The news of Sullivan and Bunty's latest row spread around Kembleford like a rash. It had occurred at such a volume that most people probably heard it. It was a storm in a teacup, that really didn't seem to have much to do with anything important.

Lady Felicia was crestfallen, and dismissed the strange happenings at the party as a phenomenon brought on by too much champagne and a lack of civilised conversation.

Somehow, when she found a scrap of paper with Sullivan - 741 scribbled on it, Bunty couldn't bring herself to admit the same. She tucked the number behind the perfume bottle on her dresser, and found it hard to expel the three digits from her head.

I'd rather hear the truth from you. Would he actually answer the phone if she did call him? And if he heard her voice, would he want to keep listening?

Anytime there was a quiet moment of reflection, the idea would pop back into Bunty's head. She'd often pick up the note and admire it again. What would happen if she just sidled up to the man and started chatting? It worked remarkably well at the party. Maybe he was really a different person outside the station?

For some reason, she was really regretting calling him a pig-headed arrogant unfeeling self-centred bastard. She often wondered if he regretted calling her a trust-fund powered spoilt idiot who is so attention-seeking that she would insist on getting herself into trouble because she was bored, and would rather be a rebel than be pathetic.

That rather hurt, so she called him an imbecillic prat who got high on preyed on the weak because he didn't have the balls to tackle real crime.

And then she called him a dickhead.

And he called her a cow.

So she called him a wanker.

And he called her a bitch.

And so it continued.

She scrunched up the paper and chucked it into the bin. A wanker was what he was, and there was no point in trying to change that. Besides, she didn't even know the man. They weren't friends. They'd had a grand total of four conversations, and two of them had been proper fights.

There was no them.

The next party at Montague was a much more raucous affair. The boring Bishop and his buddies were replaced by a glittering group of bright young things, and the speeches morphed into dancing and general festive activites. There was also much more to drink than a few complimentary glasses of champagne. Father Brown had been guided away from the bar very determindly and Mrs McCarthy had to decline a considerable amount of dance offers from wobbling suitors.

Perhaps out of maternal pride, she relented when Sid came up to her with puppy dog eyes and allowed him to waltz her around the floor and then sat down very conclusively, rubbing her bruised toes.

Poor Sid couldn't get near Bunty to ask her to dance. Men were clustered around her like wasps around a jam pot on a hot summer's day, and no matter how many times she politely swatted them away they came back. Two of them were very persistent, and they were starting to really unsettle her. She had smiled coldly and said 'no' very firmly many times, yet they would not leave her alone. As soon as she gently pushed one away, the other would sidle over and wrap an arm around her waist. It made her skin crawl - she could feel the heat of their bodies pressing against her, mumbling, chuckling, and she felt like she was suffocating. Oh heavens, that one is comng in for a kiss -

''Excuse me - would you like to dance?''

"Can't you see she's busy?"

"I was asking the lady, not you."

The man was shoved away, and a hand, a lifebelt, was reaching out to her. She followed the grey suit fabric up the man's arm, and found herself face to face with Inspector Sullivan.

He wasn't exactly smiling; in all honesty he looked a bit uncomfortable. Go with him, a rude arsehole, or stay with the creeps?

She beamed and took Sullivan's hand, and they both escaped to the dancefloor.

Sullivan turned out to be an excellent dancer, and as he whizzed them both around the dancefloor without one wrong step Bunty couldn't help but laugh happily.

''You're marvellous,'' She giggled, as her skirts flew out around her as he twirled her once again. Sullivan caught her eye for a second, looking rather haughty.

''Marvellous?'' He repeated, ''What happened to dickhead?''

He dipped her backwards, marvelling at how well she moved with him. He barely had to lead her, and she hadn't trod on his toes once. The silk of her dress felt like she was always in danger of slipping from his fingertips, yet she stayed in his arms. He couldn't remember partnering with such a talented dancer before. And the way she'd done her hair was interesting, swept up in places and down loose in others. She was wearing a different perfume tonight - a stronger scent that smelled like wine on a warm summer's evening.

She rose slowly, majestically, as the song finished, her hair flowing down over her shoulders as she came to face him once more.

''I don't know.'' She said, casting her eye around the room as the people around them clapped, ''He doesn't seem to be here.''

He made a disgruntled noise. Bunty rolled her eyes, her arms still around him. ''You were really charming until you did that.'' She pouted.

They were, without doubt, the most handsome couple of the dancefloor. Her pale pink dress matched his light grey suit so well it looked as though they'd planned to coordinate. They were of similar height, and two very beautiful people. Somehow, they went unnoticed amidst the sea of dancers. The world kept spinning around them but Bunty didn't notice it.

''He's still watching you.'' Sullivan warned, pointedly nodding towards the corner where one letch was lurking, breaking her free from the spell.

Bunty looked over and grimaced. ''Thank you,'' She said, ''For rescuing me.''

Sullivan looked puzzled. ''That's not something you should have to thank me for,'' He said, ''Those men, their behaviour was disgusting. This is the least I could do.''

The band was tuning up again, the couples reshuffling. Sullivan did not seem to have any inclination of letting go of his partner.

''Dance the tango, Inspector?'' Bunty asked.

''Why not.'' Sullivan replied, with something almost like a smile.

He danced the tango with her, and then the foxtrot, and then a waltz, and then a slow dance. She rested her head on his shoulder in that one, regardless of the makeup stains she'd make on his suit, and he seemed genuinely pleased by this little display of tenderness.

For a slight man, he was strong. His frame, though lean, was muscular and wiry and Bunty didn't have to do much, just be swept around in his arms.

He smelled wonderful - that same cologne he'd worn to the last party, but with a hint of alcohol on his breath and now that she was closer, she could smell his hair cream as well.

"I'm sorry about what I said," He mumbled into her hair. They were moving very slowly now, feet barely seeming to lift off the floor.

"So am I." Bunty whispered back. The evening dancing seemed to have made her quite affectionate towards the Inspector. Any hostility between them had fizzled out once they'd finished the passionate tango. And a passionate tango it was...

When caught up in the moment, focusing on the dance, sweeping her round the floor like he did, Bunty had came to the conclusion that Sullivan was actually rather hot, and found herself wondering what he'd look like in a proper tango outfit.

Or even with just a few of his shirt buttons opened.

She snapped out of those imaginings when Sullivan spoke again, quietly, just to her.

"It's a shame that we don't meet more often outside of the station." He whispered. "We're always on opposite sides in there."

"I know." Lamented Bunty, "And you're a different person there."

"Am I really?" Sullivan asked, with genuine surprise in his voice.

"Well," Bunty reasoned, "Would the man who locked me up have came and rescued me from those two awful gargoyles?"

"Yes, he would have." Sullivan said stiffly.

"How about the man who called me a bitch?" She whispered, her warm breath tickling his ear.

"He would have done it too." Sullivan promised. "In that vein, would the woman who called me an imbecile and a dickhead be dancing with me?"

Bunty paused for a moment. "If she saw you in that suit," She hushed, "I daresay she would have."

Sullivan blushed again.

"Maybe I ought to get to know this version of you properly?" Bunty wondered aloud, "He seems like fun."

"He's the same as the man at work." Sullivan protested. "Just not as stressed and annoyed."

"Does dancing relieve stress and annoyance for you, Inspector?"

"Never got to test that theory out before." Sullivan remarked.

"You're dancing now though." Bunty reminded him, speaking so close to the man's ear she was in danger of smearing it with lipstick. "How do you feel, right now? Right here, with me?"

Sullivan went quiet for a moment. "I don't think I know," He admitted after a brief deliberation, "Maybe I'm not feeling the stress relieving effects yet."

"Perhaps we ought to get a drink after this, to speed them up?" Bunty suggested, feeling her heart rate quicken a mere fraction when Sullivan agreed.