LOS ANGELES, CA

For once, the flight into LAX was on time, and Terry Thorne took it as a good omen. Passing the terminal baggage claim, he was thankful he'd only traveled with a carry on. That line would have taken an hour at best. Outside at the curb, Terry devoured a cigarette hungrily before he hailed a cab, then told the driver to take him home. He wanted to grab a shower and change before heading out to Malibu to see Isis. But when traffic slowed to a crawl on the 405 even at nearly nine PM, he changed his mind.

"Sorry, mate. Can you make it Malibu?"

The driver looked into the rear view mirror with arched bushy brows. "That's a two hundred dollar fare, mister."

"No worries," he said and handed over a Platinum card. "Worth every penny."

The driver looked skeptical, but took the card anyway. "You're the boss."

Terry grinned at that - Another sign? - then shook his head, dismissing the fanciful idea. He wasn't superstitious by nature, the opposite in fact: he only trusted reason, facts, and what he could put his hands on. But as they say, there are no atheists in foxholes, and he'd seen plenty of those. Terry did believe in luck, and he decided not to push it by hoping for too much.

This move - dropping in without calling ahead - could be another mistake. A big one. He'd know when he saw Isis' face, and not until then.

MALIBU, CA

Isis Knox gazed out the studio window at the rising moon, full and low in the sky, its silver light reflecting on the darkening water of the Pacific. That moon seemed to call to her, and she felt a pull in her blood that made her anxious. If she'd been alone, she would have gone out on the beach for a walk, right up to the water's edge, maybe even taken a swim, just to bathe in that moonlight.

The moon wasn't the only thing making her anxious. Jason Montez sat on the piano bench playing that acoustic riff over and over, trying to get it right, and missing it by a mile every time. It grated on her nerves. But that really wasn't it either. When she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, counted to ten, it was Terry Thorne's face she saw in her mind's eye. He was out there somewhere, maybe staring at that same full moon. Grammy night was a week ago tonight, and she still hadn't heard from him. Family emergency or not, she was starting to lose hope that she would ever see him again. Maybe Julie was right after all.

"Fuck," Jason cursed, interrupting her thoughts. "What was it? It's right there, but I can't find it."

Isis didn't turn away from the moon in the window.

"What tuning are you using, Jase?"

"Drop D," he answered without looking up, the long curtain of dark hair obscuring his face.

"Drop D on an acoustic?" she wondered. "That's kind of hard core, don't you think?"

Jason could have slapped himself on the forehead. "Fuck," he grumbled under his breath. She was right. He'd been using his other guitar when he'd fingered out that sweet hook, and of course it was tuned standard. Rising, he took a few long strides to the wall and pulled Isis' black acoustic from the wall. After checking the tuning, he strummed and felt relief flood his body, loosening his tense shoulders and tight chest. "Christ, there it is! What the fuck was I thinking? Thanks baby."

Isis drifted towards the piano bench as he sat again and started strumming. She crossed her arms, felt a chill. "You know what, Jase? I'm not really feeling it right now. Let's call it a night."

"Just give me a minute, Ice. You've gotta hear this."

"No, I don't," she said sharply, closing a hand over the neck to silence the strings.

Jason looked up through his dark hair and felt his stomach clench at her flashing eyes. Someone told her, he thought suddenly fearful. He calmed himself forcefully, hoping to play it off. "What's wrong, baby? You mad at me?"

"Sorry," she breathed, and released the guitar. "I'm just feeling, I don't know…" Restless, uneasy, disturbed, she said silently to herself. "Tired," she answered without looking at him. She didn't know what she felt. All she knew was that she didn't want Jason around tonight.

What are you gonna do all alone, Ice, mope about Terry Thorne? Her inner voice asked. Yeah, she answered herself. That's what I need. I'm gonna have a good long mope.

Jason Montez studied Isis in the low light of the studio. He knew she was lying to him, brushing him off. She wasn't tired. She looked like she was about to jump out of her skin. To be honest, she looked like she needed to get laid. And God knows he'd tried, all week long, but it was like coming up against a brick wall every time he got her in the mood. She just put on the brakes and that was that. He wasn't used to being told 'no'. As a rock star, women threw themselves at him. Half the time, all he had to do was open the hotel door and they'd fall in, tearing at his zipper, fighting for the chance to blow him. Jason couldn't remember the last time he'd worked so hard to get between a chick's legs. It was exciting as hell, but it was also starting to piss him off.

Over the week they'd spent together since the accident, Jason hadn't come any closer to confessing his misdeed to Isis, dosing her with Ecstasy on Grammy night. He'd decided that it would be easier for her to hear after they'd slept together. Women were like that, got attached. It would be harder to let go once she'd … invested herself. He was counting on it to save his neck, and possibly his career, before time ran out. But at this rate, it would be a close call.

Putting the guitar aside, Jason reached for her hand. "You don't look tired, baby. You look jumpy as hell. What's wrong?"

She turned her face back to the moon, hiding her eyes. They always gave her away. "I don't know," she breathed. "Maybe it's the moon."

"Yeah?" he grinned, hopeful. "Well let's go howl. You wanna get out of here? Go find a party?"

Maybe an after-after party, she thought silently. "No, Jason, that's not it. I just think I need some time to myself. I'm kind of used to being alone, ya know?"

"And how fucked up is that?" he wondered aloud. Standing, Jason followed her when she went back to the window, put his arms around her from behind, ignoring her reaction when her body tensed. "Ice," he said, his tone gentle but chiding. "I think you've had enough time alone. I think you need a little sumthin' sumthin', ya know what I mean?"

Her heart dropped. Was she that transparent? Did she look desperate? She was glad he couldn't see her eyes, he saw too much. She went silent.

"Come on, Ice. Don't send me home again," he pleaded. "You know I care about you. That's not going to change. Can't I just stay?" At her continued resistance, he released her and went back to his guitar. Strumming a new chord, Jason dropped his voice low, and sang the old Elvis tune, "Don't be cruel, to a heart that's true."

She smiled against her will, reconsidered. Maybe she was being a little cruel, stringing him along like this.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I don't mean to keep you in suspense, Jase, I'm just not ready. If that means you need to go, then I'll understand."

She was giving him an out. He saw it, but couldn't take it. "I'm not going anywhere, baby," he said more confidently than he felt. "We've got a tour in two months, and we're not anywhere near ready. If you want to go to bed, that's cool. I'll just hang out here and work, if you don't mind."

Isis turned and looked at Jason, but his head was already bent, watching the polished instrument as he strummed. She couldn't remember the last time that someone had challenged her to work harder. Everyone was always telling her to slow down. It confused her a little, but maybe he was right.

"You got a standard tuning now?" she wondered.

Jason lifted his face and brightened hopefully. He didn't have to close the deal tonight, just stay in the game. Wear her down. Channeling the King again, he answered playfully, "Uh, huh, huh…"

"So show me that riff already."

LOS ANGELES, CA

When the cab made that last turn on Highway 1 and the large Spanish turret of the Knox beach house crested the dune, Terry felt at once relief and trepidation. He'd spent so much time in Malibu over the last two months, the place nearly felt like home, and he was glad to see it. Such a beautiful house on a perfect beach. Ironic how this oasis of peace was the center of such a storm of publicity. But it was late, nearly ten o'clock. The full moon was big against the dark night sky, and his confidence in this decision was flagging. He should have called. What if Isis was in bed? And worse, what if she wasn't there alone?

Running a hand down his face, Terry scratched at his beard. He felt scruffy, his grey slacks and blue dress shirt rumpled from the plane. This wasn't his 'A' game by a long shot, but perhaps the time for that was past. Besides, it was too late to turn back now. The motion sensors had triggered the perimeter lights, and his agents inside would be alerted to a presence on the grounds.

"Go loud or go home," he reminded himself firmly.

In the palm-lined circular driveway, Terry noted a vintage red Mustang with a little apprehension. He tipped the cabbie big enough to cover the return trip.

When he buzzed at the front door, Chris Wyatt came over the intercom. "Hey, Terry. Welcome back. Good to see you."

"You too, mate," he smiled up into the camera. "Pulling the late shift?"

"Something like that. Be right down."

Standing there with a carry on and his suit jacket thrown over his arm, he sussed it. Chris and the bird with the pink hair. Poor bastard.

As if he had conjured a harpy with his thoughts, the front door opened to Julie's angry face. "Day late and a dollar short, Thorne," she gloated. "Isis is upstairs with Jason. You might as well go home."

Terry's eyes cut to Chris', standing behind her. He was obviously not on duty in grey sweats and a white t-shirt. Wyatt rolled his blue eyes. "Jesus, Julie," he breathed, pulling her back from the door. "They're in the studio, Terry. Go on up. She's been waiting for you to call."

Looking to Julie Cruise, Terry offered, "I came straight from the airport."

"What? You want a medal?" she asked sarcastically.

Dropping his bag in the hallway, Terry pushed past her and made his way through the house purposefully. He felt his stomach tense. He wanted to storm up the stairs, throw open the studio door, charge in and rescue Isis, but he restrained the impulse with effort. On the landscaped walkway at the back of the house, he heard piano music coming from the studio above, guitar as well. At least it sounded like Montez's hands were occupied with something other than Isis' body, and he took the comfort he could find in that knowledge.

At the top of the stairs, Craig Foster rose from his chair and offered his hand. "Welcome back, Mr. Thorne," the young agent grinned. And not a moment too soon. "Go on in. She's been waiting for you."

That was good to hear. Terry contemplated the door while he asked softly, "Craig, how well do you remember Grammy night?"

Craig nodded with a knowing smirk, "In Technicolor, sir. It was pretty hard to forget."

"Good," he breathed. "Keep your ears open. I may call on you."

Terry rapped calmly. The piano stopped abruptly while the guitar played on. Isis' musical voice came from behind the door. "Come in."

With a deep breath, he turned the handle and stepped inside. Terry found Isis at the piano, the white curtains blowing in a gentle breeze and the moon shining through the window. When their eyes met, he knew he'd made the right decision.

"Terry!" she cried.

Thorne breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of her delighted expression. Though her wrist was lightly bandaged, she was well and whole, dressed casually in her usual low slung track pants and cami. Terry thought she looked more beautiful now than she had on the red carpet: the real Isis Knox, not the star. Though he wanted to fold her in his arms, he stopped just inside the door and put his hands in his pockets as if to still them.

Jason Montez was sitting beside her on the piano bench, much too closely for his taste. He covered his concern with a confident smile directed solely at her. "How are you, love? What a lot of nonsense, hey?"

"I'm fine," Isis beamed. "Better now."

Standing there in her studio, Terry Thorne looked like he'd been through the ringer. It wasn't his appearance really: physically he looked a little tired, his blue shirt and grey slacks wrinkled, thick chestnut hair uncombed, beard a little shaggy. But that was just the rigor of travel, fixed with a shower and a change of clothes. She knew the drill well. But something in Terry's eyes made him look like he'd been to hell and back. She knew that drill too, unfortunately; saw that look in the mirror all this last week.

Her brows knit with worry, and she rose to go to him. "What about you, Boss? Everything okay?"

Terry raised his chin a little, touched by her concern. Had he really expected anything less? He nodded, replying softly, assured, "It will be."

Watching the exchange, Jason Montez's heart sank. He tried to fight down the tide of panic that rose from his belly. He was fucked, and he knew it. It was obvious now that Thorne was the reason Isis had been putting him off. His fear crystallized to anger when she tried to rise from the bench. Clasping her wrist to keep her at his side, his mind raced for some angle to play. He grasped at the only one he could think of. "Where the fuck have you been, James Bond?" he demanded, taking the first swing. "Some security expert you are."

"Jason," Isis gasped, astonished.

Terry might have laughed at the overwrought display of alpha male territoriality if he didn't have his hand on Isis' wrist. Looking Montez up and down and dismissing him, he communicated the severity of his request to her with his eyes and his deep voice, "Ice, I need to speak with you. Alone."

Jason bridled at being ignored, stood to his full towering height. Tattoos showed on his well defined arms under his black t-shirt. "I don't think she wants to talk to you. This is your fault."

Terry lowered his voice, jutted his chin. "I could say the same about you, mate. Do you really want to go there?"

"Jason, my accident wasn't Terry's fault," Isis defended, tugging at his hand.

"Yeah? Well when I saw you on Grammy night, you were in one piece. What happened after that, Thorne? She doesn't remember."

Terry looked to Isis with concern. "You blacked out?"

She nodded silently.

"How about you, suit?" Jason challenged brazenly, gesturing to his eye, a light bruise still visible. "Remember giving me this black eye?"

Isis' brows furrowed. She'd nearly forgotten about that, and she still didn't want to believe it was true. "You hit him, Terry? Why would you do that?"

Terry felt his pulse quicken as adrenaline flooded his body and tensed his muscles. He sussed what Jason was about immediately, his motive completely transparent. Montez hoped to deflect attention from his own misdeed, goad Thorne into hitting him again - this time in front of Isis - to make him look like a brute. But Terry wasn't about to let him control the situation. Breathing purposefully, he calmed himself into deadly focus. "Isis," he reasserted gently, but firmly. "I need to speak with you alone. It's important." Turning to Jason, he asked politely, "Will you please excuse us?"

"Fuck no," Jason spat. "You did this to me, what are you gonna do to her?"

Terry took a step closer, the gesture subtly menacing, though his hands were clasped calmly in front of his body. You should be worried about what I'm going to do to you, mate, he said with his eyes. He knew Jason understood his unspoken threat when the taller man visibly retreated.

"Jason, come on," Isis breathed, incredulous, but wary of the growing tension in the room. Her eyes darted to the studio door, and she wondered if she should call Craig inside.

"You gonna hit me again?" Jason cajoled, finding his courage. "Come on, suit. I dare you. I won't even sue."

Terry licked his lips, put his hands in his pockets, and turned his attention fully to Isis. His voice a gentle purr, he asked, "Isis, do you trust me, love?"

She wasn't sure at first, didn't know what to say. She looked back and forth between the two men uneasily. But when she gazed across the short distance into Terry's blue eyes, she recognized the man she knew. In his steady solid presence again, all her doubts were washed away.

"I trust you, Terry," she breathed.

That brilliant smile flashed over his face and reached his eyes, and it felt like a reward, but only for a fleeting moment. Terry's expression changed then, became resolute as he turned back to Jason, all business. "Miss Knox, thank Mr. Montez for his visit, and ask him to leave."

Jason turned to Isis with pleading eyes. Thorne was going to tell her everything. "Baby, wait, just give me a minute."

She tried to be gentle. "Jason, I need to talk to Terry now. It's okay. I'll call you tomorrow."

"You heard her. Time to go," Thorne insisted, moving closer. When Jason stood still, Terry promised, "You won't like it if I have to show you the door."

"Ice, I need to tell you something," Jason blurted finally, sounding resigned. It was his last chance. "I wanted to tell you, baby. I tried. I just didn't know how to say it. Things were going so well since you've been back, I didn't want to fuck it up."

"What is it?" she asked, sounding bewildered.

He looked hesitant, turned his eyes to Thorne, almost begging.

"Tell her, mate," Terry spoke low. "Or I will."

The temperature seemed to drop in the room when she realized both men knew something she didn't. Isis felt her temper flare. "What's going on?" she demanded.

Montez hung his head, couldn't look at her when he finally confessed. "I gave you the X at the party, Ice."

She wasn't sure she'd heard him right. "What?" she breathed in disbelief.

"Yeah, it was me. I put it in your wine." He finally raised his eyes, though they were still shaded by his long dark hair, "Jesus, I'm sorry, baby. I didn't want you to get hurt, I just wanted you to have a good time. You know, like the old days. And…" his voice trailed off.

"And what?" she insisted angrily.

"And I thought maybe…you'd want to come home with me. That we could be together."

Terry watched Isis carefully, noted the golden Grammy statuette atop the piano, and tensed, ready for her explosion. She bunched her fists with rage, but then let go with the pain of her wrist. The eruption never came. Isis just seemed to wilt, crumpled to the bench and covered her face. Terry moved to her side, put a steady hand on her shoulder while he kept his eye on Montez. Her body shook with silent sobs.

When she looked up through her long black hair, her face was stained with tears. "Do you have any idea what you put me through? My daughter? All of us? Jesus, Jason…" she finally breathed, despondent.

"I'm sorry, Ice," he apologized again. "Really fucking sorry."

"Just, go," she demanded. She felt so betrayed, and she didn't want him to see her cry.

Before he turned, Jason looked to Thorne standing between them. His expression was forlorn as he whispered, "It would have been easier if you'd just hit me, man."

"I know," Terry nodded. "But you did the right thing, mate."

After he saw Montez to the door, Terry settled on the piano bench next to Isis and gathered her into his arms. She hid her face in his broad chest. "You're all right, mate," he whispered in reassurance. The scent of her floral shampoo was a welcome sensation, as was the press and warmth of her body.

"He's been so different since I've been back," she said, still sounding stunned. "But it was all because he felt guilty, wasn't it?"

Terry almost felt sorry for the bastard. "I imagine so."

"God, I feel so stupid," she grimaced, her eyes flashing with anger when she looked up to him again. "I'm so glad you hit him, Terry. I just wish I could have seen it."

Terry chuckled at that, pushed her hair back from her eyes. Smoothing a tear from her cheek, he smiled, hoped to diffuse her anger. "Shall I call him back, then?"

She chuffed a frustrated laugh, shaking her head. "No." She didn't want Jason back at all. This was the only man she wanted to be alone with. Reaching to pet his bearded cheek, she smiled sadly into his eyes. "I missed you."

Terry answered the heartfelt sentiment with a kiss on her lips, gentle, almost chaste. "You know I wanted to be here, yeah?" At her nod, he continued. "My son surprised us all and joined the Army instead of starting university."

Her eyes grew wide. "Oh my God," she breathed. "Will he go to war?"

He looked into the distance as if he was trying to see into the future. "He has to make it through basic training first, but after that…it's certainly possible."

She groaned, held him tightly. "Oh God, I'm so sorry, Terry. For all of this." New tears ran down her face when she imagined her child in that kind of danger, anyone's child. "You must be so scared."

"Yeah," he admitted. Tipping her chin with his finger, he brought her eyes to meet his when he said it: "But I was a bit scared for you as well; worried that I let you down."

"No," Isis tried to stop him, but he continued.

"I should have taken you to the hospital straightaway. That was my call, and it was a bad one. I'm sorry Isis." Her delicate brows knit with new concern, and she shook her head, but he dropped his eyes. "That night…" his demeanor became formal. "My behavior was inappropriate and unprofessional. Chris, Dino, Christ…even Montez was right. I've gotten too close, lost my objectivity." He touched her bandaged wrist. "This was my fault, and it's a mistake I won't make again." Terry looked down to her hand in his, considered his words carefully. That little hand, how it affected him every time he touched her. It only strengthened his resolve.

Looking into her eyes, Terry said gently, but firmly. "Isis, I need to resign from your account."

"What?" she asked, confused. "Terry, no. I don't want -"

"Chris will head your detail, and Dean will supervise, as Goldman has requested."

"David?" she gasped. "Look, you don't have to do this. This is my decision, Terry, not David's."

"Ultimately, yes," he agreed. "But it's also mine, and I've made it. Another option of course is to find another firm. I hope you won't - my partners shouldn't be punished for my mistake - but I'll understand if you do. No hard feelings."

"No hard feelings?" she breathed, incredulous. Drawing away, she stood to pace with her arms crossed. And it came to her in a flash of insight, all she had feared. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she looked him in the eye. "Okay, I get it," Isis said, her tone clipped.

In her expression, he saw the business woman, a bit of the Queen. She was angry, and trying unsuccessfully to mask it. "You want out. I understand, Terry. Really."

"Do you, love?" he asked, unsure.

Something in her seemed to break, and she stifled a new sob. "Yes, and honestly, I don't blame you. My life is a fucking disaster. If I had the chance, I'd run screaming too."

Terry watched her struggle, tried to interrupt her, but she went on.

"It's okay, Terry. I won't look for another firm. I wouldn't do that to Chris and the guys. So…like you said, no hard feelings."

Straightening to her full height, Isis Knox offered her hand to shake.

Terry sat on the bench and looked at her hand, the way she offered it like she had on the plane that first night they'd met. He wouldn't take it. Not to say goodbye.

Through the wavering tears she was trying to hold back, Isis watched Terry Thorne stand from the bench and move towards her, his hands thrust in his pockets. She couldn't read his expression. He looked pissed, like he'd looked at Jason. For a moment, she was actually afraid.

His voice was low and rough, nearly a growl. "Are you calling me a bloody chook?" he challenged brazenly.

"A what?" Isis asked, bewildered.

"A chicken."

"No," she chuffed a laugh. "I'd never -"

But her words were cut off, her breath stopped entirely by Terry's suddenly demanding kiss. Isis felt his hand behind her head, the other on her back, sliding lower to cup her backside. And then he was dancing her back against the piano until she was trapped. His tongue teased over her lips. She sucked at it instinctively, and then it was invading her mouth at the invitation, taking her as if he could drink her in completely. Isis actually whimpered, clutching at his broad back and shoulders until he lifted her from her feet. When she felt her bottom touch the hard surface of the piano, her legs wrapped around his hips, clutched him close as he ground eager hips against her. Isis was overwhelmed by the power of his body, his controlled abandon, his natural scent. She never wanted it to end.

When he broke his kiss, she felt a big hand grasp her breast as his warm breath fanned her face. She gasped, drove for his lips again, and he rewarded her with a new devouring while he teased her excited flesh mercilessly. After he had nipped at her neck, she heard his purring whisper at her ear: "Now do you understand what I want?"

She looked stunned, unable to speak.

"You said you trusted me love."

"I do," she insisted.

"So trust me."

Isis shook uncontrollably, but when she breathed deep, she realized it was more from desire than fear. Looking into Terry's eyes, she knew what she wanted.

"Take me inside, Boss. Bring me to life."