The short time till dinner passed off without event.

After he'd showered, her guest returned to the lounge, picked out a book from her small library (Nicholas Nickleby, she noted), sat on the couch and began to read it. When she asked him politely if he'd mind setting the table, he did so without protest, setting out the cutlery with military precision.

Although she made no effort to force conversation, the meal was not eaten in complete silence; her companion occasionally made what might be termed polite small-talk, and it was indeed obvious that he had been raised with good manners. Although he was undoubtedly famished, he did not touch his cutlery before she had picked up hers, and he poured wine into her glass before half-filling his own.

"Yours?" he queried, smelling the liquid carefully.

"Mine." She took an easy sip. "Made to my special recipe."

He went on smelling it. Across the rim he watched her, his grey eyes intent.

"The ingredients of which I grow myself, in the garden outside, and which do not include ear of bat or eye of newt, or any artificial drug created in a laboratory," she added calmly.

For a moment longer he held her gaze with his own. Then he took a mouthful of the wine and swallowed it.

"I was telling the truth, you know."

"I know." He took a slice of French bread from the basket in the middle of the table and buttered it. "How long have you lived here?"

Holly considered. "About eight years, give or take a few months."

His next words were delivered without the slightest change of tone as he raised his glass to his lips again. "You do know I could make you bend over and fuck you like a bunny."

"No, really?" She raised her eyebrows in polite surprise. "Male rabbits only take up to twenty seconds to ejaculate. I'd have thought you'd have taken at least twice that."

She watched in malicious pleasure as he spat the mouthful of wine all over his dinner. He grabbed up his napkin and held it to his mouth as he spluttered helplessly, but when he finally emerged from behind it he was actually laughing.

It took years off him.

"Brava!" he said. "And since I'm not going to refuse food I've spoiled by acting like a prick, I suggest we eat."

"Feel free," she replied, munching a baby carrot. She'd already started on hers.

The rest of the meal passed in a silence that was surprisingly companionable. He didn't seem to find that the accidental garnish with bramble wine seriously interfered with the flavour of the food, but ate it ravenously. It possibly wasn't strictly polite to clean the bowl with the last of the slices of bread afterwards, but having watched her do it he presumably felt this was a nicety with which he could safely dispense.

"That," he said, sitting back in his chair, "was a meal worthy of my aunt."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Holly glanced at the engraved brass face of the clock. Just gone eight. "Dessert at half past. Home-made rice pudding and stewed plums."

"I think I could fall in love with you."

"They do say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

"Ah, but then informed rumour has it I no longer have a heart." His face was bitter again.

"Then I'd refer to it rather as 'misinformed rumour'."

He set down his empty glass and scrutinised her. "You don't know the first thing about me."

"I know you're here because you need to be. What else do I need to know?"

A flash of anger, quickly controlled. "I think that was a decision I should have made, don't you?"

"If you'd been in a fit state to make it, you wouldn't have needed to come here."

Dickon chose that moment to wake up (he'd been fast asleep in his box) and inform the world in general that he wanted dinner again. Plainly having decided who was responsible for providing it, he tried to climb out of the box, lost his balance and fell flat on his little pink nose. This, however, daunted him not at all. He picked himself up, hurried over to the table and put both of his forefeet on Holly's leg, mewing loudly.

Holly found him so cute she couldn't help picking him up and stroking him. "You're a hungry little boy, aren't you, sweetie?" she said, laughing. "And you've already worked out who makes the meals around here, haven't you? You're a clever little boy as well!"

Her companion folded his arms and surveyed them both ironically. "And you still think you're going to give him away."

"I know I'm giving him away. He may be a little cutie – yes, you are, aren't you? – but he's a cat and I don't need a pet. And he needs someone who'll love him. Just like everyone does."

She firmly ignored the sardonic grunt which greeted that pointed observation.

To his obvious surprise, she got up from the table and dropped the kitten onto his chest. "Here. You give him some love while I'm getting him some dinner. He doesn't care who you work for."

There had been those she'd treated to whom she wouldn't have entrusted anything so small and vulnerable, but she relied hugely on her instincts. And though for a moment he sat stiffly, staring down at the small creature which reached up and began nosing the underside of his chin, a hand slowly withdrew from its sheltering elbow and began awkwardly petting. The hand was so large by comparison that Dickon fairly disappeared beneath it, but as she glanced back from preparing the next saucer of mush she saw that the hard, set expression on his face had softened ever so slightly. The small motor of kitten-purr filled the quiet room.

"Here you go, sweetie." She put down the saucer on the floor just along the wall from the heap of kitchen towel by the back door. Eating would probably stimulate the kitten's body to evacuate, and it was prudent to put him where he could smell the appropriate place to do so. Earlier on she'd fetched a plant-pot cup out of the garden room, filled it with water and set it just beside where she now set down the saucer; he could drink afterwards if he needed to, because the vet had said it was important for him to have constant access to fresh water.

Getting down even from the height of a seated human would have been difficult and potentially dangerous for a kitten. She would have picked him up and taken him to the saucer, but her guest rose and carried him there himself, setting him down gently with a final awkward stroke. "Wrap your face around that, sunshine."

Dickon needed no adjuration. Once again he pitched himself into the saucer, his absurd little flag of a tail fairly trembling with joy.

"That's one thing you can say about a cat – they take their pleasures seriously." Holly smiled as she collected the plates.

"I must have been a cat in a previous life, then." He leaned back and appraised her body. "You do know you have the most delectable bum."

"Don't ogle what you can't afford."

"If it's available let's discuss the price."

"I never put a price on people. Even people who put a price on themselves." After she'd put the plates into the washing-up bowl (even now she refused to modernise the cottage with a dishwasher, feeling it would be too technological, not to mention wasteful of the water that was piped from the nearby well) she turned around and surveyed him in her turn. "Least of all the people who regard themselves as valueless."

"Oh, I'm not valueless by any means." His eyes glittered. "I have it on the best authority that I'm worth a small fortune. They had to pay very handsomely for this particular piece of merchandise."

"Sweetie, I get the feeling you were the one who ended up paying the most."

"Don't waste your bloody sympathy on me!" His chair went back with a squeal. "I'm good at what I do. I never wanted to stop, nobody bloody asked me if I wanted a check-up from the neck up. And I don't fucking need some shrink poking around between my ears and writing a paper on me. If you think I'm going to be your bloody lab rat you can think something else, I had enough of–" He caught himself back into control.

"Just so we're clear," he said coldly.

"Crystal." She held his gaze. "Now, I'd appreciate it if you'd do the washing up."

There was no doubt about it: between incredulity and fury, for a moment he looked literally murderous. But fortunately, both were ousted by a bubble of angry laughter that forced its way up through his chest. "Well, I've been asked to do worse things I suppose."

"I'm sure."

While he worked, she watched Dickon eat. When the saucer was cleared, the kitten wandered around for a few seconds and then squatted. She'd been ready for this, whisked him up and set him down on the kitchen towelling, where he obligingly evacuated. "There's a clever little boy!" she exclaimed, rubbing him under the ears.

"I hope I get the same amount of appreciation next time I piss in the loo," came a snarky remark from the direction of the sink.

"If it means that much to you, sweetie, of course I will."

"Oh, I'll even let you aim it if you like."

"If that's what it takes to ensure you don't wet on the floor like two-year old, it won't worry me in the least."

That shut him up.

Having cleaned up the little mess and put down fresh paper towels, she picked Dickon up and carried him back to her armchair, where she sat down with him on her lap and stroked him – an activity he thoroughly enjoyed, to go by the volume of purrs. She was aware throughout of being the occasional object of assessing glances from her companion; she still had no idea what his name was, but that would be his decision to tell her, if and when he chose to do so.

When the washing up was done, and the crockery left to drain, he walked into the garden room. She heard him rooting through various drawers of the workbench there, and after a couple of moments' silence he emerged with a small, concertina-folded piece of paper tied around the middle with a length of string. The other end of this trailed from his fingers.

He set the paper down beside Holly's foot and tugged on the string gently, making the paper rustle on the carpet. Immediately the kitten's ears twitched and he looked around eagerly.

"Go play, sweetie!" She set Dickon down, and as the paper rustled temptingly away he waggled his little bottom and pounced, only for the lure to whisk away, leading him on across the hearthrug.

She laughed at his antics. She couldn't help it; he looked so adorable. Even the man at the other end of the string, skilfully pulling it just enough to keep the 'butterfly' out of the kitten's reach while making it irresistibly tempting, wore a small smile as Dickon went on waggling and pouncing, sometimes just managing to set a paw on the beckoning paper before it whisked away.

The kitchen timer went off, and she went to the Aga. The rice pudding was done to perfection, and she gave the stewed plums a last stir before setting out the dessert bowls. Then she filled these up almost to the brim before depositing a couple of plums in each, spooning just a little honey on to them to finish off.

As she set them down on the table, she looked across at the scene on the hearthrug. The man there looked very far from a Section 31 operative in that moment, sitting cross-legged and smiling as the kitten chased madly past his knees after the paper butterfly.

But that was what he was, she reminded herself. Quite probably if his handler ordered it he'd pick Dickon up in one hand and snuff him out like a candle. There was little doubt that he'd do the same to her too, if ordered; and she knew that sometimes Max worried that his protection wouldn't be enough if the Section got pissed off with her too-successful treatments of their damaged goods. Still, she didn't know how other to do her job than relying on her own instincts. It had got her thus far. She couldn't stop trusting it now.

"When you're ready," she said mildly, sitting down to her own dessert.

At once he pulled up the butterfly and pocketed it, leaving Dickon to peer about indignantly for where his playmate had gone. He rose to his feet with one fluid motion and strolled to the table, where he sat and ate the plums and rice silently and at speed. She'd already noted that he wasn't carrying an ounce of spare fat; for all that he apparently had the appetite of a starving wolf, none of the food went to his waistline. At a guess he worked out daily, driving a high metabolism that burned off any spare calories he consumed.

As soon as both of them had eaten, he picked up the dishes and spoons and washed them up as well. While he did so, she cleared the table.

With the rest of the evening before them, she announced her intention of having a shower. He sat down in the armchair, lifted Dickon up and settled him down on his lap, and picked up Nicholas Nickleby again.

He appeared immersed enough, but something told her not to take the situation at face value. And sure enough, she'd hardly stepped into the shower cubicle before she realised that he was in the room with her, looking through the clear Perspex panel.

She was naturally naked, but although he was standing less than a metre away and would undoubtedly have been able to see whatever he chose to before she became aware of his presence, he was gazing steadily at her eyes.

She stopped applying the gel, but made no move to cover herself modestly. Various things she could have said to turn the heat and very real potential danger of the moment flashed through her head, but she simply blew him a kiss, turned her bottom and waggled it at him. If he admired it so much, he could have a bird's eye view of it.

There was a snort of laughter from outside the cubicle, and when she looked around again, the bathroom was empty.