'Here's one I made earlier' but someone else had written on the same subject so I never got round to uploading it. It's my very favourite scene.

When it dawned on him that he had just read the same page of the book for the fourth time, Richard Poole gave up. It was no use – he simply could not concentrate. However hard he tried he could not keep his eyes from straying to the recumbent form of Camille, lying just a foot or so away from him. That would have been distraction enough in itself, without the conversation they had just had.

What on earth had possessed him? He never talked about personal matters. They were private, not to be shared with anyone, let alone the beautiful woman who, to his considerable consternation, persisted in laughing and dancing her way through his dreams. But under her gentle and sympathetic probing his normal defences had simply crumbled and he had found himself talking about his relationship with his father, of all things.

He had confessed to being something of a loner when growing up, hence his obsession with things he could do on his own, like solving puzzles. But, she had pointed out, he didn't need to be on his own any more, because "you have me". What on earth had she meant by that? Was she just referring to the fact that in investigations they worked together as partners, that he had the support of a team behind him now? Or did she mean something quite different? He shivered at the thought.

For the hundredth time he cursed his lack of people skills, his inability to read what others were really thinking. Particularly when the others were female. And most specifically when they were one particular female. He never knew what she was thinking. That her mind worked in a completely different way to his was blindingly obvious. But whereas she seemed to have a pretty good insight into him, he was completely lacking in the intuitive qualities which would have helped him to make sense of their recent conversation.

They had smiled together over Richard's account of his father's disappointment in him, yet he suspected she was well aware how much it hurt – well though he hid it – not to have lived up to his family's expectations. He had stumbled an apology … for what exactly? For being inarticulate with his emotions? For boring her with family matters? For all the little character traits that so annoyed her? For not being 'human' more often?

"I quite like it" she had said with the sweetest of smiles and then turned her back and settled down in the nest of cushions and blankets that she had created for them, the only part of her still on view being a mass of curls lying darkly against the lavender of her top. "I quite like it." What was that supposed to mean? He wished he could stop himself from over-analysing every word that she spoke, but his detective's brain simply would not let it alone. He was like a dog worrying at a bone.

She had said that she liked it when he was 'human'. By that, he supposed she meant that she wanted him to talk more about personal matters, about his feelings and emotions. But that was something that he had never done, not with anyone. How was he to start? And did he even want to? Being 'human' was all very well but it brought its own potential dangers. Horrible memories of the mockery he had suffered when he was younger re-surfaced. He certainly didn't want to expose himself to that particular trauma again. She would probably be kind and reassuring, but there was no guarantee of that, and he didn't think he would be able to go on working with her if she laughed at him.

He sighed and shifted his position. Outside the wind was howling and he could feel the windows of the university building rattling with the force of the gusts. Camille had been right of course – they should not have ventured out in the middle of a hurricane. But he was glad they had. He could not imagine any other situation where he could have felt so close to her, where they would have had so personal a conversation.

Camille's breathing altered and he realised that she had finally fallen asleep. He watched her for a while, then lay down himself, covering himself with his jacket. With all the thoughts racing round in his head he very much doubted that sleep would come to him that night.

The wind grew stronger and Richard was quite relieved not to be spending the night in his wooden shack, isolated and exposed to the elements. He lay, willing himself to drop off, but sleep was determined to elude him. He was finally roused from his silent contemplation of the stationary ceiling fan by a tremendous crash. Camille shrieked and sat up, desperately clutching his arm.

"What was that?" she whispered, her voice clearly shaking.

"Erm … I'm not sure."

There was another deafening crash as the wind hurled something substantial at the door of the building. Camille clutched his arm even more tightly and buried her face in his shoulder.

"The door is going to give way."

"No, I'm sure it isn't. It's quite secure – we put the bar across, remember? I think it might be the dustbin that's banging around out there. We should have brought it inside."

She showed no sign of letting go of him, so he studied her curiously. This was a woman who examined grisly murder scenes without flinching and had faced life-threatening danger on more than one occasion, and yet she was clearly terrified by what he classified as nothing worse than a very bad storm. It was odd and not what he expected of Camille.

"Are you OK?" he asked tentatively after a little while, "only you seem a bit … you know … upset."

She sniffed defiantly. "I hate hurricanes. I had a bad experience when I was a little girl."

"Oh?" He thought of his father's potting shed.

"It was just after my father left. My mother and I lived in a little house, close to the beach. Then one night there was a hurricane. We knew it was coming of course but no-one expected it to be as bad as it was. It took the roof off the house. Maman and I were cowering on the ground floor and suddenly there was a huge bang and the waves crashed through the door and we were swept out. I've never been so frightened in my life, I thought we were going to die, but maman had tied us together and she managed to grab hold of a tree, and we just hung on and hung on until we were rescued. But I'm still scared every time a hurricane is forecast."

"Gosh, yes, I'm sorry" he muttered inanely, wishing he could think of something suitably comforting to say. "Well, I don't think this is much of a hurricane, actually. It's not as bad as Hurricane Fish back in 1987 for a start."

"Tell me about Hurricane Fish?"

"Well, er … it wasn't forecast. In fact the Met Office definitely said there was no chance of a hurricane. But they were wrong. It hit the south and east of the country mainly."

"And did the roof of your house blow off?"

"Um … well … no, not exactly, though my dad did lose part of his potting shed, as I told you. But 15 million trees were uprooted around the country and there was a lot of damage."

"You must have been scared."

He was tempted, but honesty got the better of him. "Well, actually, I … er … well, I slept right through it. I got up the next morning, it was dark so I just thought there was a power cut. Then I went into the lounge of my house to find a fallen tree blocking the window. I got the car out – I had a meeting to go to – turned the corner and found another tree across the road. In fact, nearly all the roads out of Croydon were blocked by trees. In the end the only way out was down the main road to the motorway, and I had to slalom from side to side to drive round all the trees that had fallen. It was utter mayhem."

"But at least no-one was hurt?"

"Oh yes, there were about 20 people killed, I think. So you see, I do know about hurricanes!"

She smiled weakly. "Well, I wish this one would hurry up and pass." He patted her hand a little awkwardly. It was still holding his left arm in a vice-like grip. "Do you think … perhaps …?" he began.

Camille was overcome with embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise what I was doing." She released his arm somewhat reluctantly. Truth to tell, she had felt safe holding on to him. It was as if she knew that he would never let anything bad happen to her.

He waved his arm vaguely in the direction of her shoulders. "Would it help …?" he offered diffidently. It would. She leant her head against his shoulder and he slid his arm protectively round her. Camille began to relax and braced herself by slipping her own arm round his waist. It was so strange, this relationship that she had with Richard. He drove her mad continually, but she knew that if he were to go out of her life a yawning chasm would open. She was certainly very fond of him but she wasn't quite sure yet how much a part of her life she wanted him to be. But in the meantime she found him endlessly fascinating, and – when the opportunity presented itself - delighted in peeling back the protective layers and peeping at what lay beneath. By and large, she liked what she saw.

She sneaked a glance at him and saw that he was staring rigidly ahead. Time for a little more probing, she thought.

"So you've told me about your dad, Richard. What about your mother? Is she like you?"

He considered for a while. "Well, perhaps more than my dad, but not particularly. She's the old-fashioned, quiet type. You know, thinks a woman's place is at home, looking after her husband and children. Not that there's anything wrong in that, but I'm afraid mum has become a bit of a doormat. I don't think I've ever really heard her express an opinion about anything other than the Royal Family. She's a big fan of the Queen, you know … and the Queen Mother when she was alive. She still thinks I'm her little boy. When I was at school she used to write me letters saying … you know … make sure you wrap up warm and change your socks regularly. She still does exactly the same thing, only now it's by phone not letter."

"I should have thought the last thing you need to be told when you live in the Caribbean is to wrap up warm!"

He smiled the rare lopsided smile that she had come to cherish. "Dear old mum, she really hasn't a clue. All she really wanted was for me to find a nice girl, get married and have children. So you see, I've disappointed both my parents."

"Oh I'm sure you haven't and anyway there's still time. You're not that old."

He grimaced. "Well maybe not, but I think it's highly unlikely. After all, I'm not exactly God's gift to womankind, am I?"

"You do yourself an injustice, Richard. There's nothing wrong with you, you just need to relax a little more. You're a really nice and decent man underneath it all, but you don't let it show often enough. And when you smile you're a completely different person. It's just a shame that you do it so rarely."

"What does it actually mean, to relax? I've never really known. Like liming – I've never got the hang of that either."

"Well you could start by ditching the suit and tie. It's quite unsuitable for the climate. It doesn't mean you have to start wearing lurid T-shirts, but something lighter – in linen, perhaps."

"But I need the suit to establish my authority."

"No you don't, you have a natural authority. I think you need the suit as part of your defence mechanism."

"So you're a psychologist now?"

"No, but I've got eyes and I'm not stupid. It's quite clear to me that you had an unhappy time at school because you weren't like the other boys and my guess is that you never told your parents about it but bottled it all up until it became a habit that you now can't break. And then you built some high walls to retreat behind because you thought that if you didn't let anyone get close you wouldn't get hurt again." She paused and looked at him quizzically. "Am I close?"

He was dumbfounded. How on earth had she guessed all that? It was so close to the truth that he felt deeply uncomfortable and was at a total loss for how to reply.

"Well?" Her voice was gentle but insistent.

How could he have told his parents that he was miserable - they had been so proud of him when he won the scholarship. He had never really thought about it but he supposed she was right: that was how it had all started, how he had developed the deep reserve in which he had existed for so many years and which he allowed no-one, no-one, to penetrate.

"Um … well … I suppose … that is …" Long before he got to the end of his tangled utterance, she laughed and patted his arm.

"I'll take that as a yes, then. But you know, Richard, you're missing such a lot, stuck behind your high walls. Life is for living. If you don't take the occasional risk, peer over the parapet, you have no idea of what might be waiting for you. Talk to people, socialise a little more."

"But I'm no good at socialising. I never know what to say and when I do say something it's always wrong and I end up upsetting or offending someone. Well, you know what I'm like."

"Yes, and I'm no good at playing the piano despite the endless lessons maman made me take. But that isn't because I have no aptitude, it's because I would never practise. If you never try, Richard, you'll never get any better."

He grunted neutrally. He knew she was right but inside the old fear was rising once more to the surface.

"I don't want to make a fool of myself, Camille. I've had enough of being mocked to last a lifetime. Even you, you're always laughing at me."

"No, Richard, I don't laugh at you. I tease you. There's a world of difference. I guess you've not had much experience of teasing. Mockery is unkind, but teasing stems from affection. There, now I've embarrassed you again, haven't I?"

Richard sat in rapt contemplation of his feet. He really felt most peculiar. His heart was racing and his stomach appeared to be turning somersaults. His brain was frantically analysing what she had said, desperately trying to understand the implications. Could she mean …? No, surely not, that was extremely unlikely. It was no good – she was a puzzle that he simply could not solve.

"Um … yes" he said finally. "I'm sorry, I'm just no good at talking about these things." She sighed with resignation. "Though it's been great … fantastic … " he added quickly, sensing her obvious disappointment.

She smiled. "Yes it has. Perhaps that's enough for one day, anyway." She removed herself from his arm which was still draped protectively around her shoulder. He felt strangely bereft as she moved away from him and his eyes followed her movements intently.

"Well … er… I think while we have been talking the wind has dropped a little. My guess is the worst of the storm has passed. Perhaps we should try to … you know … get a little sleep now?"

She nodded and once more snuggled down into the cocoon of blankets and cushions.

"Good night, Richard."

"Good night, Camille."

He watched her until she drifted back into sleep, then lay back down himself, thoughts and emotions swirling in his brain like a maelstrom. He was convinced that he would not sleep, but the next thing he knew was Dwayne's deep voice, with a decidedly sarcastic tone to it.

"Morning!"

He opened his eyes in frozen horror. To be caught in such a compromising situation and by his junior officers to boot! A split second later he realised, with enormous relief, that at least he didn't have his arm round Camille and there was a good twelve inches between them. He sat bolt upright, his addled brain immediately taking charge of the situation. Richard Poole was left behind – DI Poole was back.

He stood up and exchanged a few pleasantries with Dwayne, who informed him that he had been right: the hurricane had missed them and it had been no more than a bad storm. At that point Camille stirred, still half-asleep.

"Mustn't tell anyone" she muttered. Richard hoped desperately that her comments were inaudible to anyone else, but one look at Dwayne's face told him otherwise. He groaned inwardly. He just knew Dwayne would automatically assume the worst. Overreacting wildly he tapped her on the hip to wake her up then seized the transmitters and dragged everyone out of the building, talking manically to avoid the questions he was sure were coming.

Mustn't tell anyone what, anyway? They had only been talking after all, hadn't they?

Note: Richard's experiences of 'Hurricane Fish' are my own: believe it or not I was living in Croydon in 1987 – and yes, I did sleep through it all!