Part 2 of 10

At the veranda steps, she steps back with obvious reluctance, "Um, before I say good night, may I please use your washroom again?" He nods automatically and she hurries inside to remove the key from the shower-head. She won't have to frame James now that she knows Poole's Achilles heel. She can always bring the key back into play later if her plans for distraction-seduction don't pan out.

She washes her hands, primps her hair, then sways back out to him where's he's standing ever so politely on the veranda and staring out to sea. She sidles up to him and places a slow hand upon his arm. He looks around, a bit startled, and almost manages to hide an automatic flinch.

She smiles. He's not used to being touched. Another arrow in her quiver. She murmurs, "I don't want to overstep any more bounds, sir, but I will say this, I hope your first night on Sainte-Marie is a most pleasant one, that you manage to rest as you need, an' that you begin to settle into the island's rhythm. This could be a new start for you, you know. You could start a whole new life here with us. Things are quieter here, slower, more relaxed, an' you look like a man who needs to relax. Let us help with that, yes, aye?" She waits a beat then whispers, "Let ME help."

His lips part, his eyes light up, and she is triumphant to see the dismay on his face as she says, "So, I will leave you now. You go inside an' lock up so's I know you're safe." She steps back, says with faux reluctance and feigned hesitation, "OK, so I'll see you tomorrow, shall I?"

He swallows hastily, collects himself, and steps back too, "Um, oh, yes, yes, good idea. Yeah." He bobs on his heels, acting awkward and shy, "And, uh, thanks again."

She smiles serenely, backing up as if she is loath to take her eyes off him. "Good night," she murmurs dulcetly before slowly turning away.

He calls after her, hand lifted, "Yeah. Good work. Uh, you've been fantastic, so welcoming and understanding. I'm sure I'll adjust to things quickly with such a diligent and helpful Sergeant at my side." He drops his hand, makes a fist and frowns to himself, not sure if that sounded professional or not.

She hears the hopeful tone in his voice and smirks before turning once more and glancing at him from beneath lowered lashes which makes him gulp without exactly knowing why. She smiles shyly and delivers the coup de grâce, "Yes, I'll be at your side. Always. Such a handsome man deserves protection until you find an island woman just right for you."

He pales, "An… an… island…?"

She gives him a little wave as she turns away, "Yes, aye, an island romance is almost a law down here. Very few people manage to leave our shores without enjoyin' ALL the delights we have to offer." She stops walking, glances over her shoulder, sees his eyes riveted on her. She gives him one last slow languid smile, holds his gaze, then coos, "Pleasant dreams, sir."

She slow-walks to the Jeep and can feel his gaze all the way. As she drives up the lane, she wonders if she should have broken off her approach like that. Maybe she should have taken him right then and there? He is ripe for the plucking, she knows it, but giving him one night to think over everything she'd said or implied isn't a tactical error, is it? She shakes her head. No, he needs to stew and she needs to make plans. As she turns onto the coastal road she nods. Yes, tomorrow is time enough, time enough to begin his destruction. It might even be fun.

He remains on the veranda for several minutes, a man statue, long after the truck fades into the shadows of the forest. He comes to with a sudden jerk and looks frantically about as if hoping it is all a hideous nightmare. His shoulders slump when he sees it is not. With utter despair he shuffles into his so-called house and readies for bed, pushing aside all the debris and making himself a tiny clean spot he can lie down on but not before he smells something familiar on one of 'his' towels.

He lies in the dark, listening to the nocturnal orchestra of a typical Caribbean night, hands laced over his stomach, and tries not to give up all hope. After all, he now knows something about one of his suspects that he didn't know ten minutes ago. And he has Lily's promise to help. Even if her speech and manner confuse him mightily, she promised to help. That's a plus, surely? And he DOES need help, he knows it. He's just can't see how he needs help with women because… well… him… and women… the two things just don't add up. Never have… never will. He'll have to set Lily straight about that tomorrow because he didn't come down here to play 'tourist'. He came down here to solve a murder.

He rolls over, watches moon-shadows creep across the floor. A repressed thought floats up in his sleep-deprived mind. He smiles a bit uncertainly. That cleaner, he really should have gotten her name. Maybe the other officers might know who she is. He'll ask in the morning… in the morning… in the…

He does NOT sleep well that night; dark and roiling dreams see to it. For the first ever, he has TWO actual live women vying for his dream-time. Fiona Bruce doesn't even make a guest appearance.

And he doesn't mind in the slightest.

END – part 2