Saturday, 9th September 2006 – St James's Park

It's been almost three months, she tells herself as they continue to sit on the bench, the weak sun-rays warming their faces. It's alright now to sit beside Harry. No one's gossiping any more.

She takes a deep breath to settle her nerves, gazing across the lake, attempting to enjoy what might well be the last good weather they get this year. He asked her to meet him today to pick her brains on an ongoing operation the DG wants to be briefed on this afternoon. He'd been a little apologetic to be intruding on her day off and had offered to meet her anywhere, allowing her to choose the location. As it happens, she'd been planning to do some shopping, so she chose a park because the weather is good, and should someone spot them, it could never be misconstrued as a date. Not unless they'd been sitting really close, or holding hands, and she'd been pretty confident that would never happen. He's been very respectful of her decision to end it and hasn't attempted to ask her out again or make any unwelcome advances. He's remained professional and polite, and he's put a stop to the teasing, almost flirting, interactions they used to have.

But she misses them.

She misses the personal undercurrent of their relationship, the extra layer of trust and understanding. They still work well together. There is still closeness and trust on a professional level, but it's not quite the same. And she misses it.

She misses him – the good friend he'd become, the almost lover, the partner he might have been.

She misses his lips, his physical presence, the essence of him that has lingered on in her dreams since their one, wonderful date. And though the gossip had scared her off and she can't really fault herself for putting her – and his – respectability and career first, she can't help feeling that they could have been happy together, that they could have had so much more. They'd seemed so compatible, such a good fit as far as interests go and conversation, humour and wit. The physical attraction's there too, their kiss when he'd dropped her off at home electric, and she knows that, given half a chance, she could have loved him totally, utterly and completely – is already more than half-way there, if she's brutally honest with herself.

She's never been a risk-taker though. Especially not in her personal life.

What if he'd only wanted a fling? What if he used her or dumped her as soon as the going got tough? Or he got bored? Or she started to make demands on his time? Or she fell pregnant with his child? Or... The list of unforeseeable events is endless.

She swallows and turns her head away to watch one of the park squirrels. It always amazes her how brave they are, scurrying up to people and practically begging for food. She'd tried to feed one once, when she'd first moved to London, and had been quite surprised by how aggressive it had become, almost biting her finger off in its haste to get at the snack. But she'd learnt her lesson. She hasn't fed them since.

As she contemplates the squirrels, she becomes aware of Harry gently tapping against the wood of the bench, the rhythm of it seeping into her subconscious until she suddenly knows what it is.

Morse code.

R-U-T-H? Can you hear me?

She daren't breathe or look at him, freezing for a second before she consciously relaxes her body, too scared to admit to him that she can. What would she even say? Does he expect her to reply in code too? Why is he even trying to communicate with her in this way? Are they being watched? Is this work related? Is he trying to warn her about something?

Ruth? Ruth? Ruth?

She watches a little boy chase some pigeons and smiles at his mother as she passes by, taking the opportunity to surreptitiously glance at Harry. If there's some danger, she's sure she'll read it in his eyes.

He's looking at her, so she smiles and says, "It's nice to see the sun."

"Yes," he replies and she thinks she sees a flicker of disappointment in his gaze, but nothing to alarm her, nothing to indicate that there's something urgent and work related that he's trying to communicate.

"I spend far too much time indoors," she adds, feeling her heart begin to race. Could it be a more personal message that he's trying to convey? She turns a little towards the sunlight, lifting her face up and closing her eyes for a moment, working through her emotions and contemplating the wisdom, or not, of letting him know that she can hear him loud and clear.

You are beautiful, Harry taps on the bench, making her almost give herself away from the sheer shock of him saying something like that to her. Even on their date, he'd only said she looked lovely. Of course, on their date, she'd been so nervous she'd picked something ridiculously demure and old-fashioned to wear, hiding most of her skin away in a subconscious attempt to protect herself from the utter physicality of everything he makes her feel.

Luckily she somehow manages to keep the smile on her lips, breathing deeply to stay calm and not give herself away. But she's desperate now to hear more, to hear all the things Harry wants to tell her, but cannot find the words to say. Though perhaps he would say them if she gave him a chance, if she hadn't closed the door on an intimate relationship between them so quickly.

I could spend all day watching you... All night making love to you.

She almost stops breathing, her heart suddenly pounding, her face flushing as she turns her head down and away from him, twisting to look in her bag, searching for something to distract her from the tantalising, delicious images that he's just pushed to the forefront of her mind.

Her water bottle! Thank God!

She takes it out, slowly unscrewing the cap before taking several generous gulps of the liquid, swallowing and taking a steadying breath before turning to him and asking, "Water?"

"No, thanks," he replies, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth as she turns away again and safely tucks the bottle back into her bag.

No sooner has she closed it, however, when his fingers start tapping again.

I love you.

And she can hide no more.

Her breaths are shallow, her pulse pounding in her ears as she turns to look at him, her eyes finding his, her body yearning for his touch, and it seems like the distance between them has suddenly shrunk, like the gentle pursing of his lips, his every breath is caressing her skin, goosebumps appearing all along her arms and throat, almost making her shiver. He doesn't look away, holding her gaze with a steady, intense look.

Can you hear me, Ruth? His fingers tap against the wood beside her right shoulder.

She swallows, her emotions beginning to get the better of her, her eyes suddenly over-bright, breaths rapid and irregular, palms sweating. Everything around them has faded away and all she can see is Harry.

Intense.

Beautiful.

Wanting.

Waiting.

"Yes," she whispers.

A ghost of a smile graces his lips, but it's his eyes that have, and hold, her attention as they melt before her, softening to a honeyed, liquid hazel, shimmering with love, and hope, and lust.

Give us another chance, Ruth. Please.

He's still tapping, watching her face as he does it, taking in every nuance of her expression. She drops her gaze to her hands, fighting against the anxiety and fear that suddenly overcomes her.

What is it?

"I'm scared," she whispers, somehow finding it so much easier to talk to him like this, when he's silent and she has to concentrate to decipher his messages. It's keeping her mind busy, keeping her from fleeing in a blind panic.

Of what?

She shakes her head, unable to articulate it.

Gossip?

She nods.

I will be more careful.

"How?" she asks, looking up at him again. "They're spies, Harry. They'll know."

So am I. And I am better.

That makes her smile. "Maybe," she agrees. "But I'm not."

You are. You are a born spook, Ruth.

She lifts her eyes to his again and smiles, so pleased by such praise from him.

Give us a chance, Ruth.

"Harry..." She drops her gaze and shakes her head, unable to find the courage, knowing how easily things could go wrong for them. She's not even any good at intimate relationships. She always screws them up, always holds too much of herself back for fear of getting hurt. And she suspects Harry's the same.

I love you.

"Don't say that," she whispers, lifting her eyes to his again, silently pleading with him to understand.

It's the truth, he taps, his eyes holding hers, soft and open. You cannot stop me. I cannot stop myself. I tried.

"This is so unfair, Harry," she protests. "You're trying to manipulate me into-"

"No," he interrupts, his voice gentle and soft, silencing her immediately, so surprised is she to hear him speak. "I want you to know that I'm serious about you. It occurred to me that I didn't do enough to reassure you before, so I'm doing that now. I understand that you might not return my feelings, Ruth, that you might still not want to pursue this relationship any further. I hope I have shown you that I can respect that, that I do respect that. Just say the word and I'll stop and never talk about this again."

He pauses waiting, but she can't seem to bring herself to utter the words. She loves him. She loves him too and she can't help the hope that's blossoming in her heart, can't help wanting all that he seems to be offering her, all that she's dreamt of for months.

And as she remains silent for long moments, she sees the smile begin at the corners of his mouth, watches as it spreads to include his lips, his cheeks, his eyes, his entire face, and she can't help smiling too, the hope and joy bubbling up inside her and escaping in an unexpected giggle.

"Let me bring dinner round to yours tonight and we can talk some more," he suggests. For a moment, she feels the fear and anxiety return, but he sweeps it easily aside when he adds, "It's not a date, Ruth. Just an opportunity to talk somewhere more private."

"Okay," she agrees, nodding a few times and smiling shyly up at him.

I want to kiss you, he taps against the bench, still watching her, making her eyes widen.

"Not a date, you said," she stammers.

"You're right," he concedes, removing his arm from the back of the bench, perhaps to reassure her that he'll not share any more of his thoughts or perhaps because it's the only way he can stop himself from telling her how he feels. "It's not a date. Just a meal and some conversation, an exploration of our options." He pauses and then, seemingly unable to stop himself, adds softly, "But perhaps a goodnight kiss, on the cheek, wouldn't be too much to hope for?"

He looks so mischievous and hopeful at the same time that she can't help smiling and shaking her head at him before agreeing. "Perhaps."

He nods, satisfied, and begins to get up. "Does seven o'clock suit?"

"Yes."

"I'll see you then." He pauses to look at her and smile before turning away and walking briskly down the path towards Thames House.

She watches him go until he's out of sight and then she stands and walks away in the opposite direction, smiling all the way to M&S, impulsively buying some sexy, new underwear in addition to the rest of the things already on her list, and a rather decadent looking dessert that she's sure Harry will love.

By the time she's arrived home laden with shopping bags, she's admitted to herself that this very much is a date and she is most certainly going to snog Harry senseless before allowing him to go home.