Echoes of the Past By ML Thompson Rated: PG13 Submitted: March 2002 * * * * * * * * * No copyright infringement is intended. I recognize that the characters are not mine. I am just borrowing them for a little fun and not for any profit. I know that as fanfic writers, we've all been pretty brutal in our treatment of Ellen and Sam Lane. But things could have been worse - so, so much worse. By the end of this story (or actually, probably much sooner than that), you will be nostalgic for the good-old days of Sam and Ellen Lane. So you're in for a bumpy ride - consider yourself warned. To the first person who told me I couldn't do something because I was a woman; to the first employer who paid me less than my male colleague for doing the same job; to the first man who ever abused me; to the first interviewer who asked me if I was planning to have children (and before you ask what's wrong with that, tell me if you have ever heard of a man being asked that question during a job interview); to all those preventing friends of mine from breaking the glass ceiling; and to al-Qaeda, the Taliban, and any other groups or individuals out there who regard women as second class citizens, I have just this to say: Ptttttttttttttttthhhhhhhhhh. I would like to thank the writers of various episodes, since I borrow a number of scenes from them in this story. I would also like to thank Ms. Hatcher and Mr. Cain for the way they brought the scenes to life, since I'm fairly confident that a lot of what we saw on the screen had as much to do with their interpretation of the scene as any script they were given. And, as always, this story was made much better by the unflagging efforts of Carol Malo and Gerry Anklewicz. And I would like to thank Erin Klingler for editing this monstrosity for the archives. I continue to be unspeakably grateful to both of them for their efforts to make me a better writer and to fill the holes in my story. I'd like to dedicate this story to my old laptop. It died in the middle of helping me write this story. It was a faithful, trustworthy and true... Oh! Oh! Oh! Does this new laptop really have a pinball game? I've got to check it out. In the meantime, enjoy the story . WARNING: This story deals with adult themes and situations which might be unsuitable for younger readers. WARNING: This story also contains violence and subject matter which might be unsuitable for younger readers. * * * * * * * * * ECHOES OF THE PAST By: ML Thompson March 2002 * * * * * * * * * The clear night sky had a slight chill to it as they floated above Metropolis. However, Clark didn't notice. He also didn't notice the lights of the city below or the way they created a soft ambiance around them. In fact, he didn't notice anything except the woman in his arms. "You really remember everything?" he asked, hardly daring to hope. "I remember my life before you. When being alone was what I thought I wanted. And I remember my life after you. When I learned loving you was what I really wanted. Oh, Clark, I can't believe I almost lost you," she responded, letting all her pain find its way into her words as she realized, probably for the first time, how close she'd come to losing what was most precious to her. Their foreheads touched lightly as they closed their eyes. "And, do you remember this?" he asked, interrupting the silence. They both turned their heads slightly to look at a small item held between the fingers of Clark's right hand. Her engagement ring. Instead of immediately responding, a tearful smile found its way onto her face as she raised her left hand to where he was holding the ring. His heart swelled as he slipped the small symbol of love and commitment back onto her finger. "I do," she whispered. He let out a breath of absolute relief, letting go of all the tension and uncertainty as the double meaning of her words sank in. Turning his gaze back to her, he saw the love on her face. It felt as if it had been an eternity since he'd seen that expression. He found his mouth with her own. Feeling her lips pressed to his after such a long absence was incredibly sweet. One of her hands found its way to the back of his neck while the other slipped beneath his cape to encircle his waist, encouraging him to deepen the kiss. He pulled her closer. It had been so long; so long since she'd been in his arms; so long since he'd been allowed to kiss her. He felt as if his heart would burst. Clark suddenly woke, breathing hard as he glanced around the darkened room. "Lights on," he said. He gasped when every light in the room came on. "Softly," he corrected and then breathed a sigh of relief when the lights lowered until they were only providing a small amount of light. He pulled his feet out of bed and, spotting his robe on a nearby chair, wrapped it around himself as he made his way to the window. This was his first time traveling in space, at least inside a spacecraft, and he was thoroughly enjoying the view. "Lights off," he said, and he was instantly staring out at the stars from within his darkened room. As he observed the stars, he thought about the events that had sent him on this journey. Clark Kent was a descendant of Lois Lane and Clark Kent, who had worked at the Daily Planet almost two hundred years before. And, as he was only too well aware, he was also a descendant of the original Superman. After all, it would be hard not to know given that he had all of Superman's powers. If there was one thing that had been proven over the years, it was that super genes were not recessive. There were now approximately fifty superheroes living in every corner of Earth - still doing what they could to promote truth and justice. And even so the world had not figured out the connection between these men and women of steel and the Kent dynasty. Of course, not all the descendants of Superman had his powers. Clark knew that better than most. After all, his father hadn't had these powers. He smiled sadly as he thought about Joel and Laura. If only Joel had had Superman's powers, maybe they wouldn't have died in that car accident when Clark was ten. Not that Clark hadn't been taken care of following their death. His Uncle Jonathan had immediately stepped in and taken on the role of a father. As soon as he'd finished college, Clark had taken a job at the Daily Planet, as many of his relatives had. It was something of a joke to regard the Daily Planet as the Kent family paper considering the number of Kents who had worked there during the past two hundred years. To many, the name Kent was synonymous with the Daily Planet. Still, even if he did work for the 'family business' in the eyes of the world, where it really mattered, in using his powers to help others, he'd never felt as if he had what it took. That was the primary reason that when this opening had come up for a reporter on Mars, he'd jumped at the chance. None of his family had, as yet, come to live on Mars. He knew criminals considered the planet a 'Kryptonian free' zone. He was not on his way there to rectify the situation. He was on his way to Mars to escape. He hoped that living in a 'Kryptonian free' zone, he'd finally be able to find himself - that he'd learn who he was apart from his famous family. It wasn't until he'd accepted this assignment that the dreams had started - like the dream he'd had tonight. The dreams were different every time. But they all had one thing in common - the woman. As he stared unseeing at the stars, he wondered what it all meant. If, of course, it meant anything at all. * * * * * * * * * Clark made his way through customs. Once outside, he stopped and looked around. Someone from the Daily Planet was supposed to be meeting him here. "Clark Kent?" asked a man's voice beside him. "Yes," he replied, turning towards the man who'd spoken. The man stuck out his hand. "I'm Paul Wilson," the man said. Clark quickly stuck his documents in his pocket and took Mr. Wilson's hand. "I didn't expect you to meet me personally, Mr. Wilson," he said. "I needed to get out of the office. And please, call me Paul," he replied. Clark smiled. He already liked the older man. He knew Paul Wilson's reputation back from when he was working as a reporter during the Martian War of Independence. Now that he was the editor of the Martian edition of the Planet and responsible for submitting articles about Mars for Earth's edition of the Planet, he had proven himself to be a great editor, bringing out the best in the reporters under him. Clark turned his attention back to what the older man was saying. "Besides, I wanted to fill you in on... well, shall we call it protocol here on Mars. There are a few things you should be aware of. But first... I assume you brought more luggage." It was some time later before they had Clark's things and were making their way out of the building. Paul pulled a remote from his pocket and hit a button. It was only a minute or so before a black car appeared. The men loaded Clark's things into the trunk before getting into the car themselves. Paul gave the car an address and then turned the driver's seat slightly so that he could talk to Clark as the car proceeded to their destination. "Are all vehicles fully automated here?" Clark asked. Paul shook his head. "Even this car can be driven manually. But I want to give you a quick run down on what things are like here. As I'm sure you know, Mars gained its independence from Earth during a bloody war fifteen years ago. It's now a democracy. However, there's still some civil unrest and a very active underground. As a result, Mars is still under a kind of martial law. There's a curfew. Security personal might stop you at any time to check your documentation. You need a special pass to travel outside the city. Things like that." "Why? From what I've read, the Mar... Martians... umm... the people of Mars are happy with independence." "You can call us Martians," Paul informed the younger man. "That's how we've chosen to identify ourselves. We call you an Earthling, after all. Anyway, you're right. The Martians wanted independence and they fought ferociously for it. What they aren't happy with is their new government." "I haven't heard anything about that." "Well, let's just say that all reports to Earth about activities on Mars are censored. We walk a tight rope here between reporting the news and being allowed to continue to operate. As a result, although I've never allowed a story to run that isn't true, there are other stories that I haven't been able to publish. Authorities insist it's just a temporary measure, until unrest settles down, but it's now been fifteen years and there's still no sign of things changing." "So is that why people aren't happy?" "Not entirely. You see, things aren't quite as 'democratic' as the people on Earth might think. On the surface it is, but there are forces at work behind the scene. As a result, those who want to change things, don't seem to last long in the power structure. There are also some laws which... Let's just say that you will likely understand what people are rebelling against once you've been here for a while. Ah, we're here," said Paul as the car pulled to a stop in front of a large hotel. Clark glanced up at a sign. The Lexor. "They have one here, too?" he asked. Paul laughed. "They have them everywhere," he confirmed. "Still, it is the best hotel on Mars. And since the Planet's picking up the tab, enjoy. Just..." he paused, looking Clark straight in the eye, "...no room service and none of those inordinately priced peanuts." Clark smiled. "No problem, sir." "Okay, well, here is where I leave you. If you decide to do some sightseeing, bear in mind that there's an eleven o'clock curfew. Tomorrow morning, just catch a cab to the Planet. They'll accept Earth currency. And... Do you have a tux?" "I suppose I can get one. Why?" "Well, Damian Luthor is having a reception tomorrow evening for the first American Ambassador on Mars since independence and everyone who's anyone will be there. I'd like to introduce you to some of the movers and shakers." Clark's eyes narrowed at the mention of the name of Damian Luthor. He asked a few discrete questions, confirming his suspicions that one of the descendants of the infamous businessman, Lex Luthor, was on Mars. "I see you're aware of our Mr. Luthor." "I know the family," Clark responded. * * * * * * * * * "Are we all set up, Nathan?" Damian Luthor asked, looking at the older man who'd just entered his office. "Yes, monsieur," Nathan Saint-Jean replied with a slight French accent. "Channel LH-427 on," he said and a television screen in the wall sprang to life. Luthor settled on the corner of his desk and a small smile found its way onto his face as he observed what was obviously a hidden camera in what appeared to be a hotel room. His smile widened as he watched a young woman enter the room followed by an older man in a business suit. The woman glanced at the camera before quickly redirecting her attention to the older gentleman. "That's right, love. I'm right here," Damian said as if the woman on the screen could actually hear him. "Just follow your orders." * * * * * * * * * Clark got checked in and was heading for his room, number 429, when his hearing picked up some sort of argument coming from the room next to his. "Robert, please," a woman said, her tone half-chuckle, half-plea. "Come on, baby. Don't get coy on me now," replied a seductive male voice. Clark ignored it as he continued on his way to his room - just as he usually did when his superpowers picked up something. In fact, he was somewhat surprised he'd even heard it. He'd worked very hard not to have his hearing pick up cries for help that he knew he couldn't answer. He brushed off the small curiosity and was just about to place the palm of his hand on the electronic keypad on the door to his room when the words again broke through his barriers. "I said no!" the woman exclaimed. There were sounds of an ensuing struggle. Clark's hand hovered above the keypad. "You little slut!" the man responded, the words being accompanied by what sounded like material being torn. "Do you really think you can tease me all afternoon and then expect me to..." That was all Clark could stand. He dropped his suitcase and in a moment had forced open the door to the room the argument was coming from. He took in the situation immediately. An older man had his pants pulled down, and beneath him a woman was pinned to the bed. The man had ripped open her blouse and was using one hand to hold her arms above her head while the other roughly massaged her breast. In an instant, Clark had the man pulled off. "The woman said no!" Clark exclaimed, fighting to retain control of his anger. The man didn't respond. Using one arm to prevent Clark from seeing his face, the man quickly pulled up his pants and fled the room. For a moment, Clark was tempted to stop him. But then he remembered the woman. He had to be sure she was okay. He turned towards the woman to see a stunning brunette. He quickly looked away again when he realized she was in the process of trying to cover herself. He waited until his ears told him she had finished and risen from the bed. "Are you okay?" he asked, turning towards her and looking at her fully for the first time. He blinked. Suddenly, all he could hear was the pounding of his heart in his ears. "What did you do that for?" the woman demanded. He took an instinctive step back in surprise at the look of anger in her eyes. "I thought..." he began in confusion. He'd very obviously just stopped this woman from being raped. Why was she angry at him? "You didn't think!" she interrupted. "Did it ever occur to you that what goes on behind closed doors just might not be any of your business?" "But..." his voice trailed off. Between the effect this woman's very presence seemed to have on him and her unexpected anger, Clark felt completely off balance. Before he could find his thoughts, the woman grabbed her coat and stormed from the room, leaving Clark standing there in stunned silence. * * * * * * * * * Lindsey Landon leaned up against the wall outside the Lexor as she waited for her cab. Why had that man come in when he had? Just a few minutes later and it would have all been over. But because of him, she'd failed. She'd failed to follow through on Damian's orders. And she knew only too well what the punishment was for failure. Well, there was nothing she could do to correct things now. It wasn't as if she could find Senator Drake and say, 'Sorry we got interrupted. Now, where were we?' The only thing to do was to make her way back to Damian and try to convince him that it wasn't her fault. As she waited for her cab, her thoughts drifted back to the man who'd interrupted them. She knew she'd been hard on him. After all, he really had been trying to help. She gave a sad smile. She didn't think anyone had ever done anything like that for her before, at least without wanting something in return. After all, wasn't that what was life was about - a series of trade-offs? She let out a breath and her hand came up to her cheek. She felt an unfamiliar wetness on it. She lowered her hand and looked at the moisture in stunned silence. She wouldn't have believed that she still knew how to cry. She quickly brushed the back of her hand over her cheeks, removing the tears. She must be going crazy. How could she possibly cry just because a man seemed to be helping her without expecting anything in return? She just hadn't given him a chance to tell her what he wanted in exchange for his assistance. He must have expected something. And considering the fact that he was a man, she suspected she knew what that something was. The cab arrived. As Lindsey climbed inside, she dismissed her rescuer from her mind and turned her attention to handling Damian. She placed her hand on the computer pad and recited an address. Then she sat back and allowed the taxi to take her to her destination. * * * * * * * * * Damian sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes as he considered the situation. Who was the imbecile who'd interrupted? The positioning of the camera hadn't given him a clear look at the man's face. If it had, Damian would be telling Nathan to run a computer check and the man would be dead by morning. Damian considered the situation. Senator Robert Drake had been difficult recently, trying to bring about changes to Martian law that Damian didn't want and, more importantly, not backing down at the first signs of Damian's displeasure. A few discrete inquiries informed Damian that Drake had something of a reputation for liking his sex rough. In particular, there were rumors that he'd been known not to take 'no' for an answer. Of course, that was all they were - rumors. Still, there had to be a way for Damian to make use of that information. It didn't take Damian long to find a solution. Lindsey. But then that man had interrupted. So what now? Suddenly, an unexpected thought occurred to him. It wasn't important that Drake hadn't actually gone through with the rape. He'd gotten far enough. It was obvious that if that man hadn't interrupted, Drake would have raped Lindsey. And he had the whole thing on computer card. Damian nodded slowly. That should be enough to get control of the Senator. That left only one problem. Having the rape interrupted had left Damian feeling... frustrated. He'd been looking forward to the show. He looked at his watch. When would Lindsey get back? He glanced up when the door to his office opened. He narrowed his eyes as he regarded the woman standing there. She looked incredibly nervous. "I'm sorry, Damian," Lindsey began immediately. "I don't know where that guy came from. You've got to believe that I had nothing to do with it." Damian's man-servant, Assabi, slid the door closed behind her, leaving her alone with Damian. She swallowed hard. He almost smiled at this indication of fear. "Who was he?" Damian demanded. "The man who interrupted." "I have no idea, Damian. I swear," Lindsey responded immediately. Damian rose from behind his desk. Now that he realized that the man who'd interrupted hadn't thwarted his plans, Damian wasn't particularly angry. But there was no reason to tell Lindsey that. After all, there was nothing quite like a little rough sex to get the blood flowing. At least on that point, he and the Senator agreed, he thought with amusement. Besides, right now Lindsey needed to be reminded what happened when she failed him. He walked over to the wall and took down a black, leather whip before making his way to Lindsey. He grabbed her arm, forcing her towards his desk. * * * * * * * * * She had a blindfold over her eyes and her hands tied behind her back. She could feel the cold wind on her face. Behind her was a wall. She was about to take a step forward when she realized she was standing on a ledge. She took a deep breath. Okay, she could handle this. She inched her way slowly along the ledge. She hadn't gone far when she placed a foot on the ledge only to feel it give out from under her. She gasped, struggling to regain her balance. Once she had, she steadied her heart before beginning to inch back the other way. "Stay calm. Stay calm," she told her frazzled nerves. "Okay. I'm high up. I'm blind. My hands are tied. The ledge is falling apart," she said in an effort to evaluate her situation. "Okay, panic," she concluded. She gasped when another portion of the ledge crumbled beneath her feet. Once again she managed to retain her balance. Taking another breath, she continued. "Keep moving," she told herself. After all, what was the alternative? "You'll find a window." No sooner were the words out of her mouth than another section of the ledge gave out, trapping her between two crumbled portions. Before she had a chance to figure out what to do next, the section she was standing on collapsed. She screamed as she tumbled towards the ground. Lindsey bolted upright in bed, breathing hard. She let her pounding heart calm. A dream. It was just another dream. Yet, she couldn't help feeling that they were getting worse. Every night it seemed she was having another dream where she was dangling over the jaws of death. In one such dream, she'd been thrown out of an airplane. In another, she'd been suspended by her arms above a cauldron as she slowly descended towards the liquid inside. There was only one thing to be grateful for. So far she always woke before hitting the ground or being submerged in an unknown liquid. She'd heard somewhere that if you died in your dream, you would die for real. She glanced over at the man in bed beside her. She wished she could just go back to her place, but he'd made it very clear that she was to stay. She gave a sad smile. Maybe it would be better if she did hit the ground. No. She couldn't do that. No matter how much she might hate it, she had to find a way to go on. There was too much at stake if she didn't. Still, that didn't stop her from hating Damian for issuing orders like the one he'd issued today. Nor did it stop her from hating herself for allowing Damian to use her that way. Suddenly, the guilt was unbearable. She carefully slipped back the sheets and climbed out of bed, wincing slightly as a result of last night's punishment. She glanced back at Damian. He hadn't moved. She quietly picked up her purse and made her way to the washroom. She caught her reflection in the mirror before quickly looking away. Directing her attention to her purse, it only took her a moment to find what she was looking for. She pulled out a container and undid the cap. She spilled some of the fine, brown powder onto the counter and, using a mirror, fashioned it into a straight line. She removed a small tube from her purse and, bending over the counter, inhaled the substance. She closed her eyes and allowed the drug to take affect before returning the items to her purse. She briefly wondered if she could get away with leaving the bathroom light on before deciding against it. Damian would be mad if the light woke him up. It didn't matter to him that she was still scared of the dark. Dutifully, she turned out the light and made her way back into the room where Damian was now snoring. She crawled into bed, staying as close to her side as she could without falling off, and stared unseeingly at the ceiling. As she did, she thought again about the man who'd prevented her from being raped by Senator Drake. Where was he when she really needed him? Damian rolled over, stretching his arm so that it rested across her waist. She swallowed hard, suddenly feeling as if she was going to die of suffocation. She forced her mind back to the stranger in order to forget the nightmare that was her life. But this time, in her fantasies, it was not someone as insignificant as Senator Drake he was saving her from, but the man lying beside her. She knew it was a fantasy, but at least it allowed her to keep some small amount of hope. She clung to that hope the way a drowning man clings to his rescuer, even knowing as she did so that the situation was hopeless. There was no way out. * * * * * * * * * Clark had just finished a tour of the newsroom, courtesy of a young man who had introduced himself as Jeremy O'Brian. "Don't let Paul intimidate you," Jeremy said as they reached Paul's office. "His bark is worse than his bite." "I won't," Clark replied. Jeremy knocked on the door and then, when a voice inside told them to come in, pressed the button to slide the door open. "Come in. Come in," said Paul with enthusiasm when he saw who was at the door. When the two men entered, Paul instructed them to close the door and then gestured them to seats. "What do you know about the circumstances that led to you being offered the position here?" Paul asked. Clark hesitated, not entirely sure what Paul was wanting to know. "Well," he began slowly, "I know that the person I'm replacing died. Is that what you mean?" Paul nodded. "Is that all you know?" "Yes. Why? Is there more?" "Much. But before I fill you in, I need to make sure for myself that you're the right man, as it were, for this assignment. I must warn you, it is dangerous. If, as a result, you aren't interested, I'll understand, but..." "Mr. Wilson, I've been an investigative reporter for seven years now. I know that anytime you try to uncover a story people don't want told, there's a danger. It doesn't scare me." Paul smiled. It was the answer he'd expected from the young man in front of him. He was a Kent, after all. Still... "This is no ordinary story, son. I think it's what got Dale Scardello, your predecessor, killed. Are you still so sure you want in on this story?" "I want in," Clark responded without hesitation, his curiosity getting the best of him. Paul regarded him for a moment more before nodding. "Okay. Well, let's start at the beginning. I told you before that there are some... problems with our democratic system here on Mars. There are rumors that some of our more powerful businessmen are really in control. Well..." Paul glanced over at Jeremy. "One in particular. Damian Luthor." He paused as he considered how to continue. "Scardello was conducting an investigation into Luthor when he was killed," Paul said after a moment. "I think there's a connection." "What do the police say?" "They're writing it up as a mugging. And since the man they claim murdered him is dead, the case is closed." "So... why do you think differently?" "Scardello said he had a source who was willing to talk. He wouldn't even give me the man's name. It seems that his source was really scared and he was afraid of spooking him. All I know is that it was someone close to Luthor. Anyway, he was on his way to meet with this source when he was killed." "Did you tell this to the police?" "No. They decided it was a mugging without asking me about it. I decided to keep my mouth shut." "You think the police are on Luthor's payroll," Clark said more than asked. "Not all of them. But, yes, I'd bet a year's salary that Luthor's money made this a mugging. After all, if this was a mugging, one thing's for certain, this was no ordinary mugging. Scardello was gutted. It was meant to be a lesson. And he wasn't killed in the place where his body was found. There was insufficient blood." "Then what reason are the police giving to conclude that this was a mugging?" Clark asked. "His watch and wallet were missing. And he always wore a diamond stud earring. It had been ripped out of his ear." Clark was nodding slowly. If Mr. Wilson's facts were correct, it was odd that the police wouldn't have investigated further. "Now, when Scardello died, I had a lot of applications for his position. I chose yours for a couple of reasons," Paul continued. "First, you aren't from here. That means it's unlikely that you're on Luthor's payroll." "Unlikely?" Clark asked. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he muttered although his grin undercut the words. "That's one thing you've got to learn right now. Don't trust anyone. I trust Jeremy. If you need research, go to him. He's a wiz with computers. If you need anything else, come to me. Otherwise, don't trust anyone. I don't know who on the Planet staff might have been compromised. I imagine someone has been. It's the most logical explanation as to how Luthor knew that Scardello had convinced someone to talk. "Also, we can always talk in here or the conference room. I have both places swept for bugs twice a day. But be careful about your hotel room. I'd like you to find your own place as quickly as possible. Once you do, I'll have it swept regularly, too." "I'll see what I can do to get a place first thing tomorrow - that is if you don't mind me coming in a little late." "Fine." "So what's the other reason you hired me?" "Because of your family." Clark shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "What is it, son?" Paul asked, noticing Clark's discomfort. "Nothing," Clark replied. Paul just raised his eyebrows in response. Clark looked the man dead in the eye for a moment before realizing that Paul wasn't going to back down. He shrugged. "It's just that I came to Mars, in part, to be my own man. On Earth, especially when working for the Daily Planet, I was constantly fighting against people thinking that my family connections are the only reason I was working for the Planet. I just got sick of it." "Son, that's an asset." "An asset?" Clark asked skeptically. "It makes people underestimate you. Besides, that's not exactly what I meant when I said I hired you, in part, because of your family. After I received your application, I had Jeremy do some research." He nodded at Jeremy, silently telling him to fill Clark in on what he'd discovered. "I found out about the bad blood between the Kents and the Luthors," Jeremy said. "I believe it all started with an ancestor of yours. Actually, one who has the same name as you. And his wife, Lois Lane. And a man named Lex Luthor. It seems that in generation after generation, your family and his have clashed." "Anyway, when I found out about that," Paul added, "I knew that you were my man. With a history like that, you are the one man I don't believe Luthor will be able to bribe." Clark nodded slowly. He was only too well aware of that aspect of his family history. "So where do I start?" he asked. "I'll show you who the major players are at Luthor's reception tonight. Now, since we don't want anyone at the Planet knowing what you're really working on, I'll be assigning you smaller stories to fill up your days. I'm assuming you don't mind long hours." "No, sir," Clark responded. After all, this story was a reporter's dream. Paul stood and offered Clark his hand. "I knew you were the man for the job," he said. Clark rose and took Paul's hand. "I won't let you down, sir," he assured his new boss. "If there's anything there, I'll find it." * * * * * * * * * Paul was making good on his promise - introducing Clark to one high-powered politician and businessman after another. Still, he hadn't met Damian Luthor. "Ambassador Stern," Paul said, directing the attention of an African American man to him. "I'm Paul Wilson," Paul continued, offering the American Ambassador his hand. "Mr. Wilson," Stern replied, shaking Paul's hand firmly. "Yes, I'm pleased to meet you. I was a big fan when you covered the War of Independence. I heard you're the editor of the Daily Planet's Martian edition now." "Yes, sir," Paul replied. "And this," he continued, placing a hand on Clark's shoulder, "is the newest addition to my reporting team, Clark Kent." Stern shook Clark's hand before saying, "Kent? You wouldn't be any relation to the Daily Planet Kents, would you?" Inside, Clark cringed. Still, he gave Stern a warm smile. "That's my family, sir," he responded graciously. It wasn't long before Paul and the U.S. Ambassador discovered they had the same alma mater, sending the conversation in a direction that basically excluded participation by Clark. As a result, Clark's attention drifted off and he began to glance around the room casually. It might be sort of fun to see if he could spot Damian Luthor before Paul pointed him out. However, his search for Luthor was short lived. Clark spotted the woman the moment she entered the room. She held her body with incredible confidence as she looked around casually, as if unimpressed by her surroundings. A man who appeared to be in his mid-forties materialized at her side and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, took his arm and accompanied him into the room. Clark followed her with his eyes. Her long, low-cut, black evening gown clung to every inch of her body, causing the blood flowing through Clark's veins to heat. She moved with such incredible grace. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything more beautiful in his life. The man leaned over and whispered something else before leaving her alone. Clark moved towards her as if drawn by some unseen force, but stopped when someone else approached her and obviously asked her to dance because she nodded and then accompanied him onto the dance floor. "She's beautiful, isn't she?" said a voice into his ear. Clark looked beside him to find that Paul had left the ambassador to join him. "That doesn't even begin to describe her," Clark responded, redirecting his attention to the woman. "Who is she?" "Her name is Lindsey Landon. I'm not exactly sure who she is or where she came from, except to say that a few years ago she began turning up at these types of functions on Luthor's arm. Be careful, Clark. She's someone you'd do well to stay away from." "Even if I want to find out what I can about Luthor?" Clark asked, his eyes following Lindsey's every movement on the dance floor. Paul held his tongue even though it was obvious that Clark's interest in this woman was anything but professional. The time might come to say something, but that time was not now. * * * * * * * * * As the Argentine Ambassador droned on about some problems companies in Argentina were having getting shipping contracts to Mars, Damian glanced around the room at his subjects. His eyes landed on a man he didn't recognize standing next to Paul Wilson at the edge of the dance floor. The man seemed completely transfixed by something. Damian's eyes followed the man's gaze until he found the source of the man's fascination. "Excuse me," Damian said to the Ambassador, before making his way to Nathan. "Find out who that is," he instructed his right hand man. It was only a few minutes before he had his answer. "His name is Clark Kent, monsieur," Nathan informed Damian. "From the Daily Planet Kents?" "So I'm given to understand. Apparently, he just took a job at the Martian office of the Daily Planet. Aren't the Kents the family that has given your family so much trouble over the years?" "They are, Nathan. As soon as Lindsey's dance is over, tell her I need to speak to her." * * * * * * * * * Nathan watched as Lindsey was escorted off the dance floor by the chairman of the joint chiefs of Mars' armed forces. He waited as the two parted. It was obvious that the chairman was thanking her for the dance and Lindsey was responding appropriately. The chairman of the joint chiefs bowed slightly and moved away. Nathan was about to approach when the recent addition to the Daily Planet stepped forward. Nathan hesitated for a moment before glancing over at Luthor. He caught Damian's eye before nodding towards Lindsey. Damian's eyebrows rose. He hesitated for a moment before gesturing Nathan away. Nathan nodded his understanding. Obviously, Damian had decided to allow the conversation to continue. * * * * * * * * * "Ms. Landon," said a voice that wasn't familiar to Lindsey. She turned to face the man who'd spoken and for the first time in her life, she couldn't think of anything to say. The man she'd spent last night thinking about was now standing directly in front of her, and her heart involuntarily began racing. Of course, her mind knew her thoughts from last night were a fantasy, but apparently her heart didn't. "Would you like to dance?" the man asked, when she didn't say anything. "How do you know my name?" she finally asked, regaining the power of speech. "I came here with Paul Wilson. He told me your name." She narrowed her eyes as she considered that information. She knew who Paul Wilson was. That meant, in all likelihood, the man before her was a reporter. After all, she'd seen Dale Scardello at functions like this in the past. Paul Wilson seemed to regard this type of function as an opportunity for his reporters to make a few contacts and do a little digging. And she now understood why this man had come to her rescue yesterday. She had known he wanted something. It was almost a relief to know what it was. It kept her belief in human nature intact. "Excuse me," she said, turning away from him and, without further conversation, walking away, trying to keep from drowning in her sudden and quite unexpected feelings of anguish. She was alone. She'd always known that. Still... There had been that moment when she'd allowed herself to fantasize about the unknown man rushing to her rescue. And it was hard to have the fantasy so abruptly crushed. * * * * * * * * * "So what did Mr. Kent want?" asked Damian as Lindsey slipped her arm through his. "Mr. Kent?" she asked. "The man you were just talking to," Damian clarified. She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "He wanted to dance. I said no." She kept her expression carefully neutral as Damian studied her. She knew what he was looking for - any indication of deception. She had been talking to a reporter, after all. "I want you to reconsider," he said casually. "What?" she asked. "You heard me. Kent just took over Scardello's job. That means he could be dangerous. Find out why he decided to come to Mars to work for the Daily Planet." "Why me?" she asked, trying to control her feelings of discomfort. "He's obviously more interested in talking to you than he would be in talking to me," Damian replied. Lindsey swallowed hard. The last thing she wanted was to have anything to do with Kent. She wasn't exactly sure why. "Of course, if you don't want to... I guess I could find someone else to do it. Someone younger, perhaps," he said, conveying his meaning with his eyes. Lindsey didn't miss the threat. "I'll do it, Damian," she responded immediately, releasing his arm and turning to survey the room - looking for the target of Damian's latest order. Once she spotted him, she began making her way towards him before hesitating. Paul Wilson was approaching Kent. It wouldn't do any good to let Wilson know what she was up to. * * * * * * * * * "Clark Kent, this is Senator Robert Drake," Paul said, introducing Clark to yet another important person. Clark watched the Senator carefully as he took the man's hand. He searched for any sign of recognition. However, the Senator showed no such signs. He had obviously not looked to see who had pulled him off Lindsey Landon the day before. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that the man didn't know who he was. After all, the Senator had fled the room very quickly upon being interrupted. And if Clark hadn't used his x-ray vision to look through the arm that the Senator had used to obstruct his face, he certainly wouldn't have recognized him now. He suddenly realized that the Senator was introducing his wife. Clark gave a warm smile to the poor woman, who was likely completely oblivious to the indiscretions of her husband. "And this is my daughter," Drake was saying, directing Clark's attention to the young woman beside them, "Mandy." "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kent," Mandy said, giving him a big smile along with her hand. "Would you care to dance, Ms. Drake?" Clark asked immediately. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the woman's father as quickly as possible, being half afraid of what he might say or do to the man if he didn't. From Lindsey's reaction to his 'rescue,' he obviously didn't know the whole story. Still, what he'd seen didn't incline him to want to spend time with the man. "I'd love to," he realized Mandy had responded. "And call me Mandy." "Fine, Mandy then," he said, keeping his own smile firmly in place. "And please, call me Clark." Mandy nodded her consent and the two took to the dance floor as Paul and Robert continued their discussion. * * * * * * * * * Clark tried to keep his mind focused on the conversation Mandy was engaging him in as they danced. He was managing to answer her questions and even ask a few of his own, but that was about all the effort he was able to muster for casual conversation. His mind was in a whirl. The center of this particular whirlwind was none other than the mysterious Lindsey Landon. In his peripheral vision he could see her on the edge of the dance floor. Was she watching them? He didn't dare look. Since he'd 'rescued' her from her would-be assailant, who as it turned out was none other than the father of the woman now in his arms, he'd found himself consumed with thoughts of her. He'd seen such anger in her eyes and yet there had been... His mind had spent most of last night trying to find a way to describe it. It wasn't until he'd approached her this evening that he'd been able to identify that elusive emotion. When he'd asked her to dance he'd seen shock, suspicion, fear... His thought stopped on that last word for a moment. Fear of what? Not him, surely. Still, fear had definitely been there. But the overwhelming emotion he'd felt was sadness. It was as if it consumed her entire being, leaking out of her to touch the people around her. He was equally certain that to most men, the sadness was regarded as part of the appeal. It gave her a mysterious quality, thereby increasing her desirability. To Clark, the sadness that radiated from her seemed to reach inside and touch his soul, making him want, more than anything else, to find a way to make her smile. His eyes caught sight of the man Paul had told him was Damian Luthor. It seemed that Paul must have finished up his conversation with the Senator because Luthor was making his way over to the man. Clark tuned out the woman in his arms to listen in on the conversation. Senator Drake had tried to rape Lindsey yesterday. From what Paul had told him, he knew there was some sort of connection between Lindsey and Luthor. Clark was suddenly extremely curious about what Luthor and Drake might have to say to each other. "Senator," said Luthor, offering the man his hand. Senator Drake took it, briefly shaking it. "I know what you want to speak to me about, Damian. And I'm sorry. I know you don't agree with my proposed legislation, but..." "Actually, Robert, that isn't exactly what I wanted," interrupted Damian. Damian reached into his inner jacket pocket and removed an envelope. He handed it to the Senator who took it cautiously. "What's this?" Drake asked. Clark quickly x-rayed the envelope, finding a small computer card inside. "Take a look at that," Luthor said. "Then give me a call. I'm sure there's some way we can come to an acceptable arrangement." Without waiting for a reply, Damian turned and made his way over to someone else, quickly beginning another conversation. "Clark?" A woman's voice, sounding very close indeed, brought him back to the present. "I'm sorry," said Clark, looking again at the woman in his arms. "I really am sorry for zoning out for a moment there. I guess, after my trip here yesterday, I still haven't got my space legs." Mandy smiled. "It's all right," she assured him. Just then the music stopped. Clark stepped back, releasing a reluctant Mandy. "Well, thank you for the dance," Clark said, wanting to make his exit. "Do you think we could..." Mandy began. "Mr. Kent," a woman's voice interrupted. Clark and Mandy both looked at the woman who'd spoken. "I think I owe you a dance," Lindsey said. "Umm... Yes," said Clark immediately. He turned back to a now disappointed looking Mandy. "Would you excuse me?" he said and then, in a slight daze, turned to Lindsey. She slipped easily into his arms as a new song began. It felt so right to be holding her like this. "Sorry if I interrupted something," said Lindsey. "Umm... actually, I'm glad you did. I was wanting to talk to you," said Clark. "Can I ask you a question first?" she asked. "Sure." "What's your first name?" "Clark," he replied, suddenly wondering how it was that she'd learned his last name. But she obviously had. After all, she'd called him Mr. Kent when she'd approached. "I haven't seen you around before," she remarked casually. "I just arrived from Earth yesterday," he responded. Maybe she was just trying to make casual conversation, but there was something... Maybe he was just reacting to the fact that she'd decided to talk to him. "Do you want to tell me what yesterday was about?" he asked. "It's not important," she said dismissively. "Although I must admit I'm surprised that I didn't read about it in the Daily Planet this morning." Clark stopped dancing, pulling back slightly to look in Lindsey's eyes. "Or didn't you realize who you'd stopped?" she continued. "Now that you know it was Senator Drake, I suppose it will be splashed all over the front page tomorrow." "Do I take it that you'd prefer that no one know?" he asked, refusing to be intimidated by her tone. "Give the man a prize," Lindsey responded. Clark looked at her for a moment more before responding. "Okay. I won't say anything," he said, carefully considering what he was saying. She was right: a Senator attempting rape was definitely newsworthy. However, she was the intended victim. If she didn't want anyone to know what had happened, wasn't it her decision? He noticed, with a small sense of satisfaction, the surprise in her eyes. He considered it a small victory that he was able to get that reaction out of the woman in his arms. Still, there was obviously more going on here than just an attempted rape. Since they were still standing on the dance floor in each other's arms, Clark once again began to move to the music, taking Lindsey with him. "Do you want to tell me what happened? In particular, why didn't you want me to stop him?" he asked. He felt Lindsey tense. "I don't want to talk about it," she responded immediately. Then she pulled back slightly before meeting his eyes. He felt an unexpected spark of... something, jumping between them. "Please let it go," she whispered after a moment and he suddenly was very aware of both sadness and fear in her gaze. His heart clenched. He responded by nodding, not certain that he'd be able to deny this woman anything. Maybe Paul was right. Maybe he should keep his distance from Lindsey Landon. She seemed able to twist his heart around her little finger without even trying. She cleared her throat and Clark could almost feel her emotionally withdraw from him. Still, he was certain she had felt that unexpected connection between them, too. "So what brings you to Mars?" she asked. Clark immediately understood. This wasn't a dance; it was an interrogation. For what reason, he had no idea. Still, it was probably best to answer her questions. After all, what reason could he give to refuse that wouldn't make her suspicious? He smiled sadly and then surrendered to the inevitable. After all, with the exception of his discussions with Paul today, there really wasn't anything she couldn't know. Well, except... But she wasn't likely to ask if he had superpowers. "Is the interrogation over?" Clark asked softly when the music ended along with Lindsey's questions. Lindsey stepped away quickly, diverting her eyes, thereby confirming Clark's suspicions about the motivation for her questions. His hand came up to her cheek, gently but firmly obliging her to look at him. "I don't know what's going on, Lindsey, but..." He paused, trying to find the right words to express his thought. "If you ever need a friend, you know where to find me." She quickly moved away from his hand, once again diverting her eyes. "Thank you for the dance," she said a little stiffly, before walking away. * * * * * * * * * As soon as she left the dance floor, Lindsey looked around for Damian. He was occupied, talking to a couple. Realizing that he'd be busy for the next few minutes, she decided to risk a much needed washroom break. She took off in the appropriate direction, clutching the purse tightly in her hand - knowing the small container holding the relief she needed was inside. Still, as much as she didn't want to think about it, her mind was still on what had transpired on that dance floor. Being in Clark's arms had felt so... She searched her mind for a moment before finding the word she wanted - familiar. How was that possible? It was terrifying not to have an answer to that question. She wasn't entirely sure why she'd interrupted so quickly after he'd finished his dance with Mandy Drake. It was just that watching them together... Nah. That was crazy. She couldn't possibly have felt jealous. No. In fact, she'd just been doing everything possible to get him to say no. If he said no, then she wouldn't be forced to spy on him. She was surprised by how quickly he had agreed. After all, interrupting him with Mandy wasn't the first time she'd been rude to him. It wasn't even the second time. Then, when that didn't scare him off, she'd baited him about the Senator. Still, he didn't take the bait. So she'd asked her questions. She was surprised when he seemed to understand what she was doing. She had thought her questions were casual - the type of questions one might ask on first meeting someone. Obviously, she hadn't been as subtle as she'd thought she had. Either that or he was smarter than her usual victims. Still, he hadn't responded with outrage. When he'd told her that if she ever needed a friend, she knew how to find him, she'd seen such compassion in his eyes - as if he could see right through her. She had suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable. She really hoped that would be her last encounter with Mr. Kent. * * * * * * * * * She had a blindfold over her eyes and her hands tied behind her back. She could feel the cold wind on her face. Behind her was a wall. She was about to take a step forward when she realized she was standing on a ledge. She took a deep breath. Okay, she could handle this. She inched her way slowly along the ledge. She hadn't gone far when she placed a foot on the ledge only to feel it give out from under her. She gasped, struggling to regain her balance. Once she had, she steadied her heart before beginning to inch back the other way. "Stay calm. Stay calm," she told her frazzled nerves. "Okay. I'm high up. I'm blind. My hands are tied. The ledge is falling apart," she said in an effort to evaluate her situation. "Okay, panic," she concluded. She gasped when another portion of the ledge crumbled beneath her feet. Once again she managed to retain her balance. Taking another breath, she continued. "Keep moving," she told herself. After all, what was the alternative? "You'll find a window." No sooner were the words out of her mouth than another section of the ledge gave out, trapping her between two crumbled portions. Before she had a chance to figure out what to do next, the section she was standing on collapsed. "Claaaaarrrrrk!" she screamed, as she tumbled towards the ground. Almost instantly, two arms were wrapped around her, gently slowing and then stopping her fall. She closed her eyes in relief as he gradually lowered them to the ground. Lindsey sat upright in bed, breathing hard. Had she really called out Clark's name? What on earth was wrong with her? She slowly got out of bed, wrapped her robe around her, and padded softly into the living room. She considered turning on more lights before deciding that the night lights she always kept on provided enough illumination. She made her way over to the bar and poured herself a drink before settling down on the sofa. She looked around the luxurious room in disgust. It was a beautiful place, and in a way, it was hers, but still she hated it more with each passing day. Every stick of furniture, every painting, even the carpets on the floor had been chosen by one of Damian's people. It felt more like an ornate prison than a home. Still, at least Damian hadn't insisted that she stay at his penthouse tonight. She let her mind drift back to their conversation following the party. She had expected him to want to know any and everything she'd found out about Clark immediately. She'd been dismayed when he'd told her they would discuss it later, alone - especially after last night. Still, it wasn't her choice. "So, what did you find out?" asked Damian the instant they were alone. "I don't see why you care," she said. "I mean, he's no one." "He's a Kent," Damian responded. When she still didn't look impressed, he continued, "Let's just say that my family has a long history with the Kents. So what did you find out? Why is he here?" Lindsey let out a breath. "He said he came to Mars to get out from under the control of his family," Lindsey said. Actually, Clark had used the word 'shadow.' Lindsey wasn't sure why she was deceiving Damian. She did know that it wasn't a wise thing to do. Still, she continued. "Like I said, Damian, I don't think you have anything to worry about. He didn't seem particularly bright to me. Unlike you," she continued. She'd always found that if she fed his ego, he tended to be more receptive to what she had to say. Damian smiled slightly. "You're probably right," he concluded. Lindsey carefully hid her relief. "Still," Damian continued, "since it's obvious that he likes you, I want you to start seeing him. Get him to open up. I want to know everything Clark Kent does, thinks, or even feels." "Damian..." "Are you challenging me?" he asked. "Of course not, Damian. I just think it's a waste of time." She didn't know why, but she really didn't want to see Clark Kent again. Part of it, she knew, was that anyone Damian took an interest in was in danger. And, for reasons she didn't quite understand, she didn't want to see Clark in danger. Luthor came over to her. "It's just your time," he responded, running a hand down her throat to trace the material of her low-cut dress. "So, I want you to give him a call tomorrow. Is that understood?" Lindsey cringed inside at the feel of his hand on her. Still, she knew not to react. "Yes, Damian," she responded. His hand dropped. "That will be all," he said dismissively, making his way back to his desk. She quickly exited before he could change his mind. As she closed the door, she heard him speak into the phone. "Nathan, get me Cindy." His words as she left had caused her to remember how angry she'd been the first time she caught him with another woman. Now... now it was almost a relief when he wanted someone else. She gave her head a quick shake. 'Almost?' The only time she felt at all safe these days was when she knew he was with another woman. She felt a slight twinge of guilt, but quickly brushed it aside. After all, Cindy, whoever she was, might actually be happy to get a summons from Damian. She dragged her mind away from the stray thought to once again think about her conversation with Damian following the party. She could hardly believe that she'd had the nerve not to tell Damian that Clark was the man who'd stopped the rape. If he ever found out that she'd withheld information from him... She refused to follow that thought any further, choosing instead to take another sip of her drink, closing her eyes and allowing the liquid to burn its way down her throat. So why had she protected Clark? She had no idea. Except that she couldn't seem to completely shake her initial impression of the man. After all the fathers she'd had, after Damian, was there something in her that still wanted to believe that there were good men in the world? Was she so desperate to believe that she was trying to fit Clark into that mold? Her mind drifted back to the dream. It was the first time in her dream that she'd not woken up the instant she began falling. Yet, instead of hitting the ground, she'd been caught by Clark. What was that supposed to mean? She quickly emptied the remainder of the drink into her mouth and swallowed. She had to be going crazy. Or were there really decent men left in the world? Yeah, right. And the Kryptonians were really just ordinary people, living ordinary lives. And there really was a Santa Claus. She got up and made her way back to the bedroom. She really would have preferred not to have to see him again. But what could she give Damian as her reason? No. There was only one choice. She'd see him. And she'd look until she found out something about him that would allow her to quit thinking about him as if he were the one decent man left in the universe. That shouldn't take too long. So then, why was it that she could hear her own heart pounding in her ears at just the thought of being allowed to see him again? She quickly pushed the disturbing question out of her mind. As she crawled into bed, she thought about the cameras and microphones she knew were all over her apartment. She hoped she hadn't called out Clark's name when she'd woken from her dream. She wasn't quite sure how she'd explain such a slip to Damian. * * * * * * * * * Clark's first task the next morning was to find an apartment. He went to the classified section of the paper on his palm computer. Although he was currently using the computer copy of the paper, he still normally preferred the paper version of the Planet. He looked at the virtual images and made note of a number of possibilities before making some calls. Once he had set up a series of appointments, he headed out to look at apartments. Although he made a good salary, the cost of rent on apartments seemed high - even for someone who had recently come from Metropolis. He finally found a one bedroom that was a little small but quaint. He wasn't concerned about the shape the apartment was in. After all, it would only take a few minutes to conduct any repairs necessary. Nor was the neighborhood a particular concern. He liked the feeling of the place. However, it was obvious that the image of the place he'd seen in the paper had been a file image. The place he'd observed was neat and well cared for. This place was just shy of a disaster zone. He had wanted to find a furnished apartment, but the fact that this apartment didn't have furniture wasn't a particular problem, especially given the fact that he didn't even need a bed. Still, for the first time in his life, Clark found himself wanting to make a place feel like a home. And that meant... furniture. He found a hidden closet and smiled. Almost every member of his family had a hidden closet in his or her home. Of course, he had no use for it, but there was something almost fun about the idea of having one. The woman didn't seem to notice what he'd found so he quickly closed it up and continued exploring the apartment. He walked over to a small door and slid it open. He smiled slightly. The place had a balcony. It looked out into a back alley, but the idea was nice. He might even get himself an old-fashioned electric barbeque and have some friends over when he got settled in. "I'll take it," said Clark, turning to the older woman showing the apartment. The woman looked at him for a long moment, sizing him up. "I don't allow no loud parties," she said. "That's not a problem," Clark assured her. She looked at him for a minute more before nodding. It took another half hour before the lease was signed, first and last month's rent as well as a security deposit was transferred from his account, and his handprint was keyed into the security pad on his door. He took one final look around the apartment before heading into the Daily Planet. He'd bring his things over from the hotel after work. He'd just walked into the newsroom when Paul barked at him to get down to the Senate. Apparently there was some kind of protest going on that Paul wanted covered. A small smile appeared on his lips as Clark headed back the way he'd come. The place might be different, but one thing was for certain - no matter where you went, the job was the same, only the names and scenery changed. It was a reassuring feeling. * * * * * * * * * Clark arrived at the Senate building to see a small, very vocal group of mostly women holding picket signs and chanting, "Women are people, too," as Senate personnel began arriving back from lunch. He glanced at the group, trying to decide who to approach for an interview. There was an older, petite, blonde woman who seemed to be leading the protest. He watched her for a moment, completely enchanted. Then he thought about something Paul had told him. Wasn't Mars under a form of Martial law? Wouldn't that make it very dangerous to be protesting like this? He glanced around. If it wasn't something that happened every day, shouldn't the place be flooded with television crews and reporters? Yet, he realized that he was the only reporter of any description who appeared to be taking an interest. He relaxed. Paul had said it was only a form of Martial law. Maybe protests were allowed. Deciding to wait until the lunch crowd thinned before interrupting, he took a seat on a nearby park bench to watch. He didn't want to interrupt what appeared to be their best opportunity to get their message across. He wondered briefly what exactly they were protesting. After all, there was no corner of the Earth where what they were saying was even challenged anymore. Were things on Mars so different? He had to admit that he hadn't really paid much attention to Mars over the years. Even his decision to come here had been hasty. Seizing the opportunity, he hadn't taken time to do research into the situation on Mars. Maybe that had been a mistake. Still, he figured he'd learn as he went along. He waited until he noticed that the chanting was calming down. He glanced up to see that the majority of the lunch crowd had disappeared, leaving the street with only a small number of people on it to hear the protestors chant. Getting up from the bench, Clark made his way over to the small crowd and located the woman he'd picked out earlier. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet," Clark began as he had so many times in the past. The woman looked at him for a moment before saying, "You can call me Nellie." "Do I take that to mean 'Nellie' isn't your real name?" The woman smiled. "You can take it to mean whatever you want." Clark looked at her curiously. "I don't get it. I mean, first the protest and now refusing to give me your name." "What don't you get?" she asked. "Well, I thought it was universally recognized that women are people." "How long have you been on Mars?" "How do you know I'm not from here?" he asked in response. She smiled. "If you were, you wouldn't be asking that question. Mr. Kent..." "Clark," he corrected. "Clark," she echoed, "on Earth, women have been recognized as people for a long time. It was a hundred and twenty- three years ago that the last country finally gave up its archaic practice of treating women as if they were chattels. And that was the case on Mars, too, before the War of Independence, but now..." "But now?" Clark prompted. "New laws were enacted near the end of the war that took away women's rights. Oh, they claimed it was necessary because of the war. "It has always amazed me how willing people are to give up their basic human rights just because the enemy is at the city gates. I would have thought that knowing you're vulnerable to attack would make you cling to your rights that much more fiercely. After all, if you give up your rights, the enemy wins. It no longer matters if he breaks down the gates of the city, he's already destroyed your way of life, the very things you held sacred. "Anyway, as I said, near the end of the war, the rights of women, even the most fundamental right of being regarded as something more than chattels, was taken away. Those rights have never been restored." "I don't get it. How would taking away women's rights help the war effort?" "During the final months of the war, when it became obvious that Mars was about to win its independence, there were a number of terrorist attacks. All of them conducted by women. And, as has been the case in the past with terrorism, people over-reacted and women lost their freedom." "You've got to be kidding," responded Clark. "How could the powers in place have retaliated against all women for the actions of a small minority?" "Believe me, I've been asking myself that same question for years, but..." Her voice trailed off as she looked up. Clark followed her gaze. Men in army uniforms were descending in mass. "Run," the woman known only as Nellie cried, alerting the protestors to the oncoming threat. Then she herself took off at a run. Clark stood and watched. The soldiers were busting up the small crowd as if they were an angry mob instead of a small group of orderly protestors. He held his breath, hoping the protestors would get away. He spotted one young woman trip. She was immediately pounced on by a soldier wielding a stick. Clark was there in an instant, pulling the soldier off the woman. The woman scrambled to her feet and dashed away as the soldier turned his attention to Clark. Clark managed to grab the stick, snatching it out of the man's hands, when he heard, "Don't move!" Without moving a muscle, he glanced up cautiously to find that he was now surrounded by soldiers, each with a gun pointed in his direction. Slowly, he dropped the stick and raised his hands. * * * * * * * * * "You were there to report the story, not become part of it!" Paul roared loud enough for the entire newsroom to hear after Jeremy managed to bail Clark out and bring him back to the Daily Planet. "I'm sorry, sir. I just... When that soldier started hitting that woman..." "What she was doing was illegal," Paul interrupted. "Now, you're new here. I'm prepared to make allowances for that. But if you ever..." As he bellowed, Paul made his way to the door of his office. Once he closed it, the volume on his voice dropped. "I'm proud of you, son," he said softly. Clark blinked. "Sorry about the yelling. I just wanted the entire newsroom to think I disapproved of your actions. And I've managed to convince the police to drop the charges. After all, no one got hurt and you're new here. But, you've got to be more careful." He paused. When he continued, there was a grin in his voice. "Besides, what would the bean-counters say if, after paying for your trip here, we didn't get a single story from you?" "I'm sorry," said Clark, this time sounding much more contrite. "I just couldn't let that man beat that woman." "I know. I might well have done the same thing in your place. Well, why don't you head back to your desk and get to work typing up the story?" "Before I do, I have a couple of questions," said Clark. "Like...?" "Well, I admit that I'm new here and that I never really paid attention to the situation on Mars before taking this job, but..." "Go on," encouraged Paul. "I just can't believe I didn't know anything about the situation of women here." "Well, part of the reason might be that the censors haven't let us publish much about that topic - especially in the stories we send to Earth. They claim that it would damage relations between Earth and Mars which are still shaky at best." "My source mentioned something about the whole thing coming about because of terrorist attacks by women near the end of the war. You were a reporter back then. What can you tell me?" Paul shrugged. "Not much. No one knows why they were all conducted by women or what exactly they were trying to accomplish. And since they conducted suicide attacks, there was no one to interrogate." Clark slowly rose and headed for the door. "And make sure it doesn't happen again!" Paul bellowed the instant the door was open. Clark fought the urge to smile. "Yes, sir," he said contritely before making his way to his desk. "In trouble with the boss already?" asked a smug-sounding male voice over Clark's shoulder. Clark turned around to see a balding man in a dark blue silk shirt and matching tie standing there. "I'm Roland," the man said. "I'm sort of the Planet's number one reporter. So if you need any help with the boss, just let me know." "Thanks," said Clark, not quite certain how he was supposed to respond. "By the way, I'm Clark." "Nice to meet you, Clark," Roland continued. "And I mean my offer to help you with Paul. After all, we're like this." On the final word, he held up his hand, his index and middle fingers intertwined. "Oh, and if you need any help with the ladies," he nudged Clark with his elbow to emphasize the point, "you just come to Roland. I know all the best places in town to pick them up, if you know what I mean." The problem was that Clark was fairly certain he did know what Roland meant. And after seeing what had happened on the street today, Roland's comments just seemed that much more degrading. "I'm sure I'll be fine. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work. Being bawled out by the boss once a day is my limit." "Sure thing, buddy," Roland responded before retreating to his desk, looking as if he was certain he had a new best friend. Clark shook off the grimey feeling talking to Roland had caused and continued towards his desk. As he sat down, he noticed a small icon on the bottom of his computer screen flashing. He quickly typed in his password and touched the icon. His phone messages list immediately appeared on his screen. He set the list to 'read only,' so that others wouldn't be able to listen in on his messages, before touching the first one. Clark smiled when he read the message that appeared in response. "Thanks," was all it said and it was signed, "Nellie." He touched the second message. It was from Mandy Drake, asking him to call. He ignored the third and forth message since they were obviously junk. Then he spotted the name on the fifth message and his heart rate increased. He quickly touched the message. "I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner tonight. Please call," and it was signed, "Lindsey Landon." He quickly pressed on the appropriate spot on the screen and then impatiently watched his monitor as the number dialed. He held his breath as he listed to it ring. Once, twice, three... "Hello," said Lindsey, her face immediately coming up on the screen. "I just got your message. I'd love to. When? Where?" Once Lindsey had given him her address and a time, she suggested that since he didn't know the city, he allow her to make the reservations. He quickly agreed. Then her face disappeared and he leaned back in his chair and tried to catch his breath. Had what he thought just happened, really just happened? He pressed the replay button and watched the conversation again. It had. Noticing Paul Wilson enter the newsroom, he quickly hit another spot on the computer screen and Lindsey's face disappeared from view. He wasn't quite sure why he'd done that, but for reasons he refused to explain, even to himself, he didn't want Paul knowing about his dinner tonight. He went back to the message from Nellie. He tried calling back, but there was no return number. He took a moment to try to trace the number but whoever had sent the message had certainly hidden its origin well. He stared at the computer screen, trying to figure out what to do without a complete interview. He dug up what little seemed to exist about women's rights on Mars. Paul was right. There wasn't much. He found a few stories, however, that had come out around the times of the attacks and during the aftermath. He also spoke to a number of his older colleagues. Finally, realizing he wasn't likely to dig up much more in the time he had to get this particular story submitted, he called up his word processor. Even though he could simply dictate the story into the computer, he still preferred the old fashioned way. He began typing. He only debated a moment before deciding to leave out even the name the woman had given him. He would call her 'a protestor' only. He hoped she'd appreciate that. * * * * * * * * * Clark fiddled nervously with his tie as he stood outside the door of apartment 1240, 729 22nd Street waiting for Lindsey to answer. He was still having problems believing he was here. What if she opened the door, stared at him blankly, and demanded to know what he was doing here? What if he'd just imagined the phone call asking him to have supper with her? After all, last night she hadn't seemed overly impressed with him. He pushed away the disturbing ideas that thought provoked. It wasn't as if he was overly knowledgeable about the workings of the female mind. They always seemed driven by a logic he couldn't quite follow. He straightened his back a little more when he heard locks being opened and, a moment later, had to remind himself to breathe when the door slid aside to reveal Lindsey Landon. "Mr. Kent," Lindsey said, gesturing him into her apartment. After spending the morning looking at apartments, he couldn't help but be impressed. He let out a low whistle. "Nice digs," he commented. "Thanks," she muttered. "Let's get out of here," she continued, grabbing her coat. Clark immediately reached for the coat, taking it from her surprised hands and holding it out for her to slip into. She hesitated for a moment before turning around so that he could assist her in putting on her coat. "So what do you do that you can afford all this?" he asked. "Or were you born rich?" he continued. "Something like that," Lindsey muttered, heading quickly to the door. Suddenly, Clark understood. At least he thought he did. Still, even though he knew he probably shouldn't, he couldn't help himself from playing his hunch. "What would Luthor say about us having dinner together?" he asked. She turned and glared at him for a moment before saying, very pointedly, "I'm a free agent." With those words, she stormed out of the apartment. Clark bit his lower lip. Why had he done that? He had already been fairly confident that her apartment bore witness to the fact that she was a 'kept woman.' Why had he felt it necessary to rub her face in it? He let out a slow breath before following her out the door and towards the elevator. * * * * * * * * * The trip in the cab had been awkward. As the hostess showed them to their table at the elegant restaurant, Clark silently vowed to find a way to make up for his indiscretion. Whatever this woman's relationship was to Damian Luthor, whatever it was she wanted from him, he was not going to find out by alienating her. He suddenly wondered if she was taking him up on the offer he'd made at the end of their dance last night. Maybe she wanted out, but couldn't figure out how to do it. It would certainly explain her all-consuming sadness. It would also explain what he sensed was her dislike of her apartment. Well, if he didn't watch his tongue, she wasn't going to trust him enough to let him help her. Without thinking, he automatically pulled out Lindsey's chair as they arrived at the table. She looked at him curiously, but then took a seat. He made his way around the table and found his own seat. Fortunately, any awkwardness was forestalled by the arrival of a man to take their drink orders and give them menus. "So what's good here?" asked Clark as they studied the menus. Lindsey was silent for a moment and he could feel her studying him. He had asked the simple question in an effort to alleviate the tension between them. He wondered momentarily if she was going to let him do that. Then he breathed a sigh of relief when, seemingly understanding what he was trying to do, she began telling him about various items. Once both had decided on what to order and had set down their menus as a signal to the waiter, Clark spoke. "I was a little surprised when you called. I mean, after our first meeting..." His voice trailed off in confusion at the look on Lindsey's face. She had given a slight shake of the head, as if trying to warn him about something and the fear in her eyes was unmistakable. He thought about his comment. Then it hit him. Their first meeting had been when he stopped the rape. She'd asked him to let it go. Of course, that didn't explain the fear in her eyes. It was only a moment more before he thought he had his answer. He pulled the palm computer out of his suit jacket pocket as he continued to talk. "After our first meeting, when I asked you to dance..." He said the last phrase deliberately, keeping his eyes on her. The fear seemed to leave almost instantly, confirming his suspicion about what was going on here. He quickly wrote something on the computer and set it down on the table. "...I got the distinct impression that you didn't like me." Lindsey glanced at the palm computer before looking back at him. "I'm not sure why you'd think that," she responded. "I am the one, after all, who asked you to dance later on. I just had other things on my mind when you first approached me." She glanced back at the computer before reaching for it and saying casually, "I see that you have one of these old fashioned computers. Why not get a more modern one?" He gave her a moment to read the message on it. As she did, he silently recited the words he knew were written there. 'Is someone listening?' She looked back at him, neither confirming or denying his suspicions. Instead, she glanced deliberately at her purse. He took a judicious look over his glasses, confirming the presence of a listening device stitched into the lining. He glanced back at her for confirmation, but her expression was curiously neutral. In fact, if he hadn't seen her look at the computer and then glance at her purse in response, he might be tempted to believe she hadn't even seen the question. Suddenly, he realized she was waiting for some sort of response. But a response to what? "I'm sorry, what did you ask?" "I asked why you don't get a more modern palm computer," she repeated. As she spoke, Clark watched her subtly delete the message - confirming that she had indeed read it. Her lack of denial and her careful movements told Clark all he needed to know. Not only was someone listening in, they were also watching. And she had just, in a very subtle way, confirmed that. She wanted him to know. It was a startling realization. "Well?" she asked. "Umm..." Clark hesitated for a moment more. He couldn't very well ask her to repeat the question again. More modern computer! Right! "That one was a present from my uncle when I first got a job at the Daily Planet. He quit working for the Planet years ago, but it was his so he passed it on to me. It does what I need it to do. I guess I keep it for sentimental reasons." Just then their conversation was interrupted as the waiter came to take their orders. * * * * * * * * * 'He knows and you told him,' Lindsey silently told herself as she waited for Clark to give his order. She knew that she was playing a very dangerous game by not telling Damian everything she knew about Clark already. Now she'd just made it worse. What could possibly have possessed her to do such a thing? She had placed her life in the hands of a man she didn't even know. After all, if he chose to, he could reveal her betrayal to Damian. When Clark had first made the comment he had about Damian, she'd almost been relieved. He was making it easy for her to dislike him. But when she'd glanced over at him in the taxi and seen the hang-dog look on his face, she'd felt her heart involuntarily soften. Then he'd pulled out her chair, the same way he'd helped her with her coat, in an old- fashioned, but very sweet way and she'd felt a flutter in her stomach. At first, she'd thought he was just acting a part. But the actions were unself-conscious and that made them believable. That still didn't mean she had to tell him that Damian was following their 'date' with interest. Or did it? After all, if he had completed his original statement and said something about how they had first met, Damian would have been furious with her. She should have simply told Damian that Clark was the one who stopped the rape as soon as she'd realized it. So why hadn't she? She still had no answer to that question. There was only one thing to be grateful for - Clark Kent was definitely a quick study. If he hadn't been... She shuddered slightly. There was absolutely no way she would have been able to explain her oversight to Damian. The information would confirm Damian's impression of Clark as a threat. After all, what he knew about Drake's attempt to rape her meant that he already knew too much about Damian's business. But what would Clark do now? Could she trust him? She really didn't know. Well, there was nothing to do now but to play it by ear. The waiter finished taking Clark's order and walked away. "So," she said, knowing that even though Clark knew, she had to continue as planned for Damian, "are you enjoying your new job?" She watched a hurt expression flicker through his eyes. But it was gone so quickly that she almost wondered afterwards if it had ever been there. He seemed to consider her question for a moment before responding. "Actually, I got arrested today," he said as if it was something that happened every day. She stared at him in disbelief. Didn't he realize that their conversation was being monitored? She'd have sworn that he did. And this was just the kind of thing Damian would love to... Her thought stopped dead in its tracks. It was just the kind of thing Damian would know - probably already had the police report on his desk if she knew Damian. She had to stop the grin that fought with her muscles at the corners of her mouth. This man was good. What he'd told her was just the type of thing Damian would expect her to get from him. But in telling her about it, he'd not told Damian anything. "Arrested?" she finally asked. "What on earth for?" * * * * * * * * * When Lindsey asked about his job, an innocent enough question for a first date, although under the circumstances... He felt hurt for just a moment. Then he wondered how to respond. That only took a second. The answer was simple - don't tell her anything he wouldn't want the world knowing. And what he'd done today was certainly no secret. "I got arrested," he responded. She looked a bit taken back for a minute, as if wondering why he was giving her this information. Then he saw the expression change. "Arrested?" she asked. "What on earth for?" He opened his mouth to answer before changing his mind. This conversation was far too intense and they were both spending far too much time analyzing every word. Well, there was only one thing to do about that. "For mugging an old lady," he responded casually before taking another sip of his wine. She stared at him in stunned silence. Then her eyes went wide. His face broke out in a grin when all of a sudden, she burst out laughing. "Yeah, yeah, not my finest hour," he continued. Lindsey fought the laughter, trying desperately to respond. Finally, she managed to get the words out. "I'm surprised you were able to take her." "Oh, but I didn't," Clark responded without missing a beat. "How do you think I got arrested?" Lindsey immediately burst out laughing again. Clark grinned. Her genuine laughter was an incredible sound. It was almost intoxicating. He was certain he could listen to that sound forever. He couldn't help himself. He had to continue to hear it. And so, fighting his own desire to join her laughter, he continued in a deadpan voice. "I guess I really shouldn't feel too bad," he said. "After all, she did have that umbrella." And with that line, the tone was set for the rest of their dinner. Clark's objective changed from wanting to figure out what was going on to trying to make her laugh as hard and as often as possible. Even when he did finally tell her why he'd gotten arrested, the tone continued. They ended up in verbal sword-play where both took a position that they didn't believe and argued it for all it was worth - Clark, playing the dedicated vigilante who thought that all government was evil and must be fought to the last breath, and Lindsey, playing the true believer who thought the government could do no wrong. After one particularly insane argument, where Lindsey laughed so hard tears were running down her cheeks, Clark was unable to resist commenting. "You have a beautiful laugh, lady," he said softly. The laughter died almost immediately as their eyes met and their gazes locked. Clark was suddenly lost. This connection, or whatever it was, between them was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. He was almost certain she could feel it too. Then she broke eye contact, looking down to play nervously with her food for a moment before taking another bite, even though she'd really finished eating quite some time ago. "So where are you staying?" she asked. "I would assume the paper would have the good sense to at least make sure the hotel is decent." Clark gave a small sigh. Obviously, she felt it was time to get back to the interrogation. After all, since they'd first encountered each other at the Lexor, she probably realized he'd been staying there. No. The question was for Luthor's benefit - assuming that Luthor was the one listening in. However, he was certain it would take no effort at all to find out where he was living. And given the fact that he couldn't be hurt and had nothing worth stealing, he supposed there was no harm in Luthor being given that information. "Actually, I got my own place today," he responded. "It's nothing like yours, of course, but I sort of like it. I checked out of my hotel and took my things over there just before picking you up. The only problem is that it's unfurnished." She got a wistful look. "Sounds like fun. Furnishing your own place." "Didn't you furnish yours?" he asked. She looked back at her food and played with it before responding. "It was professionally decorated," she informed him. He looked at her for a moment. She once again seemed so sad. He debated in his mind how to alleviate the sadness. They had finished eating. There was still the matter of dessert, but... "Come on," he said, standing up. "Where are we going?" she asked, completely baffled. "To furnish my apartment," he responded as if it should be perfectly obvious. "Doesn't that seem a little odd for a first date?" she asked as he came around to pull out her chair. "Not at all. After all, you do want some input into how we decorate the kids' rooms, don't you?" he asked immediately. She laughed before saying, "Okay. Let's do it." * * * * * * * * * "So where exactly are we going?" Lindsey asked as they got into a cab. "My apartment," Clark replied. Then he must have noticed the expression on her face because he continued immediately. "Hey, if you're going to help me decorate, you really have to see my place. Of course, if you feel uncomfortable..." "It's okay," Lindsey interrupted. After all, what could he do to her that would be any worse than what she'd be going home to tonight? She was quiet as she followed him up the steps to his apartment in the rundown building. As she avoided touching the banister, she found herself wondering where he was taking her. He couldn't really live here, could he? She watched as he was about to place his hand on the keypad to open the door. Then he stopped and silently looked at her for a long moment, as if debating something. However, before she could question him, he seemed to come to a decision. He stepped to the side slightly, giving her a clear view and, slowly and deliberately, punched in a series of numbers. Lindsey' mouth dropped open as it sank in what he had just done. It was the ultimate leap of faith. He had silently told her that if she ever needed to, here was the way to access his apartment. For all he knew, she would turn around and give that information to Damian. She was somewhat in awe of what had just happened and, although she knew she'd never use it, took a moment to commit the combination to his apartment to memory. "Lights on," he said as he stepped inside his apartment. Following him inside, she gasped. "This is your place?" she asked in disbelief as she glanced around at the run-down and utterly filthy apartment. "Now, that's your problem," said Clark. "What is?" she demanded. "That you live in a rathole?" "No. That you can't see past the reality." "What is that supposed to mean?" "Look at the potential," Clark said. He placed a hand gently on the small of her back and led her to the kitchen. Then, using his hands and words, he began to paint a verbal picture of what the apartment could look like. It only took her a moment to find what he had found in the place. Soon she was suggesting and even disagreeing with his choice for paint colors and wallpaper. * * * * * * * * * The proprietor of the used furniture store didn't know quite what to make of the young couple who had invaded his establishment. Both were obviously not dressed for shopping. In fact, by their clothes, he'd suspect they were on their way home from a night on the town. "Why are we at a used furniture store?" the woman asked. "I was sort of thinking of getting some of that new, retro stuff." "What do you think I'm made of, woman? Money?" the man responded. "First, the constant need for jewelry, now you want new furniture," he muttered. The proprietor was baffled when the woman's response was to laugh. "Besides, new furniture is so... soulless," the man added. "Uhh... I hate to tell you this, but used furniture is also souless. This is inanimate objects we're talking about." The man looked affronted for a moment before responding. "You only think that because you haven't taken the time to really get to know any furniture. Oh, sure. You pretend you're liberal, open-minded. You even bring your furniture in through the front door. But deep inside, you're a bigot - not recognizing the true value and worth of furniture. Furniture is people, too, you know. Just because you're furnaphobic, don't try to inflict the rest of us with your prejudices." The woman swatted his arm and gave him what looked something like a glare, although her eyes were dancing. "Take this chair, for example," the man continued, gesturing to a large, well-worn lazy-boy. "What about the chair?" "Well, the owner of this chair used to sit in it after a hard day at work and his dog would sit beside him, allowing him to scratch his ears." "And how, might I ask, do you know all that?" she responded. "Simple. Look at the wear patterns on the chair. It's more worn where the man sat." The woman looked at the chair. "Okay, it was obviously well used. But where do you get the owner having a dog?" The man gestured to the almost see-through material on one side of the chair. "The dog obviously brushed up against the chair as he sat beside it, patiently waiting to be acknowledged by his master. Obviously, this is a chair that has known a lot of love." He sat down in the chair and groaned. "Oh, yeah. He's got it worn in just the right spots," he said before glancing at the owner. "We'll take this one." The woman chuckled as she headed past him to examine tables. The discussion about tables and chairs and lamps and other such items continued in much the same fashion. "We need a bed," said the woman, heading into an area that had a number of bedframes and mattresses. After they'd picked out a bedframe, the woman proceeded to try out one mattress after another. The man, on the other hand, just stood by, watching her with a completely besotted look on his face. "I like this one," she finally said, stretching out fully on the mattress with her hands above her head. She gave the man a sultry look through half-closed eyes. Even the happily married proprietor felt his temperature rise at the sight she created. "Then that one it is," the man replied, his voice cracking slightly as if his mouth was suddenly very dry. "Aren't you even going to try it out?" asked the woman, wriggling her eyebrows at him suggestively. The man swallowed hard before seeming to regain some of his composure. "Why would I need to? You're the one who tosses and turns all night. I figure if we find one that allows you to get a full night's sleep, I'll finally be able to get some rest, too." The woman laughed and got up off the mattress. "What's left?" she asked. The man glanced around. "I think that's... A couch!" he exclaimed. "We haven't found a couch yet." They made their way to an area that had a number of couches. They looked at a few before one seemed to catch the man's attention. "Oh, that's so sad," the man said. The woman came over to see what he was referring to. The couch was much more worn on one side than it was on the other. "It's obvious that this guy never found his soul mate," the man continued. "I disagree," responded the woman. "How can you say that? Only one side of this couch has been worn." "That's because, after forty years of marriage, the couple who owned this couch would still cuddle up together on one end to watch T.V." "And what makes you so sure it was a couple?" asked the man. "Simple," the woman responded, taking the man's hand and leading him over to the couch. "Sit," she instructed and the man immediately sat down on the place indicated. "Now, you can see that the worn spot on the couch is much too big to have been made by only one person." She sat down next to him, leaning slightly against his chest to illustrate. "This couch was obviously owned by a couple who were very much in love." A small smile played around the proprietor's mouth as he observed, discretely of course, the young couple sitting on the couch watching the imaginary television. He saw the man move his arm slightly and then noticed the woman curl up within his embrace, her hand tracing a light circle on his thigh. The man brought his face forward until it was almost touching the woman's cheek and he saw him breath something, he couldn't hear what, into her ear. The woman closed her eyes in response. The scene abruptly changed. Maybe she realized they were in public. But whatever the reason, the woman suddenly got up, leaving a slightly confused man still sitting on the couch. Then she began to speak and, as she did, the proprietor marveled at how many words she seemed to be able to get out without taking a breath. "Oh," she began, looking at her watch, "I didn't realize the time. I've really got to be going. It's almost curfew." She headed immediately for the door to the shop, her words trailing along behind her. "I'm sure they want to close up the shop, too. I don't know how it could have gotten so close to curfew without my realizing it. I mean, you're new so I guess it's understandable that you..." As she continued to rebuke herself for not realizing the time, the proprietor watched the man get up and follow the woman, as if trying to figure out how his world had changed so quickly. When she reached the door of the shop, she stopped to do up her coat. "At least let me see you home," the man said. "That's probably not a good idea. If you do, you'll never make it home in time for curfew yourself and I'd feel just terrible if something happened while you were out after curfew - especially on my behalf. And I don't think you want to run afoul of the law twice in the same day. They wouldn't take too kindly to that. I think it might be best if we just said good-night here. I'll catch a cab out front." "Can I call you?" the man asked as if suddenly afraid that he'd never see the woman if she disappeared out of the door of the shop. "Fine," the woman responded, struggling with the snaps on her coat. Her hands came to a halt when she seemed to realize that the man had moved closer. The man's hand came up to her cheek, directing the woman's gaze to his. The moment their eyes met, even the proprietor could feel the electricity that seemed to jump between them. 'Kiss her,' the proprietor thought to himself and, as if he read his mind, the man began to lean in. The proprietor watched the woman's eyes look down at the man's mouth as if mesmerized, before touching her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. The proprietor swallowed hard, suddenly feeling as if he were a voyeur. He glanced away but his peripheral vision told him that the man had, indeed, kissed the woman. The kiss was over almost instantly. Still, the man and woman stood there for a minute more in complete silence, as if both were too overwhelmed by the experience to know quite what to do next. The woman recovered first. "Good-bye," she whispered and the proprietor heard the door to his establishment open as she suddenly fled the store. "Good-bye," he heard the man respond as the door slid closed behind her. The proprietor made himself look busy as the man struggled to regain his composure. When he had, he looked over at the proprietor and said, "I'll take that couch, too. How much do I owe you?" "Just give me a minute to get the bill ready," the proprietor responded. The man nodded and turned back to look at the door where he'd last seen the woman. "And you thought furniture was soulless," he heard the man whisper. It was only a minute or so more before the man joined him. Once they worked out a delivery arrangement, which wouldn't be for a few days since the man wanted some work done on some of the furniture, the proprietor completed the list of items to be purchased. As he was marking the price beside each one, he hesitated. "I'm going to throw in the couch for free," the proprietor informed the man. "That's not necessary," the man responded. The proprietor looked up and met the man's eyes. "You're right. I've worked in this business most of my life and I can tell you, without any hesitation, that each piece of furniture does indeed have a soul. I think you and your friend just proved that. And that couch, my friend, definitely belongs to two people who are falling in love." "Oh, but we're not..." "Son, I've been married almost thirty years. I know the real thing when I see it. Take the couch." The man looked as if he was about to object again when he stopped and looked back at the door. "Thank you," he responded instead. * * * * * * * * * The real thing! Clark was mulling the salesman's comments over in his mind as he entered his apartment building. Of course, he knew the man was wrong, but for some reason that one phrase still played over and over in his head on the way home. The man had to be wrong. There was no other possibility. After all, their only date had been some sort of sham, a farce. Lindsey was a kept woman - probably by Damian Luthor. In fact, the most likely possibility was that Luthor had instructed Lindsey to call him and then had placed a hidden microphone in her purse specifically for the purpose of monitoring the conversation. If he was right, then Luthor was already suspicious of him for some reason. But then his last name might have something to do with it. That was the one thing Paul hadn't taken into account. If a Luthor showed up in Smallville, there wasn't a Kent alive who wouldn't think he was up to no good. How was that any different from a Kent showing up in Damian's backyard? The real thing. As he pushed the button to close the door, he thought about the evening. It had certainly started out roughly. A small smile crept onto his lips as he recalled the look on Lindsey's face when he'd said that he'd mugged a little, old lady. That had certainly been a moment to be remembered. He never should have kissed her. He had known the date wasn't real - that someone had insisted that Lindsey go out with him. Knowing that, he never should have kissed her. Still... He closed his eyes and groaned. That kiss had been... He struggled for a moment before realizing that it was pointless trying to find a word to describe it. He knew she'd felt it, too. But that didn't mean she was falling in love with him. Come to think of it, where did that guy get off thinking that he was falling in love with her? Falling in love with Lindsey would be... irresponsible, foolhardy, and dangerous. And if there was one thing he knew about himself it was that he was never any of those things. The man had obviously misinterpreted what he'd seen. Clark made his way over to an old wooden box, moved some garbage out of the way, and took a seat. He pulled out his palm computer and turned the telephone back on. He'd turned it off during his date. He considered taking calls when on a date to be the very definition of rudeness. He jumped slightly when almost instantly, the palm computer began vibrating - indicating that he had an incoming call. "Hello?" asked Clark, answering the call. "Kent," said Paul's voice over the line. "Where have you been? I've been trying to get in touch with you all evening. I thought, since you're new in town, you might want someone to show you the sights. Then, when it got later and you still didn't answer, I started worrying that you'd gotten yourself in trouble again. You're all right, aren't you?" "I'm fine, Paul," Clark responded. "I was just... umm... shopping for furniture," Clark informed his boss. Okay, so maybe it wasn't exactly the truth, but it wasn't exactly a lie either. Clark briefly wondered exactly why he felt the need to deceive his boss. After all, he could have simply said he had a date. But he was worried Paul would guess who it was with. And Clark found himself feeling inexplicably guilty about going out with Lindsey tonight. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain to his boss what he was doing. "Oh, good. I guess that makes sense," said a now embarrassed sounding Paul. "Well then, if you're all right, I guess I'll see you tomorrow." The two men said their good-byes and hung up. Clark looked at his palm computer in silence for a long moment. He really couldn't see Lindsey Landon again - not when he was feeling this guilty about it. No. He'd just let that particular woman go. It was best that way - for both of them. So, inspite of her comment that he could call, he simply wouldn't and that, as they said, would be that. He thought about his decision to give her the pass code to his apartment. Maybe that hadn't been the wisest thing he'd ever done if he wasn't going to see her again. No. He'd given it to her so that she would always have a place to escape to if she ever decided she wanted out of whatever arrangement she had with Luthor. And if she did, he wanted her to know he'd be there for her. Besides, if he was wrong about her and she did decide to give the pass code to Luthor, it wasn't as if it would do much damage. After all, Clark suspected that Luthor would have no problem getting equipment that would quickly bypass the cheap lock on his apartment door. No. Lindsey was the only one who could possibly benefit from that information. Suddenly, another thought occurred to him. If Luthor... or whomever... felt the need to set him up on a date with Lindsey to get information, they would likely bug his apartment, too. Lowering his glasses, he did a quick sweep of the room. Nothing. Still, since it would no doubt be soon that they decided to break in to plant listening devices, it might be best to ensure that while they were here, they didn't find anything else. Clark made his way over to the secret closet. He doubted that without x-ray vision anyone would know it was here. He slid back the panel and, using a quick burst of superspeed, cleaned the entire closet. He tried the light and was surprised that it still worked. Then he went to his suitcase and took out a small, leather-bound book and placed it in the closet before sliding the panels back in place. Clark looked around his apartment. Well, there was no time like the present. Using another quick burst of superspeed, he had the rest of the apartment cleaned in under two minutes. He'd even managed to do a number of small repairs. He glanced at his watch in satisfaction before taking some clothes out of his suitcase to use for a pillow and making his way into the bedroom. He placed them on the floor, spun out of his clothes, and lay down on his back to stare at the ceiling. Turning his mind to what he needed to do tomorrow, he was asleep almost immediately. * * * * * * * * * Lindsey headed straight for the bar the instant she entered her apartment, her mind completely occupied with the memory of kissing Clark. She wasn't entirely sure what had happened when her lips had met Clark's and even less idea how to classify the various emotions it had stirred up in her. It had been... sweet. That word seemed so inadequate, but she was unable to come up with a better one. She had certainly been kissed many times before, but there wasn't one that compared. But to Lindsey, that wasn't entirely a good thing. The kiss had awakened something in her - something that could never be fulfilled. Never had she experienced anything that seemed quite as pure, either. And that was the other half of the problem. The touch of her soul to Clark's that had seemed to happen during the kiss was so unblemished that it only served to point out the blackness in Lindsey's soul. And with that realization, the guilt returned. Well, there was only one thing to do. Once she arrived at the bar, she opened her purse and pulled out the small container. Her hands shook as she opened it and poured the brown powder onto the bar. She had her fix before making her way around the bar and splashing some Jack Daniel's into a glass. Flex wasn't going to be sufficient to deal with these emotions. After all, it wasn't just guilt she was dealing with this time. She raised the glass to her lips. "Mixing flex with alcohol?" asked a man's voice behind her. She almost dropped the glass. She wasn't aware that anyone was in her apartment. Taking a deep breath and wiping any real emotions from her face, she turned slowly towards Damian. "You surprised me," she said, trying to act as if that was her only reason for reacting as she had to his presence. "That's what I always try to do, love," he responded. He took the glass from her hand and set it on the bar before pulling her into his arms and kissing her. Lindsey had to remind herself not to fight as Damian kissed her. Unlike the sweet, gentle, tentative kiss she'd received from Clark earlier, this kiss could only be described as a kiss of ownership, a reminder of who she belonged to. As she forced herself to open her mouth in response to his demanding tongue, she let her mind go blank - distancing herself, as she always did, from the encounter. It wasn't long before he seemed satisfied that nothing had changed and pulled back. He released her, walking behind the bar to pour himself a drink while she picked up hers. She quickly took a sip of the burning liquid, allowing it to purge Damian's taste from her mouth. "So, how was your date?" Luthor asked. Lindsey shrugged slightly as she headed into the living room and took a seat on the couch. "Okay, I guess. But can't you get your report from Nathan? I want to go to bed. And since I'm fairly certain I spotted one of Nathan's men at the restaurant, I'm sure he can fill you in on, not only what we said, but how we looked saying it." "Don't get smart," Damian warned. "You're right. Nathan had a man there - for your protection, of course. And I already have Nathan's report along with..." His voice trailed off as he reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small computer card. "...this. But I want to hear your take on what happened." Lindsey sighed. She really didn't want to discuss her date, especially not with Damian. It was bad enough that he would undoubtedly listen to every word. She wondered briefly if the bug would have picked up what Clark had whispered into her ear as they'd sat on the couch. She sighed. There wasn't anything to do but answer Damian's questions. Besides, it might allow her to put her own spin on things. "There's not much to tell. Well, except that apparently Clark Kent got arrested today for interfering in a military action at city hall. Oh, and I got his home address." "What did you think of Kent?" "That going out with him was a waste of time. Look, Damian, as far as I can tell, Clark isn't a threat to you. He's... Well, I got the impression that he's a little slow on the uptake." When she continued her voice was slightly flirtatious. "He's no match for you, Damian." Damian studied her for a moment. She kept her expression neutral, as if it didn't particularly matter to her one way or another if he agreed. Apparently satisfied with what her body language was saying, Damian responded. "Well, that just shows how bad you are at judging people," he said. "No one graduates in the top ten percent of his class by being... How did you put it? 'A little slow on the uptake.'" 'Damn,' thought Lindsey. She should have known Damian would do his homework. And she should have known that someone as bright as Clark would have left a mark behind that Damian would find. Damian turned to the computer consol in her living room wall and inserted the computer card. "Nathan highlighted some of the more interesting portions of your date. Let's listen to it together, shall we?" he said as he made his way over to a chair facing her, as if to watch her while the computer card played. * * * * * * * * * He watched each movement as if she was engaged in the most sensual dance he had ever seen. Through the tinted glass, he saw her slip off her blazer and blouse and hang them up. He looked back at the champagne bottle in his hands, knowing that he shouldn't be watching. He removed the wire from the top of the bottle, but he couldn't get her image out of his mind. He couldn't seem to stop himself from glancing back at the door. He was immediately captivated by the silhouette of her removing her skirt. The only object separating him from her beautiful, almost naked body was the tinted glass in the door. The desire to remove that barrier between them was overwhelming. Knowing that was not an option, he stood transfixed by his desire. Pop. The cork popping from the champagne bottle broke the spell. He immediately loosened his grip on the bottle, suddenly aware that if he didn't it would crumble in his hands. He watched the cork wing its way around the room. He reached out and grabbed it just as she opened the door and reentered, wearing sweats and a tank top. Suddenly, the room was dark and he could feel her close - hands, bodies touching as they tripped and tumbled over each other. When they finally stopped, he was lying on the couch and the press of a warm body on top of him left him with no doubt about where she was. She began to squirm against him causing him to fight back a groan. Then, just as suddenly, there was unwanted light. He glanced up to see her above him, stretching out to turn on the lamp. Once the lamp was on, she settled back against him. He wasn't sure exactly what he said, something about the champagne that had been spilled on him during their mishap - anything, anything to keep from thinking about how his body was reacting to having her on top of him. After all this time trying to get close to her, after all the rejection, after all the heartbreak, he didn't trust himself at this moment. Was it just him or was she still not getting up? What should he do? She was so close. All it would take was one small movement to kiss her. How would she react? This wasn't even their first date. It was their 'almost' first date - a dry run, so to speak. It had taken so long to get her to trust him. What if he was misreading the signs? A year and a half of patient work could all go down the drain if he was wrong. Still, if she didn't move off him soon... Clark woke up, breathing heavy. He glanced around, getting his bearings. It was just another dream. Suddenly, it hit him like a blast of cold air might hit an ordinary man. It was so obvious that he could hardly believe he hadn't realized it before now. The dreams. There was something different about her in the dreams, but there was one thing he knew with startling conviction: Lindsey was somehow that woman. She always had been. No. That was insane. No matter what crazy things his subconscious mind might be thinking, he couldn't give in on this point. Lindsey was with Luthor and as long as that continued, he had to keep his distance. He stuffed his clothes further under his head and tried to go back to sleep. He smiled wistfully. Maybe he could find a way to go back to the dream. He really wanted to know what happened next. * * * * * * * * * As Lindsey climbed into bed, she felt an incredible sense of relief. Damian had decided not to spend the night. It had been hard enough talking to him when all she had really wanted was some time to reflect on the evening. But the idea of having him kissing her, touching her... especially after spending the evening with Clark. She shuddered. She wouldn't think about it. Damian was gone for now. That was all that mattered. Still, he had stayed into the early hours of the morning, forcing her to listen to and then discuss the portions of the computer card that Nathan had marked as being of interest. As she lay here now, she thought again about their discussion, trying to remember and memorize any lies she might have told so that Damian wouldn't be able to trip her up tomorrow. He'd started by complimenting her on how she dodged Clark's question about how she could afford the apartment. According to him, she had shown just the right amount of indignation when Clark had intimated that Damian was the one paying the rent. He had wondered momentarily how Clark had figured out that they had a relationship. Lindsey managed to reassure him that Clark was probably just guessing. After all, she had been Damian's date at the reception for the American Ambassador. She went back over what he'd said then, trying to determine in her own mind if he'd believed her. "What do you think he knows about our relationship?" he asked. Lindsey shrugged. "I think he thinks I'm your mistress." "Aren't you?" he asked, sounding somewhat amused. She just looked away. He walked over and took her chin in his hands, not attempting to be gentle as he forced her to meet his eyes. "You better be sure that's what he thinks," he warned. "Do you really think I'd risk telling him? I'm not that stupid, Damian." "For your sake, I hope not," he replied. As she thought back, she realized Damian had skipped over the original conversation between her and Clark at the restaurant. She let out a breath of relief. That meant Nathan's goon hadn't noticed anything unusual when Clark had passed her the message about someone listening in. She closed her eyes and let the feelings of relief wash over her. She redirected her mind to the next part of the date Damian had insisted on talking about. He seemed to think she'd laughed too much. He told her that a man likes it when a woman laughs at his jokes, but that she'd overdone it. "He seemed to like it," she immediately shot back. She was amazed to realize the reason Damian's comment had bothered her so much. When she'd been talking and laughing with Clark, she'd almost forgotten she was just playing a role. Instead, she'd let down her walls and actually been herself. Obviously, Damian didn't like the real woman. But then again, why would he? After all, he'd never met the real woman. Clark had. In fact, he was probably the only man who ever had. Of course, her comment about Clark liking her laugh had not been the wisest thing she'd ever said. It had given Damian a little too much information. His following comments had made that clear. "You aren't developing feelings for this man, are you?" Damian asked. "Don't be ridiculous," she shot back. "Well, if you weren't trying to seduce him with your laughter, that means your laughter was real." "So? Kent's amusing. I laugh at Monty Python reruns, too. But I wouldn't go home with any of the actors," she responded. "I would hope not, since they've all been dead for a couple hundred years," he replied. "You know what I mean," Lindsey answered. He studied her for a moment before speaking again. "Well, no matter. After all, from what I've been able to find out about your Clark Kent, he's a thoroughly decent sort. If he knew what you really are, do you think he'd still want anything to do with you?" Inwardly, Lindsey cringed. However, she managed to keep her cool. "Well, since I'm the one who thinks my seeing him is a waste of time, don't expect me to get all weepy because you tell me that he wouldn't want me if he knew the truth." That final comment seemed to satisfy Damian. "It's just as well. Don't get attached," Damian said dismissively. "After all, when I have what I want from Kent, you won't have a chance to find out if he'd still want you." As she thought about Damian's comments now, she felt an incredible wave of sadness. He was right. Whatever connection had seemed to exist between her and Clark tonight, it was an illusion. After all, Clark would never want anything to do with her if he knew the truth. And even if he did... She gave a sad smile. What was the point of thinking about things that would never be? Shaking off the stray thought, Lindsey turned her mind to what they'd discussed next. Damian had made her tell him everything she could about Clark's apartment. She'd said nothing when he decided to have listening devices planted there as soon as possible. After all, what could she say? She briefly wondered if there was a way to warn Clark. She immediately rebuked herself for the thought. Clark Kent wasn't her responsibility. He'd have to take care of himself. She silently hoped he'd realize that if Damian was willing to set her up on a date with him that he was likely to bug his apartment, too. From there, they'd skipped through most of the rest of the date. The next thing she heard was Clark's comment, "Oh, that is so sad." She smiled in memory of what he'd been referring to. She'd been relieved that even the sensitive bug in her purse hadn't picked up the words Clark had whispered into her ear. As they listened, Damian commented that at least it seemed Clark wanted to see her again. Then he asked the question she knew was coming. "Did he kiss you?" She had already decided how to answer that question. The truth. It was the only possible answer. After all, Damian would certainly be able to find that out easily enough, and although she wished more than anything that she could keep the memory of that kiss to herself, that just wasn't possible. "Yes," she responded. "Did you like it?" Damian asked. "Damian, please," Lindsey pleaded, knowing from hard experience exactly where he was going with this line of questioning. "Did he kiss you like this?" Damian demanded, before coming over and once again kissing her possessively. It was always the same. Damian would tell her to seduce some man and then, when she did, he'd respond like the injured partner. That always led to him reestablishing his ownership of her. She closed her eyes and tried to think about something else as he probed her mouth, his hand coming up to roughly massage her breast. She had been so far away that she hardly realized when Damian pulled away from her. It took her another moment to realize why. The phone was ringing. "Don't you think you'd better get that?" asked Damian. She was in a daze as she made her way to the phone, attempting to straighten her clothes as she went. Realizing that Damian had torn the strap on her dress, she made a quick detour into her bedroom and slipped into her robe. When she arrived back at the phone, she noticed that Damian had moved out of the camera's view. She was amazed that the phone was still ringing, given the length of time it had taken her to answer. "Clark?" she asked, when Clark's face unexpectedly appeared on the screen. She wasn't sure who she'd expected, given the time of night, but it definitely wasn't Clark. "I woke you, didn't I," he responded. "I'm sorry. I knew it was too late. But you did say I could call," said Clark in a rush. Suddenly, Lindsey was profoundly aware of the man standing beside her. "What do you want, Clark?" she said abruptly, hoping that he'd get to the point so that Damian wouldn't realize that talking to Clark had sent butterflies into her stomach. Clark suddenly looked a little lost. "Umm... Maybe I should just call back at a more reasonable hour," he said. "It's okay, Clark," Lindsey said, forcing herself to sound much more friendly. "I wasn't sleeping. What do you want?" "Well, if you're sure... I mean, I don't want..." "Clark!" Lindsey interrupted. "Right," said Clark taking a breath in an absolutely adorable attempt to calm his obvious nerves. "Umm... the reason I'm calling is... Well, they're delivering my furniture on Saturday evening and so I thought I'd paint the apartment on Saturday afternoon. I was wondering, of course I wouldn't expect you to help or anything, but I thought it might be kind of fun... Anyway, would you like to join me? I'll even throw in a home cooked meal." Lindsey glanced to her left and, after a nod from Damian telling her to accept, she did just that. She could see by the look on Clark's face that he was fairly certain why she'd glanced to her left. However, she was grateful that he had the good sense to keep his opinion to himself. There was one benefit to Clark's call. It had distracted Damian and he had left soon thereafter. And so, she'd been free to crawl into bed alone to consider the things Damian hadn't been able to destroy about her date. There were still a number of those. The moment Clark had given her his apartment code, for example. She once again repeated the code in her mind, as if he'd given her the finest diamond tiara instead of a series of numbers. Or how she felt when he'd helped her with her coat or chair or reached in front of her to press the button to open the door for her. Even the way he'd put his hand on the small of her back when he'd led her into his kitchen. She had never known a man's touch could be so gentle. She thought back to what had happened just as they'd left the restaurant. He insisted on paying. She caught his eye and said deliberately, "Why not let someone else pay?" She could see that he caught her meaning. His response surprised her. "That's not my style." He obviously didn't want anything from Damian, even though she was certain that the bill was more than he could really afford and even though he knew that this date was a set-up. She thought about that moment in the furniture store when she'd stretched out on the mattress and shamelessly flirted with him. She wasn't exactly sure why she'd done that. Maybe she just needed to make sure that underneath the boy scout exterior still beat the heart of a man. She smiled as she remembered how he seemed to trip over his words in response. The smile faded as she remembered what happened next. Curling up next to him on that couch, feeling his arm go around her... She felt heat rise to her cheeks even now as she remembered. She was glad that Damian didn't know about that. And then had come that moment when he leaned over and whispered, "Omigod, Lindsey," into her ear. It told her that he was feeling the exact same thing she was - something that was beyond an ability to put into words. And for a moment, it had been so easy to get lost there. Then there was the kiss. So soft. So gentle. She rebuked herself. What did she think she was doing, letting herself go all soft just from the memory of a kiss? Besides, Damian was right. Clark Kent was a decent man - a breed she had thought extinct. If he knew the things she'd been party to... She wondered briefly if she should have another snort of flex to once again kill the feelings of guilt. She turned over in bed. Two shots of flex in one night was a little much, even for her. Surely, if she could just get some sleep... She sighed. So if she liked Clark, why was she trying so hard to convince Damian to give up the idea of having her go out with him again? She shook her head. The answer to that was simple enough. The guilt that had consumed her for years had gotten worse since meeting Clark. Was that what happened by being in contact with a basically decent man? And if anything had the power to destroy her it was the guilt. The only way she was able to keep going these days was to kill the guilt - that was what the flex was for. But knowing that her guilt would only get worse by seeing Clark didn't stop her excitement at the knowledge that she would be spending Saturday helping him paint his apartment. He was right. It did sound like fun. She smiled slightly when she thought about how nervous he'd sounded on the phone. The smile turned to a frown as she thought about Damian's warning not to get attached. Did that warning apply to Clark, too? She already knew that her heart might get broken during this assignment, but what about Clark's? She could really use some more flex. No. She was already using too much flex these days as it was. Well, if she wasn't going to have any more flex tonight, she could at least have some more whisky. She got up and made her way to the bar to pour herself a double. After the drink, she headed into the washroom to have a shower. She suddenly felt incredibly dirty. * * * * * * * * * Clark rolled over on the floor, looking for a more comfortable position. For the past hour he'd been reliving that short phone call in his mind. He had decided that he wasn't going to call her and yet, after only a few hours, he'd been on the phone, begging for a date. It was that dream. Was he going crazy? He'd just asked Damian Luthor's mistress out because of some stupid dream. Did he have a death wish or something? He growled at himself in disgust while staring absently at the ceiling. As he did, a small smile crept onto his lips. She said yes. He ignored the little voice in the back of his mind that reminded him that someone, probably Luthor, had been at her apartment when he called and that, before accepting his invitation, she'd consulted him. That wasn't important at the moment. The only thing that mattered was that she said yes. He was going to see her again. He could simply paint the whole apartment in a couple of minutes. It would take much longer having her help. Still... He could hardly believe how much he was looking forward to Saturday. * * * * * * * * * She ran her hand slowly over his champagne soaked shirt, tracing the lines of his muscular chest and desperately wishing no material separated his chest from her hand. She really hadn't meant to land on top of him, but now that she had... She couldn't really say that she had any desire to relocate. She wished he'd make a move to kiss her or wrap his arms around her, but he stayed curiously passive. Still, it would only take a