It's been seven months, two weeks, three days, and – he glances at his watch – five hours since that fateful moment when he'd laid eyes on her again. He'd been sleep deprived, dehydrated, hungry, sore, bruised, helpless and hopeless, but the sight of her dear face, her beloved eyes, the worry and heartbreak in her gaze is seared into his heart and mind forever. Seeing her again... He could not describe the feeling if he tried. The new life, the love, the joy filling his heart, the pain, the fear, the panic knocking the wind out of him. He'd been preparing himself to die. Seeing Ruth like that again had shored up his strength, his resolve, his determination to survive, if only for as long as it took to return her to safety, even as the spook in him had known that Amish Mani would not go for him first. Ruth had been brought there to break him and, as he'd watched her take a seat across from him, he'd resolved to do everything in his power to protect her. He would fight them with everything he had and more, for he loved her with all his heart, and Mani and the thugs in his employ had no idea of the power a love like that gives a man, the clarity, the single-minded purpose, the super-human strength when needed. He'd seen the knife in Mani's hand, had felt the man restraining him, he'd heard the gunshot, but he has no clear recollection of anything save the moment when he'd finally held her, his arms still cuffed at the wrist, but wrapped securely around her as she'd slumped against him, clinging to him as she wept and he breathed her in, murmuring loving words of comfort.

For a few precious moments there, he'd felt only joy and elation. He was holding Ruth. She'd come back to him.

But reality has an annoying habit of catching up with one and, all too soon, Ruth had pulled away and they'd both been taken to hospital, the hours had turned into days, the days into weeks, the weeks into months of little to no contact. She'd come back to work eventually, but she's no longer the same Ruth. Her spark is dimmed, she's shrouded in grief, she's distant and he has no clue how to reach her. So he does his best to be patient, to be kind, to respect her wishes and her new boundaries. And just like it used to be, he watches her through the glass wall of his office, longing for what, it seems, he can never have.

His desk phone rings and he sighs, gathering his thoughts before he answers, surprised to hear his daughter's voice.

"Hi, Dad," she says.

"Catherine!" He smiles, sitting up a little straighter. "What a pleasant surprise. How are you?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"Good, good."

"Is that how you really are, or is it just you feeling pleased that I'm fine?" she teases, making him chuckle.

"You know me too well, Catherine," he replies, pleased at the thought. There was a time, not long ago, when she was practically a stranger to him.

"I'm working on it. What are you up to tomorrow? Do you fancy lunch with your only daughter?"

"Lunch sounds wonderful, Catherine. I didn't know you were in London."

"Last minute change of plans. I'm off again on Tuesday."

"You're more busy than I am."

She laughs. "I doubt that."

"Will Fabian be joining us?" he asks, hoping for a negative. He doesn't mind the lad, but he'd, selfishly, rather like his daughter all to himself, especially as it's her birthday tomorrow.

There's a moment of silence.

"I... um... Fabian and I split up, Dad."

"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, leaning forward. "Are you alright? What happened?"

"I'm fine. He... We... I... It wasn't the same somehow. We've been struggling for months and, with this project ending, I suggested we take a break. See how we feel after a month or so. Turns out, he didn't want a break. He wanted to end it."

He's put the phone on speaker and is pouring himself a rather generous measure of whiskey in the hope that it'll curb the sudden impulse to find Fabian Maes and beat him to a pulp for hurting his precious girl – woman, he corrects himself.

"Dad? Are you still there?" She doesn't sound upset or weepy. Then again, he hasn't seen her cry since she was a child and he can't help feeling rather proud of her. She would have made a good spook, but he can't help feeling grateful that she chose a different path. He wouldn't want either of his children to suffer the level of heartbreak he has had to endure over the years.

"I'm here," he says, returning to his seat and taking a fortifying gulp of his drink. "I'm listening."

"I don't mind, you know. I mean, I get sad sometimes. It's been almost three years, but he wasn't the love of my life, you know? He wasn't my Ruth."

Christ! He rather regrets, at times like this, his moment of weakness in spilling his heart out to her. She'd caught him at a particularly vulnerable time and he'd told her everything without really considering the wisdom or the consequences of it.

He has a feeling he knows what's coming next.

"How is she?" Catherine asks. "Still no progress?"

He sighs and rubs his forehead with his hand before taking another generous gulp of whiskey.

"I'll take that as a no then."

"She's fine. She's safe. She's here. And that's enough," he replies.

Catherine hums. "Hasn't she forgiven you yet?"

Another sigh and another sip of whiskey.

"No."

"Then she's an idiot."

He chuckles. "I'll not remind you how long it took for you to forgive me, Catherine."

"That's different. I was a child. She's a grown woman who should know better."

He smiles into his glass, pleased beyond words to have her defend him in this way, to have her fight for him, choose to be in his corner.

"I used to sit here, day in and day out," he admits quietly, "thinking if only she'd come back, if only I could see her beautiful smile as she talked on the phone, see her eyes light up with triumph when she found the answer, see her head bent over her work late into the night, like I used to, everything would be alright with my world again, everything would be perfect."

"But it's not," she guesses, her voice filled with compassion.

"It's not," he agrees. "I have all that now, but I can't help wanting more... so much more, Catherine."

"Then tell her, Dad. You need to tell her or she'll never know."

"I'm sure she knows. I spend every night here. It's pretty obvious I have nowhere else to be, no one else I'd rather be with."

"But women like to be told, Dad. Trust me. No one wants a guy who doesn't act on his feelings. Get her flowers or something. Offer her a lift home. Ask her out. Do something!"

"Maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right!"

He chuckles again. "That's my daughter," he murmurs with pride.

"No changing the subject. Tell her how you feel."

"It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is. I'll show you. Do you love me, Dad?"

"You know I do."

"Then say it. Say, 'I love you, Catherine'."

"Catherine..."

"I love you."

He sighs. "I love you, Catherine."

"There. See? Not hard at all. Now go say that to her."

"I love you, Catherine? I don't think that'll go down very well."

"Don't be an idiot."

"I think that might be worse, actually."

"You're impossible. Fine. Don't say anything. Stew in longing and regret for the rest of your days... and nights."

There's silence for a few moments.

"It's hard to put it into words," he says eventually.

"I get it, Dad. Humour is a refuge, but hiding away never changed reality for anyone. You taught me that. You need to act! Thoughtfully though, alright? Don't do or say anything stupid."

"Nice to know you have so much faith in your old man, Catherine," he mutters grumpily.

She laughs. "I do have faith in you. Mum said you were quite the charmer when you were young."

"Did she? Well, that's a surprise, I must admit."

"She didn't mean it as a complement."

"Ah. Now that I can believe." He spares a moment to briefly regret how he managed to turn Jane's love for him into hate so quickly and spectacularly.

"Run it by me first then. What are you going to tell her?"

"I'd like to hear this too," a soft voice from the doorway has him spinning round in shock.

"Ruth," he stammers, totally thrown by her sudden appearance and the fact that she's clearly overheard all or part of his conversation with Catherine. "I... I didn't realise you were still here." He was sure he'd closed his office door, but he can see now that it's wide open.

"Dad? Is that Ruth?" Catherine says before he has a chance to recover.

"Oh, Christ! Sorry. I'll take you off speaker phone." He spins round once more, desperately trying to regain his equilibrium, scrambling to think of a way he can justify this to Ruth as he picks up the receiver.

Before he can utter another word, however, Catherine's demanding, "Dad, put Ruth on the phone."

He panics. "Catherine-"

"Please, Dad," she adds softly. "Trust me, alright?"

He sighs. How much more damage can be done, really?

"Fine! Ruth... my... er... my daughter would like a word," he says.

Her eyes are fathomless pools of stormy, sea blue as she crosses the room to stand in front of his desk, wordlessly taking the phone from his hand and bringing it to her ear, her gaze never leaving his.

Christ, but she is so beautiful.

"Hello?"

"Hi. I'm Catherine. You don't know me, but I've heard all about you. Dad never stops talking of you. He's madly in love with you, you know?"

"Catherine-"

"No, wait. Hear me out. Please. I know I have no business butting into your life and I know how... impossible and exasperating my father can be, but if you love him at all, Ruth, please give him a chance. I would very much like to see him happy. He... he's given so much. He deserves to be happy." She pauses and when Ruth doesn't reply, adds, "I... er... Thanks for listening. You can hand me back to Dad now."

Ruth wordlessly passes the phone back to him and he can't help feeling a little alarmed at her silence, terrified of what Catherine might have said.

"Hi, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rather gravelly from the strain as he drops his eyes to his whiskey glass that his other hand has grasped by reflex.

"Sorry," she says. "I probably shouldn't have done that, but I needed her to know... Anyway. I hope I haven't buggered it up for you. I'll leave you to... sort it out. Go get her, Dad. Love you. See you tomorrow for lunch. Text me a time and place and I'll be there."

And with that parting remark, she ends the call leaving him to murmur, "Bye," to himself and put down the receiver.

There's silence for several moments during which he wills himself not to raise the glass he's holding to his lips and tries to marshal his thoughts and his courage for whatever comes next. Talk about being thrown in at the deep end!

"You must be very proud of her, Harry," Ruth's soft voice breaks the spell and he lifts hopeful eyes to hers.

"I am," he admits and smiles softly. "She's... one in a million."

Ruth returns his smile. "A chip off the old block then," she says, causing his heart to begin beating double time.

She's watching him, waiting perhaps for him to speak, but he finds himself utterly tongue-tied. Jane – and many other women besides – would hardly recognise him now as the charmer he used to be.

"So..." she says eventually, "Fancy a drink, Harry?"

He smiles. He can't help himself.

"Yes, Ruth. I believe I would."

She nods and turns, saying, "I'll get my things then," but he stops her, standing and walking round his desk to intercept her at the door, his courage restored by her invitation. She slows and looks up at him quizzically, both of them coming to a stop in front of the open door, facing each other.

He slides the door closed behind him. "I'm out of practice," he murmurs softly, "but I've been given some good advice and I mean to follow it."

A small smile appears on her lips, her eyes twinkling at him. "Was this the advice I overheard your daughter giving you?"

He takes a step closer. "You were eavesdropping, Ruth. Overhearing had nothing to do with it."

Her smile broadens, his beloved dimples appearing in her cheeks. "Well, I am a spy, Harry. What did you expect? The door was wide open."

"How much did you hear?" He moves closer still, invading her personal space a little more, thrilled by the sight of her eyes darkening.

"I came to say goodnight and you were talking about how you'd missed seeing me everyday," she murmurs, and it pleases him no end that she's standing her ground now, instead of looking away and retreating as she used to. The Ruth who's come back to him is heartbroken and closed off, but she is stronger too, wiser, and so much more beautiful.

"I did miss you, Ruth. I missed you every hour, every minute, every second of every day. I longed for you. I wished, more than anything, that I could see you one more time, just to tell you all the things I never dared to say before until it was too late."

"What things?" she whispers, voice breathless, eyes dark and open.

He smiles and steps closer still, lifting his right hand to cup her face, eyes darting all over it, drinking her in.

Ruth.

Here.

His heart sings.

"I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. The most wonderful, brilliant, compassionate person. I'm in awe of your talents, the tenderness of your heart, and your eyes, Ruth, are the most stunning, bewitching, exquisite pair of eyes I have ever encountered. I have loved you for five long years. I need you to know that I will never stop. I want to love you, to care for you, to protect you, to share my life with you, Ruth, more than I have ever wanted anything else in my life. I would do anything to dispel the sadness in your eyes, to go back and save your family for you, to stop them from finding you so your elegant, happy life in Cyprus could-"

"If you could go back," she interrupts softly, eyes shining with emotion, "and change the past, I'd rather you made it so I never had to leave in the first place, and I could have stayed here with you, Harry. I never stopped loving you or wanting to come home."

He groans and pulls her into his arms, crushing her against his chest, tears of relief, love, and joy stinging his eyes. He feels her lips pressing against his neck, hears her murmur his name, her hands rising up his broad back, pulling him closer, so he turns his head and soon he's snogging her with everything he's got, all thought gone from his head, leaving behind only love and passion.

When she brings him back to reality and his surroundings, he finds that he's pushed her up against the wall beside the door and he's practically devouring her.

"Not here, Harry." Her voice is breathless and laced with arousal. "Not like this."

She's right, of course, so he pulls back, ashamed of his lack of self-control. "I'm sorry."

"No," she objects, reaching for his cheek, turning him to face her. "Don't be sorry, Harry. I wanted that. I needed it. And I enjoyed it. A lot."

He smiles and clears his throat. "About that drink," he says, "what say you we turn it into dinner?"

"Hungry?" she asks, mischief in her eyes.

"Ravenous," he murmurs, recklessly dragging his eyes over her body before bringing them back to hers. Her cheeks are flushed and her breathing shallow, her eyes dark slivers of midnight blue.

"It's my birthday next week," she says.

"I know."

"I thought perhaps you could be my present, but I've just realised I won't be able to wait that long. I'm going to have to unwrap you early."

He groans, closing his eyes for a moment, searching for control.

"Let's get a Chinese and take it back to mine," he suggests boldly.

"I like the sound of that," she admits, smiling happily up at him.

She turns to go, but once again he stops her. "Ruth?"

"Yes?"

"Why now? What's changed?" he can't help asking.

"Something Catherine said," she admits softly. "And everything you told me."

He nods, pleased. "What did she say?"

"That you've given so much. That you deserve to be happy."

"You deserve that too, Ruth," he murmurs, stepping closer.

She shakes her head at him and looks away briefly, her eyes full of pain when she returns them to his. "I'm not so sure about that right now... but I think everyone deserves a good present for their birthday, so... I'm going to think of you as my birthday present until I manage to let go of the guilt and forgive myself."

He reaches for her hand and draws her into his arms again, holding her, wishing there was something he could say or do to make her see that she is not guilty of anything. "Does this mean I'm not allowed to buy you a present for your birthday?" he asks, hoping to make her smile.

She does. "Yes. You're the only present I want anyway."

"Well, I'll make a special effort with the wrapping then," he replies, voice low and husky. "And the setting for unwrapping me. A couple of days in Paris?"

"I don't deserve Paris, Harry," she replies sadly.

"But it'll make me happy, and you said that was the whole point."

She smiles. "Alright then. Paris."