Maria woke to the dawning light. Her heart was beating almost too fast to be contained in her chest. It was echoing, faltering, and then speeding out of control. The nightmare. It was dark, empty and terri fying. Slowly moving off the bed, she looked down at her sprawled-out bedmate. For a moment, she frowned.

Who was he?

Then her face cleared. Michael. He was Michael. He had saved her. Protected her. And he was wonderfully magical in his ability to heal her hurts. Besides making a mean bowl of chicken soup, harboring a preoccupation for eating and a certain sarcastic gruffness to his voice, he was the only thing in the world she trusted.

Watching him sleep, her fingers itched. Forgetting the terror that woke her, ignoring the cold seeping sweat that was drying on her body, she forced herself not to touch him. She was fascinated. His eyes were a color that needed to be blended and perfected. It wasn’t an ordinary brown, but a warm golden whiskey color, deep and silent, and yet so incredibly guarded. She could see him clearly. Her artist's eyes eating up his body, searching it for those incredible flaws. The flaws that made him a work of perfection. Flaws never detracted, only defined. People who were unflawed were scary. The outer cover usually hid so many more defects inside. Thinking oneself perfect was the one true indication of a delusional mind.

Maria suspected that she basked in her own flaws. Counted on them. Held them up as a shining example of what she could overcome and live with. It wasn’t just physical. It was more. The soft spots inside, that hurt more then they should. The fears that taught caution… Maria paused as her thoughts confused as they rushed up against a wall of whiteness. Nothingness. The void. Looking down at her hands she smiled at their unmarred surface, but then frowned at the strangeness. A stranger’s hands. She was a stranger to herself.

Touch. She wanted to touch him. Not just his face. Every inch of him. Not just as an artist, but sexually. He pulled to her. Pulled to her center, unbalanced her, left her confused, but somehow almost giddy. She hadn’t paid much attention before because the drowning fatigue, the fever and the pain clouded her already addled brain. But he healed that, cleared her mind somewhat so that all that remained was that white veil of mist hiding her from herself. Looking down at his beautiful hands she wanted to run her hands over the tops of them and join her fingers to his. He was special. Life-defining moments. They usually hit like bolts of lightning.

But Maria refrained from touching him. Not because she was afraid of waking him up. Nope. No sir. She’d love to wake him up with just her mouth. Maria closed her eyes and moaned. Damn. She may not know who she was, but one thing was obvious, she was not a blushing virgin. More than likely a real slut. What she was thinking of doing to his sleeping vulnerable body was…Maria smiled to herself...delicious.

Stretching out a hand to touch his face, to feel the fine feathering of lashes on his cheek, she stopped. Her hands. Strange. Stranger’s hands. She couldn’t stand to see a stranger’s hands touch him, even if those were the hands attached to her own body.

Backing away from him, she let him sleep. Rest now, Mr. Guerin , because later Maria suspected he was going to need all the strength he could muster to handle her. She might not know much about herself, but one thing she was very aware of was lust and this unbound energy. Almost like a nervous tick or a rushing of the breath. Unadulterated lust. How long it was going to take her to toss his incredible luscious ass on his bed and jump his bones would to be a testament of exactly what her moral upbringing indicated.

Maria slowly walked down the stairs in the early morning gloom, tapping a thoughtful nail against her teeth. Okay, if it took less than twenty-four hours, she was a definite, bonafide rutting slut. Maria quickly amended that to twelve hours. She had to factor in the Guerin body. No living, breathing, moaning hot-blooded woman could possibly resist that aloof, standoffish man with a surprisingly gentle touch. Twenty-four hours would mean she was comfortable with her own body, responsible for her own orgasm, and a healthy member of the species female. Thirty-six hours meant she was a touch more reserved, which could be explained by her amnesia and the possibility of a significant other in her life, who was part of the void.

Maria thought about it for a moment. Scratch that. Actually that was exactly the problem. Whatever itch she had, it obviously wasn’t and hadn’t been scratched recently or often enough. Lusting after a stranger. Hmm. Obviously she was unattached and hornier than hell because her stomach was hollowed out with butterflies, her heart rate was elevated, and she had actually licked her lips while looking at him, making herself already hot and flowing between her legs. This had a nice wobbly effect as well.

True. She had just awakened from a nightmare which could explain the elevated heart rate and the shaky pins, but nope, the total wetness was definitely Guerin -inspired. Of course she was sleeping in his bed all wrapped around his body, and his huge gentle hands were holding her. She was intimately aware of his entire frame and that not-so-insignificant morning erection. Damn. She had to have been really sick, on death’s door to have missed that the last few days. Maria. The girl was back! Whoever the hell she was…she was definitely feeling no pain. Well except that pesky need to tie the man up, gag him so he couldn’t protest, and abuse his body deliciously. Damn. It was official. She was a rapist.

If it took longer than forty-eight hours to jump him she would be officially a lesbian, a nun, or a buttoned-up repressed saint. Not going to happen. The only thing saving Mr. Guerin ’s virtue right now was…okay forget it.  He was toast. She had promised him one long hard thank-you fuck on her way out the door, but it seemed only fair that she practice a little beforehand, just to make sure she got it right, and he didn’t get shortchanged. No sir, didn’t want to cheat the man who saved her life, reluctantly let her stay in his home, and gave her back her hands.

Maria went down the stairs into the living room, walking gingerly. Her feet were still sore. She should see if he could fix them as well. He had done a great job on her hands. Maria closed her eyes and breathed deeply. He was the most confusing of men. One thing she was certain of was he held a great amount of energy in his body. He had tossed her against the wall of the house with just a wave of his hand.

That memory was slowly coming back. All that raw energy, masked, hidden and controlled. Pity. It had to make for some intense sex. Maria laughed at herself and her one-track mind. Damn. Whoever she was, she was one pathetic chick. No thought right now of why she couldn’t remember or even care about who and where she came from. All she could think of was Michael Guerin without any clothes and an economy-size box of condoms. Her brains were scrambled. No doubt about it.

Continuing down the stairs into the bottom split level, she entered his office. Oh damn! It was a shambles. Picking her way through the mess, she searched for a clean piece of paper and a pencil, but the mess was too much to ignore.

Maria began cleaning up, straightening shelves, returning papers to files. Sitting on the floor she became immersed in his writing. Opening up untouched manila envelopes, she searched for the title of the article to find the correct file, the notes and his rough draft. She sat there for hours reading article after article as she slowly returned order to his world.

A few hours later, and numerous articles read, Maria sat back in awe. Brains. He was intelligent, knowledgeable, brawny, and sexy. And so incredibly talented! Obviously he was single since no woman would let another woman so close to her property. She had just slept with him in his bed for numerous nights wrapped around his body, a body that felt familiar now, and no bitchy woman had run in demanding her death, his death, and an explanation. What the hell was wrong with the women in this town? Letting that mighty fine slab of grade A prime beef walk around untied, unfettered, and totally unfucked? Insane. He was incredibly beautiful. This town had some seriously deranged women if they…

Maria stopped thinking for a moment as her confused brain short circuited. She had no idea where the hell she was. The images of her nightmare flooded back into her brain. She reached for a pencil and a few pieces of plain paper, and she began to draw.

~~~

Michael woke and stretched. Slowly coming awake, he suddenly realized what was missing. Maria. She wasn’t sleeping next to him. Quickly rolling out of bed, he went to find her.

He couldn’t hear anything, but he felt her. Felt her presence like an essence. Filled space. Living and breathing. Following his instincts, he stood in outrage at the door of his violated office watching her sitting on the floor. She didn’t even look up. She was drawing frantically. Her brow furrowed and intense in some world only she could see and understand. There was a opened pack of plain white Xerox paper next to her and endless drawings all around her. As soon as she ran out of paper she tossed the picture and grabbed another piece of clean paper. Frustrated by its small size, she kept drawing, her irritation plain on her face.

The office looked better. She had picked up, and on the floor was a pile of neatened files ready to put back in the filing cabinet. She had collected an article from each of them in another pile. She had opened the envelopes.

Michael’s jaw clenched. It was an invasion of his inner sanctum.  She had read his stories, touched his things, and touched his life. Burns were bad enough, but Maria was worse. She had a way of looking into his eyes that disconcerted him, that was when she wasn’t totally whacked.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She didn’t even look up. She just kept drawing making a grunting sound. The pencil in her hand was gnawed-on. She must have broken the lead a few times and was desperate to find lead again.

Michael walked into his office. She had restored part of it, but her drawing frenzy was creating its own mess. Taking her hands, he forced her to look up at him. Her eyes were open but unfocused. She wasn’t seeing him. Taking the pencil from her hands he flung it away. He picked her off the floor and carried her out of his office and into the living room to sit on the sofa. Cold. Her whole body was cold, shivering, and taut from some unknown reason. As much as the fever worried him, so did her coldness. It felt like a type of shock.

Sitting with her in his lap, he rubbed warmth back into her body, and she quieted and settled. Next thing he knew her arm came up around his neck, and she was still. She had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Lifting her, he took downstairs to the TV room and placed her on the leather sofa covering with the green afghan. Staring at her for a moment, he was confused by the cold, the shaking, and the shock she seemed to be in.

She needed to eat. Michael went upstairs and pondered his refrigerator and cabinets. What should he make her? Damn. She was doing it again without even trying. His mind was full of her. Michael shook his head and started making breakfast for himself. Lots of pancakes, tons of syrup, and half a bottle of Tabasco.

She slept for a couple of hours, so Michael went upstairs to shower and then finally return to the scene of the crime. His office. The den was a mess. She had restored some of the order. All the articles in the stack were taken from the manila envelopes she opened. She had read them, found the correct folder and notes, and stacked them. He returned the completed files to the filing cabinet.

Understanding now why she had to open them, he looked at the other pile of still unopened manila envelopes with his articles. His copies. He had never bothered to open them because when they came back from the publisher he knew which article it was at the time, so he just shoved it in the appropriate file. Now he was looking at a sea of unopened articles and he had no idea where they belonged. So he dug in.

Still that gave her no right to read them. Not without asking first. This was more personal than if she read them in a magazine, periodical or whatever. This was… Michael shoved the thought away. He didn’t get intense. Not about anything but his privacy, his home and his need to be alone. Even his writing was a means to an end. A way to support himself. He never even reread the articles when they came back, because it would have felt too much like he cared.

He once read a quote from a famous writer that stated every word, every vowel was a little glimpse into his own soul. Michael didn’t want anyone glancing into where his soul should be and finding it empty and unworthy. He stiffened at that thought. Fuck. He didn’t want this. Sorting the rest of the stories away, he ignored the fact that he took one of the stories out of each folder and placed it on top of the stack she already read, but perpendicular to distinguish between the read and the unread. He couldn’t have said when he decided she could read the rest of them, or even when it suddenly became important. Placing the stack of articles on the corner of his desk he finally looked at the mess she made.

Her drawings.

They made no sense. A series of lines and shadings. Stark and dark.

Something caught Michael’s eye. A line of a drawing that seemed to continue into another. He spread the drawings out and put them together, moving them around like a puzzle. Finally he stood up and stared down what she had drawn. It was only a partial story told on paper. Something her addled brain knew to draw. Each piece of paper was part of a larger canvass telling a piece of the puzzle. And what she had drawn was a man’s foot in his shoe. A man because he could see the trouser leg, moving up to the sprawled body and the hand tossed to the side. The picture stopped before the face was visible, but the meaning was not lost. The man was dead. Hard to miss. In the center of his chest were three bullet holes, all bleeding streams of blood that she drew draining off his chest to pool around the body on the left side. She hadn't finished the right side, just the left. A single piece of paper was too small to encompass the entire scene, so she used numerous papers to complete it. He had stopped her before she could.

Maria killed someone? Shot them? Or perhaps she saw the freshly killed body? Or she witnessed the murder itself? Whatever it was, it was in her locked memory. Her accident. The running of her car off the road, the bullet holes, and the ones on the dead man’s chest. Michael was convinced she witnessed a murder. She was probably the only witness, and therefore a loose end. Depending on the killer or killers, they’d come for her. Quiet her before she could remember and tell.

Gathering the drawings, Michael took out a clean folder and left it unlabeled. He shoved the drawings inside and put them in the back of his filing cabinet. Sitting down in his office chair with one arm resting on the chair’s arm and the other scratching his eyebrow, he sat staring at the closed filing cabinet. The headache was coming back.

~~~

“We’ve got a problem.” The man’s voice said in a phone.

There was a pause on the other end. “Another one? I don’t care. Did you find the girl?”

“No. She rabbited somewhere. Someone is hiding her or helping her. She was injured and drugged by the hospital, and in a puff of air, she was gone.”

“I want her found. I want those files. Do I make myself clear?”

“Sir, we have another problem.”

“I don’t want to hear about your problems. I just want the solutions. If you have a problem, then take care of it.”

“But…”

“Just retrieve my files. Kill the girl. That’s all I want to hear.” The phone went dead.

The caller stood listening to the dial tone, and looking over at his partners he shook his head. They were at a dead end. The man at the other end wanted results, not explanations or to involve himself any more than he already was. There would be no help from him.

~~~

“Hi.”

Michael looked up from his notepad. He had been writing for the past two hours. Opening up the shades to the lower level, he opened the glass doors to let the nice cool breeze of spring enter his home.

“Hi. You feel better?”

“Much.” Maria sat up and looked around confused. “How’d I get here? I was in your office cleaning up the mess from yesterday.”

“I brought you down here.” Michael frowned. She didn’t mention the drawings.

Maria looked unsettled and then even more confused. Her brow creased as she tried to remember. “I felt cold. Not cold from the room, but from the inside.”

“Do you remember what you were doing when you started to feel cold?”

Maria shook her head no. “I remember feeling angry at the mess and the invasion to your home that happened because of me. I remember sitting down to put things away and having to open the envelopes to see which article belonged to which file. Some were still in the file so I knew that you stored them that way.”

“You read them,” Michael said, still a little miffed.

“Yes. Just one at first. But then suddenly all of them.” Maria looked at him seriously. “You’re good. Very good. You write with a view to your audience.”

Michael tilted his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Third grade level.”

Michael swallowed his angry response. Dammit. He didn’t care about his writing, but that hurt. Even the fact that Max and Isabel never bothered to ask to read his stuff didn’t hurt that much.

“It’s good that way. Most of your stuff is geared for the general public, so keeping it simplistic, factual, and honest is the best way to write. It informs. It’s not too long and hard to follow, and the basic reader probably comes away feeling they really understand the issues.” Maria smiled at him slightly. “You are very gifted. Most writers tend to overwhelm. The need to appear all-knowing, intelligent, and expert is their downfall. The general public reads the issue and comes away still feeling they’re confused.”

Michael was suddenly silent. It was a compliment. And a good observation. What good was an article that over ninety some percent of your readers couldn’t understand or even relate to? Most people avoided reading articles that were heavy in large words, endless paragraphs of rhetoric and grandiose writing. It was easier to write at a level that most people thought at or spoke. It was easier to reach them when they didn’t feel the author was above them intellectually.

“You must do a lot of research to be able to break a subject down to its most basic level of understanding, and then present it in a form that even a young adult could understand.”

“Some. It’s not speaking at the intelligence level of most readers. It’s more trying to find a place where as many people as possible can read and understand. Political writing is different. It caters to a different type of reading, same with professional writing in medical journals, law reviews, or basic science rags.”

“When in Rome?”

“Exactly.” Michael sat back and explained how to break down an audience. This was something he was comfortable with. It all came down to what the demographics of the magazine he was writing for indicated, and who its key audiences were. It didn’t make sense to write an article that no one could finish or even when finished left them feeling uninformed. It was a waste of their time and his talent.

“Do people who know you realize how much time and effort you put into understanding the readers of your work?”

Michael laughed at that. “Hardly. Doubt they notice or would ever comment.”

They’d have to read more than an occasional article to make that assessment. It was true. Maria had read quite a few pieces so she must have noticed the change in style to cater to the specific audience. Some were written for the college crowd and most were written with the assumption that all the readers were at a high school level. A few were written for the professional and graduate school level. They changed.

“I thought you said that I shouldn’t cater to an audience. That a writer only writes for himself. His own art?”

“I did. But this isn’t art. This is work. A career. Expertise in diction and information. You excel at that. You are providing a service, and rather well I might add.” Maria paused. “Some of  the articles were incredibly done. You had to have won a few awards along the way.”

Michael shrugged. “A few. Mostly journalist awards.”

“May I see them?”

Michael was startled. No one had ever asked him about his success or what it amounted to, and he never volunteered the information.

“I’m not sure I know where they are.” Michael left her to go look. Strange. He wanted her to see them. She’d be the first. He never even went to the award ceremonies when they were presented. The awards committee just shipped him the award afterwards.

Michael came back with four boxes. One was still unopened. Maria took them from him and pulled each one out, one at a time. One was an engraved on a piece of crystal glass. Another was gold embossed. The third was a small statue, and the last was a plaque with a quill.

They were beautiful and untouched. Maria looked over at the bookcases built into the wall next to the large screen TV and then at the mantle of the fireplace. Standing, she crossed over to the mantle and made room for them. Putting them up, and then moving them around, she finally found a combination that looked right to her eyes. Standing back she gazed at them critically.

Michael sat on the sofa and watched her. They shone. They drew the eye. They were evident.

Maria sat next to him still looking at the awards, and she picked up one of his hands in hers and held it.

“So this type of writing isn’t art.”

“Of a sort, of course it is, but not in the truest nature of the word.” Maria looked at him. “If painting or sculpting caters to an audience it is kitsch. Artists are the snobbiest of people, almost as snotty as critics, but no one can be that snotty.”

Michael laughed. He had run into a few that wanted to critique his work. His response? He told them to tell him why he should care. Now if they were critiquing a book that he had written, a piece of his soul, that would’ve been different. And in so many ways harder to take. It would be like someone reading his heart and telling him it was not right, not good, or too contrived or whatever. A critic's first mistake was assuming everyone wrote with the intent of ‘moving’ an audience.

“So your art has no audience, no one it caters to?”

“If it did, and I wanted to make them understand it as I do, or in a simplistic form, then I’d be doomed to produce pictures of puppies or stick figures.” Maria paused. She was talking about her work like she knew it, understood it, and even remembered it. “Art has mass appeal because it can mean something totally different to me, the artist, and them the audience. It touches. It finds a truth of understanding in the viewer, and for some that is as powerful a journey as if someone touched into their own soul, read them, saw them, and they weren’t alone.”

Michael looked at her in shock. Ulysses. It was how Ulysses made him feel. For a moment it was like only James Joyce knew or understood him, his pain, and his loneliness. It was the very words that gave him a sense of belonging to the green Earth. A want to survive. Nothing else ever did.

She turned and looked at him. Her clear brilliant green glance swept over him to find herself trapped in his stare. A touch. It was if her eyes were a physical touch. He wanted to kiss her. Touch her. Taste her. Reassure himself that she was real, and not a dream created by his lonely soul. And when the want had his hands shaking he did what he did best. He ran.

Michael paused at the top of the stairs. Damn. He wasn’t going to run in his own home. Going into the office he rutted around until he found what he was looking for. A large artist's tablet and some pencils including a sharpener. He used to use the large tablet to plot out his stories so he could keep track, but over the past few years he had gotten the formula down so that he no longer needed a physical flow chart. Distracting her was key, and this should do it.

Maria looked up as he came back, and her eyes lit on the drawing tablet. Without thought she reached for it, and Michael smiled as she ran her hand over a pristine white sheet.

“I’ll go find you something to eat.” Maria just grunted a response and she was off in a world of her own making.

The tablet worked better than he thought it would. Maybe she’d finish the picture of the dead man. Michael stopped in his tracks. Idiot! Going to the kitchen, he decided on another soup. He’d need it when she became cold and shocky again. Taking the leftover roast out, he chopped it up for a leftover barbeque beef, and started working on a homemade tomato soup with pasta in it. Soup and sandwiches. His specialty.

On his way down the stairs with a sandwich and Snapple for each of them, the phone rang. For once he answered it, not wanting to listen to any more long drawn-out Isabel plots to make him human.

“Yeah?” So what. His voice wasn’t the most inviting, but the pause on the other end seemed endless. “You’ve got five seconds before I hang up. If this is an obscene call, make it interesting because I’m a hard sell.”

“No! Hey, Mike,” Michael cringed at the shortening of his name. “It’s Sam. I was just shocked to get your real voice and not the damn machine.”

“Sam, it’s a Sunday. Don’t you have a life or a home?”

“Yeah sure. Three ex-wives and another one on the way. Listen, remember that article you did about a year ago? The one that got pulled for the national disaster coverage, and they never fit it into another issue?”

Michael rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. The wetland story. I remember.”

“I found a publication that wants to run it. They had a story that fell through, and they need something Speedy Gonzales-like to cover the spot. They're paying an extra fee if they can get the story today.”

“So fax it to them, or better yet use that damn infernal machine and email it.”

Michael didn’t own a computer. Hated them. Or more specifically, they hated him. He had destroyed many computers in his college years, and he was a tad too paranoid to keep one in his home. It was just another way for people to bug him.

“No time for that, mi amigo. You still have the hard galley forms they sent you?”

Michael sighed. He didn’t like where this was leading. Dammit. It was Sunday. “Yeah, I’ve got them.” The galley layout was all ready to print. They’d better be offering a veritable fortune.

“Great! I need you to take them to Albuquerque to their regional office. They’ll have someone there waiting for them, and they will cut you a check on the spot and mail my commission to me.” Sam understood the pause. “Easy money, pal. And no extra work needed except a quick trip.”

“Okay, tell them I’m leaving in the next half hour.” Michael didn’t even wait for Sam to acknowledge. He just hung up. Money. He really didn’t need any more. He was pretty set. Not rich by any standards, but all his basic wants and then some were met. But a childhood of poverty left long-reaching tentacles. There never was such a thing as too much or even enough money.

“Maria.” She ignored him. “Maria!”

“What?” She looked up from her drawing. Seeing the food she smiled. Good. She was starving.

“I need to go to Albuquerque, but after yesterday I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“What for?”

“Work. So you want to come with me for the ride?”

Maria looked at the drawing in her hand and then at the food. Putting the drawing pad aside, she took a makeshift barbeque beef sandwich and took a bite. Speaking out of the side of her mouth because her mouth was full and taking the Snapple from him she asked, "How long?"

“Six hours to and from. I just need to drop off an article.”

“Email it.”

“Can’t. Don’t own a computer. Hate them. I write everything longhand, and a woman I hire types it out for me, converts it to computer files, and sends them out. Plus they need the already formatted hard galleys.”

“I’ll stay here.” Maria said between bites. “I doubt your visitor from yesterday will return, and my feet still hurt too much to walk on them.”

“You wouldn't be walking. Just sitting.”

“I’ll still stay here.”

Michael looked at her. Her tone was even and factual, but he could tell that she was reluctant to go outside, to expose herself, and until all of her injures were completely healed. He couldn’t fault her that.

“Okay.” Michael finished up his sandwich and went upstairs to turn off the soup and get the galleys from his office. Going downstairs he found her working on her drawing again. Glancing over her shoulder, he was shocked to see her drawing him. It was him sitting in the large leather chair writing in his legal pad. She must have studied him carefully to fully reproduce that image. She was good. Her brain was scrambled, and she was an unknown. But it was obvious that her innate talent was still strong.

Michael had brought a cordless phone downstairs. Setting it beside her, he also added a small slip of paper with his cell phone number.

“I’ll set the house alarm on my way out. I’m taking my bike so the keys to my car are here. Hopefully if you need to run, you can remember how to drive. Just don’t land my car in a ditch. Or dent it. Or touch...” Michael paused and contemplated taking his keys back. Maria hid them behind her back.

“What kind of car is it?”

Michael looked suspicious. “Classic refitted Jag.”

Maria whistled. “Candy apple red?”

"Midnight blue bordering on black."

“You should change it to red. So much classier and it attracts chicks.”

“I will not!” Michael noticed the small smirk around her mouth and realized she was purposely pushing his buttons . “Give me back my keys.”

“Take them off me.” She left the ‘if you dare’ in the air, and Michael decided to ignore it. Maria sat up quickly and grabbed the front of his shirt bringing his mouth real close to hers. “You can run, Mr. Guerin , but you can’t hide. I know where you sleep.”

Michael looked down at her mouth, more than just remembering the kiss she started yesterday. “Fine way to treat the man who saved your life.”

Michael reached around her and took back his keys. Maria pouted a little, but she hadn’t really tried to keep them. Reaching around her brought him even closer, which was a bonus. Michael just smirked and lifted an eyebrow. He changed his mind. He was taking his car. Somehow he didn’t trust her not to take it on a small joyride, and if the state of her car was any indication, his poor reconditioned Jag would soon be scrap metal.

“Spoilsport. Taking it now, huh?” Michael refrained from nodding. Maria just hummed under her breath a very low sexy sound. “I really was just trying hard to show my appreciation. If you hadn’t run away I was going to jump you, but seeing how you're determined to go away this afternoon I guess you’ve saved me from the twelve hour fatal ‘rutting slut’ category and push me into the ‘responsible for my own orgasm’ one.”

He was clueless to the topic of discussion, but the 'responsible for her own orgasm' comment was worth remembering. That sparked Michael’s interest. “Can I watch?”

Maria smiled and reached up to kiss him suggestively with lots of tongue. He was so damn fine. “Absolutely. It wouldn’t be such a turn-on without an audience.”

Michael pulled away and cleared his throat. “I’ve gotta go. Just be careful, and don’t touch any of my stuff.”

“Sure I will.”

Michael just gave her a look and left. She’d be okay. He hoped. Every day, every moment she seemed to be getting better and better. Fixing her hands had been a turning point. More of who Maria DeLuca really was was emerging, leaving that first encountered shaking scared woman behind. For the most part, Michael wasn’t going to complain. It looked to be a very wild passionate ride. Maria DeLuca, even as a scared, confused amnesiac was proving to be more interesting than any other woman he ever encountered. Though he had to admit to liking the quiet version, but the talking flirty one was okay too.

~~~

Michael made Albuquerque in record time and surprisingly without a single speeding ticket or court summons. On his way out of town, he noticed a large mall. Hated them. All the stores and people would be overwhelming, even on a Sunday. But he pulled into the mall area anyway and went to find a store that had women’s clothes.

Mistake. Big mistake. What the hell was her size? She needed shoes, but he had no clue to her shoe size or dress size, but he could guess her breast size with his hands. Michael gave up and grabbed a few pairs of women’s sweat bottoms, small. She could borrow t-shirts from him. Shoes were another problem, but until he knew the size it wasn’t something he could solve.

Fleeing the mall like the devil was on his back he paused at a store front. Entering he searched down the store owner to help him personally. When in doubt, find an expert.

~~~

“When is your dad bringing the boys back?”

Kyle stopped his ministrations to her neck and just shrugged. “This afternoon? He said he was taking them fishing. Last time they both fell in the water, and he had to fish them out. So I expect nothing short of chaos.”

Vicky stretched and smiled. Luxurious. Lazing in bed with Kyle till past noon. Her mom stopped by early and took Jamie to church and a picnic. So they quickly went back to bed and enjoyed the time alone.

“You never told me how it went with the guidance councilor.”

“About what I suspected. I have to repeat a few classes that I need better grades in to get into the Special Ed program. I also have to start working on teaching certification. I’ll be lucky if I get everything done in the next six years.”

Kyle just shrugged. “It doesn’t matter how long, Vic. You’ll get there. We’ll make it happen. Just let’s take it one day at a time. And think, by the time you’re qualified Jamie will be in school and the twins no doubt will still be eating the lawn.”

Vicky laughed at that. “I was going to ask what the heck is up with their goatish behavior. We get any more bald spots in our lawn and the neighborhood association is going to sign a petition against us.”

“Valenti behavior. Unexplainable. When I was a kid it was sticks. I practically gnawed down an entire tree.” Kyle grabbed his wife and tossed her under him and his mouth went for her neck. “Let me demonstrate!”

Vicky and Kyle’s laughter filled their house.

~~~

It was after six in the evening when Michael finally made it home. He broke almost every speed limit along the way and stopped to sign the complaint against Burns. Unpacking the car, he was surprised how quiet it was. Going downstairs, he stopped at the foot of the stairs and watched her. She was drawing again, almost lost in some other world.

Suddenly she looked up, startled by the sense that someone was watching her. Her body literally relaxed when she saw it was Michael. Her sudden smile caused his breath to catch in his lungs. It was a smile that started on the inside and slowly radiated out until it over took her entire body. Michael didn’t think he ever saw anything more brilliant and alive in his life. It was like his entire life was lived in black and white, and when she was around it was liking suddenly living in the Land of Oz. Technicolor.

He never wanted anything more in his life. That was until he noticed a door in the room was open.

“What did you do?”

Maria looked confused until he nodded to the open door.

“Oh! I did laundry.”

“My laundry?”

Maria smirked and said with a smile and sarcasm. “No, my lone pair of undies. It took hours.” She made a snorting sound of derision. “Since I’m wearing your clothes I thought at least I could do a load or two of clothes.”

“You touched my...”

“Oh yeah. Everything. I touched everything. I even rifled through your unmentionable drawer, and it was like a religious revival. Does my hair have a white streak in it from the experience?”

Michael just scowled at her, and went to survey the damage. Oh, there’d be damage. Had to be.

“Hey! I only put in one load!” Maria went back to drawing. How hard could it be?

Michael went into the laundry room. It was neat and in order. He almost backed out of the room. It was okay. But since he was in there, he might as well put in another load. His usual laundry method was to wear everything he owned and then spend an entire day or two doing laundry to catch up. He hadn’t been to that point, but obviously Maria was feeling better and decided to make herself useful while he was gone.

Michael opened the washer to remove the last load and toss in another one.

“Maria!”

She came to stand in the doorway at his bellow. He was emptying out the washer into a pile.

“I started with whites.”

Michael looked up at her with his eyes narrowed. “Oh? Whites? Like these whites?” He held up a pink athletic tube sock. It was a lovely pink shade with green stripes around the top. He held up a t-shirt. Also pink.

“Well they used to be white.”

Michael dug through the entire pink load and found the culprit. One lone red sock that was part of a pair he had tossed into the laundry. Iz had given him red socks for Christmas. They were ugly, and unable to throw them in the trash, he threw them in the laundry instead, so if she asked about them he could honestly say they were in the laundry. Obviously one of the offensive blasphemers had decided to raid and mutate his entire collection of white athletic socks, white t-shirts, and… Michael groaned. His white boxers. He wasn’t big on underwear, but he did keep a few pair which were good for sleeping in when he shared his bed, like he was doing recently. He wasn’t wearing no damn pink boxers.

Maria leaned up against the jamb of the door and surveyed the pink boxers he was holding out. They were once white, and paisley printed, but now very pink.

“Not a really good color for you.”

Michael looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Didn’t you bother to sort the laundry?”

“Of course I did! I’m not an idiot.” Maria’s eyes became deadly at his gesture and look of disbelief. For Christ sake’s, it was just laundry. Every human did laundry. It wasn’t that hard. She read the instructions on the lid of the washing machine, and she sorted her own laundry at home. At least she assumed she had to launder her own clothes normally. She didn't know for sure. Granted the entire laundry procedure was a mystery, but then so was everything else in her life.

Michael took his murdered athletic socks and submerged them in the laundry room washtub in hopes of getting the red dye out with the help of bleach. He stood back when an alarming amount of soap emerged from the socks. Looking at Maria in horror, his face became suspicious.

Maria made a grimace and quickly refused to meet his eyes. putting a look a pure innocence on her face.

“How much soap did you use?”

Oh, she wasn’t falling into that trap. Scratching the back of her neck she straightened. “How much are you supposed to use?”

“A cup found in the laundry detergent box.”

“Oh! Was that written somewhere?” Maria realized what she said and quickly backpedaled. “That’s how much I used.”

Michael looked at his bubbling emasculated athletic socks and just made a snort of disbelief. Turning off the water he decided to leave the massacre area. Taking her hand he forcefully led her out of the room shutting the door until a time he could better handle the carnage. Dammit. Now he’d have to go shopping again. No way in hell was he playing pick-up basketball with Max in pink socks.

“I’ll do the laundry. You’re banned.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault. I’m sure I can do laundry just as good as you! I just have this memory thing, and that red sock wasn’t my fault. It obviously jumped into the white pile.”

Michael just snorted. “Yeah, socks are well known to walk by themselves.”

“Yours are. Didn’t you smell them? Whew.”

“Maria.” Michael warned. He looked at her suspiciously. What else did she do over the last six hours?

“I was trying to help. It was the least I could do with all the care you’ve given me, and so I did a little laundry and...” Maria might not know her life, and her memory was a bank of white fog, but self preservation made her swallow the confession. Too late. He picked it up.

“And...? What else did you do?” Maria would have looked fey and innocent if it wasn’t for the shifting of her eyes refusing to make contact with his, but then in an act of bravery she met his eyes straight on. “Maria?”

“I just finished making the soup.”

Michael groaned and headed for the stairs. “I was going to finish it when I got home. You ruined my tomato soup?”

Maria followed him upstairs. “No, I did not! I just finished fixing it. Usually I don’t do the pasta in it, but it was okay. Why don’t you have any dill?”

“Because I don’t use dill.” Michael found the soup on the back burner. Lifting the lid he looked in. Okay, it was still tomato. But it looked too light. “What did you do to it?”

“Nothing. It’s just tomato soup. I finished cooking it. Added some more salt, some white pepper, a bay leaf, a few sprigs of rosemary, and a shot or two of Tabasco. Oh and cream.”

Michael made a distressed sound. “Cream? You put cream in my soup?”

He took a spoon and dipped it into the pot to taste.

“It thickens the sauce and makes it richer.” She watched him taste it. He didn’t grimace or spit it back out so there was one point in her favor.

“It’s good.”

“Oh really? Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Maria took the lid from him and covered the pot. “I was going to make some baked chicken to go with it, along with the fresh bread you had made, but I couldn’t find any coconut milk. What the chicken really needed was a can of…” Maria paused as Michael reached down into a cabinet and took out a can of cream of mushroom soup of the Campbell’s variety and put it on the counter. “Cream of mushroom soup...”

Her voice just stopped. He had it! Her favorite cooking additive! That and those little packets of Lipton onion soup mixes. Opening his lower cabinet, she saw a revolving shelf. It was full of cream soups and…oh god, Lipton onion packets. All types. The original, garlic, beefy and golden onion. She clasped her hands to her chest. He was perfect. Her soulmate.

One moment Michael was smirking at her, and the next he was being kissed within an inch of his life. For a moment he was uncertain what to do, so his hands just gripped the countertop, but natural instinct pooled in his groin. His arms went to pull her closer. He could spare a little time.

Maria finally pulled back and was breathing hard, her eyes still dilated and hot. “I decided not to sleep with you after that pissy laundry incident, but the cooking ingredients have redeemed you.”

“We’re not sleeping together.” His decision. He had made it on the long drive from Albuquerque.

“Michael…” Maria moved her hand down his body. He wanted her, that was hard to miss. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she read all his signals and the answers were the wrong ones. She could’ve sworn he was as attracted to her as she was to him, and he didn’t appear to be involved with anyone.

Michael framed her face and forced her to look at him. The little pout was too hard to be ignored so he kissed her again. Coming up for air he rested his forehead against hers, pausing for a moment.

“I let you stay. Offered you protection. I can’t break that trust. Until we know more about you, I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

“And if I'm wanting to be taken advantage of?”

Michael put her from him. “Until you can start remembering more than your name, your first name…uh uh. I told you that you could trust me. Don’t make me break one of the few things I’ve ever had in my life.”

“And…if I want to change your mind?”

“Work on getting your memory back, and we’ll talk.”

Maria looked at him. Stubborn. His face was set in unyielding lines. She could push him. She could feel that, but she backed off. Reading his writing, it was hard to miss that his honor and dignity meant something to him. Others might not see it or even believe in it, but he did. It was evident in the firmness of his backbone and the way he held himself. It was something he needed to keep going.

But a part of her couldn’t just let it go. “Pity. I had very specific plans for you, Mr. Guerin . I found your ties.”

Maria smirked at him and reached around him for the can of soup. She made sure to rub up against his body. Respect him she could, but make it easy for him? Nah. That wasn’t going to get her where she wanted to be.

~~~

Michael lay in bed hours later trying to sleep. Maria was already happily snoozing, her breath coming in even uncomplicated sounds. She had exerted herself more than usual today, and it had taken a small toll on her healing body. She was almost dead to the world the moment her head hit the pillow. Any apprehension he had about sharing the bed with her was long gone. She had spent the entire evening making his 'no sex rule' almost obsolete. But exhaustion finally caught up with her, leaving her too tired to tease him or tempt him, and in sleep she looked young and innocent. Michael made a sound of derision. Innocent his ass.

She was a mystery. Something outside his realm of knowledge. Self preservation. He could cover it with all the different explanations. Claim it was the right thing to do given her memory problems, but truth was she scared the shit out of him. Just a touch of her mouth and the feel of her hands and he was lost. When she left…and she would leave because there was no other way... he’d be haunted by her. The memory would drive him insane. Wanting what he couldn’t have. He spent years doing that. He was sick of it. Giving her help. Protecting her. That he could do, but he didn’t want the price he paid to be his own soul and peace of mind. He couldn’t change.

Things couldn’t change. He was alone and that was the way it was. The way it had always been.

Michael finally fell asleep holding her close as his hand softly stroked the lines of her back and moved through the soft silkiness of her hair. He could let her go. Nothing ever touched him.

~~~

She woke.

It was dark. Her body was covered in sweat, but shivering in cold. A bone deep coldness. Without waking him, she was up and moving down to the living room. Against the wall were the packages he bought that day. He had placed them there when he got home. He forgot about them between the laundry fiasco and cooking. They spent the evening cooking together, eating and arguing about little topics, and discussing bigger ones. She had noticed the packages, but didn’t want to ask. Giving him time to come to terms with what he did.

He bought her painting supplies and empty canvasses.

In her sleep, a part of her stood over the packages. In a methodical manner from long practice her hands set up the easel. The canvass was placed on the easel and with deft hands quick and sure, she poured out turpentine, and prepared the canvass in the even white cover coat. Taking the colors on the palate, she squeezed out the paint. Her entire body was covered in sweat and shaking, but her eyes only saw the canvass and a place beyond. The room was too dark, but her eyes could see perfectly as if it was completely lit and bright.

She painted.

The demons. The nightmare. Living it. Walking in a waking fugue of horror. Plops of crimson mixed in blacks and blues, smattered with ochre and sienna red. The greens blended in as if paraded to the sounds of a dirge.

Her brush swept the field laying down layer after layer of colors, mixed and dark, swimming in pain and blood. Each layer was almost a soft translucent film building on the other. Multi-layered. They let the real colors bleed through. The swirl of her memory wasn’t a white film, a fog bank, but in her waking dream it was a blackness that was stark, hazy and tasted of fear.

Michael stood at the foot of the stairs watching her. Painting in the moonlight from the large bank of windows. Her hands covered in a mixture of blood and soot, moving across the canvass in a speed he couldn’t believe. She painted a living wall of fire, glass, and panic. It rose up and choked him as the tangible fear and blackness swallowed the viewer.

He had called her name when he first came into the room, but she didn’t hear him. Couldn’t hear him. She was lost in the nightmare inside her brain. Trapped inside looking to the outside. The filmy window was dirty. Filthy from years of buildup and denial. Closing his eyes he sat on the stairs and watched her in his mind hearing nothing but the sounds of the brush moving across the canvass.

He saw her. Saw her real colors brilliant and stark. Real. She painted her internal walls. It was the horror. They laid there naked and bare.

It was hours later as dawn first peeked through the woods that her brush hit the can of turpentine, and like an exhausted child she dropped in front of the canvass like a dishrag. Michael finally stirred from his place on the steps. Moving to stand over her sleeping body curled up in front of the canvass he looked down at her paint-soiled hands, one still clutching a brush. He gently removed it, putting with the others in the turpentine. Taking a rag he washed her hands to remove the worst of the paint, along with the paint on her face. She was too exhausted to wake to his ministrations.

He finished and sat back on his haunches. Looking up, he stared at the painting. He could see her in every line. Horrified, he could see himself. Words translated into color and paint. His words captured in her brush strokes. Leaving for a moment, he came back with his yellow writing pad and he left her sleeping as he sat next to her in front of the canvass and began to write.

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