_____________ In The Beginning by Sheila Harper Rated PG-13 Submitted August 2000 A Charity Fanzine story, first released summer 1999 ______________ What if ... Clark Kent doesn't arrive in Metropolis for another year? Lois Lane has become Lois Luthor, and her journalism career has been as destroyed as the Planet building. But when these two reporters meet, sparks fly as they embark on the investigation of their lives -- bringing down Lex Luthor. ______________ Whistling, Clark Kent stepped off the elevator into the newsroom of The Metropolis Star--and shied back as a newspaper was shoved into his face. "Hey, Clark, Mike led with your story! Congrats!" Clark's dazzling smile flashed, and he pushed the paper to one side to reveal Paul Banning's gapped-toothed grin. "Thanks, Paul." He had already seen the morning paper, but it was nice to have his co-workers recognize his achievement. "Kent! In my office!" the editor, Mike Nichols, called. Paul clapped him on the shoulder as he turned away. "Good going, kid." Clark nodded and continued across the newsroom. At 28, he'd been in the newspaper business for half a dozen years; he'd had front page stories in papers all over the world, but here he was a newcomer, and maybe from Paul's vantage point of twenty years, he *was* just a kid. He shrugged, his tweed sports jacket sliding loosely over his coarse cotton shirt. Okay, so maybe the other papers weren't great metropolitan newspapers, but The Star was no Daily Planet, either. "Hi, Mr. Nichols," he said as he entered the editor's office. "What's up?" "Sales." Mike Nichols reached across his desk to shake Clark's hand. The editor was a dark, intense man in his late forties with a blue-collar sartorial sense, and he had already shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "What?" "I just got word that three stands are already sold out and a dozen more are getting low. I've had to order a second print run, Kent--thanks to your story." "Thank you, sir," Clark said faintly. His boss held the firm belief that competent writers didn't need attaboys to do their job, so his comment on Clark's story was high praise. "Miss Taylor gave me a good interview." "And you backed it up with solid research and wrote one hell of a story. Now, what are you working on next?" "A follow-up, but not just a report on what the police are doing. I'd like to investigate how a sex slave ring could get started here in Metropolis, what conditions make it profitable--that sort of thing." The editor considered for a moment. "That isn't just the work of a day or two, Kent. I can't spare you for as long as it would take, but you can work on it when you're done with your other assignments." Clark nodded. He hadn't really expected anything else. "So, what d'you have for me today? "Find out what the police are doing with this sex slave ring. Then I want you to report on that literacy fund-raiser tonight." "Literacy . . . ?" "Yes, the bash that Mrs. Luthor's hosting for her pet charity. And I want an interview with her to go with the story." Clark swallowed. "You want me to interview . . . *her*?" "C'mon, Kent, her husband may be the richest, most powerful man in Metropolis, but she can't eat you." Nichols waved him away. "Get after it." Clark turned to leave, then hesitated at the door. He looked back, but his editor waved him away again, and he reluctantly headed into the newsroom. It wasn't her husband or social position that troubled him. How could he tell his boss that he was embarrassed to display his skills as a journalist to the woman who was his idol? *************** Even at breakfast, Lex Luthor looked like he'd stepped off the cover of GQ. As he wiped his mouth on the linen napkin and stood up, he appeared ready to chair a board meeting, which, in fact, he was scheduled to do in an hour. "Chef Andre surpassed himself this morning," he noted. "Mrs. Cox, remind me to increase his salary." The beautiful black woman dipped her head in a gesture that seemed more regal than dutiful. "Yes, Lex." He turned to the woman who sat on his other side. "Are you going to work today, my dear?" Lois took a sip of rich, full-flavored coffee and felt a sudden nostalgia for the strong, black brew that they had consumed by the gallon at The Planet. "No," she said at last. "My assistant can handle anything that comes up." Somehow, after her wedding to Lex, she had been promoted to some kind of producer, and she no longer wrote or researched stories. She didn't even assign stories to other reporters or head up story meetings like Perry used to. People occasionally dropped by to ask her opinion about one story or another, but that was it. She had never felt so useless. After the destruction of The Daily Planet three months ago, her world had collapsed. Lex had been there to pick up the pieces, but in the debacle, Lois Lane, world-class investigative reporter, had vanished and never come back. She swirled her coffee, staring into the tiny vortex as if it could tell her where Lois Lane had gone, and shook her head. "I won't be going to work," she repeated. Lex studied her through narrowed eyes, then said briskly, "Very well. Mrs. Cox and I have some reports to go over before the board meeting. I'll see you this evening at dinner." Without looking up, Lois raised her hand in a half-hearted wave. "Bye, Lex." The door closed behind them, and she picked up the paper, glancing down at the lurid headline: "I am a fugitive from a sex slave ring." Her mouth twisted. Perry never would have let a headline like that go out on his paper, but The Star had always been more sensational than The Planet. Three paragraphs into the story, she had changed her mind, and she looked back at the by-line. Clark Kent. She didn't recognize the name, but whoever he was, he was no tabloid hack. Returning to the story, she lost herself in the narrative, following the terrifying ordeal of Melissa Taylor, a college coed who was kidnapped on her way to a night class and found herself drugged and forced into prostitution as a sex slave. Without sensationalizing his subject, this Clark Kent brought the girl to life, and by drawing his readers into her story, he made a stronger statement against the horrors of forced prostitution than a dozen editorials or sermons could have done. Lois set the paper down. This was what she'd dedicated her life to: attacking crime and corruption in this world by exposing it to the blinding light of public scrutiny. But now, after ten weeks of marriage, she was little more than a society matron, enhancing her husband's prestige by showing up at fund-raisers for worthy causes. The phone rang as she sipped her coffee, and she started, spilling coffee on the article. She gently blotted the coffee stain with her napkin and reached for the phone with the other hand. "Hello." "Hello, Mrs. Luthor? This is Clark Kent with The--" "--The Metropolis Star," Lois interrupted. "Yes, I know." He had a light, pleasantly masculine voice. "You wrote a terrific story for today's Star." There was a brief pause; then he said, "Thank you." He cleared his throat. "That means a lot, coming from you." "Lex Luthor's wife?" she asked, with a hint of bitterness. "No. Lois Lane." Oh god. Her eyes flooded, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth to stop her tears. "Thank you," she whispered, then took a deep breath and held it for a moment to get herself under control. "How can I help you, Mr. Kent?" "I'll be covering your Team Literacy fund-raiser this evening, and I'd like to interview you. . . ." He hesitated and added, "If you don't mind." If she didn't mind? A reporter needed to lose that kind of deference in a hurry. "I won't have time today, but I'm sure I can find some time at the fund-raiser tonight." "I'll see you there," he said, his voice cheerful. His pleasure was contagious, and she smiled and asked, "How will I know you?" She could almost hear his answering smile over the phone line. "I'll know you." *************** Mrs. Cox tossed down a copy of The Metropolis Star on Lex's desk, one long, lacquered nail pressing into the newsprint under Clark Kent's name. "What do you want to do about this?" Lex glanced down at the headline then blew a contemptuous smoke ring. "Nigel can tell Jameson to put the operation on hold until the noise dies down. Don't worry about Kent. He's no Lois Lane, and The Star's no Daily Planet." "Speaking of which . . ." She flipped rapidly through the papers in the folder she was holding. "The insurance on The Daily Planet finally paid off." She handed him a computer print-out. His mouth curved with satisfaction, and he took a long drag on his cigar. "Seventy-five million. That was one of my more profitable ventures." "Even after . . . expenses, you netted over fifty million from the demise of The Daily Planet." Mrs. Cox sounded as sleek as a cream-fed cat. "And removed an investigative thorn from my side and won Lois's hand in marriage in the bargain," Lex added. "Another trophy for your collection." He smiled, a cold smile that any normal person would have found terrifying. "I enjoy possessing rare, exotic objects." His hand slid up her mini-skirted thigh and curved around her hip. "Mmmm, Lex," she murmured. *************** Lois silently closed the door between their rooms and Lex's office and leaned her forehead against the hand-rubbed teak. After Clark Kent's call, she had gone to the office to tell Lex that she would be out for dinner--and that she was going to work after all. But Lex's mention of her name and The Daily Planet had stopped her in mid-knock, and she had cracked the door open to hear better. The same investigative skills that had driven her to listen at the door now moved her back to the small office Lex had set up for her, where he couldn't suspect she'd been eavesdropping. She felt numb, turning over the implications of that short conversation as she passed through the elegantly appointed rooms she shared with Lex. Surely he wasn't--but he *was*. He hadn't; he couldn't--yet he *had*. Everything she most loved in the world had been destroyed, and he had engineered it. Her stomach rolled, and she hurried past her office and fled to the bathroom, where she promptly lost her breakfast. *************** A quick call to Inspector Henderson had given Clark the facts he needed for his story on the sex-slave-ring investigation, and he called the mayor, a couple of city council members, and Melissa Taylor's family to see if they had any statements to make on the investigation. Quotes and facts in hand, he turned to his computer . . . and hesitated. Even after his other calls, Mrs. Luthor's voice still rang in his ears, reminding him of the curious sense of connection he had felt during their conversation, as if they knew each other, and he gave in to an irresistible impulse. Opening his web browser, he clicked on a bookmark and watched as the photo of a beautiful, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman filled the screen. His eyes traced the shape of her lips and eyes, the curve of her cheek and throat. Oh, yes, he would certainly know her when he saw her tonight. Tonight. He minimized the screen and, opening his word-processing program, began to turn his notes into a coherent article. *************** Cleaned up, makeup refreshed, and dressed in a dark suit for work, Lois breezed into Mrs. Cox's office, tripping the light in Lex's office that alerted him to visitors. His tall, elegant personal assistant stepped out of his office and surreptitiously straightened her skirt when she saw who was there. Lois kept her face expressionless, but she hadn't missed the woman's signal, and she wondered if this was how her mother felt when she found out about Mrs. Belcanto. Pasting a condescending smile on her face, she said, "Is Lex still in?" Mrs. Cox nodded and stood aside, her arm extended as if she were granting a favor by giving Lois access to her husband's sanctum. Lois brushed past the tall woman. "Lex, you're still here. I'm glad I caught you." Lex turned from the sliding glass door that overlooked Metropolis, straightening the collar and lapels of his suit coat. "Ah, Lois," he said, coming forward to meet her. "What did you need?" Kissing past his cheek, Lois avoided actual contact. "I forgot to tell you that I won't be home for dinner tonight. I have that literacy fund-raiser this evening, and they'll be serving dinner there." "You're leaving me to Chef Andre's tender mercies? Well, if I'm batching it, this might be a good evening to visit my club," he said, smiling as he spoke. Try as she might, she couldn't see any deception in him, any sign of a cheating spouse, any consciousness of guilt, anything but a husband's gentle teasing of his wife. It was incredible; it was impossible, but maybe he didn't think he was doing anything wrong. "Perhaps we can manage lunch," he suggested. "I'm not sure when I can get away, though. I could give you a call." "That might be difficult. I've decided to go to work after all, so I'm not sure when I'll be free, either." Something flashed in his brown eyes. "Another time, then. Oh, by the way, the Beth Chrysler Center sent me the bill for your mother's care," he said casually. The non sequitur confused her. Her mother had overcome her alcoholism years before, but she had relapsed just after Lois and Lex's wedding, and she was now recovering at the Beth Chrysler Center in California--at Lex's expense. Lois turned her head and glimpsed Mrs. Cox, an interested spectator. What did he want? Thanks? Feeling like the words would choke her, she managed, "Thank you for paying for her treatment, Lex. Mother asked me to thank you for your kindness the last time I called her." Then she swept out of the office, wondering if she'd just imagined the veiled threat in his comment, the ugly reminder that he was paying the bills and could stop paying them if he chose. *************** Since his story was already turned in, Clark was nominated to get donuts for the rest of the staff. He strolled down the street, enjoying the sunshine, two full sacks of donuts held easily in his right hand. As was his custom, he was people-watching, imagining stories for the interesting faces he passed, when the sharp crack of pistol-fire disturbed the quiet morning. Half a block ahead of him, two women screamed, and people in the crowd began to shove, trying to get away from the gunfire. Clark stood like a boulder in the river of people flooding past him. He lowered his glasses and scanned the store fronts down the block--and saw one person slumped against a wall, holding a hand to his crimson arm, while a man with a nylon stocking pulled over his head waved a pistol threateningly at what appeared to be the owner of a sporting goods store. Forcing his way down the street against the flow of people, Clark wished he could openly use his powers and just fly to the store and stop the robbery that was taking place. But he had no desire to lose his private life and find himself caged in a government research lab, being studied or, as his dad always feared, dissected like a frog, so he tried to be discreet when he helped people. But it made rescues difficult, and people that he could have helped got hurt. Monitoring the scene of the robbery over the top of his glasses, he saw the gunman draw down on the store owner, and Clark began to run, dodging through the crowd with the agility of a professional running back. With a burst of faster than human speed, he reached the door just as he heard the crack of another shot. "No!" he howled, stricken by the result of his fear of revealing himself, and the gunman jerked around, loosing another shot that blew out the front window. Clark lowered his head and dove at the robber in a flying tackle that would have made his college football coach proud. The thug crumpled, hitting his head as they landed on the floor, and lay there, dazed. Clark firmly gripped both the gunman's hands while he looked for some way to secure him. A teenage girl held out a package of rope, and he gratefully took it and tied the man's hands, wryly thinking that this probably wasn't what his scoutmaster back in Smallville had had in mind when he taught him to tie knots. He stood up. A scan of the two gunshot victims told him their wounds weren't dangerous if they got immediate medical care. "Has anyone called 911?" *************** When Lois showed up at LNN that morning, her assistant had expressed surprise at her appearance--in point of fact, the girl's mouth had dropped open, and she had gasped, "What are *you* doing here?" "Research for a story," Lois answered, unlocking her office door. She turned back to face her flabbergasted assistant. "And I don't want to be disturbed," she added, shutting the door in the girl's face. That had been two hours ago. In the meantime, her assistant--what *was* her name, anyway? Tiffany something?--was probably telling everyone at LNN what a bitch Lois Luthor was, but she didn't care. She'd never had the knack for making friends with her co-workers, and since Perry White had retired after Lex bought The Planet and Jimmy had vanished into the limbo of a new job somewhere, no one was left whose opinion she cared about. Besides, LNN was Lex's channel, and right now, she didn't have very warm feelings toward anything associated with Lex Luthor. However, the LNN computer network gave Lois access to records that she couldn't have hacked into with her little laptop, and there was a certain justice in using Lex's own tools to bring him down. She had confirmed Lex's purchase of additional insurance on The Daily Planet before the bombing, which not only provided full replacement coverage but also contained a clause covering terrorist attacks and acts of God like floods and lightning strikes. Not exactly what he'd told her when she asked him about insurance before they were married: And then he had comforted her when she cried over the loss of the paper that had been more than a job to her--it had been home and family and her personal source of validation. Lois was crying again, whispering, "Bastard, bastard," as she methodically tore up every picture of Lex in her office. Scrubbing the tears from her eyes, she sat down to her computer again, this time looking for the evidence to nail him for the bombing. *************** The staff at The Star never did get their donuts, but Mike Nichols was delighted with Clark's eyewitness account of the thwarted robbery and double shooting. He sent the young man home for the rest of the afternoon, which was how Clark happened to be at his apartment at two in the afternoon, cruising websites that mentioned Lois Lane or Lois Luthor. He had already downloaded the files on her from The Star and read through them at superspeed, and checking the Web was the last stage of his research. If he was going to interview the most famous print journalist since Woodward and Bernstein, he wasn't going to waste her time by asking questions she had answered before. As he waited for a graphics-intensive site to come up, he studied her photo, trying to imagine what made a woman at the top of her field give up her career for marriage. It was such a traditional, world-well-lost-for-love sort of choice, but it left Clark dissatisfied. Maybe he was an idealist, but he thought marriage was supposed to let each partner give everything they were to the other, not take away from each other. Besides, Lois Lane just didn't seem like a traditional-marriage kind of woman. He looked at her picture again. She also didn't seem like the kind of woman to marry for money, but he couldn't find any pictures or quotes that indicated that she was passionately in love with Lex Luthor, either. He shook his head. *************** Lois was inserting the last pins in her upswept hairdo when Lex walked into their enormous bedroom. "You'll eclipse them all tonight, my dear," he said, and she jerked around at the sound of his voice, her pulse leaping like a startled deer. He strolled toward her and flicked a careless finger through the tendrils of hair hanging down by her ears. "You wore your hair this way the night we met," he said. She nodded, her throat constricted. He always noticed those little things that mattered to a woman. It was part of his charm, part of what had drawn her to him: that he had given her the compliments and attention that her childhood had left her starved for. "At the White Orchid Ball." He dipped his head to nuzzle the side of her neck. "You were almost as beautiful then as you are tonight." Lois met his intense gaze in the mirror, prudently suppressing the memory of what she'd learned today. "Thank you," she whispered. His hands were at her throat, caressing yet disquieting, even vaguely threatening. "But this dress needs something more," he said, and reaching into his suit pocket, he pulled out a necklace and fastened it around her neck. Sapphires surrounded by diamonds, forming a string of blossoms in a choker that probably cost him a quarter of a million dollars. Lois didn't need to fake a reaction. "Oh, Lex, it's beautiful!" she gasped, reaching one hesitant hand to touch the exquisite piece of jewelry. While he was watching her so closely, she tried to ignore the soft voice that whispered, "Thank you, sweetheart. What's the occasion?" "No occasion. Since I wasn't with you, I wanted to give you something to take in my stead." The choker suddenly felt like a chain around her neck. Lex had always made such extravagant remarks, and she had taken them as compliments, an expression of his feelings for her. Yet now she seemed to hear a suggestion of distrust in his words. Lois raised her gaze back to his and saw that he had felt something, seen something in her expression, perhaps. She hurried to cover her lapse. "You don't think it might be too much . . . for a charity fund-raiser?" He smiled with satisfaction. "My dear, that bit of rock and metal doesn't speak half as loudly as this one does." He raised her left hand and kissed the finger below her wedding set. He didn't suspect anything. She relaxed and smiled more naturally. "I know. It's just--I'm still not used to . . ." She waved her other hand to indicate the bedroom, the penthouse, all of Lex's empire. "Are you nervous about tonight? I could go with you for moral support." She camouflaged her involuntary shudder by laughing lightly. "And then I'd be so worried about performing well in your eyes that I'd be a complete wreck." Judging by his smile as he stepped away, he only got the message that his opinion mattered more to her than anyone else's. He didn't hear the other side: that she didn't trust him to support her if she wasn't perfect. And why should he have heard it? *She* hadn't even been aware of the ugly subtext to their relationship until today. *************** Finding a tuxedo at such short notice was difficult. Finding one that would fit a lean-waisted but well-muscled frame was almost impossible. But a kind fairy godmother must have been watching out for Clark Kent because the third shop he called had a plain black tux in just his size. Standing behind the crowd of Metropolis's upper crust, Clark diligently took notes on who was attending. But he forgot everything else when he saw Lois Lane--Luthor, he reminded himself, Lois *Luthor*--enter the room and move from one group to another, welcoming her guests and thanking them for showing up to support the Team Literacy project. She was beautiful and elegant and gracious, and he found himself floating slightly. He eased his feet back onto the floor and slid a finger inside his collar as if his bow tie had suddenly becometoo tight, cutting off his breath--an experience he had never had, but it seemed to describe the sensation that overtook him. He read himself a stern lecture on the necessity of professionalism and the foolishness of an infatuation with a celebrity--especially a *married* celebrity. Feeling virtuous and back in control, he watched Lois take her seat at the head table, when she suddenly looked up and caught his eye . . . and he promptly melted. As the servers took meals around to the guests, Clark resigned himself to endure the tantalizing odors since, at $1000 a plate, neither he nor The Star could afford to pay for dinner. He shoved his hands in his pockets and, leaning against the wall, settled down to watch the great and near great of Metropolis enjoy the evening's entertainment. "Excuse me, sir." Startled, Clark looked up to see the maitre d' and began to fumble for his press card. "I'm not a gate crasher; I'm with The Star--" "No, that's all right, sir. I'm here to show you to your table." He froze in mid-explanation. "I'm-- Sorry?" "Mrs. Luthor asked that you join her other guests for dinner." "But I'm not--" "Please." The maitre d' indicated that Clark should follow him to a table with an empty chair. Puzzled, the reporter looked across the room to the head table--and again met Lois's gaze. But this time, she smiled faintly and nodded, and he shrugged, adjusted his glasses, then smiled in response and followed the maitre d' to one of the tables. *************** ". . . your support for Team Literacy, even when it means paying $1000 for a $25 meal and the privilege of listening to a speech on literacy that is only slightly less painful than having a root canal. . . ." Amidst the chuckles from the 250 attendees, Clark raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had expected her speech to be well-written: a reporter didn't receive a Kerth award, much less three of them, if she couldn't write. He *hadn't* expected her to be a poised and confident speaker with a delightfully dry sense of humor. ". . . can't be successful business people without understanding that prevention is more cost-effective than . . ." And yet . . . there was no fire in her. The articles of hers that he'd read were passionate and vivid and had awakened something in him--a longing, a hunger for something he'd never known, something he'd thought was beyond his reach, something he'd hoped to find in Lois Lane. But Lois Lane wasn't at the Team Literacy fund-raiser; Lois Luthor was. And she was beautiful and poised and elegant and . . . cool. Disappointment gripped his throat. What had happened to the Kerth-winning reporter who flung herself into her stories as if each one was the piece that would finally make the world the better place she demanded it be? The passion he'd expected was completely damped. No, not completely. It surfaced for an instant when she told the story of one of the women helped by Team Literacy providers. ". . . struggled to support three children with a minimum-wage job. Her child-care costs ate up almost everything she made, and some months she had to choose between feeding her children and making her rent payment. She could have given up and gone back on Welfare . . ." In that instant, Clark saw that he was right: an intensely passionate woman hid beneath that sleek, gracious facade. But something had nearly squashed it out of her. Marriage? She finished her speech with an invitation to her guests to take advantage of the dance floor and band and again thanked them for coming to support Team Literacy. As people got up from their tables and drifted toward the ballroom next door, Clark approached Lois. "Mrs. Luthor?" he asked. She glanced at him over her shoulder. Her gaze caught his, lingered, and she smiled, a slow, sultry smile that made his heart thud heavily. "I'll be with you in just a moment, Mr. Kent." Then she turned back to the person she had been speaking with. She knew his name? He took a slow, deep breath, trying to get his pulse and breathing back to normal and recall the first of the questions he intended to ask her. As she turned to face him, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "Did you enjoy the dinner?" she asked. Somehow, they were walking toward the ballroom, and Clark was too bemused to notice. "Yes, I did, thank you. But--" "--why did I pay for a reporter's dinner? How did I know who you were?" she asked, her dark eyes sparkling. "Yes. To both questions." She shrugged, the movement drawing his attention to her slim shoulders, bare above the off-the-shoulder straps of her dress, and a flush of heat rushed through him. "Research is the lifeblood of investigative reporting," she said. Her teeth briefly caught her lower lip. "And," she continued, "I've covered my share of dinner functions like this--and listened to my stomach rumble too many times." "Thank you," he said softly. They passed through a doorway, the light dimming abruptly, and Clark finally realized that she had taken him into the ballroom. "I thought you were going to give me an interview," he said. Her smile was impish, and his heart lurched again. "Oh, I am. But I feel like dancing first." She hesitated. "You do know how to dance, don't you?" Clark slid one arm around her waist and took her hand in a gentle clasp as the strains of a waltz drifted across the room. He swept her onto the floor, guiding her with a smooth confidence that raised her eyebrows in surprise. Smiling down at her, he said, "I learned ballroom dancing from a Nigerian princess." "A princess? How did you meet a princess? And where?" She hurled questions at him like a pitcher throwing fastballs. His smile became reminiscent. "In London. I was baby-sitting her while her parents attended the embassy ball, and she decided I would be an acceptable escort for our own private ball." Lois laughed. "But you couldn't dance then?" "Not the waltz or tango." "She must have been a good teacher." He bowed his head, acknowledging her indirect compliment. "She was. She stood on my feet and chanted the beat for me and scolded me when I misstepped." "It sounds like she knew what she wanted and went after it." Her great dark eyes were fringed with impossibly long lashes. He swallowed and blindly guided her around the floor. "Yeah. The same attitude that made Lois Lane the best reporter in the business." At his comment, she looked down, but he glimpsed something--regret?--before she lowered her eyes. The music faded into silence, and he reluctantly released her from his embrace. "May I have that interview now?" he asked. Lois shook her head and laughed briefly, without amusement. "I can't tell you how odd that sounds. I'm still not used to being on the receiving end of media attention." But she started back toward the dining hall, apparently confident that he would follow. "Then why did you give it up?" he asked. "Why aren't you still on the front lines competing for stories?" She turned back and gave him a searching look. "On the phone this morning, I thought you were too soft. But now I'm not so sure." "Well?" "Let's wait until we're someplace more private." *************** They sat at a corner table in the dining hall, and a server brought Lois another glass of wine. "Do you want something?" she asked Clark. "Sparkling water with lime." When the server left, she said, "Wise man," and took a long swallow of her wine. The alcohol heated her stomach, joining the glass she'd had with dinner and the one she'd had before leaving the penthouse. "Mrs. Luthor--" he began. She interrupted him. "Lois. I've only been married a couple of months, and I have a hard time answering to 'Mrs.' anything." And after what she'd learned today, just the sound of "Mrs. Luthor" made her sick. Of course, three glasses of wine on top of two bites of lettuce and a saltine cracker might have the same effect. Not a wise move before an interview. "Lois," he said, his voice soft, almost reverent. That gentle tone yanked her gaze back to his. He had the kindest eyes she'd ever seen, she thought, to the absolute disgust of her inner voice. She shook her head as if she were trying to wake up and focused on the tortoise-shell frame of his glasses so she didn't look directly into his eyes. "Yes?" Taking a deep breath, he asked, "How could you bear to give it up? You're a three-time Kerth winner, one of the most esteemed reporters in the country--" "One of?" she interrupted, with a burst of her old spirit. His devastating grin flashed, then disappeared as he continued, "--and you gave it up when you married Lex Luthor. Did you really count the world well lost for love?" "I guess it looks that way," she said, straightening her wedding set with her right hand, "but that isn't what happened. I don't know if you were here when The Planet blew up--?" "I arrived in Metropolis the day after the bombing." She studied him for a moment. "Did you plan to apply for a job at The Planet?" "Yeah. It was the sort of paper I'd always wanted to work for." He smiled faintly. "You know," he said, "I think you're interviewing me instead of the other way around." Her smile twisted slightly. "Old habits die hard." He cleared his throat. "Sounds like you miss it." "I do," she said, then cursed her openness. What was she doing, giving a reporter honest, unguarded answers? "You were saying something about the Daily Planet bombing?" he prompted. "Oh . . . yes. Lex had bought The Planet just before that and he chose not to rebuild . . . because it was 'pitifully underinsured' and he had 'a duty to the stockholders.'" She heard the sarcasm in her voice, so she hurriedly added, "Everyone was so lost. Perry White retired, and I went to work for LNN. . . ." "Why didn't you go to another paper? Any newspaper in the country would have been delighted to have you." "Because there wasn't another paper in Metropolis like The Daily Planet." "Metropolis isn't the only city in the world." "I know." Her answering expression was rueful. "But Lex had just asked me to marry him, and I didn't want to leave before that was settled. And then I told him 'yes', and Metropolis was the headquarters for LexCorp, so . . ." She shrugged. "Okay, so you went to work for LNN. Why aren't you turning out the kind of stories for them that made you a star at The Planet?" That was harder to answer . . . at least without revealing her own stupidity or the way Lex manipulated her: she had finally figured out that he was behind her promotion to producer. And that certainly wasn't a story she wanted in The Star. She temporized. "Mr. Kent--" "Clark," he interrupted. She nodded. "Clark. When I first joined LNN, I was in the midst of planning a huge wedding--as well as trying to figure out how TV journalism worked. And after Lex and I got married, we went on a month-long honeymoon. We've only been back about six weeks." "How long had you been at The Daily Planet before you had a scoop?" And she'd thought he was too soft to ask the tough questions. "I was a reporter at The Planet. At LNN, I'm a producer--which is more like an editor than a reporter--so I don't *do* stories any more." "What a waste of material," he muttered. "Well . . ." She shrugged. "That's something I want to change." Then she realized what she'd said, and she reached across the table to touch his hand. "Please don't print that, Clark." At his puzzled frown, she added, "About me wanting to change my position, I mean. I haven't mentioned it to Lex, and I don't want him to find out by reading it in the paper." His gaze softened tenderly. "Lois, I wouldn't write anything to hurt you." What was it about him that made her want to believe him? She was losing herself in those gentle eyes again, and her inner voice whipped back into action. She sat back up and tried to change the subject. "So, what else did you want to know?" He sighed and glanced down at his notebook. "Why do you support literacy?" Then he gave her a crooked grin and continued, "And if you tell me it's a worthy cause, I'm outta here. The world is full of worthy causes. Why does this one speak to you?" Damn, he was good. An appreciative smile played around her mouth, and she settled back in her chair as she began to answer him. *************** The streets between his apartment and the Wyatt-Viceroy Hotel were dark and frequented by gangs, and there were plenty of blind, windowless alleys along the way. Clark Kent walked a couple of blocks before he ducked into one of those alleys, where he shed his ordinary, Earth-bound persona and soared into the night. Executing a smooth barrel roll far above the city lights, he grinned as he leveled out, picturing the incongruity of a flying man in a tuxedo. It didn't matter. He arced through the sky like an otter playing in a lake, one fist thrust ahead of him, then both, then both arms at his side as he rocketed toward the edge of the atmosphere fifty miles above the city, where the stars shone clear and steady. Laughing soundlessly, he held his arms out to embrace the distant specks of light, then flipped over backwards, somersaulting and twisting in a dive that would have won him a gold medal in any Olympic competition. Tonight he had met Lois Lane and danced with her and gotten the material for a good story. And after he finished the interview, they sat and chatted like friends and danced again before her duties as hostess took her away. When his jacket began to smell hot, Clark slowed his earthward plunge, but that didn't damp the joy welling inside him. In all his travels, among all the women he had met, he had never experienced this feeling before, this instant connection, this sense of familiarity so strong that he nearly asked her where he knew her from. It wasn't even that they had the same personality . . . and yet--somehow--she matched him. They were, he thought, like two pieces of a puzzle, stamped with parts of the same picture, but made to be complements that fit together perfectly. God, he was sappy, but tonight he didn't care. Tonight, he would just enjoy the exhilaration of having met . . . his soulmate. Tomorrow was soon enough to be sober and cautious--tomorrow, when he would have to remember that she wasn't Lois Lane but Lois Luthor and that he couldn't do anything that might break up her marriage. Tomorrow, he would stuff his feelings into a tiny corner of his heart and lock them away. He would be the friend to Lois that she needed, that she'd told him she wanted, and he would forget his dreams. But tonight, Clark didn't care. He had caught a glimpse of how it could have been between them, and he imagined himself with her: partner, lover, husband. He rolled onto his back, floating effortlessly in the darkness, out of the air traffic lanes, above the lights of the city and the flight paths of the news and medical helicopters. She would like it up here, he thought, imagining her laughter as they made up new constellations and told each other silly stories about each one. Putting his hands behind his head, he sighed heavily. Maybe there was something to that "world well lost for love" idea after all. *************** The enormous apartment felt stifling, and the city lights beyond the penthouse beckoned her irresistibly, so Lois stepped onto the balcony and, leaning against the half-wall, took another sip of her wine. The highest point in the city, Lex had boasted, reveling in the fact that everyone else had to look *up* to him. But for her, its value lay in the view, that she could see the whole city and imagine herself ferreting out the secrets that lay out there. From this high point, she was invisible and all-seeing--perfect attributes for a journalist who wanted to discover everything worth knowing. She turned away from the wall, ignoring the dust on her evening gown. A journalist. Ha! For a moment, she toyed with the idea of going to The Star for a job, being a working journalist again--even if it was for a newspaper she'd once characterized as fit only for fishwrap. But Clark worked there, and--no doubt of it--he was a real journalist. Maybe between the two of them, they could drag the paper's standards up to the level that The Planet had enjoyed. Yeah. She could already hear Lex's voice, see the roadblocks he'd put in her path: 'But it would take you away from me so much. What would happen with those important dinner meetings if you were off writing up a story or meeting with a source? I remember what a workaholic you were, Lois. Do you really think that a return to that sort of position and pressure is in our best interests? Think about it.' And that would be the first, low-key response. After what she'd learned today, she knew that other things would happen. Her cell phone would suddenly have dead batteries; her Jeep would suffer some mysterious mechanical breakdown when she needed to meet a source, and Lex's ten other vehicles would be in the shop for periodic maintenance; files would vanish from her computer, or the hard drive would inexplicably crash; phone messages would disappear, the answering machine carefully edited to hide the erasure: a thousand and one irritants that would make it harder and harder for her to do her job. And face it: if that didn't stop her, if she kept working, the mysterious accidents might escalate. A man who could order the bombing of a newspaper--just to collect the insurance and maneuver a woman he wanted into marrying him--was capable of anything. Lois closed her eyes. She had written articles on this kind of abuse; she knew the warning signs of controlling men and what they did to the women in their lives. And she had walked into this situation anyway. She, The Daily Planet's star investigative reporter, had not only married an extremely controlling man, but one who, for all she knew, was a career criminal. Oh God. She tipped her head back, recklessly draining her wineglass. The choker Lex had put around her neck lay heavily against her throat, and she grabbed it, intending to yank it off her neck. But that was stupid--unless she intended to alert him to the change in her feelings. The wine might be buzzing in her head, but she wasn't *that* crazy. Instead, she carefully unhooked the clasp and set the jewelry on the nearest flat surface, the balcony wall. She stared at the glittering bauble. It wasn't even like she had loved Lex and gladly given everything up to be with him. He had paid her compliments, made her feel like she mattered to someone, treated her like she was special. It was incredibly flattering to attract the attention of one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, and after her previous disastrous relationships, it had been so nice to feel like a success instead of a failure. None of which was reason enough to marry him. She could still hear herself saying, when he proposed, 'But, Lex, I hardly know you.' She hadn't realized how true that was, how much he kept from her, how much she closed her eyes to. But he hadn't won; he hadn't convinced her that she was helpless and incompetent. Lex might have made her doubt herself, but once she saw him for what he was, she hadn't run away. She'd fought back, searching for evidence to hold him accountable for what he'd done. Lois sighed. Lex was such a depressing subject. Clark, on the other hand . . . On the phone and at the fund-raiser, Clark had seemed like such a gentle man, and she wondered if he were a fighter, too. Then she remembered his pointed questions and smiled. He was more like her than she'd thought. Still smiling, she sat on the edge, and her hand carelessly brushed against Lex's necklace, knocking it off the top of the half-wall. Instinctively, she lunged for it, her fingers brushing the cold metal as it fell. Then, with a terror that brought a cold sweat to her skin and sobered her completely, she realized that she had reached too far and lost her balance. Slowly, slowly, asif time itself had stumbled to a crawl, she felt herself tipping over the edge of the wall. She flung her arms toward the wall, grabbing desperately, but she had already slid too far over. "No-o-o-o!" she screamed--and fell. *************** Clark was drifting lazily in the night sky when he heard the terrified shriek. he thought, fear gripping his heart like a fist, and he rocketed in the direction of her cry. His vision cut through the distance, through the darkness, to see her plummeting earthward. In his head, a clock ticked off the seconds to impact, and he streaked toward her, straining for every ounce of speed he had. He hurtled recklessly toward the ground, his heart racing, terrified that he would be too late. Flattening his dive scant feet above the pavement, he stretched out, reaching . . . and caught her in his arms. He soared sharply upward. It was a moment before he realized that Lois was staring at him in shocked silence . . . and another moment before he realized that he had completely given himself away. He changed his mind and turned from the penthouse atop the LexCorp tower, toward his own small apartment. *************** "Good evening, Mr. Luthor." The middle-aged doorman touched the bill of his cap in an abbreviated salute. "Good evening, Carlton," Lex said automatically, heading for the express elevator to the penthouse. "Mrs. Luthor got back about half an hour ago," Carlton continued. "She sure looked nice in that fancy dress." Lex nodded. "She is a beautiful woman." Nigel had let him know when she left the Wyatt-Viceroy and when she arrived at the LexCorp tower, but it was always good to have the confirmation. As he stepped into the elevator, he wondered if Lois was aware of the constant surveillance she was under, but he decided not. She might not be as independent and feisty as she had been when they married, but he was certain that *that* would have triggered an explosion. Ah, well, he was a firm believer in "need to know" and "what they don't know won't hurt him." Smirking at his pun, he tapped in his private code and watched his mirrored reflection as the elevator doors closed. *************** "What are you?" Lois whispered. Her arms still clung to Clark's neck, and she was soft and warm in his arms, but her muscles were tense, and she held herself stiffly away from him. Very different from the yielding woman he had held in his arms on the dance floor earlier. His heart ached at the change in her attitude toward him, and it took him two tries before he could answer her. "A-a friend . . . I hope," he said at last. She bit her lower lip and swallowed, but her voice still came out as a whisper. "Y-you're flying . . . without a hang-glider or even flapping your arms." A brief, unamused smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "It was a surprise to me the first time it happened, too." He turned his head to look at her, her face just inches from his. "Can we wait to talk about this until we get to my place?" "Y-your place?" "My apartment," he said. "You have an . . . ?" "Apartment? Yeah, and a job, too." Silence stretched between them, which Clark finally broke to say, "Are you okay?" She stiffened. "What do you mean?" "Did I hurt you when I grabbed you? I mean . . . I didn't have a lot of time for finesse." "No, I--" She relaxed slightly against his supporting arm and studied his face. "I'm fine. Thank you," she added. The prim courtesy brought a faint smile to his face, and he swung his gaze from the cityscape ahead of them to meet her curious eyes. "You're welcome." He dropped out of the night onto a dark balcony facing an otherwise featureless alley and gently set her on her feet. Lois tugged her bodice up from the marginally legal position it had slipped to when she fell, adjusted her straps, and smoothed her skirt down to cover her legs as Clark felt in his trouser pocket for his keys. When he opened the door and flipped on the light in the mud room, he turned back and gestured for her to step inside, but she balked. "Why are we here?" she asked. He sighed. "To talk. I figured you'd have some questions for me." She studied his face again while he tried to look as unthreatening as possible. "What if I said, 'take me home'?" "If that's what you want. Do you want me to call you a cab?" Her gaze was fixed on his face. "I could write this up--to get myself back into the business again." His throat moved painfully as he swallowed. "I hope you won't. I hope I can convince you otherwise, but . . . you do what you have to do." Lois relaxed suddenly and laughed. "Wreck your life and make a joke of mine when you disappear?" She shook her head. "I was right the first time. You're too soft for this business." She walked into the unprepossessing entry and turned back to look at where he stood, stunned, at the door. "Are you coming in or not?" *************** Lois paced in front of the couch, then stopped and looked at Clark, who was sitting on the sofa, bent forward with his forearms resting on his knees. He had taken off his jacket, bow tie, and cummerbund. "So you really don't know *what* you are: alien, Russian experiment, what?" He shook his head. "Mom and Dad told me they found me in a little spaceship." He tried to smile. "I guess that leaves out 'mutant.'" That stopped her for a second, and she considered, then resumed pacing. "I can't imagine a mutation bumping you that far up the evolutionary ladder, anyway." "That far--?" Her enthusiasm and excitement were probably scaring Clark . . . who looked as depressed as she had felt earlier. She let her hands drop to her sides, and she smiled faintly and stepped around the coffee table to sit beside him. "Up the evolutionary ladder," she repeated, taking one of his hands in hers. "You don't have any idea how . . . special, how wonderful you are, do you?" His chagrin was easy to read, and he protested, "Lois, don't--" "And I'm not talking about the flying or the speed or strength or--or invulnerability or any of your other powers. Although, those are . . . extraordinary," she said, coaxing him to smile. "But, look at yourself." At his quizzical glance, she added, "And I'm not talking about your looks, either . . . although . . ." She took a deep breath. This was not the time to get distracted by his enormously distracting appearance. In his white dress shirt and black tuxedo slacks and suspenders, with his sleeves rolled back and shirt collar open to reveal a strong throat and forearms, he was as sexy as any man she had ever seen. "Anyway," she hastily continued, "I mean, here you are: Clark Kent, journalist, world traveler, baby-sitter of princesses, rescuer of falling women . . ." He raised his head, a wry smile quirking his mouth, and Lois elbowed him in the side. "And that's 'falling women,' not fallen," she teased and when his grin widened with genuine amusement, she went on, "But you're an ordinary guy with a job and an apartment. And with your abilities, you could be *anything.* You could--literally--rule the world or be richer than Lex or be the best . . . the best football player in the NFL . . . or *anything.*" He shrugged. "I wouldn't wanna do any of that." "And that's what makes you so special. Clark, I don't know another man who wouldn't use powers like yours to his advantage." "Yeah, well . . ." He ducked his head in embarrassment. "I didn't pay any airfare when I was traveling." For a moment, she stared at him. She was talking about forcing people to his will--with his looks and powers, he could have any woman on the planet, willingly or otherwise--and he was worried that flying when he traveled the world was cheating somehow. "God, you are *such* a boy scout! But it's nice to know you've got some flaws. I was starting to think you were too good to be true." Puzzled, he half-laughed in that charming, self-deprecating way of his. "You've lost me." "Boy scouts have a bad habit of doing the right thing at exactly the wrong moment," she explained airily. "Which, you have to admit, is a serious character flaw." He leaned against the back of the couch, relaxing for the first time since he had swooped out of the darkness and given her back her life, the amused twinkle returning to his eyes. "Very serious," he agreed. "*Much* worse than being headstrong or impulsive," she added. He gave her his quick, incendiary smile, and she felt herself melting into a puddle inside. He had a beautiful face and a strong, graceful body and a sexual magnetism that was partly his incredible capableness and partly his sheer physical perfection, but it was the smile that got her every time. And she was married. She changed the subject. "Seriously, Clark, what *do* you do with your powers?" His grin had lingered. "You mean besides shower in three seconds or float in mid-air while I'm watching football?" Lois nodded faintly. He continued, "I try to help. There're so many people out there--" his outstretched arm seemed to include Metropolis, the United States, the whole planet-- "who need what I can do. Lives I could save . . . But I can't act openly, not like--" he inclined his head toward her-- "tonight . . . or people'll find out, and then--" "--and then you won't have a life of your own, and your family and friends will be in danger from every wacko who wants you to use your powers for his advantage." "Yeah." A wry, almost sad smile touched his mouth. "But I can't seem to stop myself. Sooner or later, I do something--help someone--and give myself away, and I have to move on." A thought occurred to her as he was speaking. "You--you aren't going to . . . move on now because *I* found out, are you?" He flashed her an unreadable glance and shook his head. "No . . . I'm staying." Another quick, sidelong glance. "Unless you decide to write up what happened tonight." Lois placed her hand against his solid shoulder. "Your secret's safe with me, Clark. Even if I thought the public had a right to know about you, I *know* it isn't in the public interest to drive you away from Metropolis." She smiled. "I think we need more boy scouts in this city." Until he relaxed at her words, she hadn't realized how tense he had been, how intently he had waited to hear her decision. "I just wish *I* could do more," he confessed. "Well . . ." She considered for a moment. "Maybe you should go undercover--like investigating a story." A reminiscent smile curved her mouth. "Like when I dressed as a man to get the story on a car-theft ring." Clark's gaze slipped down her body, and his eyebrows lifted above his glasses. "You? A man?" Smiling proudly, she described her transformation. "Mustache, hair shoved under a stocking cap, baggy clothes--" At his sideways glance at her decollete, she added, "--and a chest band, and voila! Instant man." He still looked skeptical, and she lifted her shoulders in a "so-sue-me" gesture. "Okay, so I changed my walk and my voice, too, but . . . people see what they expect to see. So . . ." She paused, her gaze sweeping down his body, then lifted her eyebrows expectantly. "You think I should get some kind of outfit? A disguise?" Lois nodded. "Something that you wear when you use your powers in public. Something people can associate just with this man who flies." His gaze grew distant; then he focused on her and smiled. "It might work." *************** "Then where is she?" Lex demanded, pacing toward the glass door behind his desk and spinning back to face his assistant. "Her shawl is on the bed, but she isn't in the penthouse, and no one saw her leave the building." Mrs. Cox shrugged. "Maybe she's wandering around one of the other 149 floors. Do you want security to conduct a search?" He hesitated--and frowned. "No. Have your team do it." Inclining her head, she said, "As you wish. We can complete a search within two hours." Lex dropped into his desk chair and tilted back, swiveling to look out over the city. "Get started." *************** "You nearly died for a piece of jewelry?" Clark asked incredulously. "I didn't think about it. I just . . . grabbed for it when it started falling." Lois shrugged, her expression almost sheepish. "I've always dived in without checking the water level." Despite her attempt to dismiss the experience, her eyes went dark, and she shuddered. "I'm just glad you were flying by." He saw nightmares behind those great, doe-like eyes, and he tentatively put his arms around her. "I heard your scream." She turned within his embrace, burying her face against his shoulder, shaking, her shoulders heaving with sobs she refused to voice. He tightened his arms and pressed his cheek against her soft hair as he rocked her and murmured reassurances. "Shh, shh, it's okay, Lois. . . . It's okay. . . . Relax. Relax. . . . I've got you, honey. You're not gonna fall." The endearment slipped out unthinkingly while he comforted her, but when she heard it, she began to cry in deep, wracking sobs. He started to pull away, afraid he had gone too far, but Lois clung to him, burrowing her head into the hollow between his shoulder and chest. She murmured his name with each ragged breath, and he gathered her closer, cradling her as if his arms could hold off whatever demons chased her tonight. Her weeping finally slowed and stopped, and sighing, shuddering breaths shook her for some time, but eventually she calmed down. When she spoke, she kept her face pressed against his chest, and Clark had to use his super hearing to distinguish her whisper. "Lex is the one who had The Daily Planet bombed." He froze, horrified, first thinking he must have misheard her and then realizing that he hadn't. Demons, indeed. "Are you sure?" Her head snapped up, and her glare told him he had insulted her. He let go of her and sat back, putting a little distance between them. "I found out after we spoke this morning," she said. "What're you gonna do?" "Do?" she echoed. Her dark eyes flashed with a rage that made Clark thankful it wasn't aimed at him. "When I can prove that he did it, I'm going to write a story that'll strip away that phony 'benefactor' facade of his and make sure he gets put someplace where he'll never hurt decent people again." "You're one of the ones he hurt," he whispered. She swallowed, and angry, mortified tears glazed her eyes. "He destroyed everything that mattered to me . . . cut me adrift from friends, work . . . and then presented himself as my savior. And when I was stupid enough to fall for it . . ." She closed her eyes, and a teardrop slid down her cheek. Clark brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek, tenderly wiping away the tear track, but another followed, and then another. Pain clenched his heart; he would have given anything to stop her tears. The muscles in his cheeks flexed as he clenched his teeth. "He hasn't--?" He broke off, recognizing that the question was too intimate for him to ask. "Hasn't . . . ? Hit me?" At his single nod, Lois shook her head. "He . . . prides himself on his control. It would shame him to lose it. But he doesn't have to. . . ." She bit her lip, her shame apparent at confessing to what she saw as her stupidity. "He outmaneuvers me. He puts me in situations where I feel foolish or incompetent. He . . . got me promoted." "And squeezed the fire and the--the passion out of you--and made you think it was your fault it was gone." Clark clenched his fists as if he were squeezing Luthor's neck. She tilted her head and studied him curiously. "How do you know?" "I saw it at the fund-raiser tonight. Lois Lane didn't give that speech. Lois Luthor did. A beautiful mannequin. Besides," he added, a little embarrassed at revealing how closely he'd watched her, "I've done a story on controlling men--and what they do to the people in their lives." "So have I." She took a deep breath. "I can't go back there--to the penthouse. Not tonight. I couldn't pretend . . . and he'd get suspicious. I can't risk that." She glanced around his apartment, anywhere except his still face. "I shouldn't be here, either. If he found out, I don't know what he'd do to you." "Lois." He waited until she looked at him, then locked his gaze with hers, trying to see beyond her surface emotions to what lay beneath. "Don't worry about me. He can't do anything to hurt me," Clark said. His certainty was a matter of faith rather than experience, but she didn't need to know that. "What would he do if he found out how much you know?" She started to shrug the question off, but his clear, honest gaze held her. "Punish me," she whispered. "I don't think he'd do anything that would show on the outside--nothing that would damage my looks. He values them too much. But . . ." She drew a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes focused on something he couldn't see. "You can't go back there," he said, appalled, using words to blank out the horrifying images her words conjured in his mind. "Not ever." Lois looked up, showing surprise at his vehemence. "I have to." "You can't do it. It's too dangerous." "Clark. I can't leave until I've got proof I can take to the police. If I move before that . . . *that's* what'll be dangerous. He'll find me and drag me back. . . . I can't face that," she admitted. "I can take you someplace safe. Someplace he can't find you." She studied him, her expression soft and wondering. "You can really do that, can't you? Take me someplace and not leave a trail for Lex to follow." She touched his cotton-clad shoulder. "Thank you, Clark . . . but that wouldn't help." "Why not?" "I don't want to live in hiding. And until Lex is behind bars, that's what I'd have to do." He started to protest, and she pressed her fingertips to his mouth, stopping him. "Besides, if I disappeared, I'm afraid he'd get suspicious and cover his tracks so well that he could *never* be convicted. And the Daily Planet bombing's the only thing I've got on him." She was right, and this was the choice that the Lois Lane he had longed to meet would make, but he wasn't any happier. That he couldn't help her, couldn't protect her, made him unhappier still. Playing the most dangerous double game of all, she would be hiding in plain sight inside the enemy's stronghold, always balanced on a knife-edge between discovery and victory. And, face it: beyond the fear for her that chilled him in a way that the most brutal winter could never do, part of him was sick at the thought that she would be 'sleeping with the enemy.' He had no business, no right . . . she wasn't his--might never be--but jealousy ate at him, and it took every bit of control he had not to ask how she was going to handle her husband's sexual demands. "Then what about tonight? What'll happen if you don't go back now?" She took a deep breath. "It'll be okay. I used to be a pretty good liar. I'll make something up--something to explain where I've been. But I can't go back tonight. I could hardly sit still when he put the necklace on me this evening. Right now, if he laid a hand on me, I'd probably scream." Lois rubbed her forehead. "I don't know why I'm telling you this." He sighed, and his body sagged in relief. "I hope it's because you feel safe with me." She looked at him curiously. "I do. For the first time . . ." *************** "Yes, sir, she had dinner at the head table, gave her talk, and then danced with . . ." Nigel St. John consulted his notes, the receiver cradled between the side of his face and his shoulder. ". . . with Clark Kent. A reporter for The Metropolis Star. Afterwards, they returned to the dining hall and spoke for nearly an hour." Lex bit down on his unlit cigar, then took it out of his mouth. His hand clenched on the phone receiver. "An hour? What did they talk about?" "No one was close enough to hear, but he was taking notes at least part of the time. I suspect he was interviewing her." "Find out. Visit this Kent and see what he knows of her plans for this evening." Nigel let a breath of sympathy appear in his voice. "Mrs. Cox's search proved fruitless?" The cigar snapped in half. "Not entirely," Lex said. "We know for certain that Lois is not in the building." "Indeed," Nigel said, surprised. He, above all, knew the degree of surveillance Lois Luthor was under. "I will contact you after I've . . . spoken . . . with Mr. Kent." *************** Lois stepped out of Clark's bathroom to find his bedroom empty, the covers turned down on the bed. She had changed into the oversized T-shirt and shorts he had lent her and was cinching up the shorts so they didn't hang off her hips. She had taken down her elegant hairdo, and her hair was a sleek, dark wing along her jaw. Hesitantly, she peeked around the corner into the living room. Clark, who had also changed into a T-shirt and shorts, was making the couch into a bed. She stepped out of the bedroom, hands clasped behind her back, trying to act nonchalant. He looked up as he tucked the sheet in--and froze. "Hi," she said, swiveling her upper body back and forth. The shirt and shorts covered her completely, but there was something extremely intimate about wearing a man's clothes, especially to bed. A stray thought crossed her mind: she had never worn any of Lex's clothes. "Hi," he answered slowly, his approving gaze sliding over the shapeless garments and pausing on her bare legs. He glanced back up at her freshly scrubbed face. "You look terrific, even without being dressed up." "Thanks." A little embarrassed by his admiration, she tipped her head down to look at the couch. "Is that for me?" "What?" Her question startled him, and he dragged his gaze from her face. "Oh, this? No. I'm gonna sleep here while you take the bed." "Clark, you can't do that," she protested. You're too tall and too . . . too . . ." She raised her hands and held them apart to indicate the width of his shoulders. ". . . big to sleep here." "Don't worry about it, Lois. I float half the time anyway, so it doesn't really matter where I sleep." "Float?" She half-smiled. "Could you . . . show me?" "Okay." He drifted up about three feet, then leaned over and stretched out like he was lying down on his side. Head propped up on one hand, he looked for all the world like a man reclining on a couch or bed. "Wow!" She stepped closer and ran an experimental hand through the air under and above him, just to confirm that he was really floating. He gave her a quizzical look. "What was that for?" "Just making sure that I wasn't drunk or crazy before." She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. "What does it feel like?" Clark held out his hand. "Here." She laid her hand in his . . . and suddenly the demands of gravity fell away. He gently tugged her up. "Lay down," he instructed. Hesitantly, afraid she would put a hand down and it would break through the air the way she had once broken through thin ice, she lay back, trying to imagine that she was floating in water. She moved stiffly, afraid of falling, afraid to trust this stranger with the gentle grip on her hand--and she collapsed in a v-sit. In the water, that would have plunged her under the surface, and she tensed automatically . . . but nothing happened. She continued to hover three feet off the floor in an awkward half-sit; Clark continued to hold her hand. He gently touched her shoulder with his other hand. "I've got you, Lois. Relax. You're not gonna fall. Just lean back." Trust me. He didn't say it, but she could hear it in every word, and she almost smiled at the irony. Look what happened the last time she trusted a man. 'Married to the Mob' had nothing on her. But she couldn't put Clark in the same category with Lex. Looking into those warm brown eyes, she felt that crazy connection again. Her body relaxed on its own, and she lay back, stretching out alongside Clark. His eyes danced with delight, like a little boy on Christmas morning. But he was obviously trying to hold it in, trying not to force his own response on her. "What d'you think?" he asked. Think? All she could do was feel. Lying next to him, wearing his clothes, his hands maintaining that reassuring contact . . . He had shared a secret, intimate part of himself with her, and she longed to snuggle closer in his arms and lay her head onhis chest and feel safe and treasured in a way no man had ever made her feel. And that was . . . Impossible. Abruptly, she straightened up and, letting go of his hand, dropped to the floor in an awkward sort of scramble. "Hey, what--? Are you okay?" he asked, righting himself and drifting down to the floor. "No--yes--sure. I'm fine. That was great. It was like scuba diving, but freer. No suit--" Oh God, that brought such an image to her mind, and she ruthlessly forced it into the back of her mind and babbled on-- "No air tanks and breathing mask. How do you do that? I mean, you weren't lifting me--it's like gravity just quit working. Like some kind of anti-gravity effect. Is that how you fly, too?" His expression shifted rapidly from disappointment to bemusement and then to laughter, and he stuck out his hand like a new acquaintance shaking hands. "Hi, I'm Clark Kent. You must be Lois Lane." When Lois realized what he was saying, she smiled wryly, delight struggling with tears. "I guess that's who I am," she said. *************** As was his habit, Nigel did some preliminary scouting before he visited his target. As he took up a position on the roof across the alley from 344 Clinton, he was able to see through the slanting windows into Clark Kent's apartment. Two people were moving around in the apartment, and his lips thinned with irritation--he hadn't planned on a witness to his visit. Even worse, he noticed that one of the pair was female and apparently going to bed, and he reached into his pack for a small but powerful pair of binoculars. Just as he put the field glasses to his eyes, the apartment lights went out, obscuring his view. He swore mentally. Lex Luthor didn't care how Nigel got his information, but he was adamant that there be no witnesses. However, the matter of Mrs. Luthor's disappearance was too important to leave until morning. Nigel twisted around and took a pair of infra-red binoculars from his pack and focused on the bedroom. No matter how he adjusted the focus or the infra-red sensitivity, he could only see one person in bed--and the body was too small for Clark Kent. Nigel turned the binoculars on the living room. The angle was wrong; he could barely see into the room. But a glimpse of body heat showed up, and he lowered the night glasses thoughtfully. If he was going to act, he had to do it soon. The problem was . . . Kent was a reporter, and a late-night visitor asking after Lois Luthor's whereabouts was just the sort of grist that a mill like The Star used. Nigel hesitated, then pulled out his cell phone and, checking his notebook, dialed Kent's number. *************** "Yes, sir." Nigel continued his report. "He said he had interviewed her, and they discussed their experiences as journalists, but she said nothing about her plans for the evening." "Was he lying?" Lex asked. The only problem with having assistants handle such tasks was that he had to rely on their ability to determine whether someone else was lying or hiding something. He snapped another $100 bill off the stack in his hand and flipped it into the fireplace, where the flames devoured it. "I don't believe so. However, as soon as I rang off, he went to the bedroom, where the woman was sleeping. They're talking now." Lex dismissed it. "Probably reassuring his guest that the call wasn't an emergency. Can you identify the woman?" "No. The lights are still off, and her back is to me. However . . ." "Yes?" "Before the lights went out, I glimpsed her." Nigel hesitated. He had no proof, nothing but a gut-feeling, but he had no other lead. "She was slender and dark-haired . . . like Mrs. Luthor." Lex stopped in mid-toss, the $100 bill slipping from his slack hand to land at his feet. "Can you confirm that?" "Not tonight . . . without breaking and entering." Luthor hesitated. He hadn't become the de facto King of Metropolis by being careless. Kent was a reporter, and if the woman *wasn't* Lois . . . "Stay where you are. Make sure they don't leave--and get that confirmationfirst thing tomorrow." *************** "He's searching for you," Clark said, sitting on the edge of the bed. His face was a pale oval in the darkness. Lois swept her hair out of her face. "I expected that. Was that him on the phone?" "No. Nigel . . . St. John, I think he said." "If Lex has a hit man, Nigel's it." She leaned toward the bedside lamp, but Clark stopped her before she could flip the switch. "What's wrong?" He hesitated, then said, "Someone's on the roof of the building across the alley." She started to turn around, but he stopped her again. "If he has night glasses," he told her, "he can see us, and I don't want him identifying you--in case your husband sent him." Lois caught her breath. "Lex might have. I don't know." She looked at him curiously, wishing she could see his expression in the dark. "How do you know someone's there?" She vaguely saw him tap one forefinger next to the corner of his eye. "Nigel's call seemed . . . odd, so I took a look around." "Do you see him now?" she asked, and at his nod, she slid further under the covers. He faced the window. "He's had binoculars up to his eyes the whole time we've been talking." Clark fell silent for a moment. "And he's been talking into a cell phone since I spotted him." "Can you hear him?" As he tilted his head, Lois held back the questions and comments that flooded her mind. She wasn't sure exactly how this hearing thing of his worked, whether he could block out closer sounds while he focused on distant ones, or whether he simply amplified everything. That thought made her conscious of her quickened breathing and rapid heart rate, and she tried to stay still and breathe slowly. But that was hard when she felt anxious about Lex discovering her whereabouts, and she was relieved when he turned back toward her. "Well?" she demanded. He shook his head. "Nothing. But he's packing up. I don't know if he's changing positions or leaving." "*I* should leave," she said and grabbed the edge of the covers, preparing to throw them back. "I agree," he said, surprising her. "Your husband can't do anything to me, but I'm afraid of what'll happen to you if he finds out you spent the night here." He covered her hand with his. "Let's get you to a hotel." *************** While they waited for their observer to move from his spot overlooking the apartment, they discussed how to cover her disappearance. Clark suggested Lois pretend to have gone to a movie, so she took a newspaper into the bathroom where she could turn on the light and check theaters within walking distance of the LexCorp tower. Once the observer was out of sight, Clark zipped outside to find Nigel's new location while she changed back into her evening gown. "Well?" she asked when he returned. "He's in a car parked across the street, watching the front door." She smiled. "So the coast is clear for a quick exit off your balcony." "Absolutely. Did you find a movie you'd seen?" She nodded. "The Carrington had a late showing of 'An Affair to Remember.'" "Good." He put one arm around her and bent down to slide the other under her legs. Straightening up as he walked, he carried her onto his balcony, her arms draped around his neck as she studied his face. He gave her a quick, sidelong glance. "You look . . . fantastic . . . in this dress." She smiled faintly and nearly reached out to smooth that drooping lock of hair off his forehead before she remembered that she was married. She tightened her arm around his shoulders. "Clark?" "Hmm?" "Can I see you tomorrow?" "See me?" he asked, puzzled; then he said, "Hold on. I'm taking off fast." When he rocketed into the sky, too swift for curious eyes to see clearly, Lois expected to black out, but something protected her from the stress of the G-force. He slowed when they were above the city lights and answered her, "I don't understand what you mean by 'see me.'" She blushed as she suddenly realized what he thought she'd said. "Not '*see* you' see you. But . . . meet with you. Clark," she added desperately, "I'm going up against Lex--without The Daily Planet or Perry White or--or anyone backing me up. And I'm not sure I can do it alone. . . ." He glanced down at her, his expression visible in the glow of the city lights. If she believed in love at first sight, she would have thought that was what she was seeing on his face. But the attraction was plain, and she knew he respected her as a journalist and was willing to be her friend. "I'll help you any way I can, Lois," he said softly. "Thank you," she breathed. "Lunch?" "Give me a call," he said and landed in a blind alley, where he gently set Lois on her feet. "There's a coffee shop around the corner. You can call for a cab from there." She took a step away from him, then turned back, unwilling to end this time with him. "Will you wait?" "Until your cab comes," he agreed. *************** In the elegant hotel suite, Lois paced restlessly, unable to settle down. Their plan had gone off without a snag. The $20 that Clark had slipped into her hand had covered the cab fare, and the manager of the Wyatt-Viceroy had been delighted to extend Mrs. Lex Luthor a line of credit. But now, alone in her suite, her fear of Lex and his organization and her worry about whether she would be able to carry off the masquerade of a loving wife seemed overwhelming. It finally occurred to her that Clark was the one who had kept these fears at bay earlier. Against her will, she had trusted him at the fund-raiser, revealing herself as she never had in an interview, and after he saved her, she had trusted him with the secret of Lex's perfidy, knowing that she was putting her life in his hands. His hands. Hands strong enough to snatch her from death on the pavement, but gentle when he wiped the tears from her cheeks or lifted her to float beside him. She sighed. Oh God. Lois spun away from the bedroom, where she had been staring at the antique four-poster bed and imagining those hands on her body. She had to get control of herself. She'd never be able to pretend everything was okay between Lex and her if she didn't quit thinking about Clark. Two steps into a sitting room that was larger and more elegant than her old living room had been, a "whoosh" that she was starting to recognize stopped her. Her heart began to pound heavily, and a hot blush suffused her skin. "Clark?" He stepped down from the open windowsill, still in his T-shirt and shorts. "I'm sorry to disturb you," he began. She interrupted, "You didn't. It's okay. I was still awake." He grinned, only a fraction of his hundred-megawatt smile, but it warmed her like a hug. "Yeah. I noticed--" he tipped his head toward the table lamp-- "the light." He walked further into the room and held his hand out. "I thought you might need this before you went back." She tore her gaze away from those warm brown eyes and glanced down. A quarter of a million dollars in gemstones and gold glittered on his palm. "Oh!" Her eyes lifted to his, and she threw her arms around his neck. "Clark, you found it! Thank you so much! I'd forgotten all about it!" "That's what partners are for," he said, hugging her hard in return. He pressed his cheek against her hair while his free hand came up and clasped the back of her head. But after a moment, he gently disengaged himself from her embrace, put the choker into her hand, and closed her fingers around it. "A couple of the stones popped out, but I found them and straightened up the settings," he explained. "It's light enough that the fall didn't really hurt it." She nodded, not really paying attention to his explanation, still focused on his earlier statement. "Partners?" she asked hesitantly, feeling somehow bereft without his arms around her. "If I'm going to help you bring Luthor down, I figured we might as well make it official." She smiled. "Partners." A sharp knock at the door dragged her gaze from his, and she slowly went to the door and opened it, leaving the security chain on. "Yes?" "Housekeeping. I have the night shirt and extra towels you asked for." "Oh, yeah." Lois closed the door, removed the chain, then reopened it. "Thank you." She took the towels and plastic-wrapped package the middle-aged woman handed her. A pink nightshirt. Oh well, it was only for one night. The maid looked beyond her to where Clark was standing by the couch. Her gaze swept him from head to toe. "Is that enough?" "Sure," Lois said and closed the door, both on the maid and on the unruly imagination that kept presenting her with an image of Clark in nothing but a towel. *************** The sitting room in her suite was lit only by the flickering light of a late-night telecast of 'West Side Story.' Lois sighed. "What?" Clark asked softly. His arm lay along the back of the couch, and she was slouched close enough to him that the top of her head rested against his upper arm. "Oh, I was just thinking. . . . Before Lex and I were married, I was writing a novel," she said, her voice low and sleepy. He felt a sharp pang at her use of the past tense. "What about?" She squirmed a little--in the way that he had noticed meant she was uncomfortable--then continued sadly, "About . . . about a woman who dies without ever meeting her true love." Clark would have reassured her that that wasn't going to happen to her, but at the last instant, he realized that that might not be appropriate when she was already married. Even if her husband *was* a sleazebag. "Is that worse than finding your true love and having him die in your arms?" he asked, nodding toward the TV. "Like Maria." Her sigh turned into a yawn, and she burrowed her head against his shoulder. "I don't know." She was silent for another minute, and he glanced down to see if she was watching the movie again. Another yawn shuddered through her. "Or finding him after you're married," she murmured. Her head lolled toward his chest. "Lois," he whispered against her hair as he tightened one arm around her shoulder. If he hadn't had superhearing, he never would have heard her, so he had to assume that comment wasn't for his ears, but still . . . a quiver of joy ran through him. *************** Clark watched 'West Side Story' to the final credits, unwilling to miss one moment of this night when he could still pretend that Lois wasn't married, that there was a future for them. But when the movie was over, her bobbing head and faint snore reminded him that her position might not be comfortable. He gathered her into his arms and effortlessly carried her into the bedroom, studying her beautiful face and daring to lean down and brush a kiss over her parted lips. But she didn't awaken, and the disappointment he felt told him something about his real motive in kissing her. He stood by the bed for a moment, looking down at her in his arms, fighting the desire to lie down with her and hold her for the rest of the night, and wondering what had happened to his long immunity to sexual temptation. A long, slow breath later, he set Lois on the bed, whispered, "Goodnight," and began to straighten up. Except her arms tightened around his neck. "Don't go," she murmured. "I can't stay, Lois," he replied, his voice thick with the intensity of his desire to keep her in his arms and never let her go. "You're married," he added desperately. She ignored his refusal. In fact, he wasn't sure that, half asleep as she was, she heard him. She muttered something, her voice so slurred that even super-hearing was no help. "What did you say?" he asked. To his surprise, Lois spoke again, and this time he could make out most of her words: "You (mumble) the dreams away." You keep the dreams away? Clark's soft heart melted, and he shushed his conscience without hesitation. He knew too well the monsters that peopled her dreams, and he let himself down on the bed next to her and drew her into his arms. She snuggled against him, her head settling into the hollow between his shoulder and chest as if she'd always slept there. A slim hand covered the swell of his nearest pec, and one leg sprawled across his. A slender, fine-boned woman, clinging to him like a child, she didn't look like the kind of person who made powerful men tremble. At least in his case, Clark thought wryly, it wasn't fear that shook him. He tried to quiet his ragged breathing and relax, but with her hand on his chest and her warm breath on his collarbone, he had as much chance of doing that as he had of stopping a hurricane. He reminded himself repeatedly that she was married, but his body persisted in readying itself for the sexual activity that he couldn't stop thinking about. Giving in to temptation for just a moment, he brushed a kiss across her hair, breathing in the spicy scent of her perfume while he stroked her bare arm. That didn't make anything easier, and Clark vainly wished that his shorts weren't made of such soft, revealing material. He wondered if a pinpoint blast of supercold breath would help. But self-control was Clark Kent's strong suit, and he tried to stop imagining how the soft curves pressed against his side looked without her nightshirt or felt against the palm of his hand. Seeking a distraction, he extended his senses and listened to the late night talk show on the TV that he'd left on in the sitting room. Eventually, bored by a discussion of the line of beauty care products being hawked by the guest celebrity, he relaxed into Lois's embrace and slept. *************** High above the city lights, they floated on their backs, star gazing. "That's Cyclops. You can see his one eye shining in his head," she said, pointing to the bright star. "And there's his arm . . ." He shook with laughter, and she continued, "Okay, so he's got *really* long arms." "And a pin-sized head," he added, grinning, and lifted her to lie on top of him, her body softly yielding on his. He threaded his fingers into her night-dark hair and raised his head to kiss her. She tasted of cloves and the night air, and he clasped the back of her head, holding her closer. Joy raced through his veins like sunlight as her lips parted, inviting him in. His tongue touched her full lower lip, then pressed on past her teeth, into the sweet warmth of her mouth. Her tongue met his, stroking and teasing him even as she caressed his chest and sides. They kissed long and slow and deep, while his hands slid restlessly down her bare back. Free of the constraints of gravity, as relaxed and confident as if she, too, could fly and had no reason to fear falling, they made love. Afterwards, he held her close, whispering her name. In the moonlight, her delicate features had an almost unearthly beauty, her smooth, slender limbs and graceful body bleached white, her eyes and hair mysterious shadows that his super-vision couldn't penetrate. But when he reached out to touch her face, she vanished, leaving him alone with the stars. *************** Clark awakened abruptly to find his face pressed against a mass of silky dark hair. Disoriented, he lay still for a moment, trying to figure out where he was. The bed was unfamiliar--too hard--and a woman's curves filled his arms . . . and hands. Lois, he thought dimly, remembering that he had carried her to bed after the movie. Then he recalled his vivid dream of making love above the clouds, and he suddenly realized that he was holding her with a lover's intimacy. Heat flooded his cheeks, and he jerked his hands away. *What* was he doing? She stirred, murmuring sleepily if incomprehensibly, and burrowed her face against his shoulder. A wave of tenderness and longing swept over him, and he gently cupped his hand over her cheek. She was real and brave and caring, and she didn't vanish at his touch. He closed his eyes, struggling with the desire to sweep her up in his arms and fly away with her, to take her away from the danger, from-- --her husband. He opened his eyes and saw the pearly light that preceded sunrise entering the window. Morning had come; the magical night was gone and he could no longer pretend that she wasn't married. Sighing, Clark drifted upward, taking Lois with him as he eased his arms out from under her. He lether down as lightly as a dandelion seed falling to earth, and she curled up against the pillow, a frown creasing her forehead as her hand searched the bed beside her. He set her hand on his pillow, and her restless motion stopped, but the tiny frown between her brows remained. He smiled wistfully then leaned down and pressed a kiss on her cheek. "Goodbye, Lois," he whispered and, opening the window, launched himself into the dawn. *************** High above Metropolis, Clark drifted to a stop over his apartment building. He didn't usually fly during daylight hours because he had to be so careful that no one saw him, and he rebuked himself for recklessly staying in Lois's hotel room until daylight. his long-ignored conscience reminded him. He squirmed at the accusation. he protested. his conscience continued relentlessly. But Clark didn't have to hear the voice of his conscience to know that that was just an excuse, and whether she wanted him to stay or not, it certainly wasn't reason enough for him to abandon the principles of a lifetime. Last night, he had stayed and watched the movie with her, telling himself that he wasn't doing anything wrong, that it was okay for friends to spend some time together. And that was true--but it hadn't been what was happening between them. They had cuddled together on the couch and he had lain in bed with her for the rest of the night-- --and she was married. his heart protested, and his conscience answered, He swallowed hard. There was no answer for that, not for a man who had learned his principles from Jonathan and Martha Kent. It was too late to change what he'd done, but he could make sure that he didn't make it any harder for Lois to respect her marriage vows. Unhappily, Clark scanned the area around his apartment building--and with a shock, he recognized Nigel St. John sitting across the street in his car. Oh god, how could he have forgotten? Luthor was looking for her, and if he found out that Clark had been in her hotel room last night . . . Clark couldn't even conceive of the danger she'd be in, and it would all be his fault. A roar of fear and frustration swelled in his chest and he closed his eyes, his fists clenched in front of his face as he fought back the yell. This wasn't helping. This wasn't keeping her safe. he commanded himself. Okay, he had to return to his apartment and make sure St. John believed that no one had left all night, and therefore, that Lois had never been there. Jaw set in determination, he opened his eyes and rocketed into the back door of his apartment, unseen and unheard in the city's quiet dawn. *************** Dressed in a suit and tie, his brows drawn together thoughtfully, Clark Kent stepped out of his apartment and latched the door behind him before starting down the sidewalk toward The Star. From the shelter of a seven-year-old Chevy across the street, Nigel lowered his newspaper enough to watch the young man out of sight, then slipped across the street and knocked on the apartment door. "Cable repair," he called, his distinctive British pronunciation replaced by a harsh Brooklyn accent. No answer. He jimmied the lock with well-practiced ease, poked his head in the door, and called again, "Cable repair!" Three minutes later, he was on his cell phone. "No, sir, no one entered or left all night." "What about the back door?" Lex asked, frustration apparent in his voice. "It lets onto a balcony and fire escape, which leads into an alley with only one exit--next to the front door." Nigel hated failure and intimately knew the consequences Lex exacted for it--he was, in fact, Luthor's hand in such matters--so he made very sure that he had done everything humanly possible to prevent such an outcome. Someday, even that might not be enough, but he had a contingency plan in the event he ever ran afoul of Lex Luthor's temper. "No one left the apartment building." There was a pause; then Lex said, "Perhaps she is somewhere else in the building." "If so, she is in another apartment. I searched the public areas before I called." Another pause, but this time, the line went dead, and Nigel knew he had been put on hold. When Lex came back on, there was a gritted-teeth sound to his voice. "Apparently we were watching Mr. Kent with, perhaps, a neighbor of his. My wife just walked into the building." *************** Lois strode down the hall of the penthouse, heading for her bedroom, eager to get out of her evening gown. She passed the side door to Lex's office and glanced in to see if he were there, trying to be casual but suppressing a shudder when she glimpsed his dark, elegant figure behind his desk. It was hard to imagine how she would act if she were simply angry with him, so she pretended she hadn't seen him and continued toward their bedroom. "Lois!" Lex called, following her into the hallway. She turned to face him. He looked tired, but the rage was visible in his tightly clenched jaw. "What?" Her impatient response stopped him, and she saw him throttle back his anger. After a pause, his face settled into an expression of worry and concern. "Where have you been? What happened? Why didn't you come home last night?" Damn. In setting up an alibi, she had forgotten to come up with a reason why she needed it. "I needed some time alone . . . to think . . . so I went to a movie." "And then?" he persisted. With the lie past, the truth came easily. "And then I stayed at the Wyatt-Viceroy," she said. Lex studied her for a moment, his dark gaze locked with hers. "Darling, what's wrong? There's plenty of room here. You could have been alone if you wanted." She bit her lip. He appeared so caring, so concerned. But it was an act, she reminded herself. He was maneuvering her into feeling that she was in the wrong so he could control her, just as he had done dozens of times since they married. Fortunately, he reminded her of that fact with his next words: "I was worried about you. Why didn't you let me know where you were?" Let him know where she was, when he had people spying on her? Her quick temper flared up. "Why should I bother? Couldn't Nigel find a quarter for a phone call?" The words were no more out of her mouth than she wished them back. After Clark spotted their watcher last night, it hadn't taken much to realize that Lex probably had her under surveillance all the time. But that wasn't knowledge she had intended to let him know she had. Something flashed in his dark eyes--surprise?--and he reached for her hand. "It's for your safety, darling. I have enemies who wouldn't hesitate to use you to control me." Her eyes glittered with anger. "Good story, Lex, but a little late if you want me to believe your spy is really a bodyguard." His hand tightened on her wrist, and the civilized veneer fell away, leaving something dark and dangerously possessive. "Don't toy with me, Lois. I won't put up with anyone taking what's mine." Thank God she hadn't stayed at Clark's apartment. She didn't know what she would have done if Nigel had reported she was there--or discovered that Clark had stayed in her hotel room with her until she fell asleep. Dimly she remembered him carrying her to bed after she dozed off in front of the TV. Had she clung to him, refusing to let him go? She thought so; certainly, her last waking memory--or was it a dream?--was of snuggling against his shoulder within the shelter of his arms. But she had awakened alone in her hotel bed this morning--and now her angry husband held her wrist in a painful grip. She suddenly saw how she could use Lex's warning about infidelity to end this confrontation. "Feeling cranky, Lex? I'm sorry; I thought Mrs. Cox could occupy you . . . satisfactorily . . . while I was gone." She shook her head in mock dismay. "Maybe a subtle hint about cutting her salary will get her mind back on . . . business." Lois pulled away from him and swept down the hall, calling back over her shoulder, "And, yes, since you offered, I want to be alone." Maybe that was enough. Maybe it would take him a few minutes to decide how to deal with her. Maybe her apparent jealousy would be enough of a sop to his vanity that she could get changed and escape. She hoped so. *************** As Clark wrote up the story on the literacy fund-raiser and the interview with Lois, he kept remembering her in his arms--dancing, flying, sleeping. And even though he knew that it was wrong to feel that way about a married woman, he couldn't stop the rush of joy at each memory. Paul Banning slapped his shoulder on the way to the coffeepot ten feet from Clark's desk. "Good night, huh, Clark?" "Yeah . . ." Then he heard the satisfaction in his voice and mentally shook himself. "Yeah, the . . . uh . . . fund-raiser seemed to go off pretty well--" God, that was lame. He fumbled for a better response. "And--and I got some good quotes in my interview with Lois . . . um . . . Luthor. Lois Luthor." Paul seemed to be trying to hide a smile. "Lane's a real babe, isn't she?" The offended anger that surged through Clark at Paul's leering tone startled him. Where did *that* come from? He and Lois had agreed to be partners in their effort to bring Lex to justice, but that didn't give him any rights regarding her. He took a shaky breath and held it. "Mrs. Luthor's a beautiful woman," he said reprovingly. "And she was stunning last night. I hope Mike sent someone to take some pictures." The older man snorted in amusement and turned away. "Yeah, I'm sure that's what you're hoping." Clark ducked his head a little. Okay, so maybe his secret fantasy was to develop a relationship with her, but that didn't mean he didn't also hope Mike had some pictures to go with his article. He glanced at his watch, then looked back at his screen and scanned his story at superspeed. He began to type quickly, careful not to exceed 80 wpm as he committed the public part of his evening to words. It wasn't near deadline yet, but he had several other irons in the fire: following up on the sex-slave-ring story, helping Lois find evidence on Luthor, keeping her safe from the consequences of his stupidity last night, and--he glanced at his watch again--covering the mayor's press conference this morning. He'd better get focused in a hurry. *************** Lois made her escape from the LexCorp tower without seeing Lex again, but she didn't kid herself that that meant he had forgiven or was ignoring their confrontation in the hallway. The back of her neck prickled--her reporter's instinct, Perry had always called it--with the certainty that she was being watched. She slammed into her silver Cherokee and squealed the tires for good measure as she tore out of the parking garage. Let her observer and Lex make of that what they would. Until her husband was safely in prison, she was going to assume that she always had a tail, that her phone calls were monitored, that--she glanced down at her purse, her eyes sweeping the interior of her vehicle--everything she owned was either wired for sound or tagged for tracing. Maybe she watched too many spy movies. But this wasn't a game. If she screwed up, the consequences could be . . . catastrophic. Abruptly, she swung a sharp U-turn, ignoring the irritated blare of horns from the cars she cut off as she headed back to the department store she just passed. ************** "Mrs. Cox!" Lex snapped over the intercom. The door between their offices swung open immediately. "Yes, Lex?" He stared down at Nigel's report on Lois's activities of the previous evening. His eyes were black and stony, his expression cold. "Danced together . . . the interview . . . danced a second time?" he read aloud. The page crumpled as he clenched his hand, and he spun his chair to face his waiting assistant. "What do we know about this reporter, this Clark Kent?" She calmly opened the folder she had brought into the office with her. "He came to work for The Star four months ago. He gets along well with his co-workers. His employer thinks very highly of him. A bachelor, lives alone, pays his rent on time, very quiet tenant." She looked up. "That was just the initial check. We can look closer if you wish." Lex tapped impatient fingers on his desk. He didn't bother to comment on his assistant's report, nor the fact that she had apparently anticipated his wishes. That was, after all, one of the reasons he paid her such an extravagant salary. At length, he said, "No, let's wait. If he appears again, that'll be soon enough for you and Nigel to take him apart. We know where to get hold of him." He glanced back down at the paper crushed in his fist. "However . . ." he began, "our Mr. Kent needs a lesson on the foolishness of inviting my displeasure." Mrs. Cox raised slender, arched brows. "He doesn't own a car. Shall I have his apartment burgled?" "Too impersonal." Even if Kent didn't get the point, Lex's stubborn, wayward wife should. It appeared he had been too subtle, too soft with her, and she was as much in need of a lesson as her dupe, Kent, was. "Send some men over to rough him up--but nothing that needs a trip to the hospital." She inclined her head. "I'll take care of it." *************** Lois left the department store in an entirely new set of clothes--including shoes and underclothes--of the same color and style as the outfit she had put on at home. With any luck, she thought, dropping the sack of used clothes behind the seat of the Cherokee, her tail would never realize that she had changed, and if she left her purse and clothes locked in the Jeep, she could continue her investigation without having to wonder about listening ears. Thinking of the need for caution, she started down the street toward the city library, not her office at LNN. At LNN, she was pretty sure that Lex could get a copy of her computer activity from the network administrator, so she prayed he wouldn't check on what she had done yesterday, but there was no sense in tempting fate, not after her absence last night. However, after she had been at the computer for two hours, she was beginning to wonder why she had bothered with such precautions. The trail was old and cold, and nothing out of the ordinary appeared in the city or county records. Which meant she was looking in the wrong place. She stared at the screen, mentally sifting through possible sources of information when the beep of her watch alarm startled her. Eleven-thirty. She needed to call Clark to tell him where they could meet for lunch. Lois was already on her way to the pay phones when it occurred to her that a watch was a logical place to put a bug--and this one had been a present from Lex. She slipped the delicate timepiece off her wrist and studied it. It looked like a slim white-gold bracelet, but it had several functions more common to a man's digital watch than to a piece of fine jewelry. And where there was one hidden function, there could be two. She cupped it in her hand, weighing the risk. All right. Lex probably had a tail on her, so he would know where she had lunch and with whom. So . . . limit the conversation to a discussion of where to eat--and then leave the watch in the Jeep with her purse. She sighed. Considering consequences was foreign to her personality, and she was afraid she might slip up and let Lex know she was on to him. She would just be so glad when she nailed him and could get back to her normal life. Maybe Clark would have some suggestions at lunch that would help. *************** Clark strolled into the restaurant, casually searching for Lois over the top of his glasses. "One for lunch?" a hostess asked. He waved her away. "I'm meeting a friend," he said and started across the dining room toward the booth where he had spotted Lois. He also noticed a man at a small table beyond the booth, reading a newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee. The man's location was such a good one for keeping an eye on Lois without being in her line of sight that Clark swiftly scanned him, immediately noticing a cell phone of the same type Nigel had used the previous night. Not proof, but . . . "Hi," she greeted him, her smile bright and welcoming. "Hi, yourself," he answered, slipping into the bench seat on the opposite side of the table. "I think we've got company," he added, inclining his head toward the man with the paper, who was seated out of earshot. She glanced over her shoulder. "Oh. I wondered what he looked like." Her casual acceptance of a tail surprised a half-smile out of him. She really was the most amazing woman he had ever met. Moment by moment, she seemed to be shedding her 'Mrs. Luthor' chrysalis as Lois Lane emerged with strong, beautiful wings. Wings. Flight was natural to him, but he'd never thought of another person as a flying creature before. She turned back and noticed his expression. "What?" she asked. Clark shook his head. "Nothing." How could he tell a woman he'd met only about 15 hours before that he thought she was the perfect mate for him? "How'd it go this morning?" "A big fat nothing. I think I'm clear of any little friends--" she briefly cupped her ear to indicate a listening device-- "and I've got a list of the board members who sold The Planet to Lex, but that's it. I guess I'll start calling them this afternoon and see if anyone has anything to say." He frowned thoughtfully. "That might work. If you'll think of yourself as Lois Luthor--not Lois Lane, investigative reporter." "Oh, and pretend that I know all about Lex's little ploy? That's a good idea, Clark." She slanted him a teasing glance. "Sort of like going undercover while looking completely open and undisguised." "Yeah." Swift understanding was so natural to her that she hadn't noticed how quickly she picked up on his suggestion--just as she had done last night when they planned her alibi. God, he would love to have a partner like her at The Star. Together, they would be unbeatable. "Okay, so how was *your* morning?" she asked, breaking across his pleasant, yearning thoughts. "I wrote up your Team Literacy fund-raiser story and covered the mayor's press conference. I'll finish that one when I get back; then I'll try to turn up something on the sex-slave-ring story." She studied him intently. "You're not happy with what's happening on that story." "No, I'm not. I've hit a dead end, and I can't figure out where to go from here," he admitted. The waitress arrived with two French dips, fries for him, fruit for her, and two iced teas. Clark lifted his eyebrows. "The French dip's good, so I ordered for both of us," Lois explained. He tried a bite. She was right, and he chewed on the crusty French roll as she continued, "I have a source--a snitch--who might be able to help. Bobby's the best. If he doesn't know it, no one does." His brows soared again. Snitches and other contacts were more than a reporter's bread and butter; they were often the difference between writing a scoop and playing catch-up with every other news source. As a result, they weren't shared--with anyone. This was trust indeed. "Thank you, Lois." "Wait to thank me until he comes up with something. Besides, he can be expensive." "You *pay* your snitch?" "Not in cash--The Planet had strict rules against that. But Bobby isn't called Bigmouth because he blabs everything he knows. He is--literally--a bottomless pit." She shook her head. "I never saw *any*one eat like he does, although," she added, eyeing the remains of his sandwich, "you might come close." Clark glanced down at the heel of the roll still in his hand. He had been so focused on what Lois was saying that he had absentmindedly eaten most of the roast beef sandwich. Ducking his head, he blushed a little. "You should see me when I'm in a hurry. Mom hates it when I inhale my food." "And you don't get a stomachache or put on weight?" She eyed his lean, muscular physique, her expression revealing more than clinical interest. "No. No matter how much I eat." Lois sighed wistfully. "Too bad you can't package it. It'd sure beat rabbit-food and hours in the gym." Clark lifted his shoulders in an apologetic, can't-help-you gesture. "Don't you like working out?" "Clark," she said in exasperation, "that was your cue to say something encouraging or uplifting like, 'But you'd miss all those lessons on discipline and self-control.'" "Oh." He considered what she'd said. "You mean you don't enjoy eating healthy food or exercising? Then why do you do it?" She laughed. "Because I like chocolate, and if I didn't eat right the rest of the time and work out every day, I'd weigh two hundred pounds." His gaze slid over her sleek, delicious curves. She had . . . the most beautiful body he'd ever seen, but he'd met a lot of beautiful women and none of them had made him feel like this. He looked back into her coffee-dark eyes. Slim or heavy, she would still be brave and passionate and caring. "Would you be happier if you stopped worrying about your weight?" "It isn't a matter of my being happier or not." She looked away, laughing nervously. "You must've missed my series on overweight people--the minority everyone feels justified in mocking and discriminating against." "Lois." When she turned back to him, he reached out and touched her hand--and what he was going to say vanished completely. Her gaze locked with his; he felt like he was losing himself in her eyes. The clatter of silverware and chattering voices receded as his senses narrowed and focused on this woman. "Clark," she whispered, and he leaned toward her, drawn like a magnet to its north. Time hung suspended; he drew closer to her, inch by slow inch. "Did you want dessert?" a nasally voice asked, breaking into their private world. Lois blinked and looked at Clark with wondering eyes, then turned to look at their server. "What?" "Our special is a hot fudge brownie sundae," the waitress continued. Clark glanced up sharply, then saw Lois's appalled expression, and the bubble of laughter inside him burst out. Then they were both laughing, and the waitress was swinging her head back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match. "Does that mean yes or no?" *************** "Yes, Mr. Luthor. At Tremayne's. They were there about forty-five minutes." The man Clark had noticed at the restaurant had found a bench at the shopping mall where he could keep an eye on Lois while he called in his report. "What did they say?" Lex demanded. Kent, again. "I--uh--I dunno. I wasn't getting anything from the bug in Mrs. Luthor's purse. The line sounded like it was open, but I couldn't hear anything." Lex barely held back a scathing comment. Incompetents! The idiot was probably tuned to the wrong frequency. "Keep an eye on her, and report back if she meets with anyone else." He stabbed the disconnect button, feeling a sort of savage glee in imagining he was jabbing at Clark Kent . . . who was starting to turn up like a bad penny. He slammed his fist down on the call button for Mrs. Cox. She was carrying an appointment book and two file folders when she entered. "Yes, Lex?" "I want a full report on Clark Kent. Everything. How much he makes, what he spends it on, whom he sleeps with, how much he drinks, what Internet sites he visits . . . any weakness we can exploit." "What about the lesson we had planned for him?" He hesitated. "Make sure he survives." She nodded, then opened one of her files. "About how Mrs. Luthor got out of the building last night . . . Security should have picked her up at the front or back doors. If she took the fire stairs, she should have set off an alarm when she left the building. Since none of that happened, I can think of two ways she might have slipped past security. She could have gone down to the second floor, broken into one of the offices there, and gone out a window. Or she might have gotten a key to one of the ground floor businesses and gone through it and out the back door." "An awful lot of trouble to get out of the building unseen," Lex observed and took a long drag on his cigar. Mrs. Cox shrugged slim shoulders. "She may have been trying to escape your surveillance." Recalling his wife's words when he greeted her this morning, he blew two perfect smoke rings and nodded. "That, unfortunately, sounds like Lois. Determined to elude it once she realized she was under observation." Which might explain last night's events as well as their argument this morning. He put the cigar in the crystal ashtray, the picture of an elegant, controlled gentleman, but inside he was seething. He had known she would be furious if she discovered that he was having her watched, but knowing that didn't temper his rage over her actions. It had been a very long time since anyone had deliberately thwarted Lex Luthor. *************** "You think I can trust him? I mean, he's not gonna try to stiff me and eat all the pepperoni off the top of the pizza or pick the globs of chocolate off the eclairs, right?" Bobby Bigmouth's chewing and gulping was audible, even over the phone. Lois fired up. "Bobby, it was only one piece, not *all* the pepperoni!" Wisely, she ignored the chocolate allegation, knowing that she had no defense there. He snickered. "Tell him I'm in the mood for Thai." She heaved an exaggerated sigh. "I gave him the phone numbers of all your favorite take-out places. And by the sound of it, the delivery boy from Ralph's Pagoda has arrived." "Love their slippery shrimp," he mumbled around another mouthful. "I don't buy you this stuff just for the pleasure of listening to you eat. Give." "You sure you know what you're doin'? People who stick their noses into your hubby's business don't stay healthy for long." Lois tapped on the phone receiver so it would be audible on his end. "You know, Bobby, I *was* going to call the Fudge Castle and have an ice cream pizza sent over, but . . ." "Okay, okay. Several of The Planet's former Board members are showin' signs of what you might call con-spick-you-us consumption." She frowned. "What d'you mean?" "Like drivin' around Ferraris and buyin' some knock-out jewelry that doesn't end up around the wifie's throat, if you get my drift." "Names, Bobby." She wrote furiously, focused like a hunting dog with a clear trail to follow. "One more thing," she added. "Wha's'at?" Bobby asked. "I'm looking for someone who might have sold a chunk of C12 during the ten days before the Daily Planet blew up." "That'll be tough, Lois. Those kinda guys don't talk to reporters or police." "Try anyway, Bobby." If she could just get something on Nigel, he might be willing to turn state's evidence for a reduced sentence. That was a big if. But when she hung up, it was Lois Lane who walked away from the phone. Lois Luthor--that depressed, submissive, but beautiful mannequin--was fading into a dim memory. *************** Clark watched in fascination as Bobby Bigmouth wolfed down his second box of the Thai noodles and cabbage that Clark had brought from Bangkok. The informant must have had a super-charged metabolism to eat as he did and stay so thin. Or a tapeworm, Clark thought, remembering some of the things he'd seen on his travels. "This is great stuff," Bobby said around a mouthful of the spicy food. "Where'd you get it?" "A little place out of town." Clark changed the subject. "Lois--Mrs. Luthor--told me you might know something about the sex-slave ring I've been investigating." The sound Bobby made was muffled by another mouthful of noodles, but it sounded like a snort or maybe a snicker. "What?" Clark asked. Bobby swallowed and gulped down half a glass of milk. "You. Callin' her Mrs. L. A little formal for partners, doncha think?" "Partners? Wha--? How'd you--?" The snitch smirked, his lips shiny with grease from the noodles. "I know everything worth knowin' in Metropolis." Not quite everything. But paid informants weren't a hazard Clark had considered, so he made a mental note to be very careful. "Then tell me about the sex-slave ring." "Rich guys who're tired of doin' it straight, so to speak. Someone's makin' big bucks fulfilling private fantasies for guys who can afford to pay for it." "So why are they kidnapping and drugging college girls? There're women who are willing, who'll do almost anything for a price." Bobby shook his head. "It's a power thing, Kent. They pay a woman; she decides she doesn't wanna do it; she walks away. The slave can't leave. She has to do what they say." Clark felt almost as nauseated as he did when he interviewed Melissa Taylor. "You're saying they want it *because* it's rape." "I tol'ja they were guys who were bored with 'straight' sex." He rooted in the bag, looking for anything he might have missed. Disappointed, he looked up. "Word is Rollin Jameson is the one who puts these bored rich guys in touch with . . . someone." "Do you know the 'someone's' name?" "I can get it--but Jameson is the contact guy. You go through him or you don't go anywhere." He looked Clark up and down. "But I wouldn't try to force him to give you that name. You're a big guy, Kent, but someone's makin' enough dough to hire *real* muscle." *************** "Nigel's working on Kent's private life, and he should have a report tomorrow. So far, we have very little," Mrs. Cox said. "Born in Smallville, Kansas, 1966. Parents, Jonathan and Martha Kent. Graduated from Midwest University in 1988. Worked as a freelance journalist for the past six years--and has developed something of a reputation as an up-and-comer in the field. Traveled a lot, but there's no record of his name on passenger lists for flights or ships re-entering the country during the past year." "Should there be?" Lex asked. "He had articles published in London and Paris newspapers last year--local stories--so he was in England and France before he came to Metropolis." "Hmmm." Definitely not what he'd expected. "What do you think? Using an assumed name?" "Maybe." Mrs. Cox shrugged. "But he might have worked for passage on a steamer, so he wouldn't show up on either crew or passenger lists." "I hope not. I'm looking for a vice, a secret, something to hold over him if necessary." His assistant took several photos from the folder and handed them to Lex. "I had Nigel's pictures developed. The top one is probably the best if you want to know what Kent looks like." It was a black and white photo of Clark dancing with Lois, and it gave Lex an unpleasant shock. The young man was extremely handsome and appropriately outfitted in a tuxedo, but it was the way he and Lois looked at each other that made Lex want to hit something. "Send a cameraman with the men who are giving our young Mr. Kent his lesson this evening. I want to see how it goes." There was a certain satisfaction in being able to see the results of his orders, as he had done with Antoinette Baines. He occasionally pulled out the tape of the exploding helicopter even now. Mrs. Cox nodded and, scooping up the photos she had given to Lex, slid them back into Clark Kent's file. "I'll take care of it myself," she said. *************** The Star's morgue had only come up with one mention of Rollin Jameson--in a photo of a ribbon-cutting ceremony with the mayor of Metropolis and Lex Luthor, among other notables. Luthor, Clark noticed in disgust. He peered over his glasses at the photo, enhancing the image, searching for any clue to this Jameson person. A glimpse of white against a dark suit caught his eye and he focused on it. A security pass with . . . Jameson's name and that of ArLex Laboratories. Clark shoved his glasses into place and sat back. ArLex. One of LexCorp's subsidiaries, he guessed--and Rollin Jameson worked for it--and, ultimately, for Lex Luthor. He knew what he was thinking was unfair. Luthor employed tens of thousands of people in Metropolis alone. The odds were good that any person randomly chosen had *some* sort of connection with him, but . .. For one moment, Clark admitted it to himself: he *wanted* to get something on Lex Luthor, to send him to prison, and he was eager to follow any lead in that direction. He returned to his search program and started looking up ArLex Laboratories. *************** The hesitation in Richard Urbanowicz's voice when she suggested a meeting time set off an alarm in the back of Lois's head, and, ignoring her Jeep parked outside the library, she grabbed the first passing taxi and took off toward his house. She forced herself not to look back for her tail, but at the first opportunity, she hopped out of the taxi when traffic was stopped at a light, crossed the median, and nabbed a taxi headed the other way. Three blocks further on, she directed the driver back toward Urbanowicz's house via the crosstown expressway, then leaned back against the seat to plan her next move. As they rounded the corner at the end of the block, she saw a dark Mercedes sedan pull away from Urbanowicz's house, and on a hunch, Lois had her driver follow the car at a discreet distance. Which was how she ended up hiding behind a large ficus plant on the tenth floor of the Lexor Hotel an hour later, taking pictures of Richard Urbanowicz and his tall, blonde, beautiful business appointment as they exited the hotel room. The woman, who bore no resemblance to either his wife or two daughters, gave him a kiss which included an oral examination that would have done a dental hygienist proud. Snapping pictures furiously, Lois recorded their linked progress all the way to the elevator. Urbanowicz let the woman go down the elevator alone, then pushed the button to call another car while he patted his flushed, well-fed face with a handkerchief and smoothed back his thinning gray hair. When the elevator opened, Lois slipped in with him and, wearing her most innocent smile, said, "Richard, what a nice surprise!" She held out her hand, trying not to laugh at his fish-out-of-water bulging eyes. "You remember, it's Lois Lane--Lois Luthor now. We can just meet in the lounge downstairs instead of driving back to your office. How lucky that I happened to be at the Lexor today! Tell me, how is your wife doing these days?" she added maliciously. *************** "Clark, I wish you could've seen his face when I asked about his wife!" Lois crowed. "He looked like the poster child for 'Cheating Husbands Anonymous.'" He laughed, the sound warmly comforting even over the cell phone. "Where are you now?" She snuggled deeper into the couch in the reading area. "At the city library. I'm having him fax me the transcript of the meeting when Lex bought The Planet. And in the meantime, I'm having two sets of the photos developed at a one-hour place down the street." "Two sets?" "Yeah, I'm giving him the negatives and one set." "Lo-is," Clark said in exasperation. "That's unethical if you've promised him the film in exchange for the transcript." "It's also practical," she shot back. "I may need some insurance before I'm done." He was silent for a moment. "Maybe you shouldn't risk it," he finally said. "What?" "Bobby gave me a lead on this sex-slave ring that's pointing to someone with ties to your husband. Maybe you should just let me work it from this end." "Let go of my story? Don't be ridiculous. Besides, ties to Lex aren't enough. He's got a battery of lawyers, and we won't get close to him unless we've got real proof." "Yeah, I know. I just . . . Lois, I don't want you getting hurt. Won't you let me take you someplace safe?" She started to speak, but he continued over the top of her, "I'm gonna visit my folks this evening. I could take you with me, and Luthor'd never find you there. And they're really nice people. I think you'd like my mom a lot, and they have plenty of room--" "No, Clark. I'm not going into hiding," she said firmly. "I have to see this through. I have to prove to myself--" Her words caught in her throat, and she swallowed hard. "--that Lex Luthor didn't succeed in destroying Lois Lane," he added gently. "Yeah," she whispered. He sighed. "I know. Just . . . be careful, okay? Check the water level before you dive in." "I'll try." She hesitated, then asked softly, "How long will you be there?" "I'll be back tonight. Do you have a pen?" Lois dug it and a notepad out of her purse. "Got it." "Let me give you my parents' number. If you need anything . . . if anything happens . . . give me a call. I can be back in Metropolis in less than a minute." Less than a minute from Kansas. She closed her eyes, reeling not only at the thought of such speed but also because he had recognized her uneasiness and immediately acted to relieve it. She had never dreamed of such a partner, and she addressed a silent "thank you" toward heaven, to whomever had sent him her way. "Okay, go ahead." *************** The tension between Mr. and Mrs. Luthor was thicker than the vichyssoise they were eating, and Lois felt a cloud of depression settle over her. She took a deep breath, unwilling to give in to those feelings again. Her safest path lay in placating Lex, making him think she was harmless, but the thought of coaxing him out of his anger, of once again submitting to his arrogance made her ill. she thought, even as she began to chatter artlessly about the article on illiteracy in Metropolis that was her cover for the story she was really writing. "I spent all day at the library looking up statistics. You wouldn't believe how much information is still on micro-fiche instead of being on-line." She stopped as if suddenly struck by an idea. "Lex, have you thought of funding a project to get the library files on-line? Then I could look them up on my computer instead of hanging around the library all day." Lex raised a sardonic eyebrow and took a bite of the veal parmigiana that Nigel had just put on the table, so Lois shrugged and went on with her description of her day. It was hard to appear relaxed and chatty without slipping into real babbling from nervousness, and she drew on every ounce of acting ability she possessed. "I met Clark Kent for lunch." Lex froze, and she pretended not to notice but continued, "He's the reporter from The Star who covered the literacy fund-raiser last night. It turns out he's interested in literacy, too. Since he's done the background work for the fund-raiser story, he volunteered to help me if I wanted. So he's doing the legwork, as my assistant, sort of like Mrs. Cox--" She broke off abruptly and put her hand to her mouth, lowering h