Jack Robinson closed his eyes, reminding himself to breathe. There sat Miss Phryne Fisher, uncomfortably close, her startlingly red lips cocked into a half-smile. Propped on the corner of his desk, she crossed her shapely legs under her white, pleated skirt as if nothing had happened.
"You need to take yourself home now, Miss Fisher, before I surrender to the urge to put you behind bars," he said through gritted teeth.
Phryne brushed the sleeve of her black and white floral-print jacket and rolled her eyes. "Now Jack, you cannot still be cross."
"You pointed a gun at an officer of the law!" he barked at her, but Phryne simply waved his comment away with the white gloves in her delicate hand.
"Nonsense, Jack, I pointed the gun at you," she tossed the gloves neatly into her lap, "and we both knew I wouldn't have shot you."
Jack raised his eyebrows. "Did we? I don't recall being privy to that piece of information."
"I don't want to have to shoot you, Jack," she said, standing above him with her golden pistol in hand. "But we just need a moment more to find the keys."
"Phryne, what in the hell are you doing?" Jack hissed, watching as she motioned to the burley, clod of a man known as Philip Carson, who stumbled to his feet and lumbered to the brick wall. His thick fingers felt along the crumbling mortar. Jack forced his gaze back to Phryne, trying to shut out the image of what those oversized hands had done with the woman standing before him.
Phryne's smoky eyes locked with Jack's. His expression offered her one final plea to give up her gun. One last chance to choose him.
Ever since that lummox Carson barreled past Mr. Butler and disrupted a very pleasant nightcap Jack was having with Miss Fisher, everything felt perched on a tipping point. The way Carson begged for help from "his little Phryne," Jack could see there had been something between them. Through the days that followed during the murder investigation of Carson's friend, Jack supposed he should have been relieved to find out Carson was just a former dalliance, one of the many flings she collected. But watching Carson smile at Phryne gave Jack a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He knew what was wrong. Ever since Jack mistakenly believed Phryne was dead in a motor car accident, he had resigned himself to the idea that he would lose her - either through her own recklessness or from boredom on her part. He allowed himself no illusions. It was the thrill of solving crimes that kept her close to him. When she tired of it, she would move on. And with her would exit the brightest light in his rather dreary existence.
Still Jack could not help looking for signs that what he and Phryne did together meant something more. That HE meant more to her than her frequent "distractions." But when all the evidence pointed to Carson as the killer, Jack got his sign. And it came in the form of the woman who meant more to him than anyone pointing her pistol right at him.
The hollow scrape of concrete let Jack know Carson had found his loose brick. He glanced over to see the man's dark features flood with relief. With meaty hands, Carson pulled a pair of keys from a hole chiseled into the bottom of the brick. The keys that proved his innocence.
"Well done, Phil," said Phryne. Jack felt his insides clench as a smile spread across her lips.
Now Phryne sat on the edge of Jack's desk as if she hadn't sided against him, as if she hadn't put herself in between Jack and a man wanted for murder.
She sighed. "Don't be so dramatic, Jack." Phryne reached out to brush an invisible speck from his blue, wool jacket. "A wronged man has been set free. A real murderer is behind bars, and justice is done." With her hand still at his shoulder, she leaned in until he could feel the whisper of her breath against his cheek. "Does it matter that a few laws were bent in the process?"
Jack's voice hitched in his throat. Did it matter? That wasn't the question he wanted to ask. He knew Phryne Fisher did not give one whit for the law. Did HE matter? Did he matter to her? Jack closed his eyes, but all he could envision was Carson barging in, begging her to help him. Telling Phryne how much he needed her. I need you. Oh, the irony that those were the exact words that lingered on Jack's lips the moment before Carson burst into the parlor. But it was Carson who said them. And Jack imagined countless others who had said them to Phryne before him.
Clearing his throat, Jack rose quickly from the chair. Startled only a moment, Phryne quickly recovered and leaned back on her hands. "Surely you can't believe there was any danger from me," she offered, with that slow smile that made his breath quicken.
Jack knew what she was doing, providing him a way to continue their witty repartee. He knew he should respond with something along the lines of I'm always in danger of you, Miss Fisher, but instead he sighed.
"No, Miss Fisher," he said quietly. Maneuvering around her silken-clad legs, he moved to his office door. "I know you would never intentionally cause danger to those for whom you care." Jack looked pointedly at Phryne. "So Philip Carson had no reason to worry."
A beautifully arched eyebrow rose in response to Jack's comment. Sliding gracefully from the desk, Phryne took the few steps to the door with purpose. "Jack Robinson, do you mean to tell me you think I care more for Phil than I do for..."
"To whom you throw you affections is your business, Miss Fisher," Jack interrupted sharply. He grasped the door handle. "What you do during a police murder investigation is mine." Turning the knob he began to pull open the office door. "I'll ask you not to come to the station again unless expressly invited by an officer here."
Phryne blocked the door from opening fully with the toe of her patent shoes. Jack's eyes shot to her, ready for fight. Instead, she simply observed Jack for a lingering moment. Tilting her perfectly bobbed head to the side, she told him, "I'll leave without a fuss, Jack."
"Will wonders never cease," he murmured. But then she slowly raised the hand that bore her gloves to his lips. The move was meant to silence him, but the smell of her perfume on the gloves wafted over him in an intoxicating wave. He swallowed heavily.
"I will go, if you will tell me the real reason you are angry with me," she said quietly. Lowering her hand, she looked at Jack. In her eyes, he saw no teasing, no flirting, just a need for truth.
Jack lowered his eyes. "Perhaps, Miss Fisher, I see a glimpse of my future in Mr. Carson. And I do not like what I see," he said, leaving the rest unspoken. Discarded, temporary, forgotten - all the things Jack dreaded when Phryne tired of him.
Phryne searched Jack's face. She moved a step closer to him and opened her beautifully curved lips, seeming to (uncharacteristically) choose her words carefully. But before she could speak, Jack used the opportunity of her movement to open the door further. Several startled officers, including Collins, jumped back from the opening door and launched into flurried action. Jack rolled his eyes.
Turning to Phryne, he reclaimed his professional tone. "I have answered your question, Miss Fisher. Now I trust you will keep your word." Jack motioned to the open door.
Phryne pondered for a moment before a defiant gleam settled in her eyes. Placing her black hat delicately on her head, she threw him a smile that belonged firmly on a Cheshire cat. "I'll go, Jack, but this conversation is far from over," her words bore a steady promise.
Jack met her gaze for moment before his eyes reverted to the ground. He watched as her black heels moved swiftly through the door. With a slightly shaking hand, he eased the door closed.