So - this wouldn't leave me alone...especially when Heather wrote her lovely review to make a suggestion.

Hope you like it. AN at the end.

He was trying to kill her; was absolutely going to be the death of her.

Since his arrival on St Marie over two years ago, he had challenged her and aggravated her. He had infuriated her, and had managed to constantly surprise her.

He frustrated her in all sorts of different but equally uncomfortable ways and it was becoming unbearable. It was wearing her down.

She wondered what her friends in Paris would make of him. A white, almost middle-aged Englishman who didn't really make the best of his receding hairline and who insisted on wearing a suit, long-sleeved shirt and tie to work each day in 100 degree heat. A man who would silence his team with a glare and expect utter focus, with very little down time. Who would rant about the weather, or the lack of fresh milk in the paradise they all lived in, and lament about his home country on a daily basis.

She suspected she knew what their initial opinion of him would be. A year ago she would have agreed with them. A week ago she would have contradicted them. She would have told them of the shyness and lack of social skills that hid his true nature. She would have told of his ability to create and nurture and manage the successful team they had become. She would have decorated her explanation with examples of his kindness to victims and to his friends, examples of his problem solving in difficult cases, and his resolve to mark each one down as a team effort, refusing to push himself into the limelight. A week ago it would have been hard to hide how she had fallen for him, although he himself appeared for the most part to be totally oblivious.

And now? Now she had been shown a little slice of heaven. She had felt him move inside her, and hold her and caress her. She had experienced ecstasy at his hands and she didn't believe there was any way back for her. She wanted him all the time. In places and at times which were wholly inappropriate and downright unprofessional, but she couldn't help it.

He would smile nervously at her as he climbed into the passenger side of the Defender on a morning, or fiddle with his damn tie in the middle of a difficult interview with a suspect and she would be squirming in her seat. A heat rising in her cheeks, and in additional places she shouldn't be thinking about.

It had been made a whole lot worse by the distinct lack of communication since that unforgettable hour in the office a week ago.

Soon; too soon afterward, the phone had begun to ring insistently; a body had been found, brought up in a fishing trawlers net less than a mile off the coast. With little forensic information to go on, the difficult case had quite rightly taken priority over their indefinable relationship, and had occupied their time since.

He had, it was true, stayed for drinks at her mothers a few nights in a row, which was a departure from his usual routine during a case. And the beautiful shy smiles, which he was gracing her with each morning when she picked him up, suggested he didn't totally regret what had happened but it wasn't enough.

Not nearly enough.

Camille would like to pretend that her primary desire was for them to sit down together and talk, just the two of them. Before last week, she would fondly imagine either Richard asking her out on a date. A nice restaurant somewhere out of town and away from prying eyes. Or her wandering down the beach one twilight after work to share a beer, look at the stars and perhaps end the evening by acknowledging something of their feelings for one another, getting to know one another in a new light. But whereas this was truly important to her; after all, she knew how she felt about him and was confident on the type of man he was that he simply would not have allowed what happened to happen if he did not have some sort of feeling for her. Whereas this was important to her, what she categorically wanted now was more of him. In any or a hundred of the different scenarios she had created in her head.

In clothes or out of them, inside or outside in the humid air. At her flat or his shack. In the back of the defender, or even just up against it. Camille truly believed he was going to kill her.

She glanced across at him, sat hunched over the coroners report on his desk, his brow furrowed and hand massaging back and forth across his temple muttering to himself. He was close to a breakthrough she felt; having observed him enough times, followed him through enough cases to recognise the signs. The pieces were starting to come together. An hour ago, when she had handed him the test results on the shard of metal found embedded in the wound on the victims skull; most definitely not matching that of a boats propeller, she had almost seen the light bulb illuminate in his head.

He had ditched the jacket today, so at least he didn't look quite so uncomfortably hot, but it had had the disadvantage of focusing her attention onto his tie; a pale grey with soft yellow swirls on it. And surely he must know by now what affect his neckwear had upon her.

She hated that, unlike herself, he could apparently switch off all distractions whilst he worked; well she hoped the very least she could describe herself as was a distraction.

"Got it!...Bloody Hell!" Richard thumped his hands on the desk and looked across at his DS.

Camille appealed to him to continue with her eyes, hoping that her daydream of how to go about celebrating conclusions of cases in the future wasn't written too clearly across her forehead.

"Well…No, I can tell you on the way. Where are Dwayne and Fidel?"

"Interviewing potential witnesses up on the bluff." They had identified the most likely point of entry for the body into the water to be a popular spot around half an hour out of town, well known as a site for teenage trysts. It seemed like most things about this case were highlighting the lack of sex she was currently having.

"They need to be here, the Commissioner too. How long will it take to get everyone together?" He stood, stretching his back out.

Camille tapped her pen against her lips, and then sucked on it thoughtfully. "We could probably get everyone to the Hotel by the harbor by 6pm."

"Right. Ok, do that. Good." Richard turned away to pull photographs off the white board, adding them to the relevant reports atop his desk whilst Camille phoned the familiar numbers to arrange the meeting.

Five minutes later, he still had his back to her. Ostensibly absorbed.

"Sir."

"Hmm?" He replied but didn't turn around.

"Richard." Firmer this time.

"What is it Camille?" She watched him risk an apprehensive glance over his shoulder at her. Oh yes, he was trying to put off the inevitable. Discussing work was fine but moving forward personally now the case was all but solved?

"We have two hours." To talk she meant. She was certain she did but the words got stuck in her throat.

Richard spun round; eyes widening as he looked at her sat behind her desk. His gaze dropped to her lips, and then down further to trace the line of the strappy terracotta coloured top she was wearing today. Her stomach flipped and her nipples tingled, hardening beneath his stare.

Sod talking. She had to have him.

Clicking her fingers and pointing, she pushed herself into standing and moved across the office, heading for the empty cells.

"But…" Richard hesitated. He could hardly be in doubt of her meaning.

"In here. Now."

Reaching the bars, she turned, leaning back against the cool metal and watching his approach.

"Isn't this a bit open?"

Well he wasn't saying no then. Elation soared through her.

"More than your chair in the middle of the office?" She raised an eyebrow.

" Well, but how clean is it?" he prevaricated, stumbling slightly over the words as she altered her stance slightly, beckoning him.

"They clean it daily. Now shut up and kiss me." He had moved close enough that she could grab his shirt, and she pulled him to her, her lips eagerly meeting his.

Seizing the bars at either side of her head, Richard pressed himself hard against her, responding to her passion with surprising vigour. Maybe he had been more distracted by her than she gave him credit for, just clever at hiding it, was one of the more coherent thoughts that shot through her brain as she wound her hands around his waist then slipped them lower to pull his hips firmly against hers.

This wasn't going to last long. She felt permanently wet after the week spent longing for him. Camille groaned as he moved one hand to stroke her breast through the flimsy fabric of her top. Wrenching her mouth from his, she leant back as far as the bars would allow, trying to direct his lips to join in the exploration.

For a man usually so naïve with human emotions, he cottoned on quickly, brushing the top aside enough to lick and suck enthusiastically on the skin he had exposed.

Camille's legs felt weak, surely the only thing holding her up was Richards weight pinning her against the cylindrical bars and whatever the pounding of her heart was doing, it was certainly not directing much blood as far as her jelly like knees.

She tugged at his shirt, hands diving beneath to restlessly stroke the length of his back, digging sharp nails into his shoulder blade, not quite in protest, when he bit down on the nipple he had been lapping at. He retaliated, nipping at the underside of her breast, which released a torrent of noisy French nonsense before Richard hushed her with a hand across her mouth. The cells tended to transmit sound both through to the office on one side and out to the wider world via the small barred windows at the back of the building.

She relented. It wouldn't do to get caught now. She might die from the frustration.

As she released his shoulders, he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses up her throat and along her jawline to meet her lips once more, slowly lowering his hand to caress the sore tissue softly before continuing his path down her body.

Damn! Camille started as she remembered her choice of attire that day. Skimpy shorts that might very well suit her, were not designed to be removed in haste. And slowing the process down was definitely not part of her agenda.

Richard pulled his mouth from hers at the change in atmosphere, following the movement of her hands as she slipped them between their bodies to pluck hastily but ineffectually at the buttons of her shorts.

"Let me." His voice was roughened and low. He placed his hands over hers and gently moved them aside. The insistent pulsing in Camille's groin intensified.

She watched his fingers, fascinated. With excruciatingly slow purpose, he undid the buttons, one after another then dipped his hand into the space created.

"Jesus Camille." Her eyes shot back up to meet his as he discovered her heat and slick readiness, his pupils dilating.

"I want….I want…." he tailed off, seemingly unable to find the words.

"Yes." Camille hissed in reply, her own hands moving urgently to his belt as he tugged at her shorts and underwear until they fell to the floor and she kicked them aside.

"Beautiful." He stroked across her stomach once, twice, before pressing her back once more against the black metal bars, guiding a long lithe leg up around his thighs as he pushed up into her in one smooth firm thrust.

It was fast and furious and if Camille had had even the slightest moment of concern that it might not be, could not possibly be as wonderful a second time, she knew now how wrong she was. She reached the edge a few moments after Richard, had felt him swell impossibly within her, his final thrust and the sound of her name tumbling from his lips tipping her over into wave after wave of glorious release.

An indefinable amount of time later, heart rates and breathing slowly returning to normal, she felt Richard press a kiss to her sweat moistened brow, moving himself carefully away from her to dress.

Shimmying her shorts back up over her hips, she took a breath before giving him no option.

"We are going to talk."

"I know." He smiled the half smile she now thought of as especially for her, and her heart clenched.

"So, we sort out this case. Send Dwayne and Fidel to fill in the paperwork and then we meet back at yours to discuss what is happening. What keeps happening?"

"Maybe not."

Camille's eyes widened. "What? Why? Richard we…." Richard raised both hands to calm her rising tone.

"I mean. Maybe not at my house."

Her shoulders dropped, tension dissipating again. "Why not?"

"Well….," he was hesitant, "…..we might not get much talking done," he finished shyly.

Heat rose to Camille's cheeks and her mouth curved up into a large smile. She couldn't help it. She was used to men finding her attractive. But this man. This felt different.

"Ok. Fine. Then we go out. You choose the location. Not my mothers."

"No," he chuckled, "not your mothers."

She watched as he finished tucking his shirt in, reaching forward to straighten his tie for him.

"So….."

"So…..," he broke off as the phone began to ring out in the office.

"Don't answer it."

"Camille, I have to. What if it's…."

"No. No new cases. We finish this one and then are off duty for the night."

He looked at her steadily as the phone continued to ring.

He was trying to kill her; was absolutely going to be the death of her.

Please review! When I started writing this, they were going to have their tryst on the bunk Camille tried out when he locked her up in ep 1, but they got carried away and it didn't seem the right moment to have a heart to heart about what he thought she looked like in the bikini and a mans shirt sat in the cells...an idea for someone else perhaps? :-)