Chapter 4

Back in London, Alfred Pennyworth was disembarking from one of the city's ubiquitous black cabs in the heart of Piccadilly Circus. His hometown of Romford hadn't technically been part of Greater London during his childhood, but he'd always had a fondness for the distinctive skyline of the Old Smoke. He'd lived in the States for the better part of four decades and rarely traveled back to the country of his birth.

He was on business, of course. The same business as his employer. But if Master Wayne could enjoy a night in the company of a lovely Amazon, Alfred figured he could indulge in a stroll past the Shaftesbury Memorial. According to a very accurate and legally dubious app on his cell, the surveillance target, one Gabriel Dior of Interpol, wasn't going anywhere soon. Even as he walked, state-of-the-art cyber penetration software was beaming data straight to encrypted servers in the Batcave.

Technology was a beautiful thing indeed.

Plato's

The rousing salsa drew to a rousing crescendo and Diana's dance partner, an older gentleman with silver hair and very footwork-heavy style, spun her out into an open frame. She could see Bruce in her periphery, twirling his partner (a curvaceous blonde) into a similar denouement.

She'd lost count of how many songs had passed, but somehow an hour and a half of drinks and dancing had flown by. They'd traded partners liberally through the night, but even after sampling some of the finer leads on the floor, Diana had to admit that Bruce was her favorite.

She also had to admit that after four of Sloane's cocktails, she was well and truly tipsy.

Bruce found her on the dance floor just as it occurred to her to find him again. His hands came to rest on her shoulders from behind like it was the most natural thing in the world. She leaned into the touch, craning her head back until it was practically resting in the crook of his neck.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey yourself." The lights swam momentarily in her vision. "I figured I'd have to beat all the other women off with a stick to get another turn."

His chuckle rumbled through both their bodies. "This is about a thousand percent more dancing than I pictured."

"You love it," she said, pirouetting in place to face him. Her arms came around his neck as his hands dropped to her waist. "Not that you would ever admit it."

"It's not so bad," he allowed. "With the right partner."

"You know, if I'd been able to see this side of you when we first met, I might have been a lot nicer to you."

A grimace of something like embarrassment. "When we first met. . " he echoed. "Not my finest moments."

She grinned at him. "You're much more likable these days."

"Ah, but is that the Amazon or the vodka talking?"

"Both?" A chirp of laughter escaped, proving his point. "What do you say, Bruce? One last dance before the night ends?"

The song underway was a bachata, characterized by the heavy influence of fluid Spanish guitars and the syncopated rhythm of tambora drums. The singer was crooning seductively about a propuesta indecente- an indecent proposal- and the lights dimmed appropriately with the sensuality of the music.

He closed the hold, their legs interlocking, the space between their torsos evaporating as he led them through the sinuous movements of the dance. She sensed a shift between them. The physical pretense of merely enjoying the music was gone. No dips. No spins, no sophisticated footwork. Just bodies and heat and friction and desire. Her forehead grazed his. Then their noses. She let fingers explore the rich texture of his hair. Over his shoulder, she could see Sloane's salacious expression from behind the bar. The bartender even threw an exaggerated wink her way.

As good as a sign from the gods. Diana pulled back enough to look at her partner. Really look at him. Rich blue eyes as deep as an ocean trench. Inescapable focus. All of that immeasurable focus turned, for once, toward her. It warped her reality, kicked her heartbeat into overdrive.

The song ended on a crooning soprano trill that transitioned-awkwardly in Diana's opinion- to the opening beats of a hit reggaeton song. Reluctantly, she disengaged from the intimate dance frame and they made their way off the floor by some mutual unspoken agreement. Which was just as well- she didn't trust herself to speak coherently with the way her heart was pounding and the furious warmth blossoming in her cheeks.

Back at the bar, Sloane's customer base had grown enough that she couldn't spare them more than an acknowledging grin as she furiously mixed and poured at her station.

"Last drink for the road?" Bruce asked, leaning casually against the bar to face her.

She didn't answer at first.

"Or...not?"

"What's your business in London, really?" The curiosity nagged at her. "And why do I feel like there's something you're not telling me?"

He was unfazed. "There's a million things I'm not telling you. Have you met me?"

"You know, I have a magic artifact that compels men to tell the truth."

He leaned in. "Not here you don't."

It was a dance of words now, an arena in which Bruce was just as skilled at taking the lead. The conversation had taken a delectable turn, but she still noted that he hadn't answered her question. Did she care?

Not enough, apparently. Secrets would always be a part of who Bruce was. One of her least favorite parts, granted. But the night had ratcheted her feelings from a passing fancy to something real and actionable. To say nothing of the fact that she had more than a few secrets of her own.

Plus, while she wasn't exactly a vestal virgin, it had been. . .a while.

"Perhaps," she said, "I should give you a more private tour of London.

"Magic lasso included?" The wickedness he could pour into such innocuous words.

"Maybe just a nightcap, to start." she managed.

The corner of his mouth crooked up. "Will I get to see how the reclusive Diana Prince lives?"

"Ha! You're calling me a recluse." She poked him in the chest for emphasis. "Well, my condo's no dank, underground cave full of bats."

"Ouch."

"But. . . you might find something to like all the same." It was as forward as she was ever going to get. A clear volley. Right across the net.

If his smile was any indication, it was the right thing to say. "Well, what are we waiting for? Did you drive here?"

With all she'd had to drink, it was a relief to be able to answer in the negative. "Rideshare. I'd have taken the invisible jet but it's murder to park."

"I will never fully understand this running joke of yours, and that's okay."

Sometimes, it was fun to see Bruce not know something. "And did you drive?"

He grinned.

The parking structure was shared by most of the establishments on the street, and Bruce had parked all the way on the third level. The cool night air chilled the bare skin of her back, where Bruce's hand had tantalizingly roamed on the dance floor. She followed him up the stairs of the parking deck, admiring the view and trying to squelch the nervousness of what was happening. She almost never engaged in one-night stands. And even though she knew Bruce, it felt like she'd just thrown herself into one. Sexual tension with Bruce was one thing. She'd gotten used to it. Relished it. But to act on it. . .

They arrived on the correct floor and Bruce released her hand, fishing for his keys. "It's the one-"

She silenced him with a finger to his lips. They were surprisingly soft in contrast to the hard plane of his jaw. She filed that observation away for later. "Please. Allow me."

Those dark eyes gleamed. "You're the detective now?"

She gave her chin an exaggerated stroke. "Let's see. You're a forty-ish gazillionaire in a relatively plebeian jazz club. You pretend that the trappings of wealth are all an act, but it couldn't be more obvious that at heart you're a boy who loves fast, expensive cars. If we were in the States, I'd be looking for some kind of insane million-dollar sports car. But I don't think you shipped any vehicles here, so you probably rented. Luxury rental of course, but it will be well-maintained. No vanity plates, no personal touches. So my incredible detective skills tell me that. . .that's your car."

She pointed to a silver Mercedes Benz SL parked in the center row of angled slots.

"Wrong," said Bruce.

"No, I'm not." She plucked the key fob from him. Not quite sleight-of-hand, but the whip-crack of her metahuman reflexes made it like taking candy from a baby. Sure enough, the Benz clicked when she pressed the 'unlock button.'

Bruce just shook his head, more amused than annoyed. "Fine. But you do realize there are only three cars up here, right Diana?."

"Trivialities. And that's Detective Diana to you," Diana said airily. But she did surrender the rental keys. "Shall we?"

The consummate gentleman, he opened the passenger door, allowing her to slide in. She noted with no small amount of satisfaction the way his gaze lingered on her legs as she folded them into the slightly too-small seating well, the hem of her minidress rising another scandalous fraction of an inch higher. She smoothed it back once she was properly seated and adjusted, a little more secure in the knowledge that his mind was on a similar wavelength to hers.

Bruce drove like he danced, all fluidity and precision even in the hectic London traffic. He wasn't a chatty driver, she was quick to realize. He'd offered her the choice of music and, when she'd suggested 'Stevie Nicks' to the voice assistant, the vehicle had immediately become filled with the sonic stylings of her favorite rock goddess. To her surprise, he let it play.

And if you don't love me now

You will never love me again

I can still hear you sayin'

You would never break the chain

Diana was mesmerized by the way the city's nighttime luminescence played across his face, highlighting it with flickering hues of reds and oranges and yellows. It was hard to imagine the man across from her running around on rooftops in a bat costume. But then, perhaps it would be just as difficult to imagine her, with her makeup and dress and modern stylings, flying on horseback across the Themysciran plains.

Chain, keep us together

Runnin' in the shadows

"Bruce?"

"Mm?" he said, easing into the exit lane for her neighborhood. He'd made surprisingly good time.

"Why did you really come to London?"

He smiled enigmatically. "Maybe I wanted to get out of my-what did you call it? 'Dank, underground cave?'"

I'm not getting an answer, am I? "I must have forgotten to add that it's dark and smells like bat guano."

"Cruel woman." He turned onto her street, still bustling in the heart of the city, even at this hour. The towering condominium structure loomed above them as he rolled up to the parking queue.

"We must be cruel to be kind," she quoted, squeezing his free hand to let him know she was just teasing.

"Too true," said Bruce, his eyes fixed ahead even as he squeezed her hand in return. "Too true."

It was the dodgy side of midnight by the time Alfred made his way to the suite Bruce had arranged for their London excursion. The Englishman had the idle worry as he unlocked the door that Bruce might be in flagrante delicto with a certain comely Amazon. Separating the business from the personal had never been his employer's forte. Which almost made it a shame that Alfred wasn't bearing better news.

He stepped inside and was immediately aware of two facts. First, Bruce wasn't home. Unexpected, but not overly concerning in and of itself except when paired with the second fact.

There was someone else in the suite. Several someones, in fact. Alfred might not be in his prime SAS days, but the instincts that had served him in the Falklands and during the Troubles had not dulled in the intervening decades. He took a nanosecond to curse the fact that he was utterly unarmed. The collapsible baton in his coat pocket wouldn't do much good.

With a sigh, he flicked on the lights. The main room of the suite opened out onto a large patio. Inside, perpendicular to the screen doors was a bar that separated the kitchen. Two large men stood at the screen door, their physique and posture indicative of extensive military training. They wore matching dark suits and, from the slightly asymmetrical balance of their shoulders, were almost certainly armed.

A woman sat at the bar. She'd helped herself to the suite's alcoholic amenities and prepared herself a drink. The good bourbon, too. She was roughly his own age. Dark skin, braided hair, minimal makeup, a well-tailored but functional navy suit. Her posture and carriage screamed 'American government.'

There was another glass beside her.

Alfred processed this, holding back a string of expletives as recognition dawned. "I do believe you may have the wrong hotel room-"

"No, I've got the right one," said Amanda Waller. "Go on. Have a seat, Pennyworth."

He didn't see much choice. And his instincts told him that whatever this was, it wasn't the sort of thing to fight one's way out of.

So he sat. Took a sip of Bruce's pilfered bourbon. "I don't suppose you lot have names?"

"You know who I am," Waller said. She nodded in the direction of the two bruisers standing guard. "And their names aren't relevant."

Alfred did know who she was. She was part of the bad news he'd come to deliver to Bruce and it was hard to describe how much worse it was now that she'd shown up here.

A thought hit him, causing him to slam the glass back down. He could hear the shift in her bodyguards' stances as they prepared to drop him. He didn't care. "I swear if you've harmed one hair-"

Waller chuckled. "The pointy-eared playboy isn't here, don't worry. We're not after him. Or you."

"Then what the hell are you doing here?" Alfred ignored the jab that hinted she knew Bruce's secret identity. There would be plenty of time to plan the next steps.

"What's your interest in Gabriel Dior?" Waller countered smoothly. "You've been stalking him like a hungry lioness ever since stepping foot in London.

Bloody hell, what doesn't she know? "Agent Dior was making inquiries into a friend. Inquiries beyond the purview of Interpol. . ." He allowed a rueful chuckle for shortsightedness. "But he's not Interpol, is he? Of course not. He's one of yours."

"One of my best, actually," said Waller. "Your friend, the Amazon, has gotten herself on my radar in a bad way. You and your boss would do well to steer clear."

Alfred had to chuckle at that. "You cloak-and-dagger types wouldn't be the first to make a run at 'that Amazon.' And I hardly think that any of this is under your jurisdiction."

Amanda Waller gestured around them. "Do I look like a woman who has to give a goddamn about jurisdiction?"

No, you do not. Alfred clenched and unclenched his grip on the bourbon, downing the rest of the glass. "Mind getting to the bloody point?"

"I thought I did. The point is: back the hell off of Agent Dior. Back off the Amazon. Go back to the States and be grateful that the eyes of A.R.G.U.S. haven't decided to focus on what your employer gets up to at night."

"Stick around and you might get to meet him yourself." Alfred said. "I don't think you or your goons would enjoy that."

She was unruffled as she stood, an unmistakable signal that the conversation was coming to a close. "Keep your knickers on. We were just leaving. And besides, according to my intel, the Bat is in someone else's belfry tonight."

Alfred resisted the urge to pull out his phone on the spot. Bruce spending the night with Diana had not been part of the plan.

Waller smirked. "This isn't the wild west anymore, Mr. Pennyworth. Rogue superheroes throwing their weight around the planet won't fly."

"Saving the planet, you mean."

"Give me that line once they've finished clearing the bodies out of Metropolis." Waller paused. "I thought, for a moment, that Batman of all people understood that."

Alfred glowered. "Are you quite done, Ms. Waller?"

She gave some unspoken signal to her two guards and they immediately flanked her, ushering her to the door of the suite." The one on the left opened the door but she threw one last parting shot before stepping through the portal. "The playboy can have his fun tonight. But come sunrise, he'd do well to be as far as humanly possible from the Amazon. She's going down."

And with that ominous note, she was gone. Alfred stared at the closed door in her wake for a full minute, his mind racing. Then he pulled out his phone. "Call Bruce."

Three rings. No answer.

The first thing Bruce noticed about Diana's condo was the aroma. Some enticing mix of Mediterranean spice and woods and floral notes. He closed the door behind him as Diana disabled her alarm at a wall-mounted keypad. The lights came on. Not harsh fluorescents, but rather warm, intimate illumination from tastefully recessed ceiling bulbs. She shed her overcoat in a small closet and casually stepped out of her heels, her bare feet practically noiseless on the polished wood floor. Bruce tentatively followed suit. It had been a while since an evening tryst had ended anywhere other than the manor. He wasn't sure he knew the etiquette for a late-night rendezvous with a goddess.

The entrance was in fact a short hallway, the walls adorned with what he assumed were Themysciran relics. Intricately crafted shields on the left, masterfully forged swords on the right. They were mounted with all the care of a museum curator, but Bruce had no trouble imagining that some Amazon— perhaps even Diana herself— had wielded them in battle.

"Coming?" She called from the next room. He tore his gaze away from the hallway decor and proceeded into a surprisingly spacious kitchen with a granite island in the center. Diana had already retrieved two cocktail glasses and was rooting around in the vegetable drawer of a stainless steel refrigerator. She was saying something about the liquor cabinet but he found himself gawking despite himself at her perfectly upturned ass in that dress that clung like a second skin, wrenching his gaze away just before she straightened.

She arched a knowing eyebrow as she turned around. "Need me to repeat that last bit?"

"Please do."

She held up a sprig of rosemary. "We're making Rose margaritas. I've got a bottle of Ram's Gate that the two of us could definitely finish off. I've also got the lime juice and rosemary covered. You can pick the tequila. Liquor cabinet's right behind you."

The eye-level cabinet had several varieties of tequila, vodka, and gin. Bruce simply plucked the first familiar-looking bottle from the shelf and placed it on the counter. She nodded, satisfied with his selection, and then set about displaying her mixological talents. The rosemary sprigs were prepped with a few seconds' worth of knife work. She poured the lime juice, rose, and tequila with a steady eye and a practiced hand, tumbling the ingredients into a perfect mix which she poured into the cocktail glasses.

Bruce accepted his drink with a self-effacing smirk. "This might be the unmanliest drink I've ever had."

Diana leaned across the island, challenge and temptation dancing behind her eyes. "There's no crime in having a drink that actually tastes good."

"What shall we drink to this time?"

She bit her lip as she thought for a moment. It was the sexiest thing Bruce had ever seen. He suddenly wished there wasn't a whole kitchen island between them. He hadn't assumed that a tryst was necessarily in the cards when she'd invited him over, but she wasn't exactly disabusing him of the notion. He could practically hear Alfred's voice in his ear, scolding him that he hadn't come all the way to England for this.

He was dangerously close to ignoring that voice altogether.

"Let's drink to pleasant surprises."

"Such as?"

"You showing up here in London. Just when I needed a distraction…" she sighed, her eyes flickering down. "Sorry, work is a bitch. But I think a night of dancing is just what the doctor ordered. Plus now I can tell all the girls what amazing hip control the famous Batman has."

Bruce chuckled as their glasses gently clinked-kissed, more like-and imbibed the homemade cocktail. It was delicious but, who could focus on that? You have to tell her. The voice was becoming more insistent now. He set his glass down. Took a deep breath and rounded the kitchen island, shrinking the geometry between himself and Diana. She watched him over the rim of her glass. She stepped toward the same corner. She was taking all the time in the world with her drink, and it felt like the only thing between them and inevitability.

And then the eternity ended and the rest happened so quickly that Bruce was barely consciously aware of it. She set her glass down and, with the athletic perfection of a seasoned gymnast, hopped into a seated position on the edge of the island. His edge of the countertop, to be precise. Her left leg folded up just enough to move past his torso until he was encircled. His hand found the curve of her outer thigh like a magnet. If he'd thought her dress short before, it was practically an afterthought in this position. She didn't seem to mind. In fact, her smile was positively scorching as she used her newfound leverage to pull him closer to the countertop edge on which she was seated, her legs wrapped around him, his hands firmly on her hips.

"Diana." He knew a dozen languages and that was the only word he could conjure in any of them at this particular moment.

"Oh, Bruce." She leaned in at the same as he did and they were making out in the middle of her kitchen like a couple of teenagers. She knew as soon as their lips met that there would be no forgetting this coupling, no matter what happened between them in the future. He was different from Steve, in so many ways. And yet the way he kissed her. Savored her. Teased her, building the kiss and then breaking it for a moment, only to hungrily recapture her mouth with his. . . She scooted forward just enough to grind against him as he trailed a line of kisses down the outer edge of her jaw and throat. She let out a sound that she hadn't heard herself make in decades.

And she made a third momentous decision for the day. The first had been to meet Bruce. The second to bring him back for drinks. Maybe a kiss goodnight. Now she knew that she was going to have him. Tonight. Possibly right on her own damn countertop.

He's going to break your heart. Or you, his. You need to tell him the truth.

And yet she didn't stop.