At last I'm having some fun writing this. Hope you enjoy it. Would really appreciate a little review if you can spare a few minutes.

This chapter is #demparry with #puredemparry to follow soon.

Chapter 21

Tracing Sixty-Nine

It was a long conversation, probably the longest he had shared with his brother in a good couple of years and probably the most expensive.

Gil relayed as best he could the information Makepeace had given him a few hours earlier; about how Andrew Levant, as a graphic designer had managed to fake four pages of The New York Times and insert them into Tuesday's paper. It had been quite obvious of course as the pages had been undated but Levant had known that he wasn't going to be bringing the paper into play until Dempsey's mind had been dulled by the poison. The copy had been sparse but the detail accurate, siting Gil Dempsey's age, family connections, address and one of his favourite bars as the stage for his death. There was nothing there that couldn't have been established with a little research into publically available records.

Dempsey recalled the conversation he had had with Levant about the Max Factor contract his company had just won. Something about designing packaging? He began to see now how Levant might have gone about changing his identity. Forging documents would be a breeze for someone with access to the right tools and who had the know-how.

He suspected Makepeace had been keeping him out of the loop. Once he had become coherent enough to start asking questions, she had come up with deliberately vague answers that this afternoon had given him cause to snap and snarl at her a little out of pure frustration.

Now he understood. She had wanted him to hear it from the one source that would mean everything to him – his brother.

Their mother was put on the line to speak to him next, beside herself with worry that her eldest should have been hospitalised by a poisoner. Cops got themselves shot, she told him, they didn't get poisoned and to some extent he had to agree with her.

A few moments after he hung up, Makepeace gave a brief tap on the door and came back in. She'd evidently been standing out in the corridor waiting for him to finish.

She couldn't supress her elated smile as she went and resumed her seat after first planting the tea she had brought back for Dempsey on the mobile bed tray.

She sipped slowly at her drink, allowing him time to swipe roughly at his wet eyes.

He cleared his throat.

"Gil sends his best."

She nodded. "Nice chap. I like him."

"Yeah, he's okay."

"Not what I expected."

"You mean he ain't like me?"

Makepeace reclined back in her seat, crossing her legs.

"He has a more…" she chose her words thoughtfully, "reserved personality."

"Oh yeah, that's Gil. Knows how to keep his head in a crisis."

His black humour had fazed her; he could tell by the way her eyes flicked away just for a second. But she knew it was what got him through.

She looked tired – pale. If he was on his feet he would have thought about hugging her –a big, friendly bear hug.

You look like shit, Princess. You need to get some shut-eye

And he would laugh just to let her know that he was kidding around, so that when he held her for just a little bit longer than was right for a bear hug, she wouldn't question it. And he'd tell her the lump on the back of her head was so big it felt like she was growing a second head so that he had a perfectly good reason for his hand to be stroking gently through that beautiful blonde hair.

Harry didn't have a clue that it was she who'd pulled him through this nightmare.

His one enduring memory was of being in her arms, her heart hammering against his back and her breath warm and tingly on his scalp as she whispered things that he couldn't quite hear. He knew it was corny but she'd been the light at the end of the tunnel – he'd followed the voice because he simply couldn't stand to leave her.

"Thanks." Dempsey waved hazily at the telephone. "I appreciate you settin' that up."

Harry blew unnecessarily on the surface of her tea, not looking at him. "Thought it was the obvious thing to do."

"Obvious to you maybe."

"Your tea's getting cold."

He made no move to pick it up.

"The little wuss would never have had the balls," Dempsey reflected. "I get that now. I remember the look on his face when he stuck me with the fork, like he was gonna shit his pants."

"Dempsey," she began guardedly.

He sensed he wouldn't want to hear her next words.

"We found out this afternoon… he's been certified unfit to stand trial."

There followed a raft of expletives that turned the air a deep, cerulean blue.

"I've already lodged my application for a second opinion," she told him calmly "and Spikings has promised to kick against it. Whilst he was on the 'phone to Upstairs, he turned that rather attractive colour he goes when he doesn't get his own way".

"I don't care if his head exploded! I want Levant rotting in a jail cell," Dempsey snarled.

"As do I!" she pointed out forcefully, "but we might just have to settle for him languishing in a loony bin."

"So because some guy with a fancy-schmancy couch and a clipboard says he's crazy, he gets away with attempted murder, wrongful imprisonment, wounding with intent…"

"Yes! Believe me, there's nothing I'd like more than to see him in a six-by-four with a ball and chain accessory but remember, this is England and sometimes the law is an ass."

Dempsey cast her a savage look. "Ain't that the truth," he growled.

There was a short, contemplative silence before Harry said quietly, "I know it isn't what you want but I think you'll just have to live with it, James."

Before he had even registered the meaning of what she had said, he smiled. All he had heard was 'James'. He liked when she called him that. Nobody else called him by that name, only Harry.

With a deep sigh, he agreed. "With bells and ribbons attached to 'live', right? Guess when you think about it, we're all lucky to have got out of there alive."

Harry finished off her cup of tea. "Exactly," she smiled and stood up to place it on the over-bed tray. "And keep that thought in your mind – your blood pressure is still a bit too high, remember?"

Dempsey grinned mischievously . "Nothin' wrong with my blood pressure, just that they keep sendin' these pretty little nurses in here and it sets my pulse racing."

Come on, Harry. You gonna bite? Dempsey speculated. Just a sign that his roguish comment bugged her was all he wanted. Just to know that maybe she was feeling a little for him of what he felt for her.

She did bite – him.

"You know, it's funny you should say that," she said enthusiastically, "but Doctor Reynolds… he was the guy who treated me last Tuesday…" she filled in quickly, "asked me out to dinner and I just felt compelled to say yes!"

What? Some son-of-a-bitch doctor had asked her out on a date? Wasn't there some kind of code of ethics said they couldn't see patients off duty or was he making that up? Jesus, he'd probably had his God-damned hands all over her – in his freakin' professional capacity.

"I wonder what it is about doctors and nurses," she mused. "I suppose it must be that bedside manner."

He couldn't stop himself. "So what, you seein' this guy?"

Makepeace hadn't sat back in the chair, instead she had drifted to the end of the bed and was scanning through his medical notes on the metal clipboard.

"They never seem to write anything even remotely intelligible on these things, do they?" she commented.

Boy, she drove him crazy – in every sense.

He laughed lightly. "Yeah, bet you Doc. Reynolds writes a lousy love letter."

She hooked the clipboard back onto the rail again. "Probably."

Coquettishly, she lifted her eyes to his. "I only said I felt compelled to say yes, James, I didn't actually accept."

She came and sat down close beside him on the bed. "He did give me his number though," she added impudently, reaching out to brush his hair back into place at the temple.

Dempsey felt a jolt go through him in places he shouldn't be feeling a jolt given the fact that he was laid up in a hospital bed.

He closed his eyes briefly, willing the inappropriate 'jolt' to subside.

Her fingers transferred to the other temple.

"Terrible handwriting," said Harry, conversationally.

"Is that so?"

Her hand dropped away and she leaned back on her wrist, not taking her eyes from his.

"Indecipherable."

Barely realising what he was doing, Dempsey found his hand moving to her right thigh.

"Sixes look like zeros?"

His forefinger lightly traced the outline of the two digits upon the khaki coloured fabric of her long skirt. It was stretched tight by the way she sat and he could feel the warmth of her flesh under his fingertip.

"Mmm hmm," she agreed huskily.

"Nines look like sevens?"

More tracing – more jolting.

"Exactly like sevens," she purred.

"I'm serious, Makepeace, you can't date a guy who corrupts my two favourite numbers like that."

Was he insane, putting himself through this torment?

But she wasn't objecting to his ministrations, hell, she actually seemed to be enjoying it – a lot! Her lips had parted and there was a faint flush to her cheeks now that definitely hadn't been there before. If it was just a blush of embarrassment she would have pulled away. No, Harry was turned on as much as him.

His hand lay flat on her thigh now, massaging gently. She looked down, seemingly intrigued and when she looked back at him, he leaned forward so that their faces were only inches apart.

"Harry, I need you to know something…"

He didn't know if it was the right time or not. Maybe the right time had been two weeks ago when she'd spent the afternoon at his place drinking hot chocolate and laughing with him over the state of the roads. He'd hoped his indirect suggestion of a re-run might have been at least brought up in passing but she had remained depressingly silent on the subject. Not so surprising though if he was honest, everything had kicked off that day with Toni and Levant arriving and the opportunity had been lost. Still, he'd have thought a mention…?

He'd had to hold back so much that day. There had been so many moments, perfect moments when they should have kissed. He'd picked up on the vibes, he was long enough in the tooth to read the signs. Harry had wanted it to happen and so had he but he'd played it cool and acted the gentleman because he figured it had to be her call. He'd resisted those perfect moments, that was how scared he was of overstepping the mark and losing any chance he might have of building on their relationship. He'd never felt the need to refrain from making sexual overtures towards a woman who turned him on – unless she happened to be married but even then, there was sometimes no harm in testing the strength of the marriage. But Harry was special. She'd managed somehow to get under his skin until it had reached the point where he didn't want any other woman. She was all he needed – so bad that it hurt.

"What do you need me to know?" Harry asked softly.

Footsteps sounded out in the corridor and voices could be heard loud and clear outside the door.

A cursory knock and a white coated, dark haired doctor entered, followed by Staff Nurse Fran Moore.

Instinctively, Dempsey and Makepeace drew apart.

"Evening, Mister Dempsey," he greeted brightly. "I'm Doctor Constantine."

He took up the clipboard from the foot of the bed.

Dempsey mumbled the required response, cursing the intrusion.

"And how are you feeling this evening?"

"I'm fightin' fit, Doc. Just waitin' for someone to tell me I'm outa here."

Doctor Constantine smiled, displaying beautifully white teeth that appeared even whiter against his olive Mediterranean skin.

"Then your wait is over. I see no reason for you not to go home tomorrow."

Dempsey chuckled delightedly. "That's what I wanna hear alright."

Constantine smiled in acknowledgement. "I think that at this stage, Mrs Dempsey…" he looked towards Harry who had returned to the chair, "is just as capable of looking after you as we are."

Staff Nurse Moore quickly drew his attention to Dempsey's marital status in his notes just as Harry was denouncing her claim to the title.

"I'm terribly sorry," he apologised, "I just assumed…" he gestured towards Harry again.

It certainly wasn't the first time Harry had been mistaken for his wife since Dempsey had been admitted. She had spent so many hours at his bedside that people did naturally 'assume'. And of course, when it was explained that Harry was his partner, there was invariably the 'well it's only a piece of paper' comment.

"Hey, don't worry 'bout it," Dempsey grinned, "easy mistake to make – she nags and whines just like the real thing."

Harry rolled her eyes and added a tut for good measure.

"We're colleagues, Doctor Constantine," she told him, seeing that he was struggling to make sense of Dempsey's joke. "I'm just here to make sure he gets back to work as soon as possible."

"You hear that, Doc?" Dempsey exploded, indicating Harry, "she's a real doll, huh? I tell ya, if she was my missus, I'd be givin' her what for right now."

Harry cringed as Dempsey caught her eye. She could tell he desperately wanted to laugh, long and loud.

Several months ago they'd had a conversation about the double meaning of the phrase 'what for'. To Dempsey it had always meant 'a beating' but upon hearing it used in a completely different context in England, his interest had been firmly aroused.

Doctor Constantine laughed rather uncomfortably whilst Nurse Moore looked away, smiling to herself.

Dempsey wondered what the smile was for – Harry getting a punch in the mouth or Harry getting a little fun in the bedroom department.

"Yes, well, that being the case it probably isn't advisable to be sending you home just yet. Don't get me wrong, you're well on the road to recovery but I think you need someone to keep an eye on you for the first few days at least."

Dempsey was sitting up straight now, wild-eyed and exasperated.

"Come on now, you can't do this to me. How 'bout I get me a dog? A St. Bernard! Hell, I'll hire myself a babysitter for the weekend if that's what it takes!"

"You may think you're back to normal, Mister Dempsey," said the Doctor in a 'final word' tone, "but that's because you've had a sedentary few days lying in bed. Once you're up and about again you'll realise how weak you actually are. Your body's taken quite a battering and it needs time to heal."

"Funny thing, Doc, but I got a bed at home…"

Something flipped over inside his chest as he heard himself say it. That bed was the last place he wanted to be. The thought of it made him feel ill and he felt the colour drain from his face.

He fell silent.

"It isn't a problem, doctor," said Harry smoothly, covering his awkwardness, "he can stay with me for a couple of days."

The look of utter relief on his face told Harry she was doing the right thing.