Camille couldn’t help but exhale with pleasure as she stretched along the cool silk sheets. The rich fabric caressed her face and felt decadent as it rubbed across her toes…

Whoa! Silk sheets? Her bed at Carrick’s house had good sheets, better than hospital grade, but they certainly weren’t up to the level of one hundred percent silk. Camille’s eyes shot open, and quickly glanced at the deep blue linens as she made a futile grab for the bedding as she seemed to levitate into a sitting position. Camille allowed a small wince as her ribs protested her rough treatment. She looked around wildly, barely taking in the masculine décor and the high, ornate ceilings before her eyes settled on a damp haired man, calmly sipping, what she guessed was coffee, as he read the newspaper through his wire rimmed eye glasses.

Camille’s eyes glinted as she zeroed in on him. "Just don’t tell me I’m in your bedroom?"

Carrick didn’t bother looking up from the paper, "Okay, I won’t." He put his cup down as he turned the paper and promptly picked the fine piece of Wedgewood up again, his eyes still glued to the page, dismissing her completely.

What in the..?

As usual, the bane of her existence had thrown her off her game, again. All of the sudden she felt unreasonably annoyed that she didn’t have his full attention. She watched for a few seconds while he ignored her, he continued to sedately drink from his cup. She couldn’t help the observations that popped into her mind as she watched him in semi-stunned silence. He seems like the business section in the morning type man, then probably politics followed by Op Ed pieces. The wire rimmed glasses, balanced on his nose, gave him distinguished look. His wet hair softened his etched, classic lines, allowing her to imagine the young boy he may have been.

She couldn’t help but to watch him while he read the fine print in front of him. His long tapered middle finger softly, absently, rubbed the thin paper, while the other curled beneath. Something about that one digit making light circular motions against the page was hypnotizing, mesmerizing, and so damn seductive. Lazily, her mind drifted as she imagined the contrast of his finger drifting along the expanse of her thigh. I really must have had too many blows to the head!

Camille almost fell back onto the pillows with disgust. She was getting hot over a damn finger and some news print. It was ridiculous! It was an abomination! A few weeks ago she would have happily used his face for a dart board and now she was imagining him… Absolutely not. I am not going to finish that thought! Camille yelled internally to herself. Talking about abomination, she wanted to wash her mind out with soap. Those drugs they had been giving her must have been heavy duty, the mind altering kind. It was the only explanation for the crazy paths her noggin had been taking since she had gotten to The Pride.

For all she knew, he was setting her up for another episode of unimaginable humiliation. Was she doing the smart thing and trying to protect herself? No! She was watching him like a school girl whose boyfriend had just made a touchdown and as a reward she was considering letting him get to third base. It just wasn’t right for such a pain in the ass to have such broad shoulders!

Her eyes caught a glint of gold from the corner of her eyes, The room was huge with a masculine undertone-definitely furnished with a "Lord of the Manor" flair. It wasn’t ostentatious, but anyone with any taste could clearly see that everything was carefully placed with a male in mind and "reproduction" was clearly a dirty word. She had slept in a perfect time capsule. The room was a homage to a time long ago, the rich wood gleamed, the textiles framing the top of the bed were crisp. And she smelled him. The essence of him seemed to permeate the room and his scent rose from the sheets. Camille couldn’t help but fall back onto the pillows and touch the fabric to her nose like a kitten in catnip. She couldn’t remember the last time she spent time alone in a man’s presence, let alone in a room with a bed, when she wasn’t fully in control, making sure that her client was getting the service he paid dearly for. It just felt nice to relax and enjoy…

Then it occurred to her to do a little check. Camille turned awkwardly so that she could see what was going on under the covers. Yep, her pajamas were still in effect and all of her undergarments were in place. She looked across the room to find light, amber, eyes sparkling in amusement over the edge of the paper.

"Sugar Dumpling," His paper seemed to mock her as it shook with his quiet laughter. Camille sighed as she suddenly noticed the deeply carved patterns, directly above her, framing the bed. They were back to that annoying and ridiculous nickname. Carrick continued, "I am not at the point, yet, where I’ll take advantage of anyone who looked like they went twenty rounds with Muhammad Ali." He took that opportunity to turn to the next page of the paper, not bothering to dignify her with another glance. "Just in case you are wondering, that contraption they call a hospital bed is not fit for one human being let alone two. I tried to wake you up to let you know we were going to change venues, but you tried to brain me with your cast. So, I took that as a sign that you didn’t care to be awakened. By the way, you should warn a person that sleeping with you is like wrangling an octopus? You arms and legs are everywhere." Carrick made his comments without bothering to lower the paper again.

Camille felt her hand grip the sheets in an effort to hold herself back from flinging herself at him and his newspaper and snatching it from his hands, or him bald. She used the sheets to pull herself into a sitting position, telling him off really required the up-right position. Of course, right when she was beginning to thaw, a little, toward him, he had proved, again, to be the most egotistical, infuriating man alive. His ego was certainly not suffering from malnourishment. What was more impressive was that there was an enclosure large enough to house it. She glance around the room and smirked at the thought that this house gave a whole new meaning to suburban sprawl. Camille made a mental note to check and see if he and his ego were Guinness Book of World Records worthy.

The man had an unerring ability to shatter her titanium reinforced, cool, façade with just peck at its exterior. Her body tried to sort out her often conflicting emotions, where he was concerned. In the end she settled for quiet resignation. Her eyes followed her fingers, as she forced herself to loosen her grip on bedclothes and try to act casual as she picked at the deep blue sheets with her fingernails. "I guess I should be pleased that you at least deigned to attempt to ask me before you tried to take over my body, again." She pointedly stared at the paper, but it didn’t have the same satisfaction since he had yet put down the damned paper to look at her.

Behind the paper Carrick was almost slack jawed with shock. He knew when he moved her he was probably taking his life in his hands. During the night he considered that comforting her didn’t mean that his back had to pay the price, especially when there was a perfectly state-of-the-art bed in a room down the hall. He also didn’t want to remember how soft and warm she felt nestled in his arms. Some laws of the universe required obeisance and a pissed off Camille at any show of authority over her, certainly by him, seemed one of those well settled rules.

Time for a sanity check. Carrick knew he could no longer pretend to ignore her as he folded the paper in his lap and made a sound reminiscent of a nurse coddling a patient of dubious mental capacity. "What’s your name and which personality are you?" his asked in a patronizingly patient voice.

Her gaze had dropped from his barricade of the written word and she had been looking around the bedroom, her eyes silently cataloguing the touches of taste and wealth that were stoically standing guard. She answered, "Camille Montgomery and whaaat?" before his question registered. Camille looked at Carrick in exasperation, "Damn it, why in the world are you asking me my name?"

"You seemed a little slow this morning; that, coupled with your multiple personality disorder, I just wanted to make sure that your, TAKING OFF YOUR BANDAGES WITHOUT YOUR DOCTOR’S PERMISSION didn’t loosen up something critical, allowing grey matter to ooze out of your ears.

Oh yeah that- he noticed the bandages. Camille couldn’t help but to avoid his eyes. She had really tried to comply, but she wanted to see the damage. Everyone had made sure that mirrors were out of her reach. She assumed it was Carrick who had the mirror in her bathroom removed. She could deal with the damage; it was not being able see it-having someone keeping it out of her reach that was making her increasingly more restless. She also had a bone to pick with him about what she saw under those bandage.

"You asked him to operate on me?"

Carrick looked at her like she had truly gone over the bend. "Of course! Michel had torn you apart. Jake did his best to put you back together."

Camille shook her head, clearly he didn’t understand what she meant. "You had him fix my face." Camille had unwound her bandages the evening before, and made her way to another bedroom suite for a mirror, to confront the clear evidence of plastic surgery.

Carrick looked puzzled at her question, "Jake explained all the damage to us. You wanted Malcolm and me to leave you like that when we had one of the best surgeons in the world ready and willing to repair it all? Jake told us that some of it had to be corrected immediately, to bar the possibility of it healing incorrectly and additional damage from scar tissue forming. There wasn’t even a hesitation for Mal, he didn’t want you to have to face…"

"Myself" Camille finished the sentence while she searched his eyes for a moment, wondering if he truly didn’t understand. "Well…neither of you had the right. I got myself into this mess and I am responsible for dealing with the consequences. I appreciate the ‘big, strong men running to my rescue’ sentiment, but I allowed myself to get entwined in this mess and I have to face the consequences."

Carrick appraised her with barely concealed annoyance. "You act like we snuck in a boob job." He spat out in disgust. "First of all, I have an excellent command of the English language, so it has been a long time since someone has had to finish my sentences. I was going to say, ‘what they did to you.’ Secondly, I am not sure if I should pull out my rolodex and get Oprah on the phone to stage an intervention, or should I just call you on your bullshit." He pretended to think about it for a moment. "You know what? I think I will go with the latter, you’re really full of shit, you know that? "

Camille’s eyes widened with incredulity. She was pretty sure she knew how this conversation was going to go, but this sure as hell wasn’t it. The ridiculous part was that she had this insane urge to check her chest to see if she really need breast augmentation surgery-she had never had any complaints before.

He barely paused as he continued, "You know when I first entered your house the first thing that I considered was that this lady is a sociopath or something. When I got into that little room of yours, I my assessment of you was pretty much in the bag. No matter what I felt about you one thing is absolutely sure, you are one freakishly smart lady. Remember, I saw you in action-you take on the roles you play and you take them on completely. So don’t go fucking up my carefully drawn conclusions by saying something stupid like you deserve what they did to you."

Camille opened her mouth to respond, but Carrick got the jump on her.

He held out his hands as if to silence her. "Please, you are really at your best when you are silent. I am just going to hope that it the withdrawal from all those drug that is making you sound like an idiot." Then something seemed to occur to him and he dropped his hand on his lap as he bowed his head.

With his laser beam eyes off of her, Camille had a chance to breathe and consider how she lost total control of the conversation.

Then Carrick suddenly stood up, ripped off his glasses and strode to the edge of the bed. "Tell me you are not that crazy? Just tell me that you wouldn’t be that horrendously stupid?"

Camille had no idea what he was talking about, but she knew the topic had changed. Carrick looked lethal in his anger and his eyes pinned her to the bed.

"It occurs to me that maybe I am still not giving you your due. I can’t call you mind bindingly brilliant on one hand and then giving you the credit of intelligent lettuce on the other. Camille, please tell me you didn’t get on that boat knowing the consequences. Knowing that you were going to get the shit beat out of you, but also knowing if you survived it you would probably be free of them and also free of the FBI. Broken goods wasn’t going to be any good to anybody, right?"

Camille felt wetness on her face. At first she thought he had spat on her, he certainly seemed mad enough, but the wetness seem to refresh itself, sending constant streams across her cheeks, pooling along the crease of her nose and dropping from her chin to her pajama top. She was bluntly honest. "I don’t know." She took a swipe at the moisture that was engulfing her face-her silent tears. She couldn’t remember the last time that she had cried. She couldn’t look at Carrick, so she focused on some point past her toes. "I got lost within myself that night, I lost her. That night was supposed to be the end. I had been working on Michel to have an event gathering all his partners for months. All I had to do was get the evidence that the FBI wanted and I would have been free. My friends would be safe." She took a ragged breath as she searched for the words to explain. "In all the ladies that you saw in the room there is one person who is brings them all together-the executioner. She makes it happen. She is the part of me that doesn’t have any judgments and can do what must be done. She knows what is right for each "date." She can size up a situation in minutes. She calculates."

Camille saw Carrick step back in her peripheral vision. She tracked him while he walked back to his chair and sat heavily. "I don’t have a death wish, but seeing Mal that night, being with you and him on that balcony, I was wiped out. I did something so simple in its asininity that it is almost funny. I fell asleep. I woke with Lucien in the room and it was apparent that Benny had seen everything and had told Lucien everything he saw on the balcony. Michel told me that my existence was no longer of any interest to him, but he let Benny do all the heavy lifting."

She sighed and finally looked at Carrick. "Did I want to die that night? I don’t know. What I do know is that all my defenses failed me and I just wanted it all to be over."

He look directly at her for a long moment, probably judging her veracity.

Then she thought to add, "You know I am a little tired of you telling me that I’m a crack pot. I have had to deal with my life with all of its strangeness. You may have noticed that money may not buy you happiness, but it certainly bought you a few more choices. For others of us not so blessed, our choices have been a sight more limited.

"Do you need violin accompaniment for that sad song?" Carrick offered dryly as he pantomimed a musician playing the instrument.

Camille couldn’t help herself. She gave him a long, well earned, middle finger salute. Somehow he brought out all of her childish impulses. She turned as if to ease her way to the other side of the bed, when she suddenly stopped. Her mind indulged in an instant replay of what he was wearing, or more accurately…what he wasn’t wearing.

Camille’s head swung swiftly back toward Carrick Really, it must have been too many blows to her cranium-how did she miss that view? Camille couldn’t help it, she knew her eyes had widened like a kid who just had a platter of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies put in front of her. She tried to tell her synapses to make sure that her mouth was shut while her eyes made the long trip over the pertinent points of his body. His super ego was housed in a body that would make the gods weep, and it truly pained her greatly to have to acknowledge it every time she was in his company.

The only thing on him that wasn’t ripoffable was his black striped shower shoes, and somehow even they were provoking. He had those kind of feet that are rare on athletic men, well tended and kissable. Camille eyes slowly climbed up to his carved calves, lightly sprinkled with sand colored hair. She watched as the long, thick muscle of his lower leg pulsed and twitched. It was simply mesmerizing. Still her eyes were driven farther up, past his knees…Thank God he is wearing a robe! But damn, how a piece of silky fabric could cover all the salient points, but still give all the secrets away, she would never know. The hem of the black robe caught him a few inches above then knees. It was the darkness between those knees that almost made Camille purr, she knew that she must have visibly shaken herself, when her eyes skidded to a stop at his obviously amused ones.

He had caught her. He was so self-assured as he deliberately leaned back in his chair and let his hands fall to the arm rest of the chair. Italian Vogue couldn’t have posed him better. Camille couldn’t help herself, her eyes for the briefest of moments, strayed downwards to see what his shift of position did to the precarious fall of the fabric of his robe.

She really meant it to be a quick glance. When she finally dragged her eyes back to his, she mentally noted, if he somehow shifted a few more inches, she could get a good look at what he was really working with. The thought shocked her. The idea that she could even contemplate him in a sexual manner, confounded her so much she had a hot flash, which automatically made her bring a hand up to her face. Too bad she miscalculated and forgot one of her arms was encased in plaster, she damn near knocked herself out in her haste.

Male laughter rung throughout the room and she knew that she was testing the boundaries of a black woman’s ability to blush. So, of course, she tried to cover. Camille nonchalantly attempted to bring her arm away from her face. If anything, it made her tormentor laugh louder. "It’s not that funny."

Carrick was actually having a little trouble catching his breath. "Says who," he managed to breathe out. "I’m just waiting for Moe and Curly as the encore." What he didn’t want to admit was that for an infinitesimal second, as she had turned toward him in the bed, he felt a sexual awareness and physical response that he thought his body reserved for Mal. Her physical comedy routine bit broke the siren spell that she had been weaving around him.

Camille watched with narrowed eyes as he pushed a little further away from the table and actually had to hold on to his thighs to brace himself while he laughed his fool head off.

She really made a herculean effort to try and pull her eyes away from the widening gap between his legs, while his body shook in hysterical fits. But damn if she wasn’t staring in horrified delight at the widening "V" between his legs. Finally, she saw a scrap of material peek from the robe. She sighed. Thank God! Boxers.

Somehow she knew to see Carrick Caudwell completely at ease was, not a sight shown to many, but she wasn’t exactly bowled over that she had to be the butt of the joke to see this fully unguarded side. She couldn’t hold back her own smile in the face of his hilarity. By the time Carrick looked up at her again she was in full grin.

Carrick was laughing so hard that he had picked up his drink to take a sip, but had to think twice and put it back on the table.

Camille was a little disappointed; she would have paid good money to see the "Great Carrick Caudwell" spew coffee from his nose. It would sort of prove the equity of the universe.

She had to suffer through several long minutes, but he finally brought himself under control. The coffee and paper was utterly forgotten as he stood up and moved toward the clothes displayed on the stand.

"What do you want to do today? Jake said that you can move around a bit, but you are not supposed to push it." Carrick asked, seeming to forget that he had a captive audience, as he pulled the tie on the robe, opening his whole body to her view.

For a moment it was like looking directly at the sun. Her eyes burned. Camille’s eyes curved, giving a pinched, squinty effect. Carrick was all broad shoulders with a tapered waist. He had a light sprinkling of hair down his chest that lead like bread crumbs to the artificial barrier of navy blue boxers. A phrase began drumming through her head like an Gregorian chant, Don’t lick your lips, don’t lick your lips, don’t lick your lips…Somehow, at that moment, to visibly show that she was in any way affected by his body seemed like the kiss of death in the tortuous push and pull between them. It was simple. He was perfect. Somehow she was going to find a way to deal with that. Greek, bronzed gods still existed-they weren’t just musty, old artifacts in some museum’s antiquities collection.

"Uh…"Just Great Camille, any more examples of your eloquence and he really will have to administer an aptitude test. She tried again, "Well…" Again she was sidetracked. Really, did he have to put his sweater on right in front of her face? She was sure there was a perfectly good bathroom, dressing room, broom closet somewhere in this joint. The only thing working for her was that after he had bent to pull his pants over his impossibly chiseled legs, he turned away to pull his sweater of his head. It was pretty sick. He was like some biology specimen…Trapezious…, rhomboideus…, latissimus dorsi…, all the way down to the infamous gluteus maximus. It was tight, not a tan line in sight, and oh so right.

Camille was a bit surprised at herself. The last time she felt honest desire for a man, or anyone for that matter, was probably the last time she was with Mal. Sex and desire was something she manufactured at work. She was over whether it was a man, or a woman, with whom she would spend the time-that was a much settled business decision. As a sex worker, sex was a commodity she sold, her only concern was whether that the client understood the parameters of their arrangement and she was satisfied that he, or she, could pay her exorbitant fees. She imagined it was like someone who worked as a receptionist; when you came home to unwind the last thing you wanted to do was get on the phone.

She was concerned with the politics of the profession to a very limited degree. She understood the benefits of the decriminalization and destigmitization of the industry, but she also knew that it was only because of the inherent illicitness of what she did that she was able to command her high fees. She had put a lot of time and effort to create systems that would protect the identities of her clients and give herself a cushion of anonymity. The ability of the FBI to so easily breach both of those barriers just gave evidence of how miserably she had failed on both of those fronts.

During her year away from The Work, it was one of the issues she had been working on, how to conjure up genuine desire in the appropriate setting. Before authentic passion was just smoke and mirrors. There was a lot that went into creating an atmosphere and attitude within herself that gave an illusion that she was just aching to spend time with her client. Creams, gels, self-actualization exercises, reading, learning, psychology was all at her fingertips to allow a customer leave feeling satisfied and burning to make another appointment for more. It’s a hard switch to turn off. The feeling of power and control was heady. So many in the life can’t turn it off and find themselves dried up and burnt out.

Throughout her year away, she had vanilla dates and she found herself just as entangled in her "Working Girl" persona. It was like her body was programmed, based on certain stimuli to behave a certain way. During these interludes she found herself sizing up her date in seconds. Was he a Sub or a Dom? Was the guy sexually repressed in need of an outlet? What type of therapy would she introduce to loosen him up? Under that three piece suit, was he likely wearing an old girl friend’s panties? It went on and on, to the point that she just gave up on romance and concentrated on developing friendships. Whatever progress she was making creating platonic friendships came to a hard stop once the authorities entered her life.

But it is said, "When God closes a door he opens a window," she and God hadn’t been on speaking terms in a long time, but she knew her window was Malcolm. Over the months that they had worked at the high school, the same patience that he displayed with the children he demonstrated with her. She did everything she could to keep her distance from him, but he was tenacious with his extension of friendship. Before she knew it, the focal point of her week was the time she spent with him at one of those franchise coffee shops discussing life, art, culture, challenges at his work and his life with Carrick. Carrick…He was one of the biggest reasons that she had fallen so hard for Malcolm. Hearing a man’s voice go soft at the mention of his lover’s name, made her yearn for the same devotion; watching the tension in Malcolm’s face ease and release while recalling funny stories of his relationship made her pleasurably envious. She knew that any opportunity to have that type of compatibility with another soul was unattainable, but to know it did exist reawakened the seeds of feelings within herself that she could hardly afford to acknowledge.

Mal, and now with Carrick, made her desire flared up with almost minimal provocation. All the wheels of her mind came to a sudden stop and her lust called out like a beacon. It was disconcerting, but she couldn’t help but feel the heat of excitement. Here she was, broken and bruised, but her body was in-tuned with another in a way that she had hardly experienced before.

"Camille?"

She looked up to his face blankly. His mouth had been moving and he probably had expected her to have been paying attention to whatever had been coming out of it. What was his last question again? "A tour," she announced proudly, she had pulled that response out of thin air. "If I am going to be a friendly captive, I want a good look at this place you probably call the family cottage." Camille fell back on her pillows supremely proud of herself. She had finally found another response to him than, "Uh." She had to give a little pout once she realized that he had fully dressed during the time she sat caught up in her own thoughts.

Carrick flashed her a killer smile and a knowing look. He knew that she had enjoyed a nice long look at the goodies. Camille rolled her eyes in response.

"A tour? ….Of this house?" He asked as if she had suddenly fluent in Swahili.

"Yeah, this is your opportunity to really impress me." Her eyes alight with mischief.

Carrick was willing to bite. "Okay, give me a moment." With that Carrick turned and left the room.

When the door closed behind him, Camille’s toes fairly itched to get up and explore her surroundings. Everything was oversized and dark – very, "Lord of the Manor". Camille eased herself over to one side of the bed; the job was made fairly easy by the smoothness of the silk bedclothes. As her feet hit the floor she almost sighed at the feel of the thick area rug caress and massage her feet. While gripping the bed she eased herself to a standing position. It was awkward since her balance was a bit off with her arm in a cast and her leg in a firm bandage, but somehow she managed to shuffle and limp her way over to the heavy, ornate table that Carrick had just vacated. The walnut shone under its antique patina. There was no question of its age and probable provenance. It was a beautiful work of art sitting on four hand-carved spiral legs. One side of the table stood the remains of Carrick’s breakfast, on the other side stood a series of framed photographs. Some were huge and ornate, others small with little embellishment, a few were framed with silver and also in the mix were others that were housed in highly polished wood frames. She imagined they told the story of his history. Great grandfather and grandmothers mixed in with cousins, aunts, uncles. It was amazing that one could stand in a place that could provide testimony of his whole family’s existence.

"I think my mother purposely puts those pictures in here to try and deter Mal and I from swinging from the chandeliers in here." Carrick had been watching her for a few moments as her finger lightly traced the ribbing on one frame. All of the sudden the memory of her griping his jacket and him held her between himself and Malcolm floated through his mind. That night she had blood red finger nails. He hadn’t realized that he had noted the detail of her long, smooth, crimson nails that evening. Maybe the bareness of her nails now is what enabled him to make the contrast. Watching her finger follow the outline of the picture, he could see more clearly. Her nails were bare and cut short, she hadn’t had the time to do whatever women do in the mornings, her skin seemed a little bare, the tone a tad bit dry. That evening at the party she seemed a little too contrived, she mesmerized with her beauty-with her red. As he watched her, right before she spoke, to him, she never looked so lovely. She never looked so real.

"You mother accepts your relationship with Malcolm?"

Carrick had to smile at the question, "I was a whore before I met Mal. Add to the problem I wasn’t too discriminating regarding whether my playmates were male or female. Mal put an end to that. She adores him."

She arched her eye at his choice of words.

"Yes, we have something in common, I am a reformed rake, whore-whatever you want to call it. She had long abdicated any issues over the fact that I enjoyed being with men and/or women. Her issue was with the quantity. She argued that I had daddy issues."

Unwittingly, Carrick was too close for comfort. A subject change was in order.

Camille looked up. The room was so oversized; she wouldn’t have doubt that there were chandeliers. Amazingly there weren’t any overhead lamps, just carved crown molding that showed an artistry that will never be duplicated. She pointed to the pictures she had been admiring. "These are all yours?"

Carrick moved in closer to her, contemplating her choice of words. "I guess they are. Each of them is as much a part of me as I am a part of them. I guess I can’t be the head of the family without claiming them all." He smiled at the thought, and then he said quietly, "Don’t hurt him."

She almost missed, for his request was as soft as a sigh, but she could not ignore it, or pretend to misunderstand it. "Carrick, you don’t know how much I don’t want to hurt him. At first, I had myself halfway convinced that it was complete infatuation on my part. For god’s sakes he is gay. He was clear about that. He was in a committed relationship with a man he was clearly devoted to." She looked at him and offered a half smile. "I never let myself think that I had a chance, until you acted like a complete brat when we went to dinner."

She eased around to face him. "I know human behavior and you acted like I had a chance with him. That gave me something to think about, but I would have never tried to get between you two. That would have hurt him. Malcolm loves you in a way that others dream about. But I don’t want him to love me, even a little like that, just so I will be your baby making machine." She tried to make a joke, "Besides, any child of ours would certainly come out with 666 on its head-karma’s a bitch." She turned back to the pictures on the table.

He was standing right behind her. She could almost feel his breath on the back of her neck. She had never been aware of another human being as she was at that moment. Her body almost strained in anticipation of his touch, her skin ultra aware on any sudden shift in the air. "He thinks you need us just as much as we need you. I have learned to trust Mal, so I am willing to try. The bigger question is, are you willing to do the same?" The question shook her for a moment and she forgot her various injuries and turned toward him too fast and simultaneously almost hit the floor. Her golden knight in slightly tarnished armor came to her rescue.

Carrick’s reflexes were swift as he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He didn’t lay her there. In fact, he wouldn’t release her at all and sat himself on the bed while he held her in his lap. He was not deterred as he pulled her body close to his, "Where is your family? Where do you come from?" He asked softly. This sweet and sensitive Carrick was a killer. Camille thought to herself. Carrick guessed that all the questions could be answered in her background check, but after reading the initial bombshell regarding her profession, he hadn’t bothered to read the whole thing. Besides, now he wanted learn about her because she chose to tell him.

She never spoke of her family, with anyone, but as she looked into his eyes she found herself answering, "Dead. They are all gone." She pushed away from him so that she could stand.

Carrick wouldn’t let go. "I’m sorry." Carrick couldn’t help but cradle her head in his large palm and hold her against his body. "I’m so sorry."

Camille almost struggled against him, then she felt her body greedily absorbing the comfort he offered her. That wasn’t good. She pushed away so that he had to loosen his grip on her body as he looked into his eyes. "How about that tour?" Camille pasted an artificially bright smile on her lips. Somehow it did not match the shadows in her eyes.