Jesus, this place is fucking huge.

I wave Alex over to me from the van and check the aperture setting on his camera, fiddling with the adjuster knob on the top of it to get the perfect light exposure. "You brought the HX too, right?"

"Of course," he says, wiping the lens of his glasses on the hem of his raglan. "I'm sure this place gets plenty of natural light. It looks big enough to be called a castle! Did you call Ms. Croft again?"

"I tried," I grimace, brushing a strand of hair out of my eyes. "I just got her assistant again, telling me 'Ms. Croft doesn't communicate with the press', all that garbage."

He looks at me incredulously. "What are we doing here then?"

"Well, we aren't the press are we?" Like hell I'll ever call myself press. I'm a documentarian, and camera wiz, and a troublemaker. But press? Yeah, right. Three weeks ago I applied for a job on a crew for The History Channel and they told me that if I could get an interview with this woman, this introverted, apparently loaded British chick named Lara Croft, then I'd get the spot no questions asked. And considering my past run ins with the authorities, I could really do without a hard eye on my police records.

When they said she was rich, they didn't tell me how rich. They barely told me anything about her, and the reason they gave is that no one really knew too much in detail. Only that she'd uncovered some of the most unbelievably valuable and rare relics and artifacts, that she had a penchant for being both reckless and incredibly careful (whatever that means), and she is, as they put it, arguably one of the most interesting and unique individuals in the entire world.

And she'd refused all of the eight different interviews they'd requested from her. None of them even got the opportunity to speak to her directly, just an older man named Winston who always simply stated that she was unavailable for comment.

I zip the camera up in its nylon carrying bag and pray that there's a room in this place that has good enough natural light, because there's no way I could sneak in that kind of equipment, too.

"Alex, sometimes you've gotta show a little tooth to get what you want. Now keep the setup out of sight for now. I'm gonna get us in."

He looked back at the van nervously before following me up the grand outdoor stairway that led to the main doors.

The doorbell chimes from the inside.

We wait many minutes before ringing it a second time.

"What's taking them? A place like this has to have a pretty big staff."

"Maybe they're all getting coffee?"

I glare at him and sigh loudly, ringing the bell for a third time. The door creaks. I shuffle into flawless posture, folding my hands together in front of me. I can already taste that crew position, and the mere thought of getting on the team gives me immediate butterflies.

A pretty big black guy in a white t-shirt and jeans opens the gigantic door and blinks at the afternoon sunlight. "Um," he says unsurely. "Hello?"

I stare blankly at him in a confused way and look back to Alex, who shrugs at me. "Hi. Um, my name is Sam, I called Lara earlier and told her I was coming over. I'm her cousin."

He looks me up and down and for a second I'm actually kind of scared. I really didn't think she'd have security. I mean, she's just an old, rich shutin, right? I swallow hard but maintain my smile.

"You don't look like anyone Lara would be related to." I blink at him. I guess Ms. Croft isn't Asian, then. Is that my cosmic payback for being instinctively intimidated by the black guy?

"Second cousin. Twice removed. We were pretty close when we were kids." I give him my most award-winning grin. He studies me skeptically for another moment, hums an acknowledgement, and opens the door wider to let us in. The inside of the foyer is like something out of a fairytale, with a walk in fireplace at one end and tall, tall ceiling that opened into stone-laced windows, a second level with stone pillars reaching to cradle the space delicately, and a grand staircase that split two ways halfway up. The floors are marble and the entire space has an air of complete grace.

"Sorry, Winston probably just forgot to let Lara know you were coming. He's getting pretty up there." He holds his hand out in front of him. "My name's Zip. I'm Lara's field handler."

Field Handler? What kind of archeologist needs a field handler? I clear my throat and take his hand firmly. "It's nice to meet you, Zip. Oh, and this is my boyfriend, Alex. He's here for the visit." Alex sputters in a very obvious way behind me and I laugh inwardly to myself.

"Good to meet you, both. Lara's in the middle of her workout right now, you know her. Hey, let me show you around. Unless you've seen it all already?"

"No," I insist, "I'm sure a lot has changed around here since my last visit. Please do."

He tucks his hands in his pockets and gestures for us to follow. When he turns his back to us, I look over my shoulder to Alex and give him a wink and a thumbs up. He's pretty flustered, but he fakes a thumbs up back and keeps the camera bag close to his side.

After a few display rooms, an Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool, three libraries and a dusty staff kitchen, the manor starts to feel eerily empty. I hesitate to ask questions, but my curiosity gets the best of me. "Um, is there faculty here, or…?"

"Oh, yeah, well back in the day there definitely was. But after Lara's parents died and the estate was handed to her, most of them bounced. No one wants to deal with a staff of fifty when the boss is an eleven year old girl, you know?"

I make an acknowledging sound and take my notepad from my pocket. Orphaned at eleven and given this whole thing? Interesting…

He leads us into a back corner of the west wing and opens a pair of heavy double doors; on the other side, a gymnastics gym the size of a football field gleamed with dignity. This is her work out area? Was she some sort of James Bond character that needed to know how to somersault over deathtraps or something. All of this strangeness is making me giddy with excitement. Oh, the potential here is off the charts!

"She should be almost done…Lara?" he calls; his deep voice echoes. Silence, then loud bumps, like padding being compressed. We follow the noise around a series of obstacle courses. She's here, I can feel it. The air is getting heavier by the moment. My heart thumps against my ribs in anticipation. Just one interview, and my whole world will change forever.

I run into Zip's back, too preoccupied with my own glee to realized he'd stopped in front of me. He turns, puts his fingers to his lips and points up. I watch his hand quizzically and look.

Above us, suspended in a perfect handstand on a rung of what I can only describe as extreme monkey bars, is a young woman, decorated with muscle and adorned with a very long, golden brown plait. She remains there, completely still, for thirty whole seconds, before her legs split apart; one droops over her head and the other counter-balances her in the opposite direction. Her form is absolutely flawless.

Oh, how I wish I could pull out my analog and snap some action shots now; but giving us away would put the potential for an interview out the window for sure.

After another twenty seconds she exhales softly and drops both of her legs over her head, slipping through the narrow opening between the rung and landing cat-like on her feet in front of us.

"Form's perfect even with those stitchs," Zip laughs, "You're getting a little too used to that, huh?"

She turns, and I swear in all my life I've never seen anyone, even with my mother being a model and my father being a mogul, as heart stoppingly beautiful. I nearly swallow my tongue when she parts her lips, which are, may I say, full and pink and very kissable. She laughs quietly and wipes her forehead with the white hand towel tucked into the hem of her skin-tight biking shorts. My eyes wander to her exposed abdomen, rich with peaks and valleys of tone, and up her rather generous breasts that were contained in a strained sports bra, before her voice pulls me back to my senses.

Her accent punctuates her beauty. "I'm going to pop them tonight, I think." She rotates her hips to the side to brandish a long line of stitches across her obliques. "They're starting to itch a bit."

My head is spinning. How would someone this drop-dead gorgeous get a nasty wound like that? A paper cut gone wrong? I turn to Alex for an explanation, but he's too busy catching flies with his open mouth.

"Oh," Zip says, extending an arm to us. "Your cousin is here to visit. Apparently she called the Winston forgot to mention it. Sam, you said your name was?"

Then, she looks at me, and I'm pretty my heart stops for a good five seconds. Her gaze is so deep and heavy and level that I'm tempted to turn heel and run out of there. She narrows her brown eyes at me before her expression softens. This woman is the archeologist Lara Croft?

"Sam, my dear. It's been so long. How have you been?" She puts a hand on my shoulder and I instantly know that she could crush my collarbone just by squeezing; my instincts are telling me she's dangerous, very dangerous, part in due to the fact that she obviously didn't have a Portuguese-Japanese cousin named Sam.

"Uhm," I stutter, faltering under her absolutely radiating presence. She gives me a ghost of a smile; it makes me feel like a rat in the sights of a viper. She knows I'm not who I say I am. Isn't this the part where I beg her to give me the interview and not call the police?

"Come now, we'll go to a quiet place and we'll catch up." I'm stiff as she and Zip lead us out of the workout room and back into the hallway. "Thank you for taking care of them, Zip. I know you and Alister are still working on decrypting the coding on the Salisbury megaliths for me."

"No problem, L.C. The algorithm's already done, I'm just waiting on Vyme's files now."

She makes a face and crosses her arms over her chest. "I loathe working with that man, utterly. When all of this is over, I might just end him the same way I ended Aulgood."

Alex nudges me and mouths a sentence, gesturing his words. "What the hell is going on?"

"I have no idea," I admit, trying to steady my breathing. I point at the woman in front of us. "That's her. Can you believe it?"

"Definitely not what I was expecting."
-

She pours me a cup of tea and leans against the window, letting her silk robe roll over her strong shoulders and pool at her feet elegantly. It's tied loosely at her waist, though the weight of the material is giving me a view right between her breasts. Not that I'm complaining.

"Forgive me for making your friend stay outside. I prefer this take place one on one." She brushes the fabric from her upper thigh to reveal a hunting knife mounted there. A pair of round, red sunglasses mask those powerful eyes now, and I am thankful for it. The sight of the weapon makes me cringe visibly. What the hell did I sign up for?

Her expression remains flat and impassive. 'So tell me, . Should I kill you now, or dare I give you time to explain yourself?"

A bolt of lightning blasts through my stomach, a shot of adrenaline filled panic. I stutter indignantly, "I-I I'm sorry, Ms. Croft. I shouldn't have-"

"No, you shouldn't have." *She saunters to me, slowly, and leans against the back of my chair, breathing down on the top of my head. "Who sent you then, love? Vymes? One of Aulgood's men? A pretty girl like yourself, did they think I would let you walk in and out with a camera, find the ins and outs of the manor?"

I'm confused, and scared, and I'm sure it's getting pretty obvious. My foot taps rapidly against the fine rugged hardwood floor, my knee bouncing up and down in progress. "Ms. Croft, I-I don't know anything about, um, any of that. I'm here for History? I'm, I'm here to do an interview."

"I've not approved of any such thing, and I have no interest in any interview."

"Yeah, ah, you made that pretty clear, or your, uhm, old friend made that pretty clear over the phone."

She scrutinizes me silently, like a wolf deciding whether a fight with a deer would be worth its trouble in meat. "Yes…" I don't think she intended it, but the word sounds more like a purr slipping between her lips. I find myself watching them intensely; I don't think I've ever seen a pair of lips so perfectly sculpted in my life.

Okay, so I consider myself pretty straight. I mean, if I'm drunk, stuff might happen, and I can appreciate a good fuck regardless of who's giving it, but when she exhales and pulls away I get a view down the front of her robe between her breasts and every nerve between my navel and my thighs just goes crazy. I feel myself watching her mouth as she talks, and her legs as the pillowy fabric separates between her steps. The way her eyelids hang at half-mast, peering brown irises thick with disinterest, is giving me some pretty serious anxiety.

"I…uhm…" I stutter indignantly, her long plait hanging off her sharp shoulder blades, giving me a sticky tongue. "I don't know about any…Vymes or Aulgood, but-"

"I believe you, Samantha. I don't make a habit of revealing my weaknesses to my enemies. It would be…upsetting, if you were part of their schemings."

Weaknesses? "So…will you let me record you for an interview?"

"Absolutely not," is her immediate response. My chest falls.

"Please," I beg, beside myself. "I need this. I…I really need this job, Ms. Croft. They told me the only way I'd get on the team is if I got an interview with you." I probably sound pretty pathetic , but I really do need this. I'm sick of being a fucking disappoint, sick of bumming couches off of friends and eating instant ramen and working bullshit minimum wage jobs. "You…You have everything," I mutter, burying my face in my hands. "Just give me this, okay? Just give me this."

"Everything?" I hear her say quietly. "No. I have many things that do not matter to me." I look up, and find her watching the window with a furrowed brow.

"Well, give me your mansion and we'll call it even, I guess."

At this she laughs to herself, pulling the corners of her lips up in a smile that could make a heart stop. She hums to herself, and the robe drops to her ankles. Beneath it, miles of hard muscle and long, slender limbs hang, a perfectly sculpted back and waist, hourglass hips cradled by black underwear, and scars. Many scars, of many shapes and lengths and widths and weights. My face goes hot instantly. Jesus, where the hell did this woman come from?

She turns, stepping from the puddle of silk at her feet, and saunters to the other end of the room in search a wide closet, making my presence inconsequential to her clothing process. I would hide my face, if I was even a cell more a prude. Instead, I took mental pictures. She pulls on shorts and wraps her generous chest in a tight sports bra, leaving them to run over the top of it just slightly, and slips a see-through button down over her shoulders. Jesus.

Lara Croft holds out her hand to me with an indecipherable expression, and I take it without a question.

"Come. I will show you all of my secrets."