you with him? What did you do--"

"Please, Bethy. You're giving me a bigger headache than I already have."

Turning to the other man -- Noah -- she takes a deep breath. Tristan can't miss the intense emotion in her gaze. "Tell me what happened," she says weakly.

"Your brother was on the wrong end of a mugging attempt. He was struck on the head and has a mild concussion, but he'll be all right. No lasting harm."

"Oh my God," she repeats. "And what do you have to do with it?"

"He stopped the attack," Clark says, glancing up at the blond man before looking away.

Beth squeezes her eyes shut and buries her head in Clark's shoulder, hugging him. Meanwhile, Clark's squinting gaze slowly takes in Tristan. "What the hell? What are you doing here?"

Tristan almost smiles. Usually Clark does a better job at hiding the distaste he feels towards Tristan, but apparently the day's events have removed his internal discretion. But Tristan's more interested in noting Beth's reactions. At Clark's words, she turned to stare at him, and now her eyes are wide with panic.

She doesn't want me to tell the truth, Tristan realizes, for the first time feeling the balance of power shift in his favor. He's not sure whom she wants to keep her secret from -- Clark, or this blond leather-clad man behind him -- but either way, Tristan's almost overwhelmed with the desire to make things difficult for Beth.

Instead, he waits for her to respond, watching Beth's hand fly to cover her pale cheek.

"You again," she says hoarsely, a tremor running through her. "How did you get here?"

Tristan almost admires her acting ability. Ignoring her, he turns to Clark. "Thank God you weren't badly hurt. Where did this happen?"

"In the hospital garage," Clark says tersely. "I can't stand here on the porch -- Beth, can you open the door, please?"

Giving Tristan a wide berth, she moves past him to unlock the front door and let Clark inside. Noah walks over and, after one long glance that seems to memorize Tristan's features, follows Clark into the house.

Now only Beth remains behind, leaning against the door frame and holding herself ramrod straight. "I promise I won't cause you any trouble," she says, her voice quiet but shaky. "Please just go."

"Trouble from whom? Your brother? That imitation James Bond with him? From the look on your face, telling the truth would cause more trouble for you than me."

"I haven't told anyone about last night, I -- I just want to forget it. Please leave me alone!"

He measures her with his gaze. "Incredible. I thought my ex-wife was a brilliant performer, but you leave her far behind."

A grimace contorts her features. "I didn't perform for you! I didn't want you to -- you grabbed me, and if you don't leave--"

Tristan's sarcastic applause interrupts her. "Brava. You're a veritable Sarah Bernhardt." He peers at her closely. "By God, you're actually trembling. I think you're beginning to believe your own lies."

A shadow falls across her face, and the blond man appears in the doorway. "Your brother's wondering what all the whispering is about," he murmurs to Beth. His brown eyes take in Tristan's stance. "Is there some problem out here?"

Not liking the proprietary hand the other man has placed on Beth's shoulder -- and too angry to notice that Beth has shrunk away from Noah's touch -- Tristan raises an eyebrow. "Are you her protector as well as Clark's?"

"Only if I need to be." Smiling, he takes a step closer to Tristan. "Do I need to be?"

Beth inhales sharply, and forces herself forward. Her hands clutch the other man's coat. "Please, don't, Noah. Please come back inside."

Noah slips his arm around Beth's waist, still smiling archly at Tristan. "All right, love. If that's what you wish."

Staring at the two of them, Tristan feels a sickening twist in his gut. "So that's how it is," he snaps, directing his words only to Beth. "At first I assumed he was with your brother, but now I see I had the wrong pairing."

"Shut up!" Beth cries, almost moaning. "Please be quiet!"

But like a train jumping the tracks, Tristan can't stop himself. "Then again, why should I think you'd confine yourself to something conventional? God knows you've proven that nothing's beyond you. Maybe it's not just you and him -- maybe all three of you are linked together in some kind of twisted--"

With the abruptness of a striking cobra, Noah backhands Tristan across his face.

Tristan staggers backward at the force of the slap, his own hand automatically lifting to his cheek in shock. Beth makes a strangled sound in her throat.

Noah, meanwhile, just puts his hand in the pocket of his coat. "It's not that I object to being linked with the lovely Ms. Durand," he says mildly. "But your insinuations about her and her brother are objectionable. I strongly recommend you listen to her the next time she asks you to be quiet."

Tristan lowers his hand, his face burning from the still-stinging blow, his growing rage, and the embarrassment of knowing that his insulting words were beneath him. With a final steady glance at Beth, he turns and somehow finds his way back to his car.

7. Martina Rosenoff and Mike Fiore's House

Six Pine Street

Martina lets her neck rest against the edge of the clawfoot tub, the hot water and bubbles surrounding her and caressing her sore muscles. She tries to empty her mind of the attack, but every time she closes her eyes she can see the ugly silver gun shoved in her face.

A soft knock on the door interrupts her unpleasant thoughts, and she sighs in relief. "It's okay, Mike."

He enters the bathroom, much more deferential to her privacy than he normally is when she's taking a bath. Usually he'd let his gaze drink in her nakedness, but instead he focuses on her weary face.

"Brought you some hot chocolate," he says, lifting the mug but keeping his distance. "I thought it might be comforting..."

She lifts her arm, which is draped on the side of the tub. "What'd be comforting is if you climb in here and sit beside me. But I'll take the chocolate as a poor substitute."

Mike smiles a little, drawing closer and kneeling by her side. He hands her the mug and watches as she takes a long, grateful sip. "Honey," he says after a moment. "I'm sorry if I pissed you off earlier. I shouldn't have started in on Morgan while you were still--"

"It's all right."

"No, it's not. I've been obsessing on those damn murder cases so much that I couldn't even focus on you. You're grateful to the guy, I don't blame you, and I should've at least moved him out of earshot before I started with the questions."

"Please, don't worry about it." Martina puts the mug on the soap rack, a precarious arrangement. "You don't have to feel guilty."

"But it's my job to make good assessments about timing, and more importantly, I was thoughtless--"

Martina quiets him by touching his mouth with her cool, moist fingertips. Her eyes are large, dark and nearly opaque as she shifts to stare evenly at him. "Mike," she says softly. "Don't blame yourself for not being in that garage."

After a moment, Mike grasps her hand with his. "I'm so goddamned sorry. If I could've been there--"

"But you couldn't have. You can't be with me twenty-four hours a day, and I don't need you to be. I should have taken care of myself. If anything, I'm angry with myself for being so totally useless."

"Don't you do that. Don't you dare do that to yourself."

"All I did was stand there. Sure, I threw the car keys out of his reach, but other than that I was a hopeless rag doll. He could have -- he could have done anything to me, and I would've let him. I couldn't fight, I was totally paralyzed--"

"Listen to me, all right?" He kisses her hand, staring at its glistening skin as if it will provide him with the right words to say. "He had a gun. He had a knife that you didn't even know about. If you'd tried something on him, who the hell knows what he'd have done to you?"

She shudders, and Mike draws his arm across her shoulders. "But -- but I should have fought more. I feel as if I was letting someone down. Exactly who, I don't know -- maybe you, maybe me ... maybe the whole female race."

"Let me tell you something, Martina. The day won't come that you let me down. I want you alive. That's the most important thing -- your only responsibility is to survive."

Martina takes a ragged breath. Then, lifting her head, she leans forward to press her lips against his, cupping his chin with her hand. He kisses her gently, caressing her smooth, wet back.

"God, I love you, Mike," she whispers, pulling away to look at him. "I love you so much."

"I love you too." Cradling her head in his hands, he massages her temples with his thumbs. "Feel good?"

She closes her eyes and smiles. "Oh yeah."

"Lie back then, and I'll do that to your whole body."

Slowly she slides back down into the warm bathwater. Mike gets behind her, rubbing her damp shoulders with tender attention. Little happy noises escape from deep in her throat.

With a grin, Mike kisses the back of her head, inhaling the tartness of her pear shampoo. "I nearly forgot. I got the address of that country place up in the mountains, the one Olivia found."

"Mmmm .... remind me how she found it again?"

"You know, during the infamous camping trip with Frank. She was looking for help and --"

"Ohhhh yes," Martina sighs, although probably more due to the fact that his hands have moved from her shoulders down to her arms, slowly moving upward again. "Now I remember."

"Well ... I'm thinking that after today, maybe you wouldn't mind leaving Skyfalls sooner rather than later. What do you think about going up tomorrow? Spending Saturday and Sunday upstate?"

Her body stiffens, and at first Mike thinks his suggestion is a flop. But her arm moves up to block his hand, which had moved to cup her left breast, and he gets a sinking feeling in his gut as he realizes her mood change has nothing to do with his words. "Martina, what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," she says hoarsely. "That's where he -- he touched me."

She doesn't continue, and Mike stands up, walking around to face her. "You didn't tell me anything about that."

"I didn't want to." She covers herself from him, something she's never done before, and it makes him almost physically ill. "I didn't want you to look at me the way you are now."

"How am I--"

"Like I'm damaged. Like you're disgusted by me."

Mike closes his eyes, and again kneels at her side. "That's not what I'm feeling. Not at all. I'm disgusted that someone would treat you like that. It has nothing at all to do with how I feel about you. My God, Martina, when I look at you now, I see nothing less than the beautiful, vibrant, sensual, strong, soft woman I'm lucky enough to make love to. And I'll continue to make love to you, God willing, as long as you'll let me. None of that's changed just because some sicko son of a bitch grabbed at you."

She looks at him, her eyes tear-glazed, and lowers her arms again. "Are you sure you still see all that?"

Slowly he nods. Leaning towards her, he reaches his fingertips to her breast, curving around its round, wet softness with tender awe. He keeps his hand still for a moment, letting her feel the difference between his touch and the man who attacked her, and once her breathing relaxes, he begins to brush his moistened fingers across her, as gently as the bubbles floating in the water. His feather-like stroking seems welcome, and after a while Mike lowers his head, letting his tongue caress her raised nipple before kissing her sweet scented skin.

Mike feels her body tremble as she starts to weep. He looks up in concern, but Martina's tearful expression is one of gratitude. Rather than push him away, she draws his face up to meet her hungry mouth.