(Author's Note: I realize this will be contradicted in a matter of hours, but I had to get it out! Thanks for indulging me.)
The hour was late, and Phryne Fisher was tired, disheveled, and hungry, but she kept her eyes fixed on the building down the block. A single lamp burned at the front of the building, and she watched intently for signs of movement towards the back, those places where secret, clandestine actions always took place. But for once, she hoped she wouldn't see a glimmer of light in that back corner, before it plunged back into darkness. She didn't quite know how she would bear that.
Two weeks ago, this might have been a stakeout on a band of smugglers, or thieves, or villains of any other variety in the buildings along the wharf. But tonight, she was parked along a quiet residential street in Richmond, and her target seemed somehow more elusive than any she'd ever encountered. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.
She'd known where Jack lived for some months now. It hadn't been too difficult to deduce from a few conversations with Jack's colleagues, and speaking with them had made her appreciate the Inspector's keen intelligence all the more. Well aware that she often treated his office as her own, she had clung the quaint notion that someday, she might enter his living space at his own invitation. And yet, that invitation had never come.
She'd hoped it wasn't because he was ashamed – the bungalow was far from the size of her St. Kilda home, but it was neat and well-kept. Perhaps sometime, when she amassed the courage, she would take him to the squalid little street of her childhood, and then he'd understand. After all this time back in Melbourne, she still hadn't dared return. She'd looked down the barrels of more guns that she could count, but somehow, it was still the memory of sweet Janey that threated to put a bullet in her.
No, Jack had never asked her into that stronghold, not even as colleagues and friends. The omission would be easier to accept, if it weren't for the knowledge that another woman was likely there tonight.
She'd been crouched on the ground, attending to a cut on Hugh's face, when Jack and Concetta had left in the aftermath of the shootout between the two families. She'd seen him remove his overcoat and drape it over the shivering woman's shoulders, anchoring it in place with his large hands as he escorted her to his police motorcar. A few quick words spoken to another officer, and then he – they – were gone.
She'd stopped by the station later to offer assistance, only to be told by a red-faced Hugh that the Inspector was not in, and the Concetta has been taken to "a safe place", in the case of any immediate retaliation.
Phryne let out a sigh, even as she squinted towards the bungalow. She had to give Concetta credit for the excellent deployment of feminine charms – the woman knew how to use her languid voice and soft curves to every possible advantage. It had been an unpleasant shock earlier in the week to see Jack lean in as she kissed his cheek, his eyes fluttering shut as he openly welcomed Concetta's touch. Phryne had somehow made the assumption – wrongly, she now knew – that Jack had the willpower of a saint. Now she faced the demoralizing prospect that perhaps Jack had just found it easy to resist her.
She supposed she couldn't blame him if he'd prefer a soft voice and soothing arms. He's been pummeled by war, divorce, and life itself, and deserved some quiet and comfort. Perhaps she was – as Mac, Raymond, and most of her closest friends often laughed – too much trouble.
Phryne raised her chin defiantly. Well, if Jack could be convinced to make do with just soothing arms, she could and would provide those in abundance. At the moment she wanted nothing more than to run her fingers down his careworn face, caress his tired limbs, and press slow, warm kisses across every other part of him. Her chin quivered a little. It only remained to convince him of that, but for once, The Honorable Phryne Fisher was completely unsure of her chances.
A safe place, Hugh had blushingly said. Phryne wanted to wail at the irony. Now that she fully understood that there was no safer place she could be than at Jack's side or in his arms, those arms were likely around someone else.
Unable to stay in the confines of the Hispano-Suiza any longer, Phryne left the vehicle and moved towards Jack's home. If there was no hope, she would accept that, but she would make Jack tell her first. Trying to step quietly, she climbed the few steps and with a deep breath, rapped softly on the door.
The door opened sooner than Phryne anticipated, and her words stilled on her lips. Jack stood before her, his handsome face impassive in the low light. Shirtsleeves, two buttons loosened. He leaned on one arm against the doorframe, keeping the door open only as much as was necessary. His hair was loosened, the thick curls starting to show, and Phryne found herself fiercely hoping that it was his own doing, with no womanly involvement. She tilted her head slightly, trying to subtly ascertain another presence inside.
"Your car's engine is absurdly loud," Jack said, no emotion in his gravelly voice. "I heard you arrive forty minutes ago. I half-expected to find you coming in through the window by now."
Making no move to open the door further, Jack looked at her directly, challenging her to give some excuse for her presence on his porch. Phryne knew how she must look after the melee – makeup smudged, torn knee in her trousers – but she willed herself to return his gaze.
"Is it too late?" she finally whispered, her eyes wide and imploring. The words seemed to dissipate into the darkness as several long, silent seconds passed.
At last, Jack spoke.
"Never."
Reaching out, he took her delicate hand in his strong fingers and pulled her inside. Phryne gasped at the gesture – surprise, fear, and anticipation all intermingling into one sensation. Jack's last remaining fortress, breached at last.
Silently, Jack reached over her shoulder to shut the door. His eyes raked over her intently – searching, she thought, for the reassurance that this was not a passing whim or fancy. Phryne tried with all her might to let her eyes tell him all the words that her mouth could not yet form. His face could have been cut of stone, but Phryne could guess at the tumult of emotion beneath. Moments passed, each of their breaths growing more ragged as their bodies moved fractionally closer.
Finally, Jack seemed to find all the knowledge he needed, and his hands spread across her neck and into her hair with deliberation as he bent to kiss her. Phryne moaned softly at the touch. His lips were soft and yet so strong, so much like the man himself. She took a step backwards to the door, pulling at his arms to bring him to her. She craved the firm press of his body against hers, the solid reminder of Jack, her constant support against ghosts and gunmen alike.
Why had she waited so long to feel his glorious hands travel across her body, Phryne vaguely wondered, as passion overtook them. She marveled at the fit of their mouths, the alignment of their bodies, all somehow meant to be. Jack's tongue slid hotly between her lips, and she happily responded in kind. Sweet, wonderful, Jack – his heart not given away after all! Her eyes opened hazily as he moved to spread kisses down her throat, and it was then, she saw – two teacups, resting together on a small side table.
Phryne's voice caught in her throat, even while Jack's hands pressed heavily up the sides of her body. Heavens knew, she had no right to ask. She remembered her own annoyance at his comments on her liaisons. But…but… Finally, her incurably inquisitive nature won out.
"Was- was Concetta here?" she mumbled, still clutching Jack's shoulders.
Jack paused in his attentions to her neck. "Yes," he answered dispassionately, before taking her earlobe between his lips and sending shivers down to her toes.
"Why?" The question sounded deplorably needy, but Phryne was overwhelmed with the need to know.
Jack pushed aside the neckline of her blouse, to deliver an open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder. "She gave me her statement, and I gave her a cup of tea."
"Oh," Phryne breathed, her head slightly lolling to the side. Jack was wickedly talented with his mouth, it would seem, and she was beginning to feel a little giddy at the possibilities.
But suddenly, her eyes shot open. "Jack, you're not – you're not speaking euphemistically, are you?"
At that, Jack finally broke. His low chuckle against the hollow under her ear sent currents of electricity sparking through her, before he raised his head and looked her in the eye.
"Why, Phryne, would you like a "cup of tea"?" he smirked.
Smiling widely, Phryne took Jack's face in her hands and pressed her lips fervently to his. "Yes, Jack," she breathed against his mouth between kisses. "Yes, darling – I very much would."