A/N - Time got away from me but I hope this chapter makes up for it. I promise to be more faithful with my updates. Thank you once again for reading!
A fresh-faced parliamentary intern leaned against the wall, daydreaming of a life outside the boredom of a corridor in Whitehall. The sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, and he quickly stood to attention. Harry gave the young man a curt nod of greeting and then gestured to the dark panelled door. The intern waved Harry through with a motion of caution, reminding him to be discreet. The committee room was airless, filled with the immovable heat of poor ventilation and pompous speech. In the cramped space, attendees were scattered about the chairs, barely taking up the three rows of seats. A few heads turned as Harry quietly took a seat in the back row. It would appear that there was little outside interest in the Committee on Foreign Audit and Accounting. Lacking any sort of glamour or prestige, the meeting had not even made it into the top line of scheduled events; Callum had to dig to even find its existence. Everton Price, Chair of the Committee, sat with his arms crossed, head nodding slightly as a fellow minister droned on with a rambling question. Harry searched his mind for the title of the parliamentarian; finally settling on the name Talbot. At the front of the room, a blonde head nodded, understanding the question and parsing it down. Ariadne Kolos leant forward as she spoke into the microphone.
"It is entirely within the law to hold a foreign bank account."
"Is there a case where you might use one for illegal purposes?" Talbot inquired.
"I would never use one for illegal purposes." Ariadne paused as the room gave a small laugh. "But some might use it for tax evasion, or to hide the origin of the funds."
Everton Price stirred, the laughter rousing him as if a cue to speak. "So would you say it would be better to keep the money in the country."
"Yes, it would be beneficial to keep the capital in Britain."
"Is there any way to track foreign investment in the country?" Price asked.
"Not really. That's why I would endorse the proposal to ease regulations on any foreign financial institutions hoping to set up shop here, as an incentive for them to share their data."
"By foreign you mean Russian," Talbot interjected.
Price cleared his throat. "I've been informed that we are overdue for a break. We'll convene again in one hour."
He gave a half-hearted bang of the gavel and the attendees rose, the low murmur of voices filling the room. Harry hovered near the door, waiting to catch Ariadne's attention. His eyes narrowed as she approached Price, the man frowning, her hand on his arm as she spoke to him. Price spotted Harry, and Ariadne followed his gaze. She smiled in recognition, excused herself from Price and walked over to Harry.
"Harry, how nice to see you."
"My apologies for last night. Perhaps we could have a moment now."
"Let me grab my bag."
They stepped out of the room, Ariadne recommending a coffee shop around the corner where they could chat. Midway down the hall, Harry stopped in front of a door and cut the conversation short.
"This is my colleague, Callum Reed."
Until that moment Callum had been invisible, part of the woodwork of the corridor, but at Harry's voice he stood up straight, tablet in hand, no folders for him, a tight smile on his face. "How do you do?"
"What's this about, Harry?"
Harry opened the door and gestured into the room. "Let's have a little chat in here, shall we?"
"I don't understand," Ariadne hedged.
"It will only take a moment."
The woman relented and preceded the two men into the room. Dark brown walls gave the room an element of claustrophobia, there was barely space for a small round table. Harry motioned for Ariadne to take a seat, while he remained standing, keeping authority in his court.
"Do I need a lawyer," she asked half-jokingly.
"Only if you've done anything illegal," Harry answered. "You haven't done anything illegal, have you?"
"Of course not."
Harry nodded to Callum and the young man sat down, opening up the screen on his tablet. "We've been looking into the finances of Better Britain. Have you heard of them?"
"Yes," Ariadne answered.
"PensaFarrow is on the board. Correct?"
"I believe so."
"Better Britain donated to the campaign of Everton Price." Callum tipped his head. "Charities are not allowed to support political parties."
"It's a nonprofit; the rules aren't as stringent as they are for charities."
"Do you know how Better Britain raises its funds?" Harry asked.
"Fundraisers, small donors, corporations."
Callum turned the tablet around in Ariadne's direction. "Here is a list of some of the companies. All above board right? Until you dig a little deeper. This one links to an offshore account."
"Like I said in Committee," Ariadne gave a smile, showing her infinite patience for the two men not versed in finance. "There is nothing illegal about offshore accounts."
"Except this account belongs to a Russian national. Meaning foreign money was being funnelled into a domestic campaign."
Harry crossed his arms. "I'm sure non-profits fall under campaign finance law."
The smile fell from Ariadne's face and her eyes darted back and forth between the two men. "I had no idea of any of this."
"Does the name Ilya Gavrik mean anything to you?" Harry closed in on the table, forcing Ariadne to look up at him.
"I've heard of him but I've never had any dealings with him. "
"I found it very interesting that Price called for a break just as a question was being asked about Russia. Do you think he knows where the money for his campaign came from?"
"I don't know. Harry, you have to believe me. If PensaFarrow has done anything illegal you can expect my full cooperation."
Harry weighed her words on the scale of truth. Perhaps she was only the middle link in the chain, unaware of what was being pulled along behind her. He could break her and toss her away or use her as a wedge. Refrain from direct accusation and give her an opening. A mole in the financial sector was always beneficial.
"Your company is giving testimony that would shape future financial legislation while it has close ties to a nonprofit funded by foreign money." Harry placed his hand on the table and leaned down toward the woman. "Do you see a conflict there?"
"Yes, of course."
"So I would suggest that you go back into that committee room, recuse yourself as a witness, and tell them that foreign finance needs greater scrutiny especially Russian investment."
With a terse nod, Ariadne gave her silent agreement.
"We might need to call on your expertise in the near future. I hope we can count on you. Callum will be joining you when you return to committee. As moral support." Harry leaned over and whispered in her ear. "I don't think we'll be having dinner again."
He left the room.
.
Rays from the setting sun filtered through the network of metal grills that covered the window, casting faint patterns on the tiled floor. From one cloistered room to another. Harry sat, his leg subtly bouncing with agitation, muscles yearning to stretch, lungs missing fresh air. Beside him sat Erin, a manila folder in her lap, the epitome of patience. Her head dipped in the direction of Harry's leg. He ceased his bouncing, the stillness revealing a small stain on his trousers. Coffee, he surmised. He rubbed it gently with his thumb hoping that no one else had noticed the stain. He only needed to make it through this meeting, then he could shower and change and continue on to the place where he wanted to be. Finally, the door was opened and the subject of the meeting entered the room. Sasha walked over to the table and sat down. He made a motion to lean his cane on the table but thought the better of it and set it against his chair instead. Harry inhaled, digging down into the recesses of his constitution, pulling out one last drop of energy. His eyes met a stony stare.
"Why are you here?" Sasha asked.
"I'm here to offer you redemption."
Harry gave a nod to Erin, handing the meeting over to her. Placing the folder on the table, she opened it, displaying the contents to Sasha.
"This is a release signing over your share of Sobol holdings."
"Why would I do that?" he scoffed.
"The Crown would see it as an act of cooperation and take it into consideration during sentencing."
"You're asking me to buy justice?" Sasha asked. "Every time I see you I learn how much our countries have in common."
Harry pursed his lips, swallowing the bile that rose in his mouth. He loathed this sort of perverted justice, one law for the rich and one for the poor. It didn't matter, the end justifies the means. Ignoring Sasha's quip, he turned to Erin. "What's the violent incident report out of Wormwood Scrubs these days."
"Fifty a day, a least four serious stabbings-"
"Why would I give you my money." Sasha cut her off, understanding the direction of the conversation.
"You can either give it to us, or your father is going to take it."
The young man sat up in his chair.
"As we speak," Harry continued, "He is taking steps to obtain it. And then he will invest it in this country and make a life for himself while you rot in jail."
"You're not buying justice," Erin picked up the conversation. "You're helping to bring your father to justice."
Harry raised his hands, signalling that Sasha's final decision made no difference to him. "We are going to find out where this money originated, and if it's connected to any sort of criminal activity it will be confiscated and you will have squandered an opportunity."
"You could tell us where the money comes from," Erin prompted, fishing for information.
"My father is very good at keeping things at arm's length," Sasha answered enigmatically.
"And people too, it would seem," she added.
"There are other accounts in your name, when you are released from prison you will not be destitute. Your father has made no attempt to visit you, contact you, underwrite your legal representation." Harry waited for a beat, letting his words sink in, and then he aimed at the Achilles Heel. "He killed your mother."
A muscle twitched in Sasha's cheek, and his hand shook involuntarily before he quickly covered it with the other one. Erin took the opportunity to place an elegant pen on top of the papers. Sasha stared at it impassively. Harry grimaced, wondering if he had overplayed his hand, overestimating his skills of persuasion. The young man raised his eyes and stared directly at Harry.
"Would you have killed her?"
Harry held the young man's gaze, a twinge of compassion flickering under the stoic facade that he maintained. Hidden in the depths of the blue eyes was the young boy that he once had thought was his. The son over whom he carried years of guilt for deserting him and his mother. It was all a charade. Blue eyes, like his father's, it should have been a sign.
"No," Harry answered. It was a lie. If the circumstance had warranted it, if it meant saving lives, he would have killed Elena in an instant. But he knew what the boy needed to hear.
"But you would have killed me," Sasha baited.
"Sasha, they used you." Harry dropped his voice, appealing to the young man's sense of self. "This is your opportunity to stop being a pawn. Turn your back on him and start new.
He levelled a look at Harry. "Once FSB, always FSB."
Harry curled his fingers into a fist, they had lost the boy, the FSB code of silence was greater than Sasha's need for revenge. It had been worth the attempt. To his surprise, Sasha picked up the pen and hastily scrawled his signature.
"Make sure that he rots."
Sasha threw the pen down on the table and retrieved his cane. With the little dignity that was left to him, he walked out of the room.
.
Fine flakes of snow danced on the cold wind, fluttering down and landing on Harry, dusting his coat, melting as they touched his face. It was dark, the hour made even later by his decision to go home before returning to the safe house. Washed and pressed, with a decent shave, he felt more himself and less at his wit's end, the fumes of adrenaline replaced by the energy of anticipation. Two bags banged against his legs, sustenance and a little something more, a reward after a day longer than a year. Arriving at the building, he cradled one of the bags in his arm as he punched the intercom buzzer. He waited. A car sped past, the beam of a headlight passing over his black coat, revealing his position in the cover of darkness. He was exposed and he didn't like it. He punched the keypad once again with more force. The door clicked open and he quickly slid through.
He rapped his knuckles three times on the door to the flat, holding expectation in check, tempering the thought of walking through the door and collapsing into her arms. Ruth opened the door. There was no smile or greeting, she merely turned around and walked away. He stood in the doorway, perplexed by her lack of warmth, running through possible causes in his mind. Rousing himself, he remembered that he needed to close the door.
"Why didn't you let me in on the first buzz?"
"Sorry, I was working on something."
Frowning, annoyed by her distracted state, he concluded that she was giving him the gears for his abrupt departure that afternoon. She made no effort to explain her work but returned to her seat in front of the laptop. Looking to salvage the evening, Harry carried on with his plan and walked toward the tiny kitchenette.
"Malcolm gone?"
"Yes, he left a little while ago."
Harry grimaced at the news; he had asked Malcolm to stay until he arrived. It was late, he could hardly blame the man; besides he had been very diligent in his updates and had kept Harry woven into the loop long after he had left the safe house.
"More food for us."
Extracting the takeaway cartons from the bag, he studied a box, trying to remember if it was Schezwan noodles or fried rice. It didn't matter, at that point he would eat anything. In the background, the keys continued to tap on the laptop, and Ruth squinted at the screen. In an effort to maintain the illusion of emptiness, the flat was in near darkness. The only source of light was a desk lamp, its glow pooling around the table, illuminating her face in sharp contrast with the shadows that loomed in the corners. What was looming in those shadows, he was afraid to ask. He pulled out a bottle of wine, a concession to her, though his system was crying out for a decent ten-year-old scotch. He rummaged in the cupboard for some glasses and finding two, dusted them off and ran them under the tap, telling himself that the alcohol would kill off any remaining germs. After filling the glasses, he crossed over to the table and set a tumbler down beside her. She gave the glass a cursory look.
"I don't want to lose this thread."
"You should eat though."
Harry returned with the cartons, pulled out a chair and sat across from her. He tugged at the knot of his tie, releasing the constraints of the day, a button undone, allowing him to breathe. As he sipped his wine, he gazed at her over the rim of his glass. The sheen in her hair told him that she had showered, and applied some makeup as evidenced by the hue of her lips. Her indifference to his presence remained unsettling and he contemplated the thought that one bottle of wine might not be enough to resolve whatever situation he had stepped into. He opened the flaps of a carton, noodles he observed, and with more force than was strictly necessary, stuck a plastic fork into its contents.
"I have a present for you," he told her as he chewed on the noodles, hoping to pique her curiosity.
"I have one for you too."
She spun the laptop around to face him. On the screen was a rather striking picture of Ariadne Kolos, alongside what looked like an official document in a foreign language.
"Ariadne Kolos died when she was three years old." Ruth tapped the screen. "This woman is not Ariadne Kolos."
Mouth hanging open, fork poised in mid-air, Harry ignored the dangling noodles. "Shit."
Ruth pointed to the document. "This is from Cyprus. Classic identity theft, but it happened in another country. Harder to spot. I just knew what databases to access."
Harry placed the carton on the table and pulled out his phone. He motioned to Ruth. "Send it to me," he commanded in a whisper. She raised an eyebrow at his tone. "Callum," he said. "Get a team on Ariadne Kolos. Yes, now. It's a deep cover. I'm sending you the details. No, don't bring her in yet. Let's see who she talks to."
As he spoke on the phone, Ruth leaned back in her chair, subverting a smile. Having succeeded in her task, she took a congratulatory sip of wine. She rolled the liquid around in her mouth, assessing the vintage. Finding the wine palatable, she downed the entire glass. She examined the glass as she spoke.
"Did you have a nice dinner with her?"
"I didn't know who she was at the time." Harry placed the mobile in his pocket, eyeing her warily.
"I'd only been gone a week."
Taking a deep breath to fortify his courage, Harry closed his eyes. "I thought you were dead."
"It's good to know the time limit, for future reference."
Pushing her chair back, she stood up and walked away, putting the distance of the room between them though it felt like more. The metal slats of the blind clacked together as she peeked through them.
"Don't stand by the window."
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Sorry, I forgot..." Harry took a gulp of the wine, emptying the glass, keeping apace with her. " You don't work for me anymore."
"I was willing to stay but you told me to leave.'
He winced at the sting of her reply. It was a weed that needed to be rooted out or it would continue to grow between them. The conversation on the park bench where he could have, should have said more, the reasoning behind his decision never fully explained. His eyes wandered longingly over to the bottle of wine. He should have bought two. He had never shirked from a challenge before. Here was the opportunity to unpick it all and start fresh. But that was a feat beyond his skill, he no idea what words to invoke. She remained by the window, arms crossed in resistance, her figure silhouetted against the light from the street that fell through the blinds. She wore a different outfit than the previous evening, a dress reminiscent of her former wardrobe, black, narrowing at the waist, dipping at the neckline, the flesh beneath it so close yet still out of reach. Two steps and he could be over there, take control and resolve the situation in a manner that didn't require words. Irritation scratched at him, fatigue and ego battling, combined with the sense that he would never control this woman. His fingers flexed on his tumbler, imagining the material of her dress in his hand, peeling it back, ripping it away. He stood, the legs of his chair scratching loudly against the floor.
"I certainly hope that frock was worth it."
"Frock?" she echoed, confused by his use of the archaic word. "If I had not bought this 'frock' I would never have found the tracking devices.'
Harry crossed to the counter and poured himself another glass of wine, downing a good portion of it before he spoke, patience wearing thin. "Why are you always so damn prickly?"
"I am not prickly." Each syllable of her words carefully enunciated. "I don't know why I have to explain my actions, especially when you never do. Or do I need to remind you of Sasha."
"I told you that day to get back in that bunker but you didn't listen to me."
"That's not what I meant." She folded her arms tighter and looked away from him, unwilling to concede that he had only her best interest at heart.
God, the woman was full of enough stubborn pride to equal his own. He longed to shake some sense into her, not to stand around arguing, wasting the precious moments that time had allotted them. Could she not see that? But then, she had not stared into the gaping hole of loss for the length of time that he had. He ran a hand of weariness across his face. He had witnessed behaviour like this before, the inhabitant of a safehouse bridling at the restraint, risking safety for a moment of freedom, hurling insults at the ones charged to protect them.
"Everything I have asked you to do has been for your own good."
"Why is it that you never listen to me?" she countered. "Why do you never heed my warnings? You were totally compromised by Sasha-"
"Why are you bringing that up? It's over and done with."
Set on another track, she continued her own train of thought."Go here, go there. Don't leave the safe house. Why are you always telling me what to do?"
"I need to protect you."
"I can protect myself," she hissed.
"Can't you get it through your head." Unable to control himself, he gave into his previous impulse and with two quick strides, he closed the gap between them. His fingers wound around her upper arms, thumbs digging into the softness under her dress, the force of his movement causing her head to wobble, exasperation and fury spilling out. "I need to protect you because I love you."
The air shattered around them, the glass that had encased his feelings for so long, breaking, not in a moment of whispered tenderness as he had always imagined, but in a burst of fierce intensity. Eyes wide, irises eclipsed by fathomless pupils, she stared at him, mouth open, chest rising and falling with shaky breaths. The missing slats of the blind cast ribbons of shadow across her face, light and dark existing at once, waring for supremacy, matching the dark desire that swirled within him. She swallowed and blinked, speaking to him in a dry whisper.
"You certainly have a strange way of showing it."
Reason returned to him, along with the remembrance of his earlier vow to treat this woman with care. His anger abated, frustration seeped away, and he released her arm. His initial plan had gone somewhat awry. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the reason why he had stopped at his house. The chain glittered in his hand, the charm dangling over the side of his palm. He held it up to her. Her lips formed a small oh and the lines of consternation on her face vanished, replaced by soft surprise. He should have presented her with the necklace the moment he walked through the door.
"You kept it?" she asked with wonder.
"It was all I had. My only line to you."
She reached out and tentatively touched the chain, testing to see if it was real.
"Is this you?" he asked, offering the necklace up to her. "The woman you once were, the person you want to be again."
"It's one piece," she nodded, accepting his gesture of reconciliation, acknowledging his attempt to convey that he did on occasion listen to her. She took the chain from his hand and moved it around her neck, frowning as she tried unsuccessfully to connect the clasp.
"May I," he asked his tone for once seeking permission instead of commanding.
She turned around and held the necklace up for him. More thumbs than fingers, he clumsily took the chain. She swept her hair aside with one hand to allow him better access. His hands hovered above her skin as he studied the back of her neck, a piece of her that he had not seen since the early years when she wore her hair upswept. He wanted to forget the necklace and place his lips against that vulnerable spot, the tiny nub at the top of her spine where her neck dipped in. Her head moved, wondering at his hesitation. He reigned in his focus, but the delicate hook eluded his grasp. Fingers shaking, he finally connected the clasp and the loop. He let the chain rest on her neck but did not release it entirely, temptation taunting him, calling him to act before it was too late. Forever is composed of nows. His thumb grazed across the nape of her neck, a touch that was barely there, against skin that was barely there. But it was enough to make her shiver. He bent his head down, his breath stirring a strand of her hair.
"You're right," he whispered in her ear. "You're not prickly at all."
Her neck stiffened with surprise, and she half turned, looking at him over her shoulder. He waited, in no way regretting his words, wondering if they could find their way through her armour. In the distance, a siren wailed, down on the street a man shouted with a drunken song and then the silence of the deserted neighbourhood descended once again. Slowly, she turned around and looked up at him. A flicker of light glanced off the charm of her necklace, and his eyes were captured by the reflection. His glance fell down to her throat, dipping lower, following the line of shadow that led to the valley between her breasts. In a rare flash of introspection, it dawned on him the possible root of their frustration with each other.
He reached out and gently laid a finger on the charm as it nestled in the notch of her collar bone. A teardrop of glass, solid beneath his finger. How far could he go? His eyes met hers, searching for the answer. There was no hint of resistance, only fascination. His finger moved, skimming across the ridge of her clavicle; easily broken, harder to mend. The rise and fall of her chest quickened. He let his finger slide lower, delighting in the fine lace of her skin, a voyage that he had only ever travelled with his eyes. The hard surface of her breastbone was revealed, and he stopped just before it gave way to the promise of more malleable flesh. A fluttering of tiny thuds played beneath his fingertips. Blood flowing beneath the skin, heart beating with life. She had returned to him. His throat tightened, air leaving his chest; it was impossible to draw a line around his feelings, words were of no use, entirely ineffective for what he wanted to convey. He gave over to instinct. Closing his eyes, he lowered his head, and brushed his lips across hers, holding his breath for fear that she might vanish. He opened his eyes. She was still there. Her eyes remained closed, head tilted up, searching for him, inviting. He did not need to be asked twice.
In his dreams, he coaxed soft sighs from tender lips, clothes removed with a reverend touch, the slow reveal of a long-sought present. But the luxury of leisure was for those who had ever unfolding days. In this moment, fueled by the heat of uncertainty, there was only the white-hot flash of burning desire. Here, there was only now. His mouth landed on hers with an all-consuming hunger, hard, demanding, the force knocking her off balance. Her fingers clutched at his jacket, and his hands moved to steady her, arms reeling her in. Finesse abandoned, he parted her lips, tongue thrusting, plumbing her depths with a primal urgency. Fabric bunched in his hand, the outline of a leg, fingers finding her inner thigh, a race against the time that fate had allowed him. Desperate to know her body, he pulled at her dress, the material giving away, the flesh of her breast discovered. She pulled at his jacket, struggling in vain to remove it since he would not let her go, settling on tugging the shirt free from his waistband. He backed her up, trying to recollect the layout of the flat. They careened into the edge of the bedroom door, the sharp angle of the frame hitting his back. He felt nothing. The waltz of lust took them into the darkened bedroom, bodies moving on sense and touch. He gave no thought to the condition of the bed, the state of the sheets. He would take her against the wall if need be. They reached the bed earlier than he had anticipated, and they tumbled over each other falling onto the ancient mattress.
"Ow," she exclaimed.
The sharpness of her cry cut through the fog of his desire. The tempo of her breathing changed from one of pleasure to tiny puffs of pain. She sat up in the bed, clutching her stomach.
"What is it?" he groggily asked as if water had been splashed on him.
"Sorry, it's just…" She gave a tiny whimper and then slowed down her breath, her composure returning. "My side is still a bit tender.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He sat up beside her, contrite, worried. "Are you all right?"
"It's okay."
The light from the next room barely reached the bed, but even in the dimness, he knew that her smile of assurance did not reach her eyes. Disappointment surged within him and then receded replaced by concern, the tenderness that he had eschewed earlier coming forward.
"Do you need a doctor?"
She shook her head. "I just need to rest."
Nursing her side, she eased herself down onto the bed. Finding a blanket, he plumped up a pillow and laid down beside her. She carefully rolled over on her side and looked at him. He gazed back at her, overcome with the novelty of lying with her in the same bed.
"It's probably a good idea if we take things more slowly," he suggested.
"More slowly than we have?"
"We should at least have a proper night out."
"We did have brunch."
"I'd like to take you somewhere nice." His hand found hers and he laced their fingers together.
"Why Harry Pearce, I think you might be a bit of a romantic."
He had never thought of himself as a man of hearts and flowers. Perhaps he had only needed the right woman to uncover it. "I might be, buried under the curmudgeon." His lips grazed her knuckles.
Her free hand played absently with the chain around her neck. "Was this the present that you were talking about?"
"In part," he shifted on the bed. "I convinced Sasha to sign over his account."
"What? That's fantastic. How did you do that?"
"He's a bitter young man, I only offered him a conduit to release it. Now, you'll have a reason to get into the bank."
"I was going to run the plan past you but I got sidetracked with that woman."
"Malcolm kept me abreast of your scheme."
"You had him spying on me?"
"I wouldn't call it that…"
"Does that mean you're willing to entertain my idea?"
"Once I get some back up in place."
"What changed your mind?"
"You're right, we'll never find rest." He reached out to her cheek and brushed his finger along the skin. "See, I do listen to you. Eventually." He let his finger trail down her neck, over her shoulder and down her arm. What was he going to do with his need for this woman? It was a distraction. "I went to your house by the sea."
"You did?"
"I couldn't get past the kitchen."
"Was it that bad?"
"No, it was that…" He paused unable to finish the sentence. He had left a piece of his heart at that house, it had been a struggle to hold the rest of it together. "You weren't there and the emptiness was too much to bear. And what was so close for so many years was gone."
She reached over and touched his face. "I'm here now."
"But you want to go away again. And it seems that I must let you."
"I'm not a frivolous woman, Harry. I've lost everything twice over. My life was almost taken from me again. Someone has to pay. We both know there's a good chance this bank account holds the answer."
"I know."
His hands moved lower, careful to avoid her side, his finger snagging in a tear. "I hope I didn't ruin your frock."
"No one says frock anymore," she teased.
"Only romantics. Or so I'm told."
She nestled in closer to him, her breath playing across his cheek. "I can't help but feel sad that I lost that little cottage by the coast."
"Don't worry," he squeezed her hand, his forehead moving, touching hers. " I'll find you another place by the sea."
They lay in silence, relishing the unaccustomed closeness, a monumental hurdle overcome. Her breathing grew softer, falling into a rhythm. Harry kept her hand securely in his, unwilling to let her go. Mind free of lustful thoughts, clarity returned and he sifted through the steps of her plan, calculating at what points he could weave in the scheme that he had devised. Perhaps he would tell her in the morning.
