Chapter 24: Midspan

"Your play," Troy said, still sipping at his wine, "why is it opening on Thursday?"

Cully's smile faded. "Is that it?"

Did it again, he thought unhappily. Exchanging his glass for the fork beside his bowl, he added hastily, "Don't they usually open on Friday or Saturday?"

"It's the director's decision. He always insists on a certain number of performances of anything he directs." She tapped her fingers quickly on the edge of her glass, her nose twisting with what he imagined was irritation. "And he's quite specific about how he wants them split between matinees and evening shows."

"He gets to make that decision?"

"He'd have a hard time of it in London," she said, nodding. "But the Playhouse Committee was ecstatic to get him back here at all."

"He's directed in Causton before?" Troy asked, twirling several strands of pasta around the fork's tines.

"When he's had time on his hands." She finally released her hold on her glass. "I've had a chance to work with him a couple of times—once here, once in London. Actually, he's going to Brighton in a couple of months—"

"Brighton, of course," Troy muttered around the first bite of dinner.

"—so I guess you could say we're filling a gap in his schedule," Cully continued, louder now.

Still probably true, he thought. Why else head out to Brighton? "It's not the nicest way to think about it," he said instead. As he worked another few strands of the pasta onto his fork, Troy swallowed the first mouthful; it was one of the most delicious things he had ever eaten.

"That's what it is, Gavin. We're lucky he picked Causton again instead of Oxford or Cambridge." Cully shoved a few wayward locks of hair from her face—it really was longer than she had worn it recently, Troy realized—before finally beginning to eat her own dinner. "But the only way we were able to reach the number of performances he specified was to open a day early."

"A little batty, is he?"

"No, he's just very particular," Cully said, rolling her eyes.

"Batty," he said again, forgetting the meal before him long enough to finish the remaining wine in his glass.

"He wants to be certain it's worth his time."

"So not—art for art's sake?"

"Not if your living depends on it," she said with a shake of her head, like the answer should have been obvious.

"Then it doesn't sound like he's a very good artist." Only a couple of inches of wine remained at the bottom of the bottle, and Troy split it between their glasses before setting the bottle to one side. All for the best: one less thing in front of her. God, if anyone was going mad—batty, as it were—it was him. If he had half a brain, he would have left the bottle right where it was and found a dozen other things to stand beside it.

"Artists with patrons don't really exist anymore." Cully sipped at her wine quicker than before. "That's the only way you can afford to ignore how much your time costs."

"So how do those blokes with the splatter paintings and the like make it?"

"Sometimes they don't," she answered quietly, her gaze suddenly vacant and unfocused. She was tapping her fingers again, but this time they were slower, almost heavy.

"One of the hazards, is it?" Troy asked, instantly regretting the words. He had a notion of what might be turning in her mind, and it was putting it kindly to state that he had put his foot in his mouth. Again.

But she still managed a smile. "You could say that."

The vice tightening once more around his torso released, and Troy took another large forkful of dinner. Even though it was tinned, the tomato sauce was clean and bright. Almost vibrant. "This is lovely, Cully."

"Thanks. You didn't give me much to work with."

Troy willed away the embarrassment on his face. "There's no point in keeping it around for just me."

"I can tell."

The new silence was broken only by a clank of cutlery against dish, and even that faded. Letting the food be, Troy returned to his wine, drinking most of his glass in a single swallow.

Cully stretched out one arm toward his hand, but despite the table's size, she didn't quite reach him. "Sorry, Gavin," she said, her palm falling flat against the wood before she pulled it back, "I didn't mean that."

"Well, it's true."

Readying another bite, Cully said lowly, "Then maybe I should come round more often."

Troy had no answer, and so decided to say nothing. What did you say to that? "Yes." "Please do." "No, Cully, you're already haunting me, don't make it worse—" He coughed to conceal a laugh at that last one, finally finishing the little wine he had remaining. It would never be spoken—no matter how true it was.

"Now what?" she asked, her fork frozen for a moment.

"Just a thought."

"Care to share?"

"Nothing important," he said. Her gaze found the truth in words: Liar, it said, almost amused.

By the time dinner ended, Troy remembered to look at his watch, which now read a quarter to ten. At least he had made no promises about when she would be home, he reminded himself, ignoring the clatter as he dropped his fork into the empty bowl before him. Some things were out of his control.

Cully had the bowls and cutlery carefully stacked and beside the sink before he realized she had even stood, and was now reaching for the wine glasses, taking each one delicately by the stem. "What are you doing, Cully?" he asked, rising from his chair and reaching for her arm.

"It's just a few minutes," she said, tugging her arm from his grasp, then turning to rinse the dishes under a quick stream of water.

"That might make the difference."

"To what?" she asked, one bowl finished and the next begun.

How was this always so unavoidable? The man had brought her into his life—and meant to keep her at the periphery of it. No matter what he saw when his mind wandered, no matter his dreams, it was inescapable. Pressing his tongue to the back of his teeth, Troy drew a deep breath. "To how close your dad gets to breaking my neck," he said quietly, now taking her hand, which was wet and chilled, but hot underneath.

"Then bully for him," Cully said, pulling away from him again and returning to the small pile of dishes. As she reached for the forks, her hand paused. "He's upset about it anyway."

Troy turned the tap off before she could clean the wine glasses. "I don't doubt that."

"What did you expect, Gavin?" she asked, dropping the cutlery and reaching for the towel, wiping the thin film of water from her skin.

"How the hell should I know what to expect?" Noticing a free corner of the towel, he pressed his damp fingers to the cloth. "But I didn't say I was surprised."

"Good." She brushed at his hair with her fingertips, then slid them down to his cheek. They were soft and still cool—and her mouth was warm when she touched it to his, her fingers falling further to the edge of his jaw. "It doesn't matter, though," she said quietly when she drew back, taking her hand as well.

Words were almost impossible to form now, and Troy stumbled over a few trite ones, fighting against the knot growing in his throat and threatening to consume the rest of him. "I know that—"

"That's not what I meant." His brow creased at the firmness in her voice. "I mean, anyone would bother him at first."

"Anyone?"

"Anyone," she repeated with a nod.

Every possible response died in the back of his throat as his hand wandered to the small of her back, bringing her nearer. "And detective sergeants?" Troy managed after a few seconds. His palm shifted before he realized it, sliding forward to rest against her hip, molding itself around her body.

Something almost mischievous glittered in her eyes. At one time, he might have mistaken it for an amusing thought she had decided not to share, but not as her fingers ran along the edge of the shirt at his neck and her breath tickled his cheeks. "Especially them," she whispered as the space between them—already small—vanished.

Despite the innumerable kisses they had shared over the past weeks, Troy was entirely unprepared for the throbbing of his pulse in his ears when his lips met hers. The taste of her mouth was muddled with that of tomato sauce and red wine, the latter rapidly pushing away all sense. And when her other hand reached the back of his neck to pull him to her, against the full length of her body and its curves, sense fled entirely.

The need for air was an annoyance to which they both succumbed in a quick gasp; Cully released another when his fingertips slipped beneath her blouse, rising from her hip to her waist. Her hand never moved from his neck, somehow bringing him nearer—and the fingers of her other curled around the fabric of his shirt, her nails gently running over the top of his chest.

The next breath Troy took was preceded by a deep groan, both cut off as Cully kissed him again. Between the wine and her mouth and her ever warmer touch, his senses had taken leave of him completely. His fingers moved higher—

"You and Cully. I don't think I need to tell you anything else. Or I shouldn't."

"Sir, I won't—"

"I know you won't mean to, but you will."

The memory of those words—"Gavin?"—was like the first blast of cold, wintry air crashing over him, an unwanted shiver rushing through his body—"Gavin?"—and stilling him.

"What's wrong, Gavin?" Cully asked, her mouth still so close to his that he smelled the wine she had drunk—that he had poured for her. She sounded mystified, and her forehead creased with the confusion.

"Nothing." Troy kissed her lightly, the soft touch overwhelming the dying echo in his ears. "Nothing," he said again, his fingers almost itching to begin their exploration once more—but remaining motionless against her suddenly rigid body instead.

Cully unfolded her hand from the top of his shirt. "Yes, something is."

The sigh escaped him before he could stop it. "You know, Cully..."

"What?"

"He will have my neck for this."

The tension beneath her skin lessened. "Really?" she asked lightly.

When he heard her consider it and felt her fingers begin to rub the base of his neck, the worry was suddenly miles away, the world shrinking again. "I told you, he'll snap it."

"Still?"

"And that's just if I'm lucky," he murmured, his hand still motionless against her torso.

Cully pressed her lips to his cheek. "Hmm."

"Nothing for you to worry about, is it?"

"I think you're thinking too much," she said, moving to kiss his mouth almost cautiously.

The color flaring beneath his cheeks was not from embarrassment but irritation. "I've never been told that before."

"I'd believe it."

"Oh, thanks," he snapped, freeing himself from her blouse.

Cully looked straight at him and the weight of her eyes was immense, like she was studying him for the first time. "Then what happens if you're unlucky?"

"I'll let you know if I find out," Troy said quietly.

"And what will you do about it?"

The irritation transformed into a point of hot anger. "So it's up to me—"

"You'll be the one wearing the neck brace," she said, forcing a few peals of laughter. They were not the pleasant, musical sound he craved when she was absent and his neck was chilled when her hand left it. "Gavin, please don't do this again."

"You think I want to?"

"Maybe!"

The anger had already ebbed away. "Cully, what'd be the point?" Troy asked, hearing the exhaustion in his own voice. God, here we go again.

"I don't know," she said, crossing her arms as she took a step away from him. "Sometimes, I really don't know."

"It's the real world, and it doesn't go away."

"I know that—"

"Not if you want it to"—his voice grew louder—"not if I want it to."

"So what is this," she asked, color blooming on her face as well, "something you're still just playing at? Is that all?"

The question hurt. "No—"

"A game?"

"No, Cully—"

Her eyes narrowed, the anger just reaching them. "Because I'm not, Gavin—" His mouth—hungry and almost desperate—stopped her words and Troy pulled her against himself again. She shuddered briefly before her hand grasped his shoulder like a vice, holding him where he was.

When he took another deep breath, Troy dropped his forehead to hers for a second, the patient rhythm of inhalation and exhalation calming. But the rhythm was off: she released a breath when he had taken half of one, when she drew another, he had already let his last go. He ignored it, just listening for a moment instead. "You know what I've said, Cully, just to keep my head on straight?"

"What?" she asked, brushing her fingers through the short locks of hair at his temple.

"'If you weren't the governor's daughter'," he said quietly. "The bloody governor's daughter—because you are. And it matters."

She spun a bit of the hair around a finger, lazily twirling it around again and again. "More than anything else?"

"No."

"Why should I believe you this time?"

"Because—"

"Why?" she said loudly.

"I don't know what you want me to tell you, Cully," he said after a moment.

The twirling ceased. "So we're back there again?"

He pushed away the new memory of angry words rising in his mind. "It still matters. Everything still matters!" "But nothing's changed—" "I know it hasn't—" God, that still burned so many months later. "No, Cully—no," he whispered.

Now she trailed a fingertip over his cheekbone, the touch maddening. "Are you sure?"

His hands hadn't moved for a minute, but now the one on her shoulder drifted, traveling down her side then back up, tracing the curve of her breast. "God, what do you—"

"Just answer me, Gavin."

A few seconds ago, he had felt her pulse at the base of her neck. Now, he almost felt it within her ribcage. "It doesn't mean more than—" He stopped, needing another deep breath. "But it matters. It always will."

She pursed her lips, and it was as maddening as her fingers. "So, what now?"

A smile spread over his face as a tinny sound rang shrilly in his ears. "I think I'll take up jiujitsu," he said, choking on a laugh. "Maybe I'll keep him from snapping my neck."

Cully rolled her eyes once more, tapping his face gently. "Gavin—" He kissed her another time, and now her hand was at the base of his neck again, keeping him close. "If that's true," she said, running her nails over the vertebrae, "we'll probably be able to keep your neck in one piece."

That single word—we—brought the warm knot back to his stomach. "You'd step in?"

"Of course, what did you expect?"

Troy shook his head. The rest of the world was already fading—even that faint, irritating ringing noise—leaving behind searing heat and tightening muscles. "I won't complain."

She pressed her lips to the edge of his jaw just in front of his ear. He just heard what she said, hardly more than a breath. "Good."

The world was no longer fading but was obliterated entirely, with only Cully's touch and body holding him to the earth. The wine blurred his senses, but she sharpened them: from the delicious sight of her flushing skin to the ringing in his ears—

It was a phone ringing. It fell silent for a few seconds before it began to blare again. God, it never ended. Cully glanced across the room, following the sound to his jacket; he had left his mobile in one of the pockets. "I didn't think you were supposed to ignore your phone," she said.

"I'm not." He had never done so before, not even when it came to life in the middle of the night. It could wait, that was all.

"But you are."

Troy took a small step away from her. "I can answer—"

"Only if you have to," Cully said, clasping her palm around his wrist.

The ringing ended a second time, disappearing with everything else. Troy's hands were still exploring her body—still learning the feel of it before the sight of it—when his mobile rang a third time. Three attempts to contact him made it impossible to ignore, and he released an irritated groan. Cully's hand, on the already hot skin of his back, fell away. "Go on," she sighed, "answer it."

"Sorry," he whispered, kissing her cheek before he walked away to retrieve it. Each step was a little slower as a cold dread about the voice awaiting him when he answered began to settle. When he had it in his hand, he took a final calming gulp of air. "Troy."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

As expected, the chief inspector was livid at the other end of the line. "I—I'm sorry, sir?" Troy stammered. What the did that sentence mean? He suppressed an urge to look back at Cully, though he supposed her father's voice was loud enough for her to hear as well.

"Answer your bloody phone," Barnaby grumbled.

Troy's breathing eased. "Yes—"

"I need you in Midsomer Magna, at the Gooders' house. Now."

The blurriness of the last several minutes was gone, and Troy stood straighter at the clear urgency in his boss's words. "What's happened, sir?"

"Not sure yet, I'm just on the way myself. A gun shot at the very least."

"Yes, sir—"

"Get there. As soon as you can." With no other words, the line died.

"Now what?" Cully asked, running a hand over his shoulder. When had she come over to him? But certainly there was no point in wondering what she had overheard; most of it, he suspected.

"Don't really know," Troy said, reaching for her bag and his jacket. Turning around to hand her things to her, he pressed another quick kiss to her mouth. "I'm sorry, Cully."

After slinging her bag over one shoulder, Cully straightened her blouse; a pair of buttons near the hem were open. "That's the way it always is, isn't it?" she asked, rubbing one hand over her bare arm.

"The way it always will be," he added as he thrust his arms into the sleeves of his jacket before returning his mobile to the same pocket. "I'll drop you at home."

"Thanks, Gavin." Sliding the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, Cully crossed her arms against her chest.

"Do you want a jacket?"

"No, don't worry about it," she said, already unfolding her arms and grasping one of his hands tightly. Her palm was warm.

Neither of them spoke as the journey began, apart from one brief moment when Cully pointed out a turn Troy had not noticed in the dark. His attention flitted from the road to his mirrors—the latter occasionally—to her face just out of the corner of his eye. And, too often, his gaze landed on the clock in the dashboard, the small glowing numbers marking the minutes as they passed. They vanished too quickly for his liking; more than once, Troy wished to replay the last hour and turn his bloody mobile off.

It was the whats and ifs and possibilities that maintained the silence for the entire drive and the languid walk up the path to the front door of the Barnaby home. Her presence was still a warm glow burning in his chest, one he was sure would remain for the rest of the evening—at the very least—but the sting burned alongside it.

Another few minutes couldn't mean a thing at this point, Troy decided, and he needed them desperately. While Cully looked for her keys in her bag, he struggled to find something to say—anything at all—but nothing came. They were in her hand when he managed, "Sorry."

Her hand paused halfway to the lock as she looked back at him. "Gavin, can we just stop this?"

This? "Stop what?" he asked, almost stammering through the words. God, not again. Everything was too bright and full of those same possibilities to just stop—

Cully reached for his hand, pressing it to hers in the cool night air. "Saying 'sorry'. I think we've said it often enough already."

Troy almost laughed, and he wondered if that was all she had wanted after enduring the heavy quiet in his car. "Yeah," he said quietly, kissing her one final time, refusing to linger any longer. If he did..."I'll see you tomorrow."

She raised one eyebrow before drawing her hand away. "You had better."