BURNOUT

Lois Lane waved a disgusted hand in front of her and stepped back hastily, out
of the way of the roaring blast of heat and fumes that swept by and into the
distance in a haze of oil. She glared after the black and red gleaming monster
that had just hurtled past her at well over 100 miles an hour, as it screamed
to a halt in front of its pit crew. It was immediately enveloped by a seething
mass of black and crimson suited figures, all apparently desperate to attend
to its every gas-guzzling need. Lois wished she got that much attention when
she put *her* car in the shop.

"Hey! Haven't you ever heard of the pedestrian's right of way!" she yelled
after the oblivious driver.

"It's a racetrack, Lois. Pedestrians don't *have* right of way," an amused
voice said at her shoulder, startling her. She turned her head to bestow a
dark, steady look on her partner that would have melted icebergs.

Clark noted it with an inner grin, which he was careful not to let her spot
creeping up on him. If she'd been on board at the time, and someone had
succeeded in getting her mad enough - which would undoubtedly not have been an
entirely difficult task - Titanic would never have sunk, he thought, stifling
another smile.

"Been doing some sniffing around?" he asked, looking away and sweeping the
line of garages behind them with an interested glance. "I thought you said you
weren't going to move from that café until you'd had at least another dozen
cups of coffee to fortify yourself for the. . . what was it?. . . 'trials of
watching a bunch of grease-monkeys get all excited about some third-rate dinky
toys?'"

"Yeah, Ye-hah! How could I pass up on the thrill of a lifetime?" Lois drawled
sarcastically and then added a complaint, "For your information, the coffee
tasted of diesel, just like everything else around here, and - "

"Methanol," Clark corrected blandly. "They use methanol, not diesel. It's
specially formulated for -- "

" - and I figured," Lois rumbled over him like an attacking Russian tank, with
a glare for the interruption, "the sooner I get us our scoop, the sooner I can
get outta here." She wrinkled her nose as she glanced down at her clothes,
which were beginning to look the worse for wear. "God, I would kill for a
shower right now!"

Clark opened his mouth to mention that it was actually *his* scoop and then
changed his mind. Not least because of the distracting roadblock her final
comment had thrown into the path of his thoughts. With considerable effort he
shook off the image of a naked Lois drawing an over-soaped loofah firmly down
between her breasts as rivulets of steamy water ran across her soft skin, her
hands moving rhythmically across a flat, taut belly and dipping down to --

"So. . . find anything?" he blurted out, tugging at the neck of his t-shirt,
which seemed a mite suffocating all at once. It wasn't alone either. He
shifted his stance uncomfortably, trying to ease the sudden tight constriction
of his jeans as they bound painfully between his legs.

"Not unless you count discovering that my lungs don't work on high-octane
fuel, I smell like a gas station and it's going to take at least half a dozen
washes to get this gunk out of my hair," Lois told him, grumpily, too wrapped
up in her own discomfort to notice his.

She gestured a hand over her skirt, which had somehow picked up a couple of
black oil streaks along its hem. "And this skirt is ruined! Oh, I am going to
*get* Perry for this! Just wait till he gets my expenses sheet *this* month!
This was a genuine Ralph Credenza creation!"

Clark looked her over, less than sympathetic. "Well, I did tell you you should
dress down for this one," he reminded her. Big mistake. Lois just wasn't in
the mood to hear any 'I told you so's. And, most definitely, she wasn't about
to hear them from *him*. Not that she ever was, he told himself wryly.

Her deep brown eyes flashed over him like an incendiary bomb and she snorted.
"Well, not all of us can dress down like you can, Kent." She made an
exaggerated moue of disapproval as her scathing gaze raked over the faded blue
jeans and simple black t-shirt. "I mean really, Clark." She stabbed a hand at
the bright neon logo spread across his chest. "Batman?"

Clark ducked his head to view the yellow oval with its black bat centerpiece
and then shrugged as he looked up at her again. "It came free with my last box
of Cheerios," he defended his sense of haute couture. "Well, you had to send
away twenty tokens and a dollar eighty five, but that's *almost* free,
especially when you consider -- "

Lois punctuated this explanation with a heavy sigh and spun on her heel to
stare heavily out into the currently empty racetrack. Heated air, thick with
the cloying scents of oil and methanol, stirred restlessly in her hair as she
folded her arms tight beneath her breasts.

"This is Hell," she murmured. "I'm in Hell and I'm never getting out of here
and - " She loosened her arms and kicked savagely at a nearby wall of tires,
her growl rising almost to a wail, " - and what on earth persuaded Perry to
send us to this. . . this. . . hive of insanity!!"

Clark sighed. "A story?" he suggested as he leaned casually against the edge
of the tire wall. They had been stacked somewhat recklessly over-height and
Lois' attack on the defenseless, inanimate objects had caused a ripple far
down in the stack that was like to have them toppling at any moment. Clark
pushed a shoulder surreptitiously against them, settling them back safely into
place, and winced as Lois kicked at them again, glaring ferociously as though
they were the sole and chief architects of her current frustration.

"This isn't a story, Kent! It's *sports*!" She kicked again, harder this time.

"Hey! You wanna cut that out!" A harassed technician in the deep gold overalls
of the North-Andersson Team hurried for them with a frown. "You know how much
this equipment costs?"

"Uh, yeah. Sorry. We were just leaving," Clark assured him hastily as he
flashed a bright smile at the man and took hold of his partner's arm. Lois
turned a laser glare on the technician and opened her mouth - a hair's breadth
away from getting them thrown out of the grounds, out of any chance of getting
their story and an inch away from dashing all of Clark's plans into dust - and
then clenched whatever she'd been about to say behind grinding teeth as Clark
hustled her out of the garage and away from temptation. Furious she may have
been, but she wasn't dumb.

She fumed silently as Clark urged her firmly across the pit lane with a hand
clenched around her elbow. But silent frothing at the mouth had never been her
forte. She'd just never been any good at that kind of thing. Silence lasted
all of three seconds and she was already muttering under her breath as her
partner found them a quiet corner in anticipation, where she could rant to her
heart's content without disturbing anyone or getting them evicted, press
passes or no.

"Sports! How many times do I have to *tell* him? How many times before he gets
it through that thick skull of his that I *don't* *do* -- "

" -- sports," Clark finished for her wearily as he let her go. He'd been
hearing the same complaint - or variations thereof - ever since he'd picked
her up at her apartment that morning and his patience was beginning to wear
ever so slightly thin on the subject.

"Come on, Lois, it's not that bad," he said and then, contradicting her
somewhat recklessly, "And, besides it's not sports." He turned back to view
the hustle and bustle of the pit lane and spread an encompassing hand at it.
"This is a multi-million dollar industry we're talking about here. It's
exciting. It's dangerous. It's front page! It's. . . potential Pulitzer," he
enticed her.

Lois didn't look impressed. Her frown darkened.

Clark sighed again. He glanced around them, checking that no one was close
enough to overhear, although the constant roar of idling engines and machinery
around them made it unlikely. Even so, he bent his head close to hers and
lowered his voice to a conspiratorial hiss as he continued, "If Tirelli *is*
spiking that engine fuel of his, like my source claims, we could be onto
something here that could blow the whole thing wide open. We'd be front page
all over the world."

Lois sniffed, folding her arms again. A sniff that Clark was sure meant that
she doubted any one of *his* sources could come up with information that
explosive. Especially when none of *her* sources had been able to pick up even
a hint of skullduggery. Clark hid a grin. Boy, she just hated it that it was
him that'd gotten first sniff of this one, didn't she?

Despite himself, the grin spread as he studied her. He dug a hand into the
pocket of his jeans. "Here," he said, amused, as he emerged with a
handkerchief and reached for her cheek. Lois jerked her head away from his
approaching hand suspiciously. "Keep still. You've got a smudge," he explained
and then looked surprised when she batted his hand away from her with a quick,
exasperated growl.

"What are you, my mother? I can get it myself." She rummaged furiously in her
purse and came up with a compact. She snapped it open and her eyes widened a
touch as she glared into the mirror. She snatched hurriedly at the
handkerchief and scrubbed distastefully at the wavering black stripe marring
one cheek.

Clark watched her make her repairs, gifting himself a few, quiet moments spent
in study of her. With her attention focused on the mirror, he was able to do
something he rarely got a chance at. Just watch her. Just take a moment out to
savor every soft plane and curve of her face, without her being aware of his
attention. He'd had to make a serious effort to stop doing it while they were
working at the Planet. It was getting embarrassing the amount of times she'd
caught him at it lately.

His eyes traced the smooth, swan's curve of her throat and the way that the
small, fragile latticework of the earrings she wore cast reflections of light
against her skin from where they dangled and glittered against her neck. How
strands of dark, gleaming hair escaped her sleek, shoulder-length bob to brush
against her skin. He imagined his fingers trailing that same path, running
their tips softly along the pulse line he could see beating steadily just
below the cradle of her jaw. Considered what it would feel like to brush the
back of one hand to follow the line up onto her cheek and explore its gentle
curves and sharp angles before he slipped his fingers into the dark mass
framing her face. And her eyes. . . those dark, glorious, peat-colored eyes. . .

. . . which were studying him curiously.

"What?" Lois demanded. She darted a frantic look into the mirror, sure she
must have missed something horrendous given the intent study he was making of
her face and came back to him, with a frown, when she found nothing obvious.
"What?!"

"Uh, nothing. I mean I was just thinking -- " He seemed to give himself a
mental shake and added quickly, "I have to go!" He lifted his arm and glanced
at his watch.

"Go?"

"Yeah, one of the mechanics on Team Continental said he'd show me how they can
strip down a car to its chassis in just under ten minutes," he said, sounding
impressed.

Lois rolled her eyes. "Wowee!" she drawled. Her tone turned corrosive with
acerbic wit. "Remind me to take you cruising down Suicide Slum sometime.
They've got guys down there who can do it in three."

Clark gave her that 'My, aren't we just too cute for words today?' look that
always drove her nuts and followed it with its companion, patented
condescending and tolerant smile, as though he was humoring a child. That
drove her nuts too. She scowled.

"Ah, but can they put it back together again afterwards?" he said and then,
dismissing her foul mood with that same touch of exasperated condensation,
which seemed to put it on par with a child having a tantrum - best ignored
entirely - he added, "I should just have enough time to watch before I have to
check in with my source."

He put a hand on her shoulder briefly, mock apologetic. His smile turned sweet
as ten-year-old honey and twice as thick. "Course, I'd *love* to stay and
debate the sports issue, but. . . no can do, I'm afraid. I'll be back in an hour
or so. Meet you here, okay?" He squeezed his fingers gently against her
shoulder, before he turned away.

A couple of paces further on, he paused and turned back with a warning frown.
"Oh, and Lois? Stay out of the garages, huh? If Adam does come up with
something we can use I don't want to waste half the afternoon trying to sneak
you back in under the wire, after you get yourself thrown out." He pointed a
single finger at her in emphasis, raised admonishing brows, and then walked
away again.

"I can sneak myself back in!" Lois snapped at his retreating back and then
fumed silently, setting balled fists on her hips and all but stamping her foot
at him as he looked back at her with another of those faint smiles and waggled
his fingers at her in a cocky wave. She watched him go, glowering.

"Men!" she muttered. "*Kansas* men!" Entirely unnoticed by her, her fingers
strayed a path to where his hand had lain briefly on her shoulder and rested
there a moment, sure they could discern a faint, lingering warmth, before they
dropped back to her side. She sighed. Now, what was she going to do?

She glanced around her at the forbidden garages and almost considered nosing
around in them, just to prove that she wasn't going to be told she couldn't by
*him*! Think again, Kent! But, in all honesty, they didn't hold much appeal
for her. She might as well consider spending her day off at the local gas
station, talking to the guy in the greasy overalls and watching him torque
wrench his libido. While hitting on hers. She'd been approached by more than
one would-be lothario already.

What was it with these guys? They drove a car for a living for pity's sake!
And this was supposed to impress her? Yeah right. She'd be as likely to get
the hots for your average Metro cabby. She couldn't really see the difference
between the two. As far as she was concerned, cars were something that got you
from A to B and back - without needing a callout from a mechanic if you were
lucky. Well, with the exception of her Cherokee. She had a fond spot for that
Cherokee.

Her eyes drifted back to her traitorous partner. This was all his fault of
course. He was the one who'd persuaded Perry there was a story in this. She
paused, letting her instincts finally get a word in edgeways over her
annoyance at having a perfectly good Saturday ruined. Okay, so maybe there
*was* a story in the middle of this. She had to admit that her senses were
tingling and there was a familiar, heavy feeling in her gut that had been
there ever since she'd listened to Clark pitch his source's suspicions at
their editor the previous day.

She just wished he hadn't seen fit to include her in the deal. This was one
story she'd have been happy to hand to him, front page headline, Kerth,
Pulitzer and all. Well, she amended almost instantly, maybe not the Pulitzer.
And probably not the Kerth either. She scowled blackly at the back of her
partner's neck as he stood at the end of the pit lane, outside the last but
one garage in the block. And that story darned well better have my byline on
it, buster, she told him silently. If you ever track it down that is.

She continued to fix that icy stare on him as he stood with the group of Team
Continental mechanics, chewing the proverbial motor racing fat. They were
grouped around an undoubtedly sleek piece of machinery in the shape of
Continental's revolutionary car for the '94 season: a new design that merged
the best of classic racing lines with the hard-edged aggression of the very
latest in high-tech mechanics. (Clark had bored her with a recitation of the
team's press release in the car, on the way to the racetrack. Only he could
have it memorized. She had feigned a deep, overwhelming interest in the design
features of the nearest set of traffic lights until he'd taken the hint and
retreated into silence.)

Clark was listening intently as the mechanic crouched down to run a hand
across the car's gleaming, crimson wing, obviously pointing out some
modification of deeply spiritual significance. Clark, Lois noted with a
derisive inner snort, looked as fascinated as a little kid allowed up to view
the cockpit of the airplane he was riding to his vacation.

As she continued to study him, her thoughts drifted aimlessly and her anger
went with them. Her eyes followed the quick gesture of his arm as he offered
some opinion, drawn immediately to the way in which the close-fitted t-shirt
stretched taut with the motion. The cotton sheath clearly defined the broad,
muscular planes of his chest and shoulders. She had never really noticed
before how. . . well, *big* he was. How well. . . proportioned. How. . . how. . . *wow*. . .

/Yeah, right!/ a snide voice spoke up, way back in her mind. /Sure you
haven't. So, who was it wasted twenty minutes yesterday watching those tight
buns of his flex as he put those reference books back on the top shelf for
Kelly Selvantis? *And* almost missed her deadline while she was doing it?/

Lois ignored that voice, frowning slightly. Without realizing it, her tongue
ran its way lazily across her upper lip before she caught the lower lightly
between her teeth. She nibbled at it fitfully as she concentrated on the way
her partner's body moved, as he hunkered down to get a closer look at the car.
Boy, those jeans were tight! Her eyes widened slightly and then narrowed
appreciatively as she ran them across the firm lines of his butt and his
thighs and --

"Why don't you come over *here*, Kent? *I'll* show you something you can strip
down and -- "

She clapped a hand to her mouth, appalled, as she heard that low, salacious
growl emerge from it. To her horror, Clark jerked up his head, looking
directly at her through the crowd hustling around the pits, his eyes finding
her unerringly through the mass of moving bodies and piercing her in place
like twin lasers. He frowned as he met her startled expression. Lois had the
distinct impression that she looked like a deer caught in headlights as she
stared guiltily back at him.

/Don't be ridiculous! He couldn't have heard!/ she told her gibbering mind as
she tore her eyes from his and whipped around, closing them tight.
/Please. . . !/ she begged silently and couldn't have said just what she was
pleading for. That he would lose interest? That he would stay where he was? Or
that he would appear at her side in that way he had of sneaking up on her when
she least expected him to and ask if she'd just said what he thought he'd
heard? So she could tell him what? Yeah, you heard right, Kent. And don't try
telling me you don't want it as much as I do! /You're losing it, Lane!/ she
told herself scathingly. /You are definitely losing it!/

She gathered up her nerve and glanced back across her shoulder. He was still
there. He was still watching her. Her inner self suppressed a quick yelp. She
held in a deep, shaken breath and forced a smile onto her lips. She gave
herself points for managing to raise her hand slightly and even give him a
small, casual wave. Clark paused and then smiled back at her, somewhat
tentatively, she thought, from the midst of her own panic. Then, he turned his
attention back to the mechanics as one of them tapped him on the shoulder and
pointed at the nearest wheel arch. Relief washed over Lois, weakening her
knees momentarily, and then was replaced by a slow dawning sense of disbelief
and utter dismay.

What had she been thinking? How *could* she be thinking - no, she wasn't. She
wasn't thinking anything of the sort! That was ridiculous! Crazy, even!

A soft moan of denial trickled from her lips. Her eyes returned to Clark. His
face was in profile to her as he talked with the mechanics. She couldn't see
his eyes. But she didn't have to. She could conjure up every expression that
had ever been in that deep, sensitive, chocolate brown gaze. How they warmed
to the color of mocha when he smiled at her. Deepened to glow with amber and
mahogany when they shared a quiet moment, late in the newsroom, working on
their notes or debating the course of their next story, excitement burning in
them like fire, matching her own. In anger they were dark chips of obsidian,
but that was an emotion rare to him as ice was in sunlight and she saw it
hardly ever, except for moments when he was driven to rage by some uncovered
injustice. Or. . . when she pushed him just that inch too far.

/Been brushing up on your thesaurus, Lane?/ The snide inner voice was back.
/Five hundred ways to describe plain old brown eyes - that's a great use of a
Kerth award-winning reporter's time./

But. . . there was nothing just plain old brown about Clark's eyes. There was
nothing just plain old anything about the man. She guessed she'd always known
that. Known it right from the first moment she'd looked up into those eyes and
found herself drowning in their depths. Drowning without even knowing she was
in danger. Yes, she had known. Of course she had. She just hadn't been
listening to what her own heart had been telling her, that was all.

Her heart? She shook her head sharply, trying to deny the implications of the
lingering thought, furious with it suddenly for betraying her like this. Her
heart didn't know what it was talking about! The ludicrous thought echoed and
her anger couldn't stand firm against it. It dissolved into the swell of
confused, conflicting emotions clamoring in her head and uppermost in that
groundswell was not joy but fear.

A sudden, sick feeling of panic tightened in the pit of her belly. Oh God,
this wasn't happening. It just *couldn't* be happening! Not to her! /Not
again. . . please. . . / a smaller, trembling voice echoed, deep in her mind and
barely heard.

But it *was* happening. Events and thoughts were slotting neatly into place in
her traitorous, organized mind, all of them making sense where she had never
noted them before. How, often, over the past weeks and months she had found
herself thinking about her partner in the odd, quiet moments when he should
have been furthest from her mind. How her gaze would follow him softly across
the Bullpen, watching the familiar gestures as he talked with colleagues; the
way his smile lit up the room around her; the way his eyes grew a warm
amusement, deep in their depths, when he teased her. How she didn't even
*mind* his teasing her. How, in fact, she secretly loved it when he did.
Providing he didn't push it any. And she was in the mood to appreciate it. And
how she could lose herself in study of him until time snuck up on her and
surprised her with the vanishing act it had pulled right under her nose.

Lois shivered and wrapped her arms around herself reflexively. If she could
have seen her reflection in a mirror in that moment she would have been
shocked by the waxen pallor of her face, of how huge her eyes seemed in the
midst of that pale oval; stricken and lost. But her thoughts ran on,
unchecked, as though a floodgate of emotion and understanding that had
previously been locked tightly in the depths of her soul had suddenly been
released. Suddenly escaped. And, once free, rushed to overwhelm her in a
furious, surging tide before she could safely imprison them again in some
deep, dark corner where she would never have to examine them. Never have them
threaten her.

Goosebumps had risen on the skin of her upper arms as her fingers rubbed
fitfully against them. It reminded her of the way her skin tingled when his
fingers brushed against hers in passing or by chance. Of how good he smelled
when he leaned over her to help her edit her story or point out some 'error'
in her text. Soap. The fresh-laundered scent of his shirts. The faint
woodsmoke and clove tang of his cologne. . .

Lois shook her head, as though her disbelief could change things. It didn't.

She was. . . in love with her partner?

/*Love*?! Hey, let's not get carried away here, girl! We're talking good, old-
fashioned lust! Aren't we?/

No. No, they weren't. It was more than just the simple, raw urging from her
libido, though that too played its part. She retained enough honesty with
herself to realize that. She risked another glance at her best friend and
partner and her eyes softened. A lock of that incredibly thick, black hair had
found its way onto his forehead, giving him a vulnerable, little boy charm
that kindled a small, soft warmth deep inside her. How many times had she
wished she could put up a hand and push that wayward lock back into place?
He'd smile down at her. . . that slow, warm smile that she was sure he reserved
just for her. . . and she'd stroke her hand through the dark, silky waves. They
*would* feel like silk, she was sure. And then he'd put his arms around her
and --

Her fingers pressed themselves tight to her lips, trembling suddenly. She
closed her eyes.

She was in love with her partner. God help her, but she was.

"Hey. . . hey, are you okay, honey?"

Her eyes flew open and she stared blankly at the small, blonde woman standing
in front of her. The woman wore huge ear mufflers and a gold t-shirt with
North-Andersson printed across her chest. She was looking concerned as she put
a hand against Lois' sleeve. "You're looking real pale. Are you okay?" she
said again.

Lois removed her hand from her mouth. "I -- " She hauled in a heavy breath.
"I'm feeling a little nauseous," she whispered, which was surely the truth.
"The. . . the fumes. You know?" The panic welled up in her again and she blurted,
"I - I need some air. I -- "

Her hand fluttered aimlessly in the first direction she thought of and she
headed out after it, rushing blindly for the first, quiet haven she could
find; somewhere where she could be alone and deal with the terror clenching in
her chest.

Somewhere as far away from her partner as she could get.

                                   *******

Clark had taken to scanning the garage block when he didn't find her at the spot
they'd arranged as a meeting point, his impatience growing when he failed to
spot her on his first sweep and turning anxious when he got the same result on
his second.

For a moment he'd wondered whether she'd managed to get herself evicted after
all - probably on purpose considering how furious she was at being here in the
first place - but he knew it was unlikely. Even Lois wouldn't take a fit of
pique that far.

Although. . . she was carrying it much further than he'd bargained on her doing.
His hopes that her annoyance would fade once she accepted the inevitability of
being here were proving more optimistic than he'd counted on. Earlier, in
fact, he'd been so keen to believe her mood was changing, that she was
mellowing, that he'd let himself get sucked into his own fantasies. There had
been that ridiculous incident back at Team Continental's garage, when he'd
thought he'd heard her say his name and. . . and, well, whatever it was she'd
said it certainly *hadn't* been what he'd thought he'd heard, *that* was
certain.

Clark had blushed with the memory, ashamed of himself for even harboring the
thoughts he'd had. In fact, considering how mortified Lois had looked when
he'd glanced, startled, in her direction, in response to her low growl from
far across the pit lane, what she *had* said had probably been something so
scathing that even she had been embarrassed by her ferocity in voicing it. Her
own acidity could catch her like that sometimes. Not very often - maybe once
in a decade - but just occasionally she seemed to surprise even herself with
her virulence. Not that she'd ever apologize or backtrack, but there would be
a faint, disconcerted spark in her eyes and the subject would be changed -
signs that Clark had learned to read, as easily as he read the sky for omens
of sunshine after a storm, as Lois in apologetic mood.

Still, even mad as hell she was a professional and he doubted she'd try
sabotaging the possibility of a world exclusive, even if she did want to kill
him. On the other hand. . . maybe she had decided to take matters into her own
hands and do some covert snooping on her own? Now that would fit. He was sure
she was convinced she could sniff out something far easier than he could. Her
faith in her own abilities was absolute - and in *his* abilities absolutely
non-existent.

Worried by then, he'd extended his search. In that mood, Lord knew where she'd
gotten herself to. Or what she'd gotten up to either.

And then he'd hit a cold spot in his scan, a solid wall of blank darkness - a
pile of lead storage boxes clustered at the far end of the block. Moving a
couple of yards to his right to circumvent them, he'd hit paydirt - and found
his partner, huddled morosely on a low wall of tires in a dark corner of one
of the storage bays.

Confused and more than a little concerned by now, he'd woven his way through
the press of technicians and pit crews towards the bay.

He paused in the entrance now and stepped slightly aside as a mechanic rolled
a trolley filled with spare parts past him. He had come looking for her eager
to impart his news, keen to map out the next step in their campaign, to revel
in listening to her debate and argue, thrust and parry, and just downright
babble her way to a genuine Grade A Lois Lane Plan. Anticipating her
excitement when she learned what he'd discovered, when she realized that his
source hadn't just been blowing the smoke she'd accused him of, when she
understood that there was a dynamite, five alarm story right here, ready to
fall into their laps.

But despite his eagerness to find her of a moment earlier, he found his
impatience fading and his excitement with it as he watched her, unnoted and
unobserved, from the shadows. Edging further to ensure that he wasn't in
anyone's way, he leaned up against the wall of the bay, slipping his hands
into his pockets as he studied his oblivious partner thoughtfully.

She looked so. . . well, forlorn was the only word that came to mind.

He knew she hadn't wanted this assignment. She'd made that pretty clear. More
than once. And it was no secret either that she blamed him for ruining her
plans for the one Saturday in the month, she had informed him blisteringly the
previous afternoon, that she'd intended to spend working on her handicap at
Green Havens Golf Club. (You know, Kent? It's called leisure time. It's what
days off are *for*!) Forget that Lois Lane wouldn't know leisure time if it
ambushed her out of a clear blue sky. That, she had informed him, wasn't the
point. Of course it wasn't. The point was he'd had the temerity to ruin her
plans to take the day off on the one day in probably her entire life she'd
decided to try acting like a normal person. *Big* mistake.

He knew she'd been miserable all day, but he'd harbored hopes that she'd perk
up and forgive him for spiking her plans when he told her that his source had
come through for them. That the story was there for the taking. That he could
just smell Pulitzer in the air, close enough that he could almost reach out
and touch it.

The enticing thoughts of Pulitzers, awards or even bylines hadn't been what
were driving him though. The bottom line was, he'd wanted to impress her. He
sighed. Oh, getting the headline - and his byline under it - was important to
him: this story would be a major coup and a real boost to his career and
wouldn't look bad on his resume either. And it had been *his* from the start.
His source. His instincts pushing him to pursue it. His nose for news telling
him there was a definite scent of something rotten in the tire pile hanging in
the air. He had waited a long time for that.

But what had really motivated him was that chance to impress his brilliant,
beautiful partner. To show her once and for all that he wasn't just the 'Hack
from Nowheresville' she'd once accused him of being. That he had talent to
match hers, was just as focused, that they made a pretty good team. Oh, they'd
come a long way from the days when she had made him pretty much aware that she
saw him as a tag-along nuisance on the best of days and a ton weight millstone
round her neck on the bad. . . but there was still that friction, slight though
unrelenting, between them. And it had taken hard work, mostly from him, to
make her see that he was someone worth working with, a partner she could
accept and count on. Someone she could value, both in the office and as a
friend.

Someone she could love?

He shook his head, irritated with himself. One thing at a time, Kent; you're a
friend, a good friend, and right now, he reminded himself, with another glance
at his despondent, oblivious partner, it looks like she could do with one.

He sighed again, more heavily this time, tasting all of his hopes and plans
turn dry as dust in his throat, yet knowing none of them mattered. Not right
now. Something had upset her, that was pretty clear, and he doubted it was
missing out on practicing with her five iron on the straight. She was sitting
with her elbows balanced on her knees, her chin sunk into the support of her
hands and her eyes were distant and unhappy as they stared at the rainbows
hidden in a patch of oil on the concrete floor.

Clark straightened, taking his hands from his pockets and pushing himself
clear of the post he was leaning on. His shoulders tightened as he took his
first step towards her, as though he was bracing himself for some unpleasant
task. His shadow chased across the surface of the oil pool as he approached
her, drawing her attention. She raised her head and their eyes met.

To his surprise, a dull, crimson flush rose in her cheeks and her eyes widened
slightly. While he hesitated, considering that, a slim figure dressed in
silver and blue padded coveralls strutted out of the edge of his vision and
plunked himself down on the tires at Lois' side. It placed the green helmet
with red flashings it was carrying nonchalantly on its knees and leaned
forward to view her face with a grin. Teeth flashed in a smile that would have
had toothpaste manufacturers falling over themselves to offer ad. contracts
had they seen it. He murmured in her ear.

Lois started violently - obviously the newcomer's approach hadn't registered
until he'd spoken. Her head whipped around to view the interloper. It came
back momentarily to Clark as she darted a small, almost apprehensive look at
him from beneath her lashes. Then she looked away, turning back to her admirer
and plastering one of her finest grade one bland and professional smiles on
her face as she gave him her full attention. Clark had the distinct and
unpleasant feeling that she was grateful for the diversion. That she was using
it to avoid him.

But why?

She couldn't still be that mad at him, surely? And besides, she hadn't looked
mad. Just miserable.

Clark turned his attention to the newcomer. He was familiar. A small, but well
built man with striking Mediterranean features, set off by startlingly bright
blue eyes, like chips of winter ice against the dark swarthiness of his mobile
face. He motioned with a gloved hand, his gestures filled with the quick,
mercurial fire of his Latin origins and Clark decided he didn't much like the
way those ocean-blue eyes were wandering over his partner's slim frame as
their owner sized her up.

He glanced back at the helmet cradled in the crook of Mr. Ocean-Blue's arm and
recognition slotted into place. Of course. Cincerno Frenetti. Team Tirelli's
newest acquisition, generally considered by most of the racing press to be the
best raw talent currently on the racetrack. Hotly tipped to be this year's
CART Champion, if he could contain that Latin temperament of his on the track
*and* in the nightclubs he was known to frequent off of it, and focus that
undoubtedly natural racing talent where it mattered most.

Frenetti. The hero of the tifosi; the favored son of his local Tuscany
village; smalltown boy made good (the thought made Clark smile briefly) and -
his eyes widened slightly and then narrowed as several, salacious and
outrageous tabloid headlines appeared vividly in his mind in quick succession
- and all round playboy lothario of the track. The darling of the tabloid TV
networks, who had cheerfully confessed to bedding more than a hundred women in
his first racing year - a record of dubious notches on his bedpost he was also
equally cheerfully and vocally committed to doubling in his next. And he was
undoubtedly a master of that particular craft as he'd cut a swathe through the
gaggle of leggy groupies attracted by the glamour of the international motor
racing set. 'Wheelies', they called them, Clark's pedantic mind informed him
absently. Women who 'wheely wheely wanted to scwew a dwiver'. Any driver
mostly. It was a point-scoring thing. Apparently they compared notes. Like
anglers bagging marlin. Or collecting coasters from well known bars of the
world. Or maybe not, Clark thought dryly.

He returned his attention to the Italian, shaking off this irreverent side-
trip, and reforming the scowl as he considered the man's track record. And not
the one in the car. And, whereas Clark considered such alley-cat behavior
deplorable in any man, he found it absolutely intolerable when the prey the
would-be lecher was currently focused on was his own partner. And friend.
And. . . and whatever.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as his hearing narrowed in on the Italian's smooth,
seductive tones.

". . . but *my* roulotte is the biggest, of course. Much big. You will enjoy,
yes?"

"Huh?" Lois' glazed, slightly bored expression vanished as she blinked
rapidly. "What? Your what?"

Cincerno chuckled over her confusion, a deep, masculine burr, heavy-laced with
an abundance of testosterone. "My. . . how you call it. . . " He waved an expressive
hand and pondered a moment with a boyish expression of puzzlement before he
grinned triumphantly, ". . . trailer. Yes?"

"T-trailer. Oh! Yes! Of course! Your *trailer*! Right!" Lois' babble of
relieved understanding was abruptly smothered by a frown. "What about it?"

"It is the biggest, as I say. The. . . most comfortable. Yes? You like. Why you
no come visit? This place. . . not good for pretty woman. Dirty. Smell bad.
Much. . . lot of noise. You come. We have café. We talk. You smile, huh,
bellisimo? Pretty woman like you should smile, no? No look so sad. Cincerno,"
he stabbed a finger proudly into his coveralled chest, "he make the bellisimo
signorina smile. Yes?"

Listening, Clark rolled his eyes. That had to be the most phony Italian accent
he'd ever heard. Even for an Italian. Not to mention overdoing it a little on
the 'how you say?' international language barrier. He'd seen Frenetti
interviewed on TV. The man spoke better English than he did. And just who did
this guy think he was talking to anyway? Some motor groupie bimbo? Did he
think laying it on that thick was cute? Lois Lane wasn't going to be fooled by
that nonsense.

Was she?

No, she wasn't.

The Italian's gesturing hand had apparently taken a wandering route on its
return, coming to rest - seemingly of its own violation and entirely without
its owner's knowledge - not on the lap it had started out from, but on Lois'
left knee. Now, it was currently navigating a smooth path up towards the hem
of a green checkered skirt that Clark abruptly decided was a mite too short
for comfort. Cincerno grinned, favoring her with another spattering of rapid
Italian that caressed the ear, and waved the hand not exploring Mount Lois in
the air. Obviously hoping to distract the attention from its companion's ever
upward journey.

Lois dropped her gaze to where that companion had begun flexing against her
thigh, as though it was some malevolent insect that had just that second
crawled there. Then she raised her head to smile brightly into Frenetti's
hotly passionate eyes. She put a hand on his shoulder and swayed gracefully
closer to whisper against his ear.

Frenetti's wide, beaming smile froze as he listened and began to turn slightly
sick. As Lois straightened, the Italian stared at her, eyes gone round, and
then followed her glance down at his hand. He jerked back his fingers as
though the warm flesh he'd just been casually caressing had burned him like
acid.

"Lois! There you are!" Clark decided she wouldn't mind being rescued - now
that she'd dealt with the problem all on her own. He stopped in front of the
couple and flicked a coolly dismissive glance over the CART driver before
looking down at Lois with his warmest smile. It wasn't difficult. Somehow warm
smiles just seemed to come naturally to him when he looked at his partner. But
he laid it on thicker than most anyway, just to ensure that Frenetti took the
point.

"I've been looking for you all over. Ready to go?" He held out a hand as he
spoke, emphasizing the proprietary stance he had reflexively taken.

Frenetti bristled like a stray mongrel for an instant as he looked up at the
reporter. Then he subsided, obviously thinking better of it as he took in the
wide breadth of Clark's shoulders and his muscular build. He shot a glance at
Lois as she got smoothly to her feet, casually circumventing Clark's offered
hand. She turned slightly to offer the Italian a polite nod.

"Nice meeting you," she said distantly, as she let Clark steer her away with a
light, possessive hand against the small of her back. Frenetti looked after
them with a slightly dazed expression. Actually, Clark considered, as he gave
the driver a brief, backward glance, he looked like a man struck by lightning.
Clark hid a grin. Not a bad analogy. He often felt like he'd been struck by
lightning himself when Lois was around. The grin slipped. Course, he'd never
actually gotten the chance to put his hand on her knee before. Or her thigh.
Frenetti had points on him on that one.

                                   *******

Lois barely held down a simmering fury as she allowed Clark to ease her
through the crowd and out into the sunlight of the pit lane. The nerve of the
guy! What did he think she was? Some racetrack groupie? Couldn't a girl just
find a quiet place to sit and think around here?

The irked thought brought to mind why she'd been seeking a bolt-hole in the
first place and she stumbled slightly, the touch of Clark's hand against her
back suddenly searing her through the thickness of her jacket. She darted a
glance up into his face, but he was concentrating on finding them somewhere
out of the crush. She was searching frantically for some excuse to leave, for
some escape route, when his annoyed mutter broke into her thoughts.

"What is it with these guys? They drive a car for a living and that makes them
some kind of. . . babe magnet?"

Lois raised a brow, finding a sudden, unexpected refuge as she retreated
thankfully to the lofty heights of her tallest feminist high horse. "*Babe*
magnet?" she remarked, conveniently forgetting that she'd just about been
thinking the same thing a moment before.

Clark gave her a sheepish glance that made her feel even better and retreated
her nervous thoughts further out of sight. She was on familiar ground now.
Safe ground. And he was on the defensive. She felt in control. Besides, there
was no need for escape. No need for embarrassment. Was there? She hadn't
*been* thinking what she thought she'd been thinking, earlier. No, of course
she hadn't. Not at all. It had been an. . . an aberration. Yes, that was it. An
aberration. A mental hiccup. The diesel fumes had obviously gone to her head
for a time there. She'd simply confused a normal, healthy, lustful interest in
a half-decent male body for. . . well, for something she wasn't going to think
about now. Or later either.

"You've been spending too much time with Jimmy down in that men's club you
boys call a locker room," she observed tartly, having successfully reorganized
her feelings for her partner into the neat little box that they normally
occupied.

/A neat, *safe* little box. . . / the irksome little invisible friend who lived
in the back of her head whispered at her, annoyingly. She squashed it firmly
and set herself to ignoring its attempts at sabotage.

"Anyway," she glanced back into the darkness of the storage bay and, seeking a
distraction, murmured, "he wasn't that bad. You should have heard what that
Australian said to me."

"Oh?" he said, hitching an interested brow at her and then snapping it into a
sudden frown. "What Australian?" he demanded, coming to a halt and looking
around them as though expecting to find the culprit nearby.

"Oh, I don't know. He was full of himself though. He would insist on telling
me all about his theories on sexual stimulation in motor racing. He had
some. . . interesting ideas. I had to promise to seriously consider his offer of
a week at his ranch just to get him to leave." She broke off and scowled up at
him. "I can take care of myself just fine, Clark. I don't need a bodyguard."

He had been listening to her, intrigued, but now he looked at her sharply.
"Really?" He paused. "Not even if he's wearing a cape and dressed in spandex?"
he said and she stifled a hard sigh at the familiar irritated note in his
voice. An acid edge that made her defensive for no reason she could
understand.

"Superman's not my bodyguard. He's my friend. And, no, I don't need him
either. I was looking after myself long before he flew into town. And before
you turned up at the Planet too," she reminded him.

He seemed about to say something more and then apparently changed his mind. "I
know," he said quietly, watching one foot scuff against the concrete floor in
front of him as he jammed his hands deep into his pockets. "I just wish - "

"What?" She put a hand on his arm, stopping that restless motion as he stayed
silent. "Clark?"

He looked up at her. "I just don't want you getting hurt," he said and she
felt her heart flutter giddily for an instant before the softness in his eyes
hardened. "And I *don't* like you having to deal with guys like Frenetti
either," he added darkly. He kicked at an empty drinks container discarded on
the ground.

Lois caught the retort that flared up out of her just before it launched
itself out of her mouth like a heat-seeking missile. How dare he?! Who'd told
him he could appoint himself her protector? She'd been dealing with 'guys like
Frenetti' since she was in Junior High and she hadn't noticed him around then
to guard her any! Not that she *wanted* him to. . . She bit down on her lip
sharply. But. . . she risked a small sideways glance at him as he settled his
shoulders into a tight line and looked around them again, before guiding her
across the empty pit lane. . . had that been a hint of jealousy she'd heard in
his voice?

Jealous? Clark? She thought about that as he steered them to where the low pit
wall separated the maintenance crews from the racetrack. Naturally enough, she
easily ignored the obvious paradox of this new run of thought with the
habitual ease she always brought to bear when faced with the hypocrite within
her, not letting it faze her in the slightest. Even her eager beaver friend
seemed to have gotten the hint and refrained from questioning as to just why
the thought of her partner's jealousy might thrill her so when she had, only
moments before, so vehemently declared her complete disinterest in what he
might think of her at all.

Lois leaned on crossed arms against the concrete and stared blindly out at the
brightly colored flags waving gaily above the concourse buildings. Clark
followed suit and silence settled itself heavily between them.

After a time, she said casually, "He said I could go horse-riding."

"Oh?" He didn't pretend to misunderstand. The small, sly sideways flicker of
her eyes towards him showed her that the line of his jaw had tightened
markedly. She hid a smile and looked back at the white concrete behemoth of
the building opposite and the deserted podium where the victorious drivers
would receive their accolades after tomorrow's race.

"Mmmmmm. On his ranch. It's over four hundred thousand acres, you know." She
turned around, resting her elbows against the wall at her back, and then used
her hands to lever herself up onto its edge. Clark made a slight move towards
her and then checked it, looking away again. Lois made it safely after a
couple of abortive attempts. She swung her legs slowly as she straightened her
shoulders and plopped her folded hands into her lap. "Can you imagine that?
Four hundred thousand acres."

"I'm imagining."

She smiled and flicked an illusory speck of lint from her skirt, before
smoothing her hands across the material to rest on her knees. Her legs swung
gently. Back and forth. The muscle in Clark's jaw ticked slightly harder.

"Why horse-riding?" he said, when it became clear that she wasn't going to add
anything further.

"Hmmmmm?" She shrugged. "I like horse-riding. He thought I might enjoy it. He
has twenty horses on his ranch. The ranch isn't a horse ranch, of course. It's
a sheep ranch. Because it's in Australia."

"Not all Australians farm sheep, Lois," Clark said, somewhat condescendingly.
"Some of them farm kangaroos."

"They do not!"

"Yes they do. Kangaroo farming is a multi million dollar source of commercial
meat produce in Australia, just slightly ahead of ostrich and crocodile
products. And no, you don't."

"Huh? Don't what?"

"Like horse-riding. Or horses."

"I do too! How do you know what I like and what I -- ?"

"You told me. Last month. Remember? I suggested we spend our day off at the
races and you told me horses were only fit for feeding dogs and the closest
you were ever going to get to one was when you pushed your cart past the pet-
food section at your local Save-It-All."

"Oh. Well. . . well, I guess it just depends on who you get close to them with,"
she said and then winced as she heard the implication in that. That's not what
she'd meant! "I-I mean - "

"So. . . what were you and this. . . *Australian* going to do when you were out
riding on these horses of his?" he interrupted her, coolly. "Discuss more of
his *theories* on 'sexual stimulation'?"

Lois opened her mouth and then paused, feeling a sudden heat rise in her
cheeks. "Well. . . actually, yes."

"What?" he said, looking startled.

Lois looked away, feeling the flush deepen all the way down her throat. But a
faint, mulish set took over her lips. She was damned if she was going to let
him embarrass her into backing off. After all, it hadn't been as though she'd
been considering actually *doing* anything with the Australian. It had all
just been theory. She looked down at her fingers, tracing circles on the wall,
and stilled them with a frown.

"Well, it's like they say, you know. About. . . racing drivers. About how. . . um,
exciting it is for them to drive a high speed race car."

"Let me guess. Better than sex, right?"

Lois swallowed. How had she gotten into discussing this with her partner? With
*him*? True there had been times lately when an increasingly risqué undertone
had overtaken their conversations, mostly, she had to admit, fueled by her.
After that pheromone business. . . well, let's just say she had a point or two to
prove. Mostly - though she'd never confess it - to herself. But right now she
wasn't in the mood for pretending to flirt with him or setting herself to
driving him to distraction just for the fun of it and to see if she could. She
was still mad at him for one thing. And besides this was personal. And she was
on the receiving end, not him. That wasn't the way it was supposed to work.

You and your big mouth, Lane.

"Um. . . yeah. I mean. . . that's what they say. I - I wouldn't know."

"Uh-huh. And horses?" he went on dryly. "I mean I don't know many CART drivers
who spend their off-season time riding horses. Skiing, yes. Mountaineering. A
little bit of hang-gliding. They tend to be pretty physical guys. When they
can get away with it. Generally their team contracts preclude them getting
involved with any dangerous activities during the times they're not racing. In
case they injure themselves badly enough to stop them racing," he added as she
glanced at him.

"You can't blame them, I guess. The teams, I mean. They've invested a lot of
money in the drivers. Losing a season and most of your sponsors because the
guy's just busted up a leg falling headfirst into a snowdrift can't be good
news. Wonder if 'sexual stimulation' is considered a dangerous sport?" he
pondered in a murmur and then tilted his head to look up at her, perched on
the edge of the wall above him. "I guess it depends on who you're doing it
with. Anyway, horse-riding is definitely out. Riding astride causes pull on
the wrong muscle sets. Weakens the ones that matter when you race."

"That's not true," Lois scoffed and then immediately contradicted herself with
a curious, "Is it?"

"Would I lie? So - " he gave her a 'I'm not letting you off the hook, so stop
changing the subject' look, " - the horses figure in this - where? Exactly?"

The unspoken challenge in his glance stiffened her spine. Okay, she thought at
him smartly. Well don't say you didn't ask, buster! "Well, Dale's theory is --
"

"Dale?" He straightened abruptly. "Dale *Swinton*?"

"Maybe." She hitched her shoulders nonchalantly in a shrug. "We were on first
name terms. He didn't tell me his name was Swinton. I didn't tell him my name
was Lane."

"Did you tell him your name was Lois?" Clark growled tartly and then
protested, "Dale Swinton! Lois, that guy's one of the biggest jerks in -- "

"I thought he was. . . interesting. *Anyway* his *theory*, if you *are*
interested - "

He sighed.

"His theory is that racing drivers achieve the same sexual stimulation from
driving at high speeds as women do when they ride horses."

Clark was silent. After a moment, when she didn't say anything further, he
looked up at her. "That's it?" he said, sounding surprised.

"Well. . . yeah."

He pondered that. Then he turned his head and backed up to a nearby clutter of
oil drums. He sat on the nearest, looking thoughtful for a moment, and then
looked up at her again. "Like how?" he said, curiously.

"Well. . . you know."

"No, not really. Well, I don't," he added a protest as she raised a skeptical
brow at him. The brow hitched higher as she deepened that stare, her eyes
narrowing. "Lois, never having been a woman I haven't the faintest idea.
Really."

She continued to eye him suspiciously for another moment. But he seemed
genuinely intrigued now and completely guileless - though there was a slight
twinkle deep down in those coffee-colored eyes that had her wondering for a
moment.

"Oh," she said finally, in a small voice. "Well, it's sort of. . . " She cleared
her throat softly. "You know, it makes you. . . um. . . hot. . . "

"Hot?"

"Well, what with sitting astride the thing and then you're sort of. . . well,
pressing against the front of the saddle, that's kind of. . . intimate and then
when the horse moves you get pushed. . . um, well you sort of move up and down
and the front of the saddle. . . ah. . . "

"I get the picture, Lois," Clark said dryly, seeing the high color in her
cheeks rising. He chuckled. "Is it true?"

"What?"

"That riding a horse makes a woman. . . hot?"

Oh, you are just bound and determined to make me squirm on *this* hook, aren't
you, buddy? Lois thought waspishly. She fixed him with a defiant glare. "Isn't
that what I just said?"

"Nope. You said that it was Swinton's theory. I want to know what *you*
think."

Lois' eyes frosted over as she saw where this line of questioning was leading.
"*I'd* say it probably depends on the woman," she said, somewhat smugly,
pleased with herself for forcing the obvious route of the conversation onto a
sudden sidetrack.

"Um." He nodded as though this made perfect sense. "Or the horse," he said
sagely and then settled his chin into the palm of one hand, looking distant
again as Lois hitched a brow at him. Above them the flags snapped in the
heated, oil-tainted breeze and the high scream of a fuel-rig spiked the air. A
sudden wail from a nearby siren announced that the testing session was over
and the activity around the team garages became more frenzied.

"So. . . " Clark said matter-of-factly at last, just when she'd had time to
figure she'd gotten away with it, ". . . when did *you* last go horse-riding,
Lois?"

Lois' eyes snapped back to his face from where they had been idly roaming the
pit lane and watching the cars arriving home. His eyes glittered and she could
see that he was trying not to laugh. She scowled and then looked away.

"Lois?"

Lois could have cheerfully pushed him into the path of the next car hurtling
down the thoroughfare. She slid him another glance. He raised a brow at her in
challenge. She fixed her eyes on the blue and silver nameplate on the garage
above his head and folded her arms, tight.

"Lo-is. . . ?"

"Considering it's none of your business, Kent - "

"Fair question, I'd say, *considering* you brought up the subject in the first
place," he countered smugly.

She fixed her gaze furiously on the sign, tracing the sharply out-lined
lettering with as much intensity as a child working on its first reader. T-I-R
--

Clark cleared his throat encouragingly. She knew it. He just wasn't going to
give up, was he? And she knew there was no point in trying to wait him out. He
had a way of nagging at a person, when he really had the bit between his
teeth, which was impossible to ignore. An insistent, relentless erosion that
they probably taught them in school down there in Kansas, before sending them
out into the defenseless community to worm their way under a person's skin and
--

"Not since I was in high school," she muttered through clenched teeth. "And
don't you dare laugh at me, Clark Kent!" she added in a snarl, shooting him a
glare.

Clark bit at his lower lip and gave her a 'Who me?' look of pure,
unadulterated innocence that set her teeth on edge. "So, are we going to get
outta here anytime soon?" she demanded. "Or are we just going to sit here all
day and feed your perverted fantasies?"

"*My* perverted - " he started, poking an indignant finger into his chest, and
then he froze, eyes widening as his mouth fell wide and all trace of amusement
wiped itself smartly from his face. "My god - Adam!" he breathed. He leapt to
his feet.

"Clark!" Lois protested, annoyed, as he caught her by one arm and dragged her
down off of the wall. He ignored her, putting a quick arm around her waist to
steady her until he was certain she'd properly found her feet and then took
hold of her arms, shaking her gently to get her attention as she tried to
wriggle out of his grip.

"No, listen! I talked to Adam." He paused to slap a hand against his forehead.
"How could I forget this?!" he berated himself and then went on, as she stared
at him, wide-eyed, "Adam found proof that Tirelli's been using an illegal mix
in their fuel system. And, get this! Not only is it illegal, but it's also
highly toxic. Tirelli had a medical report commissioned that says his
technician staff are risking a one in ten chance of contracting carcinogenic
heart and lung defects just from inhaling the fumes from this stuff when they
service the cars. Then he buried it so no one would find out."

Lois was frowning at him. "What kind of proof?" She ran a swift glance over
him. He wasn't carrying anything obvious. Well, she considered, her eyes
skimming over certain - completely obvious - portions of his anatomy and then
returning to the site for another study despite her best intentions - not
anything related to their story anyway. She shook her head slightly, pushing
that salacious, unwanted thought to one side. "We need solid documentation
here, Clark, or Perry's never going to - "

"Which is why Adam's going to make sure that the Tirelli garage is unlocked at
precisely 2.45 a.m. tomorrow morning," Clark told her excitedly. "As you can
imagine, the security in this place is brutal, but Adam says we'll have a
window in the regular security patrol of about forty five minutes, which
should be more than enough time."

"Time for what? Clark, Tirelli isn't going to keep paperwork in a *garage*!"

"No, but the technical specifications of the fuel *will* be stored on the main
computer system in there. All of their records will be. All we have to do is
get inside, tap into their mainframe and download the information onto disk."
He sobered, reining in a touch. "Adam says we're on our own with getting into
the garage. But, hey, that's a piece of cake for Lane and Kent, right?" He
grinned at her and she couldn't help but respond to the sparkle in his eyes.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Lois agreed. But she couldn't resist adding,
"You're *sure* the stuff we need is in there?"

"Absolutely."

She clenched sudden fists into the front of his Batman t-shirt, infected with
his excitement now as she grinned up at him. "Front page here we come! Kent, I
could kiss you!"

Clark froze. The exhilaration in his eyes melted into something less easily
defined, something almost tender, as they met hers. Her grin faded. . .

. . . and, for an instant, time itself held its breath. . .

"I wouldn't object," he whispered, breaking into that silence, hot and heavy
and weighted with the tingle of anticipation, which had draped itself around
them. His hands moved to settle themselves gently against her shoulders. His
eyes were deep and warm and Lois could feel herself beginning to drown slowly
in their softly glowing depths. . .

. . . and then she dragged her eyes away. She smoothed hands that shook just a
little across his chest, firmly removing the creases her fists had put into
the t-shirt.

"Can't right now, Kent. Don't have the time," she said airily, patting at his
chest with one hand and easing herself out of the hands holding her close
against him. So close she could feel the warm heat rising from his skin.
Against her palm, his heart beat with a hard, hammering pulse. She drew in a
rough breath and then flashed a bright smile up into eyes that had already
begun to cloud over, growing distant and just a little cool.

"Now, come on, we've got to go get ourselves a Pulitzer!" she urged him,
stepping back and putting space between them.

He let her free herself. She'd known he would. And she stamped down firmly on
the small flicker of disappointment that welled up in her when he did.

"Lois?" He put a hand on her arm as she turned away. "Are you okay?"

He'd seen it in her face of course. The disappointment. She cursed herself for
giving too much away. Or was it his perception in finding it in her, even when
it was hidden as deeply as she could drive it down into the dark, locked
compartments of her soul? Somehow he seemed to see right down into the heart
of her innermost thoughts and emotions without even trying. Whatever, seen or
sensed it he had and, being Clark, he put a meaning on it she'd never
harbored.

"Listen, I didn't mean - I shouldn't have said anything. I was being dumb,
fooling around, you know. It was stupid. I'm sorry if I - "

Lois widened the smile and took his arm firmly. "Oh, lighten up, Clark," she
said, injecting an overly bright and determined cheerfulness into her tone and
dismissing both his tentative apology and the moment in that instant of false
exasperation.

"Hey," she glanced across her shoulder to the concourse behind them. "What you
say we go have some coffee? We've got a raid to plan!"

He picked up on the hint immediately. The worried look that had been on his
face became a smile. "Sounds like a plan to me," he agreed, echoing her.

Oh, Clark, she whispered to him silently. Don't you know that sometimes I'd
give anything for you not to go along with me? That there are times I don't
*want* you to agree with me?

His smile vanished and he gave her a mock suspicious look. Suddenly, just her
partner again. Clark Kent, all round cheerleader and regular good guy. Ready
to tease her out of a moment she was uncomfortable with and that was probably
tearing an ache in his heart. "Who's buying?"

She turned him around with her for the concourse, falling in with his new,
easy mood thankfully. "Well, it's your celebration, partner. I say you buy."

"Wait a minute. Sure it's my celebration. But the reason we're celebrating is
because all my hard work paid off. I think I deserve a reward."

"Like I buy? I don't *think* so."

"Well, I seem to remember it is *your* turn." He nudged her with his hip,
grinning at her. "I bought yesterday. Twice, actually."

"Geez, Kent, where *do* you get that competitive streak from? We're talking a
lousy cup of coffee here, not buying me Tiger Stadium!"

"Well, okay." He shrugged agreeably, putting his hands in his pockets and
letting her steer their course through the crowds as she slid an arm through
his. "I'll buy. But only as you asked so nicely. And just so long as it *is*
just coffee. I mean, if we're talking coffee *and* danish here, I'm just gonna
have to remind you of the terms of our agreement of June fourth, nineteen
ninety three, when you said, and I quote - "

"Don't quote me to me, Clark," she told him snippily. But her eyes were
dancing as they met the laughter in his own and she grinned up at him as she
tightened her hold on his arm, companionably.

It felt good to slip into the warm, familiar teasing that she knew so well.

And loved.

Yes, she admitted. . . and loved.

                                   *******

"Yes, I *know* all that, but I still say you didn't need to use a pepper spray
on it!" Clark hissed in a stage whisper as he eased open the garage door and
ushered his belligerent, unapologetic partner ahead of him and through the
gap.

"What did you want me to use on it? Superior logic?" Lois snapped back,
flouncing ahead of him and promptly regretting it as she tripped over the left
wheel of the tarp shrouded lump sitting in the middle of the concrete floor.
She glared at the offending race-car and squawked as her wild kick in its
direction was foiled by Clark abruptly grabbing her by one arm and hauling her
smartly out of its reach.

"You damage that and we get caught, you're on your own," he warned, letting
her go as she yanked herself furiously clear of his grasp.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please - you're gonna get bent out of shape over a
pile of. . . " her eyes flicked disdainfully over the shrouded vehicle, ". . . scrap
metal?"

"That's a million dollars worth of *scrap metal*, Lois. Trust me, you're gonna
be paying off the insurance for the next three thousand years."

Lois sniffed. But she skirted the vehicle, under its green tarp cover, with a
new, wary respect and stood to peer into the near midnight darkness of the
garage proper.

Clark, certain he'd convinced her to be careful, took a step back to
surreptitiously scan the area outside and then, satisfied that they were in no
immediate danger of discovery, gently closed the door to, wincing slightly at
the faint screel of metal on metal as he did.

He turned his head to scowl at his oblivious partner. "Anyway, I could have
dealt with it," he went on, making his way carefully through the scatter of
boxes and tool cases and assorted unidentifiable junk between them to come up
alongside her. "If you'd just let it alone and hadn't gone riling it up."

"What?"

"The dog, Lois."

"Oh, geez, are we back to that? *You* didn't have to deal with it. *I* dealt
with it."

"Pepper spray hurts, Lois."

"So does having your throat ripped out," Lois muttered, peering more deeply
into the shadows as she let her eyes adjust to the dim light. The garage
sported only one, long and narrow, window and that was high up on its left
wall. Lighting was at a premium in the pit lane beyond and what spilled weakly
through the window was mostly a faintly ethereal glow of moonlight alone. Lois
sighed. Then, giving him a sideways, acid glance and judging, accurately, that
he wasn't taking this on board, "It was an *attack* dog, Clark. Does that mean
anything to you? Attack? Like in 'violent assault'?"

"That was your pitch, wasn't it? It was only doing its job."

"Well, excuse me, but I happen to take exception to its *job* being to try
ripping my leg off. It ticks me off. It was just lucky I'm pro gun control. A
bullet in the head hurts more than stinging eyes."

"Lo-is. . . "

She gave him an irritated glance across one shoulder and then turned around to
lean in close and place a mock placating hand against his chest. "Okay, fine,
Clark, I promise - if Scooby Doo's still prowling around out there when we
leave, I'll keep my hands off the pepper spray and throw you at him instead.
If you're *really* lucky, he'll have brought along some of his buddies. You
can gather them up in a circle and give them a lecture on aggression
management. Happy now?" she finished, as she stalked away from him to begin
scoping out the area.

"Only slightly," Clark said sardonically, pushing his hands into his pockets
and mooching after her.

Lois grunted an unladylike breath, obviously an indication that she considered
the subject closed. Clark sighed and paused beside a workbench. He took out
one hand and idly picked up a wrench from the scatter of tools littering the
surface, turning it in the fitful light as he studied it aimlessly.

He realized, belatedly, that it had probably been a bad idea to bring up the
dog again. Actually, he amended wryly, it had probably been a less than good
idea to mention it in the *first* place, let alone have the nerve to repeat
the censure when Lois already considered she'd stomped his objections into the
mud. And ground her heel in them too. He knew how well his partner responded
to even the mildest of criticisms.
 
Not that he wasn't prepared now and then to rattle her cage. Just a little.
When he thought she deserved it. He wasn't *afraid* of her. And she did
deserve it. Her spraying of the dog had been a complete over-reaction in his
book, and liable to get them caught besides. He also suspected, by the very
robustness of her stomping and the virulence of her heel grinding, that she
knew it too.

But, regardless of who had the right of it, he really didn't want to provoke
an argument now or upset her any. The long afternoon spent exploring the
racetrack had been, mostly, very pleasant, as had the resultant easy mood it
had fostered between them as they sat in her Jeep watching darkness settle and
waiting out the hours for their chance at Tirelli's garage.

By then, he'd gotten over his surprise at how willing Lois appeared to be to
let herself relax, to share something more of herself than just partner and
friend, and how frenetically she seemed to be working on making him relax too.
She had been trying so obviously hard to please him that he had been touched
by her efforts, strange though they were. He couldn't explain the change in
her mood after they left the café, except that he had the vague idea she was
attempting to apologize for her earlier bad temper. Although he approached
this theory with a degree of skepticism he might have reserved had LNN
announced that elves had just been found cavorting on the White House lawn.
Lois? Apologize? Not in this millenium, he suspected. Or the next.

Still, there were a myriad of ways to apologize without resorting to using the
scary words and Lois, with long practice, was a master of most of them. And
whatever the reasons for her change of direction, he'd enjoyed being the
recipient far too much not to regret having lost that moment of intimacy in
his accidental resurrection of the Partner from Hell over a slight
disagreement on animal welfare.

Perhaps that was the point though, he considered heavily as he put down the
wrench and picked up a thin rod of plastic coated metal, the purpose of which
was less easy to define. He frowned at it. It had only been a moment; just
illusion; nothing real about it. . . no matter how he might wish differently, and
hanging on to that moment, living with the illusion, was the game of a fool.
Sooner or later you had to face up to reality, cold and cheerless as it might
be. And the reality was that his relationship with his temperamental and
vivacious partner was more typically characterized by the last twenty minutes
than it was by the entire twelve hours that had gone before them. Something
would have come along to spoil things eventually, sooner or later, with or
without his interference.

He held back a sigh, twisting the rod in his hands. A small, inward smile
touched his lips. Still. . . illusion or not, temporary insanity from Lois or
not, it *had* been. . . real nice. He had been granted a glimpse of an entirely
new partner. One that he had always suspected existed, buried deep beneath
that hard and gleaming shell of professional armor she carried with her at all
times, but which he'd never before been given the privilege of viewing.

Well, not voluntarily from her anyway.

It said *something*, didn't it? That trust? The sigh escaped him slightly.
Trouble was, he just wasn't sure exactly what that something was.

And Lois wasn't giving him many clues.

They had spent the afternoon acting more like friends enjoying a day's
sightseeing rather than partners out to track down a story. His smile widened.
Almost like playing hooky. Amazingly, Lois had turned out to understand the
concept after all. Letting go, leaving the world of adult responsibility
behind, just for a few hours. Giving yourself over to the pleasure of having
fun, enjoying the company you were with. . . just do nothing much but kick back
and enjoy.

It had taken them little time to formulate plans for their raid and with those
plans made the afternoon had stretched before them, a landscape of boredom.
Well, for Lois at least. They couldn't leave the track and risk being shut
out, unable to find a way back in. They were stuck, with little to do and
nothing to occupy them until approximately twelve hours down the line.
Business was concluded and the only prospect left to them - to while away the
rest of the day - had been a thought that Lois had initially approached with
all the enthusiasm of being asked to drive naked to work in the middle of the
rush hour.

Clark, in the wake of the slightly awkward silence that had overtaken them,
their conversation suddenly relegated to the potential minefield of small-
talk, hadn't been looking forward to dragging a sullen partner around with him
at all. And especially not when that partner had proved herself to be as
pathologically averse to all things sports as Lois had.

He'd had the dismal feeling that her mood of the morning was going to make her
seem like a pussycat compared to what she could come up with to make him
suffer for having the bad taste to appropriate her leisure time. Not to
mention - although she did and repeatedly - stranding her here in this
'testosterone-infested, macho-maniacal, Boy Toy Land' as she'd colorfully
termed it. Among other things. A burst of highly literate pique that had
impressed Clark deeply, despite its slightly deranged tone, simply for the
fact that it had gone on in even more colorful terms for over a minute and a
half without his partner apparently needing to pause for breath once. Leaving
him wondering, awestruck, how she *did* that without the benefit of super
powers.

Occasionally, Clark had considered balefully - when Lois *finally* ran out of
breath and lapsed into vexatious silence - there were times when not even that
spark of warm and arousing electric heat deep within him that he had come to
associate habitually with close proximity to Lois Lane could make him glad to
be in her company.

Well. . . almost.

He had sipped at his cooling coffee in the crowded little café, as he hunted
around for something innocuous enough to break the silence that wouldn't
provoke her any. He wasn't inspired. Instead, he found himself mulling over
all the ways his undoubtedly creative partner could find to punish him for her
enforced imprisonment.

To his surprise though, it had been Lois who had broken the increasingly
uncomfortable quiet between them. With a straightening of her spine and a
resetting of her shoulders, an audibly deep sigh and a sudden smile that was
so forced Clark thought it would probably require a crowbar to pry it off her
lips, she'd made the brightly voiced suggestion that he show her the ten
dollar tour.

"Might as well use that trivia soaked brain of yours for something, Kent,
since it's around," she'd told him snippily as he'd let his surprise show.

"The tour?" he'd said. "A tour of what?"

"Of. . . well, I don't know. You're the expert aren't you? The big race buff?"

"Lois, I'm not an *expert*, I just like - "

"So, give me the tour. And make it the twenty dollar version," she'd said
firmly as she rose to her feet and scooped up her jacket. "Include the
interesting stuff."

She'd patted him on the arm in passing as she headed for the door, leaving him
staring after her bemusedly as she added the parting shot, "What you waiting
for, Farmboy? Come on! Impress me!"

Well, who could have resisted a challenge like that?

Certainly not her partner. Who'd been waiting for an opportunity like *that*
one for longer than he cared to let himself consider and who usually only
heard Lois voice it in his dreams.

Actually, Clark thought, looking back with hindsight, there had almost been a
desperation about her desire to lighten the mood. A frantic need to set the
pace, to keep on the move. He puzzled over that for a moment, taking a quick
glance up from his study of the rod in his hand to where Lois was burrowing
around at the back of the garage and then returning to it as though it might
offer him more answers than she was likely to. He shook his head, recognizing
the futility of looking for logic in his partner's moods and actions. Lois
wasn't about logic and it made no sense to try finding it in her. She was just
nature's way of keeping him on his toes, constantly on the hook of surprise,
and that was all there was to that.
 
Surprise hadn't quite covered the depth of his reaction though that afternoon
as he quickly found himself in the company of a vivacious, fun-loving, witty
and charming companion he didn't quite entirely know. He had been stupefied,
pure and simple. If he hadn't known better, he'd have had to assume that his
partner had been replaced by some kind of. . . clone.

He had always known that Lois had a sense of humor. But it had always been a
sharply honed wit that cut with the precision of a battle lance, launched
itself like a Sidewinder missile, and took no prisoners, and he'd too often
been its victim to really enjoy it. Though he could - and secretly did - revel
in the quickness of mind that produced it. But he had hitherto never suspected
that Lois could be capable of making him laugh hard enough to nearly take him
out at the knees and leave him gasping for breath. At least. . . not
intentionally.

Lois, it seemed, with the definite scent of a story in the air, had generously
decided to forgive him. Her earlier, downcast mood had promptly been discarded
as she became a whippoorwill of suppressed energy, her laughter bright and
unaffected as she teased and cajoled him into acts of reckless enjoyment.

She had given up complaining about their surroundings and aped a polite and
keen interest in the tour they took of the garages and pit lane. He was almost
entirely unable to detect her boredom she concealed it so ably. She hadn't
even contradicted his steady spiel of anecdotes and jargon as he'd shown her
the points of interest around the track. Well. . . not often. And she had laughed
in all the right places.

It had been Lois' idea, not his, to watch the secondary races taking place
that afternoon. By the time the final junk race was announced, she had been so
overtaken by an excitement that seemed genuine - undoubtedly fueled by a
competitive spirit that was unable to be denied for very long - that she had
challenged him to a side bet on the result. When her car came in over the line
a full length in front of its competitors, she had hugged him with all the
exuberance and ingenuous innocence of a child. A spontaneous gesture that held
no hint of the awkwardness between them that their earlier lapse of good
judgement had engendered.

Clark, feeling his skin tingle and his heart stutter wildly in his chest, had
breathed in deep and even allowed himself to hug her back. The moment of easy
familiarity had gone a long way to stop him kicking himself for letting
temptation get the better of his idiot mouth earlier in the day.

Even the fact that she had chosen the winning car less for its technical
superiority than she had for its bright red and blue livery (that the driver's
helmet predominantly incorporated yellow in its design didn't hurt) hadn't
been able to spoil the moment for him. Hey, they all had their reasons. He
himself had chosen his silver Firebird because it had a hairline crack in its
oil pipe. Thus providing Lois with the ammunition to deride him for the best
part of an hour over his 'expert' choice when it trailed in a sorry, blue-
smoking last across the line. And providing *him* with the pleasure of
listening to her gloat.

Yeah, it had been fun. There had only been one moment when things had looked
set to slide.

She had dragged him back to the café for a celebratory coffee and the danish
that had been the subject of their bet. As they'd eaten, sharing the pepperoni
deep pan pizza with extra herbs and mushrooms that she'd also inveigled out of
him, the subject had turned back to their upcoming raid.

Clark had been captivated by the sparkling eyes of his partner, by the almost
tangible crackle of energy dancing in their deep, mysterious brown depths as
she bounced her theories and ideas back and forth across the little black-and
white-checkered table like the hits in a particularly frenzied bout of tennis.
She had entranced him and perhaps that had been his mistake. Perhaps he had
shown too much of his admiration and attraction in his eyes as they roamed her
face, watching her babble. He loved watching her babble.

She had been grinning at him across the table, as they sat conspiratorially
close together, talking in hushed whispers, and then, as startlingly fast as a
cloud passing over the sun, her face had changed; closed down tight, shutters
slammed down. In the single beat of a heart the light in her eyes had gone
out. He had watched it vanish, flicker into wariness, as clearly as though she
had reached out and physically pushed him away.

She'd straightened abruptly, putting distance between them as she brushed a
quick hand through her hair. Her eyes had been suddenly cool as she'd changed
the subject, making some random comment about their surroundings that he
didn't even hear as he felt disappointment sweep him.

And some of the light had gone out of the day. As though the onset of dusk and
the cooling of the sun had found a match in his partner's mood. She had been
pensive for a time as he'd struggled on alone, keeping his conversation light
and carefully free of even the hint of anything personal. But by the time
they'd made their way back to the Jeep she'd seemed to regain balance again,
shaking off whatever had spooked her. Some of the easiness of the day had been
regained and, although their conversation as night descended had been more
subdued, it had, over the hours, morphed into the lazy talk that friends
swapped in the small, silent hours after a long and tiring day. The kind of
talk that Lois usually had to be dragged kicking and screaming or ambushed
into. Meandering and cozy and peppered with gentle teasing and comfortable
silences where neither felt the need to say much of anything at all. They had
shared dreams and confidences, hopes and plans, and somewhere along the way in
those long stretching hours, entirely without planning or intent, they had
turned a corner, become more than good friends, reached a new level of
understanding and intimacy.

And, perhaps. . . something more than that?

"Here it is!"

He glanced up at his partner's triumphant exclamation, drawn from his musing,
and hurriedly dropped the tool back to the counter. He moved up alongside her,
leaving the wistful turn of his thoughts behind him as he did.

"The computer?"

"Now all we have to do is find those files."

She began to root around in the disk boxes stacked neatly to one side of the
expensive computer system. Clark hunted around briefly and discovered the
monitor's on switch. He flicked it over and waited as the machine hummed
quietly to itself and the screen brightened to show the Tirelli 'spitting
salamander' logo.

"Here, let me," he said, slipping into the high-backed chair and taking the
first box from her as he focused intently on the flickering screen. "Why don't
you go see if there's some kind of printer around here that we can download
onto?"

"Me? Why don't you?" Lois protested his appropriation of the search.

Clark glanced at her firmly as he tapped the mouse. The screen chimed as it
brought up the main access menu. "My scoop. Remember?"

"Well, gee, Clark, it's not as though I'm going to ace you out of it or
anything!"

Clark raised a brow at her and she had the grace to blush. She scowled right
with it though.

"I found the computer first," she pointed out.

"I've got seniority."

"Look! They're using the new MIDEX system. I know that system backwards. I
could run it off in half the time it'll take - "

"It's still my scoop, Lois. You're not getting this chair."

"We've got forty minutes before the next security sweep. We don't have time to
argue out one of your childish tantrums, Clark! Give me - "

"Nope."

Lois' hands gravitated to her hips in a familiar warning signal of
thunderstorms gathering, which Clark studiously chose to ignore. "Clark Kent -
" she gave up persuasion and common logic abruptly and went for the throat.
"Get out of that chair now or I swear I'll -- "

"Won't do you any good."

Halfway to completing another blistering retort, Lois paused, as though
sensing he was outmaneuvering her somewhere along the line in ways she
couldn't quite fathom. He had an air about him of holding on to a trump card
he just hadn't thrown into the pile yet. Her eyes narrowed on him,
suspiciously. "Why not?"

"Because you're not getting in here any faster than I will."

Oh, was *that* all? Lois smiled tightly, back on sure ground. Game, set and
match to Lane. Male arrogance and their reliance on their so-called 'superior'
intelligence never beat her - as Kent was just about to find out. "Will too!"
she declared confidently. "I told you, I know this system like the back of my
-- "

"Knowing the system doesn't amount to a hill of beans, Lois," Clark said,
tapping at another couple of keys as he continued to eye the screen. "You're
forgetting just one. . . " he hit another sequence of letters, ". . . tiny. . . " the
computer blipped and he punched return, ". . . little detail here."

Cut off at the pass, she frowned. "Which is?"

Clark flashed her a wide grin. "I'm the one with the system's access codes."
His grin became just a little smug - intolerably smug, to Lois' mind. "And I'm
not sharing."

Lois stared at him for a moment, eyes turning round, her expression almost
comic in its utter disbelief. Mutiny, by God! And from her partner! Her
*junior* partner. Well. . . her almost junior partner. The partner who should, if
there was any fairness in the world at all, be her junior partner. Her partner
who was *going* to be her junior partner or, even better, not her partner at
all, if he didn't shape up and fly right and accept that she was in charge.

Didn't he know she was the one with the experience here? The one who knew more
about covert hit and run research than him and a whole platoon of Navy Seals
put together? Who had simply *years* of --

"Printer?" Clark reminded gently with another smirk, interrupting her slow
burn, before he returned his attention to the keyboard, dismissing her.

Lois paused, looking as though she might be trying to regroup, marshalling her
ground troops for another assault.

"Time's ticking, Lois. That guard will be here soon," Clark warned her
absently as he took a showy glance at his watch for effect and then clicked on
another option to bring up a second menu.

Lois' lips tightened over whatever it was she'd been about to use as a
challenge. Clark could feel the laser heat of her eyes burning at the back of
his neck before she snarled something inarticulate and stalked off into the
darkness. The stiff cast to her spine clearly sign-posted her annoyance as he
turned his head briefly to track her retreat. She kept up a low, aggrieved
mutter as she went.

"Two-timing. . . back-stabbing. . . " Clark heard clearly, followed progressively
by, ". . . told Perry it'd *never* work. . . " and ". . . just wait till we're back at
the Planet, that's all. . . " before it faded into an indecipherable growl of
general complaint as Lois began to prowl around the far reaches of the garage.

Clark took another wary glance across his shoulder to ensure she was out of
range and then rapidly searched the disk boxes that Lois had been ferreting
through a moment earlier. Nothing. Not that he was surprised. The team bosses
were almost pathologically paranoid about unsportsmanlike, industrial sabotage
from other teams. They'd be unlikely to leave sensitive information lying
around. And Tirelli would be guarding this material more than most - even from
his own crew.

The computer bleeped and he gave it his attention long enough to key in the
last of the access codes which Adam had given him. He scanned through the list
of directories it produced and, finally, well hidden though they were, tracked
his way to the Tirelli's private business files.

He thought for a moment, tapping a restless finger against the keyboard.
Faintly, in the background, he heard Lois curse as she barked a shin against a
scatter of plastic equipment boxes in one corner of the room. The following
sound was hard to place until he realized it was the rhythmic thud of her
viciously kicking the offending cartons. He hid a smile, shook his head, and
heard her move on.

Tirelli. He considered what he knew about the man. He'd researched his quarry
carefully, even before pitching his idea at Perry. A frown gathered on his
forehead and he reached to tap out a seven-letter word.

**Access denied.**

He drew in a small breath and then, keeping half of his attention on Lois'
movements, let his fingers blur across the board as he tried out hundreds of
possible private passwords that Tirelli might have used. He made it on the two
hundred and fourth.

Houston.

The site of Tirelli's third win. And the name of his third eldest daughter.

Clark smiled smugly to himself as he began prowling through Tirelli's office
files. As he'd suspected, the man had made a common mistake that seemed to
haunt most every villain he'd ever encountered. He'd gone for ease of
convenience over total security and linked up his computer systems to all its
outlets, relying solely on the password and access codes as a guarantee of
privacy. As a result, Tirelli's office system, halfway around the world, was
connected to every other system he owned, both private and business, including
Indycar and the nine other related corporations he had a stake in.

"Well?"

Clark started violently as Lois' impatient voice sounded just shy of his right
ear, so close that her breath tickled warmly against his skin. He'd been so
engrossed in what he was reading that for once she hadn't registered on his
senses as she'd approached.

Part #2