The moon is bright enough to provide ample light, and had it not, the lights from the marina a half mile further along the beach cast a glow in every direction. Harry slows, and then turns to see how far he has swum. Not that far. He's not quite the athlete he'd been in his youth. He can still see Ruth's head bobbing just above the surface of the water. She has remained where her feet can touch solid ground.

For the first time in weeks, Harry contemplates what he is doing here, when the siren song of his job in London still calls him, attempting to guilt trip him into returning. He knows he has become addicted to the rush, the adrenalin, the constant struggle to overcome that which can never be overcome, no matter how many years of his life he gives to the cause. The so-called war on terror can never be won. It is a game which will still be in progress long after he has gone, and perhaps long after his children have gone. Not so long ago, he believed in his decision to have dedicated his life to this cause. Now, he is wanting the very thing which Ruth seems to be offering him. Why shouldn't he want something for himself, something sweet and personal which he and Ruth can share? He has never loved another woman with the steadiness and endurance with which he loves Ruth, and he has never before wanted a woman in the same way he wants her. The sweetness and gentleness she is offering is what has been missing from his life, and he can no longer turn his back on it.

Before he can talk himself out of what he has decided is the right thing to be doing, he pushes his arms ahead of him through the water, and swims back to her. By the time he reaches the shore, Ruth has left the water, and is lying on her towel, under the overhang of a rockface. Harry strides across the sand towards her, aware that his swim shorts cling to him, and that Ruth is propped on her elbow, watching his progress up the beach. When he reaches her, she hands him his towel, and he dries off, and then spreads it beside her, and lies on his side, watching her.

His eyes glance over her skin, and he knows she is doing the same with him. Were it fifteen years ago, he would have had her swimsuit off her by now, and they'd already be coupling on her towel. He is fifteen years older – and wiser – and Ruth is not something to be conquered, like a rebel nation. He really wants to touch her skin. He must touch her. He has no sooner had that thought than Ruth reaches out with her hand and cups his jaw, drawing him close to her.

The kiss is careful, restrained, but they are both aware of the passion hovering just beneath the surface. Harry rolls towards Ruth, and finds himself lying half on top of her, kissing her deeply, while one hand has lifted the strap of her swimsuit off her shoulder, pushing it down her arm, giving his fingers a wider expanse of skin to explore. He finds his mouth on the hollow at her throat, and he drinks her in, tasting the salt on her skin. By the time Ruth's fingers have grazed over his shoulders and down his sides to the waistband of his swim shorts, he is fully aroused. She says something, but he's not listening. He's tasting her, over and over and over. Her skin is soft and smooth, as he knew it would be, and sweet, as he suspected, as well as salty, and he wants to taste every inch of her. She speaks again, but he still can't put the sounds together to form words. It's just her voice, and her voice is a thing of sheer beauty. His mouth finds her breast, exposed by his lowering the strap, and he sucks and licks and devours her skin, bringing her nipple to attention.

"Harry."

This time he hears her. He lifts his head to look into her eyes, taking a moment to focus.

"Harry …... not here."

"Why not?"

"Sand …... in …... sensitive body cavities."

"Right," and he very reluctantly rolls away from her.

Once they reach the verandah, they kiss again, but again Ruth pulls away.

"We have to remove our swimsuits," she says, "and leave them on the wall to dry."

They peel off their swimsuits, hold them under the running tap at the edge of the verandah, and then lay them and their towels over the low wall which defines the end of the patio. For the first time, they stand naked before one another. The moon provides just enough light for Harry to be able to drink her in with his eyes, while he notices her eyes skim from his neck down his body to his thighs, and then back again. Strangely, he does not feel embarrassed. Ruth's eyes seem to appreciate what she sees. She takes his hand, and pulls him towards the door to the cottage.

"The neighbours," she says, "they might see us."

"Only if they're equipped with high-powered night-vision binoculars."

Ruth giggles, and stands aside so that he enters the cottage ahead of her …... chiefly so that she can graze her fingers across his bare bum as he walks past her. His fingers linger on her waist, but she points him in the direction of the bathroom. "We have to wash off the salt and sand," she says.

Harry is not sure if this is to be a shared shower. They have not talked about it, and he is not quite brave enough to ask, but as he adjusts the cold tap, he feels her warm presence at his back, and then she presses her front against his back. He could happily leave this life, having felt Ruth's naked body against his. Another milestone – their first shared shower. May there be many more.

Harry soaps his hands, then turns and begins to massage Ruth's skin – neck, shoulders, arms, hands, then feet, ankles, calves, thighs – everywhere but her most intimate area. She moans with want, and he's sure the word which slides from her lips is `bastard'. He pulls her against him so that she can feel how much he wants her, while his hands grasp her buttocks, lifting her to him so that his arousal slides between her legs. Ruth's next utterance – Christ – he hears loud and clear.

Harry is the one to pull away, since they still need to dry themselves before they can get into bed. They watch each other warily, as for the second time in twenty minutes, they towel their skin dry. Harry can't help himself; he leans down to kiss her, searching for her tongue, pressing himself against her.

"The bedroom," is all she manages to say between kisses.

In bed, they each lie on their sides, watching the other. Under the cover of the duvet, hands reach for skin, and above the duvet, Ruth is the one to lean into him for a kiss.

"I can't wait much longer," she says after a particularly long and amorous kiss, so Harry pulls her leg across his body to rest on his hip, as he slides closer. Their coupling is at once both exciting and a relief. As he is moves inside her, Harry opens his eyes to see tears in Ruth's own eyes. He reaches down to kiss her, and feels her fingers grip his shoulders.

"I'm never allowing you to leave me again," he says, before he realises his words may sound possessive and arrogant. "Not unless you have a very good reason," he adds.

Ruth nods, and closes her eyes, and he can feel her climax building, so he leans down to place his cheek next to hers.

Afterwards, they hold one another until they fall asleep. It has been a deeply satisfying day.

Next morning Harry is the first to wake, and so he quietly dresses, and heads down the hallway to the kitchen. The kettle has just boiled when he hears a knock on the front door. He opens the door to the Greek Cypriot doctor, George.

"I have today off," George says without preamble. "Would you and Emma like to come out on my boat? One of my patients told me about a fishing spot along the coast."

Ninety minutes later, Ruth and Harry are in George's motor launch with George and his nine-year-old son, Nico. The boy seems pleasant enough, but Harry is still not convinced that George's intentions towards Ruth are without an ulterior motive. Through the dark glasses he wears, Harry keeps a close eye on George. The man is a smooth operator, but he is relieved to notice that Ruth refuses to be drawn in by him. She regularly moves to Harry's side, and touches him – on the arm, on his face, or grasps his hand – clearly to give George the message that she is off limits.

Harry enjoys the sun, something he sees little of unless he is spending time away from the Grid, and out of England. On the way to the fishing spot, he sits on the deck and soaks up the sun. He knows that his skin will burn, but in a few days any reddened skin will tan. Ruth's skin is already honeyed by the sun, and he smiles to himself when he remembers that he has seen pretty much all of Ruth's skin, and not all of it is tanned. Behind his sunglasses, he also watches Ruth, as she exchanges pleasantries with George, and chats with Nico.

The hours quickly pass, and they enjoy a pleasant day, and Harry catches fish beside George, while the boy entertains Ruth with stories of his school friends, and his father's failed attempts to windsurf.

"My Dad's clumsy," Harry overhears him saying to Ruth. "He couldn't even stand up on it, and he kept falling off. He's terrible at football, too. He has two left feet. And he kicks with his left foot. No decent footballer ever kicked with his left."

"Diego Maradona," Ruth replies.

"What?"

"Diego Maradona was a left-footer."

"I didn't know you knew anything about football, Ruth." Harry is shocked, rather than surprised.

"Everyone knows about Maradona."

"I didn't," Nico says, and he and Ruth laugh lightly, sharing the joke.

Harry watches the two of them, feeling saddened that he and Ruth hadn't been brave enough to get together years ago, when they first noticed one another. Perhaps they could have been married by now. Ruth would have been a wonderful mother to their children. He has to shake himself out of his melancholy. This is not the time for regrets; they still have a whole future ahead of them.

When they get back to the marina, George invites them for dinner, but Ruth thanks him, saying she and Harry have plans for the evening. She also insists that George and Nico take home all the fish. When they part at the marina, they know that this will be the last time they see one another.

"Why did you lie to him?" Harry asks, as he drives his hire car out of the marina car park.

"It wasn't a lie. We do have plans. We have to go to bed early, and make love."

Harry smiles, and reaches across to grasp her hand. "I like that plan, Ruth."

"Besides, I think George was trying to come on to me, and I don't like that, especially when it's clear I'm with you."

"I didn't appreciate it either."

"No kidding. There were times today I was afraid you would punch George. That time when he touched my arm when he offered me more wine …... Harry, I could see the steam coming out of your ears."

"I hadn't thought of myself as being jealous …... I don't think I am, but …..."

"You're jealous because he's younger than you, slimmer than you, is quite handsome -"

"Alright, alright. No need to rub it in."

"I will never give you cause to be jealous."

Harry had parked the car in front of the cottage, and has turned off the engine. "I know," he says, looking into her eyes.

"Then …... why the histrionics?"

"I suppose it's because …..."

"What?"

"When compared with younger, fitter men, I feel …..."

"What, Harry?"

"I feel …... insecure …... inadequate."

"Thank you," Ruth says, and she leans across the consul, and kisses him on the mouth.

"What was that for?"

"For being honest with me. It's a very good start. We're going to be alright, Harry."

"I'm planning on us being much better than alright."

"Good. So …... what do you think about my plans for us tonight?"

"I heartily approve of your plans."

They leave the car, and walk up the pathway to the front door of the cottage. They don't touch, because they each know that after dinner there will be quite a lot of touching.

That night, they follow Ruth's plans, and they both agree that her plans were a very good idea. They fall asleep, their naked bodies still covered in a sheen of sweat, their hands linked on the mattress between them. The night is still and silent, and the moon shines through a gap in the curtain. They are very content.