DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Christmas Moonlight

by Joodiff

It's Christmas Eve, and she's in trouble. The kind of trouble that is very likely to culminate in a forceful, self-indulgent, but highly entertaining – for her – display of alpha male dominance on his part. Superbly masculine. As an intelligent and thoroughly independent woman, not to mention as a psychologist, Grace finds the possibility considerably more appealing than she suspects she really should. Then, Peter Boyd is an infuriating weakness she's had a long, long time to get used to. There's no doubt about it, she thinks with an inward smirk – she's very definitely in trouble. He is still brooding darkly to himself as they traverse the empty, unlit country lanes in pointed silence. Subtly, she glances sideways at him. Even in the gloom there's no mistaking the strong, distinctive profile. Nor, sadly, the tight, grim set of his jaw. Beautifully sullen. Suppressing an amused chuckle, Grace returns her gaze to the road ahead. They appear to be precisely in the middle of nowhere. Outside, the night is cold, but inside the car, the temperature is also glacial – despite the big Audi's highly efficient heating.

It's a foolish thing to do, of course, but at length she risks a provocative, "He's a fascinating man. Laurence, I mean."

More silence. Absolutely deafening in its intensity. Oh, yes – Grace is in trouble. A lot of trouble.

"Boyd," she says, pretending she somehow imagines he hasn't heard her, "I said – "

"I heard what you said," he growls back.

It's not really her fault that she enjoys teasing him quite as much as she does. He just riles up so magnificently, and it does things for her. Interesting things, both physical and emotional; things that not too long ago she'd grudgingly accepted belonged firmly to the past. Discovering otherwise is something of a continued delight. And is a very good reason to ignore the implied warning in his tone and body-language. Fiddling with the straps of her bag, she says, "I wonder if it's true he – "

"Grace," Boyd interrupts, "shut up."

She's not offended. Far from it – her immediate impulse is to laugh at his predictable irritation. Wisely, she just about manages to restrain herself. She's in hot enough water as it is without causing a major diplomatic incident that will sour Christmas. Still, she can't quite prevent a gleeful, "You're jealous."

The reply is curt. "No."

She smirks. "Oh, you are. Just because I said he's a very attractive man who's – "

"Enough," Boyd tells her, but although he sounds gruff and exceedingly bad-tempered, she can't sense any real hostility underlying the terse command. Affronted and bristling he may very well be, but they've known each other for a long time, and Grace knows exactly how he'll react to the wilful needling if she continues to push. There will be a brief but spectacular explosion of furious temper, and a lot of territorial male posturing before he deliberately allows himself to be placated. Infuriating him about their erstwhile host is just about dangerous enough to be exciting, but not quite dangerous enough to be, well, dangerous.

This time she simply can't stop herself laughing. She expects a baleful look in response; she even expects a stinging, sulky reprimand. She doesn't expect Boyd to abruptly stamp so hard on the brakes that the car fishtails on the unlit lane for a moment before the ABS takes a firm hand in the proceedings. The car nose-dives and comes to a screeching stop just yards later. Grace gives him a meaningful look, but he is staring straight ahead. It's hard to tell what thoughts are going through his mind; he's not easy to read at the best of times, let alone in the dark. She's about to speak when he puts the Audi into reverse and floors the accelerator with the same force he used on the brake pedal. Obligingly, the powerful car hurls itself ferociously backwards. Boyd doesn't look over his shoulder, but Grace can see his gaze is intently focused on the rear-view mirror.

The aggressive reversing doesn't last long; left-hand hard down on the steering wheel, and suddenly the car is bumping backwards off the lane into what appears to be a field entrance in the hedge, complete with a five-bar gate. The moment they are stationary, Boyd flicks the car headlights off, kills the engine, and suddenly everything is very dark and quiet.

"I think," he says, and the very fact that his deep voice is now quiet and silky-smooth only reinforces her impression that she's in a lot of trouble, "that we should have a little chat about you, and your friend Campbell."

Not even slightly intimidated, Grace says, "He's not my friend. You accepted the invitation to his party."

"Only under considerable duress."

"I thought you liked him?"

Boyd turns his head slowly, and given that her eyes have adjusted a little to the dark, Grace can easily read his expression. A mix of petulant irritation, and something else; something that sends a tiny, exciting jolt straight through her. Something that is unashamedly proprietorial. His reply is a growl. "Nowhere near as much as you do, apparently."

Thoroughly delighted in an unworthy sort of way, she laughs again. "You really are jealous, aren't you?"

He is, and they both know it. But they both know, too, that he didn't claw his way up to the lofty rank of Detective Superintendent without mastering the art of misdirection. He doesn't bother to refute the accusation a second time, he merely counters with, "Why on earth would I be jealous because you spent the whole evening encouraging the scrawny little bastard to flirt with you?"

Momentarily wrong-footed, just as he obviously intends, Grace offers the inevitable denial. "I wasn't encouraging him."

Sounding sceptical, Boyd says, "I'm sorry?"

"Well, perhaps just a little," she grudgingly admits after a moment, hiding another smirk.

He glowers. "You're damn lucky I didn't punch his teeth down his throat."

Grace sighs, well and truly caught between amusement and exasperation. "Oh, come on, Boyd. It's just a game."

Dark eyes glint at her in the gloom. "Just a game, eh?"

His mood is shifting, irritation becoming something else altogether. Grace senses it instantly, feels an answering tug of illicit temptation. But this is hardly the best time or place to start thinking about…

Quickly and primly, she says, "Start the damned car, and let's get going, or we'll never get back to London."

Boyd doesn't move. He simply gazes at her steadily. "You enjoy tormenting me, don't you?"

"It's all your own fault," Grace tells him, choosing to view the question as entirely rhetorical. "If you weren't so incredibly easy to wind up…"

"I see," he says, and once again his voice is deep, smooth and soft. A dark caress that sends an unwitting tremor up and down her back. "Well of course it would be my fault. It's always my fault. You want to play games, do you, Grace? Really?"

Again, a shiver goes up and down her spine – much more forcefully this time. It seems she's achieved her objective. In fact, it seems she's unintentionally surpassed herself. The tension crackling between them in the confined space has become palpable, and its character has changed completely. Sharp, urgent, suddenly very dangerous. Grace feels it just as intensely as Boyd evidently does. Raw, elemental attraction; an incredibly powerful force. But only one of them is impulsive enough, reckless enough to immediately act on it, and that's what causes the frisson of excitement that momentarily catches hold of her. Under the thin veneer of middle class conformity Boyd is a fiery, volatile creature, much more unpredictable than she's ever been, or is ever likely to be… but it's not in her nature to run away from an implicit challenge.

Easily able to follow the sudden direction of his thoughts, she raises her eyebrows at him, says coolly, "In the car, Boyd? That's strictly for teenagers and cheating husbands."

He releases his seatbelt. "Oh, Grace, you disappoint me. Who said anything about in the car?"

She could gamble on it being a bluff, of course. He's very, very good at bluffing. Though she knows from long and bitter experience that when Boyd gets an idea in his head, it's extremely difficult to talk him out of whatever he's stubbornly made up his mind about. And tacitly daring him to do anything is always an extremely bad idea. It might be time for Grace to diplomatically back down. Before things get too out of hand. She can always up the ante again once they are safely back in London. A rather appealing idea, she finds.

It might be too late. The driver's door is open, and Boyd is out and slamming it closed again before Grace can say a single conciliatory word. A little amused, a little wary, she watches him prowl around the front of the car and head towards her. He probably is bluffing. Maybe.

Or not.

Despite the warmth of the night, the inrush of cold air that hits her as he opens the passenger door makes her shiver. Or perhaps it's not the winter chill at all. Looking up at him she wonders if he will actually attempt to bodily haul her out of the car if she obstinately refuses to move. Wonders if she'll put up more than token resistance if he does. He's so very bad for her. And he effortlessly makes her feel more alive than she has for years. Men like Campbell, wealthy and good-looking though he is, simply don't interest her. Never have, never will. She prefers her men a little wilder; it's the rough, the tough, and the wayward who appeal to her deep rebellious streak. If it's a flaw in her character, Grace doesn't care. Peter Boyd is not the first such man to catch her eye – though as she wanders relatively contentedly through the autumn years of her life, she accepts – even hopes – that he will be the last.

He knows it, too. Knows that she would pass on a dozen safe, complacent men like Campbell for one feral, dark-eyed charmer with a boyish grin, and a wicked sense of humour. Yet, still he is jealous.

"Well?" she asks him, intentionally confrontational.

Boyd leans against the car, suddenly nonchalant. "Get out of the car."

"Why?"

"Just get out of the car, Grace."

It puzzles her, the change in his mood. He's a capricious, contradictory man, but just moments ago she would have gambled serious money on him at least attempting some kind of extremely inappropriate misbehaviour – now, that seems increasingly unlikely. There's something odd about the way he's watching her, intense and intent, but unusually mellow, too, as if he has completely forgotten about Laurence Campbell.

She isn't really aware of unfastening her seatbelt as she says, "What are you up to, Boyd?"

"It's nearly midnight."

"So…?"

"So, it's almost Christmas. Get out of the car."

Grace does so, certain she's going to regret it. It's bitterly cold, possibly because the sky above them is so clear. Clear and dark, no clouds, no light pollution. The stars seem brighter than she's seen them for years, and the almost full moon turns the trees, hedges and fields into a strangely beautiful monochrome landscape. She jumps when he takes her hand, but she lets him draw her away from the car. She glances at him, then looks back at the moonlit view. "It's beautiful."

"Yes," Boyd agrees. He puts his arms around her, and she presses herself against him, grateful for his warmth. She doesn't know if she's surprised or not when he kisses her with a restrained gentleness that only minutes before would have seemed impossible. His voice isn't much above a murmur as he says, "Happy Christmas, Grace."

She looks up at him, fascinated by the way the moonlight turns his features into a striking study of light and shade. The shadows create improbable angles from his cheekbones and jaw, but it's his eyes that draw and hold her gaze. There's something to be read and understood there, Grace is sure, but she remains bemused, unable to follow his thoughts. Perhaps it doesn't matter. She offers him a small but genuine smile. "It really doesn't matter how many men there are in the room, it's only you that I see. There is only you. One day you'll finally believe that."

Nothing in Boyd's expression changes, but his voice is clear and steady. "Marry me."

For a moment Grace has a strange sense of being in complete freefall. Shocked, she simply stares at him.

"The ring's at home," he says, head fractionally tilted to one side. "I was going to ask you in the morning, but…"

"But…?" she echoes, surprised by how steady her voice is.

"But… I've always had a weakness for moonlight." He looks down at her. "Well? Traditionally, you're supposed to say 'yes' at this point."

"Ask me again."

He raises his eyebrows, but dutifully says, "Will you marry me, Grace?"

"Yes," she says. It might not be the most sensible thing she's ever done in her life, but she has a bit of a weakness for moonlight, too. And for him. She kisses him just to make quite sure. Yes, she decides, she definitely still has a bit of a weakness for him. It's never failed to lead her into trouble and temptation. She puts her arms round his neck. "Happy Christmas, Boyd."

- the end -