"Camille, would you like to dance?"
The feeling of a question hung in the air as the stage band loudly droned on, and Camille leaned across the table, "What was that, sir?"
Poole glanced at her briefly, and then stoically fixed his gaze on the cup of tea he held firmly in both hands. This time he nearly yelled: "Dance. Would you like to dance?"
A smile lit across her face, "Why, Richard, what's this about?" her voice teasing, "You want to dance with an island girl? Experience a little of the island's passion?" She laced her hands together and propped her laughing face onto them.
He looked up from his teacup to glower, and tested his words slowly, "Yes. That's it. Precisely."
Camille's laughing eyes dropped into a steady gaze as she said, "Alright then." And, rising to her feet, "Let's go dance."
She led the way, not checking to see if he was coming.
"I've never been good at dancing," he said, tripping over his feet as he struggled to follow her through the weaving couples, and running into her as she stopped suddenly near the middle of the floor, under the low-burning lights.
Camille turned and buried her face against his chest and laughed, her shoulders shaking, and his hands instinctively wrapped against the small of her back, holding her close. Gingerly, he pressed his face in her hair and she twined her fingers in his. Then she began to sway her hips, pulling him with her.
They just approached something which almost resembled being in time when a distant spoken word froze them in place.
"Detective!"
Poole jerked towards Fidel's voice and Camille's lifted her head abruptly.
Fidel stood rigid, his eyes on the far wall, and his voice blank, "There's been a situation that requires—"
He was cut off by Dwayne's loud insistence, "Hey. Lovebirds. We got a new case."
Poole dropped his arms from Camille, and she stepped back, lightly grasping his hand. "C'mon, let's go," she said, rolling her eyes at Dwayne.
