MY NOTES: This is part II for a four part MSR called "Scent of
a Woman." Please read stories in order for maximum "effect."
To find missing installments, visit:
www.oocities.org/hotsprings/8334/fic.html.

SPECIAL THANKS: to my fab beta babes: Sue, Dasha, Kelley and
Deb (who knows a lot about guns, BTW). Without them, this
whole thing would read like one run-on sentence. And to all
the Scent-I readers who bribed, begged and threatened me to get
on with it already!

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Dana Scully, but tonight she's glad I at
least control her mind. All regards to 1013, FOX, and such
for providing the fodder for my dirty little mind.

FEEDBACK: Slap me silly!!
Terma99@aol.com
 

Scent of a Woman-II
The Nest

by Terma99
 

Dana Scully sighed and unharnessed her overnight bag from
her shoulder, setting the soggy paper sack clutched in her left
hand down on the floor in front of apartment 42 in an effort to
stage a new attack against Mulder's impertinent front door.
The abused block of wood was not much for helping a tired,
slightly fumigated FBI woman wrangle the lock into submission.
Her hands free, Scully jiggled her keys again and got a firmer grip
on the one labeled "Mulder," as if she'd forget the greenish bent
key was his any time soon. With some struggling, she fit it in the
lock and wrenched the knob while applying a sidelong kick to
the edge of the bottom panel as she had seen Mulder do on
occasion. The pressboard groaned and wobbled open. Entrance
was granted.

Scully gathered her bags and slipped into the cold, darkened
space, fumbling with her free hand for the light switch. She flicked
it. Nothing. Dead bulb. Another sigh escaped her and she
abandoned her baggage once again, stumbling cautiously forward
--not a little concerned some Fed-eating mutant might be laying
in wait just ahead--until her ankle made sharp contact with the
leg of Mulder's sidetable. Painful, but at least she knew where
she was. With a turn of the switch, the little green table lamp
came to life, illuminating the apartment to the best of its dim
40-watt ability.

Using reverse psychology on the door, she managed to succeed
in closing and locking it. Picking up her warm, moist-bottomed
bag, she headed for the kitchen, turning on lights as she went.
Tonight's dinner, as she pulled it out onto the counter, consisted
of Giovanni's best marinara primavera with fresh grated Parmesan,
a duet of fluffy breadsticks, and for a special treat, a plastic tin
of tiramisu. She opened the foil breadstick bag and let the
garlicky steam fill her nose. Her mouth had been watering for
the last half hour as she drove over from the restaurant to
her makeshift lodgings for the evening. It was a dinner pick-up
and drive she had made many times before, except this time
she didn't have to keep an eye out for a big sneaky hand
pilfering her breadsticks while she slurped down her pasta.
She almost always lost half her food when she ate with Mulder.

After popping the lid off her entree, she gingerly dug around for
the bag's final contents--lifting out the drippy soda cup, straw, and
a now permanently fused wet set of napkins. Scully wasn't one
to normally order a drink to go for this very reason, but
experience had taught her not to tempt fate with the sparse
and often frightening contents of Mulder's fridge. She'd also
taken the precaution of picking up a large bottle of Evian given
the notorious tap water hazards one could expect from this
building. Eating a meal at Mulder's was like traveling to a third
world country.

Preparing herself for the horrors that lay ahead, she jerked
his refrigerator door open to find the contents surprisingly tame:
two beers, an empty bottle of juice, some kind of barbecue sauce,
a box of baking soda, and a single orphaned egg, lying on its side
in the door rack. Nearly deserted, but at least its occupants
weren't walking on their own yet. She set her dessert in to chill
for later and closed the door.

Scully popped a breadstick in her mouth as she dragged
open Mulder's silverware drawer and selected a fork with
reasonably straight tines. In the first cupboard she rescued a
solo blue plastic tumbler from a ring of dinged mugs with "Eat
at Eddie's" logos on their sides. So maybe as the years had passed
Mulder's apartment had upgraded itself to the second world, but
still, it appeared to be a country where its citizens had to resort
to smuggling dinnerware from various late-night diners. It was
a good thing Mulder didn't entertain much. She poured the
remaining contents of her soda into the tumbler, and tearing off
a few paper towels, carried her meal out to the coffee table.

The low table was scattered with psychology journals, various
issues of Discover, TV Guide, Sports Illustrated, Scientific
American, and something with a busty wench on the cover that
she quickly slipped under the more socially acceptable periodicals.
Parting the paper sea, she set her dinner in the center and
re-arranged the magazines into two neat stacks. She probably
shouldn't be fussing with his stuff, she realized, but after all, one
had to make room to eat. She bit the rest of the way through
the bread and stuffed the end of it into the pasta to hold it for
a moment while she reached under her for the TV remote.

Seventy-two channels and nothing on. Mulder didn't hesitate to
splurge for premium sports cable she noticed, twirling her
pasta around the fork, as she flipped past three college
basketball games, some celebrity golf tournament, pro bowling,
and a muddy horserace that made her wonder if her partner
had sense enough to get in from the rain tonight. A few bites
later she gave up on the national networks and decided to brave
the video boxes she saw lying around the TV.

Hmm...action flicks...most of which she wouldn't be caught
dead waiting outside a theater for, but would certainly hold
her interest in a captive situation such as this. Too many years
of living alone made her habitually turn on the tube for dinner
companionship. Mulder's livingroom was set up in a similar
manner. From the fine dust layer on its polished surface, it
didn't look like his dining table ever held anything finer than
file boxes, folded laundry and paperwork.

Rejecting the Steven Segal and subtitled Japanese films, Scully
settled for Die Hard III, hoping she couldn't go too wrong with
Jeremy Irons as the handsomely-desperate villain. She popped
it in the machine and with a groan and static hiss, it came to
life. Settling back onto the couch, she lifted her pasta tin into her
lap, careful not to spill as she ate, pausing to take a few large gulps
of her barely cool beverage as 65 million dollars worth of action
got underway.

As glucose streamed its way into her thudding brain, Scully began
to relax. It had been one hell of a Thursday. Coming home to a
"We're glad we sprayed your home with toxic chemicals" note
from the building management tacked to her door and the ugly
smell of acid-burnt eggs, was not how she had intended to start
her evening. Ten minutes after letting herself in, she was seized
with a coughing fit and a pounding headache that had her
reaching for her windows and her cellphone at the same time.
After a brief conversation with Mulder, who was arguably having
a worse time in Kentucky than she was in Georgetown, she set
about removing herself from the fallout zone for at least 24 hours.

A sleepover at Mulder's. This was a new thing for her certainly,
she thought, sponging the last of the red sauce from the bottom
of her container with the butt of the breadstick. In the brain-
cell-melting noxious fumes, she hadn't given the request
much debate. Was it appropriate? She could have called her
mother, but Mulder was about 45 minutes closer to work and
she still had Friday to get through. With her partner out of the
office chasing aliens with a horse-fetish (an excursion she had
passed on--she'd seen enough exsanguinated livestock to last her
a lifetime) she'd been saddled with a mountain of fiscal year-
end paperwork. Just the thought of it waiting for her in the
basement was making her subsiding headache come back with
a fresh throb.

Besides, as it turned out, Mulder had recently rediscovered
his bedroom. Evidently he'd been up to some redecorating the
last few months. She'd caught him arguing with the deliverymen
on the phone a few weeks ago. Overhearing the words "mattress"
and "bedroom" in the same sentence, she was sure Mulder
was talking to his mother. But she was quite wrong, and there was
no hope of hiding the shock on her face when he asked her to
cover for him while he went to go let them in. Mulder and a bed.
Two things she was certain she'd never live to see co-habitating
under the same roof.

Bullets were beginning to fly across the screen accompanied by
a string of profanity as she slipped off her shoes and lay back
into the pillows, pulling Mulder's old Indian blanket around her
to ward off the chill the ancient heating system had yet to conquer.
 All at once she got the sweet impression of lying back against
his chest, the two of them wrapped in the blanket, his fingers
lazily stroking her hair as they both laughed at this dreadful
movie Mr. Irons was doing nothing to improve upon.

Scully sighed as she brought the edge of the fuzzy wool to her
nose and breathed in. He must still sleep on the couch from time
to time because a faint hint of his aftershave remained--a wisp
of fragrance not unlike the trace evidence he would sometimes
leave on the lapels of her blouse or coat after a nice long hug.

They should hug more, she thought, letting herself indulge in
a memory of his strong arms around her, his towering form
making her feel safe, surrounded by warmth and tenderness.
Yes, the man knew how to hug and right now this well loved,
tattered blanket he crawled under to sleep at night was providing
a fine simulation.
 

***********************************************
 

The next thing she knew, she woke with a start as the blank signal
at the end of the tape began to whine, nagging to be rewound.
Scully fought with the myriad buttons on the remote until she
succeeded in silencing the player, and lay back with a yawn,
rubbing her forehead. She must have been more tired than
she thought. Looking up over her head she eyed the light fixture
and wondered if Mulder was bullshitting her about the
surveillance hole. She'd better not press her luck; the last thing
she wanted that black lunged sonovabitch to have was live video
of her drooling on her partner's couch. So she roused and tossed
out her dinner tins and rinsed and put her and Mulder's
leftover dishes in the washer; came back out and fed the fish,
double checked the deadbolt, shut off the lights, and headed to
the bedroom.

Impressive, she thought, turning on the bedroom light and
eyeing the new maple and rosewood furnishings. Very nice
indeed. How odd that Mulder was strangely evasive and shy
about the project. He would joke and claim it was an act of God
or something, that he'd finally unearthed this room from the
mounds of squirreled paranormal paraphernalia and made
it habitable. He wouldn't let her have more than an accidental
peek the one time she'd stopped by since the mattress call.
It surprised her now that she was able to get a good look at it.
It was pretty cozy, certainly not a manner in which your
average professional bachelor would have settled himself.
She liked it--a lot.

Scully walked slowly about the room running her fingertips along
the polished surfaces, awed by the size of the new Sony wide-
screen television set (why the heck was the VCR still attached to
the old one?) with a digital sound system and eight level duel
CD racks. Quite the state of the art. New bookshelves, dressers,
bedside table...and then there was the bed. It was huge. She
approached it cautiously, admiring the tall dark mahogany
bedposts and, oh my, reflective tiles? She peeked gingerly under
the canopy again. A mirror? Well it seemed not all the bachelor
had washed out in Mulder's old age, she thought with a smile. It
was right in step with his billiard ball coat rack, dart board and
running shoes sitting in the middle of the floor.

Where'd he get the money for all this? she wondered.
And why now? Was he preparing for something? Someone?
She swallowed nervously, glancing about the room and was
startled by a small image of herself standing framed on
Mulder's new dresser. When did he get that? She stepped in
for a closer look, tilting the frame toward her.

Was that the...oh no...and he says he's not a Freudian. It was a
picture of her holding a Nerf football near the Washington
Monument at last year's ridiculous FBI On the Green barbecue.
Well, she did look rather nice in it despite the looming phallus.
The rest of the photographs were of family and, of course,
Samantha and him as kids. He did make a pretty cute twelve-year
old--all gangly limbs and too much nose. No other unrelated
adult females graced his dressertop. Maybe he was feathering
his nest for someone she knew a little too well. The thought
made her feel both hopeful and uneasy.

Picking up his running shoes before she tripped over them,
Scully carried them over to the closet and slid the door open,
uncovering his cultivated collection of fine, pressed suits
carefully hung by hue from dark charcoals and grays to blues
to that striking pin-stripe number he hadn't worn in years.
She assumed it had been destroyed by one too many encounters
with spectral ectoplasm or runaway RVs. She rather enjoyed
him in pinstripes, she thought, running her hand up the
expensive Italian wool, letting her fingers slip under the lapels
as if she were able to touch him briefly over 800 miles away.

She missed him of all things, she realized. Not even three days
had passed in the reclaimed cavern of their office without
his lumbering presence and she was already counting the hours
until his return. He'd be back tomorrow, she reminded herself.
And tomorrow was Friday--prime excuse for a 5PM display
of affection. The kisses they had begun to share were tender
and brief, like trying to sip at the rim of a cup of fresh coffee,
fearful of getting burned, but dying for a good hot swallow.
Maybe they should try blowing on each other first, she thought
with a snort, patting his suitcoat back into place. Still, it was nice
and she hadn't gotten one in a while. With a little luck, maybe
he'd call her to come pick him up at the airport. She wondered
what Mulder would think of that, getting planted with a big
smack in such a public setting as he walked off the plane. It
made her lips curve at the thought.

Shutting the closet to keep out midnight visitors, she unpacked
her toiletries and pajamas and headed into the shower. She
cranked on the old knobs and slipped out of her clothes while
the water heated, steam quickly filling the little room. Scully
stepped in and stood under the hot spray, letting the water work
into her stiffened shoulders and neck, flowing forward down
over her breasts and hips. Mulder had a wonderful showerhead,
and she reached back to help the pulsing water knead the last
traces of the chemically induced ache from the base of her cranium.

Scully could figure on one hand the number of times she'd
had someone do this for her in the last five years. Not counting
her mother, the tally included a weekend spa gift certificate
she'd won at the last Bureau softball team raffle and one
brief encounter with Mulder's long strong fingers, about one
year, three months, and twenty seven days ago. God, she'd
practically melted in his hands as they'd molded around the
nape of her neck, losing all resistance and embarrassing them
both with a unmistakable moan--which cut the whole thing
off pretty fast--Mulder mumbling shyly about needing to go
make a call or something, leaving her to ride out her blush in
blessed privacy.

Although they were cautious around one another physically,
the truth of the matter was, abstinence only made occasional
physical spontaneity all that more awkward and charged for
them. Scully often found herself pining for the early days
when Mulder's solicitousness was unbound and the innuendo
flowed freely. It was easier then, they laughed more, he was
closer in many ways, yet at the same time more distant. Their
relationship, or whatever one would call it, was still evolving,
but at an agonizing geological pace. Seeing as they had
recently mastered the act of kissing one another without
exploding into bits, maybe she could ask him for a little
neck rub now and again--hoist their intimacy status up
one more rung. My, but she was getting brave in her old age.

Scully helped herself to some greenish soap and applied her
own set of travel shampoo and conditioner to her head. Taking
her time to rinse, she enjoyed the simple sensuality of Mulder's
shower until the water began to cool.
 

****************************************

Twenty minutes later found her clean, dry, lotioned, and clad in
silky blue longsleeved pajamas, sitting cross-legged on top of
Mulder's bedspread, nibbling at her tiramisu from the back of
the fork, idly flipping through the late night talkshow selections
playing across the huge TV screen. On the bed in front of her was
an old issue of Omni she'd picked off of the bookshelf from
between Mulder's collection of best sellers, the complete
paperback works of Carl Sagan, and the largest encyclopedia
of unexplained mysteries she had ever seen published.

She was amused to find this issue carried a special feature
penned by one M. F. Luder that she was now leisurely perusing.
One eye on Jay Leno and the other on the magazine, she took
another bite of her dessert, savoring the dark coffee and rum
soaked cakes and sweet mascarpone cheese on her tongue like a
rich deep kiss. Not that she'd had one of those lately, either.
She collected a few shavings of chocolate with her damp
fingertip, sucking it into her mouth as she read.

"The alien abduction phenomenon is a message warning modern
man to accept his status in the ancient heart of the universe."
Oh brother. You've come a long way, Mulder, she thought,
flipping the magazine closed and setting it on the sidetable. He
had changed quite a bit she had to admit--it wasn't just the
bedroom. He did seem to travel a league closer to shore each
year, while she got an almost equal distance further out along
the continuum of their bi-polar rationales. Maybe it was about
time they met at the beach. She tapped her fork on the plate
considering...no, best not go there tonight. Not while she was
sleeping in his damn bed. And she picked up the rest of her
chocolate and rum decadence and walked it back to the
kitchen to save it for Mulder.

Returning to the bed, teeth brushed and minty, Scully pulled
back the fresh covers and sorted the pillows. Checking the alarm,
she shut off the lights and settled down on her back while
Leno introduced some leggy model with silicon for both breasts
and brains. Three minutes of vacuous conversation and Scully
was beginning to nod off. She hit the power button and rolled
over onto her side. Distractions dismissed, and the inhibition
of drowsiness upon her, she allowed herself to wonder what it
would feel like if he just simply came home some time tonight
and slipped in next to her, waking her with a long, delicious
tiramisu kiss.
 

***********************************
 

An echoing thud and the rattling of wood woke her suddenly.
In the darkness, her heart was already pounding. The goddamn
front door--someone was breaking in. She heard it groaning and
she was on her feet, hands in her overnight bag, searching for
her weapon. She pulled it from the holster and walked silently to
the bedroom doorway, peering around the corner into the
inky blackness of the hallway. Silence. Not a sound save the
eventual thunk as the door swung lightly back against the jam.
Who the hell was it? Consortium henchmen? Men in black? She
could hear nothing.

Taking a defensive stance, Scully inched along the hallway to
the light switch and flicked it quickly. Nothing. Dead bulb. Fuck.
Her Quantico training took over:

"Federal agent! I'm armed. Raise your hands and step back
toward the front door."

More silence. She moved forward until she could see the rim of
light around the edges of the jarred door--she hadn't imagined it--
it was open just a crack. All at once she was hit from the side.
Hands grabbed her firing arm and in one clean move disarmed
her and knocked her to the floor. Falling backwards, Scully's
ankle made contact with the sidetable. Painful. But not enough
to keep her from delivering a swift kick to her shadowy
assailant's side. The effort was futile for in another second she
felt the cold muzzle of her Sig against the side of her head.
The intruder was breathing heavily over her as he fumbled
with the switch on the small green table lamp.

"Scully?"

"Mulder!"

And she was awake, sitting up in the darkness of his bedroom
scrambling to turn on the bed-side lamp, her breath racing from
her chest, fingers flying to her temple where she swore she
could still feel the cold press of her own weapon against her skin.
She was shaking badly and flushed, shifting uncomfortably as
damp hot flesh met the silk of her crotch--she was extremely,
undeniably aroused. With a whimper, she fell back against the
pillows and dug an impatient hand into the bottom of her
pajamas, cupping the swollen lips in her hand. She was hot and
wet and her traitorous little clitoris was screaming for attention.
She was in no state to reason with it and ran the length of her
middle finger along it, moaning at the touch. She always did
manage to wake up before the good part. She closed her eyes as
her fingers began to fondle her needy flesh and let the images of
her dream reconnect and continue in a lucid state of half-
consciousness.

The first to go was the gun, safety locked and spun across the
floor. Then she reached for him and his beautiful stricken face
and turned their mutual shock into desire with a long, hard kiss.
Mouths open and hungry, they kissed without restraint,
pressing hard and sliding lips over tongues--tasting, touching,
searching. Mulder slid forward over her, letting his weight press
her into the hard floor as he held her face, whispering her name
over and over in a mixture of contrition and love as he set his
mouth to her chin and neck accentuated by rough little nips.

Good, that would be so good, she thought, as her hand, slick with
her arousal, parted her inner lips and slid with just enough
pressure against the hooded edge of her clit, sending a thunderbolt
of sensation down her spine. She wanted him to come unhinged,
lose that cool exterior, get a little rough with her in a desperate
need to crawl inside her for once and forever. She wanted to feel
him lifting her up with strong arms and moving her where he
wanted her, bringing her up onto her knees in front of him, her
back against his chest--held fast by his long strong arm, while
his free hand began to knead her breasts against the silk of her
top, bringing her nipples to hard little points that she could feel
in her own palm while her other hand remained below, sliding
over her swollen tissues with nimble practiced fingers.

Kneeling on the floor between his thighs she could imagine
herself pinned against him, one hand over her bared belly, the
other tangled in her hair as he tipped her head back and traced
the curve of her ear with his tongue. "Tell me, Scully," he'd
whisper low and rough. "Tell me what you want."

She'd want what she could feel pressing urgently through the
denim of his crotch, impatiently nudging into the small of her
back. She'd try to find her voice through the heaving of her breath.
"I want..." she'd begin, as his hand moved from her stomach to
the curve of her tilted throat, his teeth closing on her tender
earlobe.

"What?" he'd sneer, running his tongue behind her lobe.

"I want you to take what I've denied you for so long."

He'd groan, and rising to his feet, pull her up, dragging the silk
from her shoulders so that she'd stand half naked before him--
the predatory look in his eyes bringing her over into complete
recklessness. In a second, they'd clash into a battle of furious
mouths and hands, stumbling backwards toward the bedroom.
They'd make it in the doorway and fall into a tumble of greedy
limbs and half shed clothing, rolling and crawling across the floor
like a couple of dogs, collapsing into the rug.

Lips and teeth would seek nipples, breasts and tender skin,
sucking licking, and biting in a feeding frenzy of pleasure and
pain. She have his fly down and the hot tip of his cock between
her lips before he'd unfastened her pajamas as he would struggle
to do with frustrated fingers, while fighting with his hips to
wriggle out of his jeans. She'd free him and he'd fall onto his
side where head to hip, she'd lick and kiss and suck his hardness
for everything she was worth. Somewhere below or above he'd
unslip the satin buttons denying him access to her sex and in
one fluid tug leave her suddenly naked, moist and shivering in
the darkness, until the warmth of his lips closed over her labia
and the rough drag of his tongue sought and conquered her
swollen clit.

Fastened to one another they'd reel in pure sensation adjusting
and flowing easily into synchronization, matching need to intensity
in fits and starts and jointly falling into plateaus of sustained
pleasure--caught in a maelstrom of unhinged lust. She'd tighten
and quiver and he'd swell and pulse under each other's hungry
mouths and together they'd muffle the cries of release in each
other's sex as six long years of denial came to fruition in a
sudden violent exchange of sweat, wetness and come.

With a noisy gasp, Scully lay back and slid her cramping fingers
from between her slickened thighs, waiting for the pounding in
her heart and the contractions in her core to subside. A strange,
wild-eyed woman was watching her from above, as she caught
her breath and waited for her head to clear. What the hell was
that all about? In her rush to fuck Mulder, she'd forgotten to
fuck Mulder. And the gun and the crawling and biting?
What ever happened to sweet and tender lovemaking? Even in
her dreams she couldn't wait ten minutes to dig into his pants.
Maybe this is what happens to the psyche when it's left
unattended for so long--sexual tension gone rabid.

God, she was drenched. She really didn't want to leave any
trace evidence in the bed, so she forced herself to struggle to
her weakened legs and limp into the bathroom. Under the
soothing run of warm water, she cleaned herself with
dampened toilet tissue, gingerly wiping around her overtaxed
nerves. And in an unexpected rush of haywire emotions, found
herself emitting a few stray, confused tears as she flushed the
toilet. Not wanting to face the shattered mess of herself in the
mirror, she blew her nose and wiped her eyes with a wad of
kleenex, tossing it in the trash. Grabbing the box, she flipped
off the light and turned on the perfectly operational hallway
light. Trudging down the hall, Scully re-inspected the deadbolt,
and pausing to yank his blanket from off the couch, headed back
to bed where she wrapped it tightly around her and huddled
back under the covers.

Nestled once again in his scent, with the light from the hallway
expelling the voids, she felt herself calm and take comfort in
his surrogate closeness. Closing her eyes, she could already hear
her therapist's calm, detached voice delivering her logical
analysis. "Let's see, you've experienced intense, vivid sexual
fantasies while bringing yourself to climax in your partner's
bed. Dana, this is perfectly normal for a woman at her sexual
peak who hasn't experienced relations with a man (or anyone
else for that matter) in how many years?"

Sure, perfectly normal people adopt celibacy in exchange for
secret government conspiracies and extraterrestrial intrigue
every day. Did she really need to pay someone $90 an hour to be
told she needed to get laid? No. That wasn't so hard to figure out.
She was not denying the need, she was denying the vehicle--
Mulder. So what was the problem? He was trustworthy, sincere,
kind, loving--certainly to her--not hard on the eyes, and, if
memory served, furnished with a fine set of equipment for the
job. And if she could allow herself to believe it, in love with her
too. He'd even told her as much, and only now, lying in his bed
blowing her nose through his kleenex box, cuddling his blanket
like a newborn, did she finally let it into her head. "I love you,"
he'd said, clear as day. And what did she do? Rolled her eyes
and walked out of the room. God, she hoped he was too drugged
to remember.

For heaven's sake, what was she waiting for? She had the
scientific proof her goddamn strict rationalism required. This
wasn't an X-File--this was a mystery as old as the evolution
of mankind. To hell with the Darwin approach, it was about time
they dragged their six year love affair out of the Paleozoic. It
would be fun, invigorating, good for the cardiovascular system;
they wouldn't need to visit the gym for months. Mulder had
better stop chasing aliens and hurry up and get his ass home, or
he'd be in for a heck of a lot more than just a kiss stepping of
that plane. That decided, Dana Scully sighed for the final time
that evening and rolled over, letting mental exhaustion take her
into an unsuppressed and dreamless sleep.
 

*************************************************
END

Begging for the next installment in the continuing
"Scent" saga is most graciously received at: Terma99@aol.com.
Don't worry, there's action ahead.....

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