Angel

by
Roo

"Mate."

Cool blue-green eyes stared at Special Agent Thomas Hiatt as though he had just told the Academy Award winning actor that the world was flat after all. Hiatt met the look evenly with a wise but stony expression of his own. He had seen a lot of things in his seventeen years of service with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. One headstrong and slightly perturbed actor sure wasn't going to throw him.

"No." Russell Crowe, the actor in question and the owner of said pair of eyes shook his head with a bitter disbelieving chuckle.

"Mr. Crowe -"

"No." Russell leaned forward, perching his elbows on his knees and shook his head again. "Let me see if I can make this a bit clearer for you, okey dokey?" His expression narrowed and his tone picked up a hard edge. "I'm not going through this fuckin' upheaval all over again, d'ya hear me? This is my fuckin' life you're talking about here -"

"My point, exactly, Mr. Crowe." Agent Hiatt rocked forward in his chair, meeting the actor's steely gaze dead on. He was a good three inches taller than Crowe and probably had a few pounds on the other man, though not many. His graying hair was cut short and tidy, he was easily a decade the actor's senior, but thanks to early morning tennis and regular work outs, he was in extremely good shape, which only served to add to his over-all self confidence. 

For several seconds the two men simply stared at each other and then Hiatt did the professional thing, the smart thing. He sighed and backed down. He leaned back in his chair, dropped his shoulders and rubbed at his eyes as though he was suddenly very tired. "Look… Russell…" He opened his eyes to find that, as he'd hoped, the actor had sat back as well. So far, so good. "Last time -"

"It turned out to be nothing," Crowe pointed out. He glanced to where Mark Dumbrell,  his close mate and Chief of Staff, sat in the chair next to him. "Markus," his tone was low and friendly, but there was a note of pleading underneath. "Back me up here."

"Dunno, Russell. " The actor's bodyguard shifted uncomfortably in his chair as though it had suddenly grown too small to hold his stocky body and looked away, unable to meet his employer's eyes. With his solid frame  and a short bristly haircut, he looked like exactly what he was, an ex-footy player who had retired from the game and gone on to find that he had a talent for personal security work. "That psycho-fan from LA was pretty fuckin' scary, mate. And with a husband in the business, well, she got a bit closer than she should've."

"Oh, fuck me,” the actor sighed, rolling his eyes. His lips pressed flat in annoyance at his friend's betrayal.

"In all honesty, Mr. Crowe, last time, the last two times… we got lucky." Hiatt shrugged. He was starting to sense that the hard sell wasn't going to work. Russell Crowe was simply both too bright and too stubborn to be won over that way. If he wanted the actor to play ball, he was going to have to finesse the deal.

His best bet was to lay out the details of the case as clearly and fully as he was allowed, all laced with a bit of the old Quantico psychology and hopefully, by the end, the man would be demanding round the clock protection. "You're right," he agreed, picking up his water and taking a small sip. "Despite the inherent dangers Mr. Dumbrell here has pointed out, the woman in LA was easy enough to track down and stop." His eyes watched Crowe from over the rim of his cup. "But the other, well… in all honesty, that was just plain dumb luck."

Russell's eyes stared at some vague point just over the small metal trash bin at the side of Hiatt's desk. He was tugging at his lower lip thoughtfully. He was listening.

"That guy we picked up in Beverly Hills eventually rolled over on his entire network, and yes, we took them down," Agent Hiatt went on. His gaze moved momentarily to Dumbrell. He could see concern in the bodyguard's eyes and knew that the man could easily be his best ally in this case. "But they were nobody. Small time." He set down his cup and waved dismissively and the actor's eyes came up to follow his hand.

"Russell, you're a smart man, and I know that you've had the opportunity to do research of your own in this area." He nodded and chuckled at the actor's look of amused surprise. "Yes, I saw Proof of Life. As a matter of fact, I knew Oscar Tejada back when he worked for the Bureau."

Crowe nodded recognition at Tejada's name. The former FBI agent turned K&R man had been one of the main sources in William Prochnau's article from which the story for Proof of Life had been taken.

"But, I'm getting off track here." Hiatt shrugged easily to hide the small lie. He had just dropped a credential and the actor had acknowledged that he'd accepted it. "The truth of the matter is, this new group, well… Our sources are telling us that this is purely financially motivated. Worse yet? They're Americans."

Mark Dumbrell's dark eyes shot to the agent and then narrowed unhappily. He too had done his homework. American kidnappers were notoriously sloppy, disorganized and just as likely to take the money and return "expired merchandise" in an effort to eliminate witnesses as they were to return their victim in one piece.

"The bottom line is this." Agent Hiatt sat up straighter and faced the two New Zealanders squarely. "Our information has led us to believe that these people are closing in. They're going to make their move, and they're going to do it soon. What the Bureau recommends is this; first we move you to a safe-house -"

Russell's eyes flew up, wide and alert. "No."

"… We stash you out of harm's way for just a week, maybe two, certainly no more than a month - "

"No," the actor repeated firmly. "That is absofuckinlutely out of the question!" His voice began to thicken with barely controlled frustration that was quickly swelling to full blown anger. "I have obligations… I've got a film opening here in December, I'm in negotiations with backers, I've got a screenplay to write, five scripts to read before Tuesday!" He was on his feet now, gesturing as he paced. "And beyond all that-"

He paused and came back to Hiatt's desk, planted his palms on it with a bang and leaned down to make his point. "I simply cannot and will not let these bastards alter my life!" His gaze stayed on the FBI agent for a long moment, searching his face for some sign of understanding. Hiatt's dark eyes again met his evenly, unwavering but also unreadable.

Russell stared off into the distance for a moment, then pushed off the desk with a sigh, taking a step away as he raked back the dark curls that constantly threatened to flop into his face. He closed his eyes to draw a slow breath, and when he opened them again there was something almost pleading in his expression.

"Don't you understand?" His tone was low, rich with emotion. "These people are terrorists of sorts, really not all that different than that sick fuck bin Laden and his crew. If, y'know, if I do as you ask, if I let you take control of my life, if I surround myself with agents or worse yet, let you hide me away till the threat is over… well, what kind of precedent does that set for the future?" His gaze moved back to include Mark as he went on. "All that does is give them power, mate. And you know as well as I do that if they can get that, then with or without the money, they've won."

Crowe paused again, stroking his dark scruffy beard as if for comfort and when his eyes came back to the FBI man again, they held a sad wisdom. "For you, Agent Hiatt, this is just another case… but for me? This is my life. And if I can't live it freely, then it's no life at all."

Thomas Hiatt stared up at the man before him and tried to ignore the shiver of gooseflesh that crawled up his arms and raised the tiny hairs along the back of his neck. The actor continued to meet his gaze evenly, and the agent knew two things. One was that he had just witnessed the great Russell Crowe at work. Truly, the performance had been both poignant and impassioned, probably, because on some deeper level, Russell Crowe, the man, believed every word.

The other thing he knew was that there was absolutely, positively no way that this man was going to play ball.

So Agent Hiatt did a strange thing. He lifted his hands and slowly, very deliberately, he began to applaud. The sound of his large hard hands clapping rang through the small office, catching his visitors off guard.

"Bravo, Mr. Crowe," he said as his applause slowed and then quieted. "That was brilliant.  Personally, I found your little speech very moving." A wry tight smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I only hope that you can be that eloquent when the kidnappers decide that you have become a liability rather than an asset."

Russell blinked twice, staring down at him in disbelief, and then rage became the predominant expression on his handsome face. "Fuck you, mate!" he roared, and stormed out of Hiatt's office, just as the agent had known he would.

Dumbrell sighed and shook his head as he pushed himself to his feet. The next few weeks were bound to be long and unpleasant, but aside from being even more vigilant than usual, there was little he could do about it. With a resigned nod he reached out to shake Agent Hiatt's hand. "Thanks for your time, mate. Know you did what you could."

Thomas Hiatt got up from behind his desk, ignoring the bodyguard's outstretched hand for the moment as he peeked out into the hall, then quietly closed his office door. "Actually, Mr. Dumbrell… may I call you Mark?" He sat on the edge of his desk, and his tone was light and easy. "If I could have just a few more moments of your time, I have an idea I'd like to share with you. One that could make both of our lives a lot easier."

*

Russell refused to talk about the threat on the drive to the airport and the loudness of the Bell 430's engine and rotors naturally dissuaded conversation as they heli'd back to Manhattan. He didn’t mention the visit to FBI headquarters to his dinner companions that night as they dined in one of the Villages' trendiest new eateries. Later that evening, when he and Mark retired to the four star SoHo hotel where they were staying, the actor poured himself a drink, bid his friend goodnight and headed straight back to the master bedroom, closing himself in.

Although they were on a secure floor, Mark did two slow prowls around the posh suite before he felt comfortable enough to retire to his own smaller bedroom. Despite the fact that he had masked it well, the bodyguard had been on edge all night, alert to every sudden move, his quick dark eyes darting around as he tried to stay aware of everything and everyone all at once. And this was only Day One.

He took a long hot shower to try and unwind, then, dressed in trackies and a T-shirt, he made one final tour of their rooms. He could hear Crowe's television from behind the double doors, but the clickety-clack bursts of the actor's fingers moving over the keys of his laptop computer and the smell of ciggies told him that his employer was working late. At this hour he was probably catching up on emails and trading messages with his people back home in Australia.

Mark Dumbrell had worked for Russell for nearly six years now, first hiring on for occasional press tours and special events, later becoming his full time bodyguard. Recently, his title had expanded to become "Chief of Staff", a catchall phrase that included a vague array of duties. Over the years, the two men had been through good times and bad and had come out as close mates. Russell had grown to trust Mark implicitly, had both literally and figuratively put his life in his fellow Kiwi's hands, which was why this decision was one of the hardest Mark had ever had to make.

He returned to his room and pulled an embossed business card from his wallet. He sat on his bed and stared at the handwritten number on the back for a long, long time before he finally picked up the phone and dialed.

*

It had been two uneventful days since Russell's trip to Washington DC, and any lingering sense of worry he might have felt had disappeared the moment he saw the blonde sitting at the bar in Barramundi, New York's best attempt at recreating an authentic Australian pub.

Cheryl Peters, Cher to her friends, had the kind of long, thick shiny blonde hair that made men's  fingers itch. They wanted to touch it, to run their fingers through it, to wrap it around their fists and use it to press her lips to theirs. She possessed a body that would stop a New York taxi in a bad neighborhood during a snowstorm - not that she would ever have been caught dead East of Third Avenue.

Cher was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted, and right now what she wanted was Russell Crowe. From the way the handsome actor was currently all but drooling down the front of her Cabernet-red low cut body-hugging stretch velvet Vera Wang mini dress, life was once again about to hand her just what her heart desired on a silver platter.

"Mm mm mm… darlin'," Crowe's eyes moved over her body like a slow touch. "You are one gorgeous fuckin' piece of work."

"Yeah?" Her lips slanted into a sly grin as her long fingers pretended to brush a piece of lint from the shoulder of his leather jacket, then trailed down his chest on the pretext of straightening his black button up shirt. "Well, I have to tell you that the appreciation is very mutual."

"Yeh?" One brow climbed high as he sipped his drink, the smolder in his eyes matching hers flame for flame. "How mutual?"

"Well …." Cher licked her lips and let her round, lush breasts rub teasingly against his arm as she leaned over and purred an incredibly obscene proposal in his ear. As the last syllable left her lips, a slow grin tugged at his mouth and finally came to rest in his eyes.

Crowe turned around and smiled at his bodyguard who was perched on the barstool behind him, a position which provided both access to his employer and a clear view of the front door. "Mate," the actor grinned at his friend. "Grab your gear, we're going."

*

"Op 1 to Op 2… I'm in position, target is in sight."

"Op 1, what's the target's status?"

The radios crackled short bursts of static between exchanges, a result of the signal scrambling device. It was annoying as hell, but a necessary evil.

"Still in the bedroom, Op2. You're not gonna believe this, but the target…" Mel paused and raised the night vision binocs for another look. "Jesus Christ, it looks like he's about ready to go in again. What's with this guy? Half rabbit?"

"Actually, Op1, the common field mouse is the most prolific mammal on earth." Nick almost had the last lock on the penthouse's two inch steel door undone. Initial surveillance had made it clear this job was going to be a breeze. The woman whose apartment they were about to enter had been too distracted to set the motion sensor alarm. Having the target's tongue down her throat while they tore off each other's clothes had probably had something to do with it. "What do you think? Let him finish? We have time and it's not like the poor bastard’s going to be getting his knob swabbed again anytime soon."

*

Russell's eyes were heavy lidded as he tucked his arm behind his head, watching the woman's mouth go to work on him. Fuck, but she had a glorious talent. It had only been twenty minutes since the last go round and she already had him hard again.

His lashes fluttered and he sucked in a sharp hissing breath, low steady pulses of purring moans issuing from the back of his throat each time Cher bobbed on his smooth dark velvety knob. Her lips were nursing him with slow steady pulls while one of her beautifully lacquered hands worked his thick shaft.

"Oh yeh, baby, oh yehhh…Suck my cock!” He sucked in another hiss of air and let it out as a deep soft groan. His hips rocked and rose in time to her strokes. "Hoh, that's so fuckin' good!"

"Mm, you like that, honey? Is it good Russell?" Cher sat back and let her free hand reach down to tickle a nail up the tight seam of flesh between his balls. Her cat-like smile flared then deepened as she ate up his reactions. For Cher, the thrill of making a powerful man writhe helplessly under the force of her sexual assault was almost more pleasurable than sex itself.

"Mmm, you like that don't you, baby?" She cooed as she pressed his long thick cock back against his belly, leaning down to trace the map of veins under the skin with the tip of her tongue. Her palm kept rounding and stroking his head as she ran her tongue down and nuzzled his sac, his moans urging her on.

"Hoh, yeh… hoo, luv… fuck yehhh…!"

Cher's gaze flicked to the strip of condoms on the Japanese Dogwood table by the bed, remembering how good it had felt to have his thickness filling her, taking her hard, bruising her with pleasure, demanding her release like a trophy. Now it was her turn to claim the spoils of his Second Coming.

She took one last long lick of his balls, then pinched a few of his soft curly hairs, tugging just hard enough to get his attention. His eyes flashed open, dark and burning on hers, but he voiced no complaint at the rough treatment. In fact he almost seemed to welcome it as part of the game. Cher nodded towards the condoms. "Get yourself ready for me, handsome," she urged. "I'm gonna ride that fat prick of yours till we both come again."

He grunted softly, then she felt him stretch and twist a little to grab a packet. Leaving him to his task, she resumed her attention to his tight heavy sac, cupping it in her hand as she licked and nuzzled. His massive thighs tensed under her a little as he stroked the fit to his liking, then Cher reached up and pressed his thick staff back again, bringing his balls up tight against her tongue.

She sucked one slim beautifully manicured finger until it was wet, then slid it between the globes of his gorgeous perfect ass, pressing lightly on the bud of muscle she found there.

Russell tensed briefly as he felt her finger seeking entry. Although he felt there was something decidedly un-masculine about being probed in this manner, the few times he'd been able to relax and let it happen, the results had been magnificent. He felt Cher's warm wet mouth stretch to capture one of his balls, sucking lightly, rolling him against the cup of her tongue and his back arched in pleasure.  As his heels dug into the bed, Cher pressed harder and his body naturally took her finger to the first knuckle.

Cher's mouth pulled more insistently on Russell's sac as her slippery finger began to stroke in him, playing out her own demanding little game of give and take. He moaned deeply above her and began panting, each gasping exhale punctuated by a softly voiced grunt from deep in his chest.

"Mmmm…" She made a low sound of approval against his skin, letting the vibration of her voice travel to him through her lips. Her free hand grasped his prick through the condom, stroking up in down in time to the strokes of her finger in his ass, closing the circle of pleasure. His throbbing cock had grown harder since her finger's invasion and where she might have had a good ride before, Cher knew that she had now insured that his release, when she claimed him, would be nothing less than valiant.

She wanted him completely spent by the time she was finished with him. Antipodean love hound … Leg-over merchant…. Randy Rusty, she'd heard them all… and Cher would settle for nothing less than consuming and conquering the great Russell Crowe.

"Hooh, darlin', yehh… fuck yeh, fuck yehhh…" His gasping gravely honey-rich voice was like the sweet sound of surrender in her ears.

Cher's finger stroked deeper, angling for sensitive spots he didn't even know he had. When his balls drew up in her mouth and the ring of muscle tightened on her finger, she knew he was nearly there. She withdrew gently and moved up, spreading her legs over him until the wide round head of his cock was nestled between her own swollen dripping pussy lips.

She braced her hands on his chest and Russell's eyes opened, blazing blue flame into hers as she lowered her body, settling down onto his thick rock hard prick in one move. Her mouth opened with a gasping cry, Jesus, he was big, so fucking big! Her hips thrashed, trying to find a position that would allow her comfort as he filled her so full and so deep.

"Easy, luv, easy…" Russell's big hand moved to her hip. His voice rolled over her like warm waves of melted chocolate. "Come down here, darlin', come down here t'me." His hand slid up her back, pulling Cher down to him. He arched his neck, lifting his face as she came into range, and his lips took her mouth with warm rich deep pulsing pulls.

Cher felt herself weakening as her body betrayed her and gave over to his tender demanding kisses. His hips rocked lightly under her, they throbbed in unison where their bodies connected, and she found herself moving with him willingly as he rolled them over, coming up on top again.

"Mmm… s'that better, honey?" His eyes watched hers as he rocked slow strokes into her body. Her brows pulled in pleasure as she nodded that it was. "Good, good…." One hand slipped through her silky hair to cradle the back of her head in his big palm while the other found purchase grasping her ass, using his grip on her to guide his slow masterful strokes. His furry face nuzzled rough sweet kisses to the tender underside of Cher's jaw and she weakened a little more. Why did it have to feel so good to give in to him? It just wasn't fair.

The last of her fight she spent just as he was bringing her to the peak of pleasure, pulling his hair and raking his broad back and shoulders with her nails as he sent wave after warm tingling wave of ecstasy rippling through her. This only seemed to excite him, to spur him on, and he barely gave her a chance to catch her breath before he was thrusting into her with a fresh intensity as he sought his own release.

Cher's eyes opened to take in the man above her, beautiful beast that he was. His unfocused lust dazed eyes were nearly shuttered by his heavy lashes, his dark hair was curly and damp with sweat. His perfect cupid lips were parted to release his gasping breath as a slow constant crescendo of moans rose from deep at the back of his throat. She knew that this was her last chance to reclaim him.

Russell bucked hard as he felt her finger plunge into his ass, filling him without warning just as he thrust to fill her. He reared back in shock and pleasure, driving them both deeper, and a moment later all he knew was blinding shuddering waves of ecstasy.

By the time he slumped into the cradle of her neck, his throat was rough from shouts he wasn't even aware he had voiced. "Mmmm, darlin'…." He rasped, settling into the warm contentment of her embrace. "Jesus, that was fuckin' amazing. I'm wrung out."

"Shhhh, baby, rest, just rest…" Cher purred as a victory smile curled her lips. She let her own eyes slip closed as her fingers toyed with the damp, dark locks at the back of his neck. Gently, very gently she reached down and eased him from inside her body, pinching off the condom and dropping it over the side of the bed.

Russell started to drift off…

*

…only to awaken rudely a moment later as hard cold hands ripped him from his warm contentment.

His first thought was Shit! The second was jealous husband.  By the time it occurred to him to struggle, it was too late. A soft rag soaked in something sickeningly sweet was being clamped hard over his nose and mouth.

He gagged once and tried to wrench free, but darkness was closing in again, too quickly for him to combat. He heard the woman scream and then everything went black.

*

Russell swam up slowly through the layers of darkness into a slow dawning awareness and immediately wished that he hadn't. His throat was raw, his tongue thick and dry and his head pounded like it had been used for footy practise. Trying to think back on the exact number and combination of drinks that had put him in this condition only made it throb worse.

"Mark!" He winced at the sound of his own voice, cringing as the beating in his head picked up pace. A handful of vitas, a tall fizzy glass of Berocca, a greasy breakfast and Bob's yer uncle, he'd be right as rain. Mark knew what he needed and would fix him up, quick smart. If only he would answer.

Russell waited several long moments but received no reply. "Fuck," he grunted unhappily. This time, he winced in advance as he gathered his voice, then tried again more loudly. "MARK!"

He waited through several throbbing cycles until the beating backed off a little. For his efforts he got nothing, nada, zilch. A big fat fucking zero. He sighed heavily and began imagining all the ways he might punish his friend for deserting him in his hour of need.

He didn't get very far before he got to wondering again what had put him in this condition. He could recall several beers, wine with dinner, two or three shots of his old friend Jack -

That did it. His stomach lurched and he rolled off the bed, his feet hitting the cold bare concrete floor with a hard smack. He stumbled forward a step, and then his raw red eyes flew open.

Cold bare concrete floor?

He steadied himself with a palm against the equally cold bare concrete wall as his eyes darted this way and that, taking in the room. He was so shocked at what he saw that he forgot all about the rolling in his guts.

The room was, indeed, fairly small and bare, the floor and walls were solid squares of blank cement, just as his senses had previously reported. There was a molded white plastic table with two matching chairs, one on either side, very light and slightly undersized, like something one might find in a backyard or a child's playhouse. There was a toilet in one corner, low and exposed with a roll of paper on the floor beside it. A small sink jutted out nearby, it's piping neatly tucked away into the wall. There was no mirror above the sink and no amenities such as soap or a hairbrush, nor toothbrush or razor. Behind him was the bed he'd just departed, and it too was Spartan. The bedhead and foot appeared to be made of metal, each a seamless curve whose ends disappeared down into the poured floor so that it couldn't be moved. There was a rough wool blanket and a single pillow, no sheets or cases, but at least the mattress looked clean and unstained. There were, of course, no windows, only a single very solid looking door.

The Mercer it wasn't.

He slid down the wall to sit on the floor, holding his head in his hands, finally stroking at his beard as he tried to remember any detail of how he had come to be here. This got him nothing but a return of the sick rolling in his guts and two new realisations. One - whoever had put him here had at least had the decency to dress him. He was wearing his own jeans and the plain white undershirt he'd had on when he'd gotten dressed to go out.

The second was the discovery of the leg iron.

It was bound around his left ankle, not so tight as to be uncomfortable, but there was certainly no way he was going to be able to get it off. At least not without the key to the padlock that dangled heavily just below his ankle. The leg iron was fitted with a ring that would allow a chain to be attached, and indeed, there was just such a length of very heavy, very tough looking chain. It was all very efficient and  Medieval looking and on another day, in other circumstances, he might have found it interesting, but not here and not now.

Right now, all it meant was that someone had taken his freedom and left him with no clue as to who or why.

A fresh wave of nausea gripped him and he pushed off the floor, stumbled to the toilet and spent several minutes bringing up everything left in his system. He spent another few dry heaving, his powerful body hitching and jerking and then finally calming as his stomach realised that it was spent and stopped trying to eject what wasn't there.

He moved to the sink and rinsed out his mouth then drank, taking small sips of the cold water from his cupped hand, leery that even the water might not stay down in his current condition.

When he felt better again, he followed the length of chain back and found a ring set into the floor. It seemed to have been set into the concrete before it hardened, just like the feet of the bed. No amount of pulling or twisting would budge it.

He forced himself to keep moving, hoping to find something, anything, a clue of some sort or a weakness in the planning of his cell.

All that he discovered were two Styrofoam coffee cups, three cigarettes of his brand and three Blue Tip matches, a vent high in the ceiling over the table and the fact that the thick slithering chain allowed him free movement around the room, except in one direction. It stopped him about a meter shy of the door.

Russell sat down on one of the white plastic chairs and struck a match off the rough  floor, rested his chin in his hand, eyes on the door and had a smoke. At first he choked a little as his body tried to reject even this familiar comfort, but he toughed it out, clenching his teeth and willing the cigarette to work just a little magic. By the time he leaned down to stub the last of the butt out against the floor, he felt a little bit better. Not only that, but he had an idea.

Moving the remaining ciggies and matches into the foam cups, he set them on the floor and pushed himself up to stand atop the table. It wobbled slightly, but held him. It was a fruitless effort, however. Even stretching his arms and standing on his toes, he could not reach the vent above. He knelt down and grabbed a chair, set it atop the table, and  carefully began to climb onto the seat. He moved slowly, patient with the wobbling, and why not? He had all the time in the world.

*

"He's good," Mel commented as Crowe's face appeared to get closer in the monitor that was fed by a tiny camera from behind the grille of the vent.

"He's a fucking idiot," Nick contradicted, shaking his head, "and he's going to fall. If he cracks his head open on that floor -"

"Relax, Nick." Mel's eyes stayed on the monitor, watching as the actor finally got himself balanced on the chair and began to pull himself upright, reaching for the vent. Sure enough, the table flexed, giving under the man's weight and the plastic chair legs skidded a little. At the last possible moment, Crowe jumped off, landing hard on the balls of his feet and proceeded to swear and hop around, spitting on his hands and rubbing at his stinging skin. "See, I told you." Mel's lips curled into a smug smirking grin. "He's smart. I would have done the same thing, checked every possible way in or out of the room."

Nick's eyes narrowed on his partner. "Don't go soft on me, Mel."

"Fuck you." Mel watched the actor move to the bed and lay down on his back, staring at the ceiling.

*

Russell spent the next several hours (or at least it felt like several hours, there was no way to tell in the limbo of his cell  since they'd even taken his beloved Panerai Radomir from his wrist), staring at the ceiling, pacing the room and thinking. Whoever it was who had taken him, they knew what they were doing. The cell appeared to be escape-proof, and short of using his precious matches to set the bed afire, there was nothing in the room to work with to plan an escape.

His thoughts focused on Mark. Surely Mark would be looking for him, would have alerted the FBI by now, unless… Unless they had taken or otherwise disabled his friend as well. But that was unthinkable. Mark had dropped him off at the woman's condo and by Russell's own insistence, gone back to the hotel for the night. Mark was safe. He had to be. He was Russell's only hope for survival.

Russell rolled over onto his side and contemplated the blank wall. He should have listened to Hiatt, the man was a trained professional, after all. He knew what he was talking about. But no, he had to do things his own way, in the grand uncompromisingly stubborn style he always had …and now he was paying the price for his own bullish folly. He only hoped he'd come through the ordeal and live long enough to admit his mistake.

Kicking his own ass for being a stupid bastard was a good way to waste some more of his endlessly plentiful time, so he did that for a while. When his frustration began to turn to rage, he forced it down like bile at the back of his throat. It was better to save that energy in case he was afforded any chance to make an escape.

He got up and used one of the cups to sip some more water and this time it stayed down without any threat of distress. Whatever they had used to drug him to get him here, enough time seemed to have passed for the side effects to wear off. In fact, the rumblings in his empty guts were signaling hunger. He hoped that his captors, whoever they were, would at some point come to feed him. The fact that they had provided him with the cigarettes, however few, seemed to indicate that they weren't entirely without care for him.

He wondered if they could hear him.

"Hullo!" he called. "Can you hear me? Hullo?" The sound of his own voice bounced off the walls with a pleasant ring, not unlike the way the walls of a shower stall might sound. Decent acoustics anyway, he thought with a grim twist of a smile. "I'm getting hungry! Hullo, can you hear me? Hey!"

If they could, they seemed dead set on ignoring him, so he sat down on the bed again and smoked a second cigarette. One left.

After a while, the silence and the boredom began to overwhelm him, so he amused himself by singing every song he could think of, starting with the current Thirty Odd Foot of Grunts radio single and then working back. He was just running through his mental file of Jimmy Barnes cover songs when he heard a voice.

"Mr. Crowe."

He sat up straight on the bed, looking at the door, which seemed to be where the sound had come from. "Hullo? Yes?"

"Mr. Crowe," the woman repeated. Her voice was firm and confident. "I want you to listen to me very carefully. Remain where you are on the bed. Do not move, or I will be forced to subdue you. I have been trained in hand to hand combat, and can take down a man twice your size, so I suggest that you don't test me on this. Do you understand?"

"Yes." He pushed back until he was sitting against the bedhead. His eyes stayed glued to the door.

"Remain where you are," she warned again, and then the door opened and the woman stepped into the room.

She had wavy dark hair that hung just past her shoulders and skin that looked all the more pale from the contrast of her black jeans and the likewise black long sleeved jersey she wore. Her Doc Martens made a hard sound as she pushed the cell door closed then moved to place the tray she carried on the table. Just as her captive watched her, she kept a wary eye on him at all times. His only movement was the turning of his head to keep her in sight.

For once Russell's history with women was working to his advantage. Having spent decades watching and wanting and even, as was widely reported in the tabloids, often having them, he was well versed in reading the tiny clues that another man might have missed.

He studied her body and how she moved, the confident way she carried herself. This woman, though slim, was strong, and she moved with a fluid feline grace that suggested some form of martial arts or perhaps even gymnastic training, maybe both. If not for the roundness of her curves and the sturdy set of her hips, he might even have mistaken her for a dancer. Even now, under these circumstances, or perhaps because of them, he couldn't help noticing the gentle swell of her breasts or the heart-like shape of her ass in her jeans as she bent to unload her offerings from the tray onto the table.

When her task was completed she moved back towards the door.

"Wait!" Russell moved to the edge of the bed.

"Not another inch, Mr. Crowe, or you'll be sorry." The woman's eyes narrowed on him like deadly laser beams.

"Sorry, sorry…." He pushed back against the bedhead again, keeping his gaze on her, studying her face as he had her body a moment before. She had bright green eyes that flashed keenly from between tidy brows and the curve of her high cheekbones. Her nose was a shade too long, perhaps, but it nicely offset a generous mouth above a well shaped chin. With a little bit of make up and a reason to smile, he could tell that she would be stunning. As it was, she possessed a certain natural earthy beauty that for some reason seemed to offset her hard attitude and give him hope. "You're American?"

She arched a brow at him as though she were aware of the game he was playing. "Yes, Mr. Crowe, I am American." It was a small fact to give up, nothing that he wouldn't have already figured out from the sound of her voice. "Don't bother trying to humanize yourself. I know very well who you are. Believe me, this isn't personal. It's simply a business matter." She reached behind her for the door handle, ready to leave, fitting a key into the lock with out turning back to look.

"So then, I suppose," Russell smiled at her helplessly, "your name would be -"

"Completely out of the question." Her green eyes mocked him as she shook her head. "As I'm sure you well know."

"Of course." He nodded, but his eyes did not leave her.

"You should feel well enough to eat by now," she told him, then stepped outside, taking the tray. Sitting quietly, tilting his head to listen, he heard at least three locks and a bolt slide into place after the heavy door shut firmly behind her.

He moved to the table and inspected the food she had left. There was a bowl of simple broth and noodles bolstered by a handful of mixed veg and a good sized chunk of buttered bread cut from a country loaf or baguette, all served up on plastic dishes. He nearly laughed as a peek into the paper cup she had left revealed milk. Best of all, there were five fresh cigarettes and matches set just to the side of his plate. Things were looking up.

He sat down at the table and sniffed at his dinner, wondering if it was drugged. His stomach rumbled in anticipation, reminding him that it was empty and that, after all, drugged or not, food was food and he should be happy to have it. Besides, being drugged might break up the monotony, or at least knock him out. Either was preferable to staring at the blank grey walls of his cell.

And so, Russell ate.

*

As it turned out, the food wasn't drugged, but as the boredom settled in over him like a heavy, suffocating blanket, Russell almost wished that it had been. He spent the rest of the evening, if that’s what it was, pacing his cell to the lengths of his leg-chain, doing push ups, and thinking. At one point, just to break up the sheer mind numbing monotony,  he lay down on the floor and counted the links of the chain on his leg. There were 152, each approximately one inch in length to make up a grand total of twelve and a half feet (or 3.8 meters) of chain. Who knew? Perhaps such information would come in handy at some point. For now, it simply served to help pass the time.

He slept and he thought and he smoked and he sang until his voice was raw and hoarse and then he simply lay on the bed trying not to think. He stared at the ceiling, at the light there that apparently never went out, and felt the emotional strain of it all well up and start to choke him. His lips pressed flat, his foot tap-tap-tapped out a steady wiggling beat and he fought back the lump in his throat and the sting in his watery eyes.

After a while, he pulled up the rough blanket, rolled over, and went to sleep again. So far, his greatest accomplishments that day had been keeping down soup and managing to save two cigarettes for when he awoke.

Maybe that was enough.

*

"Mr. Crowe."

The voice was male, deep and rough. It pulled him from a dream to sit bolt upright in the bed. "Yes?" he rasped, cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes?"

"Remain on the bed. Do not make any sudden moves. I will not hesitate to subdue you if you do not cooperate." This voice, too was American, flat and not particularly friendly. Whoever the man was, he wasn't up for any fucking about. "Do you understand?"

"Yes." Russell shoved the pillow behind his back and pulled the blanket up to his chest, trying to indicate a willingness to stay put. A moment later, the door opened and a man came in, carrying a tray as before.

The man had sandy hair and was about Russell's own size and age, very sturdily built. He moved with the solid erect bearing of a man who had spent a good number of years in the military, most likely training or in the field on active duty of some sort. His black T-shirt stretched tight over his broad torso and then tucked neatly into the waistband of his black jeans.

He moved to the table, set down the things that were on the tray and removed the dirty picnic ware from the woman's prior visit. His eyes never entirely left the actor on the bed as he went about these tasks, so Russell felt free to stare back, though he tried to keep his expression somewhat neutral. This gave him a chance to get a good look at the man's face.

Like the woman’s, the man's eyes were keen, bright with the spark of intelligence, but where hers had been green, his were brown. His face was rough hewn, but not unattractive by modern standards, and he had a scar across his chin that put Russell in mind of Harrison Ford.

Russell's gaze tracked the man as he moved back to the door, tray in hand. "Please?" he asked trying to sound more friendly than desperate, "Have my people been contacted? Can you tell me that much at least, mate?"

The man's lips pressed flat, his eyes narrowed to a stony glare. "I am not your mate, Mr. Crowe. But, in answer to your question, yes, your people are aware of your situation."

"Have there been negotiations?" Of course he had kidnap insurance, he'd had it since he'd signed on to do Proof of Life. It had been required during the production, and he had maintained it ever since. He was covered by one of the largest, most reputable and discreet firms in London, and his premiums had gone bloody astronomical last January when the FBI had registered his first serious kidnap threat.

"I'm sure your people are seeing to your best interests, Mr. Crowe. Enjoy your meal"

Russell couldn't swear by it, but the man seemed to be smirking as he unlocked the door and left, doing up the three locks and sliding the final bolt home.

*

As soon as he heard the heavy bolt slide into place, Russell rose from the bed. He gave the meal on the table a curious glance, but first things first. He used the loo and washed his face and hands, using his wet fingers to comb back his dark curls as best as he was able. He had no one to impress but himself, but at least the simple routine made him feel a little better as he sat down to his meal.

This time there were scrambled eggs and toast, accompanied by two sad pieces of bacon. Whoever these people were, they weren't cooks, but he was grateful for the food and wolfed it down, using his last strip of crust to chase every morsel from the plastic plate, washing it all down with the overly sweet lukewarm tea the man had provided.

Russell stacked his dishes to one side, and counted five fresh cigarettes and matches to add to his two from the night before. He lit one and sat smoking at the table, using his now empty paper tea cup as an ashtray. When his eye fell on the plastic spoon which had again been his only given eating utensil, he couldn't help chuckling. As if a plastic fork or knife would have made him dangerous.

He spent the hours until the next meal much as he had spent the day before, pacing the lengths of his chain, doing push ups and sit ups, and singing. He rinsed the plastic dishes and made the bed, just to have something to do. When the man appeared again with a tray that contained a lackluster cold cut sandwich accompanied by an orange and a generous portion of corn chips, Russell moved obediently to the bed, again waiting till the man was reaching for the door before asking his question.

"Is it really afternoon?" His head tilted thoughtfully, "or is that just what you want me to think?"

"Does it matter, Mr. Crowe?" The man raised a brow at him.

This time he knew he wasn't imagining things. The bloke had almost smiled. Russell decided to press his luck and try for a second question.

"Where's the woman? Is it her day off?"

Any trace of a smile the man may have been considering was instantly wiped from his face. "She'll bring your next meal."

"She's prettier than you are," he wiggled his brows with a playful hint of appreciation, just to see if the man would react.

Russell couldn't help smiling to himself as he sat down to eat. Even a simple exchange could be very revealing to a man who had trained himself to be an observer of people.

*

Nick looked up as Mel came in. He was watching Crowe on the monitor with the sound switched off. He stretched and smiled, then resettled in his seat. "Are you about ready?"

"Yes." She leaned down to peer at the monitor. "How's he been today?"

"Same as before, " Nick shrugged. "Mostly pacing and singing, although for a while there, I think he was running through lines from some of his old films."

Mel's brows furrowed. "How come the sound is off? That isn't reg."

Her partner's hand stopped hers just as she reached for the switch on the console. "Did I mention he was singing?" He flashed her a winsome grin and she couldn't help chuckling as she shook her head at him.

"You're awful," she said, moving to the door, doing a final check of her pockets and making sure that her key was in place on it's band around her wrist.

"No, he's awful," Nick corrected. "I can't believe people pay to hear that shit."

Not that she'd admit it to Nick, but over the past two days, she had come to enjoy the actor's singing. He had a rich mellow voice, and though it might have simply been her imagination, he seemed to be hitting the right notes more and more often. "He's no worse than you when you sing in the shower," she grinned at her partner.

"And when did you hear me singing in the shower?" Nick challenged through a deep chuckle.

By way of an answer, Mel smiled sweetly, batted her eyes at him and slipped out the door.

*

Russell was thinking that it was getting on about tea time. Not that he had any real way of knowing this, it just felt like it should be. His stomach had been rumbley for a little while, so perhaps that was all just wishful thinking on his part. With a sigh he moved to the sink, poured himself a styro cup of water, drank it down, then refilled it and carried it over to the table to sip while he smoked. One left.

Two days ago, just seeing what would happen, he'd made a move as if to get up off the bed while the man was still in his room, bringing him lunch. He'd gotten a very quick, very harsh warning, which he'd heeded, and when he finally made it to the table, there had only been two cigarettes and matches.  It was a simple form of punishment, cause and effect, but it had made for a tough afternoon.

When the man had returned with his supper (as far as he could suss, they seemed to rotate shifts every two meals) he'd been perfectly cooperative, and the regular five smokes had been set on the table along with his dinner. Lesson learned.

"Mr. Crowe." The woman was at the door.

His gaze jerked up from where he'd been staring unseeingly at the tabletop, lost in thought. "Yes?" Even before she could reply, he was on his way to the bed, anticipating her command.

"Please sit on the bed."

Russell pushed back against the bedhead. It had occurred to him that they must have a way of watching him without coming into the room. How else to explain how they knew where he was before they came in each time? He did feel like he was making some progress with the woman, in getting her to warm up to him just a little. After all, he had finally convinced her to leave off the rest of the warning speech before coming in and yesterday she had brought him a toothbrush.

There was a beat as he settled in, still smoking, waiting for the door to open. Maybe it was just him, or maybe it was the fact that she was the softest thing that he laid eyes on each day, but he was really starting to find her a bit spunky. A little lippy, a bit of mascara, the right dress… in another set of circumstances, he might have been taking her out for a five star dinner instead of eating the simple and anonymous fare his captors provided.

He watched her come into the room with the tray, as usual keeping her attention evenly divided between him and her tasks as she set out his supper on the low table.

”Hey, luv?" He watched her set down a plate of food and a cup of tea. They were trusting him with plastic forks now, another sign of progress.

"Yes, Mr. Crowe?" Her hands paused in the process of picking up the plastic dishes he'd rinsed in the sink earlier, part of his daily routine. She found it sort of endearing, since these things got thrown away the moment she left the room, but she didn't begrudge him his need to keep active.

"I was just thinking it's a good thing you're downwind of me over there," he tucked his chin and grinned at her from under his long lashes. "I mean, I don’t know if there's, uh, y'know, anything you can do about it? But, um, these clothes are about to start taking on a life of their own… A couple more days, and you'll be needing to feed them, too."

He watched as she struggled not to smile at that. Sure, she was one of his captors, but she didn't seem like such a bad sort, as such things went. Besides, he'd been in the same pair of jeans and T for days now, hadn't been able to do more than wet his head and splash on handfuls of water from the cold tap. The last thing he could remember was doing was two rounds with that luscious blonde from Barramundi, and that combined with the working out he was doing to pass the time in captivity had both him and his gear beginning to raise a fair stink.

Her lips were pressing flat as she struggled to hide a grin. This one was a charmer for sure. His smile was truly infectious. No wonder women all over the world swooned over his every breath. She was pretty sure if he chose to turn on the charm full force, even her own professionalism would be in danger of being compromised. "I'll see what I can do, Mr. Crowe." She moved to the door.

"I'd appreciate it." His gaze moved with her. "I'd sure hate to have a beautiful woman like yourself remember me for the wrong reasons."

She stopped by the entry, a smile definitely in her bright green eyes as she shook her head at him. Either he was trying to charm her or he was falling victim to some form of Stockholm Syndrome. "Given the circumstances, would there be right reasons, Mr. Crowe?"

One brow raised over his amused eyes, but he ignored her question. "Y'know…" his voice dropped low with just a hint of velvet. "If y'don't start calling me Russell, we're never gonna get to be friends, luv."

Man, oh man, but he was working her now. For some reason, it touched her rather than putting her guard up. "Food for thought, Mr. Crowe." She reached back and unlocked the door, pausing just as she stepped out. "Enjoy your meal."

*

When Mel got back to the control room, she was relieved to find that Nick hadn't turned the audio feed back on. Probably a good thing, just this once, since it meant that he hadn't heard her exchange with their charge. In fact, Nick looked sleepy and eager to go, a fact that he tried to hide as she came in.

"Go on and get some rest, Nick," she touched him on the shoulder, indicating that he should give up the chair at the console.

"Thanks, Mel." Nick had been daydreaming a little as he monitored her visit to the actor. It was one of his favorites, the one where he and Mel quit the business and started a partnership that had nothing to do with work. Two years of being close on jobs like this, and his thoughts about her got more and more unprofessional every day. He looked back at her for a moment, watching as she settled into the big chair at the con. Her eyes were already glued to the screen. Mel loved their work, loved the danger and excitement. He knew she'd never give it up, not  even for love.

"Sleep well, Nick."

Nick sighed and nodded. He was tired, his defenses were down. He needed some rest. "Have a good night, Mel." He took one last look at her, letting his eyes move over her strong but curvaceous body, then forced himself to go before he did or said something to compromise himself.

*

Russell had weathered a lot of rough moments since these people had taken him, and had mostly been able to tamp them down. Giving over to the fear, frustration and depression of his situation was useless. But for some reason, tonight was the worst so far, and when the choking feelings rose to overtake him, he found it hard to fight them off. Maybe it was the flirting with the woman that had done it, those few precious moments of feeling normal, or maybe it was the fact that his stained clothing really was starting to smell bad, a constant reminder that he had no control over what was happening to him.

Whatever it was, when the dark emotions of helplessness began to pull at his heart and mind, he ended up crawling into bed, curling up into a ball and just ….

*

Mel heard a strange sound coming from the actor's cell. Her brows furrowed as she leaned forward in her chair and dialed up the sound feed. Her eyes focused hard on the man on the bed. What was he doing?

He was curled up, half under the blanket, turned away from the camera. His shoulders were heaving and he made another choked sound. Jesus, was he jerking off?

She leaned on the desk, studying him closely. No, not jerking off …he was …crying.

She watched his powerful body shake with the force of his sobs, the sound of which started to get to her so badly that she turned the sound back down. What was happening to her? She'd seen this sort of thing before, she'd seen and heard a dozen men cry out of frustration, fear and hopeless despair. She'd even managed to remain unmoved as men, great men, powerful men, begged for their lives.

So why was this so different? Why was this man getting to her?

She got up from her chair and began to pace the small room. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, she tidied up the console, and she tried to find her reserve of professional detachment again. If she didn't get her shit together quickly, she was going to be useless as an operative, on this job or any other.

She ran her hands through her hair, rubbed her eyes and sat down at the console again, forcing her eyes back to the monitor. Crowe was still crying, deep inconsolable sobs. Jesus, there was no way she was going to make it through this shift if he kept that up. But, Nick had left hours ago, he'd surely be asleep by now… and she'd be damned if she was going to rouse him and advertise the fact that she was losing it like a star struck schoolgirl over some actor!

Her fingers tapped at the desk as she thought. She was a smart woman. Surely she could think of some way to take care of this on her own.

*

"Mr. Crowe?"

He didn't hear her at first, and she had to repeat his name again before she got a response.

"Yes?" Russell sniffled and cleared his throat, quickly using the rough blanket to wipe his wet face as he sat up in surprise. It had only been a few hours since she'd brought him his evening meal, and mealtimes were the only time they ever entered his cell. He wondered what was going on. 

"Mr. Crowe, I have clean clothes for you. Please remove your shirt and remain on the bed." The woman's voice was firm, yet he thought he detected a small note of uncertainty. "I'd like to remind you that I am fully capable of subduing you, so don't make any sudden moves. Do you understand?"

"Yes." He peeled off the dirty T, which was now more grey than white, used it to wipe his face one more time, and then pushed back against the bedhead, waiting for her to come in.

Mel stepping into the cell, carrying a cardboard box. She pushed the door closed with the heel of her boot, eyes glued to the actor as she set the box down near the door. "Okay, here's how we're going to do this, Mr. Crowe. You're going to handcuff yourself to the bed-frame so that I can safely remove your chain to change your jeans. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Russell agreed. At this point he would have paid a million dollars for a hot shower and clean clothes, but this would have to do. "Whatever y'want, luv, I'm game." He tried on a smile. It didn't feel like it fit quite right, but it was the best he could manage. He missed the cuffs when she tossed them and they clattered and skidded against the hard floor by the bed, causing him to have to take his eyes off her to lean over and retrieve them.

He managed the first cuff easily enough, but had a small amount of trouble ratcheting the second closed once he had them wrapped around the bed-frame. It wasn't that he  meant to be uncooperative, quite the opposite, but the angle made it difficult. "Sorry, luv, that's the best I can manage." His eyes moved back to her as he yanked on the cuffs to show her that he was secured.

She watched his wrists as he rattled the cuffs and saw no give in the bindings. "That's fine, Mr. Crowe." She picked up the box and moved closer to the bed, and the first thing she did was lean over and check the cuffs, tightening down the one he'd had trouble with.

From his vantage point, bound on the bed below her, Russell had a nice view of her round breasts beneath the body hugging fabric of her black jersey. He instantly became very aware of his own half naked body stretched out on the bed. He blew out a breath and looked away, afraid that he might react to her closeness and embarrass himself.

Satisfied that he was unable to escape, much less move very far in any direction, Mel steadied her nerves and moved to the foot of the bed to remove the chain on his leg. She let it slither to the floor and removed the ankle cuff, then the soft bandage underneath that protected his skin from the rubbing of the metal. Without another word, she undid the fly of his dirty jeans and began sliding them down his hips.

"I brought some warm water, Mr. Crowe. Would you like me to wipe you down before I redress you?" It took all she had to keep her voice toneless and professional as his magnificent body was exposed. She didn't like the way her hands were shaking, but she'd come too far to turn back now.

Russell swallowed hard. "Would you please, luv?" He didn't even try to hide the gratitude in his voice.

Mel pulled the box of supplies closer, removed a pail of warm slightly soapy water and a towel. "Raise up again, please," she instructed, reaching for the waistband of his boxer-briefs. His gaze moved to the ceiling as though he was vaguely embarrassed by his semi-erect state as she pulled the shorts from his legs. Mel bit her lip and tried not to look as she spread the towel under him on the mattress.

For several long minutes, the only sounds in the room were the wet dunking and wringing of the bath sponge and their own breathing. Russell's eyes remained glued to the blank ceiling as she washed him slowly but with a certain efficiency.

She washed down to his hips, then moved lower to wash his legs and feet, causing the fine hairs to raise like tiny sensors as they dried in the warm air of the room. This made him all the more aware of her every touch, especially when the ends of her long, soft hair accidentally brushed and tickled against his bare skin. She had him roll over, which wasn't easy, the cuffs really gave him very limited range of motion, but he held himself as still as he could as she washed his shoulders and back.

Mel dipped and wrung out again, glad to have him turned away from her for the moment as she washed his thickly muscled legs, moving up slowly. Another dip, and then she was carefully bathing the most beautifully shaped ass she'd seen in …well, longer than she could remember.

Her eyes followed the damp trail of the sponge, free for the moment to simply admire and enjoy his body. She allowed herself a moment to reflect as she stroked his skin. The very nature of her job made a normal social life nearly impossible, and it had been a while since she'd been with a man. Not that she didn't get plenty of admiring looks and even offers, but it there was always that awkward moment when the talk inevitably turned to "So, what do you do?" She was simply beginning to run out of lies.

She touched Crowe's hip, signaling him to roll over onto his back again as she wet the sponge. The actor hesitated, then did as she asked, exposing a magnificent hard on that arched up long, thick and proud from it's nest of soft dark hair.

Russell bit his lip and turned his face away, feeling like a mindless animal, betrayed by his body's reaction to the stroking of her hands and the soft, wet sponge. In his helpless state, unable to see to even his own personal hygiene, even this crude bathing felt like a gift and he was struck by profound gratitude.

Surely it was this gratitude that had caused his body to respond to her gentle, soapy touch, even as it mixed with his embarrassment at needing her to tend to him. And it didn't help that she was so damned beautiful.

Mentally damning his disobedient body, Russell's breathing quickened as, after a moment's pause, she began to wash him there. He gritted his teeth to bite back a small moan as warm soapy water trickled down his balls. He didn't even want to think what might happen when she finally touched him.

Mel looked down at the man stretched out on the bed, the angle of his restraint causing his muscles to stand out in sharp relief beneath his skin. He was breathing hard, his massive chest rising and falling with each sharp inhale as she continued to move the sponge over the area between his legs. He was entirely helpless, both unable to move, and unable to hide his reactions to her touch. God, he was beautiful.

Russell closed his eyes as her hand, buffered by the soft sponge, wrapped around his hard bolt. He made a soft sound low at the back of his throat as she stroked him. This was pure torture! He squeezed his eyes tightly closed and tried to think of anything… footy statistics, metric conversions,  song lyrics, the cost of fertiliser, math equations… anything, anything but how good it felt to have her touching him.

This particular portion of the bathing seemed to be taking a long time, and his breath hitched in his throat as he realised that she was now stroking with intent. Her strong hand gripped him firmly through the sponge, urging him to release.

Russell moaned softly, then began to pant in time to the movements of her hand, his hips rolling and lifting slightly with each pulling stroke. "Ohhh…”  His neck arched back, eyes now closed in pleasure, giving himself over fully to the feel of her touch. His hands fisted above the metal wristlets then gripped the bed-frame as his body shuddered and writhed on the verge of release.

Mel dropped the sponge and began to work her bare hand up and down his cock, pulling and squeezing as she stroked him. His powerful body was arching in pleasure, heels dug in against the mattress as his low moans became both louder and more constant. She bit her lip, trying to keep her own panting from joining his to fill the small room, but she was almost unbearably aware of the feel of his large thick beautifully shaped cock in her hand, and also the way her own panties were quickly becoming damp. She needed to finish this and fast, before she was tempted to take him into her mouth or somewhere even more compromising.

"Oh god, oh god, yes, luv, fuck yes!"  He roared and his body bucked hard as her hand quickened on him. He grunted deeply, barely giving her enough warning to grab the sponge with her other hand, covering his knob to catch his release. His body stiffened, legs and ass flexing tight as his balls drew up, then he was bucking unevenly with each pulse. A moment later he fell back on the bed, panting and spent.

Mel closed her eyes for a minute as he rested, trying to push back the desire for him that had risen unwelcome to speed her pulse and flush her skin. She turned away and dropped the sponge into the pail, then pulled the dampened towel out from under Crowe's body and used it to finish drying him. He shuddered as she gently dried his still stiff and sensitive prick, but if he thought to comment, he wisely refrained.

She quickly took a pair of clean white briefs and fresh jeans from the box on the floor and redressed him, keeping her eyes on her busy hands, not daring to look up and catch the expression on the actor's face. With that done, she rewrapped his ankle in a clean Ace bandage to protect him from the metal cuff, locked on the chain, and exchanged the blanket on his bed for a clean one.

 When she was finally able to look at him, he was watching her with both wonder and gratitude, his eyes softened by something that looked like warmth or desire. She forced her eyes away from his searching gaze and tossed a clean T-shirt over the foot of the bed, then gathered up his soiled things. She carried the bucket to the sink and poured the dirty water away, then moved back to where he was still watching her from the bed.

"Okay, Mr. Crowe. We're nearly finished." Mel was amazed by how steady and in control her own voice sounded. "I want you to grasp the bed-frame. I will unlock one wrist and put the key within your reach. When I give you the command, you will unlock the other cuff and toss both the cuffs and the key to me. If you move before I tell you to, you will be wearing these clothes for the rest of your stay, however long it may be. Do you understand?"

Russell nodded, then realised that she was awaiting verbal confirmation. "Yes, I understand." He reached up and grasped the bedhead again.

"Good." She shoved the box towards the door with her foot, then freed his right wrist, moving quickly out of range should he prove to be lying.

Russell waited till she was standing by the door, then took the key from where she'd placed it in the middle of his chest and unlocked the other cuff. He sat up, pausing a moment to rub his numb, slightly raw wrists before gathering the cuffs and key together, gauging the distance to where she stood. "Y'ready?"

"Yes." He tossed her the bindings and she caught them neatly, placing them in the box and reaching for the lock in the door behind her.  She let herself out quickly, wanting to leave before either of them could say another word.

*

Alone and safely locked in the control room, Mel spent the rest of the night drinking coffee and pacing as she watched Crowe sleep. Her mind tried desperately to come up with a way to justify her unprofessional actions, but no matter which way she twisted or turned the events in her mind, she simply couldn't.

*

Nick let himself into the control room with a cheerful, "Morning, Mel. How was last night?" He wasn't expecting the startled almost guilty look on her face when she turned from the monitor to greet him.

"Fine. Nothing happened, it was fine." Mel's gaze moved quickly back to the screen where Crowe was just shuffling from the bed to the toilet. She made a mental note to take him a fresh roll of toilet paper with his morning meal. "I'll go make breakfast." She got up, relinquishing the chair to him.

"Are you sure you're okay, Melody?" Nick's brows pulled in concern as he sat down. A quick look at the monitor told him everything in the actor's cell looked normal. The control room was tidy, the nightly reports were filled out and everything seemed to be in order. Everything except his partner.

"Yeah, except…" She moved her mug to the small sink by the coffee machine. She rinsed it, then leaned on the counter, facing him. "He couldn't sleep, and he'd been complaining about his dirty clothes, so I let him bathe and -"

"Shit, Mel!" Her partner's dark eyes stared at her in disbelief. "That's not SOP.  You're not supposed to go in there without someone on monitor. You know that."

"I know, I know, but we were going to do it this morning anyway, and other than not having you here to spot me, I followed procedure to the letter." Mel rubbed her eyes and gave a tired shrug. "I put the bucket and clothes in, tossed him the key and used the monitor in the hall to keep an eye on him the entire time." She pushed off the counter and headed for the door. "Besides, he was fully cooperative. You know how badly he wants those cigarettes."

"I detailed it in the report, so if they have a problem with it, it's on my shift, not yours, okay?" She paused to pat Nick reassuringly on the shoulder as she passed. "Now, what do you want for breakfast? Eggs or oatmeal?"

*

Russell was sitting on the bed, smoking his last ciggie and waiting for her when she brought his brekkie. He watched her come in, caught the warning light in her eyes, and bit back the teasing comment he'd been about to make about being sorry he hadn't called after such a lovely night together. Instead he asked her how negotiations were going, and she gave him her standard reply that she didn't know, but after she left, he noticed two extra ciggies by his plate along with a fresh roll of loo paper.

The jeans that she'd dressed him in were loose around the waist and hips, and it was several hours before he recognised them as his own after noting a small tear at the cuff and a dark smudge from an old cigarette burn near one knee. Apparently he'd been losing weight, which after a little thought wasn't really much of a surprise. The lack of alcohol, fast food and rich four-star restaurant fare combined with his twice daily sets of sit ups and push ups were doing him a bit of good, and he reckoned he'd look a wonder if he ever got out of here alive.

It took him another cigarette and some heavy thinking to begin to wonder how and where they'd gained access to his things.

*

Two nights later, Russell tried to bait the woman into a return. He had known, given his grasp on his captor's shift patterns, that she wouldn't be on night detail until then, and had spent a good portion of the day wondering if she would come to see him again. The thought both excited him and broke up the day's inherent monotony. He had tried to catch her eye when she brought in his evening meal, but if she was reading the subtext of his look, she made a good show of ignoring it.

After he'd eaten and gone through his usual after dinner routine of smoke, dishes, toilet and wash up, he'd stripped off his T-shirt for his before-bed workout to show off a little.                                                                

Afterwards, he'd lain in bed a while, giving things time, waiting until what he figured had been about the hour of her last unscheduled visit. When the time felt right, he'd kicked back the covers and begun running his hands over the front of his jeans, teasing himself, hoping that she was watching him grow hard under his own touch.

*

Mel couldn't take her eyes off the screen. Crowe was laying on his bed, boldly stroking himself as though he wanted her to watch. First he ran his hands over the front of his jeans, dragging his fingertips over the growing bulge, his legs splayed slightly so that he could reach down and rub and squeeze as a lover might. Watching him, she knew that this was not an act of simple masturbation. This was an exhibition, a show put on for her benefit.

He unzipped his jeans and reached inside, the muscles of his arms flexing as he pulled and stroked the prize hidden by the denim. A few minutes of this and he was hard enough that his head was peeking out over the waistband of his briefs.

Crowe gave himself another squeeze, and then lifted his ass from the bed to wriggle his jeans and briefs down, pushing them below the knees. His cock was hard, thick and beautiful, just like Mel remembered it. Even now, her own hand could recall the feel of his engorged shaft under the loose velvety sheath of skin as she stroked him.

She watched him lick his lips, and thus moistened, they parted to allow him to pant softly. His thick dark lashes fluttered against his cheek as his powerful body rolled and arched in time to the pleasure he was giving himself. He sucked in a sibilant breath, then smiled as his hand rounded over his darkening knob. The play of enjoyment over his handsome features was amazing to behold, and Mel felt a rush of moisture between her own legs as she watched him.

She wriggled on the chair, her hips rocking, finally giving in to the urge to press her hand against the crotch of her jeans, rubbing the dampening fabric against her fingers, eyes still glued to the man in the monitor.

He was taking his time, building the pleasure then slackening off, teasing himself, or was he teasing her? Mel reached for the button on her jeans, but paused. This was no good, no good at all.

A battle waged within her, a struggle between her professional self and the inner woman who had been neglected for far too long. She knew she was losing it, losing her edge, but she couldn't remember the last time a man, any man had affected her this way.

He reached down with his free hand and found his heavy balls, rolling them lightly in his hand as he continued to stroke his gorgeous hard cock and Mel began to lose the war against her common sense. Her panties were soaked, her ass writhed and danced on the chair. A soft moan escaped the back of her throat as she watched him grit his teeth in enjoyment as his big hand rounded and squeezed his beautifully shaped head.

*

"Crowe."

Her voice was low and thick, it sounded a bit rough, even through the heavy door. Russell licked back his smile to reply. "Yes, luv?"

"Stay on the bed. Don't move. I'm coming in."

"Yes, luv." He let go of his hard bolt, but made no move to cover it.

Mel stepped into the cell and pressed the door closed with her back. She paused there a long moment, as though daring herself to go on. A deep breath and she lifted her eyes, allowed them to travel over his incredible body, spread out like a tempting feast on the bed.

Russell watched as her hungry gaze moved over him. His eyes remained intently focused on her, they'd darkened to a deep blue-green like the ocean before a storm, throwing off sparks of lightening-like heat. "Come here t'me , darlin'," His voice was a velvety invitation, full of warmth and understanding, and something more…

Desire.

He wanted her, too.

"I can't."

"Try."

Mel took a step forward and a benevolent smile touched his eyes. He understood what it was like to want and not be allowed to touch, the look told her. He understood and he knew how to make it all better. Drawn in by his smile and the warm promise in his intent gaze, she took another step, then hesitated again, fists balled in frustration as her brain made a final bid for control. "Damnit! I shouldn't be here!"

"Shhh, shhh, shhh, honey…" He started to rise from the bed.

She caught the movement and rounded on him. "No! Lay back and grab the bed frame! We do this my way, Crowe, or not at all!"

"Okay, luv, however you want it." Russell lay back on the bed, nice and easy, no sudden moves. He reached up for the bedhead and held on. At this angle his body was stretched out, elongated, every muscle shown off to best advantage, including his hard bolt which arched up proudly, bobbing slightly with every breath he took.

The woman strode over to the side of the bed and snapped the cuffs on him. His only movement was turning his head on the bare pillow to keep his gaze on her. As much as he could tell that she was tortured over this, the flush on her cheeks and the heat behind her eyes was lovely. She was all the more attractive to him in her flustered state. Her hard breathing made the soft full rounds of her breasts heave in a delightfully inviting way.

With the actor secured and no longer any form of physical threat, the woman perched on the side of his bed. Russell tucked his chin to his chest to watch her, wondering what she would do. After what seemed like a very long time, her arm rose to float her hand over his chest. Her gaze did not reach his face as her fingers descended to stroke the soft golden fur on his torso.

Mel stroked his chest, petting the soft dusting of hair, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her hand. She kept her eyes on her moving fingers as they began to explore, passing over the tiny pebbles of his hard nipples, moving on to caress the silky fur in the hollow under his shoulder, growing more bold with every touch. Aside from the occasional soft purring sigh or grunt of encouragement, Crowe quietly endured her delicate torture, letting her explore him at her own pace.

She leant down finally and let her tongue flick over his nipple and Russell sucked in a sharp breath with an "Oh!" as his skin rippled in pleasure.

"Mmmm…" Her tongue moved on, tracing a warm wet trail over his skin, and Mel finally dared to look up at him. His eyes were lust-hazed but intense as he tracked her mouth's movements over his flesh. She dragged her tongue lower, then planted a trail of tiny kisses down his belly, which pulled in tight and quivered in anticipation.

"Oh, god, baby, touch me… touch my cock…. Feel how hard I am for you,"  Russell panted finally, his voice rough and husky at the back of his throat.

Mel's hand trailed down to grasp him and her lips weren't far behind. A ragged sigh of ecstasy rose from his chest as her mouth opened wide to cover his dimpled head and her tongue rubbed against him as she sucked harder, allowing the wet heat to enclose him.

"Oh yeh, honey, ohhh yehhh… mmmm… just…like.. that…"

His eyes slipped closed to let the warm dark waves of pleasure wash over him with every nursing suck. God, it felt good, so fuckin' good…!

His hands grabbed the bedhead in desperation, not just to have something to hang onto, but also because he wanted so badly to touch her. He wanted to be able to run his hands all over her strong, lean body and feel where her curves rounded and softened her flesh. Her wanted to wind his fingers in the dark soft waves of her hair, stroke her skin, fondle her luscious tits and taste the nectar between her thighs ....

And he wanted her all the more, simply because he couldn't have her.

Mel flattened her tongue and stole long licks up his length, then nuzzled at the soft nest of dark hair at his root, letting her nose fill with his musky male scent. She pushed lower on the bed, straddling one of his massive thighs and her legs clamped on, rubbing against him through her jeans. She dragged her tongue lower, lapping at his dusky sac and his leg writhed under her, adding to the friction of her ride.

Russell was briefly aware of her moist heat rubbing against his leg. Then his conscious mind went reeling as she closed her mouth over him again, working to take as much of his length as she was able, leaving her flattened tongue to tease against the underside of his ridge. What she was unable to swallow her hand worked, closing tightly around his shaft with rhythmic pulls.

"C'mon, c'mon," she panted, sitting back, rocking her hips in time to her hand's strokes on him. "I want you to come for me." Mel's voice rose and caught in the back of her throat with a sharp cry and she bore down harder on his thigh. "Oooooohhh… ooohhgod…"

"Yeh, honey… hohyehh… come for me baby, I want t'see you come…"

Her thighs gripped and flexed around him as her rocking motions increased at the sound of his husky encouragement. Soft feminine cries escaped her lush lips as she rode his leg, and every sound she voiced only served to increase his own arousal. "Hoh yeeaahh… ohhh!"

She leaned over him again as if seeking to muffle her own cries by sealing her mouth around him, but he could still hear soft mewls of pleasure as she continued to grind against him. Her long soft hair fell around her face like a dark curtain, tickling his skin, making him shiver at the combined sensations of her pulling lips and stroking tongue and the ends of her tresses playing over his balls.

Mel was close, so close to coming, and she wanted him to come, too. She pulled off his cock with a wet sucking sound and pressed his shaft back flat as she'd seen the blonde do, letting her tongue tease and roll over his heavy sac. The more he writhed, the more his leg moved against her causing the wonderfully unbearable tickle that would soon turn into a wash of pleasure.

Russell's head was thrown back on the pillow, neck arched in ecstasy as her wet mouth and clever tongue worked him. He was close, so close, and by the way she was rocking and grinding against his thigh, so was she. A low groan rose from deep in his chest as her mouth closed over him again, bobbing and licking and sucking with a new urgency.

"Oh god, luv, yeh, so close, so fuckin' close…" He moaned and then he lost his ability to think entirely as she pressed a wet finger into his ass. "Haahhhhh!!!" With a roar of pleasure, he began to buck hard under her, while her hand pumped for his release.

His hard bucking was all she needed to jolt her own climax, and Mel's legs clamped tighter around his as she began to shudder chaotically against him. "Mmm hmm… mmm hmmm!" Her mouth came off him as her head tossed back in a shower of dark hair that fell around her beautiful flushed face. "Oh! Ohh yeeaahhh! Ohh YEAH!" Desperate sounds rose from the back of her throat building to a panting shriek of release. At that moment, she felt him pulse in her hand and a warm thick wetness splashed her wrist.

She held onto his shaft like a rider on an out of control carousel as she bumped and hitched out the last of her pleasure. Somehow she managed to keep stroking him, and every shudder that suffused her translated to him through her grasp as he spilled out his own release, thrashing and moaning beneath her.

Mel withdrew her finger gently and braced against the bed, panting hard, her thick dark hair now damp curls that clung to her flushed face. Crowe, too was panting, looking to catch his breath, and she grinned wickedly then milked the last few droplets from him, catching his eye as her pink tongue dabbed into his slit to taste the tiny pearls.

Russell licked back a panting grin as he watched her. She was a wild one, alrightallright. Wild like a she-cat, her green eyes flashing playful sparks as she lapps knob. She looked barely sated. She looked like she wanted more. He only wished he had more to give her.

"Okay, okay… easy there darlin', " he chuckled softly and she let him go, unable to hide the first fully blossoming smile he'd ever seen grace her lips. His initial assessment had been right. The smile only made her all the more beautiful.

"I'd better get you cleaned up." She pushed from the bed with a light sigh, returning a moment later with a handful of tissue, which she used to mop his seed from his skin. She flushed it away then came back, still grinning a little as she gazed down at him. He might have been mistaken, but he thought he saw fondness for him in her eyes.

"Bet you'd like a cigarette." She drew long fingers over his chest, teasing at the soft fur.

"Like a fish wants water." The smile in his eyes warmed to match hers.

She chuckled softly at that. "Do you have any left?"

"Yeh, three I think." His brows pulled as he thought, then nodded. "Enough t'last me till morning, anyway."

"Okay." Mel reached into her back pocket and pulled out the key to the handcuffs, holding it up for him to see. "Do you remember the drill, Mr. Crowe?"

"Russell," he corrected gently, but she shook her head at him as her smile turned a shade admonishing. Playtime was over.

He sighed in defeat, but his own smile barely faded, peeking out at her from under the dark fringe of his lashes, unwilling to let go of the only moment he'd felt truly alive in days. "Yes, luv, I remember."

She unlocked his right wrist then moved to the door to wait for him to finish releasing himself and toss her the cuffs, which she caught neatly on the fly. She tucked them into her pocket then reached back for the door handle. "Good night, Mr. Crowe."

"G'night, luv." He sighed softly as he watched her go, hearing the three locks and bolt engage behind her. He tried not to let the sound bother him, not wanting it to disturb the rosy glow he was feeling. Instead of giving over to the cold fingers of depression that tickled at the back of his mind, he pulled up his briefs and wiggled back into his jeans, leaving the fly loosely undone. With that task completed, he rolled over to fetch his ash-filled cup and the twist of loo paper that held his last few smokes and matches.

Tucking the rough wool blanket around his middle, he lay propped up on the pillow and smoked, letting his mind roll back to replace the harsh sound of the locks that imprisoned him with her cries of release.

*

Back in the control room, Mel stripped off her clothes, pulled off her soaked panties, wrapped them in old newspaper and shoved them down deep to the bottom of the trashcan. After tidying up and grabbing a soda from the mini fridge by the Krups coffee machine on the counter, she returned to her post at the console, her eyes moving to the man in the monitor as she tucked in her shirt and laced her boots on again.

Crowe was laying on the bed, blinking sleepily as he finished a cigarette, a small hint of a smile still teasing at the corners of his mouth.

Mel sighed as she rested her chin in her hand, watching him drop the butt into a Styrofoam cup half filled with water. He rolled to lean over the edge of the bed, tucking the cup underneath out of the way then curled up under the blanket with a yawn. Another few slow blinks and he began to give over to the pull of sleep. His leg twitched once with a light kick that made the chain slither against the hard floor, then he was still save for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

She reached over and turned the sound feed down. So far, aside from some nocturnal thrashings that seemed to indicate nightmares, Crowe didn't talk in his sleep, though she had noticed him snoring a few times. Mel felt sort of funny, knowing him so intimately through her hours upon hours of observation the past week as well the extremely detailed reports in the thick file their informant had provided prior to the grab.

She knew what kind of foods he liked, and how he took his coffee. She knew where his homes in Australia were located and the names and vital stats of his family and friends. She even now knew that he woke up most mornings with a rather impressive case of 'morning wood' and that his first act after stumbling to the toilet upon rising was to light a cigarette.

What she didn't know was how to deal with what she'd done.

As if her actions the other night hadn't been bad enough, now she had completely compromised herself, both professionally and more to the point personally. Russell Crowe was like a highly addictive drug… one small taste had initially seemed harmless enough, but now she found herself wanting more and more.

*

"I don't know what you're putting in his food, but he sure has been mellow," Nick commented when Mel came in for her evening shift a few days later.

"What do you mean?" Mel tried to hide the guilty curiosity in her tone by yawning as she moved to pour herself a cup of coffee. She'd slept hard, but had vague memories of dreaming of the actor, dark erotic dreams that had left her to awaken still feeling a little sexy and turned on.

By the time she'd showered and dressed the sensual feelings had become low grade distress. She knew that she should have called The Organization and asked to be taken off this detail, but hadn't. Mel was still holding out hope that she was strong enough to conquer her own weakness without admitting it to anyone other than herself. If forced to explain the real reason why she wanted off this job, her reputation would never recover and her professional ability would remain in question indefinitely.

"Well," her partner rocked back in the comm chair and stretched, then got up to join her at the counter. "He's been doing the usual, you know, working out, pacing, singing…" He rolled his eyes with a chuckle. "But I'm noticing something else. I can't really describe it."

Nick paused to let his eyes move over Mel while she added cream to her coffee and stirred the cup. God, she was so beautiful! He loved the shape of her profile, the way her full lips curled into just the hint of a smile, the way her long dark lashes framed her sparkling eyes. Sure, she was tough and capable. He'd seen her do things in the course of their work that would send most men running for the hills, but all this only served to deepen his respect and affection for her. It seemed a cruel twist of irony that the only woman he'd ever met who could truly challenge - let alone understand him  - was his partner.

"Maybe he's just sort of settling in?" Mel raised her mug and took a careful sip. "We've seen that happen before, that resolve. A man can only rage and panic for so long before he realizes he can't escape and starts to simply develop a routine, Nick."

"Yeah, you're probably right." He shrugged.

They'd had Crowe in their possession for ten days now, and so far the biggest surprise was how quickly the actor had seemed to adapt. Despite the fact that there was an uneasy tension between the two men, Crowe was behaving well given the circumstances, moving to the bed when told to do so, his only real challenge to their authority the constant questions he asked every time one of them entered the cell. When Nick had taken him the bathing bucket and a fresh change of clothes the day before, the man had followed his instructions to the letter. In fact, he'd even seemed to anticipate binding himself to the bed frame so that Nick could come in and reattach the leg iron after putting a clean wrapping on under the cuff.

And maybe that's what was bothering him. It all seemed almost too easy.

It wasn't uncommon for prisoners to eventually resign themselves to their situation, but, given the actor's reportedly volatile temper and need to be in control, he had anticipated much more resistance than they were getting. In the beginning, he had spent his time at the monitor expecting escape attempts that never came, keeping an especially watchful eye on Crowe whenever one of them entered the cell or the actor struck a match near the bed. But so far, their captive seemed resigned to his fate and lately he appeared to have become almost comfortable with it.

Instead of allowing Nick to relax, this behavior pattern made him uneasy, which was why he had commented on it.

"I'm making pasta for dinner," Mel informed him, bringing Nick's thoughts back to the present. "I picked up some seafood while I was out, so I thought I might do something a little nicer tonight."

"Oh yeah?" Nick couldn't help smiling. His mind filled instantly with the image of the two of them sharing a candlelit dinner at some cozy Italian bistro. "Any reason for the special meal?"

"Yeah, " she chuckled, taking her coffee cup with her as she moved to the door. "Your cooking is killing me."

He blushed slightly at her teasing, loving her smile, the way it lit up her face. "Get into the kitchen where you belong, woman!" He laughed heartily as she flipped him off on the way out.

*

"Evening, luv." Russell's eyes tracked the woman as she brought in his supper.

"Good evening, Mr. Crowe." He saw her fight back a smile as she set the plates on the table.

His bright and glittering eyes moved over her body, just enjoying the view and then something caught his attention and made him sit up a little straighter. An incredibly mouthwatering aroma wafted his way from the table. "Holy shit, luv. What's that you've brought me?"

"It's pasta, Mr. Crowe, perhaps you've heard of it?"  With her back to the camera in the ceiling, she shot him a little wink. He grinned at that and looked ready to hop off the bed, but caught himself as he remembered the rules.

"Didn't know you could cook anything that didn't come out of a tin, luv." His eyes followed her as she collected his lunch dishes and headed back the way she'd come. He hated not knowing her name, but seeing as how she didn't seem about to give it up, Luv she would continue to be. His eyes moved over her body, hidden beneath the informal uniform of her black on black jersey and jeans, and he failed completely to hide the admiring smile that peeked at her from beneath his long eyelashes.

Not that he was trying very hard. This woman was the highlight of his long days and lonely nights, the only reason he hadn't already lost all semblance of self control and given in to the anger and frustration of being locked up like a helpless animal. It was memories of her warm touch and the feel of her skin against his own that allowed him to force back the depression and despair that tried to get the better of him each night.

Despite the fact that they took reasonably decent care of him, in fact seemed to be under orders not to harm him if possible, he woke up every morning remembering Hiatt's words and wondering if this day might be his last.

Mel reached back for the lock in the door handle, neatly fitting the key in by touch, without taking her eyes off of the man on the bed. His teasing grin fell somewhere between shy and sly and she had a hard time forcing herself not to react to it. He was watching her and she caught a flicker of his eyes as he tried not to let his gaze wander over her body. She fought back the knowing smile that tugged at her lips and moved to leave.

"Anything new in the outside world, luv?"

She paused again to reply to his question. This sort of exchange had become so customary that it had ceased putting her guard up by the third day. "Aside from the aliens that landed and took over world politics? Not a thing."

"Aliens, eh? That actually might be an improvement." Russell chuckled softly, then his expression turned serious.

"Any word on negotiations?" He was certain that by now someone from Slone-Eastham Securities would be hard at work, acting on his behalf to gain his freedom. The problem was, with his knowledge of K&R techniques, he also knew that the process of bargaining could take a while. Weeks, perhaps even months. Although they weren't abusing or torturing him in any way, the fact that no one had come in to photograph him or make any other attempt to provide any of the "proof of life" evidence that was usually demanded was starting to make him nervous. 

"I'm sure that your people are looking after your best interests." She gave him more or less the same answer every time, her way of telling him that there was nothing she could tell him. Mel's hand rested lightly on the door latch, but the speculative tilt of his head as he gazed at a spot somewhere just above her head indicated that there was another question coming. "Yes, Mr. Crowe?" she asked, prodding him a little impatiently to get on with it. Her own supper was waiting. Not only that, but the sooner she got away from this man and his incredible charisma, the safer she would feel.

"Oh." His eyes came back to her with a small shrug. "I was just, y'know, ah… wondering. I mean, not that I'm ungrateful to have both ears and all my fingers and toes." He forced a small smile while wiggling his bare toes at her. "But shouldn't they have, um, y'know,  asked for some sort of proof by now?"

For just a moment the fear and worry in his heart showed through his eyes, and Mel's own heart went out to him. She bit her lip hard to force the feeling back. A response like that was antithetical to every bit of training and field experience she'd ever had. She pulled hard on her reserves and met his question with her most professional and detached tone. "No proof is needed, Mr. Crowe."

Russell blinked hard at her flat and impassive response. For a long moment his eyes searched hers, seeking if not some form of reassurance, at least a shred of the fondness or warmth she had shown him during their late night liaisons. His lips flattened unhappily as none was found. He cleared his throat and looked away, stroking his full beard for comfort as he tried not to let his emotions well up to choke him.

Mel fought back the desire to speak again, to smile or wink or find some other small way to ease his fear and distress. He was supposed to suffer, dammit! This wasn't a vacation at some luxury spa, and no amount of sexy dreams or fantasizing was going to change that. Despite any feelings that she might have for him, in the end, she was simply the woman who came in to feed and care for him until such time as someone from The Organization called to tell her otherwise.

Without another word, she left him to his own thoughts, hoping that he would at least manage to eat while the food she'd made with extra care to please him would still be hot.

*

Despite Nick's repeated compliments on her cooking and attempts to make her smile, Mel found his presence during their shared evening meal a bit trying. Although the two made an excellent team and had actually become fairly good friends over the years of working together, tonight she found his bids to engage her attention an unwelcome distraction. Her mind was too busy trying to solve the problem of what to do about her recent indiscretions and the resultant emotions they were stirring up.

"You're really off in the ozone tonight, Mel." Nick studied her face as her expression changed and her mind came back from whatever it was that had been gnawing at her since she'd come back from taking the actor his supper. "Is everything okay?"

"Thanks, Nick." She sighed then managed to produce a small smile that they both knew her heart wasn't really in. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" He watched as she got up to gather their plates onto the cart. "I'm not that tired," he offered. "I could stay and talk a while if you want."

"Really, it's okay." Mel shot him a slightly brighter smile over her shoulder as she moved to wash her hands in the small sink by the break area. "Go on and get outta here. Go get some rest."

Her tone combined with the smile reassured him a little, but Nick couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was something wrong. Something was bothering Melody more than she wanted to let on, and in that moment, she was once again more woman than partner to him, and he had a hard time fighting off the urge to take her in his arms and comfort her.

"What's that look?" she chuckled, ruffling his short sandy hair as she moved to the console and took her seat in front of the monitor. Crowe had moved to the table and was picking at his meal. He'd eaten the prawns but was mostly just stirring the pasta around on his plate listlessly. As she watched, he set the plastic fork aside, pushed his plate back and picked up a cigarette, his brows pinching hard in thought as he stared at the blank wall of his cell.

"What look?" Nick repeated, coming up behind Mel to see what had distracted her. All he saw was Crowe's image on the screen, seated at the table, smoking,

"Oh." Melody's eyes shot up to her partner. For a split second she looked like a girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar, but then she grinned at him and the feeling passed. "It was nothing. Just a funny expression you had."

She pushed up from the chair, moving back to the counter to make a fresh pot of coffee, putting a little breathing room between them. For a moment there, she'd thought Nick might be onto her, but that was probably just her guilty conscience. She needed some time to think, to regain her perspective, and she wasn't going to get it with him hanging around watching over her shoulder.

She got the pot brewing then turned to shoo him off with a grin. "Go on, go do your thing, Nick, I've got Russell under control."

"Okay." He moved to the door with a shrug, but something was tugging at him again. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but his uneasy feelings were on the rise again. Perhaps it was the endless hours spent monitoring a man who wasn't going anywhere, or maybe it was just that he seemed to be feeling especially vulnerable about his hidden feelings for her. Whatever it was, Nick wasn't going to find the answer watching Mel make coffee. More than likely a good workout and a hot shower would do the trick.

Grabbing the handle for the food cart, he headed for the door. "Night, Mel." He paused to smile fondly back at her. "Thanks for the pasta. It was delicious, a real treat, even if Crowe didn't seem to think so." He nodded towards the man on the monitor and flashed her a reassuring smile.

"Thanks, Nick," she smiled genuinely at the compliment. "Sleep well."

"Will do." With a nod, he pushed the cart out into the hall and let the door fall closed behind him, waiting to hear her engage the lock before stepping away.

*

Russell's mind continued to wrestle over the puzzle of the woman's cryptic remark as he dumped the uneaten remains of his dinner down the toilet and rinsed his dishes.

No proof is needed, Mr. Crowe.

Now what in the fuck had she meant by that, he asked himself for the hundredth time. Did it mean that they had already been offered irrefutable evidence that he was in their possession? Perhaps an observation tape? He was fairly certain that they were watching him round the clock, hence the need to keep the light on 24/7.  Or …did it mean that negotiations were breaking down and the chances of him being delivered healthy and breathing to his family and friends were such that it didn't matter?

He washed his face, then sighed as he ran his wet hands back through his hair, finger-combing out the threat of tangles as he did several times a day. It occurred to him that the first answer would have been easy enough for her to give him and the second he didn't want to hear anyway.

Suddenly the possibility that he might not get out of this alive became all too real and he had to grab onto the sides of the sink as his knees threatened to give way.

"Steady, mate, steady on," he told himself aloud, as much to hear a friendly voice as anything.

He closed his eyes and tried to stop his legs from shaking, but instead of the serenity he was seeking, his anger began to rise, and spurred on by feelings of helplessness and the loss of control over his life, it quickly turned to full blown rage.

He whirled from the sink and kicked out at the plastic chair with the heel of his bare foot, sending it skidding across the smooth floor. Finding little satisfaction in that, he picked up the table and threw it as hard as it could. It made a loud sound as it hit the wall, but the molded plastic did not break. It clattered as it fell to the floor with its legs sticking straight up, like a tortoise that had fallen on its back. The last chair, the one he never used, he picked up by the back and slammed repeatedly against the wall until one of the plastic legs finally cracked. Once it was ruined, he tossed it away to bounce once before coming to rest in the corner near the door.

He roared as he charged the bed, ready to do his worst on that as well, but his legs tangled in the chain and he fell against the mattress, giving his thigh a good bang against the metal frame on the way down.

Hurt and feeling defeated by even the simple inanimate objects around him, he sank to the floor, head in hands. His powerful body shuddered as he pulled in deep ragged breaths to ward off the tears that wanted desperately to choke him and drag him down that final dark tunnel into hopeless despair.

After what seemed like a very long time, he raised his head again and sniffed hard, but his cheeks were dry. At least he could control that much. He crawled on hands and knees over to where the evening's ciggies had fallen when he'd grabbed the table, found one that was unbroken, straightened it between shaking fingers, found a match and lit up. It took two long hard healthy drags before he trusted his legs to be strong enough to carry him back to the bed, and he limped a little as he shuffled over to lie down.

He stared at the ceiling as he smoked, his blue-green eyes dull and unfocused, simply flicking ash over the side onto the bare concrete floor. For the moment, at least, he was beyond caring.

He felt like a hollow shell where a man had once been.

*

Tears rolled freely down Melody's cheeks as she watched Russell wreak havoc on the simple furnishings of his cell. As much as her heart was breaking for him, it was also breaking for herself.

As she watched the man's fear and frustration turn to rage, she had come to understand that she was just as much a prisoner as he was.

She was a prisoner of her job, of the lifestyle she'd chosen, of the memories of the things she'd seen and done over the course of her five years with The Organization. And the worst part of all was the fact that, while Crowe was simply a victim of his own celebrity status, she had walked into her imprisonment freely. She was both jailer and captive and thus the keys to her own freedom were in her own hand …if only she dared to use them.

*

Russell was asleep when she came to him that night.

Closing the door, making sure that it locked behind her, she moved silently to the bed where his manacled foot dangled over the side, peeking out from under the blanket, making him seen somehow even more vulnerable and exposed.

She knelt by the side of the bed and watched him sleep for several long moments. His long dark lashes rested lightly on his flushed cheeks, his lips were parted slightly and she could hear his soft breathing in time to the rise and fall of his chest. He seemed so peaceful after his earlier savage outburst that, despite the full dark beard covering the lower portion of his face and neck, he looked for all the world like a little boy who had worn himself out.

Mel smiled and ran her fingers into the curls that had fallen across his forehead, brushing his hair back gently. "Russell …."

He started, jerking awake quickly, his arms coming up protectively across his chest even before his eyes opened, blinking several times and then finally focusing in on her. He licked at his dry lips and cleared his throat before speaking.

"Heya, luv." A small smile surfaced on his lips as his eyes moved over her face. "You came back."

"Yeah, well…" Mel's tone was soft as she stroked the hair at his temple. "I don’t think I'll be seeing you again after tonight, and I wanted to say goodbye."

Russell swallowed hard at that and folded back his lips, gnawing on the lower one a little. "Should I ask why not? Or is it better that I not know?" His eyes grew large and trusting on hers. If she felt he was better off not knowing, he wouldn't press it.

"I really can't talk about it." Her eyes filled with sympathy. The less he knew at this point, the better. Her fingers came down to stroke his furry cheek and his eyes slipped closed.

"I sorta made a mess of things, luv."

"Yeah, I know. It's okay." She ran a finger over the curve of his lips, tracing their perfect shape. It occurred to her that lips that pretty and perfect seemed out of place in such a masculine face. "I understand."

"Okay." He nodded once then sighed and opened his eyes, forcing a smile he didn't really feel into them. "Well, reckon if you're here to say goodbye…" He rolled over onto his back and obediently placed both hands on the cool smooth metal of the bedhead, offering his bare wrists up to her.

She didn't think it was possible, but the simple trusting look he gave her melted whatever was left of her heart. She wanted so badly to be able to say and do the things that would give him comfort and assurance, but couldn't. Instead, she offered him the only thing she had that was hers to give …. 

Her trust.

Mel moved up onto the bed beside him and gently pulled his arms down from where they stretched above his head, wrapping them around her as she curled against his body.

After a moment of surprise, his arms molded around her, pulling her in against his chest and holding her protectively as though even here and now he had the ability to keep the evils of the world at bay.

They lay that way for a long time, like two orphans finding shelter in each other's arms. Neither spoke. There was no need.

Eventually his breathing smoothed and evened out and so did hers. The simple feeling of being held was like a cure for all the pain in both their hearts, and when he reached down and lifted her chin, bringing her lips gently against his own, Melody felt the rest of the world slip away, taking her troubles with it.

Russell's hand slipped down to cradle her jaw, his lips taking hers by slow deliberate mouthfuls, first the lower lip, then the one above, finally allowing the kiss to encompass her fully as his hunger began to build. She sighed and her lips parted to allow his tongue in to explore her mouth as her fingers rubbed his chest through the soft material of his T-shirt.

He rolled onto his side, facing her, bringing their bodies into fuller contact. The only sound in the small room was that of their breathing and their lips meeting as his tongue began to gently plunder her mouth, his jaw rocking in time to the beat of the kiss as it deepened.

Mel sighed against his lips as his hand slipped down to trace the curves of her body, slowly exploring her by touch alone. Muted sounds of pleasure rose from the back of her throat as his fingers slipped up under her shirt, his big hand warm against her flesh as it slowly made it’s way up to slip into her bra, reaching inside the cup to cradle her breast. Strong fingers kneaded and rolled, finally releasing the soft mound from the fabric that held it.

She moved willingly as he rolled her onto her back, stripping off her top along the way, reaching behind her to loosen her bra, letting that fall away, too.  When she was bare from the waist up, his mouth and hands began to explore her, stroking and kissing and licking as he mapped her enjoyment with his touch.

“Mmmm, “ she sighed through a smile as his beard tickled against her skin. One hand slipped down the collar of his T-shirt to stroke his back. The fingers of her free hand wove into his soft dark unruly curls, tightening a little as he pulled one of her nipples into his mouth and began to nurse and suck. “Oh god, that feels so good!” she gasped, pressing her shoulders back as her breasts arched to the attentions of his mouth. He responded by sucking harder, rolling the hard nub of flesh between his lips, tugging just hard enough to make her gasp, letting go at the very moment where sharp pleasure would have become unbearable pain.

Russell paused just long enough to strip off his T-shirt, then moved over her again, blocking out all thoughts of where and who they were, intent only on the giving and receiving of pleasure, concentrating only on the now, this woman, this feeling, this moment.

He reveled in every sound she made as he explored her body, stroking his furry face over her sensitive flesh, pausing to taste this, knead that, nibble the other.

He moved down the bed, kneeling at her feet to pull off her boots and socks and then her jeans, stealing glances up to where her heated gaze burned on him with a passion he’d always suspected she’d possessed, but never believed he’d have the chance to explore and enjoy.

Mel pressed her thighs together in a moment of uncertainty as he reached for the elastic on her hips to draw down her panties. The look of smoldering almost amused invitation he gave her, one brow cocked high over dancing eyes and a mocking curl of the lips sent all thoughts of resistance flying. His smile deepened as he drew off the last of her clothing, revealing a tidy patch of soft dark curls, then dropped her panties over the side with the rest of her things.

“My, my, my darlin’, look at you…” Russell licked his lips, letting his eyes travel slowly up her nude body. Everything he’d suspected about her was true. She was an incredible combination of curves and taut strength, her soft pale flesh stretched over shapely limbs sculpted of sinuous muscle.  Her long legs ended just below the swell of her hips, which in turn led to the narrow valley of her waist. Her breasts were round, sized perfectly to fit into his palms and tipped with rosy-tan nipples that he had licked and sucked to a throbbing tightness. “Beauty.”

She felt her cheeks flush slightly at the compliment, and the blush deepened as he lifted her foot in the palm of his large hand and brushed a tickly kiss across her sole. Her lower body wriggled as he ran his tongue across the underside of her toes, finally taking the largest one into his mouth and sucking rhythmically as he’d done to her tongue and then her nipples only moments before.

Letting go of her foot, he made his way up between her legs, pausing to nibble at the back of one knee, taking a small nip at the tender skin of her upper thigh as his hands pressed her legs apart, exposing her moist rosy center. He paused again and his eyes rose to hers, almost as if asking for permission as his mouth poised over her mound.

Mel nodded and he took a slow wide lick, his tongue sliding between her swollen nether lips, his gaze holding hers as he lapped at her slippery nectar. She spread her legs wider for him, wanting more, and his thumbs peeled back her folds as his hungry mouth went to work on her, licking and lapping and flicking. Again and again he captured her clit between his lips, rolling and sucking, the soft bristles of his beard adding to the delicious friction as his face burrowed between her legs.

“Oh god, oh yes, oh Russell, yes…” Her pussy rocked eagerly in time to his attentions, her head thrashing against the pillow as he brought her closer and closer to the edge of release. She gasped sharply as he spread her lips taut with one hand, sucking hard tugging kisses against the throbbing nub at her center, working first one and then a second finger inside her.

His jeans were stretched over a hard-on that blossomed fully, pressing the fabric uncomfortably tight, but Russell could tell that she was close to coming, and he was determined not to stop until she did. Each cry that rose from her made him throb in anticipation.  He alternated sucking rolling tugs with hard fast flicks across the rosy bud that pulsed against his tongue while his fingers stroked into her tight hot wetness. His relentless mouth continued to demand her pleasure, and he knew his reward was close when he felt her bear down then buck hard as her heels dug in against the mattress.

“Oh god, oh god, oh fuck, oh god, I’m gonna come!”

“Enough, enough…oh, god, baby, if you don’t stop, I’ll die,” Mel panted, pulling at his curls until his face came away. He sat back, grinning up at her and she managed a gasping smile in return as her body continued to twitch with tiny aftershocks.

Russell pushed back to kneel between her still quivering legs, revealing the shape of his hard-on etched under the tight fabric of his jeans. His hands moved to the fly seeking release from his denim prison and she sat up to help, nuzzling lightly at the soft trail of golden fur low on his belly as she slid down the zipper and peeled his jeans away.

She pulled the fabric down carefully over the deep purple bruise that had raised on his thigh from where he’d fallen earlier, pausing to press a light kiss over the dark swelling. Then she pushed his jeans down as low as she could manage, going back for his briefs and doing the same, marveling again at the thick perfection of his hard swollen cock as it bounced free.

Keeping her eyes on his, Mel cupped his heavy balls in one hand, using her grasp to guide his velvety sculpted head between her lips. His stomach contracted tightly as she ran her tongue over his dimpled knob, sucking and bobbing and making him gasp.

One hand rested lightly on the back of her head, the other he used to brush back her soft hair, which was tickling him and making it hard to see her mouth on his bolt. He watched for as long as he could, panting and biting his lip. When her free hand wrapped around him to stroke and pull in time to her sucking, his head fell back between his shoulders with a low moan.

A moment later, Russell reached down and stroked her cheek lightly, signaling her to stop. She came off him with a wet sound, licking at a smile as her eyes rose to his again. “Jesus, I wanna be inside you so fuckin’ bad, luv, I can’t wait another minute.”

He pushed her back on the bed, braced over her, stealing another deep hungry kiss, the musky taste of her own nectar mixing in from where it still clung to his lips and beard as he plundered her mouth. Sliding a hand under her thigh, her positioned her hips beneath him as he settled between her legs.

Mel braced her hands on his shoulders as his cock rubbed into the slick cleft between her legs, hooking one leg high over his ass as he began to press into her. Her breath caught briefly at the back of her throat as his flared head crowned inside her, stretching her entry wide. She wrapped an arm around his neck and arched her body hard, welcoming his thickness, opening to him as his broad cock impaled her tight pussy.

“Hooooh ffffuuuck yehhhhh…” Russell’s voice purred low and husky, rich with pleasure as he sank down into her snug warm grasp. Her muscles, still fluttering from her earlier release, stroked and clutched and spasmed around him. He loved the way she arched up to meet him, drawing him in as though starved for the feel.

“Oh Jesus, you’re huge,” she gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as her body slowly widened to accept him. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been filled so tightly or so well and it wasn’t long before Mel was undulating beneath him greedily in time to his thrusting.

He slid a hand under her ass, kneading and grasping, guiding his deep smooth strokes as he plunged into her over and over again. “Oh, god, luv, y’feel so fuckin’ good,” he murmured as his mouth roved over her flesh, kissing here, tasting there, first rough, now gentle, watching her expressions change, wanting to experience every bit of her, wanting the sight, sound, feel and taste of her to fill his senses.

Russell was a masterful, knowing lover, aiming his thrusts at angles that soon had Mel writhing and clawing at him as warm waves of pleasure rippled up from her toes, spreading throughout her body, wrapping her in ecstasy. She clung tightly to him, her hands grasping his ass, pulling him in deeper as she began to struggle in the grips of her climax.

“Yeh, luv,“ he crooned, purring encouragement in her ear as her nails dug into his flesh. “Mmm, that’s it, god, you’re so beautiful, yehhh, baby, so good, so good, do it,  come for me darlin’, yehhh…”

Just as the quakes within her began to subside, Russell reared up, grinding his hips against her with harder faster thrusts as he began to mine in earnest for his own orgasm.

“Yes, Russell, yes baby,” Mel reached up to smooth back his damp curls, reading the birth of his pleasure as it began to overwhelm him. His handsome features winced in ecstasy, his face pulled tight as rough low moans rose in a gathering crescendo deep in his chest. “Let it go…”

“Ah god, fuck luv, yehhh ….. fuck!” Russell’s body arched hard, pulled tight like a bowstring, his head thrown back with an expression of pure bliss as he barked out a final gasp, then he was bucking erratically as his seed pulsed in warm bursts accompanied by his soft deep grunts of pleasure.

“Oh yeah, oh baby, yeah, so good…” Her arms pulled him down to her, laying his head to nestle in the curve of her neck as the sound of their rough breathing filled the room.

Mel’s fingers stroked his hair and flushed skin as he rested against and inside of her, bringing him down gently with soft touches and even softer words. For just a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to love a man like this, and to allow herself to be loved in return. "Russell,” she whispered, “sweet, sweet Russell …. You are such a dangerous man.”

*

Nick’s mind worried at his feeling of unease like a dog unwilling to give up a favorite toy, gnawing and tugging as he moved through his workout. He replayed the events of the last few days, reran conversations, trying to figure out what it was that had tripped the alarm that refused to quit sounding in his brain.

He was doing his final cardio round, his thoughts beating in time to the pounding of his feet on the treadmill’s endless rubber ramp. Thump-thump, thump-thump, like a heart- beat, thump-thump, like the rhythm of a song he couldn’t quite place, chasing it’s own tail through his memory.

He focused his gaze on the middle distance before him, listening to the two syllable thud of his footfalls as he let his mind out like a kite string, allowing it to soar unfettered, reeling it out like fishing line, hoping that it might hook the answer.

Nick replayed the last of their conversation tonight over and over again… What was it Mel had said? Something just as he was leaving had set him off, making him wonder.

“I've got Russell under control…”

Thump-thump. Russ-ell. Thump-thump. Russ-ell.

Realization hit Nick like a truck, throwing him off stride to the extent that he had to jump off the treadmill or risk being tossed. Suddenly it all made sense, the actor’s mellow obedience, Mel’s recent guarded distance and evasive moods… all summed up in one moment of clarity like a flash of lightening.

They never but never referred to a charge by his or her first name. The first rule in situations like this was maintain your distance and don’t get personally involved.

“Shit!” Grabbing his towel and key ring off the vertical climber, Nick raced back to the control room, both knowing and afraid of what he might find.

*

Mel slipped out of bed while Russell slept. It just seemed better that way. No questions,  no long goodbyes, no need to lie. Just a last tender kiss pressed lightly against his forehead as she was dressed and leaving. His lashes fluttered but he didn’t awaken. He only murmured and curled up to roll into the warm space on the bed she’d left behind.

She engaged the locks and bolt, closing him in, then paused a moment with her head leaning against the door, willing herself to find the courage to do what she needed to do, to walk away … from this man, from this job, from all of it.

“Goodbye, Russell Crowe,” she whispered, brushing at a single tear as she forced her tired legs to carry her back to the control room. Instead of thinking of the man she was leaving behind, she forced herself to imagine the new life she was moving towards.

She was looking forward to the freedom of the dawn, which was now just an hour or so away.

Lost as she was in thought, Mel failed to notice that the door to the control room was unlocked. It wasn’t until she stepped inside and saw Nick staring at the monitor with an expression of shocked betrayal that she realized she wasn’t going to get away quite as easily as she had hoped.

“Nick?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought –“

“You thought what?” he seethed, eyes blazing like hard fiery coals.

“How long have you been here?” She took in Nick’s stance, the way his hands were clenching and unclenching fists at his sides, the horror in his eyes and she knew that his reaction went deeper than simple disbelief over her breaking of the rules. On some level her transgression was hitting him personally.

“Long enough.” He pointed to the screen. “I saw you, Mel…” His voice turned thick, emotion choked.

“Nick, please…”

“I saw you!”  he roared.

Melody took a step back, suddenly afraid to be alone with him in the small room. The look in Nick’s eyes was wild, as though he’d lost his ability to hear her small attempts at reason.

“I saw you… fucking… him! … How could you?” His eyes turned pleading on hers as if begging her to offer up an explanation that would prevent his heart from breaking any further.

“Nick… I screwed up, you’re right, and I have no excuse for it.” She forced her tone to sound just as calm and in control as she could make it, not wanting to feed his mounting rage. “It was wrong, I know.” Mel ran a hand back through her tangled curls. “I’ve entirely lost my detachment on this case, and behaved unprofessionally ...which is why I’m leaving.”

“No!” The word ripped from Nick’s throat like a howl of pain. “No, you can’t!”

“Honestly Nick, it’s all I can think of to do.” She waved at the monitor. “If you saw any of it, you know I’ve compromised myself. I’m no good to The Organization anymore.”

Nick took a step towards her. His eyes were pleading. “Don’t go Mel. We’ll explain to The Organization, I’ll help you. You just need a break, some time away to -”

“Nick, please,” Mel shook her head. “This isn’t just about Crowe. It isn’t that simple.” Now that he had calmed down, she thought that there might just be a chance to explain it to him. “If I stay here, what kind of life will I have? I want more than this, and if I stay, there’s no chance I'll ever get it.” A soft sad smile curled her lips and touched her eyes. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but I need to unlearn how to be an operative and relearn how to be a woman. I need to learn how to be loved.”

“Mel, listen to me ….” He stepped forward grasping her hand in his. The moment had come to make a decision, to risk it all or live forever with the knowledge that he had let her slip away. “I do understand. Everything you want …everything you need is right here.”

“What?” She stared at him in disbelief. “What are you saying?”

“I’m in love with you, Mel." Now that the floodgates were open, Nick found himself unable to keep back the feelings that had threatened to overwhelm him for the past several months. “I wake up thinking about you and I dream about you at night. If you go, I want to go with you …just give me a chance, Mel, please.”

She pulled her hand from his grasp as though his touch burned. Suddenly Mel’s head was swimming in confusion and nothing made sense anymore. She pressed her fingers to her forehead. “I …I can’t, Nick …I …,” she blew out a long breath. “I need to go. Right now. “ She backed out the door. “I’m sorry, Nick.”

And then she was gone.

*

Russell sat on the edge of his bed, smoking. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him. After all, wasn’t it traditional to offer a condemned man a last cigarette?

He heard the bolt being thrown and the locks turning in the door and his stomach clenched. He swallowed hard, steeling himself for what was to come. Would they do it in here, he wondered, or would they take him outside? He hoped for the latter, at least then he’d get one last breath of fresh air, one last look at the sky.

He pulled a slow deep drag, eyes closed as he pictured the faces of those he loved and would miss …his Mum and Dad, Terry and Mark, Dean and Niccie, sweet little Chelsea, his horses and dogs, and …. And in that moment he knew that heroes who died stoically were bullshit, complete literary fabrications, Hollywood make-believe, and that he would beg for his life when the time came to do so.

He heard the door open and tilted his head to see which of them had come for them.

His jaw dropped in amazement when he saw who was standing there. He had to blink twice before he could believe that what he was seeing wasn’t simply a product of wishful thinking as Mark Dumbrell, walking with a slight limp, his arm held against his chest in a sling, stepped into the cell.

“Mark?” the actor jumped up and rushed to his greet his friend, grabbing him as soon as he was in range of his tether. “Thank Christ you’ve come! Mate, you’ve got to get me out of here!”

Dumbrell grunted softly in pain as Russell embraced him, proving, if any further proof was needed, that he was real enough. “Easy there, mate,” he protested lightly, but he seemed equally happy and relieved to see Crowe in one piece.

“Mr. Crowe?”

Russell let go of Mark and looked up to see Special Agent Hiatt stepping into the chamber behind his friend. Another man was there, too, one who looked hauntingly familiar. He had a mane of curling chestnut hair and a full beard, and he was wearing Russell’s favorite blue suit, though there was a new tear on the lapel and the sleeve was stained with something dark that looked like motor oil or maybe dried blood.

“Fuck me swinging,” he managed and his suit and sunglasses wearing Doppleganger grinned. That was the last thing he remembered as the room started to whirl round him, then everything went black.

*

When Russell came to again, he was lying on the bed, and there was a man standing over him who had apparently just finished checking his vitals. Mark was sitting on the undamaged plastic chair while Hiatt and the actor’s double hovered near the door.

“He’ll be fine,” the doctor pronounced. “He’s been under some stress, but he’s strong and healthy. Give him a few days in his normal environment and he’ll be up and running in no time.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Agent Hiatt turned to see the man out.

“Mark?” Russell sat up and swung his legs off the bed. The ankle cuff was gone and as a result, his leg felt too light. Freedom was his again, but it was going to take a bit of getting used to.

“Hey, mate, how ya goin’?” Dumbrell grinned at him a little sheepishly from his seat at the table, which had likewise been righted during the time that the actor had been out.

“Mr. Crowe, you’re back with us, I see.” The FBI agent had returned. He was walking over to where Russell sat and he was smiling. “I suppose you’d like an explanation.”

*

In the end, they sat him down in a small dining room off the bunker’s kitchen, made him a strong cup of tea and explained everything.

Agent Hiatt did most of the talking, leaving Russell to smoke and Mark to squirm. "Mr. Crowe, you've just spent the past twelve days in the maximum security care of a private firm known as The Organization."

"Maximum what?" the actor pulled a hard agitated drag, glaring at the agent. "Care, y'call it? Fuck you! I've been locked in a fuckin' bare bones cell, mate. That's not care, that's fuckin' false imprisonment. I'll have your fuckin' head on a platter."

"Actually, the FBI was not the responsible party, Mr. Dumbrell here -"

Crowe turned his angry gaze on Mark who cringed and looked away, picking at a loose thread on the side of his sling. "Mark? You?" The betrayal in his voice nearly outweighed the rage.

"Mr. Crowe, if you'll let me finish." Hiatt was on guard, ready to stop the actor who appeared on the verge of leaping over the table and throttling his Chief of Staff. "As one of our agents discovered in the course of reviewing your case, you gave Mr. Dumbrell Power of Attorney last year just before you had shoulder surgery. I can assure you, he was well within his legal rights to do whatever was deemed necessary to best protect you. And to both your benefit and his own, he made a very wise choice."

Russell scowled and drew another hard drag, tapping the cigarette against the lip of the ashtray with sharp flicks that nearly sent the lit tip flying. His eyes ate into his friend until the man was forced to look up. "Russell, hear the man out. There's a lot you don't know yet. If you're not satisfied at the end, I'll resign, you can sue me, whatever, mate, but wait till you've heard all of it."

"Fine." With a look of hurt and disgust etched deep into his handsome features, the actor turned his attention back to the FBI agent. "Let's hear it," he demanded gruffly.

"As I told you when you visited my office, this current threat was very real," the agent went on. His tone was calm but not patronizing. He needed to bring the details to light in a way that would allow this man to understand that, despite any inconvenience he'd been through, it had all been in his best interest. "After you were safely ensconced here, Mr. Dumbrell worked with us to help flush the kidnappers out. Agent Reynard over there," Hiatt paused to nod towards Russell's double, who up close and without the sunglasses had only a fair resemblance to the actor, "was used as bait and to keep up appearances."

Crowe kept his eyes on his own hands as he lit a fresh smoke off the butt of the one he'd been smoking. He didn't trust himself to be able to look at any of them at this point, but he was listening.

"Late last night, this new group, the Bel Air Six, finally made an attempt at a grab," Hiatt went on. "Your friend, Mr. Dumbrell, here, was very brave. He reacted as if they'd actually made an attempt on you and took a hit in the process. " He watched as the actor shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Is that what happened to your arm?" Russell's brows knit in concern as his eyes studied the uneasy face of the man across the table. "They shot you?"

"I was just grazed, really," Mark shrugged his good arm with typical off-handed understatement. "No major arteries, barely nicked the bone."

Dropping his cigarette into the bowl with a heavy sigh, Russell ran both hands back through his long curls. He closed his eyes as his fingers lowered to rub at his thick beard, thinking very hard on all of this. When he opened them again, he was focused on his friend and there was deep caring there along with something that very much resembled gratitude and admiration. "Jesus, mate."

"Yeah, well." The stocky man shrugged his good shoulder again. "Shit happens. We always knew it might get ugly." He finally managed to pull out the loose thread, rubbed it into a tiny ball between his fingers and dropped it on the table. "I'm just glad you were out of harm's way when it went down."

"Why didn't you just tell me?" The actor picked up his tea and took a cautious sip. "Why lock me up like this?" His questions were now all aimed towards Mark. It was as if the others in the room had temporarily ceased to exist.

"Would you have stayed put if we did?"

"No, " Russell admitted with the hint of a wry grin tugging at his lips and eyes. "Reckon not."

"I didn't think so," Mark nodded and a silent understanding passed between the two men, one born of years of working closely together and getting to a point where sometimes words simply weren't needed. "Reckon next time you might, though."

"As unpleasant as your time here may have been, Mr. Crowe, I'd like to point out that you would have been a lot more uncomfortable had you actually been kidnapped," Agent Hiatt pointed out. "As it was, you were very well looked after and -"

Crowe turned on him with eyes the color of polar ice narrowed into a laser sharp glare. While Dumbrell's bravery might have gotten him off the hook, Hiatt had clearly become an enemy of sorts in the actor's mind. "What the fuck is that supposed t'be? Some kinda fuckin' lesson?" He pushed back in his chair, the legs squealing against the linoleum with a harsh scraping sound. His fists were now hard angry balls that looked ready to strike.

Despite his injuries, Mark was up and on his feet a split second later, placing a steadying hand on Russell's chest as he stepped between the two men. "Russell. Don't."

For a long moment, Russell stood there, fighting his rage, his lip curled into a nasty sneer, eyes hard and narrowed as he stared Hiatt down. He didn't even register Reynard, who had likewise stepped into place behind the senior agent. "Alright," he snapped finally and took a step back. "I'm fine, mate, leave off."

But Mark wasn't to be dissuaded so easily. As the man in the middle and the one who knew Crowe best, he understood that it was up to him to break the nasty tension that had flooded the room like a combination of pre-storm static and choking weight. His eyes turned thoughtful as he prodded the actor's chest. "Have you been working out?"

Russell looked at him, blinked hard and then his eyes widened a little as he tried not to laugh. "Fuck yourself, y' cunt."

"Nice," Dumbrell chuckled, turning him loose as the threat of danger passed them by. "Y'mind if I take a rain-check till I can use both hands?"

Crowe just shook his head. How could he stay angry with a friend who was willing to take a bullet for him? He chuckled softly, then sighed. "Alright, look. I just want to know one thing."

"Yes, Mr. Crowe?" Agent Hiatt was only too eager to wrap things up and sign off this case. Permanently.

"Which one of you cunts has my fuckin' Radomir?"

*

"OSCAR WINNER FOILS KIDNAP ATTEMPT"

The tabloids made a big fuss over the latest attempt to kidnap Russell Crowe. Since both the attack and resulting two mile car chase had happened in the middle of Manhattan, there was little he could do to stop the stories. Blurry photos of Agent Reynard were published, but identified as the actor himself, and the FBI asked him not to contradict the reports. He and Mark knocked their brains together and came up with a story to tell on the chat shows that clamored for the "brave duo" to appear, and for a couple of weeks, Mark attained his own celebrity status.

By the time Jennifer Lopez upstaged them by announcing a New Years Eve concert for the American troops who were about to ship off to Afghanistan, both men were ready for the public to forget all about their misadventure. Mark was even starting to grumble that soon he'd be needing a bodyguard of his own.

They flew to LA to attend the premiere of Russell's new film and hold a general press conference the next day. The actor snapped "What's that got to do with the film?" at a reporter who made the mistake of asking about the kidnapping attempt, and the subject was finally brought to rest.  The next morning, they promptly loaded into Crowe's leased jet and flew home for the holidays.

*

For the first two weeks after being released, Russell was haunted by thoughts of the woman. She even appeared several times in his dreams, always as a benign figure, once even in a dream of a sexual nature. Try as he might, he just couldn't seem to get her out of his mind.

He would have gone looking for her, if he'd known where to look. He wasn't sure what he wanted …an explanation? An apology? Or simply to tell her that in thirty-seven years and as many women, she was the one he couldn't quite shake.

Before they'd left New York, he had made Mark take him round to the blonde woman's penthouse, the one he'd been taken from. When he finally convinced the Super to let them in for a look, the place had been just as he'd suspected. Empty. Not even a scrap of paper to go on. He suspected that even if they had been able to find the bunker where he'd been held, it would have been the same. Cold, dark and empty.

He rang The Organization only to find that the number on the card Mark had been given by Agent Hiatt was now disconnected. No forwarding number. Yet another dead end.

"Give it up, mate," Mark told him, always with that same wary look in his eyes. He'd gotten enough of Russell's side of the story to understand that the actor had formed some sort of bond with his captor, but didn't like the way his friend was obsessing over a woman who was essentially a phantom.

But in his heart, Russell knew she was as real as he was. For one thing, he'd caught a glimpse of her at the premiere, standing back in the crowd, watching him. He'd caught her eye a moment while talking to a reporter and his brain had stopped, forcing him to need to both look away and ask the journo to repeat the question. When he'd scanned the crowd again a moment later, she'd been gone.

His thoughts continued to return to the woman on and off over the next few months, wondering where she'd gone, what had happened to her when the detail had ended. In looking over the final report The Organization had sent, postmarked from an anonymous PO Box in Jersey City, he'd tried to read between the lines, looking for some clue of her. All he got was her first name. Melody. That and the fact that she had applied for a leave of absence the day he had been returned to his normal life.

*       

Over the course of the next year, he began to catch glimpses of her here and there. Always in crowds, always too far away to reach. Once in Paris. Twice in London. She seemed to like New York almost as much as he did, he saw her four times there. He finally lost count of the number of sightings in Sydney.

The first few times, he'd tried to get to her, waved or called out. Once he even sent Mark dashing across four lanes of Midtown traffic trying to reach her. Soon enough he learned, though. The moment he moved towards her, broke eye contact or looked away, she'd be gone.

While she might want to be seen, she didn't want to be found.

After a while, he stopped pointing her out to Mark, or even trying to reach her. He'd simply hold her eyes with his and let the moment be their own until finally he'd be forced to blink, something would momentarily obscure his vision or someone would call his attention away. When he looked back, she'd be gone.

The first time he'd thought it was simply wishful thinking, his mind playing tricks on him. It just looks like her, he told himself. And then those glittering green eyes had locked on his, and he just knew.

From that point on, Russell never had any doubt that it was her. Melody. Every time their eyes met, little sparks went off in his belly. After a while, he became convinced that she wanted him to see her. To let him know she was there, keeping an eye on him like some sort of guardian angel doing penance for her past.

*

Time passed ….

Russell wrote a screenplay based on his experience, changing the ending so that no one would suspect the truth. He tossed in a love triangle for good measure, one that had the female operative caught between the two men, co worker and captive Rock Star. This added a spark of tension and the final draft had the male operative cracking mental and chasing the woman and the rock star through a labyrinthine network of underground tunnels, hell bent on revenge for their perceived betrayal. In the end, of course, the couple survived to live and love another day. The last shot had them sharing a kiss as the day broke in glorious reds and pinks and oranges around them, finally silhouetting them as they limped off hand in hand while the credits scrolled.

It took him three months to negotiate a deal that would allow him to direct "The Dangerous Man." He hadn't wanted to star in the film, preferring the freedom to concentrate on his directorial debut, but the backers were adamant. If Russell Crowe was making a film with their money, they wanted a Russell Crowe film. It wasn't such a horrible proviso. He played the Rock Star which allowed he and his longtime best mate-band mate Dean to pen four new songs, three of which made the film's CD soundtrack. "Recurring Melody", the love ballad he co-wrote and recorded with Sting for the film spent two weeks hovering at the top of the charts.

It was while filming some concert sequences at a charity show in Austin that Russell had glimpsed Mel. The dirt and gravel pit of Stubbs was packed ass to elbow when, mid song, he looked out and saw her sixth row centre. Her green eyes seemed to sparkle at him with something akin to pride and his heart skipped a beat with hope that she might get caught by one of the four cameras filming the event.

Although he went over every frame of that night's footage obsessively, once again, she had managed to disappear without a trace of ever having existed.

*

"The Dangerous Man," while not a huge critical success, did well enough at the box office. A few of its harsher critics suggested that this was due to the fact that Crowe, freshly slimmed down for the role, was shirtless for a good portion of the film. Russell wrote his detractors off as "Crass fuckin' bastards", a quote that came out of a foreign press conference. It got him some laughs and well and truly steamed the American press, but in the end, it blew over. They'd come to expect it. After all, he was Russell Crowe.

*

He was posing pre-film next to co-star Sean Bean at the London premiere when Mark stepped up and quietly spoke in his ear. "Phone call."

"I'm kinda busy just now, Mark," Russell said between his teeth as he grinned and  waved at the blinding sea of flashbulbs. "Take a message?"

"It's her."

Russell shot him a look, got a solemn nod for a reply and waved once more, then turned to step into the relative quiet of the theatre. He slipped into the cinema manager's cluttered office and took the call on the mobile Mark handed him while his mate stood guard outside the door.

The first sound he heard was her laugh. It was throaty but soft, hinting at a giggle. "Nicole Kidman?" she asked, referring to the actress playing Kim, the female operative.

"Wow, I'm flattered."

"Where are you? Are you …here?" He was almost afraid to breathe.

"No, but I saw you at the premiere in New York," Mel sighed.

"I know. I saw you, too." He pulled the mobile away long enough to see the "Unknown Caller" listing, then cradled the phone to his ear, straining to catch her every breath.

"The blue shirt is good on you." Her voice sounded a little shaky. "It really brings out your eyes."

"Come see me," Russell whispered. "Or I'll come to you. Anywhere, say the word, I can be there in a day, just -"

She cut him off with the words he'd been afraid of hearing. Again. "I don’t think I'll be seeing you again, and …I wanted to say goodbye."

He closed his eyes and bit his lower lip, swallowing hard as his emotions rose up to choke him, finally managing to draw a slow steadying breath. "Melody, please …."

"Goodbye, Russell." He heard her sniffle, and then the signal cut off and the phone went dead.

*

Almost a year later, often late at night while staring at some anonymous hotel ceiling from an even more anonymous hotel bed, he'd remember tiny details about her. The smooth roll of her hips when she moved or the keen spark of her eyes. He recalled with absolute clarity both the gentleness of her touch the night she had bathed him and the warm plumpness of her lips against his own when they had kissed. He remembered, too, the sound of her voice, the curl of her smile, the taste of her skin, and even the way her gasps of pleasure had sounded, soft and feminine and enticing, just plain sexy as hell. 

Most of all, Russell remembered that she had been what had gotten him through one of the toughest times of his life. She had been his guardian angel then, too. Beyond his reach, but always watching.

His life went on. There were scripts to read, films to make, awards to accept and songs to sing. Through it all, he never quite gave up the hope that even though he had a better chance of tracking a ghost through the fog than finding her, that one day he might find Melody's proudly loving sparkling green eyes again.

There are simply some women a man is destined never to forget.

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