WARNING: This story has now been changed to M rating.

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No-one was very happy the following morning – even love's young dream was having a day off, leaving Shaz and Chris not talking to each other. Alex, who'd had an early night to catch up on sleep, hadn't slept much, her brain tormenting her with endless rehashing of her one-sided row with Gene, and its cringe-making consequences. The yellow roses had been a bittersweet prompt, forcing Alex to wonder for the millionth time if she could trust her instincts or if he was playing games with her. Sometimes she was convinced that he and Ray – and possibly the entire team – had taken bets on when she'd give in to him. Other times she didn't believe he'd be that cruel, although she had no illusions about Ray – the sergeant had never made a secret of his opinion of her.

And Miranda – what was going on there? The woman was a black widow spider, and Alex didn't know whether she saw Gene as prey or breeding material. Either way, he was toast. Alex wasn't jealous – she had no right to be jealous – but she didn't want to see him hurt. Certainly not by that flinty-eyed blonde harpy. Gene said, when he was legless and crashed on her sofa, that he'd been stood up. In vino veritas... But Miranda seemed so keen from the off, flirting so outrageously that it was more like soliciting. Gene wasn't behaving like a man getting good sex, but what did she know? He was a private person – forever boasting about his legendary prowess with women, but not saying much about the people in his life, and never mentioning these hordes of women by name.

Alex didn't know what to think, didn't even know what she felt about Gene. She was attracted to men like Harry – cool, bright, self-aware, focused and very beautiful; a man for the future. That's what she thought she'd married, but she'd been wrong. Her beautiful husband had not taken long to peel off his beautiful mask and reveal the reptile beneath. Sometimes she worried that Molly had inherited that cold, hard personality – her daughter could be scarily hard-nosed, her piercing intelligence seeing straight through Alex's parental strategems, and her shatteringly direct assessments of Alex's boyfriends. Molly was always right, too. Alex kept finding liars and losers – she didn't have to use much of her psychologist's training to work out what that said about her.

But in the face of all that, Alex was drawn to Gene in ways she didn't understand. He was a mystery – not her construct, but no longer Sam's, either. What was he doing in her head? Was he the key to her future, and if so, how? What was she meant to do with him? Sam couldn't destroy him – chose Gene's world over his own. But that wasn't going to happen with her. Not with Molly to go home to. If she wasn't dead already, and stuck here with him. For a blinding instant, Alex longed to have the choice taken away, so she could reach out... No. Couldn't happen. Could it? She couldn't get her head round it, and fell asleep about five minutes before her alarm went off.

No hangover, then, but fuzzy from lack of sleep, Alex was no more alive than the rest of them – like the whole office was in thick fog. Even the phones were unusually silent. Must be a sunspot, she thought, watching Gene staring into space, feet up on his desk.

Gene was in limbo, and he didn't like it. He didn't know what he felt, didn't know what to do about it, didn't want to do anything except go and get blind drunk, and that was alcoholic territory. He could see Alex at her desk, head down over a file, not reading it. At least she'd not turned a page for half an hour.

Mooning over this bastard Harry, no doubt. Whoever the hell he was, and whatever he thought he had to do with her. Couldn't be that blond Toryboy she'd fucked – that was months ago, and she hadn't twanged his braces again. he looked more like a Tarquin than a Harry, anyway. Big girl's blouse.

That image took Gene to thoughts of Miranda, last night, red silk revealing deep cleavage, milky skin and surprising strength. As he'd begun to peel back the silk and explore her breasts, she shoved him back against the cushions of her leather settee, and took him in hand. Literally. It didn't take her long – he'd been too long without a woman, and she knew what she was doing. She'd held his gaze, her eyes glittering like a predator, her hands efficient and clever, stroking and squeezing till he came, out of control and helpless to resist her.

It should have led on to more, energetic, muscular, even brutal sex, but as he lay against the leather, sweating and dazed, her phone rang. Despite his urging her to ignore it, she obeyed its summons; she spoke a few words and hung up, but it was clear the evening was over. Work, she'd said. You know how it is, she'd said. Sorry, darling, she'd said.

She didn't exactly push him out of the door with his flies gaping, but he was out and the door shut behind him within two minutes. For a woman who'd virtually bent over for him when they were first introduced, she was slow to deliver on her unstated promises. That first night, after vamping like a pro over drinks and food designed to tease, she'd led him slowly upstairs, and undressed him button by tortuous button, rubbing herself against him till he was ready to burst. When the phone rang, she had one hand on his arse and the other on his cock, biting his shoulder and growling like a kitten with a prize morsel in its grasp. The phone rang twice, then stopped just before the third ring. Miranda had ignored it, but when it rang again almost immediately, she panicked, pushing Gene's clothes at him and wittering about warning codes. Five minutes, she'd said, shoving him towards the stairs even as he tried to get his trousers back on. Half dressed, with shirt tails flapping and his tie in his pocket, he'd got in the car and driven round the corner, then stopped where he could still see her front door. Frustrated beyond measure, he tossed himself off quickly, then waited to see who turned up. He'd waited for more than half an hour, but not a living soul walked down Theberton Street.

Then two nights ago he'd waited for Miranda outside the Barbican, where they were due to see Barbara Dixon in concert. Front row tickets, and all. She hadn't showed up, and Gene retreated to home ground, taking refuge at Luigi's. But there was no-one else there – even Bolly was out, presumably with that tosser Harry. So Gene had worked his way through a bottle of scotch, with only Luigi for company. Well, there were plenty of punters in, but no-one he wanted to know. Having promised himself whisky-fuelled oblivion, he'd given Luigi his car keys with strict instructions not to let him have them back till the next day. He'd no intention of drinking responsibly that night. And instead of taking a cab home, he'd made Luigi let him upstairs to wait for Alex. That was a success.

Gene shook his head, unwilling to relive that little story. That was a dead end. He took his feet off the desk, stood up and grabbed his coat. No more of this navel-gazing psycho-shite.

'Carling! Drake! Car.' Cutting through the woolly silence like a buzz saw, Gene's voice galvanised the office, and broke the spell. Ray and Alex leapt to their feet, relieved to be doing something. Anything.

TBC