TITLE: A Race By Any Other Name

AUTHOR: Mariah Wind

E-MAIL: mariahwind99@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMER: Original character Lexana Slade and story are mine. I don't own Race Bannon, Bandit, or any of the Jonny Quest characters. This is for fun, not profit.

NOTE: A Race fic with the original 1960's series in mind. This fic was originally posted at FanFiction.Net on 02/07/01, but I gave it the ill-fated

NC-17 rating to be on the safe side. Now, I'm rating it R because while it has an adult theme, it's not overly graphic or explicit.

RATING: R for mature situations, insinuations, content, and intent. ;)


A Race By Any Other Name
by Mariah Wind

When Race came out of the bathroom wearing a robe, Lexana held an envelope in her hand. She looked up at him, dark blue eyes expectant. She tapped the envelope against the tip of the thumb on her other hand.

"What does the H stand for?"

Race closed his eyes. Why had he tossed his mail on the nightstand instead of putting it away in the desk as he usually did? Why? Because he had been distracted by thoughts of Lexana Slade and her smouldering dark eyes and long slinky hair as black as a sinner's heart and the bountiful curves of her body. That was why. He opened his eyes.

She still held the envelope and continued to watch him. The sheet from his bed covered her curves. She had wrapped it around and tucked one corner over her shoulder like a toga. She looked like a goddess awaiting a response from her worshiper and woe to the one who incurred her wrath by giving her a false answer.

Race cleared his throat. "My middle name."

One black eyebrow arched delicately over the feline tilt of her eye. "Hmmm."

"Are you ready to go out for breakfast?" he asked as he opened the door to his closet. He rummaged inside.

"No, I don't think so," she said pleasantly but with determination. "I have a mystery to solve."

Race slumped and hung his head. The open closet door hid his reaction from her. He had to get her mind off that envelope and what was written on it. He reached for charcoal gray slacks and a black side-button shirt.

"You may not be hungry, but I'm starving," he said as he squared his shoulders and set his facial expression to neutral. He closed the closet door. "I worked up an appetite last night."

"I'm sure you did," she said saucily and smiled with remembrance. She moved to the bed and kneeled on the edge, then gracefully sank into a seated position, a pillow behind her back as she leaned against the headboard. She stared at the envelope in her hands. "If you're hungry, go on without me. I have some, uh, investigating to do."

She turned the envelope over and ran a fingertip along its sealed edge.

"Tampering with unopened mail is a federal offense," he growled.

Her eyes grew wide with mock innocence. "Is it? I had no idea. I'll have to remember that. Go on to breakfast, Race. A big, strong man like you needs your nourishment."

She returned her attention to the envelope, turning it over once more. Her body wiggled around until she had straightened and drawn up her knees. She propped the envelope on her thighs and tapped one long, slender finger against her cheek as if trying to decide what to do.

Race felt foolish standing there, clothes hangers hooked over one finger. He lay the shirt and pants across a chair. Maybe he could seduce her away from pursuing her present course of action. Although they had been dancing around one another for weeks--a few kisses here, intimate caresses there--last night had been easy enough. She had melted beneath him like butter under a hot sun.

He pulled off his robe and let it drop to the floor. When he reached the king-sized bed, he crawled to her side on all fours, stretched out his hand, and tugged the corner of the sheet loose.

She looked at him in feigned surprise. "I thought you had gone to breakfast."

"I changed my mind."

"You said you were hungry."

"I am...but not for food," he rasped suggestively.

He raised up to his knees and kissed her, his tongue sweeping over hers. He threaded one hand into her hair at the back of her neck and the other pulled on the edge of the sheet until her breasts popped free. He kneaded one gently and lightly pinched the nipple until it was hard and pointed.

"Mmmm...Race..." she moaned, then pushed him aside and held up the envelope as if reading it. "Or should I say Roger H. Bannon?"

He fell onto his back and stared at the ceiling. She was worse than Bandit chewing on a bone. And speaking of bones, he had worked himself up and she obviously wasn't going to give in until he told her.

"Let's see, what could the H stand for? Could it be...Henry? Herman? Harold? No, they're much too plain for a sophisticated and worldly man like Race Bannon."

He didn't appreciate her sarcasm, but he enjoyed everything else about her so he tried not to let it irritate him too much.

"Hugh? Howard? No, those don't suit you either. How about--" She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "Horace."

He closed his eyes and waited for the laughter. He'd endured a lifetime of ribbing for that name and had never volunteered it to anyone. He could only thank his parents for making it his middle name. He'd have legally changed it years ago if it had been first. His parents had called him Race and everyone assumed it was only a nickname, possibly derived from Roger. He never set them straight.

When the laughter didn't come, he opened one eye slightly and peered up at her. She was sitting up straight and had rearranged the sheet so that she was covered again. She smiled at him fondly, her eyes softly amused but not mocking.

"I was right. How wonderful!" She sounded as if she meant it.

Wonderful? Was she insane?

"I like it. I like that Race is part of your name, not just a nickname somebody stuck you with."

Of the few people in his life who knew, no one had ever made that connection before. Especially a woman. He had to tell them. Then they usually snickered and used the name Horace when the inevitable happened and the relationship went south.

He opened both eyes and turned over to his side, propping his head on the heel of his hand.

"You really like the name?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I?" she countered.

"It's a terrible name."

"Old-fashioned, yes, but it's not bad." She leaned down and kissed him. "Herman would have been bad."

"Horace is bad enough," he said thinking quickly. If he gave her the sob story well enough, she would feel the need to console him. He was all turned on and might get another tumble in bed before they went to breakfast. "You know how kids are. I was teased mercilessly in school whenever anyone found out."

"Ah, poor baby," she crooned and ran her hand through his shower-damp crisp white hair.

"I had to fight bullies twice my size and I was just a scrawny kid back then."

When she bent to kiss him again, he caught her head and pulled her to him. He kissed her thoroughly. She was in one of those soft woman's moods where she was feeling protective and comforting. He reached for the sheet to unveil her treasures to his greedy eyes once again when he suddenly found himself grappling with thin air.

"Where are you going?"

"To get dressed," she threw back over her shoulder with a flip of her long black hair.

"Dressed?" Blood pounded in his temples and he couldn't conceive what the word meant.

"I'm starving and we're going out to breakfast!" She grinned impishly before disappearing into the bathroom, leaving a puddle of sheet behind.

Once again, Race fell back on the bed. Women! Just when he thought he had them all figured out, along came a woman who contradicted everything he'd ever learned about them.

He drew in a deep, shaky breath and stood up to get dressed to go to breakfast.

[The End]