Oh, Fancy, thou flitting sprite, thy name is Jisbon. I wrote this "just because".

WHAT THE HEART WANTS

"Yes, sir, of course . . . Everything possible . . . I understand."

Lisbon carefully placed the telephone receiver back in its cradle and thoughtfully smoothed her fingertips along its spine. She stood and took a moment to order her desk then stepped to the bank of windows that looked out on the government compound of manicured lawns, tall shade trees, and riotous flower beds framing the bend of the Sacramento River in the distance. Any rational person would never tire of that view. Or this office. She tapped her fingertips on the credenza three times and turned to survey her domain.

The view, comfortable desk chair, her own personal assistant—all were part of her new position. She couldn't help the small smile at the sight of the leather couch. It would seem she couldn't get away from the things, though this was by far not her favorite or the most handsome. Her expression turned rueful. This one didn't get as much use as others in her recent past.

But no time for that. She was a department head now, had been for a month. The Serious Crimes Unit had seen a—what was Minelli's expression? Oh yeah—"veritable crap storm" of bad luck when it came to bosses in the last several years. Her old mentor had left in personal shame if not professional disgrace. His successor had been framed for murder, her secret affair with a uniformed officer exposed, made the focus of a state-wide manhunt that ended with her near murder. Next was an older agent who had the experience and wisdom to know he simply didn't belong in the position, and the last person to officially hold the job had ended up another name on Red John's long list of victims, his last as it had turned out.

Since then, this office, once sought after as a career-maker and political stepping stone, had—with the exception of a couple of unofficial temps—sat idle. Red John had repeatedly proven himself the white whale to anyone who bore the title, and even though he was dead—gunned down by the father of one of his earlier victims during the transfer from the CBI to the jail where he would have awaited trial—the fact was, the bureau couldn't give the job away. Finally, having realized political savvy might have to take a back seat to actual investigative experience and a sound crime-solving record, the A.G. and CBI Director had offered the lead position of Major and Serious Crimes Agent-in Charge to her. And, knowing the step up was her due and the chance of a professional lifetime, she had been glad to accept.

Her cell buzzed in her pocket signaling a text, and she replied, telling Cho she was on her way down. Stepping out of her office, she paused to sign a manpower requisition for her assistant then headed for the stairs.

She counted herself blessed. Her team had made it to the finish of the Red John ordeal intact for the most part, herself having come the closest to meeting her death at his gunman's hands. In the end, she had made the arrest. Jane had, of course, figured everything out and called her, thinking he would make it to the serial killer's lair first. But—and one had to appreciate the irony—that deathtrap he called a car had broken down on the way to the scene, and he had missed the prize by ten minutes and one click of her handcuffs. She had known he would be angry, but it had been mostly with himself. He had sat, stone-faced and silent during the interview as Lisbon asked the questions, only his eyes alive, greedily roaming, taking in every feature of the man across the table. Red John had smirked back, just as silently, still sure he would never pay for what he had done. Lisbon may as well have not even been in the room. Eventually, Jane had given Red John a small, strange smile, just eerie enough to make Lisbon fearful of what he was planning. Then, he had stood and walked out without a word or look back, the team had suspected for the last time. Whatever he had thought, whatever he had planned had come to nothing. He was standing not twenty feet away when the shot had been fired and Red John had bled out on the sidewalk at the feet of his killer.

Now . . . now things were so different. She oversaw the Major and Serious Crimes Unit, Cho having taken her former place. She wasn't in the field nearly as much, but, unlike her predecessors, she sometimes kept the same late hours, not wanting to walk out on her people if they were still laboring with a difficult case.

Today she was going out, and with her former team no less. The daughter of Kathryn Ortney-Holcomb, long-time friend and Cornell sister alumnus of the governor's wife, had been kidnapped. The governor had demanded the best, and this Serious Crimes team was it. Bertram had made it very clear that he would hold her responsible for the success of the operation, defining that as no less than the safe return of the young woman, money exchanged or no. She smiled ruefully to herself and shook her head as her hand glided along the cool metal of the handrail. They hadn't a hope without Jane.

That day a little over a month previous, she had run after him to try and convince him to come back, maybe go for a drink, maybe to her place. They could talk it out, she could help him work through it. The sound of the gunshot had her running so hard, pushing through the crowd that her lungs were burning by the time she had cleared the building, even before she inhaled the brutal July heat. Her eyes had fastened on the gun, registering the dark, gnarled hand that gripped it.

Not him. It wasn't him. Thank God, it wasn't him.

As she pushed toward the shooter, hand unerringly fishing for the cuffs once again nestled in her pocket, her eyes had found Jane, had caught sight of the look of shock on his face momentarily before diverting her attention to the duty at hand. She had looked back only to find him gone, had searched the crowd frantically, frustrated by the immediacy of dragging a weeping man twice her size back into the building as she barked orders for Cho to guard the body and Van Pelt to call for an ambulance. For a week, she had texted and called, her messages unanswered and unreturned, and she had been forced to accept the possibility that this time he wasn't coming back. She had known they would stop Red John one day, and that day would bring changes. She had just never wanted to contemplate what those changes would entail.

But change had come, the good with the bad and the yet to be determined. And now she was facing the first bureaucratic challenge of her new position. Her feet cleared the last step, and she swung around into the elevator lobby, offering up a silent prayer that all would go well.

"I guess we can go, now that Her Majesty has graced us with her presence?" his sarcastic drawl floated across the space.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I wouldn't've taken my sweet time if I'd known the Mad Hatter was in such a hurry."

"Just get in the elevator, woman," he growled good-naturedly.

"Such disrespect," she lamented. She brushed past his arm where it curled back and around, holding the door for her. "Where's that off-with-his-head thing when you need it?"

The four of them—she, Cho, Rigsby and Jane—settled into a comfortable silence as they rode the elevator down then walked out to and across the car park to the SUV, Van Pelt remaining behind to answer phones and forward any urgent messages. Lisbon caught herself before she circled around the vehicle and veered toward the front passenger side instead. Cho was technically lead now, and he always carried the keys.

He had control of the a/c as well. Cho had always run a little hotter than everyone else, and the last throes of summer in August only exacerbated it. She shivered as the freezing air circulated and didn't know whether to be relieved or irritated when a soft, tightly woven throw was hurled over the seat from behind her. Deciding not to look gift-warmth in the mouth, she spread the cover over her and listened to Cho's briefing.

"No cops," the kidnappers had said. The first drop attempt had been botched, and a vial of blood, confirmed as Abigail Holcomb's, had shown up wrapped in Mr. Holcomb's Wall Street Journal. It was better than her dead body, Mrs. Ortney-Holcomb had decided before calling her friend, reasoning at that point that bringing in discreet law enforcement couldn't possibly make things worse.

Lisbon felt her attention wandering, or rather, diverted. Jane sat in the seat behind Cho, peering at the passing scenery, his middle finger tapping at the window ledge. She could practically feel his body humming. Her eyes narrowed at him in the rearview mirror, and he suddenly turned to look directly at her and grinned. Unnerving was the only word for it. "What are you up to?" was what she said with her eyes.

They reached the Holcomb estate, and she drew her authority and professionalism around her, ready to take the matter in hand. She had done this before, played this part. But when she stepped into the study and was met, not by agents, uniformed cops and the usual array of tracking and recording equipment, but by no less than seven pairs of nervous and inquiring eyes, she jerked to a halt on the threshold and, feeling Cho's solid warmth behind her, leaned back into it.

"Cho?" she questioned in uncertain sotto voce, "you wanna tell me what's going on?"

He sighed through his nose. "Jane. Said earlier he was onto something. Guess he's ready for the big reveal."

It was obvious everyone in the room knew each other. She hated inside jobs. And she hated the "big reveal" when she wasn't in on the production. "At least introduce me," she replied resignedly.

Mother, father, siblings, resident cousin, boyfriend and mother's personal secretary peopled the room. Jane straightened his new suit (Lisbon couldn't help admiring the cut.) and took center stage.

"One of you," he projected, "is the kidnapper."

His hands moved in circular patterns, accusation hovering at his well-kept fingertips.

"Is it . . . you?" His attention focused on the father. "What dark secret are you trying to hide? Why do you need the money? Are you afraid your affair will be found out? Whose silence are you buying?"

"Willis," his wife hissed, her eyes lasering in on him. "Haven't we been through enough? Haven't I proven I'm willing to pay to cover your indiscretions? What is it now? Another cheerleader? Please tell me she's at least in college this time."

Willis' hands came up, palms wavering from up to out, unable to decide between supplication and defense. "I haven't been with anyone else, I swear! It's only you—just like I promised!"

Jane's eyes welled with humor, and Lisbon knew the man was lying. She wondered at the consultant's not pointing it out, but before she could do so herself, another voice, thin and reedy spoke up from across the room.

"You lying bastard! You said you were leaving her! 'Just needed to move a few things around' you said," Miss Hemshaw accused, oblivious to the shocked stares directed at her. Apparently, not one of the family members thought the mousy secretary had it in her. That, and she was about as far from a cheerleader of any age as you could get.

"Why, Miss A-Hemshaw," the victim's sister tittered.

"Shut up, Jeralyn," her mother snarled. "This isn't funny."

"Oh, like you're any better, Mother," her daughter shot back. "You need to insulate the cabana walls better if you're going to insist on laying the pool boy every Wednesday."

"What?" the trembling Mr. Holcomb suddenly roared to life. "You're doing the pool boy? The pool boy, Kathryn?"

Lisbon launched herself at him just as his fingers closed around his wife's throat. Somehow, a snicker from the couch just to her left rose above the din.

"At least she's doing somebody, Jeri dear—"

Lisbon turned her head to look over her hunched shoulder at where Willis, Jr. lounged on the sofa, bleary eyes peering maliciously at his sibling through his too-long fringe.

"—and not lustfully longing after her sister's lover."

Her gaze traveled to Marsh Townen, his hands already raised to ward off any violence, verbal or otherwise. "Don't bring me into this."

"And what about you?" Though her face was flushed with embarrassment, Jeralyn had apparently not yet run out of steam. She zeroed in on her brother with such spite he generated enough energy to cringe. "What was it this time? Drugs or whores? Or maybe the gambling. You have such wide and varied interests, Wee Willie."

At that he did manage to rise from the couch, hands curling tightly. "Why you little—"

He advanced on her, his momentum arrested by Cho's ambush as the agent caught his upraised fist and twisted it behind him for a neat cuffing.

"And for your information, Wee Willie, the longing ended about three weeks ago!" Jeralyn crowed triumphantly up into her restrained brother's wrathful face.

Lisbon looked around the room. Chaos reigned. Rigsby was bodily restraining Miss Hemshaw, the Misters Holcomb—Junior and Senior—were both writhing angrily, straining against their handcuffs, and Kathryn Ortney-Holcomb—the governor's wife's oldest and dearest friend—was leaning back onto the arm of what looked to be a very expensive leather chair, hand rubbing at her chafed throat, trying to clear it with a rasping cough. The situation couldn't be more botched if they had purposely . . .

Her eyes circled the room, searching. He was behind her, over her other shoulder, leaning against the door frame, one ankle crossed over the other, one hand at his hip, laughter in his eyes. The situation, and with it her career, was going to hell, and Jane was blithely carrying the hand basket.

One more voice was added to the bedlam, this one so laced with venom, the others stilled, cowering at it.

"Three. Weeks. You've been screwing. Her. For three . . . weeks?" the victim's cousin spat. "While we were waiting—I was waiting. Planning. Doing . . . everything. I made the contacts, spent all my savings to hire those toads. For what? So we could get away, have a future together. I had to sit and watch you faun over that simpering little twit, not able to tell her to back off, to shut up, to get the hell away from what was mine, and all the while you were doing her ugly sister, too?"

That was a confession if ever she heard one, and Lisbon realized someone needed to get to Cousin Hillary and make the arrest. But Willis Senior was still fighting, trying to get at his unfaithful wife, Cho was bodily keeping the Holcomb siblings apart, and the mousy secretary was practically climbing Rigsby, whether wanting to get her hands on her illicit lover or his inconvenient wife, the senior agent didn't know.

Lisbon weighed the sense of simply firing off a shot to quell the riot, considering several things: Would it make a difference? Was there an innocent bystander who might be wounded on the floor above? Would anyone believe the bullet had simply gone wide as they rushed Jane to the hospital?

As if in answer to her conundrum, uniformed officers suddenly flooded the room commanding silence and compliance. Hillary Taylor was Mirandized and led out to a waiting patrol car. The rest of the company was divided and transported back to the CBI to take statements and sort out various charges of assault, accessory, obstruction and resisting.

Making her way back to the SUV, careful to avoid Jane until she could question him privately, her own desire to do bodily harm held in check, she drew her phone from her pocket to call in a report. Futile though she knew it was, she hoped a heads up would be enough to keep Bertram from completely blowing his top. Crap storm, indeed.

Her steps slowed as she frowned down at her phone. It was shut off. She never shut her phone off. Three missed calls from Van Pelt. What was that about? She hit call back.

"Boss?" Grace made a noise in the back of her throat at her misspeak. "What's going on? I've been trying to—Never mind. We got them. Jane was right. Two hired thugs had her in an old abandoned warehouse. Part of Hillary Taylor's late father's forgotten holdings. S.W.A.T. said it looked like the place was being used for cock fights or dogs or something. Anyway—"

"Van Pelt, what the hell are you talking about?" Lisbon winced at the sharpness of her own voice.

"The kidnappers. That Hillary Taylor paid to take her cousin. At the warehouse . . . Didn't Jane tell you?"

Her eyes lifted to where he stood leaning nonchalantly against the SUV thirty feet away from her, alert gaze brightly taking in his surroundings, brushed curls glistening in the sun, completely carefree and relaxed. Except for the effort he was making to look anywhere but at her. She snapped her phone closed against Van Pelt's questions and strode toward him, keenly aware of the weight of the gun at her hip. Stopping just short of their jacket fronts making contact, she lifted her snarling expression to his deceptively complacent one. Standing any farther away she would have missed the tick at his jaw.

"You." One word, filled with menace and loathing and undeniable if undefined threat.

"Hm?" he buzzed, eyes falling to her and rounding as if just realizing she was there.

"You knew. Knew where Abigail Holcomb was being held. And by whom. And why. You had Grace send S.W.A.T.—How did you do that, by the way? Get around Cho?—and all of this—" Her arm flailed back toward the mansion. "All of this was for what? So you could get your jollies? Play with some big-wigs? Make them squirm? Was this entertaining for you? Are you so disinterested, so bored—"

"Not at the moment, no," he grinned lazily down at her, eyes hooded. "Right now I'm pretty interested."

Immediately taken aback at his gall, she fell silent, chin tucked. Her arm slowly lowered to her side.

"As a matter of fact, right now is pretty much the highlight of my day so far." He nodded over her head back toward the house. "And that's saying something."

Stunned, she could only watch as he turned to open her door then follow the suggesting sweep of his hand and step up to take her seat. He stood and looked at her for a moment, her dull eyes held by his lively ones. He bobbed his head toward her. "Buckle in." When she complied, he shut the door and gave it a firm follow-up push before walking around and taking his seat, his eyes finding hers in the rearview mirror. Her mind cleared, and, unable to bear his smug, smiling eyes any longer, she turned and looked wearily out her window.

Exiting the vehicle at the bureau lot, she read the warning text from her assistant with a groan. Bertram was waiting upstairs, and she knew there was more storm to come. Dreading what she was walking into, she leaned against the cool elevator wall, strength sapped, too fatigued to stand upright. At the Serious Crimes floor, they exited and Lisbon headed for the stairs alone. She could feel his gaze on her, and she stopped, turning to look back at him. His eyes were penitent, corners of his mouth turned down, lines of his smooth-shaven face more pronounced than usual. He wasn't sorry for what he had done, she knew, but the fact that he regretted the unpleasantness it was to cause her somehow made her take heart. One side of her mouth quirked into a half smile meant to assure him she could handle whatever was about to be dished out. The tilt of his head and half shrug said he knew but he still didn't like it. And that made her feel better.

She glided past her assistant's desk, cutting through the warnings and the attempt at a quick pep talk.

"Marcie, would you pull a couple of empty boxes out of the storage closet, please?"

She heard the quick, tapping steps behind her, evidence of immediate compliance, regretting the stifled sob. Marcie had just told her that morning she was the best boss she'd ever had.

Bertram was all manner of red. The shouting began before she even stepped through the door.

Thirty minutes later, Lisbon—accompanied by a painfully silent Marcie, each of them bearing a box—tapped on Cho's office door. He stood quickly and opened it to them, motioning them over the threshold. Lisbon dropped her burden on the desk corner, and Cho relieved the assistant of hers. The poor kid stood in place, seemingly at a loss, and when Kimball gave her shoulder an awkward pat of encouragement, she took that as the sign to go.

She didn't know what to say but felt some words were in order.

"Cho, I'm—"

"Forget it." He opened a side desk drawer and lifted out gun and badge then swiped the near-eaten bag of chips off the desktop, tilted his head back and let the crumbs roll down into his open mouth.

"But your promotion . . . again . . . I just . . ."

Her voice and intentions tapered off, and he shrugged. "Any promotion to this job is just me keeping the chair warm." He turned to go then pivoted back. "And don't worry about the case. I came in as team leader, so I'm responsible for closing. Glad to have you back, Boss."

Her face crumpled in guilty agitation, and he grinned, bowing out and closing the door. Left alone, Lisbon let her eyes travel the circumference of the space and realized he had closed all of the blinds. She sighed gratefully and, when the locks on both doors were engaged, dropped into her chair and leaned forward to rest her forehead atop her folded arms, willing the world outside to go on for a while without her.

"You're a terrible person."

Van Pelt had stood it as long as she could. Bringing her divided attention to bear on Jane, she turned her back on the half-completed report on her desk, her contemptuous gaze raking over him. A few seconds passed as he finished the paragraph of the slim volume he was reading. He closed the book, index finger marking his place and turned to face her directly.

"How so?"

"You ruined things for her. Got her demoted. And you heard Bertram yelling."

"I fixed things. You think she liked it up there? Filling out forms and signing requisitions and smiling her way through every asinine conversation? What kind of a job is that for a woman like Lisbon?"

She couldn't argue with that, and he knew it. Van Pelt had had her own concerns about Lisbon's satisfaction with her new job.

"Well . . . you could at least apologize. I mean, she'll forgive you eventually without it, but—"

"She already has," he said with quiet confidence.

"How do you know?"

"Hear that?" He raised his free index finger and circled it slowly in the air.

"What?"

"Exactly. That, my dear Grace, is the sound of forgiveness."

"It could just be the sound of the silent treatment."

He gave her an "Oh, come now" grimace, and she couldn't resist the smile that tugged at her lips, turning her back on him and busying herself with her paperwork before he could have the satisfaction of seeing it fully bloom.

"As long as you're sure she'll be all right."

"Don't worry so, child," he said serenely. She could hear the pages wuffle as he reopened his book. "I know what I'm about."

Her eyes lifted to share a silent communication of agreement with the other two interested agents in the bullpen, and it was decided to leave the matter in Jane's very capable hands. He and Lisbon were friends, and no one knew their prickly boss so well or how to set things right with her.

And so, the rest of the day played out, interrogations completed, confessions recorded, charges allocated, arraignments set, dinner come and gone. For five-and-a-half hours, the bullpen operated at a quiet buzz and Lisbon's blinds and doors remained closed. Finally, at two minutes past six, a light click wafted down the hall and Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt went on alert. Jane alone remained unfazed, lightly dozing on his leather sofa. The three agents looked to one another again, eyes going to the doorway at the sound of Lisbon's quiet voice.

"Everything all right?"

"Uh-yeah," Grace turned her face up to the boss's with a bright smile. "All reports are in."

"We got full confessions from Taylor and Townen, and everybody else is squared away," Rigsby added.

"It's all good, Boss. Just signing off on the file before I send it to the D.A," Cho assured.

She nodded distractedly and walked to where Jane lay on his couch in angelic repose. Standing quietly looking down at him, she asked, "And you? Do you feel you've had a profitable day?"

There was no rancor in her voice, no accusation, and it sounded for the world like it was a simple question. One sea-green eye cracked open.

"I think so, yes."

"Oh. Well. Good."

She turned to offer a good night to the group at large, swallowing hard at their suddenly angry glares, knowing their ill will wasn't directed at her. Jane sat up slowly, followed the trailing of her gaze. He shuddered and looked up at her.

"I know I did a despicable thing."

"Yes."

"And it seemed like I was purposely trying to throw a wrench into your professional advancement."

"Yes."

He studied his new shoes for a moment then inhaled deeply and took another look around the bullpen. Three pairs of expectant eyes looked back.

"That wasn't my intention."

"Oh?"

He smirked up at her, appreciating that she wasn't going to make it too easy for him. He did prefer a challenge.

"Come, Lisbon. We know you would never be happy in a job like that."

"Hm."

"Pandering to the upper crust. Smiling vacuously at their ignorance of what really goes into making all of this work. You were bored silly by the end of the first week."

"Was I?"

"Yes, you were, dear. You tried to hide it, tried to be a good little scout and not let it show, but I could see it. We all saw it."

His eyes swept the room again, this time hers following. One by one they all caved, nodding and shrugging their assent. He warmed to his argument.

"No activity, no challenge. How can a properly drafted statement for the press begin to compare with working a case on the ground, finding your way through the labyrinth of evidence, dividing the pertinent from the insignificant, snapping the trap? What would you do up there all day long, no perps to question, no scumbags to arrest, no impossibly huge miscreants to tackle?"

"I don't know. Enjoy my raise? The perks? A well-deserved rest?"

"You'd get pudgy."

"Pudgy!" She caught herself just before her hands raised to her waistline.

"Oh, it hadn't started yet." He smiled lightly up at her. "You're still as diminutively svelte as ever. But for how long? All of those corporate-type lunches, meet-and-greets and fundraisers combined with less exercise, and well . . .," he shrugged at the inevitability. "It was only a matter of time."

Her eyes held his steadily, as if she wanted more reassurance that falling a rung or two back down the ladder was a good thing.

"Still, I'd like to make it up to you."

Her eyes instantly sparkled with anticipation, following his movements as he stood and brushed down his still impeccable suit, crammed his hands in his jacket pockets and angled his left elbow toward her.

"Let me walk you to your car," he said solicitously.

She eyed the elbow like it was Cleopatra's asp. He waggled it at her and waited. Finally, with a roll of her eyes, she grudgingly took it and followed his lead as they exited the bullpen and made for the elevator together.

The agents' eyes trailed after them until they were no longer in line of sight, Van Pelt being the first to turn back to the other two.

"Do you believe him? Walk her to her car? That's the least—no—far below the very least of what he should be doing!"

"That's just the opener," Rigsby intoned sagely.

"Yeah. He'll follow protocol pretty much."

"Protocol?" Grace asked skeptically.

"Several days of expensive coffees," Cho explained, "and a couple weeks' worth of her favorite foods, including pastries you can only get on the internet. A few small surprises and one big one, tailored specifically to her."

"And side trips," Rigsby added eagerly to Cho's nodding agreement. "Little side trips to those weird places." Like farm stands and tea rooms and wineries with private art collections.

"Hey. You wanna bet on how long it'll take him to get back on her good side?" Cho saw no reason why Jane's groveling shouldn't have side benefits. After all, they had to work with Lisbon too.

"No." Grace's stern disapproval quelled Rigsby's enthusiastic nod. "What he did was reprehensible. She may never be offered another opportunity like that again. And you will not bet on anything. This isn't a game."

Rigsby's mouth rounded to a guilty "o", and he looked at Cho, who shrugged back. Maybe they should take it a little more seriously, keep an eye on Jane and make sure he followed through. Cho packaged the file and handed it to Agent Ron for the interdepartmental outbound, and they all settled in for a few minutes of reading and computer work, not wanting to follow too closely on Jane and Boss's heels.

They approached the elevator, Jane hit the down button, returned his hand to his jacket pocket and they both faced the doors, waiting. Lisbon's hand squeezed his elbow once gently then snaked down his arm into his pocket, her hand finding his.

"You're taking an incredible risk, Agent Lisbon."

"Yes."

"Anyone could walk by."

"Yes."

"Irreparable harm could be done to your reputation."

"Oh?"

"It would be advisable for you to count the cost."

"Hm."

She stroked his closed fist. "I think it's worth it."

It wasn't until his arm relaxed that she realized how tensed he had been. His fingers unfurled and threaded with hers. He turned to look down at her, and her face lifted to his, her open expression of abject trust stealing his breath and igniting an even deeper warmth in him. He had often reflected that it should trouble him that he was so far gone, so much so that her confidence was a great part of what bound him to her, forcing him to relinquish a principle on which nearly all of his relationships—and life—had been based: to seek no trust beyond what was profitable to himself, what was necessary for the con.

Her smile turned curious at where his thoughts had taken him, and he knew she would not ask—another sign of her sureness of him. His fingers tightened around hers, and he knew if she hadn't been so glad to be back and so secretly pleased at how far he'd been willing to go to make that happen she would have known how close they were both getting to his limit.

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into the empty car, separating to pivot and face front. His hooded eyes slid sideways to watch her, satisfaction lighting his features, and he knew when she didn't return his gaze that she had more to say.

"It doesn't mean I'm not angry, though."

"Understandable."

"It's going to take months for me to live that disaster down."

"I know, and believe me, I'm sorry. But I knew you didn't really like it up there, all alone, without us. And I didn't like it much downstairs."

The rest of his reasoning went unsaid. His breath caught in his chest, and he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck when she sidled closer and her voice dropped to throaty innuendo.

"You'll have to do more than walk me to my car to make it up."

His near hand grasped her upper arm as the other viciously crushed the stop button, and the car jolted to a halt as he swung around and into her, pushing her against the back wall, one thigh pushed between hers. He buried his face in her neck and inhaled, scraping his teeth upward against her skin.

"Jane," she gasped, startled. "You shouldn't . . . we agreed."

"Your rule, not mine," he growled. His lips found hers in a taking kiss, and it was a moment before her mind cleared enough for her to raise her hands to his chest and try to push him away.

"Jane," she pleaded, lips brushing his as she spoke.

He heard the tremor in her voice and his kiss gentled and brushed along her jaw and over to her ear, and he whispered a desperate threat, "Teresa. Don't tempt me to misbehave."

There was the slightest shift as her hands rolled and took hold of his lapels. Her face turned into the soft cleft of his neck, and he felt her lips curl against his flesh. He should have stepped away when he had the chance.

"It doesn't take much, does it?" she taunted. He drew back to look her in the eye, and she ground her hips against him, one time, hard. His jaw went slack and he blinked unevenly, gaze hazing with a fresh rush of desire. She only had an instant to relish her advantage.

His expression cleared, eyes riveting hers. His right hand ghosted up and over her shoulder, fingertips landing on and softly feathering along her jaw. He bent to her, slanting his head to the left and kissed her, once, twice, more, gradually shifting the tilt of his head to the right, each touch a whisper of sweet yearning. As he felt her leaning into him trying to deepen the kiss, his fingers stroked, barely there, down her throat, pausing at her pulse point before inverting and dipping downward, his nails flat against her skin, to skim beneath the edge of her scooped-neck tee. Her lips ceased working against his as his fingers pushed into her bra, her attention focusing on the lower contact. When one finger delved deeper and scraped across taut, sensitive flesh, her whole body rolled up to arch into his touch. He pulled back, stepping away just far enough to untangle his legs from hers, her lips following his with a questioning whimper. When she opened her eyes to find him, one side of his mouth was kinked into a smirk, and he answered her question, lazy and smug, "You're right. It doesn't seem to take much at all."

Her gaze dropped to where his hand still moved teasingly inside her shirt then rose to meet his, her expression haughty.

"Jane. I'm not having sex with you in a CBI elevator."

His smirk went full blown then. "We'll see."

Her jaw clenched in determination, but before she could find a firm seat on her high horse, his hand moved to center on her chest and closed in a fist, the double layers of fabric bunching in his grip, and he pulled her, hard, against him, his other hand fisting in her hair and holding her head captive as he kissed her again. This time the demand rushed through her, stealing her will and resolve. Her hands slid up and grasped at his shoulders and when he felt her knees give, the hand in her clothes moved down and circled around her waist to hold her firmly to him. He was immersed in her, aware and reading, and when she trembled he felt the apprehension in it. He drew back to look at her once more, this time in concern.

There were tears. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

He couldn't help but smile, consoling and reassuring. "I would think that was obvious."

"No . . .," she swallowed. "Why are you doing this? With me? Why did you stay?"

Part of him, the part that had always been, didn't want to say, didn't want to give in.

"Because it pleases me." It was true, as far as it went.

She swallowed again, eyes searching his then nodded, and he knew she would accept it as answer enough. And suddenly, it wasn't nearly as much as he wanted to give her. Both arms circled her in a firm but tender embrace, and he kissed her cheek as he pulled her to him. His lips trailed to her ear and his right hand stroked up and down her back.

"I would do anything to keep you. Do you understand? Anything I need to do."

He had given her so much in those few words. It made her want more. She clutched at him, whispering back, "Why?"

He knew the answer, but he'd used the phrase so often, flippantly as it applied to others. His left arm held onto her as his right hand moved from her back, along her side, up her rib cage, over her breast to touch and cradle her cheek as he shifted his stance. Now they stood forehead to forehead, eyes closed. He infused the words with everything he felt for her.

"The heart wants what the heart wants, my love. It will not be denied."

"Heart?" she asked tremulously.

His eyes opened at that. Had she really not understood? When he drew his head away from hers, her eyes opened too.

"What do you think this has been about, Lisbon?"

One slim shoulder rose in an uncertain shrug. He was astonished.

"It seems I have a lot more to make up for than a bit of bad behavior. What is today?"

Her head tilted, lips parted and she blinked up at him. "Friday?"

"Hm. We're off this weekend, yes?"

"Yes?"

His grin went wide and wolfish. "Perfect."

She shivered. "We'll need to stop at the market."

He breathed a kiss into her hair. "We'll order in."

Her lips found his jaw. "No good. We'd have to answer the door all weekend."

His nose dipped to her neck. "You're right. We'll order groceries. We won't have to stop on the way, and only one delivery."

"Good thinking."

Her mouth sought his, and they devoured one another, tongues, hands, hips moving in voracious frenzy. Finally, realizing they couldn't sate their growing hunger, they pulled back to study one another for a moment.

"I need to start the elevator again."

Knowing he was right, she raised her hands, her fingers attempting to straighten his hair, his retucking her shirt.

"You okay? You ready?"

"Yeah, yeah," she assured. When her hands raised to bring order to her own mane, his brusque "Leave it" stilled her movements. He gave her one last long look then tapped the button for the lobby.

The elevator doors opened on the Admin floor, Payroll and Human Resources personnel waiting for the ride down. By now everyone in the building had heard about Jane torpedoing the case. As one, they took in the consultant's vague perusal of the elevator's interior as well as Lisbon's petulant scowl and decidedly harried appearance. The weekend awaited, and the car had taken too long to arrive at their floor as it was, so they swallowed their hesitance and stepped in, hoping any awkwardness could be forestalled until they made their escape. In the general flurry of everyone going their separate ways, no one paid heed to the two walking in the same direction or Jane's hand lifting to cradle Lisbon's elbow.

"Should you call up and tell the others you're leaving for the night?"

"Nah. They expect me to do as I please. Informing them of the minutiae of my movements would only make them suspicious, and we wouldn't want them speculating—" They separated, each moving to their own vehicle, and Jane paused to look back at her, his words arresting her movement as well. ". . . Would we?"

Again that uncertain shrug as her eyes searched his face. "No. Probably not a good idea."

A mild air of what felt like disappointment settled between them. Lisbon drew up her shoulders, shoved her fingertips into her jeans pockets and studied her shoes. Jane's left hand formed into a loose fist, thumb pad rubbing along the side of his index finger as he looked up at the lot security camera. His gaze fell back to her, and he took one tentative step.

"Lisbon, I . . ."

Her head came up, eyes meeting his. "Yes?"

One glance back at the camera. Slow grin. Exaggerated whisper. "Race you home!"

Languid blink. Indulgent smile. Inviting tilt of the head. He almost closed the distance.

"You're on!" she whispered back.

Purpose fueling their movements, they hurried to their cars. Jane fired his ignition and waited before pulling out as he made a call to the mom-and-pop deli and grocery near her apartment, more than willing to give Lisbon a head start. He would catch up with her soon enough.

END (?)