"Can I still tango?" Gibbs repeated softly, arching an eyebrow at Jenny. She'd called him up to her office at oh seven hundred. He'd expected some political nightmare not this question.

He nodded. "Why, ya interested?"

"Jethro, get your mind out of the bedroom," Jenny said, rolling her eyes before her expression softened. He'd heard she was dating someone and it sounded like the rumors might be true. There was a softness about her he hadn't seen since Paris.

"Gonna tell me why?" he asked.

She slapped a file down on the desk and gestured for him to read through it. After the first couple of pages, he nodded. "So, you want to go undercover?"

"Not me, Jethro. This club caters to military men and their younger foreign wives. I've purchased your membership, Major James Gibbson."

He inclined his head. "Guess it makes the smuggling easier. So who? Abby isn't at all suitable. Lee is too skittish. Cynthia wouldn't work…"

"Ziva," she replied quietly. "Zara Gibbson, Brazilian. US Green Card holder, you've been married seven years." She shook her finger at him. "You married when she was only twenty."

He smirked, taking a packet of documents from her. "Robbed the cradle, did I? You talk to Ziva about this? She on board?"

"I am." Ziva stepped out of the shadows and Gibbs realized she must have been in the bathroom. "Shall we dance, husband?"


It took two weeks for them to establish themselves in the community and Gibbs was strangely relaxed. He and Ziva had established a comfortable routine and there wasn't forced conversation. As Gibbs had realized a couple of years ago, Ziva was an excellent cook.

Days were spent on various home improvement projects for the retired marine while his wife decorated. Many of the neighbors were young families and Gibbs mentioned that his son might be interested in babysitting when he came home from medical school. He'd wondered at the wisdom of having Palmer play his son, but Jenny and Ducky had insisted that he was a good fit. Gibbs wasn't as convinced.

Finally it was tango night at the club, the night all new members were welcomed. He and Ziva had stopped in last week for a drink but it had been mostly quiet, too quiet for them to have established themselves in a subtle manner.

"James," Ziva—no Zara—he reminded himself, called. They had taken to referring to each other by first initial, which Gibbs realized was a mistake. "Can you zip me up?"

He walked into the bedroom and stopped, frozen for one moment in time. He'd been told about her singing career, had even seen the remnants of the dress after the bombing but this…

"James?" she asked again, smirking at his reaction. He shook his head slowly and let out a low whistle of appreciation. The dress was one of those V-neck things that went almost to the waist, a ruby red silk, her hair tumbling over her bare shoulders. She was sin and he was far from a saint.

He moved closer, zipping her up with hands steadier than they ought to be and crossed the room and into the closet. He had considered a tux before Ziva had suggested his charcoal suit with a gray shirt and gray and black tie.

"Darling?" she asked from the doorway of the closet, smirking. "Wear the black underwear I left out. Looks much better under the pants."

Damn her, he didn't want her to have the upper hand. No… he wouldn't let her. He turned, facing her, knowing his body was rising to the occasion and calmly stripped off. When he was completely bare, he left the walk-in closet and stepped into the bathroom, turning the shower on cold. It was the only way he'd get rid of the throbbing erection she'd been eyeing since he'd pulled his jeans off.

"Need any help?" She still sounded cool and calm as she entered the bathroom and fiddled with her hair.

"No," he replied coolly, stepping under the spray, dodging the hand he'd anticipated was coming out to stroke over his ass.

"Zara, you're playing with fire."

She chuckled, the sound of a self-confident woman going right to his groin. He'd always loved women who knew what they wanted, but this one was a ball of passion and fire and as unpredictable as any woman he'd ever met.

He showered quickly, refusing to pay any attention to his hard cock. Not while she was in the room. Gibbs stepped out, taking the towel and his deodorant and crossing into the walk-in closet without even glancing at Ziva. He toweled off in the closet.

Gibbs picked up the underwear and looked at it, stifling a sigh. Knit clingy boxers, not his usual style but he supposed they'd be okay. He slipped them on and adjusted, thankful that he was no longer at full hardness. The pants went on easily over them and he pulled on and buttoned his shirt.

"Very nice." She'd snuck up behind him, smoothing down the shirt, hand trailing not only onto his ass, but between his cheeks. "Ziva!"

"Zara," she replied, mouth curving into a sensual smile. "You have a wonderful ass, James." She came around the front of him, looking him up and down. "Leave the tie off. Bring the jacket."

He gave her a small smirk but did as he was told and they drove the short distance to the club, where they gained entry easily. They bypassed the restaurant and he motioned to the bar area. "Drinks or dancing first?"

"Dancing. I want my hands on your body."

If he'd been just a little less worldly, he would have colored at her comment. As it was, she rattled him a little and James Gibbson, like Jethro Gibbs—didn't rattle easily.

The club was fairly busy and Gibbs had no worry that they'd fail to blend in, even if his woman was the most sultry in the group. He reached for her hand, pulling her close. Her expulsion of air went right to his crotch and he hardened immediately.

"Mmm," she said, rubbing over him, pressing their pelvises together.

"Settle down, Zara," he growled. He wrapped an arm around her waist and began the complex moves of the tango, their bodies rocking together. Her hard nipples poked into his shirt, her stomach pressing against his hardness.

When they were done, he tried to lead her over to the bar, but she touched his wrist. "Oh no. We dance 'til we drop." And with those words, Gibbs was snared in her trap. And he wasn't sure if he wanted to be released.

Shall they dance again? You decide! Feedback will convince me if I write this pairing well enough to run back onto the dance floor.