Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Starship/6102/home.html

Author's disclaimer:
There once was a group in Toronto
Who made the world's best TV show
People, wolves, places, and plot
All the rights they have got
But here I can do what I want to!

Author's notes: Dedicated to the ladies of RedSuitsYou! Love y'all!

Everything was perfect. The consulate was as clean as she had ever seen it. Brass gleamed like morning sunlight. Every centimeter of wood had been scrubbed until it was in danger of losing it's molecular cohesion. Wax coated the floors so thickly that one could dip candles with one's shoes. Any speck of dust or strand of downy cobweb that had ever dared inhabit the place had gone the way of the dodo hours ago. The underside of furniture was clean enough that even someone with the unduly squeamish tasting parameters of the average Chicago cop would not be afraid to eat off them.

Inspector Margaret Thatcher noted with satisfaction that even the people held an air of plastic perfection. Fraser and Turnbull looked like RCMP recruitment posters in their spotless red serge uniforms, standing at stiff attention in front of her desk. Lanyards hung straight as plumb lines, boots and belts were polished to a blinding gloss, and there wasn't even the ghost of a wrinkle in any centimeter of cloth. She couldn't help but note the striking similarity that Constable Fraser held to a Canadian Ken doll.

He looked...nearly edible. His skin looked as smooth as white chocolate, the clean-shaven, scrubbed appeal of the boy next door. The dark coffee curls had been securely tamed with gel...from the scent of it, Constable Fraser was one of the few people remaining who actually used Brylcreem. It figured. His eyes, those penetrating, ice-blue eyes, stared straight ahead. For this she was quite glad, and she quickly turned herself back to issues of cleanliness of uniform, rather than the officer IN the uniform. Her own uniform was hot enough, thank you.

Though she rarely was forced into it, Thatcher had no choice but to don the red serge for this event. It itched horrendously, and there was simply no way that she could do her hair that would be flattering with the damned cap. Maybe she should just cut it all off.

Ignoring the urge to just reach her fingers under the collar and rip the entire tunic off, she stepped out from behind the desk and walked slowly in front of the two Constables. "I cannot over stress the importance of this inspection. Minister Grushka is known for the tight ship she runs. If she finds a disorganized file, a speck of dust, or - God forbid - an actual cobweb, then we will learn the meaning of official displeasure. Imagine, if you will, paperwork up to your collective asses, each form and memo requiring you to explain, in detail, why you are not complete morons, and why you should not be removed from consular service."

It was clearly not an image that they relished. She nodded in satisfaction. "You both have duties. May I suggest you attend to them. Now. Dismissed." Making a crisp about-face, she returned to her desk. Was that a stain on the blotter? Her pulse raced a moment in fear, then she realized the 'stain' was, in reality, her own shadow.

Sighing in relief, she looked around the room, making sure everything else was in place. It was, with one exception. "Constable?" Fraser was standing very stiffly in the middle of the room, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Exactly the position she had left him in.

Only now, she noticed something new. Before, her attention had been fixated on the uniform. Being certain it was clean, straight, unwrinkled. Now, she noticed that tiny beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. Lines of intense concentration had appeared by his eyes, which held a look of intense, almost painful concentration. A slight motion pulled her gaze downward, and she nearly choked at what she saw. From the almost invisible movements of his elbows, he was...no. Not Constable Fraser.

On the other hand, he did very much appear to be. And she couldn't find out without looking behind him. That, or a simple, casual question. Something along the lines of 'Fraser, are you scratching your ass?'

His eyes met hers, and from the tortured look in the blue depths, she guessed that she was probably right. *Something* certainly itched like the devil. She cleared her throat. "What are you doing, Fraser?"

"I'm sorry, sir." Fraser's voice was tight, strained.

"That's not an answer, Constable. Why are you still here?"

He paused, shifted slightly, and she saw a dark blush creep up his face from his collar. "I was...um...requesting permission to briefly return home, sir."

"Constable, Grushka is due in half an hour. It would take you at least twenty minutes to get to that hellhole of yours and back. Not to mention that you still have duties here. You're supposed to help Turnbull with -" Her voice trailed off as she noticed that he was rocking slowly back and forth, trying to hide the motion from her. Thatcher's tone became suddenly sharp. "Fraser, did that wolf of yours give you fleas?"

The blush suddenly flamed bright, and she was momentarily afraid that was exactly what had happened. "No, sir," he whispered, "starch."

Her eyes widened. "Starch?"

"Yes, sir." Now that Fraser had begun, his words picked up speed quickly, tumbling over each other in a desperate babble. "You see, I was starching some items of personal attire this morning, and Diefenbaker saw a pigeon at the window. I believe that he saw the bird as a threat of some sort, because he attempted to attack it, resulting in the starch being spilt over the garments being ironed. As the Laundromat has been undergoing repairs until recently, the garments in question were the only ones available, and I was forced to wear them, despite the somewhat excessive quantity of starch. Unfortunately," his voice choked off a moment, and he ran his finger under the collar of the tunic, "unfortunately, the garment in question is worn directly next to the skin, and..."

It was everything she could do not to laugh out loud. Poor Fraser! She remembered the one time she had been to his apartment, and she had a sneaking suspicion that she knew exactly what he had over-starched. God, could she keep a straight face? "And it is causing personal discomfort, Constable?"

He looked ready to kiss her just for her understanding, and she could feel palpable waves of relief emanating through the red serge. "Yes, sir."

Walking slowly around him, she pretended to contemplate the matter carefully. "Just how severely were these...garments overstarched?"

"Like cardboard, sir."

"Oh dear."

"Indeed."

She consulted her watch. As much as it might be fun to watch Fraser squirm under normal circumstances, this time he really should go back to his apartment and change. Unfortunately, they simply didn't have time. "May I suggest you remove the offending garment, Fraser?"

His eyes flew almost impossibly wide. "Sir?"

Discarding protocol for a moment, Thatcher leaned in close, looking him directly in the eyes. "I'm very sorry about this, Fraser, and I understand your...predicament. You simply have two options. Go commando, or look like you've got Mexican jumping beans in your jodhpurs when the Minister gets here."

Fraser gave a quick, desperate nod. He barely managed to mutter, "Understood", before he vanished out the door, ostensibly to remove the offending garment. It took every ounce of willpower for her turn back to her desk. She would NOT follow him surreptitiously, nor would she even imagine for a MOMENT what certain portions of her junior officer's anatomy looked like. Or what the proportions of those anatomical features were. Or what those features would feel like if they...

No. She would never entertain such thoughts.

She noticed a few items of clutter remaining on the polished surface of the desks. They were left over from writing consular checks that morning. Quickly, she opened her drawer, sweeping the ink pad, stamp, pen, and checkbook into the waiting drawer. Thatcher gasped as the ink pad struck the edge, bouncing open and landing...oh God, no...what had she done?!

Staring in horror at the blue ink stain on the rug, she didn't even notice Fraser's re-entrance. "Is something wrong, sir?"

"I dropped the ink pad, Fraser." Her voice was hushed. There was no way they could get that out. "It got on the rug."

Coming around to her side of the desk to look at the damage, Fraser winced. "Oh dear."

"Oh dear is right, Constable. What are we going to do?"

He paused, clearly contemplating the matter. Thatcher couldn't keep her eyes from wandering down below Sam Browne level. "Constable...?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Is the...other matter taken care of?"

For a moment, Fraser looked at her in genuine confusion. Then he remembered, and the crimson hue returned to his face. "Ah. Yes, sir."

"May I ask..." She hesitated a moment, then decided what the hell. "Where did you put them, Constable?"

"My desk for the moment. They will, of course, be returned to my residence as soon as possible. I'm so terribly sorry for this entire - "

She waved him off. "Don't worry about it, Fraser. What are we going to do about the ink?"

He glanced at it one last time, then looked back at her. "May I suggest we move the desk to temporarily conceal the damage."

Thatcher blinked, incredulous. "Move the desk? It's huge!"

"I believe that working together, we could easily move it the twelve point two centimeters required. Of course, we'll have to remove our uniform tunics before hand. The oil used on the wood would easily leave stains on the serge, not to mention the wrinkles possible from the actual moving process." He stared at her with those wide, innocent blue eyes. It seemed like a preposterous idea, but strangely logical at the same time. Typical Ben Fraser.

Sighing, Thatcher began to unbutton the brass buttons of her tunic and release her Sam Browne. "All right, Fraser, let's hurry."

Considering the intricacy of the maneuvers required, she was amazed to find that it took them both less than two minutes to be down to shirtsleeves. Her eyes wandered over the broad, well-formed expanse of Fraser's chest, but as her gaze reached his face, she was stunned to find that his eyes had been in a very similar location on her body. Feeling her own face heat, she abruptly shook the inappropriate images from her mind and grabbed the desk. "Are you going to help me?"

"Sorry, sir." Taking up position on the opposite end of the desk, he took firm hold of the two sides. His hands were large and strong, and she found herself wondering if that old wives tale was true. Did the size of a man's hands really indicate the size of his...? If so.... No. That was the most inappropriate thought yet.

With a deep breath, she met his eyes across the desk. "Twelve point two centimeters to the left. On three."

He nodded. "On three."

"One."

"Two."

"Three." The word was slightly strangled as she braced her legs, using the deceptive level of strength in her slim body to lift the heavy desk a fraction of a centimeter over the thick pile of the carpet. Fraser did most of the actual work, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bulging against the Henley as he swung the desk into place. It was a seemingly effortless motion for him, and she was surprised to see the terror-stricken expression that suddenly appeared on his face as he lowered it.

Had he hurt himself? As soon as possible, she abandoned her end, rushing around to his side of the desk. "Fraser? Are you all right?"

To her surprise, he backed off quickly, ducking behind the desk quickly, as if using the furniture as a shield. The tall Constable dropped to his knees, his hands apparently cupped over his groin. She tilted her head curiously at the behavior. She would almost think that the desk had hit him *there*, but unless he was a true master at concealing pain, that didn't appear to be the case. His face had turned a remarkable shade of red, though. Concern evident in her voice, she asked again. "Constable? Is there something wrong?"

The normally rich baritone was little more than a shaky whisper. "The desk, sir. It...got caught."

Damn, was he really that stoic? "Caught?"

"On my zipper, sir. I'm afraid it ripped."

Suddenly, Thatcher felt distinctly faint as she realized what that meant. There was nothing between her and the object of those inappropriate fantasies except the Constable's hands. His boxers had been rendered untenable by starch, his jodhpurs damaged in a critical location. How in hell would they face the Minister? For that matter, how would she get him out of her office?

From the look of abject despair in the blue eyes, it was clear that Fraser was completely out of ideas. Her own mind raced frantically, and she had almost given up when she finally lit upon an idea. Dashing to her purse, she dug around until she located the small, white tube that could be their salvation. With a smile of triumph, she turned and presented it to the Constable. "Here we are!"

"Sir?" He gazed at it curiously, clearly unable to ascertain precisely what she was holding from his unusual vantage.

"Superglue, Fraser."

"Superglue, sir?"

Forcing an attitude of supreme confidence to cover her growing incredulity at their situation, Thatcher nodded. Marching briskly over to the desk, she studied the instructions on the side of the tube. Do not inhale, eat, or give to small children. No problem with the first two, and she had no intention of letting Turnbull use it. The label said that it could bond both metal and cloth, so this might actually have a fighting chance of working. "Yes, Constable." She was actually sounding a bit self-satisfied at her inventive idea. "I believe that this may well prove a solution to your problem. Temporary, that is. New jodhpurs will have to be purchased, of course."

"Of course." The blue eyes held a rather dubious expression as they stared at the small tube. Thatcher supposed she could well understand that. The possibility of being permanently glued into a pair of RCMP jodhpurs wasn't something that she would have eagerly embraced, either. He clearly hesitated, something about the process worrying him severely enough that the fine lines by his eyes deepened and began to etch their paths of uncertainty across his forehead. Finally, he simply asked, "How are we planning to do this, sir?"

She consulted the label again. "Remove cap. Invert, and insert plastic pin through foil protective cover on glue. Insert attached tube through hole, securing with-"

Fraser took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "No, sir...I meant how are we going to apply it, sir."

"We, Constable?" Thatcher looked at him warily. She had planned to just hand the stuff over and let Fraser handle it himself. No way in hell she was getting anywhere near that particular area.

"Yes, sir. You see...uh..." He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes dropping to boot level, unable to meet her own. "I don't believe that I can hold the two edges of the zipper together while simultaneously applying the glue. That would require at least three hands, or some other sort of gripping device."

Desperately, Thatcher's eyes swept the room for 'some other sort of gripping device'. Nothing. What's worse, short of running down to the Chicago zoo and obtaining the temporary assistance of a small monkey, she couldn't think of where she might obtain an extra hand. There was no way she would ask Turnbull, that was for sure!

She licked suddenly-dry lips, trying not to look at Fraser anywhere but square in the eyes. "I see."

Never before had she seen the Constable look so utterly miserable. It actually made her feel a little better, because if he was this embarrassed, it would be easier for her to keep control over herself. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she quickly uncapped the glue and went through the complicated opening and preparatory procedures.

Blue eyes looked dolefully up at her. "You've decided to assist then, sir."

"Of course, Constable." She spoke briskly, confidently, as if gluing closed the pants of breathtakingly handsome subordinates was something she did every day of the week. "We can't very well leave things as they are, now can we?"

"No," he admitted, "I suppose we cannot."

The preparations finally finished, she held out the tube. "Which would you prefer, Fraser...hold or glue."

He paused a moment, then chose what he apparently considered the lesser of two evils. "I'll hold, sir."

"Very well." Still trying to maintain a completely businesslike atmosphere, Thatcher stepped around behind the desk. Fraser stood, hands still cupped modestly and showing no signs of removal. She sighed. "Fraser, if I'm going to get at it, you'll have to move your hands."

For a man who regularly faced down heavily armed criminals without so much as blinking, a woman and a small tube of glue appeared to have placed him quite near the verge of cardiac arrest. His hands twitched several times, as though they had already been glued to the front of the jodhpurs, then he finally managed to bring himself to move them. Never before had she been so thankful for the Constable's fast reflexes. The cloth didn't have time to part so much as a micron before he had repositioned his hands, holding the edges of his fly together as firmly as a steel trap.

Thatcher found herself oddly disappointed at the speed shown. If he'd taken a fraction of a second longer, she might have gotten a glimpse of...but then, there was no professional reason for that, was there? She should be grateful that he was so modest. After all, most men couldn't keep it in their pants to save their lives. Fraser, on the other hand, was about to *glue* his in!

Shaking her head slightly at the thought, the Inspector got down on her knees to place herself at a vantage point. With remarkable self-control, she tried very hard not to think of any other connotations of that position. She was his commanding officer. All she was doing was assisting her junior officer with a difficulty. *And no,* she reminded herself harshly, *that problem is not blue balls.* Lightly squeezing a tiny drop of glue out to bead on the tip of the applicator tube, she bit her lip, squinting at the navy blue cloth.

Damn, she'd forgotten her glasses. Unfortunately, they were in her purse, across the room. She couldn't very well send Fraser to get them, and this little bead of glue would soon dry to an impenetrable shield over the remainder of the tube. She would just have to get closer.

Thatcher resolved that her pulse did NOT increase as she leaned to within less than ten centimeters of the Constable's groin. She did not feel her temperature rise, and there was absolutely no reaction to the fact that at that range, she could rather accurately assess certain dimensions simply because of the contours they caused in the navy blue fabric. Her hands shook as she squeezed the first drop onto one side of the zipper's metal teeth, then set down the tube to pinch the two sets of teeth together.

From the slight gasp that escaped Fraser's lips, she guessed that those weren't the only teeth being clenched. A brief glance upward revealed an expression of terrified concentration unlike anything else she had ever seen. She felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him. If this was difficult for her, what must it be like for him? At this range, her face was all but touching him, her fingers working on his fly, separated by nothing more than the cloth itself. That he had managed to control himself was nothing short of miraculous.

Unfortunately, the thing about miracles is that they don't often last long. As she reached for the glue bottle and squeezed on the second drop, the dark fabric twitched. *Dear God, please no...let him keep it together just a little longer!* Her heart raced, and she felt her mouth go dry as she realized that her hands were shaking so badly that she would have to use both hands.

Gripping the bottle in an iron hold, she was terrifyingly aware of her skin pressing against the front of his jodhpurs. The appendage beneath seemed to have developed a case of the hiccups, and when she glanced up, she was shocked at the look on the Constable's face. The deep, almost brick red blush, the eyes closed so tightly she wasn't sure they could ever open again, the sweat beaded on the forehead. She didn't even want to guess at his blood pressure. *If a man can die from suppressed hard-on,* she realized, *I'm going to watch it happen right here.*

Licking her lips, Thatcher closed her own eyes. Her voice was surprisingly gentle as she whispered. "It's all right, Fraser."

"Sir?" His voice seemed amazingly calm, and had she not seen the strain on his face, she would have thought him slightly perturbed at most.

"It's a natural reaction, Fraser. You don't have to fight it."

"Natural...reactions...are not always appropriate."

"But if you fight them too hard, you'll only hurt yourself." Their eyes met at this, and she felt her heart skip a beat. They were just talking about this, weren't they? No bearing whatsoever on their further relationship. After all, they didn't have a further relationship.

"And...if you just...let it happen...you can hurt others." The strain in Fraser's voice was increasing, but despite all his efforts, certain portions of his anatomy seemed to have attained a mind all their own. What had started out as a slight hiccup was now more along the lines of the whooping cough. Thatcher prayed that the glue she had already applied would be enough to keep things contained. Visual contact would not help either of them.

Carefully, she kept her eyes on Fraser's face. "Sometimes, those others can decide for themselves. But if you hold back everything, they never know."

"Oh believe me, sir, I think they know quite well."

Thatcher stood now, the glue bottle falling unnoticed from her hand. Already, she was within a few centimeters of him, but she took a slight step closer anyway. The swell of her breasts beneath the fabric of her Henley brushed his chest, and only the fact that his hands were still quite firmly preventing it kept his groin from brushing hers. Her eyes stared deeply into his, searching past blue and into the inner secrets of his heart. "Do they?"

His voice had softened. "I want to think so."

"How could they know," she whispered, "if you never show it." Her hand came up, lightly skimming the tips of her fingers over the line of his jaw. Fraser shuddered, his eyes closing for a moment at the touch.

"I did show it."

One of his hands had disengaged from it's protective duties, lightly brushing the hair back from her face. Thatcher knew that she was swimming in dangerous waters here, but by God she wasn't about to stop. The tip of her index finger tapped reproachfully on the end of his sculpted nose. "Once."

"Once." There was a tinge of regret to his voice.

"Why not twice? Or three times?" Her voice had dropped to a low murmur, her face drawing so near his that their noses touched.

"Orders." She was drowning in blue, any remaining sense of reason having surrendered long ago. One large, strong hand was on her shoulder now, the other wrapped around her waist. Wickedly, she pressed her body closer, putting her warmth against his unprotected arousal. He gasped, and she was rewarded with the rare sight of desire burning in the normally cool, placid azure depths. His cheeks had lost that embarrassed, little-boy blush, and she realized that it was only in hesitation that he was nervous. He wasn't hesitating any more.

Yet despite his obvious desire, Thatcher felt strangely at peace. In every other relationship, she had always felt the need to maintain control at all times. Now, with Fraser - with Ben, she amended - she felt free to lose control. Free because she knew that he would respect her. If she told him to keep quiet about the affair, if she told him she wanted space, even if she asked him to stop, stop right this instant and forget the entire thing had happened...he would do it. He would do it because he loved her. Purely and completely, without any of the macho power games she so hated. She could trust him.

Allowing her body to melt against his, she whispered the point of no return. "Consider the orders...revoked."

In answer, his lips came to hers. It was tentative at first, as though he was afraid she would suddenly revoke her permission, but Thatcher was too far gone to revoke a damned thing. She replied to his gentle touching of lips by lacing her fingers in his dark hair, pulling his mouth to hers with no uncertain terms. If there was one thing Fraser did well, it was follow directions, and these directions were clear.

A small murmuring sound was heard as their mouths explored one another. Neither was sure who had made it, or if both of them had, but neither cared. Her tongue twisted and danced around his, thrusting and questing like an impassioned cartographer, mapping every sweet surface. She slicked over the hard smoothness of his teeth, molded to the tiny ridges at the top of his mouth, explored his lips, dodged and thrust against his own tongue as it conducted the same exploration. Her fingers twisted in his short curls, pulling him ever tighter. Thatcher knew she would have to wear dark lipstick for several days to hide her bruised lips, but she couldn't have cared less.

His arms had wrapped around her, enveloping her in a warm, secure embrace that seemed to isolate her from all the cares of the world. Part of her wanted to stay like this forever, but a louder portion of her inner self was screaming like a glutton held back from a buffet. She wanted more, she wanted everything, and she didn't care about the consequences. Her hands disengaged from his head, slipping down between them. Fingers fumbled for a moment with the button on his jodhpurs, and she gave a small sound of triumph as she succeeded in releasing it.

Her hands slipped down beneath the waistband, closing over the hard length of his erection trapped beneath them. Fraser moaned at the touch, but to her surprise, rather than intensifying their contact, he suddenly pulled back. His teeth dragging lightly over her lips, he released the kiss, stepping gently back. She let him go, too stunned to say anything. What was he doing?

It was obvious that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him. Hell, all she had to do was take a good look at his dick to know that. Yet he had broken it off. She took a step forward, confused, but he held up a hand. His blue eyes were searching, wanting. There was a hunger there that took her breath away, but at the same time, she could see the wariness of a man who had been hurt before. "Inspector..."

"Meg." She didn't want rank. Not now. She didn't want to make love to her junior officer, but she definitely did want to make love to the man Ben Fraser.

He shook his head. "Inspector. Do you...I mean...do you really...are you sure..."

She laughed bitterly. "What is it, Ben? You think I'm so swept away by your Greek-God looks that I can't help myself? That you have to save me from my own rampaging hormones?" Stepping closer, she drug her fingers across his chest, lightly swirling around one nipple. He gasped, but didn't step away, and she smiled. "Maybe. Hell, maybe we'll both regret this tomorrow, but I don't care. I love you, Ben."

Taking her hands in his own, he kissed the tip of each finger lightly. "And I you." The blue eyes were glowing now, and she could see his relief that this wasn't like the kiss they had shared before. At least this time, they had verbally agreed to what they were about to do. The side of his mouth lifted into a smile, dimpling his cheek. "However, I am quite certain we will regret it today."

Allowing herself to slip into his arms, laying her head against one broad, strong shoulder, she turned her head only slightly to look at him. "What?"

"The Minister."

Shocked abruptly out of her romantic mood, Thatcher jumped back, emitting a stifled shriek of despair as she saw the desk clock. The Minister would be here in less than five minutes! She stared in horror at Fraser. His Henley was untucked over a pair of jodhpurs with a broken fly that currently sagged low and open over his hips. His hair was disheveled, as, she imagined, was hers. To her surprise, however, he did not appear nearly as distressed.

Her voice near fever-pitch in hysteria, Thatcher waved her hand to encompass the two of them. "Dammit, Fraser, what the hell are we going to do?"

The dark brows pinched a moment over the cerulean eyes. "I'd like a moment to think about that."

Angrily, she shook a finger at him. "No! You're not jumping out the window this time, Ben, or I swear to God I'll give you your nuts on a silver platter!"

He smiled. Then shook his head and reached for her desk. "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

***

"Constable Turnbull:

I fear that Constable Fraser and I have fallen suddenly ill. It appears to be a rare condition that causes, among other things, disorientation, spasms, and high fever. Constable Fraser believes that it is probably highly contagious, but that it's rapid onset suggests that it will likely pass within the day. As a precautionary measure, however, I am quarantining the Constable and myself within this office for an unspecified length of time...at least until the worst symptoms have passed. Do not worry , we do not require medical assistance, and are not in any mortal danger. We are not certain about exposure protocols, and thus I am ordering you to confine yourself to your office for a minimum of twelve hours. If, after that time, you are not experiencing any symptoms, you are free to leave. Regrettably, I must also call upon you to cancel the Minister's visit. Please do not divulge any undue details, however, as I do not want her becoming alarmed.

Inspector M. Thatcher"

Constable Renfield Turnbull read and re-read the note in disbelief, finally pulling it down off the Inspector's office door to read it more closely. An outbreak! Here in the consulate! This was absolutely terrible! Quickly, he felt his forehead. No fever yet, but he would have to be careful. Poor Inspector Thatcher and Constable Fraser had already been affected.

The note had not specified any exposure protocols, but he decided to take some security measures just to be sure. Donning rubber gloves and a mask that he usually used for cleaning, he pulled out a bottle of disinfectant and began to spray every surface within reach. He had to quell this plague before it affected all of Chicago. The image of hundreds, even thousands of people falling ill tormented his imagination.

He marveled at the bravery of his superiors...locking themselves in a room to suffer alone, but prevent the suffering of others. He could hear loud cries and moaning coming from the locked office, and he shook his head in awe. Such agony they must be bearing. Yet they were taking it all like Mounties, thinking of others first. It made him proud to wear the uniform.

In the midst of his cleaning endeavors, there was a knock on the door. Slipping on a second mask over the first, just to be sure, he cautiously opened the door a centimeter. Minister Grushka was standing there, looking neat and efficient in a sharply tailored navy blue suit. Judging from the shape of her eyes, she appeared to be at least half Asian, but her strawberry blonde hair and blue irises suggested that wasn't the only bloodline running through her veins. Though petite, she clearly knew the exact extent of her power, and carried herself with the same commanding presence as he had come to expect from Inspector Thatcher. All in all, she seemed to be a fascinating woman whom he would normally have enjoyed showing off his consulate to.

Unfortunately, when faced with a rather tall Constable wearing rubber gloves and two surgical masks, who also happened to be waving his arms and shouting "Plague, plague!!", the Minister didn't stay very long. In fact, she made remarkable time back to her taxi.

Satisfied with his vigilance, though a little disappointed, Turnbull closed the door again. To the rest of Chicago, nothing at all seemed amiss with the Canadian Consulate. Within ten minutes, however, after Turnbull had opened and closed the door one more time, several phone calls would be directed to 911, the newspapers, and even animal control.

Understandably, most passers by wondered why there was a sign on the door that read "DANGER, PLAGUE QUARENTINE".

***

A large white Henley lay over the back of the Inspector's chair, a flag of surrender against the conventions that had ruled them until now. A smaller version of the same garment occupied the wastepaper basket. One pair of ladies jodhpurs dangled by the single remaining suspender from the pole that also supported the Canadian flag. Another pair of jodhpurs, these both larger and glue-stained, were crumpled by the door. Two left boots were on the desk. The mates to the boots were, respectively, in the desk drawer, and on the windowsill. The lacy cup of a 34B brassier partially obscured the portrait of the queen. Equally delicate panties hung over the desk lamp, slightly muting the illumination from the bulb.

In the middle of this apparent laundry tornado, two naked figures lay entwined beneath the desk.

The woman, who had once considered herself an Inspector in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, was stretched languidly over the tall, solid form of the man, who had once considered himself a Constable in the same organization. Now, however, they held no more constraints of rank than had bound Adam and Eve. Rank was just a formality, after all. A code of behavior. As far as Meg was concerned, any lingering hints of a code had vanished somewhere around the point where she had begun growling.

A contented smile warmed her face, and she snuggled against him, stretching and purring like a large cat. Her dark hair had fallen in sweat-soaked strands over her eyes, and he brushed it back, looking all together too pleased with himself. Of course, she decided, he had every right to be.

Closing her eyes, she ran her tongue over her lips, her hand dipping down to the still-moist flesh between her legs as she thought of some of the things they had done. She didn't have to masturbate for long, however, as his hand replaced hers, manipulating her most intimate regions with a skill he had no right to possess. Meg could feel his erection beginning to grow anew against her thigh, and she knew that they were on their way into round four.

Sighing, she rolled off of him. As much as she was enjoying this, she was already exhausted. The last three hours had contained more physical sexual activity than the past three YEARS, and her body simply wasn't used to it. Already, she could feel the soreness gathering, and no matter how much she welcomed the source, she knew that she had to draw the line somewhere. Ben himself seemed to have no limits, and she guessed that it was the simple fact that she was dealing with the repressed sexual energy of almost his entire lifetime.

His hand reached after her, cupping her breast gently, thumb and forefinger teasing the nipple that was already erect and sensitive in the cool air conditioning. "Are you angry, Meg?"

Realizing that her meaning had been misunderstood, she rolled back over, cuddling against him in a way that was intimate, but not directly sexual. The look of satisfaction in her eyes told him everything. "No...just tired."

He nodded, and she admired the loose, boyish way that his hair had formed sweat-sequined ringlets over his forehead. Curling one around her finger, she allowed her other hand to wander over his chest. Meg was no virgin, but never before had she experienced a lover like Ben.

The first surprise had come as they undressed. His body was as smooth as a polished marble statue, the dark hair limited to a small patch over his groin and under each arm. And, of course, those adorable curls atop his head. The absence of body hair had allowed her senses to be completely devoted to form. What a form it was, too. Tall, but not too tall, with muscles that were firm, strong, and clearly defined, yet not bulging grotesquely against the fair skin. Unlike most men, who sought a Baywatch tan, Ben seemed content with the pale skin nature had given him, and the pallor had proved strangely arousing to Meg. As though she were opening a gift that not even the eyes of the sun had seen. Her fingers traced the faint outlines of his abdominal muscles, envisioning his body as a masterpiece sculpted from buttercream.

Of course, the greatest surprise had been his technique. She had expected to almost lead him through the process, but once it became clear that she wanted to - as she had called it in highschool - 'go all the way', he had needed no further instruction. Meg shivered as she remembered what that beautiful body could do. In sexual endowment, he was no porn star, but he was towards the upper end of average, which was what she liked. It was far more important to her that he knew how to use what God had granted him. Nothing was worse, she reflected, than a man who was hung like a horse and thought all he had to do was ram that thing into a woman a couple of times to make her happy. All it did, of course, was make her sore.

The only soreness she would suffer from Ben would be her own overzealous fault. He had been extraordinarily gentle in his lovemaking, expert at using the lightest touches of fingertips and tongue to create marvelous sensations. He had even discovered erogenous zones she had never known she had. Who on earth would have thought that lightly licking the backs of her knees could be so stimulating? Obviously, Ben Fraser had.

Softly massaging up his chest again and across his wide shoulders, she leaned up on her other elbow, looking at him curiously. "Can I ask you a question, Ben?"

He smiled, his own hand sliding down her side. "Of course."

"Where did you learn that?"

Frowning slightly, he raised his hand from where it had been smoothing down the length of her thigh. "This?"

"No. The other things you were doing. The thing with your tongue on my knee, and when you just rubbed me with your cock first, rather than just shoving it in...all that."

Ben shrugged, as if the sexual expertise had been nothing. "My grandparents were librarians."

Meg laughed. "In what, a harem?"

"No, but they did include 'Lady Chatterly's Lover,' 'The Song Of Solomon' in the Bible, and the 'Kama Sutra'."

His blue eyes were completely earnest, and she realized that he wasn't joking. He really had learned all that from books. Meg let out a low whistle. "I think I'd better go back to the classics."

"No need." Ever helpful, Ben slid his arm up behind her, drawing her in close so that he could plant a light kiss on her forehead. "I can show you."

To hell with being sore. Meg decided that Ben's eyes must contain some kind of powerful aphrodisiac, because simply looking into them was wreaking havoc with her judgment. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she crushed her mouth to his, shifting her weight to roll them over. The movement brought them completely into the footwell of the desk, and Meg had to wiggle slightly to make sure that Ben's head didn't hit the side of the desk as they rolled in.

That wiggle also displaced the small mat that usually protected the rug from her feet beneath the desk, however, and she felt something small and hard press against her lower back. Pulling away just enough to speak, she kneaded Ben's shoulders appreciatively as she gave him a seductive smile. "Do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Reach under my back, would you, Ben? I think we're laying on something."

A truly wicked look appeared in the blue gems. "What should I do with it?"

She shrugged, a deliberately slow, sinuous motion. "Whatever. Just keep your hands in the general neighborhood after you've gotten rid of it."

"Understood." His hands massaged their way gradually down her sides and beneath her, taking his time in slowly manipulating the small object in his hands under her. The feeling of his fingers undulating against her back was heaven, and she let him know it with the code they had developed over the course of the afternoon. If she was sucking his tonsils out, she liked it.

Suddenly, his hands stopped, and Meg opened her eyes curiously. The face above her was no longer impassioned, but had taken on an expression that always made her nervous. The words that followed made her even more so. "Oh dear."

"What?"

"I think we've found the Superglue."

THE END