TICK... TOCK... TICK... TOCK... As the clock in the entry hall continued its measured beat, Fraser began to look around his room by idly picking up a few things on his desk. Diefenbaker watched him carefully and whined each time Fraser shook his head in a 'No, I don't recognize this' gesture. The wolf was patient; he sensed his packmate wasn't thinking clearly. There was no gentle pat on his head and a stroke down his back when the human came home this time. If the human had been another canine, their greetings would have been more of the asshole smelling kind, but Dief didn't mind. Anyway, it was difficult to smell assholes through layers of clothing and, although the human seemed to smell everything else, he obviously didn't have a predilection for assholes.

What he missed this time was no rub inside his ears... The human knew how much he enjoyed that: soft caresses that reached places inside that no amount of paw scratching could alleviate. When the man did that, he always carried on a deep soulful conversation with the wolf. Oh, Dief knew the human thought he didn't understand, but he really did... or at least most of it in between blissfully groaning in response to the ear rubs. None of that this morning. The human had just given him a blank look. Ah, well. It wasn't the first time his packmate seemed to be out of it. He would wait...

TICK... TOCK... The Mountie eventually opened the closet door. Dief raised his head as native chant music flooded the room. However, Fraser could neither hear it nor see that the back of the closet led into his father's office, its presence indicated only by a slight change in air pressure that disturbed the shirts aligned in military precision on their hangers.

"Drafty," he commented to himself as he examined his meager clothing, took out a plaid shirt out and held it up for assessment. TICK... TOCK...

"What-the-fuck? Just about the most butt-fucking ugly thing I ever saw. What the hell was I thinking of when I bought this piece of shit? Definitely not a babe magnet," he mused aloud. "Oh, the hell with it. I'm getting hungry," he decided. "What's the name of that doofus in the hallway? Turkey? Turnkey? Oh, yeah, Turnbull. I'll ask him."

"So, what do you do for food around here?" Fraser asked as he approached Turnbull's hallway desk and sat down on a corner. Apparently he was unaware of Turnbull's penchant for neatness: a place for everything and everything in its place. That meant Fraser had to sweep aside a sizable stack of reports to sit. TICK... TOCK...

"Perhaps you should inquire of the Inspector." Turnbull came up for air from under his mountainous paper work to motion toward Thatcher's office. He wasn't sure how badly Fraser was injured, or how much of his mind he still had. Turnbull did not want to make matters worse for his idol. The Inspector had made it very clear that she would be in charge of helping Fraser. In a way, Turnbull was relieved to be free of the responsibility. Goodness knows he didn't have time to do his own work, Fraser's work, and take care of his fellow Mountie too.

Fraser wandered in to Meg's office and found her working intently at her lap top computer. Lounging in front of her desk, thumbs hooked in back pockets, he tried to get her attention. "Er..."

Continuing to work without looking up, "Yes?" she asked. She didn't dare look at him. Little did he know for the past three days, she immediately had gone to her bathroom upon arriving at work. How she had missed his smell! In definite need of an olfactory "Fraser-Fix," she would spend twenty minutes sitting on the lidded commode: eyes closed, breathing deeply, gathering in the last faint traces of his presence. Her Deputy Liaison Officer was not the only member of the RCMP with a hypersensitive nose.

The first morning, Turnbull appeared disconcerted. He had the audacity to tap on the door and inquire if she was in need of help. How could two men be so different? Both solicitous to a fault; both respectful of her authority. One a good natured bumbler who tried his best; the other always did his best, yet she felt he wanted so much more from her. He was entirely self-contained. Yet she sensed, hell, she knew, he wanted her. She couldn't give in... She must not give in.

To assuage her longing while he was in hospital, she had taken to going into his office, ostensibly to search for a file or for some other fictitious reason. Oh, she knew she had every professional right to be there, but Meg was also a realist. Even if she could not bring herself to express her deepmost feelings for him, she was well aware of them. And so, she privately indulged herself a bit by smelling the ghost of his presence in her bathroom and his office.

"Yes?" she inquired again as she continued her work on the laptop.

"Er... well..." He hated this. Having to ask about something he should know about. There was something about her that was scaring him shitless. Undefined. He could feel a chemistry between them, but it remained elusive. He glanced at her sideways. Now that she was cleaned up, she looked elegant in a dark gray silk suit with a gray-green scarf at her neck. Thoroughly professional. Quite the looker, he thought, and probably as hard as nails if the coldness in her eyes was any indication.

"Yes, Constable?" Meg prodded as she looked up. At least he is beginning to ask, instead of staying in his room all day. Out of sight does not mean out of mind where Benton Fraser is concerned.

"I'm getting hungry. What's to eat?" he ventured cautiously.

Good god! Does he think I'm his housekeeper? "I showed you where the kitchen is. It's fully stocked. Go make yourself something. I've never been responsible for putting food on your table before and I'm not about to start," she explained in as level a voice as she could muster.

"Okay, okay, I just wondered." Fraser backed off from her apparent anger. Instinctively he dropped his casual slouch and came to reasonable attention.

"And by the way," Meg continued a bit more softly, "your wolf has refused all the food Constable Turnbull and I offered him while you were in hospital. Even Cheese Doodles. I understand that's his favourite. You had better feed him, also."

"Uh-huh. I'll do that," Fraser said as he backed out the door. He paused, then asked, "Exactly what is it that the wolf eats? Do I have caribou for him? Polar bear steaks? Perhaps some walrus? What?"

"I'm sure Constable Turnbull is familiar with the culinary requisites. Ask him."

Thatcher returned to the lap top and silence descended again on the Consulate, save for the click of the lap top keys, Turnbull rustling his papers, and the louder TICK... TOCK... TICK... TOCK of the grandfather clock stationed in the entry hall.

Thatcher almost dumped the lap top onto the floor and Turnbull flinched to shoot a pile of papers off his desk when a loud explosion shattered the silence. She ran into the hallway to see Fraser coming out of the kitchen, his shirt covered with whitish lumps.

"Good God, Constable! What did you do?"

"I was only trying to microwave some potatoes and--"

"--Did you fork them first?"

He gave her a quizzical look. "Fork them? Can you do that with potatoes?" Jesus, does she have a secret vegetable fetish? His confusion deepened.

"Yes, fork them," she tried to explain. "You know...stab them with a fork so they don't explode in the microwave." He really was impossible. The kitchen must be a disaster. "Oh, just go clean the place up... Yourself included," she retorted as she went back to her office. "You're a mess."

CHAPTER 13

"So, Miller is taking the day off?" Dewey flirted with Adele. She was a looker. Tight sweater, tight tits, tight ass. How the hell did she get that long wavy blonde hair to wind around her neck that way? She had to be anything but boring in bed. A pert upturned nose and a slightly foreshortened upper lip allowed white teeth to show even when she was not smiling, which wasn't often.

Tom knew he was on thin ice with Jeanette. After six years of tumultuous marriage and three hyperkinetic kids, he was at the end of his rope. Putting in long stressful hours on the job, and then coming home to a chaotic household was dragging him down. He wanted some peace and quiet, a hot dinner ready for him, and a wife to recharge his batteries. What he got lately was a frazzled wife, screaming, out of control kids, and a cold plate of macaroni and cheese.

Adele had definite possibilities and it was all he could do to concentrate on the task at hand. He gave her a sideways glance and let her know he appreciated what he was seeing.

"I don't think you could call it a vacation," she tentatively smiled at him. "He's having an impacted wisdom tooth pulled."

Dewey winced. "Ouch. But since the boss is away, any chance the mice could play? You due for a coffee break yet? You know, sit down and take the load off for fifteen?"

She quickly lowered her eyes. She knew exactly where he wanted to go with this and had no intention of playing along. "Just got back from break, Tom. And anyway, 'seeing' other employees, no matter how innocently, within the Department is frowned upon. So, I think I will pass and that doesn't mean taking a rain check on your invitation either."

Dewey never was bothered by turn-downs. There were always other broads he could hit on. Taking this rejection in stride he glibly went on, "But can you get me Bobby Solvay's record anyway? I gotta find out where he lives. Big case at the 27th."

"Sure can." She went to a nearby desk, rifled through some papers and brought back a heavy file. "Here it is."

Dewey glanced through the file and took some notes. "Thanks a lot. I know that Miller will feel much better when you tell him Solvay's involved in a robbery and hostage situation. Looks like he'll be back behind bars for a long time when we get him. Ciao!"

TICK... TOCK... TICK... TOCK... As Thatcher worked at her desk, she glanced up as muffled thuds and banging noises came from Fraser's room. Puzzled, she followed the sounds through the back hallway and pushed open his door. His room was a disaster and he was in the process of finishing it off: his cot was overturned, the desk chair upended, the desk had been swept clear, and all the storage boxes that had been piled high atop cabinets were broken and their paper contents scattered about the floor.

"Merde!" Fraser had his back to the door and raged as he smashed another box.

"Fraser?" Meg called tentatively.

"Fucking SHIT... God DAMN it!!!"

"Fraser?" she said more forcefully.

"This cock sucking, mother-fucking room's a jail cell!" Fraser heaved another box against the wall with deadly accuracy.

"Constable! What are you doing?" She was nonplused at his language... she never had heard him swear. He had always been a paragon of genteel language. Oh, she imagined he had a rich vocabulary; god knew she had heard it all before, and used them all herself. It just was that Fraser had never, ever used such words in her presence. "Fraser!!"

He heard her this time and turned to face her with eyes blazing.

"WHAT?!!"

"Get a hold of yourself... You're destroying government property."

"I don't give a rat's ass! Not one fucking rat's asshole! I can't stand it!!"

"Fraser, you really can't behave like this," Meg said quietly. She was becoming frightened of his behaviour. So violent. So angry. Nothing ever had seemed to bother him like this before now. She started to back out of the room. "Come on, get in control of yourself. Straighten this place up. You have to live here, you know. When you're done, why don't you make yourself a nice soothing cup of bark tea?"

"Tea?" Her Deputy Liaison Officer roared in astonishment. "Bark tea? What the hell do you think I am? Some kinda fucking termite, for chrissake?"

Meg realized his memory had more gaps in it than she had originally thought. This really was not Fraser raging in front of her, but the thought struck her that whoever this man was, he was a part of Fraser. How much a part, she didn't know and she was slightly surprised that he did have this side of him... He always kept it so well hidden. What else he had hidden from her? Maybe she wanted to know and maybe she didn't.

"Fraser, there's no need to get defensive. You obviously don't remember that you often drink bark tea. You said that it was much more palliative than the caffeine in coffee. It was merely a suggestion. Now, please clean this mess up. We must be able to find files at a moment's notice."

As Thatcher passed Constable Turnbull, he looked up to see the consternation on her face and shook his head sadly. He had heard the exchange between the Inspector and Fraser and did not understand his behaviour either.

She returned to her office to resume working. TICK... TOCK... TICK... TOCK, the hall clock inexorably ground on in the silence. Eventually, she heard more noises coming from Fraser's room: nothing like him trashing the place again, but softer, almost like something being torn or ripped. When it stopped, she continued on the keyboard. There it is again, she noted. More data entry. More intermittent tearing sounds interspersed with the TICK... TOCK... of the hallway clock punctuating the silence. Meg laid her glasses down and listened closely. "Now what is he doing?" Her curiosity aroused, she went again to Fraser's room and peered around the open door.

Fraser had his feet casually propped up on his desk and was taping up the broken desk lamp with duct tape. All of the storage boxes he had thrown and smashed were taped back into shape and restacked. In fact, the entire room was a veritable patchwork of duct tape.

Thatcher surveyed the scene with astonishment. "I couldn't identify the sound. I see you have repaired all the damage you caused."

"I cleaned the place up like you asked," Fraser responded. "What I don't understand is why I'm getting such a kick out of this duct tape. You ever listen to the sound it makes when you pull it off the roll?"

"Fraser, all Canadians love duct tape. Carry on."

"Jesus," Huey mumbled under his breath as he climbed the fourth grimy flight of stairs. "This cesspool is worse than Fraser's old apartment, if that's possible." He was out of shape and knew it, but didn't want to use the filthy banister to help himself upward.

"Quit your bitchin', Jack. There've gotta be worst places to live in this city; I just don't know where. God! Who's cooking what?" Dewey paused long enough to dig out his not-so-clean handkerchief from his back pocket and pretend to wipe his nose, all the while keeping the cloth firmly in place to deaden the smell. Some corpses smelled better than this place.

The tenement's superintendent stood on the landing between floors four and five and shook his head. "C'mon, boys, just one more floor to go. Looks like you might need some workout time in the gym, eh?" He chuckled to himself and hitched his tool belt a bit. It was a toss-up what was holding his khaki twill pants up: the tool belt, the pants belt, or the mismatched suspenders. One could never have enough accouterments to prevent "plumber pants" and the resultant half-mooning of residents. He did have his pride.

As they stood in the middle of a squalid room, Huey and Dewey tried to get information about Solvay from the Super.

"So you haven't seen much of him...?" Huey prodded.

"Naw. He said he was on parole and this is all he could afford. Didn't have to check too far on his references, ya know. Seemed to keep to himself. 'Course, I never pay much attention," the Super responded in a gravely voice as he scratched his ass. "Too busy trying to keep things goin' around here... Look at this place," he added and swept his arm around the dingy room. "This ain't exactly the Ritz."

"Solvay ever have anyone over? Any visitors?"

The Super gravitated his attention to his beard for a deep scratch. "Don't think so. Like I said, he sorta kept to himself, what I could notice. Look, I gotta unplug a drain. Poke around, if you want," he offered as he left.

The detectives made a cursory inspection: the closet contained only a rumpled shirt that hung forlornly amidst a cluster of empty wire hangers. The cheap bureau held a mismatched pair of socks and a dirty T-shirt.

"Hmmm. Looks like he's wearing his only change of underwear," Jack snorted. "Wonder if he smells as bad as this place does."

"Who'd notice?"

It was unnecessary for the Detectives to examine the bed, for it bared all: heavy stains of unknown origin blotched the blue and white ticking and a blanket rolled in a ball comprised the bed linen. Moving into the kitchenette area, they noted that the cupboards were bare of dishes and the only cutlery to be seen was a package of plastic forks carelessly tossed on the counter.

"What the hell did this guy eat? Bingo!" Dewey exclaimed as he opened the refrigerator door to reveal a half-empty bottle of ketchup and a cottage cheese container.

"Don't open that!" Huey shouted, but it was too late; Dewey had lifted the lid of the cottage cheese to release the rankest of odors that joined the other fetid aromas in the room.

"Jesus!"

Examination of the half-bathroom gave no clues either. No personal articles of any kind were in the apartment, not even a toothbrush.

The Ducks looked at each other. Dewey summed it up: "Another big negatory. Welsh ain't gonna like this."

CHAPTER 14

Silence reigned in the Consulate as Meg continued to work. TICK... TOCK... TICK... TOCK. She occasionally looked up and listened for any sound of Fraser. Hearing nothing, she returned to the lap top. After numerous rounds of attentive listening, she mused aloud, "This can't be good. He's got to be up to something," and went to investigate. TICK... TOCK.

As Thatcher approached Fraser's room, she saw the door closed. She quietly opened it to see Fraser on his cot, facing the wall. He was curled into the fetal position with his top arm over his ear, hand behind his head. She saw that he was convulsed with sobs, as he writhed on his bed. Whimpering softly, Diefenbaker was stretched out along his legs and rested his muzzle on Fraser's hip.

A wave of tender sadness coursed through her. Oh, Fraser, she silently agonized. My fallen Mountie. She hesitantly moved forward a step, but stopped. No, she decided, I can't go to him. If he ever gets his memory back, he would feel so ashamed that I saw him like this... Why is it that it's okay for women to cry but men have to maintain that stiff upper lip? He's always makes himself appear so strong... I know he has feelings, but he never shows them. TICK... TOCK. She backed out of the room and silently closed the door. Outside his room, Thatcher composed herself, took a breath and then tapped on the door.

When Meg heard no answer, she tapped louder. "Fraser? Fraser?...May I come in?"

She heard his muffled response, "Just a minute," and waited patiently. He finally opened the door and appeared semi-composed, but Thatcher could see how puffy his eyes were, how emotionally ravaged he was. "Yeah, come on in," he said as he walked back into his room and turned to face her.

"I just was wondering how you are doing," she ventured.

"I'm fine, just fine."

"And I wanted to tell you that I'll be leaving for the day." She looked at him closely. "Will you be all right?"

"No problem."

"Well, all right." There was not much more she could say; she had given him opportunity to talk. "Don't be too hard on yourself; it's your first day out of hospital."

"Yeah, if I only had a brain."

"Well, the doctor said these things may take some time. Fraser, you will get your memory back. You just have to give it a chance. I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe if we talk, you will start to remember things. Take care." She gave him another long look of assessment. Maybe someone should be here tonight with him. Perhaps Turnbull would be willing to stay late.

After Meg left, Fraser began to wander around his room again, handling various objects. TICK... TOCK... TICK... TOCK. It seemed the hallway clock was even louder. He finally picked up a volume of his father's diary and read:

"...So, there I was, a hundred kilometers from anywhere. The black flies and mosquitoes in a feeding frenzy. I began to ask myself if it was worth it: 'Mounties always get their man.' What kind of motto is that? All I could think of was that Caroline was dead now. God, how I missed her. I missed her quiet laughter... how her face would light up when I came home... the way she..."

"This poor son of a bitch sounds like he was in worse shape than I am," Fraser sneered.

His father's ghost appeared beside him. "Son! I was just feeling a little sorry for myself." Fraser, Senior pointed to a page in the diary, "See there? Your mother just died..." but Fraser could neither see or hear him. He read a few more sentences and then threw it into the wastebasket.

"Fuck this shit," Fraser said, as he went to the closet for his leather jacket. Of course, while the door was open, he couldn't hear the chant music either. "This sucks. Come on, dog, let's go for a walk."

His father called to him as he and Diefenbaker left, "Son! It's just as lonely out there as in here! You can be lonely anywhere, if you have a hole in your soul."

Fraser and Dief walked a street in a seedy part of Chicago. The garish glow of neon beer signs in windows of darkly lit bars seemed to beckon him. Occasionally the Mountie peered inside to see the "good times" people seemed to be having. He sadly moved on, having to step around winos surreptitiously drinking from brown paper bags.

In the next block, two hookers watched his approach. The blonde nudged the brunette. Fraser could not hear what they were discussing, but each pointed to the other and finally the blonde nodded.

"Hey, big boy! How's it goin'?" the blonde greeted him.

Fraser was slightly nonplused as he stopped. "You talking to me?"

"You bet!" Nice dog you got there," she remarked as Diefenbaker returned to Fraser's side and began to smell the hookers. He wagged his tail. Maybe some female companionship would cheer his pack mate up.

The brunette was impressed with the blonde's pick-up technique. "You go, girl," she giggled.

"Yeah, he seems real friendly," the blonde continued.

"He wanted me to take him for a walk."

"Wanted to have a good time, then?"

"I think he just wanted to whizz."

"You lookin' for a good time?" The blonde hooker moved closer to him. Her cheap perfume was overpowering.

Fraser backed away. "Wh-- What do you mean?"

"You know, have a few drinks and stuff. My room is just around the corner there," she gestured. "You wanna come up?"

"I guess so. I'm not doing anything else," Fraser agreed and then stood there looking at her. She continued to look back at him. Diefenbaker wagged his tail harder. Finally, the blonde glanced to the other hooker to silently pass the message between them: What's up with this john? They couldn't figure him out.

"So?" Fraser inquired.

"She's waiting for you to ask how much," the brunette coached.

Fraser did not understand. "How much...?"

"How much you got on you," the blonde said.

"I dunno," Fraser replied as he patted the pockets of his jacket and Levi's. "I don't have any money... Say, what's this all about anyway?" He looked at her closely. "Are you trying to rob me?"

The brunette cracked up. "Honey, what turnip truck did you fall out of?"

The hookers began to laugh outright when Fraser said, "I don't remember any turnip truck. I was just taking my dog for a walk."

"That's OK, honey, you just keep looking," the blonde responded between gasps of laughter. "When you find it, climb on and go back to Kansas."

Fraser really was confused. "Kansas? Why are you talking in riddles?" Diefenbaker whined as the Mountie started to walk away and muttered to himself, "My brain is beginning to hurt. Dief, do you know what they..."

CHAPTER 15

Inspector Margaret Thatcher was surprised when she turned the handle of the Consulate door and it swung open easily. She looked elegant in the black dress with the spaghetti straps, the off-black stockings, and black heels as she stepped inside. "Why isn't the door locked? It's ten o'clock for heaven's sake!" The entry lights were on but all the offices were dark. She looked around as she approached Turnbull's desk. "Turnbull? Turnbull! Where are you?" she called. "As soon as that moron sees it's five o'clock, he vanishes," she muttered crossly. "I told him to stay and keep an eye on Fraser... Good Lord!... Fraser?" She quickly walked back to Fraser's room and continued to call his name but slowed up as she entered through the partially ajar door. She did not want to come in on him like he was the last time.

"Fraser?... I thought he understood he was to stay here. He was in such a state," she ruminated as she began to look around his room after snapping on the desk lamp. "Where could he have gone? Did he leave any clues?"

She handled various objects on his desk and when she picked up a large canine tooth, she realized what it was and dropped it quickly. "I don't even want to know how he got that," she exclaimed in disgust.

She continued to rummage around until she did a double take when she saw the diary Fraser had thrown in the wastebasket. She retrieved it and as she opened it, her back was to the door. "Oh, my god! This is his father's diary. Why would he throw..."

Jacket in hand, Fraser noisily banged the door against the wall as he strode into his room. Startled, Meg whirled around, and defensively clasped the diary to her breast. He frowned and hesitated at the sight of her. He was still trying to figure out what those two women meant. Saying nothing, he dropped the jacket to the floor and slowly advanced on her.

"Don't be angry, Fraser," Meg stammered. It felt like he was stalking her and this was frightening. "I thought you would be here... I... I decided to leave the reception early and come back to see how you were doing."

He continued toward her with unwavering eyes. "Are you angry? Fraser...?" She felt like felt like she was in a freeze-frame and backed up as he not only reached her but invaded her personal space.

"No, I'm not angry," he said in a low voice. "I believe this is mine." He was so close to her that he took it from her trembling hands without extending his arms. Fraser quickly slid his arms around her and impulsively bent his head down to nuzzle her exposed neck. Meg stood there shaking in fear and surprise as he deeply inhaled her scent several times.

"What's that perfume you're wearing?" he murmured.

This was the last thing she expected him to say. Gathering up her emotions, she could only reply, "The last time you asked me, I told you that I loathed perfume... I still do."

"I think I remember that," he whispered as he inhaled. He dropped further down into the bodice of her dress, his lips brushing across the tops of her breasts. So soft, so warm.

"Fraser!! What are you doing?" Meg mentally fought for control. She could feel his moist breath on her skin and was instantaneously aroused. Involuntarily, her nipples hardened and seemed to strain upwards to reach his lips. His maleness numbed her brain. She felt a deep throbbing begin within her that seemed to exacerbate the pounding of her heart. Or was it the other way around? She couldn't be sure, but she felt so lightheaded, she thought she would pass out.

"I'm looking for the hairpin... I recall I dropped it in here somewhere," his muffled voice answered between deep breaths taken around the mounds of her breasts. Before she could reply, Fraser came up for air with a look of comprehension on his face. "Ohmigod! I do remember! We were handcuffed together on that train. My sense of smell is returning!"

Without knowing the effect he was having on her, he released her suddenly and she had to catch his arm to prevent her rubbery legs from responding to gravity. Hardly noticing this, he brought his father's diary, which he had been holding, up to his nose. He deeply inhaled the cover and then opened it to various pages and smelled them also. "The man who wrote this was my father. Why would I throw it away?"

She thought he was asking a direct question. "I don't kn..." but he prevented her from finishing her answer as he returned to her neck for another deep sniff.

He was so intent on rediscovering his extraordinary sense of smell that he virtually pushed himself away from her and turned to survey his room. He quickly began picking up random objects and inhaling their odour. "Yes"..."Uh-huh"... or ... "I remember that," he exclaimed with each thing he smelled. His movements were so quick that Meg was at a loss for words as he came back to her neck for further inhales.

When he smelled the tooth and with a grin on his face, his only comment was, "Oh, yes!" and returned to her neck once more. "It's your pheromones," he explained in an awed whisper. "They're my trigger."

He saw the Bay blankets on his cot and went over, picked one up and smelled it. "HBC--Yellowknife! And, Diefenbaker, despite my telling him not to, has been on my bed. He's a wolf, not a lap dog."

"Ha-half-wolf, Fraser--"

"--Let me have another smell for reinforcement. I should've picked up on that," he said as he returned to nuzzle at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

Meg stood, hands at her sides and allowed him his confirmations. She didn't know what else to do. She didn't want to interrupt his memory processes and yet his constant nuzzling was driving her into a frenzy. Except for the train, they had maintained a physical distance, but this... This was unbearable for her. Each time he returned to her, she had to fight herself to keep from falling into his arms. She wanted him so badly that her teeth ached.

Several deep inhalations later, Fraser turned to survey the room and saw his soiled tunic hanging by the door. He retrieved it and sniffed the spots of mascara and tears she left on it at the warehouse. As he returned to her, he tentatively licked the spots and shook his head, "No," as in non-comprehension, he could not "read" it yet. He held the tunic in front of him.

Towering over her, he asked, "I think these are your tears, but I'm not sure... Something happened, didn't it?"

"Yes," Meg answered quietly. She lowered her eyes, but raised them again in the ensuing silence.

He looked keenly into her eyes. "Inspector?" He searched her face. "Margaret?" he gently asked. "Meg?" he whispered.

He lowered his arms down to his side and allowed the tunic to brush the floor as he held it by the collar. The RCMP red serge now was the only thing that stood between them.

"Oh, god, Meg. I remember now I told you I could not erase from my memory the 'contact' we had on the roof of that train. It's the taste of you. You are my trigger."

She was confused. "I am? For your taste? How can--"

"--I can't explain it. I remember that I was able to track you to a warehouse. Was that it? Your pheromones have triggered the return of my sense of smell. I need you to help me get my taste back... and maybe my full memory too."

"Full memory?"

"Oh, yes. Can't you see?"

"And then you will stop acting so weird?"

"Uh-huh."

"Back to the normal Fraser, Fraser?" she was still skeptical but in a wild, feral way this was what she really wanted: Fraser in all his maleness to take possession of her. To be totally dominated by him. To have him attuned to her every bodily want and urge. She didn't give a damn if she gave him anything in return. She didn't want to satisfy herself by using him as she had used all the other men in her life; she wanted him to do it for her.

Giving her his most beguiling look, he affirmed, "Uh-huh. Trust me."

"Er... I don't know," she equivocated. "Full memory?"

"Uh-huh." His throat constricted for he thought she might refuse him. The pressure in his groin was becoming unbearable. How could she not see what she was doing to him?

She detected a stronger, more intense smell from him... the musky maleness of it. Her doubt lessened as her own desire grew, but the slight nagging fear remained. Could she surrender completely to him? And feel safe? She made her decision. "Well... all right," and tilted her head upward to receive him.

Fraser slowly released the tunic from his fingers and it crumpled to the floor. He gathered her in his arms, pinning hers to her side, and moved toward her mouth. He stopped, tantalizing close.

"You're sure?" he whispered into her mouth.

When she imperceptibly nodded her assent, he gently took her mouth in his. As his tongue sought entrance, she pulled back slightly, but now he was totally in charge and would not be denied. His mouth and body pursued her, pushing her, body-pinning her against the closet door. She felt his hardness, smelled his musky odour. She opened her mouth and he eagerly began to explore its inner depths.

The quiet TICK... TOCK... TICK... TOCK of the entryway clock now sounded like the soothing CLICKITY... CLACK... CLICKITY... CLACK of train cars speeding on their way as their tongues danced an erotic tango. He drew her fluids into his mouth to savor her taste and her tongue willingly followed.

"It's all right now, son. Let nature take its course," his father's voice called from the other side of the closet door.

Although Fraser now heard him, the rhythm of the tango was not broken. He could feel Meg's hands clutching, grabbing the back of his shirt, her nails scratching his skin through the thin cloth. Their intimate dance went on... CLICKITY... CLACK and on... CLICKITY... CLACK. He cupped her face in his hands and entered her mouth yet again.

She felt his long hardness against her hip and his knee trying to spread her legs. The dress was getting in the way. He worked the dress up with his knee and pulled it further with his groping hands. He strained his hips, pushing them against her in rhythm with his tongue in her mouth. She was beside herself with desire and pulled his shirt out of the back of his Levi's. Sliding her hands down deeply into the back of his jeans, she grasped and kneaded his ass, only to try and bring her hands around to the front but his pants were stretched much too tightly across his hips. She had to touch him. She must touch his now proud and rigid flesh if only to tell him how much she wanted him. To guide him. Oh, god! She had to have him inside her.

Dimly she realized that somehow he had unzipped her dress and lowered its straps from her shoulders. The smooth black silk fell from her body and landed in a shadowy puddle at her feet. She hadn't worn a bra, just a pair of dainty black lace panties and a garter belt for the stockings. As she raised her arms and entwined her fingers in his dark wavy neck hair, her breasts rose and offered themselves into his outspread hands.

She tasted so good. He relished the remnants of the pate de foie gras she must have eaten at the reception earlier; he always liked it, in a decadent sort of way. His tongue gently explored her mouth in a rhythm that left no doubt of what conclusion he sought. Feeling her bare breasts against his shirt caused another surge of urgency deep within him. Releasing her lips, he lowered his head to nuzzle and massage her erect nipples with his tongue. When she began to shudder as he nibbled her left breast, he knew this was her more sensitive side and engulfed it in his mouth, kneading it with his tongue from hardness into a soft point as he sucked and pulled and lengthened it.

"No... Wait..." he whispered when he felt her hands at the waistband of his Levi's.

She moaned in delirious frustration.

He knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her, but he would not be rushed -- not this first time. Maybe not any time. He wanted to savor her and allow his fantasies finally to become an incredible hedonistic reality. His tongue returned to her mouth; he pulled his shirt from his body, enfolded her in his bare arms and felt her wet breasts nestle comfortably against his wide chest. Meg sucking on his tongue was arousing him to a fevered pitch and he knew he had to take action immediately, before he lost control.

He pulled her away from the closet door, but she didn't help matters. She raised her leg, hooked it over his hip to draw him to her and pressed herself against the erection begging for release from the confining denim of his Levi's. He allowed her no choice but to lower her leg as he pivoted her around and walked her backwards toward his desk. Gently lifting her, he set her down on the desktop with her legs dangling in front of the centre drawer.

"Here," he mumbled. "Let me get something," as he spread her legs to either side of the drawer when he slid it open.

"No... No..." she gasped in misinterpretation. "Don't you remember? Everyone's HIV test was negative, just last week. Fraser, I want to feel you. God! Don't use a condom. Please don't."

His voice was constricted as he rasped, "What about getting pregnant?"

"I'm on the pill anyway. Oh, god, just take me! Please! Please!! I can't stand this..." Now reduced to begging him, she was beside herself with desire.

He kicked off his boots and smiled as he slowly unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, dragging them to his knees. Pushing each leg of his Levi's to the floor with a socked foot, his erection sprang forth to stand at attention. Meg's eyes widened. She might have imagined... She might have hoped... In her wildest fantasy she had not realized how well endowed he was.

"Here," he offered her something he had gotten from the drawer, "would you put this on?"

"What is it?" Meg asked as she turned it over in her hand. Obviously it was not the anticipated condom.

"Something to pleasure you and it will help me do that," he explained in a husky voice.

"Looks sorta like the ring for a diaphragm. What's this knob for?"

"That's the pleasure part."

She was getting more frustrated by the moment. "Where did you get it?"

"Stakeout."

"Where? With Ray?"

"Uh-huh. Sex shop. Just put it on."

She knew his size would pleasure her very much but couldn't quite grasp the object's function. "So, how do I use it?"

"You don't wear it; I do. Just slide it on me... That's right. Put the knob on top... Ahhh... Oh, god!" he groaned as she slid the ring as far down to the base of his penis as it would go. Her fingers excited him even further as she smeared the drops of his leaking fluid around his cockhead and the ring constricted around his engorged shaft. He knew its tightness would help him maintain control until she was totally spent. Only then would he allow his own release.

He stood between her splayed legs, pulling her closer to the edge of the desk to suckle her breasts again. She could feel his hot, throbbing penis bobbing against her abdomen as he drew her closer. His feathery hand strokes laid a path of white-hot fire on her skin: from cupping her breasts, up her ribcage and lightly down her back, across her hips, to run a finger under the tops of her hose.

"The stockings are so sexy," he murmured as he rolled his tongue around a nipple and inhaled her heady essence. "I thought women only wear pantyhose nowadays."

She raised his head from her breasts to take him once more in her mouth. "Just... Just call me an old fashioned girl. Shall I remove them?" She sucked deeply on his tongue, as if to signal him her heightening desire. Her body was on fire with a want for him: a throbbing desire that reached into her very core, a mind-blinding ache that stultified her brain into concentrating on his maleness that surely would fill her.

He dragged his lips from her mouth and slid them again toward her breasts that begged for his renewed attention. "I... I think I can manage..." he said around one nipple, "...that for you," he whispered around the other. He smoothed his hands across her thighs and released the garters effortlessly. "Come," he gently insisted and slid her off the desk to her feet as he crouched before her. With his forehead on her abdomen he slowly inched each stocking down her legs. His hands on her inner thighs sent spasms through her for she never had felt anything so erotic in her life. Then in one swift downward motion, he slid her panties and garter belt to the floor as well.

Her sexual smell was overpowering. Just one taste, he promised himself as his hands slid across her hips, down a leg which he gently raised and draped over his shoulder. Between her thighs his hands searched, then onto her mons where he gently parted her and curved his tongue around her nub, stroking it from base to throbbing tip. Again and again. Searching deeper and deeper for the wet slickness that seeped from her. Her sweet ambrosia suddenly changed taste as she clutched his head to her. He licked deeper and faster as she began a shuddering climax.

"Oh... Oh..." she moaned. She didn't want to stop herself. She couldn't stop herself. She couldn't stop her climax from pounding through her body in response to his prehensile tongue. "Hunnh!... Hunnnh!... Oh, god!..." And he could feel her clitoral spasms overtake her. She was all that he had imagined she would be: taste, smell, feel and he had just begun.

He allowed her to sag into his arms for she was unable to stand any longer. It was tight, but there was just enough room between the desk and the cot to make a nest for them on the floor with a Bay blanket he grabbed from his bed. He stretched her out and, lying beside her, he slowly stroked her body from shoulders to hips and back again to quiet her and wait for her body to recover.

As her breath returned to normal, she fluttered her eyelids open to see him gazing intently at her. "Well... th-that was... it was..." she began but was at a loss for words. She was welcomed into his arms again as he drew her atop him. She could feel his hard shaft twitch and throb against her belly as he took her into his mouth. The thought of him holding back excited her and she renewed her exploration of his tongue.

She was right, of course. Fraser was struggling to maintain control. He wanted her to experience the full effects of the sex ring that was severely constricting his throbbing penis. She said she wanted to feel him. That he would guarantee. He rolled her onto her back and lifted himself upon her. She could feel him pressing against her: poised, ready to plunge within her and she arched her back, tilting her hips upward to receive him.

"Oh... God... Take me... TAKE me," she implored in a whisper and arched her hips further to entice him inside.

As he thrust his tongue into her mouth, he plunged his shaft deeply within. It slid in easily and he entered again and again, each time stretching her to accommodate his length and thickness until he thought he could penetrate no further, although he had more length to give. He drove himself deeper, beyond the end of beyond, until she cried out in surprise and exquisite pleasure when the knob on the ring reached her clitoris and began to massage it with his every deep thrust.

Her brain exploded as her entire body locked in massive spasms centered deep within her. A roaring thunder of noise filled her head. She didn't know if it was the sound of her screams or his ragged gasping for breath in her ear as he repeatedly pumped his shaft in to the hilt. Wave after orgasmic wave washed over her in blinding white-hot obliterating fire as he drove her over the edge again.

He felt her muscles clench around him tightly, trying to hold him, trying to keep him from thrusting as deeply as he wanted to go, yet drawing him ever further inside. When she wrapped her legs around his hips in an orgasmic embrace, he knew he wouldn't last. His balls tightened in anticipation as his cockhead squeezed past her throbbing cervix to pound at her deepest flesh and his semen finally spewed within her in a long hot spasmodic flow. His vicious short strokes helped her cervix press and squeeze the last drops of milk from him.

Breathing in great gulps of air, he slumped against her, then kissed her mouth, running his tongue delicately over her lips without entering her. Suddenly, he slid his mouth across her cheek to leave a trail of saliva. "Oh, god..." he gasped.

Meg was reeling. She had difficulty coming back, back from the journey of ecstasy he had taken her on. "Hmmm... Oh... Ahh..." She tried to concentrate. "Wh... What?"

"Ohmigod, I'm sorry," he whispered. He pulled his face off her cheek to look down at her. "I'm so sorry."

She searched his face. "Fraser, what's wrong?" She had never seen him like this, but she had never been in this position before either: beneath him, locked in a sexual embrace with him, filled to satiation with his virile sea of testosterone-laden sperm, feeling the occasional involuntary twinges of his penis buried deep within her.

"Everything... everything's wrong."

"Why? What's going on?" She struggled to understand.

"Oh, Sir, I'm so sorry."

"Sir? You're calling me 'Sir' after that?"

Fraser seemed on the verge of tears. "I have no excuse for what I just did... No control... No control."

"Why do you think you need an excuse?" She certainly didn't think he had any problem with control. His timing had been exquisite.

"You don't know... How can you ever forgive me?...I can't forgive myself." He lowered his eyes. He could not face her. "I just kissed my self-respect good-bye. How could anyone respect or trust me?"

"I don't understand... no self-respect?"

"I lied to you."

"Lied?" Meg was incredulous.

"Yes, lied. I was putting my own needs first... trying to regain my sense of taste and my memory... And I asked you to trust me and--"

She reached up to cup his face in her hands and ran a finger through the perspiration on his forehead. "--Ahh, Fraser, you do sweat."

"W-w-what?" He pulled back slightly from her touch.

"I know you were in my condo for a very good reason. I also know that you read something that you had no business reading and--"

"--I didn't mean to... totally inadvertent... it matched your day-timer."

"It's all right. It's really okay," she reassured him as she dropped her arms to lay them over his shoulders and pull him down to her.

"No, it's not," he insisted. "What I am trying to tell you is that while I had no memory, I did remember what you wrote because, just now, when I asked you to trust me, and represented my desire for you in the form of a... er... an osculatory exercise, I was driven by more than just regaining my sense of taste. I was remembering all the... er... ah... urges I have been having since you and Ray took me to hospital. I was so wrong to ask you to trust me. You can't trust me. No one ca--"

"--Fraser, don't do this. Please don't," she said sadly.

"I am so totally disgusted with myself... so ashamed. I've been acting like those American Presidents. What total disrespect for you as a person and as my superior... for the RCMP code." He quickly withdrew from her, rolled over and sat up. He slid the ring from his softening penis in disgust and tossed it aside. "Honesty and integrity? God! I've disgraced the uniform. I have to resign... must--"

She followed him upright and put her index finger momentarily on his lips to stop him. "--Fraser, do you think for one moment that the guilt is entirely one-sided?"

"Of course, I--"

"--Do you remember what else I wrote in my journal?"

He looked at her quizzically. "What are you talking about?"

"Martin. In Calgary."

"What do you mean?"

She looked at him, searching for a sign of compassion and possible understanding. She decided he didn't need to know all of it, but he was entitled to hear some of it. "That man was my worst nightmare. I can hardly talk about it," she began as her eyes brimmed with tears. "I was new to the posting... not too sure of myself. He wouldn't leave me alone. He made it quite clear that I was going nowhere in the RCMP unless," she gulped, "...unless I accepted his advances. I tried to avoid him for months. He finally cornered me... alone. I fought him off but he warned me that I had better not say anything because he would deny it."

The tears freely coursed down her face. "I couldn't take it any more. I was so angry. I still am, and it happened more than ten years ago. I filed a sexual harassment charge against him... I had to. He tried to make it look like I was harassing him. It was ghastly. You saw how thick my personnel file is?"

Fraser had been listening intently and quickly nodded.

"That's why. As my superior, he tried to take advantage of me to fulfill his own lust. Fraser, I'm no better."

He gathered her in his arms and gently pulled her to him. "Oh, Meg, yes, you are. Infinitely."

"No. No! Let me finish. You don't understand," she insisted as she tried to brush the tears aside. "What I wrote in my journal about you was private... I never intended to let you know about it. Yet, when you asked me if you could kiss me, I couldn't say no... I wanted you... I've ached for you." She paused and knew if she told him how she regarded all men with whom she had sexual contact, at least until NOW, he would despise her.

"Ummm." He sensed there was something else, but knew if she wanted to tell him, she would.

"So, don't start taking on all of the guilt here. I used you, too. Why do you think I came back tonight? Wearing the black dress? I knew you had seen it in my bedroom."

"You should have worn the red silk--"

"--You saw that one too?"

"Saw it. Smelled it."

"God! I feel so ashamed. I think I used you and you think you used me. Tit for tat, Fras-- ...Ben, I think we're even up on this."

Fraser heaved a deep sigh, laid her face again on his chest, and rested his chin on her head while he pondered their dilemma. "It's poison, isn't it?" he ventured after a while. "We're poison... for each other."

She raised her face to look at him. "I don't know. I really don't. All I do know is that I like being in your arms. You make me feel safe."

He smiled at her, "And I with you," and licked the tears from her face. Then he lowered her down to nestle beside him in the soft blanket: legs intertwined; her arms reaching around his chest and her ear close to his strongly beating heart; his warm arms enfolding her shoulders; each lightly caressing the other, knowing this was the beginning of something wonderful between them. Perhaps their separate soulful loneliness was finally at an end.

She idly ran her fingers across his hip and followed the faint black line of hair from his navel to the thick mat in his crotch. As his penis made a feeble attempt to respond, he chuckled softly, "Sorry, it needs a bit of time to recharge."

She turned her face on his chest to look at him. Slowly twirling his pubic hair in her fingers, she asked, "Can I do anything to help?"

"Not really. But bark tea has wonderful restorative powers for that."

As she raised her head in astonishment at this revelation, his stomach rumbled ominously. "Upon occasion, food is helpful too. Are you hungry?"

"Famished. I know just the thing: I've got a stash of imported cheese and beluga caviar in the fridge. Crackers are in my desk. You make the tea and I'll take care of the food."

He helped her to her feet and saw her shiver. "Here," he said as he opened the closet door to get one of his thick flannel shirts for her to throw over her shoulders. He was met by the grinning ghost of his father who stood just beyond the hanger bar.

"Way to go, son!" The ghost tried to peer over Fraser's shoulder into the room. "What was that thing you used?"

"Just GO AWAY!!" Fraser hissed ominously in a low tone as he grabbed two shirts and slammed the door rudely.

"What did you say?" she asked as he helped her into the warm shirt and put the other on himself.

"Nothing. Nothing a-tall," and, taking her hand, led her to the kitchen.

CHAPTER 16

The soft glow of the gas logs in Meg's office fireplace washed over them as they sat cross-legged before it on a Bay blanket. They took turns feeding each other the cheese and caviar, then between bites, each groped for their steaming mug of bark tea.

"I was unaware of the potential for having a picnic in this building," Fraser offered as he smeared a bit of cheese on a cracker for her. "At least not in this room."

"Nor being as naked as a blue jay while doing it," she added with a smile over the rim of her mug.

He blushed faintly. "Do you have any idea what goes through my mind when you read me the riot act? Here? In front of your desk?"

This she wanted to hear.

When she didn't answer, he decided to plunge ahead. "If you only knew what you were doing to me... Pacing around me... You could have been reciting the International Manual on the Humane Treatment of Prisoners and I would have still responded the same. God, Meg, you turn me on!"

"I turned you on?"

"No, you turn me on. As in present tense. Now."

"Not so fast," she teased and avoided his arms. "First, before we go any further, it is essential that you shave. I don't want to look like some scrufty bearded maniac had his way with me tonight... Well, he has," she amended with an endearing giggle, "but I don't want the rest of the staff to know. That brings up several other problems. The first is not a problem, but a request. You have no idea how much I've missed the smell of your shaving soap in the bathroom."

"Missed it? But I thought--"

"--Let's leave it at that, all right? I didn't want you to know."

"Hmmm. Another Thatcher cover-up?" he asked innocently.

Ignoring the obvious verbal trap he offered her, she went on, "So, if you would do me the honour of first showering and shaving in yonder bathroom?"

"Ah! And perhaps we can conserve water by making it a joint effort?"

"Quite possibly. At least the shower part. You're on your own about the shaving," she quickly grinned at him, then became serious. "The other thing could definitely be a problem..."

"Which is?"

"I don't know how to address you now."

"How to...?"

"Yes. You know. I always call you 'Fraser, this! Fraser, that!' or that snide way I have of sarcastically calling you 'Constable'. I'm afraid if I call you 'Ben' or 'Benton' when we're private situations such as this, I might slip and forget to call you 'Fraser' in a public setting. I am assuming there will be more, ahem, contact situations, such as this?"

"Many, many more, if you wish."

"Well, I can only say that I do wish, I wish very much. But given the RCMP regulations on fraternization, this would not be in either of our best interests. What?! Why are you grinning?"

"It's only that you can't possibly know how your addressing me as 'Constable' or 'Fraser' affects me! Especially in your 'Inspector' voice," as he gathered her in his arms and sought her mouth. "Please continue to call me that and I'll know what you really mean."

"Constable!" she ordered sternly. "I forbid you to kiss me again until you have showered and shaved. Is that clear?"

"Understood, Sir," he said with a low chuckle as he helped her to her feet and together they went into the bathroom.

They spent the shower time gently stroking and soaping each other, letting the warm water cascade over them, coursing down their faces to enter open mouths that nipped and sucked each other's skin. Two Canadian otters played joyously in the water until it began to cool. Fraser was sufficiently aroused that he toyed with the idea of taking her there, under the beating water, but she demurred by insisting he shave first. Perhaps it was best they stopped the shower, or there would be no hot water left for him.

Meg stepped out first and handed him an enormously thick white towel as she began to dry herself off with another. This was a serious departure from the thin towel he always used in the mornings. Where did she keep these? Loathe to miss the opportunity, he gently took the towel from her and slowly rubbed it across her back, around her breasts, down her legs. He met her eyes and knew within his deepest heart that she felt the same toward him as he did for her: kindred spirits in a safe haven.

As she wrapped the towel under her arms, tucked it in, and sat on the lidded commode, she uttered only one word. Not a command, but clearly a request, "Shave."

He was unsure why this was so important to her. Perhaps he did know: he recalled how much he relied on his own hypersensitive sense of smell. She must have similar abilities. Damn. Sensitive skin too. He could see the beard burns he had left around her mouth. Not good. He tucked his own towel around his waist and hurried back to his office for his shaving kit. Almost afraid she had disappeared in the interim, he barged back into the bathroom, but she still was there and watched intently as he lathered and began the shave with the cut-throat razor. What was a boring chore to be performed daily by him, he could see out of the corner of his eye was very stimulating for her. Unconsciously she was following his razor strokes with a finger on her face: down his checks and up his neck were mirrored by her. If she wanted to watch him shave each morning, this would severely interfere with the daily activities of the Consulate. Either that, or he would have to get up at four in the morning.

Finished at last, he bent over the washbowl to rinse off the remaining lather. With eyes closed, he sensed her approach behind him and felt her fingers loosening the towel at his waist, pulling it off him, reaching from behind and drying off his face, hearing her murmuring words, "Here, you missed a spot. Let me get that." And letting her do it, for it felt so good. She relinquished the towel and he caught it blindly. And then he felt her hands stroke from his back, over his hips and down to his groin onto his inner thighs. Seeking him yet not actually touching his swelling penis. Slow strokes up and down his body. She ambushed him and he didn't care.

He opened his eyes and watched her face in the mirror as she massaged him: he saw a dreamy look in her eyes, a touch of mischief, and a modicum of determination. Definitely a new look for Meg. He didn't understand it, but he wasn't about to fight it, either. Her languid strokes were incredibly stimulating and he groaned as he had to grasp the sides of the wash basin when she cupped his balls to roll them around in the palm of her hand and gently massaged the base of his penis beneath them with a soft finger. He could feel her other arm around his waist, pulling him back into her as she fondled him. Excruciating, delectable pain or pleasure; he couldn't tell which.

He could think of no earthly objection to letting her walk him back into her office and he licked his lower lip in anticipation. The whole time she fondled his balls with a feather touch as she silently guided him onto the blanket and lowered him down, then slid atop him.

"The ring... The ring," he whispered weakly. He knew he wouldn't last two minutes under her onslaught. "Let me get it... Hmmmm," as she took him into her mouth. He knew she was devouring him and succumbed to her tongue's exploration of the farthest reaches of his mouth, her hand sliding up and down his throbbing shaft, stretching his foreskin back, fingers exploring his seeping slit. He couldn't breathe. He felt every millilitre of his blood had left his lungs and flowed to his painfully taut erection.

"Ahhh..." he weakly gasped, as she relinquished his mouth and began kissing and sucking on his earlobes and neck.

"Screw the ring, Fraser. This is for you," she whispered.

Before he could determine what she meant by that, she had slid down his body and straddled his legs, his throbbing cock firmly in her hand. He couldn't break eye contact with her and felt her hand massage him up and down, gently pulling on him to stretch him further, circling the head with delicate fingers. And ever so slowly she lowered her head to reach with her tongue to lick the tip. He bucked his hips involuntarily. Oh, god!! He knew then that she would suck him. Now! Now!! He silently screamed and clutched the folds of blanket in a death grip.

She teased him: tracing her tongue all around his throbbing head, gently exploring his slit with the tip of her tongue. From somewhere he thought he heard her say, "Bark tea, indeed" but wasn't sure as he felt her soft lips encircle him and her tongue massage the underside of his shaft. And then he felt her take him to the back of her throat as if she would swallow him. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the sensations she was producing in him. She contracted her throat muscles: squeezing him, kneading him, pushing him to an even higher state of excitement. And then the most incredible suction he ever felt. Drawing the rest of his pre-ejaculate out... reaching into his body to stimulate his prostate... down into his balls she was reaching, seeking to coax the very life fluid from him.

And then suddenly, the vacuum was gone, just before he exploded in her mouth. He felt an incredible pain stabbing through him; his balls crackled with desire. His entire body ached, worse than any knife wound or bullet, an intense pressure that was denied release. Suddenly he felt her tongue again in his mouth, taunting him, trying to stimulate him further. She wrapped her legs around his pulsating cock and squeezed him; then he felt her slide with agonizing slowness down his body to capture his upturned cockhead within her.

"Oh, god!... " he groaned as she straightened up and allowed gravity to lower her body slowly on his shaft to the hilt. He thrust his hips upward to make sure she was securely and completely impaled on him. Tightly encased in her warm and wet cocoon, he looked up into her dreamy eyes as she gently began to rock back and forth. He knew she was trying to drive him over the edge, but for the moment, he was incapable: he was stalled beyond climax when she had relinquished her vacuum. He reached up to her, drew her down into his arms and rolled them over. He had to take charge, if for a moment, so he could finally release.

He thrust deeply within her and murmured, "Don't move."

Like a petulant child disobeying a stern parental directive, she tried to move her hips on his shaft again, but he weighted his body on her more heavily to stop her. He felt her relax slightly and in the back of his brain he wondered what this was all about... Didn't she want it also? Was she trying to pleasure him and not herself as well? He didn't like this. He wanted them both, together, in joint effort as it were. Perhaps she wasn't sufficiently aroused yet. Good. Slow and easy. Get back in control. Lead her to the heights and they would climax together, as they had done before.

He traced the tip of his tongue around her lips with slight teasings. Engulfing lip kissing without entering her open mouth. Lapping at thick black eyelashes. Erotic tongue stroking in her ear. With his delicate tongue he played a symphony on every erogenous area of her face and neck. He went on and on with his game and only when she occasionally groaned in delight would he take one massive stroke within her. He began to kiss her deeply, tongue exploring hers, and he felt her begin to respond. Now in control, he started to pump. Hearing her sharp breath, feeling her raise her hips for his deeper access, her grabbing his ass to push him in further, her fingers clawing at his back, urging him to come, deeper, and faster until he could hold it no more.

"God... Hunnh... have to... c-can't stop... hunnnh." His climax came in thunderous waves with hot jets of semen that filled her. And then he felt her begin to climax too. She rode his slippery shaft to the hilt as she bucked against him, screaming an animalistic cry in rhythm to her contractions that goaded him to thrust deeper and empty himself completely within her. He climaxed twice, one after another as she responded to his first.

He realized then that she was moving no longer and gave her a final long, slow thrust. He kissed her and saw she was silently crying.

"Meg... Oh, Meg! God... I'm sorry! What's wrong?" He began to kiss her tears tenderly.

He felt her hands coursing through the sweat on his back, from his shoulders, stopping momentarily at the scar from Ray's bullet, and down to his hips. Long, languid strokes that spoke volumes.

"That... that was... God! Fraser, you are magnificent, do you know that?" She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him closer to her. He smiled down at her when she said, "I don't want to see that sex toy again! You don't need it and neither do I."

"As you wish," he replied with a grin as he rolled her on top of him and gathered the blanket around them. Soft, tender kisses, until he felt her head nestle in the crook of his shoulder. Her deep breathing told him she was fast asleep in his arms while his penis remained deep within her. He didn't want to think how painful their disjoining might be after his semen dried. He would address that problem at the appropriate time... He drifted into a doze but was jerked awake when she moved slightly. Better that he withdraw than wait. He rolled them on their sides, and then slowly backed his hips away to slide his flaccid organ from her. Meg groaned softly but didn't awaken. Gathering her again in his arms, he smiled to himself as he slipped into sleep: "Proper preparation..."

CHAPTER 17

"You're something else," Fraser hissed at Diefenbaker.

The Mountie had awakened at his usual hour of six o'clock and for a nanosecond he panicked. Was what he remembered of last night only a dream or was it an incredible reality? He found himself on the floor of the Inspector's office, wrapped in a blanket and said Inspector, breathing softly, was sleeping in his arms. Further confirmation of reality came from the faint odour of sex that permeated the blanket. As he gazed fondly at her, a feeling of peace and belonging, being cherished and wanted swept over him.

He carefully slid from her arms and tucked the blanket around her shoulders as she moaned softly in her sleep. He had to hurry; there wasn't much time. As he opened the office door to return to his own room for clothes, Diefenbaker scooted inside.

"Dief... Dief!" he called softly, but then realized the wolf was in one of his selective non-hearing modes. "Ah, well... Just don't wake her."

He decided to wear his spare dress red serge and was amazed that he remembered how to lace up. Just yesterday he would have not known how. He allowed his imagination to creep into her office, bend down, and lightly kiss her cheek in thanks for restoring his memory; then his heart soared as she smiled in her sleep.

He grabbed his Stetson and quietly left the Consulate. Running the six blocks to her favorite latte shop, he discovered that there already was a line although the shop had just opened fifteen minutes ago. Fraser fidgeted in queue until it was his turn.

"Whaddaya want?"

"Ah... yes. Do you happen to know a woman of one hundred sixty-seven point four centimetres stature...? This isn't working. No, of course you don't... In avoir dupois, do you know a woman approximately five feet, six inches in height with short dark brown hair... it had been long, she got it cut, but that's a different story... who comes in here each weekday morning, about eight forty-five?"

"Yeah."

"Do you take her order often?"

"Yeah."

"Would you please divulge that information?" This was like pulling teeth from a chicken.

"Yeah, she always gets a double tall skinny latte and one of them croissants."

"Fine. If you will make up two orders of that, please? Thank you kindly."

In no time Fraser was back at the Consulate with breakfast. As he nudged her office door open, he saw Meg, curled up in the blanket, still fast asleep. However, Dief was sprawled along her back and the Mountie was just thankful the wolf was outside the covers. Dief raised his head; Fraser later swore by all things holy and the RCMP Code itself that the wolf actually grinned at him.

"You're something else," he hissed. "C'mon, get up, Dief. We haven't much time. You see, I thought you would pull something like this and do you know what? You're cut off, Bucko: I didn't bring back anything for you. No more donuts, my lupine friend. Now, move."

Dief regarded the human with doleful eye and much grumbling under his breath. It was quite comfortable here, thank you. Anyway, he was just guarding her until his pack mate got back; nothing wrong with doing that, his lupine brain reasoned. He burrowed his nose further into Meg's back and snorted in derision at Fraser when Meg reached out of the blanket to stroke his flank and mumbled, "Stop complaining, Dief."

Fraser was nonplused at the gentle admonition she gave the animal stretched out beside her. She had always professed to loathe the dog by objecting to white hairs sticking to her clothing and the distinct odour of wolf-dog that pervaded the Consulate when it rained.

"Meg," Fraser whispered in her ear as he set the styrofoam cups and paper bag on the floor. "Meg, it's almost six-thirty."

"Hmmm..."

"It's oh-six-thirty hours. The staff will be here in an hour and a half. You must get up."

She sat up with a start and was not able to stop the blanket from sliding from her shoulders to her waist. Fraser watched a kaleidoscope of emotion play across her face: astonishment that she was on the floor of her office, remembrance of last night's adventures, embarrassment to be seen naked by him now, panic with the thought they would be discovered. She groped to cover herself with the blanket.

To deflect her unease Fraser lifted the lid of the coffee cup and presented it to her. "I took the liberty of getting your breakfast. We haven't much time before the staff arrives. However, you should have ample time to have your breakfast, go back to your condo for a change of clothing and be back here at your usual quarter of nine arrival."

Self-consciously she ran her fingers through her short hair but knew full well it was in terrible disarray. Well, he saw me at my worst last night... or maybe at my best, by the look on his face. She flashed him a tentative smile, offered him a quiet "Thank you," and sipped her coffee.

When he passed her a croissant, Dief sat up, licked his lips, whined pitifully and assumed full begging mode as they sat cross-legged on the floor to eat and drink in silence. Both were struggling to define their new relationship.

"Any regrets?" she asked over the rim of her coffee cup.

He stared into his own cup and tried to formulate words that she would not misconstrue in any way. He was so long in answering that she began to panic that what he would finally say would not be what she wanted to hear. Her worst fears were justified when he raised his eyes and looked intently at her.

"Yes, I have regrets." He saw the disappointment in her teary eyes. "Oh, no, Meg!!" He set his cup down and reached to enfold her in his arms. Blithering idiot! Why do I always manage to say things that sound different from what I mean? "Not regret for last night! Just regret that it didn't happen long before this. Such a waste of time. We have spent the greater part of two years avoiding each other's feelings... and maybe our own as well."

"They will find out, you know."

"I don't see how," he reasoned. "We even kept it from each other all this time. Continuing the charade will be easy. Just act normally, just as we always have done. However, you," he said with a smile, "might call me into your office more frequently for proper reprimands. With your door open, of course, to let the staff know you are taking me to task for my ineptness. I would find that exhilarating... or am I being a self-centered masochist?"

She looked up at him, quizzically. "Is that your idea of 'Consular foreplay'? Could we perhaps share a cup of bark tea at day's end? It would only be masochistic if we did nothing beyond that, after hours, of course."

"And there you are. Everything will seem normal."

"How will we explain the return of your memory? We can't exactly say I 'helped' you last night, now can we?"

"Still no problem. When Turnbull comes in, he will undoubtedly pop into my office to see how I am doing. I will be at my desk filling out reports as usual. He might question my mental capacities and I will tell him I had a dream last night that caused me to have my memory restored."

"Fraser, I thought of all Mounties it would be you who would never lie."

"I won't be lying, Meg. I did have an incredibly real dream and the woman in it did help me. It's just the last part that no one need know and if anyone asks, I will say my memory of the dream is fuzzy at best; that I just woke up and remembered everything. You get changed and come here at your usual time. The usual routine begins: review your mail, then call Turnbull and myself into your office to give your orders of the day."

"This might work. I do know that I don't want you going off and saving Chicago from itself for a while. So--"

"--Meg! Inspector! Please, I beg of you: don't keep me locked up here." He cringed at the thought. If so ordered, he would obey. Nothing could keep him from not liking it, though.

She smoothly went on, "Oh, I think some paperwork and guard duty is perfectly fine for a short while. Fraser, don't forget you had a concussion too. You simply must take care of yourself because I don't want to see the "Other Fraser", the one with Dissociative Amnesia, again."

He knew she had check-mated him, but he persisted. "Everyone will think it odd that with my full faculties restored I was not helping the Chicago authorities catch Solvay. And your orders that I not participate will certainly raise eyebrows. May I suggest that you assign me light duty today that includes my going to the 27th? I promise, Inspector," he solemnly swore, "that I will not take part in the investigation, but only offer suggestions that are based on the evidence they have gathered thus far."

"Be back right after lunch?"

"Promise. And I won't even complain if you put me on guard duty. I rather like it, as it gives me time to think things through, as well as the knowledge I am protecting you from the Chicago riffraff," he said with a smile.

"All right, let's try it," she said as she popped the last of the crossaint in her mouth. Dief groaned as his last opportunity disappeared. "You've got to help me find my clothes."

"I believe most of them are in my room. And I claim the blanket, which is from my bed anyway. You can have the shaving soap smell in the bathroom, but I get the blanket."

Amid the usual intense activity of the bullpen, Lieutenant Welsh conferred with his detectives. Pacing back and forth, he attempted to understand the fruits of their investigation. "What's with this guy Solvay?"

"Chief, all our leads evaporated--," Dewey offered and then stopped as he saw Fraser enter the bullpen.

"Fraser--"

"--Hey, Constable, welcome back. We've--"

"--Nice to see you back, Constable," Welsh finished for all of them. "I may presume you know who you are? Your memory has returned? Inspector Thatcher has allowed you... 'out'... so to speak?"

"Yes, she has agreed to let me assist you, albeit in a non-physical sense, on the Solvay case. She would like it very much if he is brought to justice."

"We were just trying to figure out--" Welsh continued.

"--You haven't found Solvay then?"

"Nope," Kowalski admitted.

Huey tried to bring Fraser up to speed on the case. "He didn't spend much time in that dump of an apartment of his--"

"--And we don't think he had any accomplices in the Theater heist," Dewey added.

Welsh topped it off. "The only thing we found out is that a couple of hours ago, his getaway car was found abandoned in International Falls and--"

"--Yes, it would take him about that long to drive there," Fraser pondered. "I imagine he would have wanted to obey all traffic regulations, so he wouldn't call attention to himself."

Ray had difficulty keeping up with Fraser's thought process. "So, if he didn't have any friends...Why would he head to Canada? No connections, nothing. How're we gonna find him in that trackless wilderness?"

"It's very logical, Ray. International Falls isn't a very busy border crossing. He probably thought he could casually cross into Canada on foot. He wouldn't try it in a stolen car."

"But why Canada?"

Fraser patiently explained, "Solvay escaped to Canada because even the lowest, most vile thief knows how favourable the exchange rate is on the American dollar. Once across the border, he will make the exchange and end up with a fortune, by Canadian standards."

Kowalski liked this theory. "So, how to find him?"

Fraser turned to Welsh. "Leftenant, I suggest someone call the Consulate to get the phone numbers for the RCMP detachments in Winnipeg and Thunder Bay. Fax Solvay's full description and mug shot to them. They in turn will distribute the information appropriately to banks and currency exchange centres. Solvay will be apprehended in short order, I assure you."

"So, why don't the Inspector send you?" Ray questioned.

"Because, Ray, I have had a concussion as well. I'm not much good to anyone if my brain is not functioning properly. She is only looking out for my welfare as any competent Inspector would."

"Uh-huh," Ray agreed skeptically.

"Thank you, Constable," Welsh interrupted. "As always, you come through. Huey, Dewey, get on it."

As the group broke up, Ray suggested, " You want some coffee? Tea? C'mon, my treat," he offered as the two police officers walked down the hall.

"Ya know, Frase, you're a real piece of work... I'm glad you're back. You okay now?"

Fraser was more thoughtful than usual. "Yes, now... but when I had the amnesia..." and flushed bright red as Francesca passed them, "I did some terrible things..."

"Well, I didn't think so," she said under her breath.

"...Terrible things."

"So, did the Ice Queen find out?"

Fraser stopped abruptly to give him a hard look. "She is not an Ice Queen," and resumed walking. As they turned the corner, Kowalski put his arm over Fraser's shoulder.

"Yeah, women," Ray said. "If you ever figure them out, tell me. I got problems, too."

"Not in my lifetime, Ray. But if I do, I will tell you, to be sure."

The End

NOTES

1. Variances in spelling reflect who is talking, American or Canadian, as well as whose property is being described.

2. The physician's dialogue about Fraser's condition (reference: Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for Mental Disorders IV) explains why he now acts as he does (has the reader's "permission") until midway through the kiss scene:

A. Unleashed libido and randy as hell (dissociative amnesia can cause sexual dysfunction; for Fraser, his urges come to the surface, rather than being decreased, i.e. for him, his dysfunction is the reverse situation.) Remaining unshaven gives the impression that his virility is increasing.

B. Smart-ass dialogue, as his rigid codes of conduct, courtesy, and respect are nowhere to be seen. It is important that Fraser not assume his respectful stance (hands clasped around his back) when dealing with others. Rather, he verges on swagger, hands on hips or hooked over the waist of his jeans. His language reflects lack of inhibition; he's heard it all before and now he uses vulgarities himself. Note when he stops cursing: when he sees Meg in his room. At this point, he is beginning to retrieve his memory.

C. Aggression - when Fraser trashes his room in anger. Thatcher, although she feels threatened by his outburst, tries to maintain control.

D. Depression/despair is shown when Thatcher comes upon him as he is convulsed with sobs. She recognizes his vulnerability now and is very careful to insure that he does not know she has seen this. This will help him 'save face' after the kiss. She does not take advantage of his vulnerability, just as he did not take advantage of hers when she was rescued at the warehouse.

E. Loneliness - In many episodes, Fraser has shown how lonely he is. This becomes agonizingly clear as a manifestation of his depression at the Consulate. His father, who is right about most things, tells Fraser that escaping his "cell" (his room at the Consulate) is not the way to resolve this issue. Rather, he must look inside himself; get out of his head and get into his heart.

Fraser's uncharacteristic behavior gives way to agony and despair as time drags on at the Consulate. These scenes are diametrically opposed to the series in general. Instead of action-packed events shown at a rapid pace, it is the absence of action that allows the reader to feel empathy for Fraser, who is in a mindless timewarp. The clock ticking reinforces Fraser's sense of helplessness that he can do nothing to regain his memory as he wrestles with his internal emotional conflict. When he leaves the Consulate, it is without the Stetson - he doesn't deserve to wear any part of the uniform, and is the set-up to having no money when the whores proposition him.

There are many props, scenes, dialogues that are woven into the story to make it complete and circular. An example is Meg singing, "If I call, will you answer?" This is foreshadowing Fraser's response to her absence; he must find her, and his subsequent agitation and stress prior to the dissociative amnesia. There are other things that I explain for my own purposes, e.g. bark tea is not just tea for Fraser. I wrote the story as a web with all things interconnected rather than linear.

© 2002 by Jean Tryon; Feedback to: jtryon@aracnet.com