The shower had been delicious, and in fresh clothes, Paula sat beside Chase on the sofa, overlooking the landscape. Even the cold beer seemed to be the perfect choice for the moment.

"What made you decide to come?" Chase asked, back slouched against the sofa arm, and one leg bent up onto the cushion beside him.

She studied the beer bottle for a second. "I'm not really sure. The ticket was about to expire--" He made a soft snort. "I- I . . . why did you send me the ticket?" She held the bottle against her warm cheek.

"The truth is, Paula, you got under my damned skin, and it was something I hadn't experienced before in my line of work." He picked at a loose cushion thread, watching for her reaction.

"Don't play games, Chase, tell me why."

"I'm not, and it's true." He set his bottle down and shifted closer. "You gave me fits the whole time, and signals I wasn't sure how to handle."

"You were hired to kill me! Any signals should have been very clear."

"Really? How about that last night in the motel?"

Her skin lit up and she stood quickly, striding to the window, arms folded. "Oh yes, the motel. I got that message from your post card. Subtlety certainly wasn't your strong suit." She heard him chuckle behind her and heat in her neck increased.

"Climb down, Ms Regan. I didn't need to mail a post card thousands of miles away if that was the reason."

She gawped at her reflection and turned around, cheeks pink and posture rigid. "And just what was your reason – Mr. Chase."

"To continue what I started, or hopefully finish this time."

"Continue what?" She snapped, bending forward slightly.

"What I hoped I had discovered in that short week."

She hesitated, her own thoughts intruding. "I hope you weren't thinking that one week . . . together, in those circumstances, was any indication--"

"Yet here you are." He smiled as her entire face suffused in a rosy glow.

Any attempted speech became a sputter, only making her angrier. She crossed and uncrossed her arms, doing short pacing steps, all the time seeing his twitchy smile from the corner of her eye.

"Whatever your reason, Paula, it has turned out to be providence."

"Providence!"

"Yes, because you are going to need my services again."

Her mouth dropped and she glared fire at him. "Services! Services! You are the most misguided, egotistical . . ." Her hands waved about helplessly searching for words.

"Protection services." He said mildly, and sipped from his beer, waiting for her next explosion.

She straightened up in a hurry, hands moving to her hips. "Protecting me? What kind of- of quasi feminist babble is that." She strode back toward him, finger pointing sharply. "You have no right--"

His hand came out grabbing her wrist as he started to get up. "Let me show you something."

She wrenched free suddenly. "Show me what, I don't need your protection?"

He got up and she backed away, little fists up defensively.

"Don't be stupid." He passed by her across the room and switched on his TV. Grabbing the remote he went to saved programs and brought up a recent newscast. "Watch."

An anchor for an international news station appeared; behind him was a picture of a man, and Paula gasped as she listened to the recorded report. On the Sunday past, venture capitalist, Sandford Whitthall had been found shot to death in the library of his mansion. Police have no clues as to reason or perpetrator . . . Chase switched it off and tossed the remote on the table.

"That is no coincidence." He said.

"But I never heard . . ." She slumped against the door frame, fingers at her throat.

"I'm not much of a believer in coincidence or fate, but your decision to finally come here when you did, had to fall into one of those slots. Doc has begun is purge. Your uncle has decided to ignore the deal we made. He's been beating the brush ever since I left."

"But what if I hadn't come?"

"Then I would have had to come to you. You are in danger, Paula."

She frowned, staring back. "What- I don't understand. Two years later?"

"There's no time limit on revenge. A couple of sources I reached out to, told me he has made getting me an obsession."

Her stare was hard, and her voice cold. "And you lured me down here as what, bait? Not this time, Mr. Chase." She turned and strode back to the window, standing stiffly.

"I wanted you here so I could protect you - your uncle's fixation isn't just on me, lady, you saw the newscast." Chase followed, stopping behind her and watching her reflection in the glass. "In Doc's eyes, his ducks were in a row and Sanford was the first and the easiest." They both seemed to hold their breath, and then she felt his hands on her arms and she closed her eyes, a shiver almost buckling her legs.

He turned her around slowly, eyes seeking hers, and they stood mentally reliving their brief past and probing for signs. Her arms dropped and she leaned into him with a soft sigh. Chase lifted her chin, and after a brief glance, pressed his lips to hers.

******

The cooing sounds, mixed with what sounded like chuckles and long squeaks, pierced Paula's sleep and she woke slowly, eyes still blurry. When her focus settled she stared up at the big ceiling fan, silently turning, and then blinked at the undisturbed pillow beside her. She sat up looking about the room; it was the one she had been directed to when she first arrived . . . and then the previous night came flooding back.

Pulling on her dressing gown, she paused, and then moved tentatively out of the bedroom and down the short hall to the front room.

"Out here," the voice called, causing her to jump. "Coffee's on."

Moving cautiously, she peered around the corner into the kitchen. Chase had his back to her at the stove, cooking something. She saw he was dressed in a bright blue t-shirt and shorts, the adequately muscled body prompting flashes from the previous night.

"What time is it?" She asked, stepping into the kitchen.

"Time to have some breakfast and enjoy the sun coming over that hill." He turned around, taking in the robe and smiled. He dumped the contents of the pan onto a couple of plates and headed out to the deck where a table was set for two. "Don't let it get cold, and grab the coffee pot will you."

She gawped after him. Grab the coffee! So, much for the romantic morning after.

He pulled out a chair and sat. "You want to pour some of that, please?"

"You- what- how can you just--"

He took the coffee pot and filled both their mugs. "Your omelette's getting cold."

She sank onto a chair, still gaping at him. Her eyes dropped to the plate and the sudden smell of the spiced food confused her, and she picked up her fork and cut off a bite.

"Good?" He asked.

Blinking rapidly, she chewed and was surprised at just how good it was – and how hungry she suddenly found herself. The words she had wanted to say escaped her thoughts, and the abrupt appearance of a golden sun over the hilltop captured all of her attention.

"About last night," he picked up his coffee and took a sip, "I had hoped to explain it all with a lot less drama." He saw her eyes spark and he sighed, closing his own a moment, and he leaned on the table. "Okay, I get it." He looked down and then back up, locking on hers. "What happened wasn't planned, I swear. I won't say I'm sorry though."

Since she awoke, Paula's life seemed to be hurtling forward, allowing for no handrails or brakes before slamming into the logjam of mixed signals and bewilderment. Now, as she sat and listened to Chase's theories and their options, the terror of two years ago settled heavily on her shoulders, and she had to shake herself to see if she was in some kind of dream.

The omelette she was eating, strangely dragged her back to reality, and she fumbled some more egg into her mouth, forcing her thoughts to coalesce.