Mary Margaret Skalany stood at the bathroom sink, wrapped snugly in a white terrycloth robe, drying her long hair. The ancient blow-dryer roared and chugged as it coughed gusts of heated air. She prayed silently, as she did most every morning, that it would not catch fire and that she would get one more day out of the antique.

As she lifted and brushed, the routine brought little comfort to her; it barely dulled the gnawing anxiety she felt. *If only I knew what was brewing in his guarded Shaolin mind.*

She sighed once; it turned into a big yawn that ended with a shiver. It was half past ten in the morning and she had just gotten home after pulling an all-nighter. The past thirty-six hours had been emotionally draining and physically exhausting. But even though she was so tired that her toes ached, she would probably get little sleep.

Tugging the brush through handfuls of damp chestnut hair, she finally gave in and thought about what had happened. Something had gone terribly wrong - she suspected some terrible influence, maybe even drugs. Whatever it was, Kwai Chang Caine, the most controlled man she'd ever met, had practically -- No. She had to stop denying it - he *had* attacked her. And afterward, Peter Caine had been no help at all - he wouldn't talk about the nasty spell that had gripped his father.

A spell? Yeah, years ago she'd have snickered at the ideas she now accepted without a blink. What happened at Caine's place . . . Christ, it was damn scary. The priest had grabbed her so hard she had bruises on her arms. Whoever assaulted her was not the man she had helped pull out of the Bardo world, not the man she loved with all her heart and wanted to love her in return.

Mary Margaret had to admit that their relationship was, well, undefined. She'd go for weeks and not see Caine at all. Their infrequent dates were short - dinner, a walk, a cup of tea - and never anything more than a chaste goodnight kiss. She almost preferred his open anger to the non-emotion of his Shaolin mask.

So as disturbing as it was, at least her encounter with the Caine from the Dark Side had been real contact. A couple of weeks ago, he'd kissed her at Delancey's - in front of the whole damn bar, and Peter, too! She'd thought things had changed, that he had started to trust her, but since that night nothing more had happened.

Why did this damn split-person nightmare have to happen? It was like that science fiction show, Star Trek. She had watched a silly episode where Captain Kirk was split into two separate men: one wimpy and good, one lusty and evil. How the hell could anyone, even Kwai Chang Caine, cope with confronting the core of darkness in their soul? It was all so damn complicated.

She shut off the dryer with a loud click and was disconcerted by the switch to total silence. Giving in to her weariness, she closed her eyes and leaned against the sink. Because she had been forced to return to work, she had privately dubbed the night when Caine kissed her 'The Night of the Missed Chance.' Buried feelings rose to the surface and she let herself feel all of them - the giddy happiness, the fever in her body, and the bittersweet hope of more to come.

Her eyes flew open when she had the sudden awareness that someone had entered her apartment. She wasn't afraid; somehow she knew was safe. When she entered the living room, she saw him. Caine sat on the sofa -- coat off, head back, eyes closed.

She took a sharp breath; his eyes opened and met with hers. Drawing her arms around her chest and hugging herself tightly, she struggled to find her voice.

"I see you changed your hair. Going for a new look?"

Kwai Chang Caine managed a brief, weary smile. But it was soon gone, replaced by sharp lines of deep sadness. Mary Margaret held her breath as Caine, never taking his eyes from hers, rose from the sofa and slowly walked toward her. Tentatively, he reached out to touch her, but then quickly pulled back.

"Mary Margaret," he said, "I am . . . so sorry."

She lost her composure; her lips trembled as she tried to blink away the hot tears. Come on, Mary Margaret, pull yourself together. She sniffed and wiped her hand across her eyes, then she took a deep breath and steadied her voice.

"Caine, I know that it wasn't really you who tried . . . who grabbed me. You are here now -- shaved head and all. And I'm glad you're here."

Caine didn't smile - didn't move. He pressed his lips together and shifted his gaze away from her.

"Caine, it really is okay."

Their eyes met again and stayed locked for a long, tense moment. The Shaolin said nothing. Cold thoughts emerged, chilling her consciousness. He looks terrible -- unhappy and upset. His eyes are red and tired.

The priest still did not move, but watched closely as her puzzlement turned into comprehension. "You're leaving again, aren't you. I thought . . . " *that it was finally our time.*

She couldn't speak, and for a moment she stared down her feet, watching her tears plop into tiny puddles on the hardwood floor. When she finally looked up, she found her voice but she could not bring herself to meet his gaze.

"And Peter? How's he taking it?"

Caine shrugged. "Peter is Shaolin. He will find his path."

Yeah, right - if he can even see it through his own tears and grief.

"Mary Margaret, " Caine started, then stopped.

She finally looked into his eyes. Caine reached out again and this time he touched her. Despite everything, his touch heated her skin and sent shivers through her body. His hand lingered, and strong fingers tenderly rubbed her skin and stroked her hair.

Caine closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them, Mary Margaret was drawn into his heart.

He -- he's in so much pain! Leaving Peter again is almost too much for him to bear.

The words came out in a breathless rush. "Then why? Why leave?"

"Because I must."

"No, Caine, you don't have to go! Whatever it is, we -- you, me, Peter -- we can figure it out. Stay with us, Caine."

*Stay with me.*

"I...cannot." He gripped her shoulders tightly, not in anger, but as if he feared that if he let go he would lose her forever. Numbly, she continued to absorb his flow of emotions, some guarded and unreadable, but some - the anguish and pain - very strong.

Then all barriers between them disappeared, and she felt his longing, his desperate ache for comfort and understanding. His hands traveled down her arms and squeezed her waist. She sighed, and inched closer to him, pressing her face against his chest, wondering if her salty tears would stain his fine silk shirt.

As if she had given him permission, he pulled her into a crushing embrace. She lifted her head and, to her amazement, his face was streaked with tears. When she stroked his wet cheek, her fingers brushed his lips and he kissed them. The contact electrified her senses; her heart rate tripled. Closing her eyes, she felt his mouth cover hers, kissing her hungrily, and Mary Margaret lost herself in sensations.

The kisses deepened, becoming demanding, and Mary Margaret returned them with equal passion. She slipped open her robe, showing she trusted and wanted him. Caine groaned softly, then slid strong hands under the soft cotton and caressed her naked skin. He touched her intimately, with gentle strokes that caused sparks of pleasure to surge through her body before gathering at her center in a blazing coil of heat.

He stopped long enough to whisper, "Mary Margaret, are you sure this is what you want?"

"Yes," she murmured, before she realized that he already knew, and just wanted to hear her voice.

Caine kissed her shoulders, her neck and her face until his mouth found hers again. Fumbling with the small buttons, she finally opened his shirt and began to caress his chest. She felt his body shudder violently; both his hands slid down her back, cupping her rounded flesh and pushing his hard length against her burgeoning arousal.

He carried her to the bedroom and laid her on the bed. She watched him strip, enjoying the view of his lean, powerful muscles. At last he held her, and their limbs clashed and tangled while he kissed her and stroked her with unleashed passion. She needed to touch him everywhere -- needed to feel the hardness of his body, to know he was really here in her bed, finally making love to her.

The moment came when she could wait no longer, and she opened herself to him, begging him to take her. He positioned his body between her long legs and with a powerful thrust, they joined in the way that only lovers can. She spent the rest of the day in his arms, and when all energies were spent, they caressed and kissed each other for both an instant and an eternity. Finally, exhausted and satisfied, they slept.

Kwai Chang Caine watched as the hushed-gray hues of dawn filled the room, banishing the dark shadows of the night. While Mary Margaret slept in his arms, Caine savored the quiet closeness, caressing warm skin that felt like satin to his touch. His own breathing matched the steady rhythms of her peaceful slumber, and he could not resist spreading kisses on her hair and shoulders.

Mary Margaret began to stir, stretching and pressing her lithe body against his. Caine tightened his embrace and gently stroked her face. When finally she opened her eyes and smiled at him, his heart twisted; he leaned close and kissed her lips.

"Mm . . . " she sighed, and tickled his back, and for many sweet moments they kissed tenderly. Then, waking more fully, she pulled back, stretched again and looked around the room.

"Seems that morning has broken, Caine. And you haven't changed your mind, have you."

Caine knew she waited for his reply, but found he could not speak. He felt her body tense as she pulled herself from his embrace and sat up on the bed, yanking the sheet up with her. "So, I guess this is it. Our time being right sure didn't add up to a hell of a lot, did it. When are you leaving?"

"Mary Margaret-- "

"Don't answer -- it'll be soon enough, I'm sure. At least this time you're saying goodbye." She ran slender fingers through her gently tousled hair, and he had to look away from her. "Yesterday," she continued quietly, "I knew this moment would come, but I'm still not ready." For a few moments there was silence, forcing Caine to look at her. He found her staring at him. "How long this time -- three months? Six months? Or will it be another fifteen-year absence?"

Caine closed his eyes while the blast of her pain bombarded him before joining with his own conflicting emotions. He knew she was angry and hurt, and did not blame her for the sharp words, Still, they struck him with the force of a blow from a skilled opponent. He felt her get out of the bed, and when he opened his eyes he saw her standing by her dresser, wearing her robe, and watching him. Caine read confusion in her eyes, and though she said nothing, he knew her heartache was strong.

She turned and leaned against the dresser, facing an old mirror cased in an ornate oak frame. Their gazes met in a wavy reflection. "Maybe it would be better if you just leave now."

Caine nodded, and she quickly looked away. Though he needed to talk to her, he hesitated, doubting he could penetrate her protective wall of anger. While he dressed, he watched her rummage through the top drawer. Abruptly she slammed it shut and then fumbled with a crumpled package of cigarettes. She pulled one out and tapped it down. After plucking at the pack of matches tucked under the cellophane, she lit the cigarette and took a long drag. Caine could keep quiet no longer.

"Mary Margaret, when did you start smoking?"

She answered in a puff of smoke. "I didn't. I quit five years ago."

"I do not understand."

She suddenly slammed down her palm on the top of the dresser. "Dammit! I've kept this pack for five years. My emergency stash. And through all the bullshit I've lived through, I've never needed one. Until now."

"I see," he replied softly, not seeing at all, and unsure how to react to her volatile emotion.

"'I see?'" she snapped. "You can't possibly see, Caine. You have no clue."

"Mary Margaret," he tried again, "you are angry."

"Hell, yes, I'm angry. And do you know why? You think it's because you're leaving, don't you."

"I do not."

She went on as if she hadn't heard him. "Well, you're dead wrong. I - I wouldn't like it, but I could accept if you had to go. And I'd wait for you if I could, and if you wanted me to. It's not because you're leaving. It's because we've waited so long to take this step! Waited four long years to . . . get close. And when does it happen? The day before you have to go on some," she gestured with her hands, creating smokey haloes in the air, "some top-secret, noble quest. I'll never understand why," she finally met his gaze, "why it took us so long."

Caine rubbed his hands together and looked up at the ceiling, wondering if he would be able to speak his feelings. "I know. Mary Margaret ," he moved until he stood directly behind her, close enough to smell the lingering scent of her light perfume, then continued. "The time was not right. I am sorry." Caine paused, remembering fragments of wisdom from a time long ago, Yet trust does sometimes bring with it a great reward, greater than good . . .

"Don't be sorry, Caine." Mary Margaret's voice, now calmly resigned, anchored him in the moment. "I'm sorry I held you up. Just go ahead and--"

"Mary Margaret, I--"

"Really, Caine. Please. Go now."

He placed his hands on her shoulders, and brushed his lips against her ears. "Mary Margaret, I cannot leave."

"Yes, you can. I'll be fine." Her eyes were clear and her voice steady, but her white-knuckled grip on the edge of the dresser betrayed her inner turmoil.

Gently, he turned her to face him, snatching the cigarette and extinguishing it with his fingertips. He placed it carefully on the chest of drawers and then he took both her trembling hands in his, massaging the stiff fingers.

"I cannot leave because we must talk. And," he tipped her chin, making her look into his eyes, "because I love you."

Mary Margaret gasped gently and her eyes became bright. She blushed, and her skin turned a soft shade of rose so tempting that Caine felt compelled to kiss both her cheeks before he continued. "I do not know where my path will take me, or where yours will take you. But when I return, if you still wish it, we will . . . explore all possibilities."

Caine felt her arms slip around his waist and he pulled her into a fierce hug. She lifted her face and they kissed, gently teasing at first, then with deepening passion. Hands roamed and bodies merged until he felt the fire of desire begin to control his actions.

Regretfully, he ended the kiss and pulled back. "Mary Margaret, please, listen carefully. I must go, now. You may hear rumors about why I left." He cupped her face with one hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "Do not relinquish your trust in me, or your trust in us."

"Caine," she kissed his hand but then shook her head, eyes narrowed with concern, "what the hell is going on? Why the secrecy? Can't you let us help you?"

"There is great danger, to you, and to those close to us." Caine studied her face, so beautiful, so serious and worried. Perhaps she might be able to help . . . No. "I fear I have already revealed too much." Caine searched her eyes, silently willing her to understand. "Trust me."

"I seem to have no choice," she snapped, anger flashing in her brown eyes. It didn't last long, and her voice softened. "And I would trust you anyway, even if I had a choice," she smiled, "but you know that already, don't you."

Caine returned her smile. "Yes."

He kissed her once more and they held each other, knowing that this time, they were saying goodbye.

Finally, she pulled away from him and stepped back. "You know, Caine, I don't like sad farewell scenes. So this is what we'll do -- I'm going to hide in the bathroom and smoke another nasty cigarette. When I come out, you can be gone. But other than Peter, I better be the first person you see when you get back. No excuses."

Their eyes captured each other's for a long moment. Reading the nervousness on her face, he sensed she worried he would not agree, so reluctantly, he nodded his head in agreement. Then he watched, with a very un-Shaolin knot in his stomach, as she turned and walked out of the room.

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