Beyond here there be dragons, less than pretty language, and malevolent prose. People of the same sex get frisky with other people of the same sex. Alcohol happens, what happens when alcohol happens (that's violence, if you're not familiar with the phenomenon). That said, there's nothing too graphic in here. And there's a lot of made up stuff that I didn't have time to research - that's why I'm calling it fiction.

Thanks to the finest beta reader a part-time bard could ask for. She's a rockin' beta gal. And thanks to anyone, anywhere who's had anything to do with getting and keeping the show on the air. It's been a hoot.

Creme Brulee: cremebrulee@myrealbox.com

Part 8

'Grub first, then ethics.' - Bertolt Brecht

French considered her options. She could think about the best way to get into Fry's pants in the next few hours, without disregarding her needs, or she could concentrate on how it was that Louisa's box of goodies had backfired on her. Decisions, decisions...

Fry won that contest hands down. French turned the force of her mind to plotting. She'd come up with several approaches and had to scrap them all.

Indicative of her attempts was this finely shaped piece of mental gymnastics. It hadn't taken French long to find a loophole in the social contract subclause on giving other people's feelings due regard. She reasoned that feelings were changeable, fickle things. And being sensitive to them on the whole was probably a bad idea.

Damn, she'd have to go the sensitive route until she could come up with something better, or Fry caved in to her aggressive form of desperation.

With that settled, she let the Louisa conundrum float through her mind. Louisa had to have a connection on the inside somewhere. Was it Nigel? French didn't think that was likely. That snake wouldn't have shared the information. He'd have used it himself. Someone French didn't know perhaps?

The day struggled by. French was locking up and doing rounds. Everybody had gone except Fry who was downstairs putting linens away and waiting for her to finish up. Then, French had told her, she'd take her home. The best thing she could come up with in the being sensitive to Fry's needs department was to do a condensed version of the 'getting to know you' buffer time Fry had requested. Then they could get on with it.

She was walking down from the second floor dining room when she felt a breeze. Someone had come in the side door. It didn't take her long to figure out who it was.

'Hello French, Mrs. Redmond would like a word with you.' It was Tim and a couple of Mitchell's boys. They had fanned out in the hallway.

'She can make a reservation like everybody else. Now get out of my restaurant before I kick your ass. Again.' French didn't have time for this crap, there was a woman downstairs who needed her feelings seen to.

Tim smiled, he'd hoped French would be difficult. 'She said she didn't mind if you got accidentally damaged on the way over. Just to keep the blood to a minimum because she's got a new carpet from Pakistan or something like that. So this can go either way.'

French shrugged and walked toward the three men who'd formed a 'V' type formation with Tim at the apex. She stopped six feet in front of him with his lackeys flanking her on either side. These were fit young men who looked like they'd probably broken a few bones in their time. Not their own.

They were standing in the hall in front of the kitchen door and French hoped Fry would stay put for a few more minutes. This shouldn't take longer than that. If no one pulled a gun. And the fact that no one had, indicated that these were the macho kind of guys that would have cut their own throats before admitting they needed a gun to bring her in. Lucky French.

'You know Tim, I have a hunch that no matter what I do, you're going to try to pop me one. So why don't we have at it? Or are you afraid I'll make you look bad in front of your friends?'

He was going to get the opportunity to find out. There was a noise in the kitchen and the lackey next to the door turned his head to look through the window into the room. French had positioned herself well and delivered a roundhouse kick to the side of the other guy's head on her right. She hoped it would scramble his brains long enough for her to deal with her next objective - the guy looking through the window. She came back around in time to see that he'd spun back at the sound of his comrad being bashed and he took a dive at her.

French ducked and slammed him in the gut with her shoulder. He doubled over her back, and she jibed upward viciously with her opposing elbow, catching him right in the face. The weight on her back went dead. She braced herself at the knees, because it would have been a really bad moment to strain her back. She pushed upward with all of her strength, throwing him as much as she could manage in Tim's way.

It wasn't like Tim had never seen a woman fight before. He'd been to the movies. But there was a part of his brain that couldn't accept that French had done what he'd seen her do. And even though she'd kicked him senseless a while back, he couldn't help but think that had been a freak accident. After all, he'd hit his head as he'd fallen, right? He pulled his gun.

Of course Fry chose that moment to poke her head through the kitchen door. She glanced at the bodies on the floor. She looked at Tim who was holding a gun on French. They both looked at her.

'Am I interrupting something?' she asked.

'Shut up!' Tim was feeling out of sorts.

'Fry, why don't you call it quits for tonight? I'll catch you later. Bye.'

'No, I think she stays.' Tim said. 'You get your hands where I can see them.'

French raised her hands slowly. She was standing midway between Fry and Tim. 'She's not involved. Let her go.'

'Gee French, you didn't used to care so much about your girlfriends. Could it be you've actually fallen for one of your whores?' Tim was feeling more in control. His two coworkers didn't look so good, but he was doing alright and he may even have had an insight. When he'd called the little woman a whore, they'd both flinched.

French turned slowly to look at Fry who was directly behind her. 'Get back in the kitchen.' She ordered in the most authoritarian tone she could dig up.

'You're kidding right?'

That was Fry, true to form with a question. French decided she liked consistency in a woman.

'Would you shut up and do what I tell you for once?' French gestured broadly with her arms. Her frustration and anxiety beginning to show, or so she wanted Tim to think. So that Fry wouldn't think it too, she winked at her.

'You think you say 'jump' and I'll say how high, is that it?' Fry picked up on the game plan.

'Christ are you married? Move it, I don't care what you do with the bitch, just get her to shut up and let's go.'

Too bad Tim was paying more attention to his repartee and not how French's arm lagged behind as she'd turned back to face him. If he'd been Mitchell, he might have recognized the feint. He may also have moved. As it was, he didn't and the knife that French whipped out from the back of her jacket sliced into his hand and knocked the gun out of his grasp. It stung too. 'Son of a bitch!'

French was standing a few feet from him, she stepped forward. Not only had he said three very nasty curse words in the space of two minutes, but two of them had been directed at Fry. She was surprised the sensitive woman hadn't had an attack. She'd have to take care of Tim quickly, in case he decided to curse again.

A perfectly executed windmill kick is an awesome physical display. Being on the receiving end of it sucks. Tim's head was whipped one direction then slammed in the other. He hit the wall and was out before French had regained her footing.

'God, that must've hurt!' Fry exclaimed.

'It's not so bad, I'll put some ice on it.' French noticed the blood that had stained her jacket at the elbow. The lacky's face had bled on it. The bone was kind of sore from hitting his teeth.

'Oh, your arm!' Fry noticed the blood too.

'Yeah, my arm. Don't tell me you meant Mr. Potty Mouth over there!'

'Didn't you hear that crunch?'

'Fry, the guys who're attacking us, who try to do us harm? They're the bad guys. If they get banged around in the process of being bad, that's their problem. If you can remember this, I'm the good guy. At least for the time being. I would appreciate that if I get banged around in the process of being the good guy, that I get a little credit. Okay?'

'Well sure. I didn't know you felt so strongly about it. You don't seem to like that kind of attention. As of now, I'm put on notice. Next time you get so much as a scratch in the name of the greater good, I'm all over it.' And wasn't that the truth.

'Well alright then. Let's get these guys out of here.'

'What are we going to do with them?' Fry asked.

'Bring them back to where they came from.'

French tied the men up and they dragged them out to their car in the parking lot. French began to stack them in the back seat, but Fry insisted she sit them up. This was beyond puzzling to the chef, but she did it anyway. When it came time to drag Tim in, French joked that she ought to stick a bar of soap in his mouth, just to emphasize a point.

Fry got a sinking feeling. 'Tell me you didn't nearly crack his skull open because he cursed at me.'

'Well I know you don't like that kind of language. But no, it wasn't the cursing.'

'That's good.'

'It was the implications of the cursing.'

Fry covered her eyes and rubbed her temples. Being around a French who was callous and insensitive to her feelings had been a difficult thing to take, but maybe one who cared wouldn't be any easier. 'Let's get them home. I don't think I can take much more today.'

They'd deposited the unconscious trio at a side gate to the Redmond estate. Someone would see them sooner or later. French wanted to pile them at the roadside and take the car. Fry insisted they leave it.

They'd arrived at Fry's house without much incident. There were a few small ones along the way. They mainly consisted of French trying to drag her onto park benches or back her into shadowed doorways and the like. But Fry had made up her mind. It was all moving too quickly. She wanted to actually talk to French about what was happening, but the chef wasn't giving her an opportunity, and to be honest, Fry hadn't been difficult to sidetrack.

French had finally come to the conclusion that she'd waited an entire shift, so what was the problem? Who was being insensitive to whom? She had needs too didn't she?

Fry was well aware of French's needs and became worried that they'd encountered another stumbling block in their newly sprouted relationship. French wasn't used to waiting for anything and she was making that abundantly clear. It wasn't like Fry wanted to hold her off for more than one darned conversation. French had declared her frustration when Fry had jumped off of her lap in the park after the chef had cleverly maneuvered them onto a bench. She'd said, 'Maybe I'll sit here and wait for someone a little more cooperative to wander by. I've had luck here before.'

Fry had responded with the maturity that comes from long hours of introspection. She'd said, 'Ew.'

French had laughed and followed her out of the park. It kind of cleared the air to have Fry call her bluff like that.

Fry wasn't thinking 'Ew' several minutes later. Anything but. French had agreed that they'd worn that day right out and they should have a chaste goodnight kiss and try it again tomorrow. She'd quickly amended her slip to see each other again tomorrow, but Fry wasn't buying it. Either French had no experience or understanding of the word chaste, or she'd misrepresented her intentions.

It's not that she hadn't been kissing French back. She just wasn't kissing her back with the same end result in mind. Or so she gathered from the way the chef was working at the buttons of her shirt and pushing into her in general. And it's not like she was one to point fingers, as she was pushing right back and doing her darndest to pull French as close as she could get her without occupying the same space in time.

When French broke the kiss and began to make her jolly way down Fry's neck with kisses and bites that were just this side of gentle, a small voice in Fry's head began to speak up. It was so small she might not have noticed it. The protest it made was heartily ignored elsewhere in her body. Her hips for example hadn't heard a thing, they were paying closer attention to the sensation being caused by French's teeth grazing the sensitive skin below her collar bone. The voice, knowing that it was about to be history, grew more insistent.

It said, 'If this is what she thought when I said 'slower', I'd hate to see what she does when she's in a hurry. Maybe I ought to ask Skyler and find out.' That threw a little water on Fry's overheated response to the hands that were easing the hem of her shirt from her pants. It didn't snuff it, but it did give her pause for thought. She knew Skyler and Alyssa were dating and it seemed like they liked each other, but Fry hadn't asked anyone about particulars. She made a mental note to start asking more of them, to someone other than French.

'Hey, this isn't exactly what I had in mind when I was talking about a date.' She tried for light. She couldn't get herself to let go of French, but she was able to pull back.

French wasn't in a talking mood. She had an urge and conversation had very little to do with it. She attempted a brief response to get Fry back on track. 'Let's improvise.' She moved forward again, and as Fry hadn't backed away, French leaned down to capture her lips. Fry, the sneak, turned her head at the last moment, and French was presented with an ear. She was improvising, so it wasn't a problem.

Fry's knees went weak at the sensation that French's tongue on her ear shot down her spine. 'But what about Skyler?' She persisted.

Skyler could bug off and get her own, French wasn't sharing. But what about Skyler, she thought. She cursed herself for letting Fry distract her and took the bait. 'What about her?' She wasn't giving up Fry's ear entirely, not for anything. She licked at the lobe again and nuzzled Fry's hair. She smelled good.

'Ummm...' Fry was having a hard time remembering what it was she was supposed to be asking. Skyler, right. 'Are you two... I mean, I thought that at the beginning of the summer you two were involved.'

If there was one thing that might put a damper on the fire raging in French's body. Fry had found it. French's actions slowed. She didn't withdraw, she wasn't that far gone. But she leaned back, took Fry by the shoulders, looked in her eyes and asked, 'What?'

'I thought...'

'I have no idea what gave you that impression, but you're wrong. She's a kid Fry, come on! And I haven't had the urge in months. This is the closest I've come to sex since I met that damned Frenchman and I don't feel like talking.'

'She's not a kid. Anyone who looks at her can see that. And what do you mean, you haven't had 'the urge'? What Frenchman?' Fry's resolve strengthened. They really did need to talk.

'Do we have to talk about this now?'

'No, we can talk about it on our date.' She wasn't thinking clearly, it was the one thing that kept popping in her mind to say. French didn't strike her as the date kind of date which was probably why they'd gotten as near to having sex on the walkway in front of Fry's home as she'd ever hoped to get.

'We're back to that again are we?' French got the hint. Fry was only going so far that night.

'Like you said, if you haven't had 'the urge' in a while, maybe breathing a bit beforehand is a good idea.'

'We have very different approaches to this situation.' French buttoned Fry's shirtfront for the second time that day. She smoothed the fabric, then leaned down and kissed her a good one on the lips. For good measure. When she felt the smaller woman's knees falter, she backed off. Smiling a friendly, albeit predatory smile. 'But I see your point.'

'You do?' French was backing away, removing Fry's hands from her waist. It felt so wrong that Fry made a feeble attempt to hold on. 'Sure. You don't want to rush it, I can see that. So we won't. We'll draw it out, make each other crazy and then bamb! We'll do it on the beach or wherever.'

She was feeling pretty good about herself. For a frustrated woman. She'd left Fry just short of begging on her doorstep. That'd teach the upstart to go interrupting things.

She was walking back to the restaurant, enjoying the moist, slightly foggy air on her heated skin.

Why Fry had such a bug in her ear about taking it slow was beyond her. They'd known each other a while. Fry was obviously willing. What was the big deal? But it seemed important to her, so she figured she ought to play along for a night. After all, it couldn't kill her, could it?

French had never been so out of control of her mental process or her body in her life. Fry had done something to her. She felt like a rubber band, snapping back and forth between a moderate regard for Fry's feelings and an all out assault on her body.

French opined that the urgency had something to do with the fact that she hadn't gone a four month stretch without sex in... she couldn't remember.

She acknowledged that her desire for Fry felt different. She attributed it to the fact that she liked Fry. It was probably normal to feel differently about sex when you cared about the person on the receiving end of your attentions. It might even be interesting.

She was looking forward to it. She stopped and considered that fact. She really was, and in a nice kind of way. So why wasn't Fry? And that's when it started. That small motor in the back of her brain that powered her paranoiac response kicked in. She'd never had a doubt about her ability to get what she wanted, sexually or otherwise. She had a reputation built on that fact. A formidable reputation. And this was something she hadn't considered...

Fry was putting her clothes away. She'd finally started to calm down. Her body had been on overdrive, still responding to French's touch long after the chef had left her there gasping on the sidewalk. She'd climbed the stairs to her room and paced until she felt less out of sorts. That woman was evil alright. Her mother had warned her, but had she listened?

And what was she? Shouldn't she be trying to encourage French to concentrate on the murder? They were so close to figuring it out, she could feel it. And then what? That was one of the things she wanted to know from French. She'd become attached to her in a way that went beyond a simple physical attraction. She cared for French. And she wanted to iron out a few ground rules before she put herself on the line. Because that's exactly what she felt like she was doing.

She threw on a t-shirt and got her journal off of the shelf next to her desk. Maybe writing would distract her. She had no idea how she'd get any sleep. Her body was still buzzing and every other thought was interrupted with a memory of French's taste, or her smell or the sensation of touching her skin. Fry had a vivid memory. She stalled in the middle of her room while walking over to her bed. An insistent noise beckoned her to return from the land of French. It went, 'Pssst. Pssst.'

She placed the book down and walked over to the open window. It looked out over the kitchen roof and the back yard. There was a cool, damp breeze, and the yard was dark, except for the light cast out from her window. The house and the rest of the neighborhood were mostly quiet. Her parents went to sleep around eleven each night and there weren't a lot of partiers in their residential neighborhood. Midst the continuous trilling sounds the crickets made, she heard the noise again and peered into the darkness. She didn't see anything.

'I'm over here, in the tree.'

'French?'

'Yeah, were you expecting someone else?'

Fry couldn't tell, but French sounded kind of suspicious. 'No, who would I be expecting in the tree in my back yard?'

'You tell me.'

'I can't see you.' Fry said.

'For someone who asks a lot of questions you don't answer many.' French jumped from the limb she was standing on, caught one a few feet away and swung the length of herself over and onto the roof. She landed like a cat. On her feet and without much in the way of noise. Her hands were raw from the friction of the swing, but she had something else on her mind. She had to get one thing straight, then she'd leave Fry to her beauty sleep.

'What are you doing?' Fry asked.

'I was wondering...' French crouched at the edge of the roof. She wasn't so sure this was a such a good idea anymore. Since she'd left Fry she'd developed a nagging suspicion that Fry might have been putting her off for good. What other explanation could there be? No one had ever resisted her like Fry had today, not with the kind of real heat that was pumping through her veins. As she'd stood there letting the paranoiac haze overtake her better sense, it occurred to her that someone as sensitive and kind as Fry, might be trying to let her down easy.

As insane as that sounded, she needed to check. But she couldn't believe she hadn't thought it out, couldn't believe how pathetic it was... But she was there and she wanted to know. Post haste. So she asked, 'By 'Take it slow...' do you mean, when we're ready? Or were you trying to spare my feelings and get rid of me? I have a certain reputation that may be offputting to someone like you, I just wanted to know.'

Fry stood in her window, slightly chilled by the spray of the light fog that had blown in. She'd been distracted for a minute, wondering what kind of muscle it took to make that climb and jump. When French finished speaking, she could hardly believe her ears. She tried to make sense of the sudden and bizarre insecurity. She couldn't. 'Let me get this straight. I'm kissing you for all I'm worth one minute, and the next, you're off wondering if I meant it?'

'No!...Yeah. Kinda? Look, I want to make sure we're on the same page here. Sampling the same recipe, so to speak.'

'Come here.'

'Why?' French didn't need her finely tuned sense of paranoia to recognize the tone in Fry's voice.

'Just come over here.'

French considered the woman in the window. Fry wasn't so big. She could take her if it came to that. She half walked, half crouched over to her. Fry didn't look mad. From the edge of the roof all she'd been able to see of Fry was a contrasty silhouette. Up close she looked kind of perplexed.

'Obviously, I was doing something wrong. I want to be sure you get the right message this time.' She took a firm grasp of French's collar, pulled her forward, and kissed her gently, if not a little sloppily, on the nose.

French reared back a hair and gave Fry a look. 'What was that?'

'I missed, let me try again.'

By the time Fry had pulled her through the window, lips first, French was thoroughly reassured that she wasn't being blown off. Finally, a situation she understood. Woman, bedroom, bed. Ugh, small bed, twin-size bed... she felt Fry press further into her, forcing her back against the window sill. Small bed... she could work with that.

'What about 'slow'?' French asked as Fry sucked at her neck.

'We'll take all night. How's that?' Fry wasn't sending French away again, not for anything. They'd talk in the morning.

'Sounds good.'

Fry had assumed that French would be pushy and aggressive when it came to sex. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing. The problem was, since she'd been relieved of her clothing and directed ever so promptly onto the bed (pushed might have been a more accurate description) she hadn't had an opportunity to touch French. Not with her hands anyway, because they'd been seized and French had her wrists pinned to the bed above her head. Her body was on overload and screaming for more, more of French, more sensation, and maybe some touching too. And had she not been utterly fascinated by the play in the muscles of the one arm that seemed to hold her wrists so effortlessly, she might have spoken sooner.

'French?' The moment she spoke, her mouth was covered by the voracious chef. Fry was lost in the heavenly sensation of French's exploration. The woman's unearthly scent was surpassed only by the taste of her.

French began kissing her way down Fry's neck again.

'I need to touch you.' Fry managed to get the words out through labored breaths.

'You are touching me.' French pressed into her. 'Here.' She did it again, this time with her hips. 'Here.'

'If you don't let me touch you with my hands, I'm going to explode.'

Fry felt a half growl, half chuckle against her collar bone. 'Maybe you haven't done this much, but that's kind of the point.'

While it was like her to be aggressive in all things, sex being no exception, French was rarely so insensitive to her partner's needs in bed. She'd always exploited them to get exactly what she wanted out of people. Being attentive to your partner's needs was good business sense. But she'd developed another niggling feeling at the back of her mind since she'd gotten a hold of Fry. It boiled down to a simple worry that if she loosened her grip on Fry's wrists, she might get away.

As it turned out, French's fear was unfounded. The moment she let up on the pressure, Fry was all over her. Getting away didn't seem to be high on her list of priorities.

The two of them wrestled and touched, kissed and writhed, pushing their bodies beyond overload right into the realm of pure sensation. They spent a lot of time there that night.

As she drifted off to sleep, Fry knew one thing for certain, she'd never get over the taste of her. If she didn't ever get to touch French again, she might survive it. But to be made to go without the sensation that flavor caused in her body... that would make her a bitter old woman at the age of 26. No doubt. She'd never tasted anyone like French before. She'd never touched anyone like her before either, and she'd thought that would be the thing that would make an impression, but that's probably why the taste thing stood out as the experience to be pressed between the pages of a book had it been a flower petal or a leaf. The woman had nerve to go around tasting like that.

Of course she had nerve, she was French. At that moment her nerves were something like the consistency of a fine aspic, maybe chilled consumme. She lay there, recovering her breath with an arm over her forehead. Fry had collapsed next to her and was snoring softly in her ear. French shifted so that Fry's breath wasn't tickling the small hairs there quite so much. It was turning her on. She'd never been turned on by a snore before. She wondered if she ought to worry.

French woke the next morning with a start. She was being smothered. Someone was trying to kill her. She should have known it was Fry, sprawled over her like a blanket. It didn't surprise her that her half jump out of the bed only caused the sleeping woman to roll her head to the other side and squirm a bit.

Could she be comfortable like that? French was intrigued. Fry slept like a rock. It wasn't like you could call what she was doing cuddling, it was more like weighting, as in paper weighting, as in holding French to the bed lest she too try to get away. Funny thing was, French didn't feel much like going anywhere.

As a rule, French couldn't stand cuddlers. She'd figured Fry was one. But now that she'd experienced Fry's version of it, she wasn't sure the term fit. French always considered people who crowded her in bed as nuisances who were infringing on her inalienable right to cling free sleep. She'd nearly sprinted from the bed when she found out Mitchell did it.

But that bed hardly had room for one, much less one of her size and Fry. And it was probably a good thing Fry was on top of her, because it was drafty in there.

There was a quiet knock on the door. And a voice asked, 'Violet honey, would you and your guest like some breakfast?'

Well didn't that beat all? The question thing ran in the family. French looked down at the sleepy woman who'd opened her eyes upon hearing her mother's voice.

'No Mom, we're sleeping in.' Fry responded automatically. Her voice still rough from sleep and all of the panting she'd done the night before. Then she woke up.

'...'

'Well good morning to you too.' French gently closed Fry's gaping jaw.

Fry ducked her head onto French's chest. Her embarrassment clearly visible in the flush of her skin. She wanted to crawl under the bed, but French had slipped her arms around her waist.

She looked up to try it all over again. Looking at French didn't do much to help the early morning shock to her emotions. The chef's hair was undone, her eyes were bright. 'Hi.' Was about all Fry could manage. She wasn't a morning person by nature.

French leaned forward and kissed her. She leaned back and said, 'Hi. Nice setup, room service and everything.'

'I hope you don't mind, she doesn't always do that. But once she didn't know I had someone over and she came in.'

'I've been interrupted by room service before, but I've got to tell you Fry, I'm not sure I'd know how to tip your mother.' French made a mental note to skip the mother jokes, Fry wasn't laughing.

'I know this probably isn't what you're used to and I'm not like your other girlfriends...' Fry began to pull away. She knew they should have had that talk first.

'No, it's not.' French tightened her grasp on the retreating woman's waist. 'If it was, I'd be back at the restaurant by now, showered and picking out a clean jacket for the day. You wouldn't get much more out of me than a stray thought.' French smiled. 'Against my saner judgment, I like you. You're nuts, and I like you.'

Fry stilled, 'I'm glad that you find me amusing.' She was so not a morning person. And she didn't like the idea that French saw her as some screwball oddity, an entertaining caricature.

'Good. You're also insightful, intelligent, gentle and a great lay. Did I forget anything?'

It occurred to Fry that this was not a conversation to be having while lying on French's stomach. She let out a sigh and collapsed back onto French altogether. 'Sorry, I guess I'm feeling jittery. You can be overwhelming first thing in the morning, you know? And I don't know what to expect.' She hurried to reassure French, 'Not that I'm expecting anything, it's just that you're different for me. If that makes any sense?'

'Yeah. It makes a lot of sense.' French tilted her head and gave Fry a half smile. 'You're different for me too. Maybe this is the part we can take slow? Try that talking thing.'

'Sounds like a plan. Does that mean that we can still do this?' Fry made a vague motion toward their bodies with her hand. The casual gesture belied the intense attachment she'd grown to her position.

'Don't see why not. I could keep a closer eye on you this way, keep you out of trouble.'

'Wouldn't that be like inviting the fox to guard the henhouse?'

French chuckled. Fry felt it as a vibration that moved through her in a not so mysterious fashion.

'You may be right.' French leaned forward and kissed her again.

Fry returned the kiss and followed it up by tasting French's full lips delicately with her tongue. Fry's tasting became more insistent and she inferred that she'd like to continue on, maybe in. French obliged, moaning at the skilled and deliberate attentions. She gently sucked Fry's tongue and felt the rest of her begin to move in sync. Fry buried her hands in French's hair, pulled her in, and held her fast. French shifted her leg, parting Fry's thighs and lifted her knee until Fry could move against her in a more productive manner. And productive didn't seem to be a problem for Fry. Why should it be? As far as she was concerned, lying atop French had been arousing in it's own right and now her senses were being further engaged by a veritable cornucopia of stimuli. French was that good.

The chef wasn't wasting any time getting introspective. She had more important things on her mind. Like, was it possible to consume Fry whole, and still have some left for later?

Urgency was the underlying theme of their entanglement. French's entire body was in motion, her hands were everywhere, making patterns on Fry's back, pulling her closer, guiding her hips, caressing her into a frenzy. She couldn't take all of the credit for the frenzy, the sounds of their strained breathing and moaning, not to mention the scent and taste were helping too. And when French started thrusting her tongue deep into her mouth, Fry had about come on the spot.

She did come soon afterward, when she felt the unmistakable shudder in the body straining beneath her own. The intensity and unexpected pleasure of it had blown her mind, and the rest of what was left. They lay panting and trying to catch their breath.

'Who knew?' French mumbled.

'Knew what?' Fry asked.

'That you could do so much in such a small bed.'

Chapter 37

To say that there was a bright aura around Fry when she showed up for shift the next day would have been an understatement. She was beaming. Until she got a look at French. That beam turned right into a smolder.

French hadn't done anything special to herself. She'd barely had time to get to the restaurant, shower and change. But she would have sympathized with Fry had she known what she was thinking. Something very similar was going on in her own head. It boiled down to something like, 'meet me in my office in five minutes.'

The few guys in the kitchen watched the two women who stood stock still staring at each other. Barbra walked through the door and spotted Fry. She stepped forward, took her by the arm and led her out of the kitchen. Fry's eyes never left French's as she was drawn away.

'What's up with you? I thought you had more sense than that.' Barbra thought she might have to slap Fry. She was standing in front of her with a far away smirky look on her face. 'Come on kid. Don't do this to me. What's going on with you and Cruella in there?'

'She's not.'

'Not what?' Barbra was getting impatient.

'Not cruel. She's wonderful.'

It was Barbra's turn to stare.

'You'd never know it. But she's really very sweet.' Fry said.

Barbra was going to gag. 'I'd never know it because it's not true. Not in the universe the rest of us are inhabiting. What did she do to you?'

'Everything.'

That was more information than Barbra needed. 'That's not what I meant! Snap out of it Fry.'

Fry looked at Barbra and smiled. 'Oh, don't worry, I did it right back.' With that extra bit of information that Barbra hadn't needed either, Fry wandered off to find Miguel.

French was thinking about the most convenient break in her schedule to call Fry into her office. It would be a while before she could get away from her station. She needed something to distract herself until then, work wasn't cutting it. She let another part of her mind mull over the other pressing items on her itinerary... Louisa for example, or the people who were so intent on bashing her head in.

Everyone seemed to want a piece of her. Fry certainly did, but she didn't count because she seemed to want the pieces to stay intact. Those other people didn't. French, being an efficiency nut, decided that the best way to handle all of those people would be to get them in the same place. Like at a party or a dinner. She could throw a party. She had the means. Why not invite them all to dinner?

She could use the box as bait. Maybe do a little barter with it. After all, it was the oldest form of currency. And maybe she'd solve a murder while she was at it. Sounded like a good idea. She'd have to work out the checks and balances. No sense having a bunch of loose cannons in your restaurant. She'd have to set down a few ground rules.

Fry walked in for a salad and French's nostrils flared. She wasn't going to be able to wait much longer. She saw Fry's apron strings as she turned to go. She'd tied them provocatively. French noticed details like that.

She pulled herself together and glanced off to her left. Andre, who was working at full tilt, had been watching her.

'What's your problem?'

Andre shook his head and shrugged. 'Just working.'

Fry went into the kitchen during a two minute lull. All of her tables were taken care of and one had just emptied. French was nowhere in sight. Fry made a bee-line for her office. She didn't care who wasn't watching her.

She was on French's lap in what must have been a land speed record. She pushed the chair further away from the desk, she hadn't given French time to pull all of the way back. She had more important things to do.

French was busy making sure they didn't end up on the floor. The chair had tipped back with the force of Fry's landing. Fry wasn't wasting any time, she knew how efficient French liked to be. She was kissing her and undoing the buttons of her jacket. French reached up to start on Fry's clothes. She made a mental note to change Fry's uniform. Way too many clothes in Fry's uniform.

Fry slapped her hands away and opened her jacket. French grabbed Fry's hands and held them off to the side so that she could get back to work on her tie and buttons. That's when she realized that she only had two hands. Fry took the opening that was cleared by their arms being preoccupied and attended to French's neck and collar bones.

Between bites and licks she said, 'I have two minutes. Tell me what you want.'

As two minutes in an office chair went, French couldn't complain. Fry had hopped off her lap and sprinted back out front, before she'd recovered enough to grab her. She wondered as she buttoned up her jacket what had happened to that talk Fry had been so determined to have yesterday. She'd ask her the next time she barreled into her office and dove across her desk.

Fry was having fun. She didn't want it to stop. She'd known that once she started to touch French, stopping wasn't going to be easy. And dealing with anything that resembled reality wasn't high on her list of priorities. To a certain extent, this happened to her whenever she entered into a sexual relationship. Fry, at heart, was a hedonist. A socialist maybe, but a hedonist for sure. She considered herself a sensual person, but her mother always disagreed, saying that there was a difference. A sensualist was someone who was able to maintain a little perspective. Hedonists wallowed in the pleasure. She was wallowing alright.

They finished out the shift in much that fashion, taking turns attacking each other in the back hallway, French's office or the break room. The rest of the staff had no clue what to make of the goings on in their midst. It wasn't like French's behavior was new. It was just, different. And Fry had seemed like such a nice young woman.

They all understood that French could have that effect on an otherwise normal person. What they didn't understand was Fry's effect on French. The chef wasn't relaxing after each encounter with the waitress, she seemed to get more agitated. No one hung around after work that night. They cleared out of there like animals running from a fire.

They were alone again. Not that they noticed for a while. If Fry's bed had been small, French's couch was smaller. When they rolled off of it for the second time and Fry burst out laughing, they regained something like temporary sanity.

'And I thought you were modest.' French said.

'When?' Fry had stopped laughing and was wiping the tears from her face. She was lying next to French on the floor in the small space between the couch and her desk. She was on her stomach propped up on her elbows, French was lying on her back looking over at her. They were both in a state of undress, or as close to one as you can get with bits and pieces of clothing inconveniently hanging on.

'That day at Gillman Rock. You acted modest.'

'Oh, you mean when you stripped near to naked in front of me without so much as an, 'Excuse me.' Yeah, I might have gotten shy. That much skin has an effect on me if you hadn't noticed.'

French laughed. 'Yeah, I guess I've noticed. Are we going back there on a date later? Not that I can see the point now. I think I've picked all of your berries today.'

'As if. You don't know much about my berries if you think that.'

'I've created a monster.'

'I was a monster long before you came along. Ask my mother.'

'I will, maybe tomorrow morning. Think I can get her to make sausage for me?' French cringed, remembering that she was supposed to avoid the mother jokes. Fry just slapped her shoulder though.

'I don't think you want to get into that argument with my mother. And what's wrong with your place? Don't you have any food there?'

'Yeah, but there's no room service like at your place.' French was surprised that she was actually serious to some extent. She wouldn't have hated the idea of waking up in Fry's home again. Not anytime soon, but the thought of it didn't make her queasy.

'My mother was letting us know that they were up and about. Don't expect that she's going to be bringing you coffee in the morning after having your way with her daughter. She's very protective in her own way.'

'Not to worry. But you ought to tell her that you have a way of your own.'

'You're an inspiration to me.' Fry leaned her head down and brushed her cheek on French's shoulder. 'You're very beautiful you know?'

'So people tell me.'

'It's true.'

French shrugged. Fry looked up to see that the chef was looking at the ceiling. 'Does it bother you if I say it?'

'No.' French didn't want to think about it. She also had the feeling that she was landing back on earth after a brief hiatus. 'It's not important.'

Fry sat up and looked down at her. 'Can I ask you something?'

'Ah, the talk.' French thought. 'Yeah.' She answered, but wasn't sure she was ready for it.

'Why haven't you had sex since you met a Frenchman?'

French couldn't help it, she laughed. Then she told Fry about Hercule and how her summer had gotten off to such a unpleasant start.

'Wow. That's amazing. He changed your life.'

'Yes. I guess he did. We'll see what I do with it. My sleep has been like crap and for a while I had these headaches all of the time. Half of them I put down to you and all of your questions, but the rest of the time I think they were from the pressure. It built up from my trying not to explode and yell in the kitchen all of the time. At least those have gotten better.'

'You're learning to let go.' Fry noted.

'I'm what?'

'Learning to let some of your anger go. I was going to suggest this before, but maybe now is a good time. Joely Williams teaches a yoga class at the community center, you might want to try it. It can help you with your breathing and a lot of the tension that comes from that kind of stress. It's great for detox.'

'My breathing is fine thanks. I don't need yoga or crystals or anything else that's passing for therapy these days. I'll work it out.'

'I wasn't going to suggest therapy. I didn't think you were ready to hear that yet.'

'Fry!'

'Well, it had crossed my mind that I've never heard you mention your childhood or parents or anything outside of this restaurant and your past relationships seem, on the surface mind you, to have been kind of unhealthy. I'm not judging you or anything.'

'Well, gee thanks. I'm not sure I could take it if you were.'

'Sure you could. I like that about you, you're very strong.'

'You mean I'm not so screwed up that there isn't something you think I should fix?' French asked.

'I didn't say that you were screwed up. Everybody could benefit from therapy and yoga. And you're going through a lot right now. What's wrong with professional advice? You're in new territory. I wouldn't imagine that if you wanted to start a restaurant with a Cajun menu, you wouldn't consult someone who knew something about it.'

'If I ever wanted to run a Cajun restaurant I'd appreciate it if you'd shoot me.'

'Why?'

'It's regional cuisine. That's why.'

'You know what I mean.' Fry said.

'And I think you know what I mean, so let's drop it.' French warned.

'So, what are your parents like?'

French rolled away from Fry and groaned. She'd known she wouldn't like the talking part.

Chapter 38

An hour into the afternoon shift the next day Fry realized they were making people uncomfortable. Chili could barely look her in the eye, Jacqueline was furious, Miguel was rearranging the napkins in the dining room upstairs for the sixth time and telling Barbra that there were grease spots on the immaculate carpeting in the hallway.

She got the hint. The next time she was with French she mentioned her observations.

'Miguel's always been an obsessive compulsive pain in the ass. The rest of them can shove it.'

'But I don't want to make everyone uncomfortable.'

'Fry, they're used to me acting like this. It's one of the things that makes me so popular.'

'So I've heard. But I'd like to try to consider how they feel.'

'You can't be serious. You're telling me that I not only have to be sensitive to your feelings about sex, but I have to consider theirs as well? You didn't tell me you were into kink.'

'I'm just saying that maybe we should be a little more discrete. Maybe stay out of the hallway and the break room. That's all. I thought poor Juan was going to have a heart attack when he walked back there this morning.'

'Serves him right, dirty old man. I think he's got a thing for you.'

'He's married!'

'So? That makes him what? Dead? Besides, his wife lives in Ecuador, or El Salvador or wherever.'

'Guatemala. And it does matter. He's very sweet and I don't think he's got a thing for me at all.'

'Well, he may not, but the rest of the kitchen does.'

'Stop it, they do not!' Fry batted French's arm.

'Do so. Chili's been shooting daggers at me since yesterday. When he doesn't think I'm looking.'

'Well okay, maybe Chili has a small crush on me. But you're such a liar. This entire restaurant lusts after you and you get all bent out of shape because one guy likes me.'

'Hey, who's bent? I was just making an observation.'

'You were not, I saw the look you gave him yesterday when he was talking to me. I thought you were going to slug him when he asked if I was going to the Dance Bar Friday night.'

'He was socializing during a rush.'

'He's perfectly capable of handing me the salad as he asks a question. Besides, you're one to talk. What about that guy who was in here yesterday? Mr. Nudge Nudge Wink Wink, 'wasn't that a good time last summer'? I thought he was going to faint from dehydration the way he was drooling over you. That couldn't have been sanitary.' And Fry couldn't help but notice that the man was an excellent specimen of his breed. His sleek, tight fitting outfit displayed a muscled physique. Too muscled for Fry's liking. She noticed that his breasts were larger than hers. This was an attribute she'd come to understand was very important to the chef.

'Oh please. If you start down that road we'll be sitting here for weeks, maybe months.'

Fry gave her a look. That was something they hadn't gotten around to discussing. With one thing and another.

'Let's ease off for everybody's sake. In there, I mean.' Fry leaned over and picked up her shirt that French had draped neatly over the arm of the couch.

'If you insist. But I'm not making any promises if you go tying your apron strings all sexy again.' French looked around for her bra. She'd felt it come off, but hadn't seen where it landed. She'd considerately stacked all of Fry's clothes in a pile.

'What is it with you and knots? Is that why you make us wear these ties and not clip-ons?' Fry slipped on her vest and buttoned it.

'It's called authenticity.' French found her bra slung over the doorknob to the bathroom.

'It's called an inconvenience. Who's going to know if I'm wearing a clip on or not?'

'I will. Besides,' French grasped Fry by the tie and pulled her over. 'It makes a great handle.' She kissed her and let her go. Now where had her hair tie gone to?

French approached the planning of a party in much the same way a general strategized a battle. And in this case, the two things had more in common than they usually might. Most hosts might worry about seating a guest near someone who might bore or offend them, French had to consider which guests were more likely to try to kill the other.

Not that the guest list was long. There were five people on it.

French had spent some time researching the names she'd seen in the documents in the box. She could have saved herself some time by looking up the names of the committee members responsible for the Darzley/ Fitch gambling bill. She would have gotten to the punch line that much sooner.

Louisa turned out to be one smart number. The evidence she'd compiled was solid. The place she'd run into trouble with it was in putting it to use. That's where her talents had run their course.

Gathering that kind of information was one thing. Using it effectively - that was a skill unto its own. Too bad Louisa didn't have the sense to stick to her strengths or her own diet.

French had a hunch who'd murdered Louisa, but hey, why not kill two birds with one stone? She had some people to get off of her back, her restaurant, and if possible, her island.

She sent the invitations out to the printer for engraving. They read:

Join me for an evening of fine dining and stimulating conversation. The menu will include the most exquisite black box. And wouldn't you all like to know what's inside? Your attendance is strongly advised.

French

She told Fry her plan and set to work. All she had to do between now and the date, three days hence, was figure out how she was going to pull it off.

That may have been easier if she didn't want to spend the rest of her time trying to get her favorite waitress horizontal, or whatever. French wasn't picky when it came right down to it.

She'd decided that Fry was her favorite waitress during her lunch break the day before. Fry gave food service a whole new meaning. Who knew that that little socialist would be such a willing convert to all things French? She thought Fry would be a whole lot more complicated to deal with once they were having sex, not less so. Urge or not, she'd have made a move on her ages ago had she known the result.

The questions were still there, but they were generally focused around pleasurable subject matter. That was fine with French. Especially when she benefitted directly. And when Fry started moving into areas less to French's liking, she was able to redirect her attentions without too much difficulty. Fry was a pleasure hound.

She wondered exactly how far she could push it. Fry couldn't stay in the clouds forever, or could she? Would French want her to? She wasn't ready to test the theory yet, she was catching up on months of celibacy.

Fry was perfectly happy where she was. Well, not technically right where she was, in the bar being lectured by Barbra. But in general she was pretty darned happy.

'I don't want to burst your bubble, but you need to start getting a grip. I don't think you've got a very clear picture of what's going on around here at the moment.' Barbra looked at Fry who was nodding and smiling back at her. For all of the disappearing she'd been doing, her work wasn't suffering from it. The people who she served seemed to get happier in direct proportion to Fry. It was weird, but her mood was infectious. Her customers would have waited forever for her to finish with the chef out back, as long as they didn't know what she was doing, or who.

Barbra didn't give a damn about the restaurant. She was worried about Fry and what was going to happen when French started seeing other people. Because she always did. Barbra wanted Fry to have at least one foot on the earth when it happened.

Barbra had to admit to being surprised by French. She really did seem to like Fry a lot. And while Barbra still didn't like the chef all that much, she'd also admit that she wasn't being a total ass to Fry. Not yet anyway.

Could French have changed that much? It was something that intrigued Barbra. Not that there weren't a lot of intriguing things to observe at Bachanal, but at the end of the day, French was still the main attraction. For all of the woman's faults, she was fascinating. Too bad she was so screwed up. She could have been a halfway decent person to know, instead of a dangerous curiosity, best kept at arms length.

She took a breath and tried one last time, for Fry's sake. 'Look kid, I just want you to have your eyes open here. That woman is a wolf, know what that means?'

'Yes. She's wild.'

'As in untamed. As in, not monogamous. As in, sleeps around and oh my god you had better be having safe sex with her or you are crazier than anyone on this island ever thought! But you also need to know that she's going to roam sooner or later. Probably sooner and I just wanted you to keep it in mind. I don't think you guys are doing a whole lot of talking back there.'

Fry blushed three shades of red, each deeper than the last. 'Ummm... we're um, not talking a lot, no. Well, not that kind of talking. And yes, we're being safe. I've done this kind of thing before you know. It's just that I find it hard to concentrate when she touches me...'

'Too much information, too much! Stick to the basics here, we're at work.'

'But it's true. I go in there with the intention of checking in, finding out how she's feeling about everything, and I leave and we haven't said a word about it. She's like a magician.'

'And you're too easy.' Fry blushed again and Barbra continued. 'I'm sorry, but it's true. Don't be such a pushover.'

'I am not a pushover!'

'Sure sound like one to me. Have you asked her if you're dating yet? Has she asked you?'

'French isn't the dating kind of woman.'

'And you're okay with that?'

'Sure, why shouldn't I be?'

'I don't know, why don't you ask one or two of the people I know who've slept with her? They might have some input. Of course, once you get them started it may be hard to stop them.'

Fry's head was beginning to ache. She knew what Barbra was getting at. 'I appreciate what your saying, but we're just having fun. I know she's not going to stick around for the long haul, I'm trying accept that and let it be whatever it is.'

'As long as that 'is' doesn't mind sharing the bed with some other 'is's I guess you're okay then.' Barbra pushed off the bar and walked out to her post. Fry was going to have to figure it out for herself. She hoped she didn't have to get too hurt in the process.

French had decided to forego sleeping in the restaurant for a night. She couldn't stand the thought of that couch again and if someone was going to torch the damned place, at least she'd be having a good time while it burned. Besides, she'd hired a security agency. Fry was right, you couldn't do everything by yourself. Not if you wanted to keep up with the woman in question.

She walked home and waited for Fry. She didn't usually have people over to her place. It would be kind of different.

There was a knock on the door and surprise, surprise if it wasn't her favorite waitress with a basket of fresh strawberries.

'For me?'

'For us.' Fry slipped past the chef's grasping hands and headed for the kitchen.

French sensed something was up and followed.

'For breakfast?'

'For now. Sit.'

'For later, come here.' French walked over and pulled Fry in. She felt something cool press into her stomach. She looked down, it was a small bottle. 'What's that?'

'Fresh cream.' Fry watched French's nose twitch.

'Where'd you get it?'

'Not telling. Not until after we have a little chat.' Fry watched French's expression closely. Her eyes had narrowed and Fry guessed that French was trying to figure out a way to get everything she wanted all on her own terms. It was taking her a moment to prioritize which she'd go after first.

'We'll chat later.' French, having made a difficult decision, was ready to proceed.

'I'm glad to know that I won out over the cream.' Fry said as she pushed French away. She sidestepped around the island next to French's refrigerator and scooted to the opposite side. Having a solid obstruction between them was probably the safest bet. 'But I think it's time we started talking. About us.'

French was trying to look casual, as if Fry hadn't just said the 'u' word. She also tried to look like she wasn't interested in getting around that counter and removing the cutoffs and sweater Fry had on. 'Sure, shoot.' French started to clean her nails, as indifferently as you might do that kind of thing.

'Okay then.' Fry wasn't fooled. Every time French began to clean her nails her mind seemed to go into overdrive. Fry had fallen for it more than once already and approached her in what she thought was an indifferent state of mind for the chef. It wasn't. 'And for the record, I'm on to the nail thing.'

'What nail thing?'

'Whenever you scheme, you get this totally indifferent relaxed thing going. It may look like you don't have a care in the world, but I've figured out otherwise. Where do you keep the bowls?'

'What for?'

'Berries and cream, what else?'

If she was going to be made to suffer the more mundane aspects of short-term monogamous sex, French couldn't think of a better way to do it. 'Cabinet, over the knife rack.'

They sat at the table in the kitchen enjoying the fresh fruit and rich cream.

'Not bad for peasant food.' French remarked.

'Are you calling me a peasant?'

'No. Do you want me to?'

'No, Fry's bad enough.'

'What's wrong with 'Fry'? It suits you.' French was hurt, she'd come to think of it as an apt nickname.

'It's not my name for one thing. But I guess it's not so bad since you stopped saying it with that sneer in your voice.'

French looked at her fruit. Not the fruit exactly, but she didn't feel like looking at Fry then. It wasn't easy to hear such a sparkling example of what an incredible bitch you could be. 'Sorry. You don't want me to call you Violet do you?'

Fry sighed. French failed miserably on the finer points of sensitivity, but she was trying. 'No.'

'Good.'

'I want to tell you something, but I'm not sure how to say it.' Fry said.

This was news to French, Fry didn't usually have trouble in the saying department. Where were the questions? Like, 'How long will this last?', 'Are you going to start seeing other people?', and the dreaded, 'Should I leave a towel here or something?'

'I know your style is different than mine and if you want to sleep with other people, that's okay.' Fry said. It wasn't easy, but she said it.

French perked up. This wasn't the kind of thing she'd expected at all. She should never have underestimated Fry. She smiled. 'Well, I've never been much for monogamy.'

'I know. And I've really enjoyed being with you.' Fry gave her a small smile. 'But I'm not into non-monogamous sex. It's not for me. So if you'd like to, you know... I'd appreciate you letting me know.'

French knew there was a catch hidden in there somewhere. 'Let you know what?'

'That you want to renegotiate. Move on. We could try having a non-physical friendship again. I meant it, I do really like being with you French, and if I can't have sex with you, I'd still like to try to maintain our relationship on a friendship basis.'

Well, that sounded like crap to French's ears. 'You mean that if, say, I want to have sex with someone else, I'm free and clear and that's fine with you, but then you're off limits?'

'I said it was okay, as in I understand that not everybody wants the same kind of thing that I want from a relationship. I didn't say it was fine. Of course, I'd be unhappy. And no, I wouldn't continue a sexual relationship with you.'

'I've heard about this kind of thing. It's some kind of passive-aggressive trick or maybe a reverse psychology thing.' And it must have been, because all of a sudden she was getting pissed at herself on Fry's behalf. What was with that? She hadn't even considered having sex with anyone else yet. She'd been too busy.

'I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm letting you know what works for me. Okay?' Fry tried to explain. She'd known it wouldn't be an easy conversation. Her heart was pounding.

'Fine, I'll keep it in mind. Besides, since I'm breaking myself back in after a long hiatus, maybe sticking with you for a while is a good idea. I'm emotionally raw as you've said. Maybe consistency is the way to go for now. Maybe you're just the thing I need. You're solid stock and all of your parts work. You can keep up with me which is always a plus. You're not bad to look at, in a girl next door trying to get into my pants kind of way. Maybe I'll see how it goes.'

'You know I'm going to make you pay for all of those comments later don't you?'

'I figured as much.'

'Anything you want to add? Any deeply felt, sensitive comments about the last few days?' French gave her a blank look. 'Alright then, I'm sure that's probably all you can bear for one night. Thanks for listening.'

French knew a challenge when it was laid before her. It may not have been intentional on Fry's part, but French took it that way. Fry hadn't been pushing her, had let her pretty much have free reign the last few days. Of course, French put that down to her own powers of persuasion and the fact that Fry would roll over if you promised her a biscuit. But Fry had inferred that French was incapable of doing something. And her instinctive competitive response was that it wasn't that she couldn't, she just didn't want to.

And then she considered why. As long as they didn't talk, she didn't have to consider Fry's feelings. Well, she did, but not in any deeply meaningful, long-term sort of way. A way, she was reluctant to admit, she didn't think she was fully equipped to handle. But she could sure as hell give it a try. There was Fry, putting it on the table, not being a sap. She didn't seem to have any illusions about French in the fidelity department. She'd better not given her stunning track record.

Fry had guts damn it. French respected that. As long as she wasn't doing the suffocating, clinging thing, French would make an effort to keep Fry posted. It all came back to what Barbra had said. The world did not revolve around her, and if she cared, she had to make an effort.

Fry hadn't expected to still be seated in her chair a full minute after she'd spoken. French hadn't launched across the table and grabbed her. She was moving the berries around that were left in her bowl contemplatively.

Chapter 39

The invitations came back from the printer. French checked them over and sent them off. Either she'd have a bunch of irate bad guys crowding her out at lunchtime, or she'd see them all in a couple of days. She didn't think these people would be stupid enough to try to piss her off between now and then, but you never knew. That's what made life so interesting.

Fry knocked on the door and peeked her head through. 'Hi!'

French smiled and waited for the cannon ball to shoot across the office floor and land in her lap. But Fry slipped in the door and leaned on it as she closed it. She turned and gave French a look.

French began to feel studied. 'What's your problem? I forget an anniversary or something?'

Fry smirked and shook her head. 'I ran into Dil this morning. He told me.'

French's mind fanned out in all directions. What, oh what could Dil have told Fry? She flipped through several defense strategies before she'd even heard the accusation. 'I'll bite, what did the dim-wit have to say?'

'He told me about you not being a chef.'

French had been called a lot of things in her day. Some of them had been fairly original, worthy of being written down. But to be called 'not' something, not a chef, the one thing that she was and the reason behind why she was a lot of the other things, well, that affected her some. She stood to her full height. 'Excuse me?'

Fry recognized that tone of voice. She hastened on. 'He told me that you're a government agent.'

French blinked. 'A what?'

'A g-man. G-woman, whatever. He told me about the warehouse and the drug gang. He said not to tell anyone else, that it was 'Top Secret'.' French was staring at her. It must not be easy to have your cover blown, not by someone you'd underestimated as much as French had Dil.

'So you bought this?'

'You've got to admit, it makes a lot more sense than you being some kind of Ninja Chef. I guess I understand why you couldn't tell me. It's not like we're that close, but you can talk about it if you want, it's okay.'

'...'

'I guess we have a lot more to talk about than I thought.' Fry sighed. French looked stunned, but she was still beautiful.

'No, we don't.'

'We don't?'

'No, we really don't. Fry, you're smart, no question. But if you bought that story, I may have to worry about what all of this sex is doing to your brain. I am not a government agent. I am a chef. It is the one thing that I know about myself beyond all other things. I've had to accept a lot of difficult truths about myself recently, and the one thing that remains that is of any worth to me is that. I am a chef.'

Fry thought French was adorable when she was trying to be sincere. 'Sure. Is there like a special department for chef agents or something? They trained you really well.'

'I'm NOT a government agent. I hate spooks! I'm a chef!'

'Whatever you say.'

'You don't believe me!' French was incredulous. Of all the things to think she'd lie about. But she did have a certain reputation for untruth in general, so she couldn't blame Fry altogether.

'Sure I do, come here.' Fry motioned her over. French looked like a deer caught in the headlights. It wasn't like Fry relished the idea of French being in any way involved with the government. But she'd come to the conclusion that accepting someone's faults was one of the ways to move forward in a relationship.

'No! You're humoring me. Look, you pint sized Mata Hari, I'm a chef! I trained in the bowels of Parisian restaurants for years. I have scars that you've seen personally from where I was intentionally burned by assholes who thought I didn't belong there. I have been in kitchens all over this globe. Ask anybody, most of them regret ever having laid eyes on me. I've planned more menu's than you have hairs on your head. I am a chef.'

It was a heroic speech. Fry was almost convinced. But she'd witnessed what French could do to a man twice her own body weight. And she knew things that the average chef probably wouldn't have cared much about. 'Relax, it's okay.' She soothed. She walked over and took French by the hands. She got on her tiptoes and kissed her gently on the lips. 'Shhhh.'

French backed away. She felt less hysterical, but it was clear that Fry didn't really believe her. She reached into her pocket for her keys. She turned to one of the cabinets on the wall and opened it. Inside there were several shelves and on one a small safe. She intentionally obstructed Fry's view as she worked the combination and opened it.

French closed the cabinet, turned and carefully deposited a tattered and stained volume in Fry's hands. That book had seen better days. It was thick, ripped, torn and had lost its cover and some pages. From the exposed text, Fry saw that the book was in French. On what remained of the title page she made out the words. 'Larousse Gastronomique'.

French placed her hand palm down on the volume. 'Ask me.'

'Ask you what?'

'Ask me if I'm a chef.'

'Just because you're willing to swear on a tattered old cookbook you expect me to believe you?'

'This isn't any old cookbook! This is my first copy of Larousse Gastronomique. Believe me when I tell you that's the closest thing to a bible I've got, and it's a damn sight more useful. You're more likely to get the truth out of me with this than a crowbar.'

'You're serious!' Fry had thought she'd seen the full extent of French's culinary lunacy. But this took the cake. It could also explain a few of French's problems. If the woman thought that swearing on a cookbook carried the same weight as swearing on a sacred text, well then, there you have it.

'What's your problem? It was written by a god. Besides, you two have a lot in common.'

'We do?'

'Yeah, he was a little guy, like you.'

'What has that got to do with anything?'

'Thought you should know. In case you ever thought your height would be a hindrance in the business. He wore platform shoes to raise himself above the heat coming off the ranges. Must have been like working in a kiln in those old kitchens.'

'Hello! Twenty-first century calling French. I hate to interrupt this fascinating detour through culinary history, but you're nuts.' There was no question left in her mind. This woman was all chef.

'I'm glad you find me so amusing.' French turned Fry's defensive remark of several days ago right back on her.

'Oh, but I find you so much more too. I thought I'd made that pretty clear.' Fry gave her a knowing look.

French shrugged. 'How do I know that I'm not this summer's good works project? Another notch in your do-gooder belt?'

Fry began to be concerned. She wouldn't want French to think she could be so calculating, so shallow. She reached out to take French's hands again and studied her face for a clue of sincerity. 'Are you being serious?'

After a lengthy pause in which French implied that she was about to share some deep truth, she smiled and tapped Fry on the nose. 'No.'

'You think that was funny don't you?' Fry huffed.

'Yeah, I do. For a cheerful thing, you can be so earnest. I'm going to cure you of that. It will be my first selfless act.' French proclaimed.

'I'm not sure you've got a comprehensive grasp of what a selfless act is.' Fry narrowed her eyes and peered up at the chef.

'Says who?' French leaned down to make eye contact easier for her. Maybe not easier exactly.

Fry wasn't hurt by French's teasing, now that she could tell that's what it was. The chef had relaxed and was being her own version of playful. Still, even a playful French was slightly intimidating. Fry shrugged in answer and looked away to hide a half smirk that she couldn't get off of her face.

French smiled too and stood straight, enjoying her dubious victory. It felt good to be right every now and again - even if she was being humored, mostly. Being humored wasn't an experience she could recall enjoying so much before.

French finished up her paperwork and sat thinking for a moment. Her conversation with Fry the night before was weighing on her mind. She got up and went to look for Barbra. She still had a few minutes before she kicked Brian out of her kitchen and started cooking.

Barbra was standing at her post, looking over the seating plan. She felt the towering presence that usually meant French was waiting for you to notice her. She looked up.

French decided on the direct approach. 'You slept around a lot, how does Michael deal with that?'

'Oh, real tactful French. Ever think of anyone else's feelings when you're after some information? And while you're at it, you want to know anything else, like what we do in bed?' Barbra was once again amazed at the chef's audacity.

'You want me to treat you like a sap, fine. But as one slut to a former slut I thought you might have some insight. I could pull a number on you and get the information that way, but I thought you were smarter than that.'

'I'd like to see you try. I've watched you and your numbers from a distance over the past couple of years and I'm not much impressed by them close up. If you treated your employees with a fraction of the deference you give the money that walks through that door, you'd be loved by millions.' She wasn't sure French was listening. She'd stopped towering and was leaning against the podium. She smiled an easy smile and sighed. 'I know.'

It was the first time Barbra could remember thinking French sounded... feminine. She stood disbelieving her senses as French brushed at the sleeve of her jacket, and looked away, refusing to make eye contact. 'But running a business puts us in an awkward position, doesn't it? As women.'

'Stop it.' Barbra's stomach was turning. 'That's disturbing. I know you're full of shit and I can't stop myself from responding to you. You're a monster.'

'So, does it bug him, or what?'

Barbra shook her head and sighed. 'That depends on who we run into. But mostly it doesn't matter, because I don't give him reason to care about it. It was before him, never since and that's that.'

'Why him? How'd you know?'

'If this is what you consider 'girl talk' you might want to take a lesson.' French stared at her and waited. Barbra rolled her eyes and continued. 'I knew because I spent the first three months of our relationship tearing his clothes off every opportunity I got. I could never get enough of that man, I still can't. But while we're having this little heart to heart, mind if I ask you something?'

'If that's how these things work, go ahead.'

'All those people you sleep with, didn't that ever bother Mitchell? He had to know.' It was something she'd been curious about and if French had embarked on a frank exchange of information, why not ask?

'I made sure he did. You always want what you can't have. It turned him on.'

'That's sick.'

'Yup. Effective too, in his case.'

'You're not considering settling down are you? I'm sure there must be two or three hearts left untrampled on this island.'

French smiled. 'You interested? Never slept with you.'

'I'd rather sleep in a snake pit than let you within a mile of my bed.'

'Afraid you'd like it too much, huh?'

Barbra laughed. 'You're unbelievable.' But suspected French wasn't far from wrong.

Chapter 40

Fry dashed home with the intent of showering and going to French's place. She'd finished out her brunch shift without too much trouble and was ready for a night of rest and relaxation... so to speak. Oh, and of helping French figure out her 'seating plan', whatever that meant.

There was a police car out front, but she didn't think too much about it. That wasn't an uncommon occurrence at her house. She walked through the front door and was called into the living room by her mother. When she opened the door to the right of the main entrance to look in, she saw Chief Maxwell Hunt standing in the room with Officer Johnny Little. That was an uncommon occurrence.

Her mother walked over and put her arm around her shoulder. 'Don't worry sweetheart, we'll get this all straightened out.'

'Violet Spark,' Johnny began, 'You are under arrest for breaking and entering, and theft. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.'

Fry was stunned. Johnny walked over and put a hand on her shoulder. 'You will come with us to the station where you will be detained until your hearing.'

Johnny sounded like he was reciting from a textbook, he couldn't help it. He was so nervous that he was going to screw up right in front of the chief. Before apprehending Violet, the most action he'd had was locking up drunks who got too rowdy in the bars downtown. And none of those guys scared him half as much as the look he was getting from Violet's mother. And then there was her dad, Howard. Since they'd arrived he'd stood off to the side with his arms folded. No one messed with Howard Spark. He wasn't a large man, he wasn't even intimidating to look at, but everyone knew that he was a crazy son of a bitch vet who'd kill you as soon as look at you if you pissed him off. Lucky for most people, he had a lot of patience. Most people said it was because he was a zen monk or something, the rest said it was from living with Priscilla as long as he had.

'You're not going to get away with this Maxwell. We're not giving up our boycott of the exploitative tourism industry of this town. This is harassment.' Priscilla exclaimed.

'Save your lip for the Judge Priscilla. We've got witnesses. Of course Violet, there may be something you can do to cooperate with us. Then I might not have to send you to Hamilton Women's Prison for the next five years. Not that you'd mind it, considering the company you've been keeping lately.'

Fry's eyes went wide. He was trying to bribe her. He was insulting French! Well, maybe not in the way he thought he was. French would be way too dangerous to keep in a minimum security prison like Hamilton. That is, if she was still like that, which Fry was sure she wasn't. 'Save it. I'm not telling you anything.'

'Violet! Telling him what? What have you been up to with that... that... carnivore?' Priscilla demanded.

'Mother let me explain!' When her mother used the 'c' word, she was in trouble.

'No! I knew we should never have stood for you working for her! What about your work? The community? What has that woman ever contributed to anything but herself?'

'She's trying to change all of that!'

'What have I told you? To change you have to be willing to put other people's needs before your own in order to help the community at large. She's a self-centered, egomaniac who wouldn't know the greater good if it jumped out of her stock pot and bit her. And if it did, she'd kill it and serve it as a special.'

'She would not!' Fry protested, but she wasn't entirely certain on that point. French would take a dim view of anything that jumped out of one of her stock pots.

'I'm sorry Violet.' Johnny interrupted. 'But I have to put the cuffs on.'

Howard stepped forward and put a hand on Johnny's shoulder. 'I don't think so son. Violet will come peacefully. We'll settle this without creating too many hard feelings.'

Johnny glanced over at the Chief who nodded. 'It's a shame Violet, maybe you should reconsider.'

Fry thought that this was when the spunky little heroine would spit at the bad guy and tell him to stuff it. But her mother hated spitting, so she narrowed her eyes at him like French would and said, 'You can't intimidate me Maxwell, I know who you're working for.'

The Chief turned red. Maybe she hadn't calculated that comment just right. He gave a tight smile and told Johnny to bring her out to the car.

She made her one phone call to French. Johnny had said that she wasn't due a phone call because she'd already told her parents. She'd told him to stuff it and besides, she knew he'd cheated on Stephanie Wilkins in the tenth grade. He shut up and let her make the call. He'd been married to Stephanie since he'd gotten her pregnant after Senior year. It wasn't a mistake he regretted, but he didn't need her to know about Jenny.

Fry called the front desk and asked Barbra if she could speak to the chef. As French picked up, Fry heard the sounds of the kitchen faintly in the background. French must have left her office door open. The sounds filled Fry with a warm feeling. 'Hi!'

'Hi yourself. Can't you wait ten minutes? I said I had to wrap up a few things.'

'You're the one who's going to have to wait. I don't think they're going to give me conjugal visits.'

'Who isn't?'

'The cops. I'm in the Hoosegow. I think someone wants that box ahead of schedule. Chief Hunt suggested that if I cooperated he wouldn't send me to the big house for the rest of the summer. Oh and for five years after that too.'

'He what!?'

'It's for breaking and entering and theft. He says he has witnesses and that I ought to cooperate. I think I'm bait or something. Like you're going go all to mush because they've got your moll locked up. Can you imagine? How juvenile.' There was silence on the other end of the line. 'French?'

'Yeah?'

'You're not going to go all to mush or anything are you?'

'Over you? I doubt it.'

'Gee thanks. What's the plan?'

'Sit tight, Bugsy. I'll be in touch.'

'You can't leave me here and not tell me what's going on! My mother's furious with me!' But French had already hung up.

'I've been expecting you. Sit down, won't you?' Portia Redmond motioned toward one of the chairs in her study.

French sat. She hadn't gone into this enterprise without considering that there were some dangerous players involved. Portia was strictly a 'handle with care' sort of specimen. And French had underestimated her protective instincts. She'd also crossed a newly defined line in her own mind and wanted to set things right.

Portia leaned on the edge of her desk and faced French. 'You don't honestly think I'd let you spend all of that time around my son and not take out an insurance policy against you did you? Your reputation preceded you all too well. I just didn't think I'd ever have to use it once you were gone.'

'I'm not here to play word games or socialize. I want you to drop your crap charges against Violet Spark, or I'm going to send your son away for a long trip. I don't have much to lose here.'

'I disagree. You're nothing but a talented piece of gutter trash and I regret the day my son set eyes on you. Fact is you're not as good as you think you are. And that insurance policy I mentioned... it's a very well documented case of embezzlement that's got your name very firmly affixed to it. I can also assure that Violet Spark won't see the light of day for a long time to come. I wonder what kind of a bed warmer she'll make for some strapping young woman over at Hamilton. So darling, you'd better think again before you start threatening me.'

French had no idea what to say to that. There was no way she was sharing Fry with someone named Hamilton, or anyone else. Not until she was good and finished with her. Whenever that might be. She slipped her hand into her pocket and drew out an envelope. 'Well Portia, you're too much of a woman for me. You really are. Must be all of that tennis that keeps you so sharp. Or is it the guy you're playing with? Must be confusing keeping all of the men in your life straight. I mean, do you ever accidentally call out Mitchell's father's name when you're screwing Zachery?' The bitch had the decency to go pale.

'You can't think I didn't know you'd take precautions while I was becoming intimate with your corporate documentation.' French continued. 'It's not like you don't have a reputation yourself. There isn't a woman who dated your son who hasn't got your dainty footprint permanently embedded in her ass. But enough small talk. As hard as this may be for you to believe, I'm not here to listen to your threats. I'm here to make a small gesture of faith. Perhaps I should have given this to you before I sent out my invitation, then you may not have gone off the deep end and tried to sabotage my soiree. I knew hostesses in this town were competitive, but really...'

French opened the envelope and removed an old colored document. She stood and handed it to Portia. The woman looked so uptight she might have swallowed her own tongue. 'I suppose your reaction was understandable, if not well calculated. You're very protective of Skyler. She's a very special person. I always wondered why you treated her so differently from your other children. Does she know?'

'It's none of your business.' Portia was staring at the birth certificate in her hand. She looked even more stiff, if that was possible for a woman who gave the definition a run for its money.

'You should hide that well if she doesn't. She's a resourceful young woman. She may find it.'

'How much is this piece of information going to cost me? It was always money that interested you, wasn't it?'

'And here I thought we were having a moment. It'll cost you nothing. Skyler's out of this. Mitchell's lineage and business dealings are another matter. Make the charges disappear against Violet and you've bought his lineage. But show up for dinner. Besides, it wouldn't be the same without you.'

'Does Violet Spark know about this?' Portia looked at the paper.

'No. I palmed it as soon as I set eyes on it.'

There was a moment of silence as Portia closed her eyes and set her jaw. 'Her mother was a nightmare. A con artist and a drug addict. We had no choice but to take Skyler from her.'

'Well, your son can pick 'em, I'll grant you that. But as you say, it's none of my business. So I'm just going to stop over at the Hoosegow and spring my waitress. If you don't mind.' French turned to leave.

'What makes you so sure I'll let those charges drop? Maybe Zachery knows about Mitchell.'

French paused before opening the door. She gave Portia a knowing smile. 'Sure he does. I'll say 'hi' to the Chief for you while I'm over at the jail. Don't be late to my party Grandma. I'm a stickler for punctuality.'

French was a sight for sore eyes as Fry watched her walk down the hallway to her cell. It's not that Fry had worried, French wouldn't let her down. It's that she wasn't used to being in jail for anything but protesting and it felt weird.

'Nice setup, what'd they give you to eat?' French asked.

'Dil got me a candy bar from the vending machine. He's getting me a juice from the Kilney's corner store now.'

'Waited service, not bad.'

'He feels awful. He's blaming himself. I told him it was okay, that you were going to straighten it all out using your connections with the government.'

'I thought we settled that?'

'I wanted to make him feel better. You should have seen him. Are you going to stand there or are you going to get me out of here?'

'I dunno, seems like you've got a pretty sweet deal going.'

'Listen, my mother, father, sister and Harriet are going to burst in here in five minutes and raise holy hell with Chief Hunt, so do me a favor and save everybody some trouble. Besides, didn't you miss me just a little bit?'

It was true. French did miss her. Which was odd, because all told it had been about an hour and a half since she'd seen her last. She shrugged, 'Whatever. I might be safer with you in there. But if your family's showing up, maybe I'll join you.' French smiled at Fry's pathetic attempt at an outraged expression. French yelled down the hallway. 'Officer Little!'

Johnny came in and unlocked the cell. Fry rode the door as she was let out. 'Thanks Johnny.' She hopped off the door and stood in front of French. 'Well?'

'Well what?'

'Didn't you miss me?' She hinted.

'Is that what all that quiet was?' French smiled.

Fry smiled too. 'At least you noticed. That's something I guess.' She pulled French down and gave her a good long kiss. 'I sure missed you.'

Like everyone else born on the island Johnny knew Violet's sexual preference, though he'd never witnessed it in action. It wasn't half bad to look at. He closed the cell and beat it out of there. Nothing was worth dealing with Priscilla or any other Spark twice in one day.

Fry began to kiss French again. It felt like days since she'd tasted her. A voice she recognized all too well boomed down the hallway. 'Violet!' It was her mother. 'What are you doing with... with...' Priscilla couldn't say it, it was too hard.

'I think we can see what she was doing Mom.' Joe chimed in. Violet had filled him in on her relationship with the Terror of Sutter's Wharf. His response had been, 'No shit, she's got a great ass.'

'Let's discuss this at home, shall we?' Howard appealed for calm.

'I've got to get back to work. Things to do, pots to count, that kind of thing.' French gave Fry a sympathetic smile and nudged her a bit as a goodbye. When she turned to retreat, her path was blocked by the older, dark haired man with five o'clock shadow and a no nonsense look in his eye. French hadn't met Howard yet. He smiled and said, 'We'd appreciate it if you joined us. I think a lot of the conversation is going to concern you.'

Priscilla stood next to him, her arms crossed. 'That is, if the idea of taking responsibility doesn't scare you off.'

French had a feeling that no matter what she said, Priscilla Spark wasn't going to like her. French wondered if she suffered a spontaneous conversion to veganism and joined the Peace Corps, Priscilla might think of her as the kind of woman that her daughter should spend time with. The only thing French really wanted to spontaneously convert to at that moment was invisibility. There was something about that wall of Sparks that gave her pause for thought. She stepped back a pace and stood next to Fry. 'Guess I'm coming to your house.'

Fry felt kind of sorry for French. Her family could be overwhelming to people who weren't used to them. She was hoping Joe wouldn't challenge French to an arm wrestle. It was bad enough when Harriet beat him.

To be continued...