Chapter One

This was turning into the worst day of his life. And only yesterday morning, when he signed for that package, James had thought things couldn't get any worse. He didn't need to open it to know what it contained. There was no way he could have imagined ending up in jail before the day was over.

And yet, here he was. He'd been kept overnight, one of the more unpleasant experiences he'd gone through, including cadaver dissection in med school. Now he felt sticky, rumpled and in dire need of coffee, a shower and shave, and a flight out of New Orleans in short order. None of that would happen anytime soon, though.

The clang of the cell door snapped him out of his thoughts. The burly cop who'd hauled him in stood there, his expression impassive, though James had the distinct impression he was amused.

"You're free to go. Bail's been paid."

This was a surprise. Nobody knew he was here. Except for the sender of the letter, apparently. But he wasn't going to question a cop. He'd tried that when he had been processed last night. It hadn't ended well.

Now he was outside the station, disoriented and fighting a massive headache. The morning was already hot and steamy, with plenty of bright sunshine in a blue sky. James stared at his surroundings, not sure where he was in relation to the convention center. There wasn't a cab to be seen either. He sighed a little and started down the steps. Maybe he could find a local who'd point him in the right direction . . . He squinted at the street name embedded in the sidewalk-Royal. He'd been somewhere on Bourbon Street last night, hadn't he? He should probably just head out - he'd find a cab eventually.

James patted his pockets. Nothing missing. The cop had just shoved his belongings - including that damn package - towards him and left to deal with some other poor bastard. For a second he had wondered if there was something else he should be doing but then just picked up everything without a word and slithered through the door to freedom. He needed to get out of this place.

"I took care of it."

James stopped. The voice had come from behind him. It was low, raspy and not all that friendly-but somehow it sounded familiar. Confused, he turned around.

The man who stood there was tall and lean, with an unruly mop of chestnut curls and bright blue eyes in a bony face just short of handsome. He wore jeans and a faded t-shirt and looked as disheveled and travel-worn as James felt.

"Do I-do I know you?" He stayed where he was, unsure of the other man and the situation.

"Yes and no." The man nodded at the envelope. "You're attending the medical convention, and you've been carrying that thing around since yesterday. You broke a mirror in the hotel bar because you got pissed off-"

"Okay, okay, okay. You've established your credentials." James rubbed his forehead and hoped the ache there wouldn't get worse.

"I know a place where they'll take care of that." The man turned on his heel and walked off. "Come on, it's not gonna get any better if you just stand there," he said over his shoulder.

James really had no choice. He just hoped this 'place' would also have a shower and a bed. "Okay-hey!" His alleged benefactor was already halfway down the block. "Wait up! I-I don't even know your name!"

The man gave no indication that he'd heard him, so James was forced to break into a run before the guy disappeared from sight.

James found him waiting in front of what looked like a bar. "Took you long enough." There was a hint of amusement in that rough voice now. "Come on, you can buy me breakfast."

"Uh . . ." James felt his face grow warm. "I'm . . . I can't. Kinda broke at the moment." He wasn't really sure about that, but from the amount he'd spent on the convention and at the bar the night before, his main account was probably tapped out and he'd have to transfer funds from his savings.

The man rolled his eyes. "Well, what's another fifty more," he grumbled, opened the door and went in.

"Wait-what?" James stood there for a moment, confused. Then it hit. "You-you paid my bail?"

"Told you, I took care of it."

"But… but I thought…"

"Eat first," was the only reply he got.

'Breakfast' was one word for the huge repast put down before them. James hadn't seen this much food for a morning meal-well, he'd never seen it, actually. He was still trying to decide whether to start with the omelet or the huge skillet of meat, eggs and potatoes when the other man pushed a mug of milky coffee towards him and nodded. "House."

"Huh?"

"House. Greg House." One corner of his mouth quirked up a bit.

It took James a moment to understand this was a name. "Oh, um, yes." He wiped his hand on a napkin and extended it across the table. "James Wilson."

"I know."

"What? How?"

"Paid your bail, remember?" Greg ignored James's hand. James felt his cheeks grow hot again. He pulled his hand back and picked up the cup of coffee in an attempt to cover the awkward moment.

"So, where are you from?"

"You still haven't opened the envelope, James Evan Wilson." Greg slurped his coffee and aimed a glance at James, bright and sharp as a diamond.

"No, I haven't. What's it to you?" The anger and anxiety he'd managed to stuff down inside bubbled up. The ease with which it happened scared him. He wondered what else this stranger knew about him. With an effort he made his tone more reasonable. "Sorry . . . sorry. Didn't get much sleep last night." He lifted the cup and sipped. It was creamy instead of sweet, with a bitter edge he wasn't sure he liked. He looked for sugar packets but they were across the table, inaccessible over the mound of food between him and his benefactor. "Um-could you pass me the sugar please?"

"You need a double shot of bourbon in that coffee." Greg stuffed half a sausage into his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed. "WAITER!" he bellowed. James winced.

"I don't-"

Their server appeared, an older man who lifted an enquiring brow at Greg.

"Double shot of Booker's for the gentleman."

"Wait-I-" James watched the server head off to the bar. "Great, more alcohol."

"Hair of the dog." Greg ate the other half of the sausage. "I didn't think another Hurricane would be wise."

James rubbed his forehead. "No… probably not." He'd had enough of those the night before, from what little he could remember.

The server returned and set a shot glass by James's plate, nodded at them and went off to another table. Before James could do anything, Greg picked it up and dumped the contents in the coffee cup, licked the last few drops out of the glass, and abandoned it. James stared at him.

"Go on," Greg nodded. "You'll feel better. You know I'm right."

"But there's a double shot in this!" James peered into the contents of his cup. The smoky fragrance of decent bourbon filled his nose. "Oh, what the hell."

It tasted good, much to his surprise. Greg scooped a huge forkful of potatoes onto his own plate. "Open it."

"Open what?" James blinked. He'd almost forgotten. "Oh."

Greg waved the fork at him. "Go on. Do it."

In that moment it occurred to James that he was in the company of someone he didn't know, in a town he didn't know, with a fine and maybe even jail time hanging over his head. And all his clothes and other belongings still resided in his hotel room at the convention center, with checkout time coming up sooner or later. He set down the cup. "No."

"A little late in the day to have second thoughts." Greg gave him a piercing glance before he returned his attention to his plate. "Do it."

"Fuck you." The words tumbled out before he could stop them, reasonableness be damned. "You think just because you paid my bail and bought this-this incipient heart attack on several plates, you can tell me what to do?"

"Yeah, I can." Greg looked at him again. "Right now, I own you."

"Greg-"

"House." The other man's tone changed in an instant-cold, flat. Even through his anger, James felt a little jolt of something like alarm.

"Fine, whatever-you don't own me, okay? Let's get that straight-"

Greg finally put down his fork and leaned back. He seemed to look at James with some amusement now. "Straight? Okay. Let's be straight. Do you think your divorce will go away if you continue to ignore it? Or that the contents of that package have magically changed by carrying it around for 24 hours? You've probably added some sweat stains to the paperwork but any law student can tell you that won't alter the content."

It was as if all the air had left the room. James felt his stomach tighten, an ominous sign. Without a word he stood and turned, a little unsteady on his feet, desperate to find the bathroom. He heard Greg-no, House-say something-

A hand gripped his shoulder. "Sit." He was pushed back into his chair. "You're not gonna vomit all over this very expensive breakfast, dammit."

James took a deep breath. And another. He knew what was inside the envelope. And so, apparently, did House. "How…?"

"Does it matter?"

Yes, it did. How did some stranger off the street know what was going on in his life right now? "Yeah, it kinda does." His voice sounded weird, distant.

"Okay, let's see . . . You came to the convention with your wedding ring on, but after you got the envelope of doom, you started taking it off when you thought no one was looking. I also got a good look at the return address. Diamond and Fairbairn. I looked 'em up. Divorce attorneys."

James thought he knew how a stunned fish might feel right after the knockout blow. "You-looked them up?"

"That's your only question? Seriously?" House offered a grin, though there was no humor in his gaze. "Yes, there's this very recent invention called a computer. I hear they're all the rage right now. The desk clerk at the hotel was happy to do a search, after a suitable application of charm and a twenty or two."

There was also the question how this man knew he'd been wearing a wedding band. And, why he was even interested in him. But all this was too much for James right now. He would figure this out, just not at the moment.

When he looked up, House had pushed the envelope right in front of him. "Open it." It was an order, not a suggestion.

So he did.