Despite the title, this chapter is a long one. I hope you enjoy it. And, oh yeah, the Stephanie Plum characters are still not mine, but this story is.

A Hundred Words

Having arranged for a last-minute limo for Stephanie, I slip into the restaurant with my garment bag, and immediately veer to the men's room. Of course this afternoon had to be when our client unexpectedly gave the nod to move on a particularly stubborn and well-armed "redecoration" job. Hence my ruined tee, dinged kevlar, and tactical field pants, which I quickly deposit into the bag after retrieving this evening's clothes.

In an odd juxtaposition of marble basin, finger towels, and mechanic's soap, I leverage the skills I developed undercover to quickly freshen up, suit up, and get ready to rock.

"Mr. Manoso, as always you'll be the best dressed man in the room," Leo the attendant affirms as he takes my garment bag for safekeeping.

The maitre d' nods and shows me to my requested table amidst the chatter of early evening diners. It's the usual mix of couples, a family celebration, and a few groups conducting business over wine or dinner. It's the Rossini's I'm used to, from years of conducting my own business here.

But then, moments after I sit, Stephanie walks into the restaurant, and the rest of the dining room might as well not even be there. It's like when she first walked into the diner to meet me at Connie's request: her appearance here changes everything.

"Babe," I stand, greeting her, and then I've pulled out her chair without even realizing it. "You look marvelous." And she does. It's not just her clothes; it's her bearing. Her charisma. If I didn't already know that she's adept at being just who she needs to be, in any situation, I'd be surprised. Instead, I'm utterly impressed.

Tonight, she is more than my Eliza Doolittle, my protegee and sometimes partner. She is Stephanie Plum, my equal.

"Thank you," she sits as I position her chair, then smooths the lines of her skirt. Next she turns her gaze to me. Anyone else looking at her would see a demure smile on her face, but I see the propane blue fire alight in her eyes. A knowing challenge wrapped in a siren's call.

"You can close your mouth now, Batman," she says.

And it begins.

My lips twitch in amusement. "I thought you said I don't talk enough," I intentionally misunderstand while waving over Dominic the waiter. Knowing my preferences, he brings a bottle of sparkling water in lieu of an aperitif, along with menus.

"You don't," she huffs. "Like maybe you could've told me that the limo outside my apartment building was for me." I can't see her feet, but I'm certain that one of her shoes is tapping. "I thought you were picking me up."

"I left a message on your phone and texted you." Her eyes dart toward her purse and awareness flits across her face. I'm guessing she's forgotten to charge her phone again. And that she didn't think to check the ancient, Reagan-era answering machine at her apartment. I let it slide with a shrug. "I only just got back from a job and didn't want to be late picking you up."

"Okay. But why a limo? Why not just send one of the guys, like Les or Elliott, instead of calling the limo company where my friend Dougie's brother Ken works?" I unreel the 'Burg connections as she pauses, ready for when she continues, "By the way, Ken says Dougie has a 'red light special' running on Bluetooth speakers that only have small dents where they fell out of the truck. I'm buying a couple pairs for me and Grandma. I can get a pair for you, too, but I suspect you're already set."

"Got that covered, Babe, but thanks anyway." I smile inwardly, not wanting to mention that really she speaks enough for both of us. And also, that I find her conversation charming. Though I might mention that later, when she's not still covering up her gaffe with her probably uncharged phone. "And the limo was a better alternative to Les, who was with me on the job. Or even Elliott, who's still in Newark with Hector. They're all at work."

She tilts her head, as though to see me from a different angle, and then nods. "Okay, that makes sense," she acquiesces, reaching for the menu.

Her leisurely scan through the entrees— and, of course, the desserts— has a typically tonic affect on my Babe. She visibly relaxes and shares murmurs of sensual appreciation while she imagines her way through the list of numerous cheese-smothered and syrup drizzled options. When I was choosing high-end restaurants for tonight, I made sure to select one that specializes in Stephanie's chosen food pyramid. I may sometimes be dense when it comes to women, but I'm not stupid by any standard.

As she smiles, I know she's finally chosen. I wave Dominic over for our order, and then select a wine to complement her veal parmigiana and my own brown rice and barley risotto.

All remains calm on the Stephanie front as the wine is poured and the salad is delivered. She talks about Vinnie's latest skip, and once again I inwardly gnash my teeth that she simply will not stay working at Rangeman long enough to abandon Vinnie's chancy paydays. She asks me about my day, and I relate the edited highlights, leaving out the more alarming and dark moments.

As I conclude, she looks up. "What is this?" she waves her laden fork over the table in a vague circle.

"A salad," I reply automatically, momentarily stumped by one of her patented non sequiturs.

"I know that." She rolls her eyes. "Is this a date or a job interview?"

Ah. This is what her friend Elliott meant: that I confuse her by expressing myself through actions, when she needs words. She might not know how to interpret my gestures tonight without them.

I reach across the table for her free hand. "It's a date, Babe. If you'll accept it as such." In truth, I'll accept whatever interpretation she wants: date, friend, or coworker. Though I've declared my preference and intend to urge her in that direction.

"Don't you think it's a problem that I couldn't tell?"

"You have mentioned, once or twice, that I'm not clear."

"No kidding," she takes her hand back, raising it in one of her 'what the heck' gestures. "What am I supposed to think when you always flirt with me before offering me a job?"

"That I enjoy flirting with you." There's pleasure in the dance of seduction. Beyond that, I enjoy her ability to parry my more obvious suggestive remarks. And, the cherry blossom dust of her blushes is exquisite. So my reply is a no-brainer.

Except Stephanie's glare tells me that my 'no brainer' theory is clearly wrong. As the seconds tick by, I'm sure her foot is tapping under the table again. How do I explain this? In an ideal endgame, tonight is a date, and she is my partner in both life and work, so whether I'm flirting or discussing a job is not even a question.

Evidently I've been quiet a moment too long. She puts down her fork with a frown. "Okay, be honest. What is tonight's job offer?"

It's obvious that a career of masking my intentions to achieve a goal is not helping me here. I reach again for her hand. "Babe, tonight is a date, pure and simple. Not a job offer, although a position at Rangeman is always open if you are interested."

"Why?" Before I can reply, she continues, "What I mean is: why ask me on a date tonight? One that's not also a job... not that I'm complaining," She assures me while lifting one of Rossini's parmesan dinner rolls from the basket. Before chipmunking it into her mouth, she darts her eyes back to me. "I have to wonder: is it just because I went out with someone else?"

I resist the urge to cross my arms. Because in a way she's right, and it had stung, but possibly not for the reason she thinks. "I assumed that meant you're finally back 'on men'." My eyebrow twitches the final phrase in unconscious mimicry of the way she finger quotes it. "So I thought it was time to do something I'd been considering for a while." I skip over that what had bothered me most was wondering if, all along, she'd been 'on men' but 'off' me.

"Like, oh, work with Jeanne Ellen instead of me?"

Okay, score one to Stephanie. Even Les had picked up on that failed maneuver. Hell, even Jeanne Ellen had called me on it. Since I don't want to derail my intentions, I'd rather not go too far down that ill-thought-out path. So I lean back, shrugging. "I needed help on a couple jobs and you seemed unavailable."

"So is tonight because Jeanne Ellen decided she's too busy, now, to work with you?" She takes a sip of water. I notice she hasn't yet touched the wine.

"No," I reply quite honestly, though she's right that Jeanne Ellen has told me she doesn't want to be a stand-in for Stephanie anymore. Surprised that Stephanie is aware that Jeanne Ellen has taken her leave from Rangeman jobs for now, I recall that other people talk with each other. And Stephanie attracts gossip like nobody else I'd ever met.

Hastening to reassure Stephanie and also move us beyond Jeanne Ellen, I concede, "You're right: it's true that Jeanne Ellen is unavailable again, but you're never just a substitute for her."

"Hmm." She squints at me, then also sits back in her chair. "You're right about that," she replies, chin out. I've seen this combination of belligerence and pride before, though usually directed at Joe.

In my periphery Dominic is hovering, unsure, with a large tray. I wave him over and he discreetly places our entrees on the table while an assistant removes Stephanie's unfinished salad and my empty asparagus plate.

And once again Stephanie's attention is occupied by the delights of cheese smothered food with a side of pasta and butter. How she stays slim is one of life's great mysteries. One I truly hope I can keep exploring for a long time. And, as she moans low in delight over a laden forkful, I think of several other things I truly hope we can experience together.

With a spark of amusement, I notice nearby diners glancing our way. "Enjoying your dinner?" I ask, tamping down the smirk I feel trying to emerge, recalling that she doesn't always understand the reasons behind my humor. In this case, I'm simply enjoying her pleasure.

"Mmm hmm," she replies languidly, eyes shining in agreement.

"I'm glad," I nod, pleased that I've gotten at least this part of the evening right. Actually hungry after the day I've had, I turn my attention to my own dinner. It's not my habit to moan over food, saving that for more important and private endeavors. Yet, I nevertheless exhale in satisfaction that the chef has prepared my dish exactly the way I prefer.

The detente of dinner lasts through Stephanie's final sweep of a bread roll across her now-empty plate. Leaning back in her chair, again, she finally takes a sip of wine. "This is good," she exclaims.

My lips soften into a smile. "I remembered you liked this restaurant, back when I came here to buy my Boston office." My memory slips back to that evening, which now seems so long ago. I had realized by then, over dinner, that Stephanie was someone with whom I could share aspects of my otherwise intentionally private life. I hadn't yet wised up to what more she could be.

"That was when you told me about your daughter," she smiles gently, reaching out to squeeze my fingers where they rest on the table. "It's when I figured out that you were more complex than you wanted to seem."

I can't help a brief laugh as Dominic's swoops in with dessert menus as I've instructed, while his assistant removes our dinner plates.

"Oh tiramisu," Stephanie's eyes glitter through another moan. Dominic, who hadn't gone far, returns to take our order, smiling at the obvious delight in her eyes. They take a moment to chat about favorite desserts, and Stephanie has clearly made a new friend. I smile inwardly; it's what Stephanie Plum does best.

One of the things….

I wouldn't say that I'm unaware of my surroundings at that moment, but her voice does interrupt my thoughts. "So Batman, you took a risk bringing me to a restaurant that's technically in the 'Burg."

"A risk?" Has she forgotten about my personal dressing rule: two guns and a knife at all times? Not to mention the state-of-the-art Rangeman surveillance at all entrances and exits? Which, of course, she might not know about, but no matter.

She crosses her arms. "That we'd be seen together. Not to mention blowing your cover as a community-minded thug with perplexingly well appointed vehicles."

Ah. "Babe, my so-called 'cover' is just camouflage at this point. A distraction. But being seen with you? Never a problem. In fact, it's my pleasure. I hope you'll allow me to be seen with you more often."

She squints. "So you brought me here so people can see that I'm with you?"

After taking a couple of seconds to untangle her question, I'm furious. Not with Stephanie, of course. But, if it wouldn't mean abandoning Stephanie alone in a restaurant, I'd leave right now to go smack down Morelli, not to mention Attorney Richard Orr, for her insecurities.

Instead, tamping down my anger to avoid confusing her, I try again. "No Steph, I brought you here because I remembered you liked this restaurant, and I wanted to take you someplace you liked. Because seeing you enjoy your dinner makes me happy. If you want, next time I'll take you someplace you've never been."

"There's a 'next time'?" she asks, pausing to shift her attention again to Domenic as he delivers our desserts. An extra-large Tiramisu for her, plain biscotti and black tea for me.

"I would very much like for there to be a next time. As many as you'll allow," I reply, watching her melt into the sugar rush of her first bite. Domenic is assured of an exceptional tip, tonight.

"Mmm," is all she says as she angles her fork for her next bite with the focus of a hawk targeting a rabbit from a hundred yards away. I know her well enough, by now, to recognize that she's also applying just as much attention to her thoughts about what I've just said. I can almost see the smoke coming from her ears as she thinks, though it would take a much more foolish man to mention that in this moment.

Instead I wait, ostensibly focused on tipping the last of the wine into her glass, and then on sampling one of my biscotti.

Finally she looks back at me with a hooded expression.

"So, how many dates do we go on before you send me back to Joe? Who's now dating Robin Russell, by the way, so that would be really awkward. Or I guess you could tell me to go back to Axel, because he seems like a nice guy even though we're not dating. Or, I don't know, maybe you could send me back to Rex." She stabs her tiramisu so hard that, if it were indeed a rabbit, it would have squealed.

Ah. Well, this question is clearly my fault. I can't blame Morelli, Orr, or any of the other men in her life for her reaction. Can I make her understand? I take a deep breath. "Steph, I have no intention of 'sending you back' to anyone."

Before I can continue, and before she can even finish chewing, she elaborates. "But, every time that we've gotten closer than casual coworkers, you've sent me back to Joe. Every time. Or, at least, backed off by saying something like you're not relationship material. Whatever that means."

Or I've let her walk away, I silently add, because I'm not alone in this maneuver. But no matter; it all boils down to the same reason. "I'm very careful, very protective. As you saw with Scrog, being with me can be dangerous. By sending you away, I was trying to keep you safe."

She actually pauses, fork idly hovering next to her plate. This is important to her. She finally speaks, "Okay, then I have to ask, yet again, why are we together on a date?"

Because the place I want to keep you safe is in my arms. "Because I've recently come to understand that pushing you away makes me unhappy. And I think it makes you unhappy, as well."

"Unhappy," she repeats to herself. She grasps her fork more firmly and delicately slices off another bite of tiramisu while she puzzles over that one word. Murmuring, probably not aware that she's speaking out loud, she shakes her head. "I don't get it. You're Ranger. You're intentional with everything you do. You pushed me away before, but now say you won't. You have a live-in cook who sometimes drops off food at my apartment, so you don't need to invite me to dinner because I'm unhappy. Or you're unhappy."

After a second bite, she nods, puts down her fork, and sits back.

Crossing her arms, she says, "Ranger, tell me what you mean in a hundred words."

"Babe?" I feel my eyebrow flare upward and suspect my mouth may be open again.

"Tell me your feelings. In words. Because I finally get Joe's 'tell me you love me in a hundred words' thing. Either you do, and it's simple, or you don't and it's impossible and stupid. I finally get that I couldn't do that hundred-word thing with Joe because I loved the idea of Joe, but not the man."

She swallows. "And I can tell you quite simply, right now, that I care for you, maybe it's love, or could be. Anyway, I like when we're together, even if there's no sex. But I hold back because I don't want to be 'here today, back to Joe tomorrow'. I just don't know what to think. So tell me."

Words. Damn Elliott for being right. I pause to marshall the ones that distill what I try to show her. A hundred words is too many, and not nearly enough. I could probably spend a lifetime saying variations on them.

It's my turn to swallow; then I begin. "Stephanie, you fascinate and amuse me. You bring light to the darkest corners of my life. You take risks that frustrate me, but I don't mind because my life is much better with you in it. Which is to say, yes, I love you. And you also confuse me."

Before she can interrupt, I continue, "A man like me rarely gets a chance at love. And it's precious. You're precious. So I've backed away to protect you. And to protect myself. It's probably my years of training kicking in at the wrong time. But truly, I want to have you with me. My partner in all things: life, work, and love, if you'll share that with me."

I exhale as though I just finished the Army Ranger's field fitness test. Now it's Stephanie's turn to have her mouth open in surprise.

"Ranger, do you really mean that?"

"From my heart," I answer. Reaching across the table, I trace her cheek with my fingers. Her folded arms open like a rose.

"Your heart," she murmurs. Her hand, warm and soft in the power she has over me, comes up to caress my fingers. Pulling my hand away from her face, she enfolds my much larger palm, and my fingers envelop hers. We gaze at each other over the forgotten dessert as though we're reunited lovers in some ridiculously saccharine, romantic movie.

"You know," she smiles, a gleam in her eyes. "This is maybe the first real date I've had in years. Which means I'm out of practice here. But I seem to remember that one of us is supposed to ask if we can do this again." She tilts her head. "So Batman, can we do this again?"

"Anytime, anywhere you want."

"Tomorrow night?" she asks, and only then do I realize with relief that I've held my breath until she spoke. Her quiet voice continues, "Because if this is going to be real, I'm not ready yet for it to be breakfast tomorrow." She begins to nibble her lip untilI reach with my free hand and touch her imperiled lip with my thumb.

"Only what you want, when you're ready," I murmur, wanting to place my lips in the spot that I make my thumb relinquish. But I understand, now, that she needs the courtship she's been lacking since her former husband Dicky Orr, and probably before him.

I'll wait for her; as long as she's with me, it will be worth it.

So I simply add, "Tomorrow night is perfect, Babe. Let me know if you have a preference, or if I should choose where."

"Let me think about it and let you know tomorrow."

"Works for me. Casual is fine, too," I offer, since I suspect part of her thought process will involve figuring out what she has clean in her closet. Or, what she can find on sale. Seriously, I'll go where she wants, though I hope it's not Pino's, since absolutely nothing they serve is healthy, other than water. But for Stephanie, I'll even brave the cholesterol and gossip of Pino's.

"I did need those words, you know," she interrupts my train of thought. "Everyone's reminded me of all the things you do for me, and they're right. And I do appreciate all of it. But I think I've never really believed your promise of 'no price'. I needed to know why you'd do what you do, not what I wouldn't have to pay for it."

Ah. I exhale, accepting that I also planted the seeds of this confusion. It's yet another reason why we've had this on-again off-again status. And Hector was right: it was an estupido thing to tell her, regardless of what I was trying to say. No price Babe; anything for you. Obviously it's not how she interpreted it.

My lips soften in a self conscious, smile. "I understand. As you've often told me, saying what I mean in words is not my strength. I think we both have proof of that." Normally I'd leave it at that, but she's right that I leave important things unsaid, so collecting my thoughts I soldier forward. It's now or never. "Always know, though, that what I give you is because I love you. Even if sometimes I don't say that in words."

"Sometimes?" her smile is somewhere between coy and radiant.

"Almost always," I concede. "I'll try harder. But you need to tell me when you're confused or unsure."

"Always, Ranger. I promise." Her eyes spark with a moment of mischief. "Because, really, when have you ever known me to not speak my mind?"

Too often where I'm concerned, apparently.

"Okay, it's a deal," she stretches out her hand, eyebrows raised meaningfully. Chuckling, I reach over the table and shake her hand.

"Deal," I agree, marking a new commitment in our ongoing time together, this time as equals with a chance for each of us to understand what the other is saying, whether in words or actions. It was more than I'd hoped for, in meeting Stephanie tonight. And, as always, she surprised me and showed me how to look at everything with new hope.

And with that, we're once again gazing at each other across the table like we're in one of those sappy Hallmark movies that my sisters watch. Finally, though, I believe that she can see my words of love that are, in my own way, spoken in so much of what I do.