EDIT: This is the current revision I've got, based on the comments. Thanks to all who helped!

It's strange what things you remember with vivid clarity.

There are bits and pieces that I can see before my mind's window, as if they were projected on the pane, all flickers and translucent motions, strung out in unconnected sequence. No matter how hard I try, no matter how many times I'm asked to run though the event, they don't come together. There is a sort of disassociation, like dialogue fragments on the TV as the remote clicks past. They almost seem to belong together, but are really random nonsense.

But, I remember him.

Not much that will help the investigators: an impression of muscular power as he wrapped arms around me, blocking the street from my view, a glimpse of an unshaven jaw and eyes with something strange about them. Suit and tie beneath a long, grey raincoat. Then there was the flash and an invisible wall slapped me flat to the pavement.

He was gone when I awoke, blurry and groggy, the emergency crew shouting something in my ear and holding my shoulders down to keep me from moving. There was an acrid stench in the air and smoke. I couldn't hear anything over the ringing. There was no pain, not yet. That would come later, when my brain stopped blocking all calls from the rest of my body. I jerked my head from side to side, trying to see where he was. He was here just a moment ago! And then…

And then, I was looking at the ceiling of the ambulance, my ears still ringing and the muffled warbling of a siren like Satan's own songbird filling the space. A woman with a worried face was leaning over me and yelling to be heard over the noise, but it was as if there were a microphone humming feedback in my ears. "…indications of concussion and possible subcranial bleeding. Victim is in and out of consciousness…" and then I proved it.

Inspector Jermayne was the first to interview me, while I was still in St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He was a fair bit older than me, his black hair threaded with grey and silver wings at his temples. Darkly handsome, but gruff in demeanor, he seemed to be treating me as a suspect more than a witness, as if I was hiding something from him, speaking to me like I was his daughter caught sneaking in late from a date. Still, as he interrogated me, I gave him what I could remember.

"I was walking down Cheapside, towards the Bank Underground Station after doing the tourist thing at St. Paul's."
"Yes, I'm American, here on holiday. Two weeks now."
"No, I didn't notice any large black sedans."
"What do you mean, exploded? Oh, God! Was… was the man okay?"
"The one who was right by me!"
"No, he wasn't anyone I knew, just some man. He grabbed me and then… God! It must have been just when it happened."
"I dunno, pretty big, like a football player."
"No, no, American football. You know, like over six feet and built. Not fat. Is he okay?"
"What do you mean, 'no one fitting that description'? He was right there beside me."
"No, he didn't say anything."
"No, I told you, I didn't know him! Why would I know a name?"
"Why am I concerned? Why do you fucking think! He saved my life!"
"Well, of course I'm upset, I just got blown up on a London street!"

I realized suddenly that I was yelling. Jermayne was being a jerk and my head hurt and I was inexplicably angry, more than I should have been. It was just coming home to me how close I had been to death. The duty nurse intervened and I tried to get some sleep. It eluded me, though. My emotions were roiled, with flashes of stark terror and heart-pounding relief that I was okay. Guilt that others weren't. And something else.

Who knew that nearly dying made one so horny?

I was ready for release from observation, when some attache from the U.S. Embassy named Peter Veldt came by to shepherd me away from the press gauntlet waiting outside.

Peter was cute, in a nebbish sort of way. Pure Ivy-league, with hornrims and sandy-brown hair. There was something reassuring about him, but maybe it was just his job to be that way. I went through my story again with him in the back of a limo on the way to a "safe place" where Fleet Street wouldn't track me down. At least Veldt was pleasant about it,

"No, I didn't know the man who grabbed me."
"Yeah, he must have grabbed me right before the bomb went off. Maybe he saw something. I dunno."
"Yes, I think I would recognize him, but not from a photograph."
"Well… to be honest, it was the way he, uh, smelled."
"No, it wasn't a stink. It was pleasant. I dunno, not anything I can describe, just… compelling. Maybe musky? But not, like an animal; it was a manly scent. Masculine."
"I can't help it! That's what I remember!"

I could tell that Peter was both interested in my revelation and frustrated with how vague a lead it was. “It’s not the sort of thing one finds in a personnel file, you know,” he said in that Martha’s Vinyard accent. I knew he was just doing his job and I felt bad, as if I was letting him down.

I asked where we were going, what was going to happen now. “Don’t worry, Ms. Flemming,” he said with a flash of perfect teeth, “We’ll take care of you.”

They put me up in a luxury hotel that was about a zillion times more classy and expensive than the one I got with my tour package. All my luggage was already in the room when I got there, and Peter left me with his card and an admonition to get rest and stay in. I kinda wished he would have stayed, too. I was feeling shaky and vulnerable and needy. And alone.

Turning on the television, I found out more from the BBC than I had from Jermayne or Veldt. Some bigwig industrialist from Switzerland, assassinated by a car bomb. No one but some radical group of anti-technology nuts claiming credit, though the pundits were speculating on all the usual suspects. Five dead in the car and three on the street, with twelve injured including an American tourist. Me, apparently.

None of the victims were available for comment, and were reported to be still “in hospital”. Very British, that phrase. It was easy to forget I was on foreign soil, subject to different ways of doing things. I knew Inspector Jermayne would be back again with another set of questions, and I wondered if I needed to ask the Embassy if I needed a lawyer.

I hadn’t done anything wrong though!

Someone tracked down my number, and my phone began ringing that evening. I found it buried in a plastic bag containing the clothes I’d been wearing, the hospital logo printed on the side. There were a series of calls from numbers I didn't know, all with local prefixes. I didn't know anyone in London, really, so it kind of freaked me out. I still felt like an emotional wreck.

I called the number on the card that Peter had left and asked what I should be doing, and he said not to answer because it was probably the press. I hoped they weren't bothering my grandmother back in the States.

Fuck. I called her and spent the next half-hour assuring her I was okay and was sorry and yes I should have called sooner and I loved her too. By the time I got off the phone and turned off the lights, it was well after midnight according to the clock on the bed stand.

The digits said 3:44 when something woke me up. A shape moved across the door and into the shadows beside the bed. I could hear breathing.

Someone was in the room.

I'm Jenny Flemming, innocent passerby at a major political assassination; wrong place, wrong time. Or am I? Maybe I know more than I'm saying. Maybe I'm not who I'm claiming to be.

I'm looking for that sexy espionage thriller vibe. Are you up for helping me untangle this complicated web of lies? Are you the hard-bitten British Inspector, the charming American attache, the mysterious Stranger? Perhaps all three?

This should be a long-to-medium term RP with a beginning, middle and end. I'd prefer to have some OOC discussion to set some limits and outline some plot points before fully jumping in, because this one is complex. Ongoing OOC plotting is good too!

I don't need a English Language PhD, but please don't write in indecipherable code! Bad grammar goes in your personnel file at Langley. Please remember, this is a character I'm playing, not really me, and appreciate the difference between "in scene" and "not in scene".

Yes please to suave secret agents, hair's breadth escapes, triple-double crosses, seduction and shaken cock tales.

Nope to brutality, death, torture, and toilet play (among characters. Off scene, the Bad Guys™ probably do all that stuff. Bastards!). Other kinks negotiable… tell me what you like; I’m not shy.

I'll try to reply to all polite responses, even if it's just a polite "no thanks." My older prompts can be found at r/DeeDeeDPP.