A/N: It seems a shame to let Ruth's naughty underwear go to waste, so the beginning of this chapter is rated M.

31 March 1985

Beneath him Ruth was trembling, her skin opalescent and gleaming, the brush of her silky stockings against his sides enchanting in its eroticism, the taste of her nipple as he tongued it through the lace of her bra heady and intoxicating. Harry was no stranger to sexual pleasure, but on this night, in this bed, with this woman, he felt as if he had passed into another realm altogether, as if he had never known true desire before this moment. Though sheer practicality dictated that he had no choice but to unfasten her suspenders and relieve her of her delicate knickers he had left the rest of her ensemble in place, the image she painted too delicious to be marred. Later, after his blood had cooled and his need for her had been sated, he would think how it touched him, that she had made such a gesture, that she had chosen to wear that outfit, despite her insecurity, that she had come to him and waited in his bed for no reason other than that she wanted to, than that the time they spent together made her as deliriously happy as it made him. They found solace in one another, comfort, refuge, peace, and the most spine-tingling sort of release.

Already he had made her come undone not one, not twice, but three times, with his fingers, his tongue, and finally his cock. Harry was rapidly racing towards his own completion, having held off the moment of his abandon for as long as he could manage in the name of bringing her to pleasure first. She made him feel young, made him feel free, and awoke within him that baser, primal part of himself that he so often tried to restrain. His elemental self had been released in truth tonight, and he had risen to the occasion, trying to show himself, trying to show her, just how far he could take her, just how much satisfaction they could wring from every second of this encounter. They were sweaty and gasping, the pair of them, reduced to grunts and whimpers and fervent moans, tangled up so hopelessly that he had begun to feel as if they were one person, joined at their centers, never to be torn asunder.

"Please," she begged him as he continued his relentless pounding into her, her soft, wet inner walls practically breathing as they contracted around him; she had wrapped her legs around him, her ankles locked together at the small of his back, and the sensation of her sex, tight and wet and perfect, gripping him as if she never wanted to let him go, left him incapable of rational thought. Her nails had scored the sensitive skin of his back in the midst of her most recent orgasm, but now her hands were still, wrapped tightly around his shoulders as she clung to him and he drowned in her. Onward he moved, harder, and harder still, and faster until she was squealing with each potent thrust of his hips, her head thrown back and her every inhibition having been utterly annihilated in the face of the onslaught.

Once more, he told himself. She can come at least once more. With his lips fastened hard to her breast he all but growled, shifting just enough to snake a hand between them, down to the place where they were joined.

"Oh, Christ," she moaned. "I don't think I can." Her breasts were bouncing with the impact of his body crashing into hers again and again, but his pride, and his need, would not allow him to concede defeat. "James," her voice was shaky, each word escaping her kiss-swollen lips on a gasp, but he would not be deterred. With his fingertips rubbing insistent circles against her clit and the hard length of his cock plunging inside her Harry pushed her to the brink, and when finally she came tumbling over the edge Harry was forced to jerk his hand out from between them, his fingertips damp and smelling of her, to gently cover her mouth and stifle the sound of her screams. This final release was his undoing; though it was risky he indulged himself in thrusting twice more into her spasming heat before pulling out of her with a groan as he spilled himself across her stomach and collapsed beside her, panting.

For a moment Ruth was genuinely concerned that something might be wrong with her. Though she had danced this dance a time or two before it had never been like this, had never been as shattering, as devastating, as completely all-consuming as it was with James. She could not move, could barely breathe, could not feel anything accept the boundless release and the pounding of her heart in her chest. Beside her James was still and gasping, and though she longed to reach out to him, to touch him, to feel him, to find some piece of something real to anchor herself to the present she found that she could not lift her arm. Tears sprang to her eyes unbidden; she felt as if they'd just shared something monumental, as if every part of her had been broken into thousands of tiny pieces, and James had knit them back together with the sure and steady touch of his hand, forming her into a new creation altogether, a creature worthy of his adoration, a woman who was not whole without him there inside her. To her horror she felt the tears begin to fall, sliding down her cheeks in a torrent of emotion she could not name.

It took a while for them to settle down, to return to earth after James relentlessly drove her body to heaven and beyond, but eventually he turned to her, and reached out to brush his thumb across her cheekbone, smearing the tracks of her tears.

"Are you all right?" he asked her gently.

She laughed, a slightly hysterical sort of sound. Her body was still trembling, sensation slowly returning to her extremities and bringing it with it a familiar pins-and-needles sort of feeling.

"I am so far past all right I don't think they've invented a word for it yet," she told in a quivering voice.

James did not laugh; he seemed concerned by her behavior, and so he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her to rest against his chest, painting both of them with the wetness he'd left on her bare stomach. He caught the duvet with his foot and covered them both with it, cocooning her in his warmth and affection. Wrapped up in him the tremors of her body subsided, and her breathing slowed.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he murmured, dropping a gentle kiss against her hair.

"You didn't," she assured him, craning her neck to press her lips against the underside of his chin. She nestled still closer to him, and closed her eyes, falling at once into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The ringing of the little telephone beside the bed jerked Harry out of his doze, putting him instantly on the alert. Beside him Ruth was still sleeping, her head pillowed on his shoulder, both of her legs wrapped around his thigh, her arm slung out across his chest. She was soft and warm and innocent in sleep, no traces of the sorrow that usually draped itself around her like a cape, no sign of the vixen she had been only a few hours before. Though he was loath to wake her, Harry knew that the ringing of the phone could only herald disaster, and as such, he knew he needed to answer the call at once. The young men in his employ knew better than to ring him at Shaw's, but no one else had the number, and so he could only assume that it was desperation and fear that had driven his late-night caller. Carefully he slipped out from Ruth's embrace and rolled to the side, lifting the phone with one hand while with the other he massaged his gritty-feeling eyes.

"Yes?" he said softly.

"Now," came the reply, and then the line went dead.

Bollocks, Harry thought grimly. He was fairly certain that the voice belonged to Paul, the young man he had posted at Ceannt Station. The meaning of the message was clear enough; Paul had information for him, information that could not wait until their next meeting on Friday night, information that could not even wait until the break of day. The little clock beside the bed told him it had just gone 3:00; perhaps he could slip out, he mused even as he rose to his feet and cast about for his trousers, hastily discarded in the lust that had consumed him upon seeing Ruth clad all in lace and practically begging him to take her. It was early yet; perhaps he could go and speak to Paul, and return to bed before Ruth even knew that he'd gone. He did not know how long she could stay, and he was loath to leave her, but he had a job to be doing, and he could not shirk his responsibility, especially not now, not after Sullivan's tragic end. Harry owed it to that poor lad to see this thing through to its conclusion.

Harry set the alarm on the clock for 5:00, just in case he was not back in time and Ruth needed to leave before sunrise, and then he scrawled her a hasty note, propping it up on the table beside the bed. Through all of this she slept on, blissfully unaware of his impending departure. At the door he stopped and looked back at her once, nearly overcome with longing for her, nearly undone by the beauty and the devilry of her. It was with a heavy heart that he left her, and stole out into the chill of the night.

His feet carried him unerringly to the payphone he used to make contact with his team, and he dialed Paul's number at once, stamping his feet and trying to ignore the heady scent of Ruth that lingered on his fingertips.

"Yeah?" Came Paul's voice, weary and troubled.

"It's me," Harry answered shortly.

"We've got a problem, boss."

Harry fought the urge to sigh. All around him the world was still and dark, no birds chirping, no swirling, menacing fog, just the eerie, endless, tomblike slumber of a city in the dead of night.

"So I gathered," he said, not even trying to mask the petulance that crept into his voice. It was becoming harder by the day to stay focused on his task, when he had achieved no results, when he had the distraction of a beautiful young woman to keep his thoughts from wandering to the wife and children he'd abandoned, the friends he'd betrayed, the string of death and mayhem that followed in his wake. That girl is no good for me, he thought fleetingly; Harry knew all too well the dangers of being ensnared by a woman, having allowed Juliet Shaw to run circles around him from the moment they first met for no reason other than that he wanted in her knickers. Still, though he knew it was folly, though he knew the best course of action would be to cut ties with her and never see her again, his longing for her only grew each time it was fed, and he could not even imagine a life without her in it. He was well and truly sunk now, with no way out.

"I've been reviewing last week's tapes, and I think I found him. Magee."

Harry's heart stuttered in his chest. Could it really be? He wondered. After three months of waiting, three months of freezing his balls off in some far flung corner of Ireland while his enemies danced continuously, mockingly just out of reach, could something as benign as a security camera in a rail station have brought about a successful end to his operation?

"He took the last train to Limerick, Saturday night."

"Shit," Harry swore. "You're sure it's him?"

"Sure as I can be," came the answer.

"Shit."

This news brought with it no relief; they had a lead for the first time in months, but if Magee had boarded a train at Ceannt Station, that could only mean that he had been hiding under Harry's nose all this time. The thought pricked at Harry's pride, but he had no time for indulging in self-recrimination.

"How long does it take to drive to Limerick?" Harry asked, shifting nervously from one foot to the other as anticipation began to build within him.

"Just under an hour and a half. The thing is, that train isn't direct. It makes a few stops along the way. We can't be certain he didn't get off somewhere else."

"There's a port in Limerick," Harry said grimly. "I want you to call the station-"

"They're closed just now, everyone's asleep-"

"Well, wake them up! I'm leaving now. When I get to the station in Limerick I want police there. I'll need to see their tapes and we'll need to seal the port. If he left late Saturday, there's every chance he's still there, waiting for transport on Monday morning. This is it, Paul."

"Whatever you say, boss," his young agent muttered, sounding thoroughly put out and not the least bit hopeful. Harry barked a few more orders before he viciously slammed the phone against the receiver. He swore once, for good measure, and then took off running for Shaw's. The net was closing, and time was drawing short.