She was at the rail, and in Julian Eames' salacious estimation, precisely what he was looking for.

Before he'd realized what he was looking for, that is.

Blonde, trim, and scrumptiously well-endowed, tucked into a lovely flowered sundress-with white gloves no less-and most importantly, unaccompanied by anyone at all. In the late afternoon sunshine of the Mediterranean, she was a glorious gift from heaven, and Eames was properly grateful for it. He unfolded himself from the deck chair and rose, looking as nonchalant as possible, and after a few strides, deliberately bumped against her.

Somehow he'd misjudged; instead of knocking her back a bit and with any luck spilling her purse across the cruise ship deck, things took a different twist, and Eames found himself face-down on the wood, the wind slightly knocked out of him. He turned his face to see the sexy ankle strap wedges of her shoes.

"Oh dear!" he heard, and rolled to look up, trying to smile.

At this angle, the full beauty of her chest made regaining his breath that much more difficult; the strain of those glorious breasts against the thin muslin of her dress was a marvel of tailored engineering.

"M-my fault," he whispered manfully. "So sorry!"

"Let me help you," the woman cooed, and slipped a hand to the back of his neck. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked, and began to pull him to his feet.

For a second he wasn't sure; his head hurt a bit. Then a purser approached and began to bluster; Eames was sure his concern was for potential lawsuits over any injury, but Eames waved him away with a sheepish smile.

"I'm fine, fine- just clumsy-footed. Nothing damaged but my dignity, I assure you," he repeated for the purser, who gradually nodded and went back to ship's business.

Eames turned to the woman, prepared to spread the charm on thickly. "Thank you—"

He stopped; she had a sweater draped over one arm, and under the fold of it, the small blue-steel business end of a gun peeped out.

The woman smiled up at him, her green eyes bright with amusement. "You're welcome, but I feel so terrible about your fall that I insist we go back to my cabin—right now."

"Ah. Yes, well you make a compelling argument, Miss-?" Eames sighed, wondering exactly where his afternoon had gone wrong.

"Sally. Sally Malone. Deck three, suite three," she murmured, and tipped her head slightly, indicating he should lead the way. Eames was used to leading, albeit not precisely in this fashion. Resigned, he headed into the ship to the elevators, wondering how Ms. Malone had managed to smuggle a gun onto the ship, and what the hell she was going to do once they got to her cabin.

His libidinous imagination kicked in at that point, and for the next ten minutes Eames distracted himself with various erotic scenarios, each more improbable than the last as the two of them strolled down the corridors towards the first class suites. These were forward, under the bridge of the cruise ship, and although the cabin he had was fairly pricey, Eames whistled at the luxuriousness of the facilities once they stepped inside. "Oh my, how very . . . decadent, darling."

"I like space," came the calm admission. "You can relax now, Mr. Eames—I've put the gun away."

He turned, more in response to his name than the assurance about the weapon. Sally Malone was tugging her gloves off. She stepped down into the living room pit and gracefully flounced onto one of the sofas, looking up at him.

Eames looked back at her. "Here's where you tell me how you know who I am," he prompted, a small smirk on his face.

"There are lots of people who know who you are," she countered dryly, "And lots of people who'd like to know where you are."

"Yes, well I do have a reputation," Eames countered, thinking hard and fast. He had enemies; that was intrinsic to the business, but nobody actively after him of late—at least, nobody of importance.

"You have several reputations," Sally replied with a roll of her eyes. "And one of them is for neglecting your promises. I'm here to make you pay up on one of them, Mr. Eames."

"Oh call me Julian, darling," he countered, stepping down and taking a seat on the sofa across the coffee table from her. "And which promise would that be, precisely?"

"The one to Ambrose Heath about training a new therapist," Sally reminded him. "He was understandably annoyed about you running off before your contract was through."

"I didn't have time to guide some novice through the drills," Eames snapped, exasperated. "Not with all the bloody new cases he kept piling onto my workload!" His head throbbed for a moment, and he shot her an impatient glare, fighting back certain bleak memories of that time in his life. "And the salary was ridiculous; a pittance for a person of my skills. I'm much better off as a free agent."

"Oh yes, I can tell," Sally cooed. "Because slumming in Mombasa is such a step up. Because constantly sidestepping Cobol is a thrill. Gooooood times."

"You're too damned pretty to be so sarcastic; it doesn't become you," Eames chided, although he grinned crookedly. "Yes, well there are issues to be worked out for every avenue of employment, and speaking of which, I don't recall SomnoTech being nice enough to put a cruise on the travel vouchers—at least, not back during my tenure." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and studied her.

It was a pleasure. Long tanned legs now neatly folded under her, lean hips, tiny nip of a waist, really, that magnificent chest, and higher than that—he looked there as well—a heart-shaped face with green eyes.

"You're damned blatant, you know," Sally murmured, her voice calm but a tint of pink coming to her cheeks.

"I've been invited here into your cabin; I believe that gives me a certain impression. A certain leeway," Eames pointed out. "And you haven't answered my question."

"Somno Tech is being bought up," she replied. "Apparently Robert Fischer has this idea that dream therapy might be a beneficial investment-"

Eames laughed; he couldn't help it, and leaned back against the sofa, stretching out his long arms along the back. "He does? Oh that's lovely, that is!"

"—and Ambrose feels you had something to do with that," Sally continued. "He wants you to finish up your obligation by tutoring me in the finer arts of personal replication."

Eames pursed his mouth for a moment, and his thoughts moved at the speed of light as he considered all the pros and cons of the situation. There were two big lovely pros of course, but pragmatically, the cons outnumbered them. He sighed. "I'm afraid I'm not available for the request, Miss Malone, tempted as I am—and believe me I am tempted. Ambrose may be opting for the carrot, but as far as I'm concerned, Somno Tech can take a flying fuck at the moon."

Oddly, the woman didn't look at all perturbed, either by his rejection or his language. Instead, she shifted slightly and checked the tiny watch on her wrist. "All right."

Suspicion kicked in, hard. "All right?" Eames echoed, not sure if he'd heard her correctly. "I've just declined your demand and that's it? No more threats with bullets?"

"I've got a feeling you're going to change your mind," Sally told him blandly. "I'll be here when you do. And between us, I wouldn't mention the gun." She tossed him the plastic toy with a shy smile. "Gift shop—painted it myself, took the squirt device out."

He caught it, one-handed, and examined the thing before setting it on the coffee table.

"You wicked little minx," he growled, grinning despite his unease. Eames wasn't above giving an approving nod to a con well-played, and dipped his head to her as he rose and passed on his way to the door. "I consider it to be a genuine pity about the turn of events. Give my best to Ambrose, will you, darling?"

"Certainly," she replied, following behind him to the cabin door. "Oh, and Julian?"

He turned, smile ready.

"Here's hoping your headache doesn't get too bad."

She closed the door, and he stood there a moment longer, slightly puzzled, but more relieved than anything else. With a shrug and a jaunty whistle, Eames sauntered down the corridor, his thoughts turning to the baccarat table and a good scotch malt.