There was no office, which was a shame as there was nothing like a quick snoop through the books for revealing the extent of an operation, just crates of beer and one of the foulest-smelling heads she'd seen in a long time, but she got lucky, in a way, as she made her way back to Jack.

"Hey, you're the whore what brought that new bloke here," a slurred voice remarked as a large hand closed on her wrist and spun her around against the wall.

She glanced out into the main room, but Jack didn't have a line of sight to her, which was both good and bad. Good, because it meant she could handle this her way without worrying about him charging in to play Sir Galahad. Bad, because if things got out of hand and she needed him to play Sir Galahad, he wouldn't know about it.

"Yeah, so what?" She made herself lean back casually against the wall, putting years of hard-earned street-smarts into her eyes.

"You picked a dangerous crowd," the drunk man replied, letting go of her wrist and leaning in as Jack had earlier on Plum Street. "That lot run with Frankie Simpson, and he ain't the friendly sort."

"That the Frankie what shot a cheater last night?" she asked. "Cos the way I heard it, he had it coming."

"That's him. And believe me, he's done as bad before over less. Reckon your mark better watch out if he takes a fancy to you. Frankie gets what he wants, and he usually comes in about now."

Her blood ran cold. This man was implying – no, all but stating – that Simpson might very well shoot the unarmed Jack in cold blood just to get to her, and then, in all probability, rape her at gunpoint. Hiding her alarm, she remarked as casually as she could "reckon it's time we were going then."

"Ain't ya gonna thank me for the warning?" the drunk man asked, and she smiled, choking back her revulsion, and pressed herself against him.

"Bloke I'm with catches me dealing on the side, Frankie ain't gonna be my only problem. But why don't you come see me on Plum Street tomorrow night? Name's Fern."

He seemed satisfied with that, and she made her way back to Jack.

"Where've you been?" he demanded, anger (and, behind it, worry) in his eyes.

"Just doing what a lady needs to do," she replied, sliding back onto his lap and pressing herself against him. Manoeuvring her lips close to his ear, she whispered urgently, "Jack, we need to get out of here."

She felt him nod minutely, then he threw his cards face-down on the table. "Ah, the hell with it. Reckon I've lost enough for one night. Now," he pushed Phryne back enough to give her an intensely lascivious (and, to her eyes, agonised) look, "I've got other things to be spending my money on."

The men at the table exchanged glances at this abrupt move, but didn't object as he stood, wrapped a possessive arm about Phryne, and headed for the door.

A large figure loomed abruptly in front of them, headed in the other direction. Phryne dropped her gaze as the man – well over six feet tall, and swarthy – raked her with a look that mentally stripped her naked and did despicable things to her. More than anything else, men like this were the reason she carried a dagger in her garter belt, and she knew without a doubt that they'd found the man who shot 'Lucky' Parsons.

Beside her, Jack tensed, and forced himself to keep walking at a steady pace. This had to be Frankie Simpson, and the look he was giving Phryne made Jack very, very glad that they were already leaving. He held his breath as they passed, not daring to look around until they were out of the door and back onto the docks.

There were leers and cat-calls from the men on watch by the door, and they both laughed as best they could and responded in kind as they headed back the way they had come. When they were a good distance from the warehouse Jack's grip on her shoulders lessened, became caring, the type of solicitous touch she had learned to expect from him, and he leaned in and spoke to her in his own gentle voice for the first time that evening.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine. I just had a tip-off we should leave." She paused. "You realise we're being followed," she breathed, and he nodded.

"Round Two. I'm sorry, Phryne," he whispered softly. Then his grip around her shoulders tightened into roughness again, and the hardness went back into his tone as he said more loudly, "this'll do," and pushed her into a doorway.

He leaned against her, tense, ears straining to hear the approaching footsteps, just as hers were.

"They'll never buy this, Jack," she warned him anxiously, and he nodded, his eyes filled with misery and determination.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again. Then he grasped her thighs, pushing up her skirt before bringing his hands to rest on her buttocks and lifting her to straddle his hips. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he pushed her back against the rough wood of the doorway. His clothing was still firmly buttoned, her knickers still in place, but it was nonetheless an unthinkably intimate position, and she could feel the tension singing in every line of his body. But still...

"Move, Jack, you have to move," she hissed urgently, as the stealthy footsteps drew closer. She felt him nod against her shoulder and give a shuddering breath as he obeyed, doing what he had to do to keep them both safe. And if those slaps and the threatened blow in the gambling den had cost him dearly, she hated to think what price he was paying now, because the worst part was that she could feel his body responding, the growing hardness between them over which he had no control, and which he must surely loathe even as a part of him enjoyed it.

The footsteps paused directly behind him, but, God help him, he kept moving, playing his role as though their lives depended on it. And in a stray beam of light, she saw that they did, because there was something blunt and metallic and very, very like a gun in the hand of the man now standing in the doorway, watching their every move.

He didn't dare turn around. His was the role of the lusty punter enjoying his 'entertainment' for the night, and he hated the fact that a part of him was indeed enjoying it, the warmth of her body, the scent of her skin, the feeling of her pressed against him in ways he had only ever dreamed of before. His only comfort, as he drowned in self-loathing, was the thought that, were a knife or a bullet to make its way towards them, their position meant that Phryne would be protected, shielded by his own body.

His was the part of the lusty punter, but she was playing the jaded whore and, as the man with the gun (Martinez? It looked like Martinez) leered at them, she raised her head and in her best Collingwood voice positively snarled at him; "What do you want?"

There was a filthy snigger, and Martinez touched his hat to her sarcastically before turning unhurriedly and heading back the way he had come.

As the footsteps receded into silence she felt the violence drain out of Jack, like filthy water running out of a basin, and he stepped back and lowered her carefully to her feet, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground in shame.

"Phryne, I-"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry," she covered his lips with her fingertips, her voice as choked with emotion as his was. "This was my idea, not yours: you were against it from the start. So don't you dare apologise to me, Jack Robinson, for something that you had no control over."

She wasn't talking about the undercover operation, he knew, or about her involvement in it, but about his damned traitorous body and the way it had responded to hers. He raised his eyes, letting her see the pain and shame in his gaze, seeing the understanding and compassion in hers.

"Take me home, Jack," she told him softly. "We can sort everything else out later."