Just managed to get this first chapter posted before I go on holiday to Cornwall tomorrow!

Present Imperfect won't be anywhere near as long as Art For Art's Sake and although I don't really know where I'm going with it yet, I can confirm that they will definitely 'get it together' in this one and sooner rather than later which I'm sure will be a relief to all concerned.

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed AFAS. I really, really appreciate your feedback and hope you'll continue here.

Chapter 1

She hadn't said a word.

Lunch with her best friend had been lovely as always, especially as it had been so long since they'd last got together, almost a month in fact and although she felt horribly guilty for keeping secrets, she just wasn't ready.

He'd come up in conversation of course. Angela had been privy to the undercover role in Cornwall and even assisted with the practicalities of handling the fake pregnancy vest in the run-up. She'd known the set up at the cottage and also thought she knew the mild animosity Harry harboured for her partner.

As she strolled happily to Covent Garden tube station, she wondered if Angela suspected something had changed between her and Dempsey. She had been fully aware that her usual jibes and moans relating to him had been lacking from their chatter and the one or two derogatory comments she had come up with had been glazed with fondness. Funny how hard it was to voice someone's faults when you were in love with them.

That last thought reverberated rather shockingly around her head for the next few steps. How on earth had she managed to let something like that happen? At one time, she had borne an active dislike of him. Everything about him had seemed wrong, at least in her eyes. Too loud; too crass, too opinionated and definitely too American. But all of those things were simply part and parcel of what attracted her to him now.

The last three weeks or so had been pure madness in that respect. She had found herself constantly reining in her feelings for him. Despite everything, she still had a fear that maybe those feelings weren't being reciprocated in quite the same way. She had no reason whatsoever to doubt him, it was just that, ironically, knowing him largely as her colleague over the last three years she had been aware of his brand of 'gameplay' when it came to setting his sights on a woman. He could be quite calculating, employing a strategy when snaring his latest sex interest and the idea that he might be working to any kind of plan with her too made her go cold all over. When she was with him there wasn't an issue; she never doubted him for a moment but just very occasionally, when she was alone and missing him (quite ridiculous when they hardly ever went 24 hours without seeing each other), there was sometimes that twinge of uncertainly.

They had agreed there was no point in making their relationship public knowledge. For one thing, the SI-10 team would doubtless beleaguer them with irksome mockery and for another, there was the very real danger of receiving Spikings' disapproval. They had discussed it and had counted at least one half of the million reasons they suspected their boss would come up with for not breaking the boundaries of their working partnership.

There was also the personal side. Being what might be viewed as a rather unlikely couple, there would be a few raised eyebrows no doubt. It made sense to get used to the idea themselves first, to give themselves time together to see if they stood a chance of working out before they went spreading the news. Dempsey had joked that she'd drawn the short straw as far as suitability went. He on the other hand would be seen as one lucky son-of-a-bitch. He'd also tentatively suggested that her family may take a dim view of her choice of boyfriend which had rather pleased Harry because it implied that for one thing, he cared what they thought and for another, he was planning on involving himself with her family.

There was that 'end of Summer' feel in the air as she negotiated her way down the busy street, side stepping a fellow pedestrian headed in the opposite direction who clearly had no intention of moving herself. Having narrowly avoided a shoulder barging, Harry took stock of what now lay ahead as she carried on. Coming up on the left, sitting in an unused and dilapidated doorway was a down and out type, at least, that was her first impression but as her curious gaze took in the finer detail, she realised his shabby attire was actually of extremely high quality. Both the trousers and shirt were of an excellent cut though grubby and worn and his rather battered tan leather shoes were, if she wasn't very much mistaken, made by Loake. This man was no junkie or wino, just somebody fallen on awfully hard times.

But in the few moments it took to process this information, her eyes had travelled upwards and it was with complete shock that she registered the man's face. As their eyes met, she was literally only two feet away.

"Hello!"

It was an automatic response to meeting someone she knew but further words dried on her tongue.

His sandy blonde hair, always so well cut and tidy before had grown straggly and unkempt, falling to below his ears and his lower face was obscured by the dark blond beard which could easily be a week's growth.

"Hello," he mumbled back, barely able to keep eye contact.

Harry could see it was painfully embarrassing for him and she felt some of that embarrassment too. How on earth had it come to this?

"How are you?"

She mentally kicked herself. What a stupid question. She could see perfectly well how he was.

"As you can see, I've been better."

He managed an apologetic sort of smile.

"Sorry, yes. Obviously," she stumbled.

There was an awkward moment of silence before Harry just dived in with the all-encompassing question, "What happened?"

He cleared his throat, a very specific sound and she instantly recalled the familiarity of it.

"It's a long story as they say."

"I'm quite sure it must be!"

But this was getting more uncomfortable by the second, he sitting on the pavement and she looking down at him.

"Look, shall we go and get a coffee somewhere…?"

'and you can fill me in… we can have a chat… you can tell me all about it'

All of these little stock phrases would just sound so trite and vastly inappropriate in the face of his situation.

Again, the small, embarrassed cough as he searched for a suitable response.

"I have to meet someone shortly… fifteen minutes… otherwise…" He petered out, no further explanation necessary, especially as to Harry's mind it was simply an excuse. "Thanks anyway."

"Okay, another time."

A thought suddenly struck her and she shoved her hand into her shoulder bag, clumsily fishing around inside. "I've got a card somewhere."

At last she came up with her purse and extracted one of her cards, the one she gave to tradesmen and other such acquaintances. It bore her name, home address and telephone number. She also slipped a twenty pound note out and surreptitiously folded it in two, placing it behind the card and handing them both over. For one terrible moment she thought she'd see her hand shaking, but no, miraculously she realised, she probably appeared quite calm to him. One of the benefits of having that 'ice queen' facade Dempsey liked to joke about.

"That's my home number. If I'm not in, leave me a message on the answer machine, okay? I'd be great to catch up." She grimaced – another one of those horrid little phrases. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

Alright so it had been something of a relief when he'd declined the offer of coffee. Seeing him like this had been a shock, one she was having a hard time getting her head around.

He nodded. "Thanks," he answered quietly, seeing the twenty pounds. "You're very kind."

"I don't think it's really a question of kindness," Harry said, concern deepening her voice. She adjusted the strap of her handbag on her shoulder as she prepared to leave. "You will call, won't you? I'd like to help if I can," she added, hoping that didn't sound too condescending.

"You always were the caring one, Harriet," he smiled gratefully.

He watched her walk away, his head and heart a tumultuous mix of emotions. He so desperately needed someone normal to talk to, someone who knew him and understood him, a friendly ear and a kind word or two of sympathy and comfort. But then, at the same time, it was those very requirements that would bring with them the burden of shame, highlighting the depths to which he had sunk. No, he'd done the right thing in not reaching out to her, after all, what could she possibly do to get him out of this mess that wouldn't result in huge disruption to her own life?

He looked at his watch, a cheap, digital thing he'd bought several weeks ago after he'd pawned his Ernest Borel in order to pay for B&B accommodation. A couple of hundred he'd got for it. Ridiculous! But he really hadn't had a lot of choice, had he?

He should be making tracks. The café was only across the road but he couldn't risk being late.

Reaching behind him, he dragged forward the backpack and unzipped one side. Carefully, he tucked the card and the bank note into a small internal mesh pocket and re-zipped it.

"Good afternoon, Mister Makepeace, sir."

His heart sank as he recognised the voice and looked up to be met with the sneering grin of 'Kitch' who was at that moment executing a deep, mocking bow.

"Hello, Kitch," he said evenly, "I thought we were supposed to be meeting in the café."

"You're quite right, Mister Makepeace, sir, we was but I was a bit early and when I seen yer talkin' to that dolly bird, I got a bit interested like." He gave him a knowing look. "What she give yer then, 'sides a stiffy that is?" The leering wink added to those cheap, disrespectful words brought up a wave of disgust that was difficult to quell. But he kept his expression neutral, not wanting to give him any ammunition.

"That's my business," he told him bravely.

"Come on now, Mister Makepeace, sir. You know it don't work like that. What you got?"

He shuffled a bit closer, jamming his hands into his pockets and looming over him with a casually menacing air. He was probably only a year or two younger but he dressed like a teenager in his bright blue tracksuit bottoms and pastel yellow and green polo shirt. His Adidas trainers had seen better days, probably because it was the only footwear he seemed to possess.

Makepeace was now faced with a dilemma; hand over the money or give him the business card. That cash would be more than enough to feed him for a week but could he in all conscience offer up Harriet's personal details to this moronic thug?

Kitch was still smiling but he wouldn't be for much longer if he failed to come up with the goods.

He made his decision and took out the twenty pound note. The forlorn hopes that Kitch might let him keep it were dashed when the money was plucked swiftly from his fingers.

"Right then, Mister Makepeace, sir, let's forget the caff shall we? Looks like the drinks are on me. An' then I want to 'ear exactly 'ow that conversation went. Nobody drops a score without a bloody good reason so unless you've come up with the world's greatest sob story, it's my guess you know that bit o' skirt quite well."