Profound apologies for how long it has taken me to get this chapter out - Christmas, snow, and other circumstances intervened. More than ever I must thank grainweevil, louella and RedSkyAtNight, all of whom helped tremendously with the development and execution of this chapter - your time and patience are much appreciated, ladies.

Thanks so much to all of you who are still reading - I hope this chapter has been worth the wait. As always, I love to hear what you think.

Alex awoke on Saturday morning a woman with a mission. The night before she had decided that really, she couldn't go out for dinner in anything that she might wear for work: she needed a new dress. Wrapping herself up as protection against the snow which still lay in the streets, grimy now, she headed for the West End.

It took an hour's purposeful browsing but she found it: the perfect dress. It was knee-length, pewter in colour, made from a shimmering, gauzy fabric and cut on the cross so that it clung flatteringly to all her curves. The bodice was decorated with tiny black beads. She loved it immediately and would have bought it whatever the cost; she was delighted to find that it was half-price in the New Year sale. Encouraged by this saving, she splashed out on a black wrap of softest lambswool to go over it, and then treated herself to a new lipstick. Lastly she bought a couple of new pairs of stockings. She had a feeling that when it came to women's undergarments, Gene's taste would veer towards the traditional.

Pleased with her purchases, she headed back to the Tube station, laden with bulging carrier bags. Pushing through the crowds on Oxford Street, she had to step aside to make way for three girls, arm-in-arm, going the other way; with a jolt she realised that it was Molly and two of her friends, out on a shopping spree. They looked vibrantly alive, cheeks glowing, all giggling together at some shared secret joke. Alex could not resist turning round and surreptitiously following, though all the while she was wondering how soon it would be before they faded from sight. She knew what to expect now.

Alex could not keep from beaming as she followed her excited daughter along the road, watching as Molly and her friends stopped to point and exclaim over things in various shop windows. To her delight, Molly looked truly carefree, no shadow hanging over her, at least not today as she enjoyed herself with her friends. After a couple of minutes she heard a small, tinny burst of music; it was so long since she had heard one, that it took her a few moments to realise that it was a mobile phone ringtone. She heard Molly say "Hang on a minute" and start fishing in her bag, then she pulled out her phone – an incongruous sight in a 1982 street, but one that was unobserved by the hordes of other shoppers hurrying past – and answered "Hello, Dad."

Alex reacted with the instant, irrational stab of annoyance that the thought of her ex-husband always triggered, but she tried to swallow it down and listened intently to the rest of the one-sided conversation: "Yes, Dad, of course I'm OK" – here Molly rolled her eyes expressively at her two companions – "Yes, I'm with Sophie and Tanya… About an hour, I should think… OK, see you then... Love you too... Bye." Molly put the phone back in her bag and turned away, once more linking arms with her friends. Alex could hear her talking to them as they moved away, but then, just as she had known they would, the whole group faded from sight and she was left staring at an empty space which was quickly filled with bustling shoppers.

Slowly, Alex retraced her steps to the Tube station, reflecting on what she had seen. Molly had been very small when her parents split up, and for a while Alex had fought what felt like a futile battle, insisting for her daughter's sake that she still had regular contact with her father, even when he did not seem interested. But as Molly had grown older she had forged a genuine relationship with Peter, and though his behaviour was still often what Alex considered to be selfish and careless, Molly herself had kept up the contact, and had proved to be a lot more charitable and tolerant towards him than Alex had ever been able to be. Since he had met his Canadian girlfriend, he had been around less often, but he and Molly still kept in touch via phone and e-mail. Often Alex had felt exasperated, even resentful, at the extent to which the girl exonerated her father, but now, she realised, it brought her reassurance. She was relieved to know that Molly still had a good relationship with her remaining parent; moreover, that he was still taking an active part in seeing her, hopefully reducing the burden on Evan of caring for her. The whole experience, she mused as she sat on the crowded Tube train, could have been upsetting, but instead it was positive. Molly seemed to be getting on with her life, and in some intangible way, Alex now felt free to get on with her own.

Gene had felt a wave of tremendous relief as Luigi sidled up to him on Friday evening and murmured "You are lucky, Signor Hunt. Very lucky. A cancellation. Seven-thirty." On Saturday morning he too ventured forth, not to the West End but to his local shopping centre, with errands in mind.

He passed the dry cleaners, making a mental note to pick up his best suit on the way back. Firstly though, he had a haircut, then bought a new white shirt. Not that either were anything to do with the date, he told himself; he had been meaning to do both for some time. Next he turned towards Underwoods the Chemist.

A couple of days previously he had overheard Chris and Shaz teasing Ray, in the aftermath of his latest failed date, about how old-fashioned his aftershave was. It was a concept that had never really occurred to Gene before, but it gave him pause for thought. A critical eye cast over his own toiletries shelf this morning had revealed that everything there looked a bit tired. A bit… dated. Distinctly 1970s. Perhaps, he reflected, it was time to adopt something more modern. He was already aware of how much older he was than Alex, without using scent to emphasise the fact any further. Not that this is for her benefit, of course, he hastened to remind himself, heading towards the perfumerie counter.

A bewildering array of bottles and sprays met his eyes; the choice was such that he was immediately tempted to go for another bottle of Brut and hang the fact that it was old-fashioned. However, he steeled himself and, selecting a bottle at random, pulled the top off and took a cautious sniff.

"Can I help you, sir?" Shit. Too late he realised that he had been ambushed by one of the painted harpies who staffed the counter. She cracked a fake smile in the thick foundation that coated her face, and raised her immaculately-drawn eyebrows. "What kind of thing are you looking for?"

"Uh… aftershave…" he grunted; it was hardly eloquent, but it didn't matter as she wasn't listening anyway.

"May I recommend this? It's the latest from Yves Saint Laurent," she asked brightly, and before he knew what she was doing, she had seized his left wrist and enveloped it in a spray of scent from a bottle she held in her hand.

"Gerroff me, you dozy cow!" Gene snatched his arm away, glowering, and coughed as the scent reached him. "Jesus! That smells like a tart's parlour!"

The woman's eyes registered slight shock but she went on seamlessly, unperturbed. "How about this? It's by Calvin Klein, just out." A cloud of fragrance smothered his other arm.

"Christ! What's that, fly spray?" Gene waved a hand in front of his face, trying to disperse the pungent mist. "And I'm not buying anything produced by some poncey designer who makes jeans too tight and underpants too loose!"

Even the harpy could sense that she was losing ground here. Hurriedly she grabbed another bottle and, wisely, decided not to spray him but merely held it up for him to smell. "What about this, sir? Aramis – it's a classic. Timeless and truly masculine."

Gene sniffed at it gingerly. A classic. He liked the sound of that. Timeless and masculine wasn't bad either. And it actually didn't smell at all bad, at least not compared to the two she'd just drenched him in. Yes. Aramis. That would do. He barked acceptance and slapped a note down on the counter, as the woman put an unopened bottle in a bag and handed it to him with another face-cracking smile.

The decision made, Gene stalked away and went to get more shaving foam. Often these days he used an electric shaver, but he knew that for this evening, nothing but a wet shave would do. The things I do for that bloody woman... Lastly, he headed for the pharmacy counter. If this evening was not to end up a complete shambles like last time, there was something else he needed to buy.

Alex spent the afternoon immersed in the minutiae of preparation. Every inch of skin was buffed, exfoliated and moisturised, every stray hair shaved or plucked. She cleaned her teeth, styled her hair and painted her nails. All the while an ironic refrain kept going round in her head: a line from Bridget Jones' Diary. How did it go? 'Being a woman is worse than being a farmer, there is so much crop-spraying and harvesting to be done.' She smiled at the thought.

The rational part of her brain could not help asking herself why she was going to all this trouble. After all, in the past seven months Gene had seen her in most states of dress and undress, with and without makeup, polished and poised but also tired, unkempt, her face drenched in sweat or blotched with tears. On the one previous occasion when he had taken her to bed, she had been just as she was after a day's work, totally unprepared, and he hadn't seemed to mind… Far from it, in fact… God, if she closed her eyes she could still feel his hands, his mouth on her skin… She shook herself and tried not to get too carried away. There was no guarantee that anything like that would happen tonight. The messages she'd got from him recently had been mixed… confusing. She had no doubt about her own willingness to reveal everything to him, however. She wanted to make that connection again.

Admitting that the real reason she was going to such lengths was for her own self-esteem, she revelled in the preparations, dressing carefully and painstakingly. First, a classic underwear set of bra, knickers and suspender belt in black lace; then stockings, the new dress, and strappy black high-heeled shoes. She prayed that Gene would be able to park near enough to the restaurant for her not to get snow or slush inside them. Next came her make-up: subtle smokiness around the eyes, deep red lipstick; and jewellery, silver and black. When she had put the finishing touches to her hair, there was nothing to do but wait, feeling increasingly nervous and wondering why she should do so, when Gene was hardly a stranger: over the last seven months she had spent most of her waking hours with him. But tonight, it felt as though there was a lot at stake.

When the knock finally came and she opened the door to him, what she saw almost took her breath away. Familiar he might be, but tonight he looked different. She took in the haircut, the best suit, the crisp white shirt, and a tie which, for him, was almost tasteful. She'd forgotten he could look this good. She was almost salivating at the sight. Stop it, Alex. As he moved past her she noticed his skin: it would never be smooth, but tonight it looked temptingly soft, the product of what she guessed to be a very thorough wet shave. It was all she could do not to reach out and stroke it. Alex, for Christ's sake. And then, as a wicked afterthought: Later.

She had not managed to say much of coherence during this time, but luckily her appearance seemed to have deprived him of speech to much the same extent. She moved aside and gestured for him to come in; as he moved past her, a waft of Aramis met her nostrils. That was a surprise – for a moment she felt disappointed, she had grown fond of his familiar scent. On reflection, though, it really wasn't bad, and although it was very 1980s, somehow also it was very him. She smiled.

"Wot?" he asked suspiciously, noticing her expression.

"Nothing. You've made an effort, that's all, Mr Hunt." She raised an eyebrow. "Very nice."

"Huh," he grunted, sounding embarrassed. He had been feeling uncomfortable, annoyed with himself for having gone to all this effort over a woman, but as soon as he saw her, he was glad that he had. She looked unbelievable, gorgeous, and he had no words to tell her just how good. None of the lines he would use on other women sounded right, because she was something else altogether. Instead he just said "Shall we go, then?" It was gruff, almost a bark, but nevertheless she smiled as she took his arm, and he escorted her down the stairs.

The restaurant was tiny and intimate, seating no more than a dozen couples. Snow-white linen covered the tables and a small vase of orange-blossom stood on each. Silverware and crystal sparkled in the perfect lighting – subdued, but not gloomy – and delicate piano music tinkled in the background. The whole place seemed suffused with a warm glow, infinitely attractive and inviting on a cold February night. Gene felt slightly ill-at-ease, but was secretly elated when Alex looked around, eyes shining, and murmured, "Gene, it's beautiful. Thank you."

One waiter took their coats, another escorted them to their table and pulled out Alex's chair for her, while yet another handed them their menus. Alex was amazed at the quality of the service – attentive, deferential, and yet totally unobtrusive. Gene registered with resignation just how much all this perfection was going to cost him. He hoped it was worth it.

Cousin Enzo was easy to spot as the maitre d', but both of them would have known him anywhere. He was slimmer than Luigi and had more hair, but the same moustache, and an even more lugubrious and doleful expression. Alex could not help giggling at him, which in turn gave Gene occasion to smile. So far, so good.

Alex scanned the menu and her mouth watered for the second time that evening. This was definitely a cut above Luigi's. She chose a mixed seafood starter, followed, as predicted, by Dover sole. It was perfectly cooked and she enjoyed every mouthful. As a rule, Gene didn't consider fish to be worth eating unless it was dipped in batter and deep fried, but he ordered a salmon steak and made the best of it.

As they waited for the food to arrive, he leaned forward and asked, "So, Bolly, been 'ere before? Somewhere like this'd be right up your street, I imagine." His tone was teasing, to hide a genuine insecurity.

Alex responded in kind, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "No, actually." She sighed, becoming became slightly more serious. "Look, I know you think I'm some sort of caviar-guzzling champagne socialist, but really, it's not like that. All my time and effort goes – went - into my career and bringing up my daughter. There's never been a lot left over for the social whirl."

He grunted, acknowledging the truth in what she said. She was a grafter, he'd give her that. Smiling slightly, she retaliated with, "In any case, I don't think you're such a stranger to all this as you'd like to make out. It can't be all cloth caps and black pudding up in Manchester. I reckon you've had your share of good living." Her voice was light, but underneath was genuine curiosity. She wanted to know more about his past.

He sniffed, slightly rueful at her accuracy. While his upbringing had been solidly respectable working-class, being a DCI had opened doors: it had brought good pay, allowing him to treat the missus from time to time, and occasional perks of more dubious kinds, of which he had taken full advantage. Initially uneasy at some of the surroundings in which he found himself, he'd quickly learnt that no matter how up-market a place might be, swaggering into it as if you owned it generally did the trick. Just like it did everywhere else.

"Well, maybe", he admitted. He glanced around. "There's nowhere like this in Manchester, though. Classiest place up there is the dining room of the Midland Hotel, but the service isn't a patch on this. Half the time, your soup could freeze over before it got to you." He was relieved when she laughed in response.

As they ate, Alex's attention was drawn by a couple to their right. She observed them covertly for a minute or two, then pointed them out to Gene in an undertone. "Look at that pair of lovebirds. Can't keep their eyes or their hands off each other."

Gene followed her glance and after a moment or two, agreed. "Can't have known each other long," he remarked. "Them, though" – he nodded towards a couple seated near the door – "they've been married for years."

Alex looked and had to agree with him: the couple in question had the easy matter-of-factness which indicated a long and stable relationship. Gene reflected that not so long ago, he would have followed his verdict with the comment "Poor sod." But now? He wasn't so sure. The bloke by the door looked happy enough.

Alex noticed his moment of abstraction. "What?"

"Nothing." He quickly directed her attention to a young man and woman at the table in the corner. "Noticed him, though?"

"No, what about him?" Alex scanned the young man. "Looks a bit nervous."

"More than a bit, and every two minutes his hand goes to his jacket pocket. Either he's got a ring in there and he's trying to work up the courage to propose, or he's worried there's not enough money in his wallet for the bill."

Despite herself, Alex was impressed. "Well, it's not Valentine's till next weekend," she reasoned, warming to the game. "I should think he'd wait until then to propose, don't you? And it's his inside pocket he keeps checking – more likely to be the wallet." She was enjoying herself now, and nodded at a couple by the window. "What about those two, then?"

Gene observed for a minute and replied, "That's easy, Bolly. First date and he's hoping to get lucky tonight." Like me. Shit, that was a tactless thing to say. Luckily for Gene, Alex was too surprised by Gene's insight to notice the implications of what he'd said. He might not have been trained in interpreting body language as she had, but his instincts seemed to be spot on, and they continued the game, assessing all the diners in the room and finding themselves in almost total agreement about them.

And what about us, Gene? What kind of couple are we? As she finished her sole and laid down her knife and fork, the question hung in Alex's mind, begging to be asked, but she could not find the courage to do it. She wanted so much to end the ambivalence, to know how he felt, but what if she had got it wrong? What if he laughed at her, poured scorn on the idea of them being a couple? She could not face the idea, did not want to spoil this beautiful evening in this perfect place by risking it, and so fear kept her silent.

Gene watched her, noting the lull in the conversation. She was displaying signs of abstraction: pleating her napkin, twirling the stem of her glass, tracing patterns in the tablecloth with her fingernail. Shit. What have I done wrong? She'd seemed to be having a good time: liked the place, enjoyed the food, she'd even laughed at his jokes. Now he appeared to be losing her, and he didn't have the faintest idea why, or what to do about it. His heart sank as his hopes for the evening started to evaporate. Fortunately, the awkward silence was broken by the arrival of the waiter with the dessert menu.

Alex hadn't meant to have dessert, but Enzo's home-made ices were too tempting to resist. Anyway, hadn't Gene said something about liking a woman with a good appetite? So she blissfully sucked tiramisu-flavoured ice-cream off the spoon, while he sipped his coffee, eyes narrowed, hoping she wouldn't notice quite how much he was enjoying watching her.

Eventually Gene paid and they left the restaurant. Alex was unsure whether or not to take his arm again as they walked the short distance back to the car. The atmosphere had changed partway through the evening and now she felt unable to read him. Chewing her lip, she decided against it. He held the door open for her to get in – such a difference, she reflected ruefully, from when they were working, all chivalry forgotten as they flung themselves in and out of it – and she was hoping for a small touch on her back or her arm, but it didn't come.

They spoke little on the way home, each tense and preoccupied. Gene had the suspicion that he had blown it, although he was buggered if he could work out why. It had seemed to be going well, but then she'd gone all quiet, and that was never a good sign with women. Inwardly he resigned himself to the prospect of a peck on the cheek and a lonely drive back to his own flat, there to recreate her image in his mind and satisfy himself in private. Meanwhile Alex felt as taut as a bow-string, anxious, frustrated that they seemed to have made no progress. This was their best chance at re-establishing the bond, the connection, and she felt as though it was slipping away. Could she find the courage to act?

When he drew up a little way past Luigi's and turned the ignition off, Alex's heart pounded in her throat as she turned to him, and she had to swallow before she could speak. Do something, Alex. You can't let this chance go. You've got to do something.

"Thank you, Gene, I... I had a lovely evening."

Right, that's that, then... He took the words for the brush-off that he expected, but then she leaned towards him, whispered his name again, and kissed him.

He responded with aching gentleness, hardly daring to believe it, mouth slowly taking hers, pulling at her lower lip. He traced her mouth with his tongue and the sensation made her quiver with longing; readily she opened to him, answering his tongue with her own, tasting wine and coffee. Emboldened, he deepened the kiss, one hand at the back of her head, the other stealing to the small of her back, drawing her towards him, as much as was possible in the cramped confines of the car. Lost in the taste and the smell and the feel of him, Alex forgot everything else, her stomach already turning liquid as her body responded to his. Eventually she pulled back a little, panting slightly, and murmured, "Would you like to come in?"

He was glad that she was honest, not giving him any crap about coffee. He kissed her again, bolder now, more hungrily, before breaking off and simply answering, "Yes."

And once he had said it, once the uncertainty was out of the way and they each knew what the other one wanted, the atmosphere changed, somehow relaxed, and the world began to take on an odd, dream-like quality. As they walked up the stairs and through her flat, as they kissed and touched and began to undress one another, it was as if everything unfolded at its own pace, unrushed, almost unreal. He wanted her so much, wanted to touch her, taste her, was already hard for her; but at the same time there was no hurry, none at all, and he could take his time and savour every magical moment.

In her bedroom, she slipped off her shoes; his hands moved down over her body, taking the wrap from her shoulders, exploring every curve. He kissed below her ear and down her neck, causing delicious shivers, and she arched backwards to allow him more access. Her eyes closed in abandonment, only to snap open as he grumbled, "Where the bloody hell does this dress undo?"

"Oh – sorry," she grinned, guiding his hand to the zip down the side-seam. He pulled it down and slipped his hand inside, exploring her waist, her bottom, growling with pleasure as he found the suspender belt. Together they pulled the dress up and over her head, and his breath hissed in appreciation at the sight of her perfect figure, the stuff of pure fantasy in her black bra and stockings. The words he hadn't been able to say before came easily now: "Christ, Bolly, you're beautiful… so beautiful…" as his hands mapped her, mouth ghosting over her skin.

He set every nerve-ending tingling: she could feel her body readying itself, nipples tightening, a pulse beating between her legs. She wanted more, wanted to feel his skin on hers… "Not fair. You're still dressed," she murmured, hands moving to take off his tie, unbutton his shirt. Taking his cue from her, he tore at his clothes and stood before her naked, groaning with pleasure as her hands roamed him, stroking the soft skin of his chest, his belly, his hips. Dropping to her knees she caressed his hard length; he gasped as he felt her hot breath, as she kissed his cock, swirled her tongue around the tip. She took him in her mouth, sucking, savouring his taste and he almost cried out, before taking her hands and pulling her to her feet again, muttering, "Later. Plenty of time for that."

Almost reverently he removed her bra, cradling her breasts in his hands. She lay back on the bed, propped up on the pillows, and he lay with her and began to work down from her neck again, making her squeal as he kissed a sensitive spot just below her ear. The sensation triggered a memory, and she murmured, "Gene?"

"Hmmmh?"

"Could you try not to leave me covered in bites this time?"

He glanced up quickly, but she didn't look at all cross with him.

"Thought you said you liked it." He kissed his way gently down her collar-bone.

"I do. But they take…aaaahhhh...days to go away, and I've only got ...ooohhhh... one high-necked blouse..." It was getting difficult to stay coherent under the onslaught of kisses.

"Huh. I'll try then." His mouth moved lower. "But I'll not be responsible for my actions if you start making those squeaking noises."

"What?" She giggled. "Gene Hunt, I do not make squeaking noises!"

"Bloody do," he growled from somewhere near her left breast. He kissed the plump flesh of the underside, grazing his teeth over it, making her gasp and wriggle. As he took her nipple into his mouth she let out an involuntary yelp, and he smiled against her flesh. "See?" he countered.

"Can't help it," she replied breathlessly, almost delirious with what he was doing to her. He transferred his attentions to the other breast. "Oh, God, Gene, don't stop. Please don't stop."

Tantalising, he moved over her body, his mouth and hands making her ever more aroused. Gently he removed her knickers and kissed the inside of her thighs, above her stocking tops, before moving to her very centre, wet now and aching for him, kissing, licking, making her moan uncontrollably. Remembering, he moved up her body again, kissed her gently on the mouth and muttered, "Moment," before sitting on the edge of the bed to rummage in his jacket pocket.

When she saw the packet of condoms she smiled and looked a bit bashful. "I've got some too."

He looked at her in surprise, then laughed. "Tart," he answered with deep affection, and opened the packet.

He was about to put it on but she said, "Here, let me," took it and gently smoothed it over him, hands stroking down his hard shaft, taking his breath away again. He hated condoms but if she was going to do that every time, it might not be so bad.

He lay next to her, once more kissing her neck, her breasts, exploring her womanhood with his fingers, dipping in and out, driving her almost wild. He moved over her, ready to enter, but something made him hold back. He had to know. Drawing back to look at her face, he softly asked, "Alex? Are you sure?"

She could barely think, she wanted him inside her so badly. "Yes, Gene, yes," she whispered; then, seeing him still hesitate, she looked straight into his eyes and said the words that were like balm to his soul. "Gene, I need you."

It was what he needed to hear. His mouth captured hers with passion and he thrust deep inside her, making her shriek, drawing up her knees and wrapping her legs round him, desperate to take him fully. For a long moment they lay still, finally joined, a feeling like electricity coursing through them; then he raised up and began to move inside her, finding a rhythm, steadily working the friction on the tiny sensitive spot deep inside her until she thought she would burst. Knowing that she needed more, she arched her hips, reaching her hand down to find her clit. A few deft strokes and she came, spasming around him, crying out in pleasure, mind exploding, body in rhapsody. He thrust once, twice more and followed her over the edge, emptying into her, giving her all of him.

When he could move again, he rolled her very gently onto her side before slipping out of her, still holding her gaze, stroking her hair. He went to get up and she thought he was leaving: with an anxious face she blurted, "Don't go," before realising he was only disposing of the condom.

He leaned over and kissed her again. "I'm not going anywhere unless you say so."

She gave a smile of embarrassed relief as he wandered off to the bathroom.

Dazedly she took off the suspender belt and stockings, but as she began to come down from the high, reality crept back in, and with it, doubt. When he returned and lay next to her, pulling the covers over them both, he saw that she looked worried and slightly guarded. He peered into her face, uncertain, trying to read her. "All right, Bolly?"

"Gene..." She didn't quite meet his eye. "You know in December? After the party?"

"Oh, bloody hell. Yes."

"You said you came upstairs for a shag." Her voice was small. "Was that it, then? Was that all you wanted?" Suddenly her gaze met his, direct. "Is that all this is?"

He stared at her, desperate to reassure her yet still unable to find words to acknowledge his feelings. In the end he replied gruffly, "Well, that depends on you, doesn't it?"

"Me? Does it?" It wasn't the answer she had expected.

He gave a small nod. "Ball's in your court."

"Meaning....?"

"Meaning, I know what I want. But I don't know about you. What you want." His voice was low, hypnotic, eyes boring into her. "Tell me, Bolly."

She felt afraid, backed into a corner, but perhaps this was the moment to be honest. The fencing around each other, the misunderstandings, had gone on for far too long. Her mind flashed back to the last time they had lain like this. Biting her lip, she asked, "Do you remember that morning in Nottingham?"

His eyes glinted, almost dangerously. "I'm not likely to forget it."

She looked down, frowning as she tried to put her thoughts into words. "Well... it felt fantastic, that morning. So right, so simple... you and me, together... blissful." She swallowed, raising her eyes to his as she whispered the last word. "That's what I want, Gene. More than anything else in the world." As he continued to stare at her she whispered, "Do you... do you think we could ever get back there?"

"Back to Nottingham? Easy, straight up the M1." The words were out of his mouth before he could check them, but then he saw her tight smile, belied by the pain in her eyes as she registered his flippancy. He saw her withdrawing, physically and emotionally, and realised what he had done. Desperately he reached out, his arm checking her, finally forced into telling her how he felt.

"No – listen – I didn't mean it -" There was anguish in his eyes as he sought to convince her. More quietly, but intense, he continued, "Listen, that whole night in Nottingham... it was amazing. Bloody fantastic." A moment's silence. "I felt the same as you, Bolly. You and me. It felt right."

Doubtfully she looked at him, hoping, wanting to believe him, still wary of being hurt. Drawing her nearer, he continued, his voice a low rumble. "Look, that night after the party... I never wanted 'just a shag', Bolly. Well, not since a long time before that, anyway. It's just that, at that precise moment, it was quite high on my list of priorities."

She laughed and finally relaxed, tears of relief springing to her eyes as she dared to believe him. He kissed them away and she snuggled into him, at last feeling the warmth, the comfort as she lay against his chest, skin to skin. After a while she murmured, "That was a stupid argument we had that night. I called you some names... I should probably apologise."

"Forget it." He sounded sleepy now, voice getting slower and deeper as she relaxed into him. "Go to sleep, Bolls." He reached over and turned off the lamp before gathering her in his arms again. She curled against him, marvelling at how utterly comfortable she felt, despite their unfamiliarity as lovers. Before long, her regular breathing told him she was asleep.

As Gene lay in the darkness, holding her, a fierce joy burned within him. This was where he wanted to be, who he wanted to be. Her champion, her protector. Needed. Wanted. At last that possibility had been offered him again, and he would do his damnedest not to muck it up this time.

Alex awoke in the morning to a feeling of warm peacefulness, Gene's bulk a reassuring presence beside her, his snoring gentle and rhythmic. She made a quick trip to the bathroom, removed the vestiges of last night's make-up, and hurried back to the warmth of the bed, pressing herself to his still sleeping form. Gradually he came to, eventually opening a bleary eye and looking at her, before putting an arm around her. "All right?" he asked, voice deep and husky with sleep.

"Mmm. Yes. Good," she replied, moving her hand up to rest on his chest. After a moment, though, a small frown creased her brow. "Gene?"

"Mmmm?"

"What happens now?"

Shit. Cold doubt enfolded his heart, although he managed to keep his face almost the same, and tried to make his tone light as he asked, "Having second thoughts, are you?"

"No. No." She reached up and stroked the side of his face. "I want this, really I do."

"Well, in that case..." His gaze shifted from her face down to her breasts, "I've got a few ideas."

She giggled, but persevered. "I mean, about work. We'll be the talk of the station, when people find out. You know, the stares, the whispering... Ray making snide comments... I'm not sure if I want all that, just yet."

He frowned at her, thinking. "Look, Bolls," he said reasonably, "I'm not going to march into the station and announce that I've just shagged you. 'S none of their bloody business. I don't give a toss what they say, but if you don't like it, they don't have to know anything just yet."

"OK," she said slowly, still stroking his face, feeling the rough growth of stubble under her thumb. "I don't really care either, but... let's keep them guessing for a while, shall we?"

"All right." He looked amused. She took a proper look at him, all tousled blond hair, dark shadow of stubble across his jaw, the dimple... he looked utterly edible. Suddenly she couldn't get enough of him, she wanted to touch, kiss, lick every inch of him. He was more than happy to let her, lying back under the onslaught with a slightly amazed smile on his face. He still could hardly believe it was real, and when she straddled him and rode him, her face flushed with pleasure, working them both rhythmically to a breath-taking climax, he thought he had probably died and gone to Heaven.