Whenever Frank Faulkner entered Perry Mason's office, his stomach was acting up. Although it had been a while since (in the eyes of his employer's most important client) he'd last screwed up, he still felt uneasy when he had to deliver a report to Mr. Mason directly. As one of Paul Drake's key operatives, he preferred reporting to his boss, not his boss' chief provider. In his eyes, the attorney was everything the press suggested: intimidating in court as well as in person. Being friends with him was the last thing Faulkner could imagine. How his boss managed it, he didn't know. Although he had a hunch Miss Street had something to do with it, her demeanor a direct contrast to Mr. Mason's, her beauty and poise. Faulkner sincerely hoped Miss Street was awaiting his report now, not her employer. Miss Della Street in one of her fashionable outfits, always modest but suggestive enough. Her welcoming smile…

Faulkner sighed. Unlike his boss he knew he did not stand a chance with Mr. Mason's lovely secretary, that her smile was genuine but inaccessible. That no matter how hard she tried to cover it up, her heart belonged to a certain lawyer only she knew how to bring to heel. And if she ever failed, Faulkner didn't care to be around. What he had seen in court, every once in a while, sure was enough. The bluster and obstinacy Perry Mason used to get convictions, the defiance behind his actions. The practiced arrogance when needed - such a different man though around Miss Street, such a different attitude towards her than most other people. Around her he always seemed gentle, effortless and naturally at ease.

As he entered Perry Mason's office now, Frank Faulkner was welcomed by Gertrude Lade's chirping voice. The receptionist was sitting behind her desk, vividly engaged in a conversation about a recent beau, movie star or the latest issue of True Romance. He couldn't really tell the difference. Her fingers twirled and twisted the cord that connected her receiver with the phone while her left hand emptied a box of chocolate candy into her mouth with practiced ease. Faulkner stood for a moment, then received a signal from Gertie to go right ahead. Mr. Mason was waiting for him in his office. The receptionist did not interrupt her routine for a second and merely pointed him in the right direction with fingers painted a lush bright pink matching her scarf and lipstick. Faulkner was gutted. No flirt with Gertie, no Della Street to pick him up. At least he had to pass through Miss Street's office, he soothed himself one second only to be disappointed the next. The secretary's walk-through office was empty, her typewriter deserted but the door to the lawyer's private office wide open. Faulkner hesitated. Should he go in without having been announced?

"Miss Street likes to keep an air of formality at the office," Mr. Mason had once growled at him late at night after he had rushed past her with news of vital importance – or what he had thought to be essential information at the time. Little had he known about the pace the famous lawyer liked to keep or about his secretary always hovering in close proximity. A rookie then, he had been unaware of events coming thick and fast in Perry Mason's practice, keeping the lawyer on his toes along with his staff, the police in hot pursuit of their clients at all times, day and night.

The case Paul Drake had put him on now was certainly no different, the news he had to deliver rather unpleasant. So Faulkner took a deep breath and quietly approached the door that separated Miss Street's fragrant workplace from Mr. Mason's daunting office. As he peeked inside, he spotted Perry Mason sitting on the couch, studying a case file with fierce eyes. His secretary was busy skimming through books and files she grabbed from nearby shelves and drawers, books she had trouble navigating before they crashed on her boss' large desk. Despite the noise, Perry Mason did not flinch. He was oblivious to the sound his secretary was trying hard to avoid. One book after another Della Street was fighting with, never considering to ask the lawyer for assistance or averting her eyes from her task at hand for more than a split second, soaking up as much information as she was able to take in from the books piling up around her, flipped open and strewn with colorful notes in her own elegant hand. From behind Mason's desk, Miss Street looked like a lawyer herself, her body language different from her employer's but strangely similar nonetheless. She looked at home in the attorney's chair, her smile lovely the moment Perry Mason addressed her from across the room.

"Did you find anything," his voice strained but gruffly calm the second his eyes met hers.

"I don't think so, Chief," Della Street hesitated. "Although this passage here may help us. Why don't you have a look?" Getting up from behind the desk, she crossed the room on elegant feet, then handed Perry Mason the law book she balanced in her arms, careful not to misalign the notes she had been taking. Waiting for him to grace her with a response, Miss Street stepped out of her heels and lowered herself onto the couch, her legs buried under her svelte form, then completely covered by an abundant skirt, a lacy petticoat protruding from underneath.

"Well done, Miss Street," Perry Mason suddenly raved, his eyes glistening with joy and something Frank Faulkner couldn't quite place. "Faulkner, there you are," the attorney spotted him by the door. "What gives?" The gleam had completely vanished from the lawyer's face.

"I found the witness you've been looking for," Faulkner stepped into the office, took off his hat and nodded a friendly hello to a smiling Della Street. Her smile was warm as usual, her eyes gleaming like Perry Mason's had mere seconds ago. "He's dead." Her smile faded, her hand immediately found Mr. Mason's in a swift, soothing caress. Had he blinked just then, Faulkner would have missed it, a gesture so familiar the secretary didn't even think to hide it. But Frank Faulkner, the vigilant observer, made a mental note to never come to Perry Mason's office unannounced again. The intimacy of the gesture suggested more to him than he wished to get into.

"Della," Perry Mason searched his office.

No answer for the attorney. No Della Street. Not on the couch, nor behind his desk. Her typewriter deserted. The office empty without her in it but filled with a breeze of fresh air instead.

Eyes closed, her body swaying slightly in the wind, Della Street stood on the balcony of Perry Mason's office. Lost in thoughts, she rubbed her neck tense from hitting the books all day and taking notes, from getting a glimpse of the process of her boss' thinking, his method, his work. Not that she had been ignorant of his workload before, but after spending a day at his desk, her admiration for him had only grown.

Enchanted by the breath of air tickling her face, she quietly sang to herself, not unaware of the man approaching her swiftly from behind. "There you are," his voice embraced her. "Are you ready to call it a night?"

Shaking her head, Della welcomed his arms pulling her close, his chest now heaving against her back, his hands touching her forearms in a tender caress.

"Aren't you cold," Perry Mason brushed his lips against her ear, his voice as low as a whisper.

"Not anymore," Della hummed and opened her eyes. Standing entangled with him for a while, the secretary listened to the traffic going by in the streets, the honking cars and the sound of a ringing phone left unanswered in a nearby office. "It's such a beautiful night," she suddenly said, unwilling to leave the warmth of his embrace. "Let's just enjoy it for a while."

Adapting to the rhythm of her hips moving to an unsung melody, Perry smiled. "Do I know the song that's playing in your mind?"

"You should," Della whispered and eased deeper into his arms. "You placed it there the other night."

His eyes darkened now, his smile completely vanished, Perry brushed his lips against her hair, then nuzzled her tender neck. "A simple dinner and some dancing and you're bewitched for days?

"It's the company I keep." Della turned around in his embrace, her eyes gleaming with affection. "Not the music or the food." Her lips met his, tentative at first, then unrestrained.

"Let me take you home, darling," Perry mumbled as he gasped for air.

"Later," Della answered simply, her mouth finding his for another dance.