She looked, he decided, like a fashion model. One of those long, African fashion models. Except for those generous curves, suggestive of the notion that Irene Adler, while very fit, did not starve herself. Indeed, she seemed to be examining the menu with deep interest, huddled on one side of a curved, tall leather booth. Very private, he noticed, a detail he could appreciate. A bottle of Moet was chilling in a bucket next to the table, but she appeared to be half way through a pint of Guinness.

Jim Moriarty couldn't help but wonder exactly how the evening would end. When he'd first received the invitation, he had imagined a quick and bloody intervention, but the lady seemed to be in a conciliatory mood, going by her chosen meeting place. Now he wasn't sure.

"You're late," she remarked, not looking up from the menu. They had never met face to face, but of course, Jim had seen her on the telly. He'd given her less thought then. Caleb Marcel's lawyer. Attractive. Good taste in clothes. A mob lawyer, as the parlance went. He wouldn't admit it to a living soul, but he ought to have paid better attention.

"You've got some nerve, Miss Adler," Jim said pleasantly as he slid down on to the seat across from hers.

"I've been told as much," she gave him a quick, false smile. "You know my name. You've seen my face, and you know my address. It would be nothing for you to set a tail on me, maybe poison my morning coffee or push me off a dock into the Thames. In my line of work, nerve comes with the territory."

There was something in her accent, that New Jersey thing, that added a wry darkness to her words. It wasn't quite sarcasm, and it wasn't quite sincerity. The aggression was thinly veiled. The person he had hitherto considered to be a loose end that needed tying had managed the rare feat of intriguing him.

"Some might call it hubris," he said calmly, all business. Polite, like. Two opposing generals. Because she was that, a general. Not just an enforcer, not an adviser, but a shrewd tactician with a high stake. A player.

"Your spy thought so," she said blankly, and her accent had dropped into something utterly neutral. "I have to say I'm impressed. Even the threat of death wouldn't make him say your name."

"You killed him anyway."

This time a little flash of teeth in that smile. "I knew it would get your attention."

She certainly had done that, Jim reflected, struck by a vivid image of his lieutenant's head nested in gold tissue paper, his face peering up at him from inside of an elegant gift-bag, with the neatly written "Please Return to Sender" card attached.

At that point, Jim had decided to take matters into his own hands. He had placed the correct phone calls, coordinated through all of the proper channels, and now here he was, sitting across from an adversary that could not be intimidated. How he knew it, he couldn't quite say, but he was absolutely certain of it.

He toyed with the idea of killing her tonight. Or perhaps tomorrow. He was tempted to see what she did, if left alone. She wasn't afraid of him, but it wasn't because she underestimated him. Maybe she was just stupid. But he sensed that would be a dangerous assumption to make. Quite apart from his usual approach, he decided to proceed with caution.

"Jim," he said, offering his hand. "Jim Moriarty."

Her hand shake was firm, and brief. She went back to the menu, flagging a waiter with a careless hand.

"New York strip," she said quickly. "Just a bit bloodier than medium rare."

"Madam. Your champagne?"

Her eyes flicked to Jim, and there was something mischievous in them. She looked back at the waiter. "With dessert."

"Very good. Sir?"

Jim evaluated the young man for a moment. "The leg of lamb, and your best cabernet."

"Short for James, then," Irene said in an off-hand way once the waiter had gone. "Jim."

There was a tiny snobbish sneer in her voice that made him bristle, just a little. He twisted his fork, considering stabbing her with it under the table, then resisting the impulse. He affected a yawn instead. "It sounds too posh, James."

"Whereas Jim sounds fucking pedestrian."

This statement was like a slap in the face. He stared at her. "Did you just call me pedestrian?"

She raised a chastising finger. "I called you fucking pedestrian, James. Jim's the guy who changes the oil in my car."

"I'm not a James," he said, feeling uncomfortable now. Why did he feel uncomfortable? This woman was nothing to him. Would be less than nothing, once he'd finished with her.

She tilted her head, and there was something beneath the mocking smile. "I think you are. I'd prefer to call you James. It'll be our little secret, if you like."

Now his attention was entirely arrested. Those big, honey brown eyes had caught him, and he felt a little like an insect trapped in amber. "What do you want, Miss Adler?"

"Irene," she corrected.

"Irene."

"I want my steak. Ah."

Just in time, the waiter returned with their meals. Lucky for him, Jim thought, as he seemed to be aware of his peril, and keen to escape from the exacting gaze of Madame Adler.

She immediately took up her knife and fork and sawed a few thin slices from the steaming hunk of meat, and sampled one. It was, as she had ordered, bloody, and she made the tiniest noise of pleasure as she savoured it.

Jim's hands had automatically started carving the lamb, but his attention was fixed on her. He was fascinated by the way she had dropped all pretence of their little game of quid-pro-quo and was fully engaged in the sensual affair of partaking of sustenance. Suddenly, he felt a stab in his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger for food.

A wave of heat seemed to rise through him from his toes all the way to the top of his head. Suddenly, he was hungry, too. Starving. Famished. He went to work on the leg of lamb, letting himself enjoy the slightly gamey, sage-seasoned flesh that had been seared to perfection. How long had it been since he'd really enjoyed a meal with another person? No precautions, no background security. Just him alone, dining with a rather lovely woman.

It was fifteen minutes of silent consummation, a culinary tryst. Irene was mopping up the remnants of the steak with a piece of fluffy sourdough, and her mood seemed to have improved tenfold. She made no apology as she sat back, polished off the rest of the pint and licked her lips, for all the world like a contented lioness after the hunt.

"I want," she said softly. "A silent partner. I'm running several lines of speculation, Mr. Moriarty, but my muscle is not local and I can't import it fast enough. There's a lot of loyalty behind the Marcel family. But my position isn't tenable and I need to act quickly."

"And you want my muscle." Now he was amused. He broke off a piece of the crisp sourdough loaf and nibbled it thoughtfully. "Outsourcing?"

She cocked her head. "I want you. As I said, a partner."

"A silent partner."

"Silent as long as it is expedient, yes."

"What's in it for me?"

"Money, of course."

"Pedestrian," he said, a thin smile playing on his mouth.

She smiled back. "Connections. Mine. My firm's, which are considerable on both sides of the water. My resources. Make my enemies your enemies, and I would be...in your debt."

"My dear," Jim said, a bit of purr in his voice. "You can lease those resources from me. Why do you need me? I like to keep my hands clean, and unless I'm much mistaken, your business is very, very dirty."

At this, she tilted her head back and laughed. It was a dark, throaty sound that seemed to travel along his spine. She grinned at him, eyes sparkling, an alcohol flush in her cheeks.

"James," she said, and the way she said it made something in him catch, like he'd caught himself tripping over the pavement. "Can't you see the potential? We could be each other's best resource. But I'm not going to play through intermediaries. I don't like spies, I don't care for messengers and I'm not going to be put on hold by your secretary. I don't care to lease loyalty if I can buy it outright. And I know I can't buy you."

"If it's loyalty you're after, you're talking to the wrong person," he said with a grin. "I'm going to expect something in return, and it might not be something you're prepared to give. Really, what have you got to offer me that I could possibly want?"

"Me," she said decisively. "I don't need to list the reasons, do I?"

He folded his hands and propped his chin on them, considering her. She had a point, he thought. She had resources, charisma, a legitimate standing and a high regard in her profession, her fist closed over the strings of corruption. Judges, no doubt. Maybe even cops. Caleb Marcel. The Syndicate. These were things to consider.

But at the bottom of the thing, Jim Moriarty, like many other men of deep business, found his decision was made for him by the simple gesture of a beautiful woman. It was the tiny smile in the corner of her mouth, the clever tongue that flickered out across those full lips, and then the intent, unblinking stare that seemed somehow darker than before.

Slowly, he nodded, reaching across the table to take her hand. "Friends, then."

"Friends," she said softly, her fingertips playing across the inside of his wrist. He felt like an electric charge had raced up his arm. He raised it for the check.

"No dessert?" Her tone was playful.

He looked back at her, didn't touch her, just stared, feeling the emptiness welling up in him again. Hungry again.

"Later," he promised.