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

LaCroix smiled briefly as the image he was watching dimmed.  He hesitated
only a moment before putting the remote down without switching to the
infrared picture.  He revised his earlier opinion of his...houseguest.  He
added "intelligent" and "resourceful" to "attractive" and was pretty sure
"sense of humor" would join the other attributes rather quickly.

As soon as the tempo of the water changed, indicating that Dr. Lambert had
entered the shower, the vampire silently unlocked the door and slipped into
the bedroom to arrange a deep red silk waltz-length nightgown on top of the
tangled bedclothes.  With wide spaghetti straps and a draped neckline that
would stop above  the swell of her breasts, it was sensual without being
lurid.  How she reacted to its presence - and its design -  would tell him a
great deal about who she really was, and how he could best...befriend her.

He moved quickly to the louvered doors that separated the kitchen from the
rest of the room and opened them to be sure that she would see the plate of
fruit on the small table.  He took a cold bottle of water from the
refrigerator and set it next to the fruit and was back in his chair in the
living room before the shower ended.

The shower had actually been very nice, she had to admit.  The water had
remained at a constant temperature; the wand was set high enough that she
didn't have to bend down to wash her hair and it didn't keep moving around
or falling off its holder.  And whoever had installed it definitely didn't
worry about water conservation.  She had had to reduce the water flow to
keep from being almost knocked over by the high-pressure spray.

Luckily, the bathroom wasn't completely dark - there was a little light
outlining the door - so Natalie had been able to reach shampoo and body wash
without too much fumbling around.  She turned off the water, opened the door
and let her toes sink into the deep-pile bath mat.  She had marked the
location of the towel rack earlier and reached for one of the towels -
charcoal gray rather than black - and began to dry her hair.  Wrapping the
towel around her head, she took the other one and slowly rubbed it over her
body, lifting each foot onto the edge of the toilet seat so she didn't have
to bend over and risk a return of the concerto for drum and bass that had
mercifully stopped playing inside her head while she'd been in the shower.

She remembered with annoyance that she hadn't brought a robe into the
bathroom with her; she didn't even know if one had been "provided".  She was
*not* going to walk back into the bedroom with only a towel, no matter how
oversized, wrapped around her.  She grabbed the silk pants, jammed her feet
into the legs, jerked them up to her waist and then dropped the tunic over
her head, trying unsuccessfully to keep the ice-cold wet sleeve from
clinging to her arm, and stepped boldly back into the bedroom, trying to
project a confidence she didn't feel.

She froze when she saw the splash of red spread across the rumpled gray
sheets and fought the wave of dizziness caused by the sudden cessation of
motion.  Her eyes darted wildly around the room and she gasped as they
showed her the open doorway.  She clutched the front of her tunic as though
afraid it would suddenly tear apart, exposing her even more to the hidden
eyes that were obviously watching her every move.  She was pleased she had
thought to turn off the bathroom lights.

It took several minutes before she could think again.  When she did, she
realized that she hadn't heard a sound other than her own - ragged -
breathing since she had walked out of the bathroom.  That helped slow her
heartbeat down to only half again as fast as normal.  But it shot back up
immediately when she realized that if her captor were a vampire he could be
standing right behind her - she laughed at herself as she turned her head to
check - and she wouldn't hear him.

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly and gave herself a mental lecture.

<Natalie Lambert, you cannot just stand here for the rest of your life -
however short that might be - like some pathetic Victorian maiden waiting to
be rescued.  There is no one who will come charging in here to pull you up
on his white horse and take you back to his castle to meet his mother, the
queen.>

She thought briefly of Nick, but Detective Knight wasn't living up to his
name very well these days.  That was why she'd been in that dreadful
neighborhood in the first place.  He had stood her up - not for the first
time this month - and she had decided to see if he was spending the time
with his...friend Janette.  Or his master...mentor...whatever he really was.

Anger at Nick overrode her fear and confusion.  It felt good to have a
concrete target for her emotions rather than the vague creature she had
conjured up from childhood nightmares, late night horror movies and half
answers to ambiguous questions she wasn't sure she had wanted to ask.

She marched over to the open doorway, ready to confront who - or what - ever
might be there.  It was better to know than to wonder - and be afraid of
speculation.  After all, Nick had shown her that not all creatures of the
dark had to be feared.

Her heart still pounded as she stopped just to the side of the door.  She
took a deep breath and stepped into the opening, ready to scream at...a
plate of fruit.

Natalie grabbed the door jamb to keep from collapsing as the rush of
adrenaline evaporated.  Her head began to pound again and bile rose in her
throat.  She closed her eyes and counted to ten.  When she opened them again
nothing had changed.  The only things she could see were slices of fruit
arranged on a black square plate and a bottle of water.  She reached out a
tentative hand and tapped the edge of the plate with a quickly withdrawn
finger.

It seemed real enough.  She wrapped her fingers around the bottle of water,
relieved to find that it was solid as well, and couldn't resist bringing it
to her lips to gulp some of its ice-cold contents.  The water bounced into
her empty stomach, but she refused to let it make its threatened
reappearance.  She'd drink more slowly the next time.

She replaced the bottle on the table and turned slowly to face the bed once
again.  She couldn't quite make her eyes focus on it initially, seeing again
only a wide splash of red staining the middle of the sheets.  But she had to
know, so she forced herself to walk to the edge of the bed and look directly
at what was on it.

She laughed.  And then she cried, sinking to her knees and burying her face
in the soft, cool silk.  She sobbed until there were no more tears and
lifted her head.  Without thought, she crumpled the nightgown in both hands
and wiped her eyes, her mascara invisible against the almost black tear
stains.

She dropped the nightgown back onto the bed, shocked that she had so
unthinkingly damaged someone else's property.  Then she remembered how she
had gotten here and how terrified she had been only a few minutes ago.  She
let her eyes roam slowly around the room, stopping occasionally to stare
pointedly at the ceiling and with a grin as wicked as the glitter in her
eyes, picked up the nightgown, brought it to her nose and blew loudly into
it.

Tossing the (very) used garment nonchalantly across the room, she climbed
onto the bed, curled into a ball, brought the sheet up over her head and
closed her eyes.

LaCroix laughed out loud, for the first time in many...many years.  That
certainly wasn't what he had expected to happen to the Versace nightgown,
but he was right: it definitely told him a great deal about Dr. Lambert.
And what he had found out intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

<End of Best Laid Plans part 3>

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

This part hasn't been beta read, since I forgot to send it to Frostsaint.
She caught the major discrepancy between part 3 and part 4 and mentioned it
to me, but I was distracted by other things and didn't realize what had
happened.  So don't blame her for any mistakes in this section, she never
read it :-).  Actually, don't blame her for mistakes in any section.  She
did a superb job of both beta reading and editing.  Any mistakes are my own.

Barb

****************************************
The Best Laid Plans part 3B
By Barb Vainio

LaCroix laughed out loud, for the first time in many, many years.  That
certainly wasn't what he had expected to happen to the Versace gown, but he
had been right about one thing: how she dealt with its sudden appearance
definitely told him a great deal about Dr. Lambert.  And what he had found
out intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

He stood up, draining the almost full glass of bloodwine to the dregs in one
continuous swallow, and walked over to the "entertainment center".  He
rotated a dial and checked to see that the lighting in the guest suite
dimmed until it was barely perceptible to mortal eyes.  He tapped briefly on
a laptop keyboard, the sound of the strokes clattering loudly in the silence
and walked to the couch.

He sat at one end, picked up a book for the end table and caressed the
butter-soft leather of the binding before opening it to the bookmarked page.
Plutarch's Parallel Lives.  He stretched his legs out, his feet crossed at
the ankles and began to read the ancient Greek with the ease of long
experience.  The words looked as fresh as they had when he'd had them
hand-copied centuries ago.  His senses told him it was several hours until
dawn, just enough time to remember some old friends as he contemplated how
best to make a new one.

Natalie's eyes flew open, her heart pounding and her lungs gasping for air.
She hadn't expected to fall asleep, but she must have.  She had dreamed of
her attack, vividly reliving everything from the first heart-stopping grab
of her arm, to the moment she had fallen backward toward the dumpster.  She
shuddered as she remembered scratching her assailant's face, his torn skin
lodging under her ragged, broken nails.  The police had taken some of it out
to use in their investigation.

Tears gathered in her eyes again.  How many times had she been the one to
give investigators the scrapings from under some woman's fingernails,
dropped into neat plastic evidence bags and labeled with exacting precision?
She had never taken the time to think about what it must have been like for
them to have only that weapon to fight for their lives; had never even
considered how desperate those women must have been - or how good it felt to
know you had marked your attacker, caused him pain, refused to surrender to
the fear.

She brought her hands up to her face, barely able to see them in the
darkened room.  The nails were ragged but clean.  She had spent a long time
scrubbing them with the nail brush she had found hanging in the shower.

She thought about her dream again, without the blind terror that had
awakened her.  There was something that nagged at her, a shadowy thought
that she knew was important, but couldn't really quite remember.  Maybe if
she started from the beginning again...

The next time she woke up, she was totally calm.  If she had dreamed, she
didn't remember.  She lay still, not ready to test what progress, if any,
she had made toward getting rid of the concussion headache.  At least now
she was thinking clearly enough to realize what she had and could begin to
treat it.

<No more panic or self pity>, she lectured herself.  They would accomplish
nothing and would actually interfere with her ability to get herself out of
this...situation.

She gradually became aware of music playing softly.  She now also remembered
hearing music the last time she woke up.  She couldn't remember what the
first piece was, but this was one of her favorites: a Tellemann oboe
concerto. She had played the CD not that long ago - in her apartment when
Nick had cancelled a movie night because he "had to work late".  They had
planned to meet at the loft after work that morning and watch "Lawrence of
Arabia" together.  But he had called just before she left the morgue and
said he was stuck with the report on a case he and Schanke had just closed.
Given Schanke's legendary talent for avoiding paperwork under all
circumstances, she hadn't thought twice about commiserating with Nick and
telling him it was no problem to reschedule.

She'd gone home, put on the Tellemann - a composer Nick wasn't particularly
fond of for some reason - and just let herself drift on the music while she
unwound.

It wasn't until two weeks later that she had found out the real story - and
she still wasn't sure if she was grateful she'd heard it or not.  Sergeant
Choi, another homicide detective, had come into the morgue to pick up some
autopsy results and casually mentioned seeing Nick "deep in conversation
with the owner of the Raven" early one morning.  Choi had been sent there to
break up a fight that seemed to have never happened, called in by a man
whose name hadn't been recorded and had seen Nick leaning across the bar
with his lips next to Janette's ear .

Even knowing that was the morning Nick had canceled their "date", Nat had
tried to just blow it off.  He might have been there on business; or maybe
he'd just stopped in to chat after he'd finished the paperwork.  He wouldn't
have wanted to disturb her if she was already asleep, so when he wanted
someone to talk to he'd gone to the Raven.  It was no big deal - even though
Janette DuCharme was the most gorgeous creature Nat had ever met.  After all
he'd know the French vampire for almost a thousand years.

But after a patrol officer, checking on a report of drug activity in the
area, mentioned seeing Nick walking near the CERK studios on a Saturday
night when he had canceled another movie date, she had finally put it all
together: he had made a choice, and it wasn't her or mortality.  It was
his...addiction to those people, that lifestyle.  She could no longer
believe his words about wanting to find a cure, to not be what he was.  Not
when he chose to do things that kept him trapped in the darkness.

That was why she was heading to the Raven this morning.  She was going to
confront him with his hypocrisy, fling it into his face, shout it so loudly
that all of Toronto would know how phony he was.  And then she would know if
he really was serous about regaining his mortality...or if he was just using
it to manipulate her, laughing at her naïve commitment to his "cause",
gloating over his ability to make her believe he liked her.

Her outrage at the possibility of being used like that had blinded her to
taking even the most basic precautions while marching through the almost
deserted back streets.  And so here she was, her body stiff and sore, her
head throbbing continually once again and her self-confidence shattered -
possibly beyond repair.

She lay quietly, listening to the tendrils of music that wove sinuously
around her, the mellow notes of the oboe soothing her anxieties, calming her
anger...seducing her to forget everything but this moment, this place,
this...

LaCroix had rushed to the bedroom door the first time Dr. Lambert had
awakened, the pounding of her heart almost deafening to his sensitive
hearing.  He'd already started to enter the pass code for the electric lock
when her heartbeat slowed down.  It wasn't back in normal range by any
means, but it wouldn't kill her either.  That would have been the ultimate
irony: having her die of fright when all he wanted to do was wake her up
periodically to be sure her concussion didn't send her into a coma.  He
could, of course, have just monitored her vital signs as she slept, but he
liked the irony of using a mortal method rather than a vampire one.
He increased the timer on the CD system to two hours - 6 AM would still be
just before dawn at this time of year -  and happily returned to his book.
Plutarch would have been shocked to learn how much he hadn't known about his
subjects.

His guest's second awakening was certainly much calmer than her first.  It
had taken for  the change in her breathing to distract him form his reading.
Her heart rate had increased gradually again until it was slightly above
normal - something must have disturbed her - but then slowed back down until
it reached what he know knew was its sleeping rhythm.

He savored the power that knowledge gave him.  He remembered what it was
like to be mortal, when he thought he knew everything about his enemies and
laughed at his naiveté.

He set the music - Mozart, this time - to start again in 5 hours.  He would
have preferred waiting until dusk, when he would be fully awake, to awaken
but he couldn't risk it.  Even though Nicholas would be unavailable, it was
possible that other people would start looking for her.  Even on a weekend
she might have friends who expected her to be home.  The officer on the
scene earlier this morning would remember nothing about finding a tall man
in black with Dr. Lambert, but the hospital personnel would definitely be
more than willing to talk about her "uncle" and his kind decision to take
her home to be cared for.  And Nicholas, for all his nonsense about
regaining his mortality, was no fool.  Once he was freed from his daytime
constraints, he would try to contact the coroner.  When he couldn't reach
her he would begin to ask questions which would inevitably lead him to the
hospital.  He would know who Dr. Lambert's "uncle" was as soon as he heard a
description.  While he would find it difficult to find this apartment, it
was not impossible.  So, his prisoner would have to become his willing guest
well before Nicholas was able to move around the city once more.

LaCroix returned to the sofa, left his book on the end table, and allowed
himself to doze fitfully.

Mozart.  How could someone who listened to Tellemann, even think about
Mozart?  There was just no comparison in emotional content.

<I guess there's just no accounting for taste >, Natalie thought as she sat
up and stretched slowly.

She tentatively pressed the back of her head and was surprised when there
was no increase in pain.  She actually felt pretty good.  Not fully
recovered, but not ready to pass out or vomit at any minute either.  She
swung her legs over the side of the bed and waited a few seconds to see if
that would cause any new symptoms.  When nothing changed, she stood up and
stretched a little more.  The lighting gradually increased to a comfortable
level.

<Motion sensor> she thought.  But a very sophisticated one.  Most of the
sensors she was familiar with only turned lights on and off; brightness had
to be controlled manually.

She sensed that it was daylight, without knowing how she knew, but she still
had no idea of the actual time.  Panic threatened to overwhelm her - it was
difficult for her not to be in total control - but she fought it down by
thinking of the things she *could* control, even here and now.

She was hungry and thirsty, so she walked over to the doorway and looked in.
She was surprised to see that it opened onto a small kitchen, complete with
range, refrigerator and even a microwave oven.  There was a small sink with
black lacquer cabinets above it and a matte black dish rack sitting on the
white marble counter next to it.

Nat pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat down.  She studied
the fruit still on the plate and realized she couldn't have been asleep for
too long because they were still fresh.  She shuddered at the thought that
they had been replaced while she slept, but realized with relief that
probably hadn't happened since the water hadn't been replaced.  She picked
up a slice of papaya (how could anyone find fresh papaya in Toronto in the
middle of March - even one as warm as this one had been so far?) and let it
slide into her mouth until she could bite off half of it without dribbling
any of the juice down her chin.  God, it was good.

She finished that slice and a few more besides.  The flavors of mango, kiwi
and something she couldn't identify melded with the papaya and she savored
the rich aftertaste of the juices on her tongue before she picked up the
half-empty bottle of water, lifted it into the air in a sketchy toast and
drained it in one large swallow.

If she had to be watched, she might as well have a sense of humor about it.
Besides, if she really wanted to make an ally of her captor, she thought,
remembering her earlier, only partially-formulated plan and realizing it
wasn't half bad, she might as well start now.

Still hungry, but not wanting to overtax her still-unsettled stomach, she
put the fruit plate in the fridge, next to some cheese on the shelf above
some uncut apples and peaches and several bowls containing blackberries and
raspberries.

"I hope he doesn't think I'm a vegetarian."

Nat clapped her hand over her mouth when she realized she'd spoken aloud,
but then decided it was time to take another step toward wooing her captor.
She smiled - someone who didn't know her well would probably take it for
genuine - and looked up where she thought a camera might be and brightly
chirped, "I'm not you know.  I love a steak as much as the next woman."

Pleased she'd found the courage to address him directly and mortified at how
artificial she'd sounded, she ended her monologue and began searching for
some new clothes.  She was certain her "considerate" jailer wouldn't have
left her only one outfit to wear.

She was right.  When she slid back the door across the room from the kitchen
she found a varied, if not extensive, selection of very upscale woman's
clothing.  She looked at the collar tag of the first item that came to
hand - a deep forest green knit dress with a shawl collar - and smiled.  Her
size - and definitely her style.  But not for today.

She slid hangers along the bar until she saw a pair of gabardine slacks and
then worked her way back to a bronze suede jacket that would complement the
café au lait of the trousers exceptionally well.  The elbow length sleeves
were fashionable but not confining.  She wouldn't be suffering from heat
stroke while she wore it - one of the reason she didn't wear suede or
leather very often.  Not to mention how expensive it was to have them
cleaned.  And she always managed to spill something on the "dry clean only"
portion of her wardrobe.  She hesitated before taking the jacket fully off
the hanger, but then jerked it quickly into her hand.  It would serve him
right if she ruined it; she hadn't asked to be brought here or to be given
expensive clothing and shower accessories.

That reminded her that she'd fallen asleep without combing out and drying
her hair.  She reached up to feel it.  Yup, it was a mass of tangles and
knots.  She'd have to do something about that if she were going to make any
kind of good impression on whoever was on the other end of the cameras.

She idly wondered if he had left her clean underwear.  It was in the drawers
built into the closet, bras with matching panties (both bikinis and briefs)
and both matching one or more of the outfits hanging in the closet.  The
man - vampire? creature? monster? - certainly had an eye for fashion.  Of
course, he'd probably had centuries to perfect it.  And if he'd spent any
time with Janette DuCharme, he'd have learned how to complement exquisite
beauty.

Well he wasn't going to win *her* over that easily.  She deliberately chose
a bra - mauve demi-cup - and then a pair of panties (orange bikinis) and
waved them above her head, dangling from two fingers, where she was sure he
would be able to see her hideous selections.

She found trouser socks in another drawer, but couldn't make much of a
statement with their muted brown and blue tones, so she just took a pair for
taupe ones.  She rummaged through the jewelry compartments and bent down to
pick up a pair of brown low heeled pumps before stalking into the bathroom,
searching the shelf in the shower for a few seconds, closing the door and
turning off the light.

<End of The Best Laid Plans part 3B>