Chapter Seven:
A Special Treat – Holy Mother Protect Us – The Man from MI5 – Dark Shadow – Three in the Morning – An Offer of Jewels – In the Eye of the Beholder – Il Nox – Never Forget An Accent – In My Bed – Not Quite Awake – The Duck Engagement – A New Game – Match Point.
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In a borrowed man's robe - whose?- Mycroft made toast in Cate's kitchen. Fishing around in her refrigerator for conserves, he felt a warm pair of arms sneak around his middle.
"I'm starving," she growled into his spine.
Mycroft turned, hands full of jars and kissed Cate's neck. "Hardly surprising," he muttered, a little smugly, "considering last night."
"Would you like a proper breakfast?" Cate ignored the marmalade and curled into his arms, enjoying the feel of his warmth through the robe.
"How about breakfast in bed?" Mycroft disposed of the chilly glassware in favour of the distinctly warmer woman at his side. A giddy pleasure swept through him as he realised he had embarked upon une affaire de coeur with someone he wanted to bed and argue with in equal measures. Ignoring the mocking voice in his head announcing his behaviour hovered somewhere between that of Voltaire and Mr Darcy, Mycroft's hands on either side of her head tipped Cate's mouth up for kissing.
"Or we could leave breakfast for a while," his voice low and enticing as he nibbled along her jaw and under her ear.
"If I don't eat something soon," Cate complained, "I am going to faint." She gave Mycroft the evil eye. "If this is how you treat your women, I'm amazed you even manage to hold onto a housekeeper, probably make the poor thing slave all hours of the day and night and pay her a pittance, keep her locked in a dark cupboard the rest of the tim …"
Cate's remaining diatribe was smothered as Mycroft swept her up, kissing her words away.
"Cease," he muttered, smiling against her skin. "I shall feed you breakfast."
Lingering in his arms, Cate looked through half-closed lashes. "Thank you," she cooed, fighting laughter down. "I told Greg Lestrade was wrong about you,"
"Inspector Lestrade said something about me?"
"Apparently everyone thinks you're a mastermind bent on world domination," Cate snuggled closer. "Though he wouldn't be drawn on whether it was the evil kind or not," she tightened her arms around him. "But I defended your honour and made it clear that I was right and the rest of the world was entirely wrong."
"Did you now?" Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "And when was this?"
"Oh, ages ago," Cate closed her eyes and listened to his heart through his chest. She thought for a moment. "Did I do wrong to say that?"
"You may have bruised my reputation for ruthless bastardry," he said ,"but that is easily remedied." Mycroft stroked her skin through silk. "You defended my honour?' he asked airily.
"I did," Cate agreed.
"A special treat in that case," he tipped her head to gaze into her face. Stepping away, he located his jacket and phone and made two very brief calls.
"Someone will be up in about half-an-hour with breakfast," he announced. "Which means we have to occupy ourselves until it gets here," he murmured idly. "If you're feeling faint, perhaps you should lie down."
"Is your middle name Machiavelli?" Cate clung to him, helpless, feeling the heat rise again.
"No-one will ever learn my middle name," Mycroft wrapped his arms around her, breathing her in.
"Foolish man …" she whispered, pulling him down to the nearest sofa.
###
Carrying the baby and with the girl struggling alongside her, Leysa began looking for help. Aside from the odd bark of a dog however, the place was silent. Eerily silent. Leysa started looking for a church. They would be safe in a church – the Holy Mother protected her children.
There was an unusual crowd of people in the church – at least that answered one question for her. But why was everyone here? Why was everyone looking so sad? Had they heard of the fighting up the mountain? Did they already know about the soldiers and the deaths? But no: something else was happening. Someone was crying; a lone woman, a foreigner, surrounded by villagers. Why was the woman here, crying?
"There was a fire here last night, at the pension of the foreign visitors," one of the old women told her, glad to have a fresh audience. "Her baby died; a baby boy."
Leysa had no thought to where the idea sprang from, but the child in her arms needed more than she was able to provide. Perhaps the Holy Mother had brought them all here for another reason. Summoning up her remaining courage, she walked towards the grieving stranger.
###
At the same time that Mycroft was asking some very difficult questions of a certain Minister of Internal Affairs, Cate was shopping. Not something she usually made a fuss over, she felt an unusual desire to buy something that felt as good on the outside as she did on the inside. This thing with Mycroft – whatever it was – made her step lighter and her insides shiver with sensation. It was exciting and fun and delicious. Whatever it was.
An interesting dress caught her eye. Plain, almost severe, it had a deep lustre and looked rich. She smiled. If they had it in black, it was hers.
So occupied, she never noticed the dark Porsche Cayenne pull in to the side of the road behind her.
###
It was three in the morning.
"I want to take you out somewhere unspeakably haute and outrageously expensive and show you off," Mycroft said, resting his arms on either side of her as she leaned back by the sink sipping champagne.
"Would you like some champagne," Cate asked, nodding to the second flute and laughing at the madman in her kitchen, "It's really rather good."
Not taking his eyes off her, Mycroft took her own glass and tasted the chilly fizz. He made a face of approval, and knocked back the entire drink. It really was rather good. He was in a very good mood. Everything was good.
"Come back to bed," he caressed her neck with champagne-scented kisses. "I don't think I'm finished with you yet." His voice was beguiling, his hands stroking her silk-clad back upwards into her hair. Pulling her towards him, he parted her lips with a persuasive kiss, as she groaned in mock dismay.
"I have a lecture and at least two meetings tomorrow," Cate grumbled. "How come you didn't think to be this amorous closer to the weekend?"
"Cancel everything," Mycroft was nothing if not decisive. "Stay in bed with me all day," he muttered, finding the soft skin behind her ear. Sensation jolted through her. Oh, God. Breathless, she shook her head at his playfulness.
"How old are you, Mycroft?" she sounded severe.
"Not entirely sure, but most of me is voting for about nineteen," he murmured, wrapping long arms around her and enjoying the inclines of her throat with his mouth. "I want you," he whispered. "Come to bed."
About to retort that she couldn't simply drop everything because his libido was entering a second-childhood, she squeaked as Mycroft caught her in his arms and scooped her right off the floor.
"Always wanted to do this," a sinful voice. "Very Leading Man."
"Always wanted a Leading Man," Cate bit his neck.
###
"Have you something blue?" Mycroft asked in passing, as he confirmed dinner that night.
Cate thought about the contents of her wardrobe. Most of her evening gear was a various shade of black, but there was …
"Actually," she considered, "I do." Wondering why the colour was important, "is there dress code?" she asked, smiling. She was smiling a lot these days.
"No, nothing like that," he said. "I like blue."
"Then yes," Cate shook her head a little at the voice on the phone. "I can wear blue."
The dress she'd window-shopped the previous week never did turn out to be black, but instead was a severe but dramatic raw silk midnight blue with a boat line neck that dipped low in front and back. Long-sleeved, mid-calf: proper, but right on the very edge of transgression. It hugged everywhere it was supposed to, although she didn't recall it displaying quite so much cleavage.
By the time Mycroft arrived at seven, she was ready, apart from finding her second pearl stud.
"Be right there," she called from the bedroom, stepping into her courts.
Seeing Mycroft made her abdominal muscles clench. No man had the right to look that edible before dinner. In a stylish dinner jacket, he looked every inch the aristocrat. Tall, impossibly refined and, Cate realised, at least temporarily, hers.
Mycroft experienced a similar sensation as Cate walked out of the bedroom. The dress was exactly right: elegance epitomised, but with enough of the risqué to make people, and by people he meant men, look twice. More than twice.
He was still feeling oddly irrational: on the one hand, his realistic, logical side knew perfectly well this feeling – whatever it was – was unlikely to last, while on the other, his recently exposed demonstrative streak rather hoped it would. It was patently clear that Cate felt something along the same lines simply by her behaviour around him and autonomic responses that displayed her thoughts as transparently as a flashing sign. But she was so unaffected and straightforward, there was nothing, it seemed, she wanted to hide. Mycroft could not remember enjoying a woman's company this much for a long time.
He smiled subtly. Mine.
"What's the matter," he asked as Cate walked up looking a little irritated.
"Can't find my other earring," she said, standing close and kissing him slowly on the mouth. "You look positively rakish."
Catching her before she could move away, Mycroft rested a warm hand on her neck and returned her kiss with more than a hint of interest. "We could stay here," he murmured, inhaling her scent.
"I'm starving," she said. "I've barely eaten all day, and am in no mood to think of anything except food." Touching his cheek and lying to his face, Cate looked into his eyes and shivered. And damn, she thought. He knows.
"Must find my other pearl," she announced, stepping away, hunting.
"Then you might be interested in this," he said, pulling a flat, dark red box out of his pocket. The Morrocaned leather gave an impression of age, but not wear. It looked like the kind of container that held jewellery. Expensive jewellery. Accepting it from Mycroft's hand, Cate examined the name embossed on the base. 'Garrards of London'.
Taking a deep breath, Cate held the box without opening it and stared at him, waiting for an explanation.
"It actually does open," he pointed helpfully, "just there."
"This is Garrards," Cate waved the box under his nose. "Garrards."
Mycroft's ingenuousness was droll. "Apparently so," he said, watching her face.
Curiosity forcing her hand, Cate pressed the front of the box which opened with a dull click. Lifting the lid, she sucked in a deep breath and held it.
Three concentric rings of jewels. The outer, a necklace of diamond-bordered, dark blue individual sapphires that glittered and flashed in the light. Next, a matching bracelet and in the centre, earrings of single large sapphires, each paired with a clear white diamond of a scarcely lesser dimension.
Cate felt her heart thud at their sheer brilliance. These would cost ten years of her salary. Twenty years. Only film-stars and royalty had such things. And perhaps the Queen. Maybe these belonged to the Queen.
"Did you steal these?" she asked, daring to touch one of the stones with a fingertip.
Mycroft had been waiting for Cate's reaction and found himself laughing.
"They belonged to my mother," he said. "I want you to have them."
At first, Cate thought Mycroft had said he was giving them to her, but obviously this was impossible. You didn't give things like this away.
"They are stunningly gorgeous," she agreed, closing the box with a deft snap and handing it back to him. "Thank you for letting me see them." Cate turned, about to renew the hunt for the missing pearl, when Mycroft captured her hand. He replaced the box in her fingers.
"For you," he said quietly.
Cate lifted her eyebrows and gave him a pitying look. "No," she shook her head, handing the box back.
"Why ever not?" Mycroft was genuinely at a loss. "You like them."
"Mycroft, they're magnificent," she answered. "And they belong to your family, not me," she shook her head again. "I simply cannot accept such a gift. These should go to your wife. Or Sherlock's wife."
"You may be aware," he mocked gently, "that I have not, as yet, entered the joyous state of matrimony," he smiled. "And the notion that Sherlock is ever going to marry is absurd beyond belief." He opened Cate's hand and replaced the red box.
"I want you to have them."
"Mycroft, are we going to argue about this?" she asked. "Because I don't know another way of saying 'no'."
"Then say 'yes'."
"Never."
"Try them on."
"No," Cate shook her head, although the sudden temptation was acute.
Mycroft compromised. "What if you were to wear them for this evening," he asked, "but under no obligation to keep them?"
It was Cate's turn to laugh. "You sound as if you're selling solar panels," she grinned. Mycroft opened the box and held it out to her.
"For tonight?"
Looking again at the glinting jewels, Cate realised she was going to agree. She glanced up at Mycroft and saw that he knew it as well. She sighed: it was becoming impossible to keep anything private any more.
"Very well," she said. "But we're going to do this properly." Removing the solitary pearl stud, Cate walked over to stand in front of a large oval wall-mirror. She took a deep breath.
"Bracelet, please," she requested, holding up her right wrist.
As Mycroft fastened the cold white gold around her arm, she tensed for a second. The piece was heavier than it looked, but it draped around the sleeve of her dress in a familiar manner as if it had been hers all along. Turning her arm slowly, Cate watched the gems catch the light. Mycroft saw her eyes widen as she indulged in such a simple thing. Even if he had to play lady's maid, her very obvious pleasure gave him an extraordinary feeling – it was quite heady. Whatever it was.
"Earrings, please." As he handed her each brilliant bauble, she clipped them carefully into place. They sat there, flickering within the dark skein of her hair. Lustrous. Inspiring. Sweeping her hair up and turning her head to see them better, Cate felt goose bumps prickle her skin. Watching her preen increased Mycroft's own feeling of enjoyment: it was as if her amazement was broadcasting itself to him. It was even affecting his internal organs, which tingled with each gesture of her delight. This was novel. This was new. Mycroft wondered how powerful this sensation might become. As he held up the necklace, he felt his throat dry.
Cate closed her eyes as he slipped the briefly chill metal around her throat.
Standing behind her shoulder, Mycroft waited for Cate to enjoy her reflection, but she kept her eyes closed.
"Problem?" he asked.
"Nervous," she whispered. "No idea why."
He pressed a kiss to the top of her spine. She shivered.
"Look," he said.
Cate realised that this was how magic worked. The woman staring back at her was some exotic creature of fantasy and dream. Her skin had assumed the guise of alabaster against the intense blue of the gems, and the weight of each piece made her stand still and tall. Her eyes looked black. Seized by a rushing sensation, her breath spiked.
"Oh God, Mycroft," she whispered. "I look beautiful," she turned to him. "I've never thought about looking beautiful before."
Mycroft Holmes had been called many things, a good number of which would not be acceptable in polite society. A word he had never been called however, was defenceless. Watching and listening to Cate made him feel precisely that. She seemed to have no awareness of her own allure, to be bewildered by it, in fact, and an ache gripped him that she would think this. The urge to hold her was almost overwhelming. About to say something – he wasn't sure what – but something meaningful and …
Cate's stomach growled. "I'm really hungry, Mycroft," she said, looking sheepish.
The mood was broken.
###
Il Nox was an enigmatic, exclusive place. It never advertised. You either knew about it, which said something about you, or you didn't, which said even more. Mycroft used it almost as frequently as he visited the Diogenes, especially when he needed to entertain. It was a little more user-friendly for strangers, in that it actually permitted non-regulars to dine there.
The Maître d' nodded familiarly and beckoned a waiter to show them to a table that seemed, to Cate, suspiciously near the centre of the room. Mycroft had said he intended to show her off, but she hadn't taken him literally. The waiter welcomed them both with a very specific accent. It took a moment before Cate settled on Breton-French. She smiled. There was little love lost between Bretagne and Paris: she would need to avoid a Capital accent.
Mycroft followed Cate as she walked ahead of him to the table. In the dim light of candles and muted wall-sconces, the atmosphere was one of traditional graciousness. Watching her move, elegantly and with her uncontrived self-assurance, he experienced a flare of possession. Every male in the room was pretending not to look at her: her poise, her dress, her jewels. And Cate didn't notice any of it. Mycroft shook his head, unsure whether to laugh or applaud. He compromised with an unfathomable, but elevated smile.
Seating Cate, the waiter mumbled something that made her eyes widen and her lips twitch. Mycroft gave her a questioning look. She shook her head, silently amused. Cate bit her lip. Normally, she'd never have considered anyone might have an opinion of her, rather than of her ideas: she felt fractionally uncomfortable.
Mycroft could read each thought as it flashed across Cate's face. She needed to relax. He beckoned the sommelier to discuss an apéritif, and suddenly two chilled glasses were before them being filled with a pleasing Fino.
Watching her sip the young sherry, Mycroft observed Cate's natural curiosity distract her away from other thoughts. It was pleasantly quiet and dim in the restaurant and something like Mendelssohn was playing softly in the middle distance.
"This is quite a place," Cate looked around. "I'm surprised ordinary people like teachers are even allowed in."
"Do you like it?" Mycroft glanced around. "Three cabinet ministers, a Bishop and a baker's dozen Peers of the Realm," he observed, nodding in passing to a hand raised in greeting. Dropping his voice a little, "Also two fairly notorious gangsters, a man soon to be arrested on pension fraud and a lady who is thinking of murdering her husband. Second husband," he corrected himself. "What did the waiter say?" he asked idly.
Cate wrinkled her nose which told Mycroft what he wanted to know. "He complimented you?"
"Actually, he complimented you," she said, looking at him over the rim of her glass. "He suggested that you must be an important man having a woman like me to warm your bed." She shrugged, "although I am working on the assumption he meant it as a compliment."
Lifting his chin, Mycroft blinked like a snake but remained silent.
Cate waved her hand dismissively. "He couldn't know I understood his dialect," she said. "He wasn't being deliberately offensive, simply indiscreet."
Maintaining his impenetrable expression, Mycroft reconsidered his usual tip. He might have to increase it.
"Is that how you see yourself, " he asked after a moment. "As a teacher?"
Cate thought for a few seconds. "Yes," she said. "It is, but not quite as the noun, and rather more as the verb."
"So you associate yourself with the act rather than the title?" Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he thought of the connotations.
"I'd say that was about right," Cate nodded. "It's the art of teaching that engages me, not necessarily the idea of being a teacher," she made a face. "Can't say I've ever really thought about it objectively."
"Yet you are a Professor."
"A social title of convenience, and unimportant beyond the academy."
"You enjoy moulding young minds?"
Cate laughed, shaking her head. "You think me that presumptuous?"
Mycroft examined Cate's expression and body-language. Everything she was saying was the unreserved truth. Such a curious paradox. A teacher with the skills of an advocate and the talents of a polyglot, the madness of an aerialist and the fortitude of a soldier: who knew what else? Mycroft saw she had forgotten all about the jewels and wore them as naturally as skin, and, now that she'd relaxed, her conversation was becoming increasingly intriguing. He was magnetised. Whether it was the new physical relationship, or simply the pleasure of getting to know someone so different, Mycroft couldn't say, but he found himself wanting more of this – this, whatever it was – was most … agreeable.
Food was ordered in due course, and Cate enjoyed the quality of the restaurant, the dinner and the company. The Breton waiter had been attentive without hovering, although Mycroft had frightened the man into silence at one point with a chilly stare.
Taking pity, Cate chatted gently in Breton, as soon as the man had moved past the shock of realising his every utterance was understood. Eventually wishing them both 'debrit a galon', he moved away to another table. About to query the connections of something sounding equidistant between Wales and France, Mycroft realised that Cate was unmoving, her face taut and eyes unfocused.
"What's the matter," he frowned.
"That voice," Cate spoke softly. "That voice … I know that voice."
Ascertaining the speaker without looking as if he were looking was the work of a moment. Mycroft turned back to Cate. "Tall, short dark hair. Mid-thirties, mid-European, probably needs to shave three times a day, brutish, ostentatious diamond earring?"
Cate's looked down and began playing with her cutlery. "That's him," she said. "That's the murderer I saw in the alley." Looking straight into Mycroft's eyes, Cate was adamant. "I never forget an accent."
A tightening of his lips was the only sign Mycroft had planned his move. Taking up his Blackberry, he pretended to be answering an incoming call while photographing the man Cate had identified. Rapidly texting, the image and accompanying message was sent to both Lestrade and Sherlock within seconds.
"Done," Mycroft smiled picking up his wine.
Cate was surprised. "Is that it?" she asked.
"Is what it?" Mycroft winced at the execrable English. "Everything that needed to be done has been done, and I for one," he said, saluting Cate with his glass, "intend to continue enjoying a delightful dinner."
Mildly bemused, Cate wondered if this was what Mycroft did all the time – set multiple wheels in motion in a single phone conversation. If so, she hesitated to think what he might accomplish while actually at his desk.
Without saying, the coffee was perfect.
"Will you stay at my place tonight?" he asked offhandedly, as they finished their espresso.
"I'd have to collect a few things from home," Cate looked at him. He didn't need a reason to ask her this, but it was curious.
As it happened, Mycroft had a number of reasons, yet was, in truth, reluctant to explain any of them. He wanted to have Cate in his house, to watch her use his things; he wanted to make love to her in his bed, to experience the sensation of sleeping next to her in a familiar room; he so very much wanted to watch her in the dawn light. Self-indulgent perhaps, but Mycroft had an uncharacteristic yearning to have her presence in his home. And she hadn't asked why.
"I'm using your soap so frequently, I fear Mrs Compton may actually start buying it for me," he said. Neither false nor particularly relevant, but it met a need.
Nominally accepting the fiction, Cate sipped her wine. "I'd love to stay at your place," she said, acknowledging their relationship had just taken another step.
"Shall we go?"
Collecting her bag and lifting her wrap, Cate was quietly pleased at the considerate way that Mycroft set it around her shoulders. He really did have the most impeccable manners.
Driving from her apartment to Mycroft's house, Cate slid her hand into his. Warm and relaxed, she craved the pleasure of touch. Mycroft's thumb gently stroked her palm.
Ushering her into the house, Mycroft took Cate into the main lounge and headed for the sideboard holding a fine collection of alcohol. Handing her a glass of her favourite cognac, he turned purposefully towards his music. Hitting the 'play' button, a silky fusion of slow jazz and old blues filled the room. In the half-lit room, the music was moody and inviting.
Stepping close. Mycroft slid his right arm around her while holding her hand against his chest, resting his face on her hair. Cate let him sway her slowly in his arms to the rhythm of the music.
"I had forgotten what happy felt like," he said softly. "You make me feel happy."
Cate's pulse leaped. Unsure of a response, she laid her face next to her hand on his jacket and listened to his heart.
Lifting her away, Mycroft stared down into her eyes and felt a warm surge of need. Whatever it was; to whatever name it answered, he wanted this.
Kissing her, Mycroft Holmes fell a little deeper in love with Cate Adin.
###
He was watching her face when she started to wake. Blinking slowly, soft, wordless sounds, Cate considered re-joining the human race.
"Sleep well?" Mycroft knew exactly how well the woman in his bed had slept last night. He had watched her since before first light.
"Mmm," she murmured, sliding across to rest her face against the base of his neck: his body a warm pillow, his chest-hair tickling. "This is nice."
Torn between wanting to kiss her more awake or wrapping her in his arms and going back to sleep, Mycroft enjoyed the moment.
"Duck," Cate mumbled.
"Duck?"
"I'm going to cook you duck," she sighed softly. "You'll like my duck … s'lovely duck."
"Are you awake?"
"No," a wistful little breath. "'Night, Myc'ft."
Sliding his hand along the rise of her hip and into the deep curve of her waist, Mycroft smiled against Cate's hair and followed her back into sleep.
###
Cate was pleased when she worked out how to have music from the main sound system play in Mycroft's kitchen. It was currently blasting out a hard fusion of blues and rock that made her want to bounce off the walls. Best he not know this. He'd vanished shortly after breakfast, but since she wasn't obligated to be on-campus this day, Cate had decided to indulge her culinary lust and make the mess she'd been itching to make since her first visit.
For some odd reason, the desire to cook duck had been with her since before breakfast. Locating a really good market within minutes of the house, she'd found a bird, blackberries and some sweet little white turnips. So the decision was made: Canard aux Navets. With a blackberry sauce.
In close-fitting jeans and an old Berkeley t-shirt, she was in the kitchen, peeling vegetables. The duck was already in the oven and the turnips were ready for glazing. Before peeling the carrots, Cate put on one of her favourite tracks, a soft rock by Boris: Those Things You Do. Slightly sleazy, with beautiful blues chords, it was one of her best cooking accompaniments. Currently undulating around the kitchen as she attacked the carrots, she swayed her hips and rolled her fingers above her head as she fell into the music's trance. Dancing in synch with the slow beat, a glass of wine in one hand and a peeled carrot in the other, Cate was in a world of her own, eyes closed, her entire body moving in accord with the music. It felt deliciously hedonistic.
A polite cough came from the doorway.
Ah.
Smiling, Cate put her glass down and reached for a stool. Dancing it over to the doorway where Mycroft stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, with an amused expression right up to his raised eyebrows, she climbed, carrot still in hand. Wrapping her arms around his neck, for once slightly higher than he, she kissed him deeply; dreamily, provocatively. Ending the kiss before he had time to properly respond, Cate dragged the stool back to its place. Leaning against the bench top, she bit the carrot sharply in two.
"Fifteen – Love," she smiled mischievously.
Mycroft's expression turned speculative as his breath caught in the turmoil of her kiss. A game. He liked games: he was quite good at them. With an enigmatic look, he picked up the metaphoric gauntlet and went to change.
Once all the vegetables were roasting, Cate felt she should find the man currently in her life. Walking around Mycroft's environment, she still wasn't sure of his household routines. Stepping into the library – one of the first places Cate had come to treasure – she saw Mycroft turn and drop a book onto a chair before she was swung gently against a bookcase. Pressed close by Mycroft's body, Cate felt her mouth being captured by his and meticulously kissed. He was shamefully good at it. She barely breathed as her heart pounded in her ears.
"Fifteen – All," he murmured against her skin. About to move away, Cate felt him press her harder against the shelves. Wickedly incendiary; his hands curved down to hold her lower body tight against his as their kiss became leisurely and experimentive. It took her breath, and more.
"Fifteen – Thirty," he smiled against her mouth.
His hands were on the point of releasing her when Cate pulled him closer, renewing the contact, fuelling it with all the passion and heat she could. At his slight hesitancy, she moaned a soft complaint.
Abruptly holding her away, Mycroft searched her face. He saw Cate's unfocused eyes and parted lips, and a fresh heat burned through his bones. Taking her hand, he pulled her out of the library, along the passage and up the stairs. Reaching his bedroom, he dragged her down onto the bed beside him, unable to stop himself from accepting her unspoken offer. The woman was a witch.
###
Later, lying warmly together, the discussion turned naturally to game theory.
"Which is why," Mycroft said, stroking her foot with his own, "when applying Nash's stratagem to psychological moves, one of the first rules of any game is to use the weaknesses of one's opponent against them."
Cate looked thoughtful as she inspected a small white scar on his upper arm. "What are my weaknesses?"
Mycroft couldn't avoid a smile. "Me, apparently," he sounded at ease.
Cate looked unconvinced, but forbore commenting. "What's this?" she asked, touching the scar.
"Sherlock received an archery set for his eighth birthday," Mycroft shook his head, remembering. "I received a tetanus shot."
Sitting up to face him more directly, Cate looked calculating. "I was always of the impression," she said, "that the first rule of game-playing was to know, exactly, the point of the contest."
Stroking his fingers down the delicate skin of her neck and breast, Mycroft's eyes were unreadable.
"This being the case," Cate held the side of his face gently in her fingers, "then, dearest Mycroft, I claim game, set and match." Kissing the scar to make it feel better, she slid out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
"I'm going to have a quick shower. Dinner in thirty minutes," she began whistling Boris.
Mycroft linked his fingers behind his head and lay back against the pillows, a singular expression on his features.
Cate was correct: the very first rule of any game was to be quite clear what the game actually was. She had, for the first time, called him 'dearest Mycroft'; not a massive leap forward, but a definite improvement. He settled back and enjoyed an incredible sense of contentment and good humour. He knew precisely the game he was playing, and the match was a long way from over.
