A/N: Some M-rated content within this chapter.

By the time Harry's call ends, the atmosphere is no longer charged with promise. Ruth has poured them each a fresh glass of wine, so he again sits, and lifts the wine to his lips. "That was Lucas," he says, sitting back in his chair, gazing across the table to where Ruth sits curled in her own chair, the fingers of one hand fiddling with the stem of her glass, while her other hand is draped protectively across her lap. He manages to push aside the fear that by taking that phone call, Ruth has crept back into her private world, the space she shares with no-one. "He's done a ring-around," he continues, in an attempt to cover his own disappointment, "and so far there are around a dozen more agents - all somewhat disgruntled - who have been approached by Smallwood."

Ruth has been attempting to hide her own irritation, and is fast failing. "Why would he call you about that, especially on a Saturday night? It's hardly ground-breaking news."

"I suspect Lucas believes I have no life outside the Grid."

"I wonder why he thinks that."

Harry holds her eyes for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I imagine," he begins slowly, "that he considers me to be permanently chained to my desk."

Ruth can't help herself. She begins smiling, and the smile becomes a soft giggle.

"What?" Harry asks, wondering whether he is - again - a source of fun for her.

She watches him for a long moment. "I'm imagining you tied to your desk with chains - one around each ankle, and another heavier chain around your waist."

Harry sighs. "There are days when I feel those chains."

"I know you do," Ruth says quietly.

They sip their wine, each wondering how best to return to the intimacy of only minutes earlier.

"I vote we retire to the sofa," Harry says after a long silence, getting to his feet, reaching out to Ruth with one hand, his glass of wine in the other.

"To sit?" she asks, imagining them writhing around together on the sofa, wine forgotten, buttons popping open as hands explore naked skin, their breath coming in gasps.

Harry stares at her. "I didn't wish to presume anything," he says, letting his hand drop to his side, before allowing the breath he'd been holding to slowly leave his lungs.

He breaks eye contact with her, and turns away. For a moment she thinks he might be leaving, but surely he'd not leave while there's still wine in his glass. He disappears into the gloom of the living room, and when she follows, she finds him lounging at one end of the sofa, leaving her plenty of room to choose how close to him she wishes to sit.

There is no need for the living room light; the light from the kitchen, while not direct, provides an intimate ambiance. Harry relaxes at one end, one arm slung along the back of the sofa, while Ruth feels herself sitting primly beside him, although not quite close enough to be touching him. She has to drop her eyes as she smiles to herself. She'd had a momentary flash of herself and Kevin Hartwig, both aged fourteen, sitting on the front bench seat of his dad's beloved Rover, neither knowing how to best address the arm he'd draped along the top of the seat, behind her shoulders. Ruth's memory of the moment ends there, what had happened next having disappeared into the swirling fog of her distant past, along with so many other moments.

She feels Harry's fingers tapping impatiently on the back of the sofa. It's late on Saturday evening, and she and Harry are alone in her flat. Ruth is exhausted from over-thinking the moment. Is it too soon after George's death? Then there was Ros's death, although Ros is no longer dead, so it no longer counts. Is anything which is happening now a good idea, given they have to work together?

Harry has also been thinking, but perhaps not as much or as deeply as his companion. He recognises that, with the momentum of their earlier closeness having been interrupted by the phone call, perhaps this is the right moment to run something by Ruth. "I'd been thinking," he begins, placing his glass of wine on the coffee table before again leaning back against the cushions, having removed his arm from the back of the sofa. "Ever since we discovered the truth about this Smallwood twin ... I believe I may have an alternate solution I can offer Ros."

"Surely she can't return to London," Ruth says, wondering what Harry is thinking, and whether he's given his idea thorough consideration.

"I know that." Harry turns his body on the sofa so that he half faces her. "I'd almost forgotten about a former colleague of mine who left the intelligence service early, and escaped to the US. He was injured in the line of duty - a bullet in his lower spine - and he ended up in a wheelchair. His wife threatened that if he didn't leave the service .. and the country ... he could expect to be served with divorce papers. This happened around five years after my own divorce. He contacted me only a few months ago, asking whether I had any disgruntled or injured operatives who might be seeking a career change."

"It sounds like he was attempting to recruit you," Ruth says quietly.

"Perhaps. I don't know why I hadn't thought of him when I first visited Ros at the goat farm." Seeing Ruth drop her head, he frowns. "What?" he asks, wondering what it is he'd said which she'd found so amusing.

"It's how you said `goat farm'. It sounded like a euphemism ... for Tring."

Harry twists his mouth to one side. "With Ros's current state of mind, that's not so far-fetched." He leans forward to again grasp his wine glass, and after taking a mouthful, he places it back on the table. "I think I need to give him a call."

"Now?"

"No, Ruth," he says gently, "not now. That would be ..." and he allows his shoulders to slump, recognising at last how poor is his own timing, and rather than sharing a romantic evening together, he and Ruth are again discussing work. He glances towards her, wondering how best to return to their former intimacy.

"That would be a very bad idea," Ruth finishes the sentence for him, before turning to face him. "Let's not talk any more about Ros," she says quietly, "or Lucas. Let's -"

The rest of that sentence is lost as Harry leans forward to cup her face with one hand, his eyes moving from her eyes, along the line of her jaw, and to her mouth, where his attention lingers. Ruth closes her eyes, just for a moment, and when she opens them, he very slowly trails his fingertips from her jaw, along her cheek, down her neck to her throat, and then to the opening of her shirt. His touch is soft and respectful, and Ruth feels a shiver pass through her body.

"Let's what, Ruth? Tell me what you want." His voice is husky, even harsh, while his eyes glisten in the half-dark.

She wishes he'd just kiss her, bringing to an end the agony of anticipation, but she'd rather it be his idea. Suddenly it is all so simple. "I want you," she breathes, and before she can expand on that his fingers open the top button of her shirt, and then the second button, while his eyes never leave hers. "I want you to kiss me," she whispers before swallowing. "I want you to kiss me now," she adds, her voice almost inaudible.

Ruth can't remember any man ever having asked her what she'd wanted. What had happened between them had always been their idea, their desire, their time for doing it, and in their way, not that she'd complained. She hadn't known how to answer Harry when he'd asked. Was it a trick question? Perhaps he'd been teasing her, testing her, taunting her. Perhaps, after all, he'd meant it. I want you, she'd said. She'd spoken her own truth, so she couldn't be clearer than that.

And having opened the last of her shirt buttons, his fingers hover over the bare skin of her stomach, and his eyes leave hers. He is gazing at her lilac-coloured bra, chosen for its scantiness, rather than any support it might provide.

"Take it off," she says.

"Take what off?"

"My bra. I want you to take it off."

Ruth thinks this is the strangest encounter she has ever had with a man. He is not grabbing at her, pawing her body. Harry is taking his time, The man must have nerves of steel.

Suddenly he stands, his movement shocking her. "Upstairs," he says, reaching for her hand.

He strides towards the stairs, and she hurries to catch up to him, her hand firmly in his grasp. "You still haven't kissed me," she says, hoping he can hear her above the sound of their footsteps.

It is once they reach the first landing that he stops, turns to her, leaning into her, and reaching around her before drawing her against him, kissing her slowly, and very thoroughly, devouring her, sliding his tongue inside her mouth, searching for her own tongue, sucking it into his mouth before allowing it free. Ruth almost whimpers. With just one kiss her legs have turned to water. When the kiss ends, she falls against him, while he unhooks her bra, sliding it from her arms, allowing it to drop to the floor like snow falling in winter.

"Happy now?" His voice rasps, his mouth close to her ear. Having temporarily lost the power of speech, Ruth nods against his shoulder.

Again, Ruth expects hands and lips and teeth to assault her breasts, but when she draws away from him it is to see him gazing at her chest. "You are exquisite," he says, before he reaches down, reverently cupping one breast with his hand, while he caresses her nipple with his thumb - over and over until she is almost mad with want.

"And you are magnificent," she replies, having dropped her glance to the front of his trousers, where his erection strains against the fabric. Had she actually said that aloud? She reaches out to glance two fingers along the length of him, down and then back, down and then back, feeling the responding twitch of his cock, accompanied by a quick intake of his breath. She lifts her eyes to see he is smiling at her.

"I can't take credit for something I inherited," he murmurs.

"Nor can I."

They continue up the stairs, his arm tucked around her waist. Once inside her bedroom Ruth leaves his side to hurry across the room to switch on a lamp, while Harry closes the door behind them. Then, as though a wind had whipped up inside the room, everything changes. They crash together beside the bed, his mouth again finding hers, while fingers grasp belts and buttons, and garments are strewn every which way across the floor - a chaos of clothing. When they fall on the bed together, Harry has to place his hands either side of her lest he squash her. He settles beside her, pulling her across his body, his arms holding her firm.

They are both naked .. on her bed .. at last, and it has taken them over four years to get from that first dinner to this bedroom. Miracles do happen, Ruth thinks, as she bends her head to kiss him. His body, rounded and solid, is hot beneath her own, as she settles herself on top of him, her breasts pressed against his chest, while his cock seeks its home between her legs. She closes her eyes as his mouth meets hers. My Harry, she thinks.

When Ruth wakes it is still dark, but the insistent call of her bladder has her sliding out of bed, and creeping across the room to retrieve her dressing gown from the back of the door.

Rather than returning to bed, she tiptoes downstairs, where she is greeted by a trail of clothing reminiscent of the aftermath of a hurricane. On the stairs, and then in the living room, her bra, shirt and shoes, and Harry's socks and shoes lie drunkenly around the coffee table, like guests who have passed out after a party. The wine glasses, wine barely touched, are still on the coffee table. She gathers both glasses, taking them to the kitchen, where she clears the table, and places the dishes and cutlery on the sink. Finding that she requires a few moments of solitude to catch up with the events of only hours earlier, Ruth settles at the table with a freshly made cup of tea, enjoying the quiet and calm of Sunday morning pre-dawn.

Harry had surprised her. She'd expected he'd be a good lover, but she hadn't reckoned on his sensitivity and attention to her needs. She smiles to herself, her memory of their lovemaking still fresh, drawing a response in her body, a familiar aching between her legs. And she'd turned down his marriage proposal! Silly woman. She is wondering how best to remedy that when she hears the flushing of the toilet upstairs. Less than a minute later, Harry appears in the kitchen doorway, dressed, but barefoot.

"You're leaving already?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounds whiny.

When he reaches her side he leans in to kiss her, a lingering, warm kiss. "Hardly," he says, drawing away. "I need to get my bag from the car, and for that I'll need shoes and socks."

Ruth watches as he retrieves his footwear, returning to her for a quick kiss before he leaves the flat. What now? She has no idea where this is all leading, but she now knows what it is she wants.

The first light of dawn finds them back in bed, curled together, sharing the occasional quick kiss while hands explore bare skin.

"I'm sorry," Ruth mumbles at last, believing Harry needs to hear her apology.

"About what?" While his arms remain around her, he pulls his head away to better see her face.

Seeing his half-smile, Ruth almost changes her mind, but continues regardless. "That I turned down your marriage proposal."

"I understand why you did, Ruth. Given I'm a patient man, I wasn't about to back off entirely. But why now?"

"Why do you think?" And she can't help her own smile, along with the flush which reddens her neck and cheeks. She doesn't wish to answer his question. It is too personal, too shaming that she'd believed it would be better were they to remain apart. Her capitulation had surprised even her.

"I have an inkling," he says before he presses his lips against her temple. In his opinion, her eager and ready response to him in bed is a dead giveaway.

Ruth's fingers have been caressing his stomach. Almost unconsciously she has been glancing her fingertips from one side of his belly to the other. As he reaches down to kiss her mouth her fingers move down his stomach, towards his pubic hair, where she feels his cock hardening against her wrist. Her eyes fly open, and she looks into his eyes. "I can't resist you," is all he says before he turns her to face him, pressing his pelvis against her, his intention clear.

This time their lovemaking is gentle and measured. While Ruth would be happy with hard and fast, Harry has other ideas. He brings her so close, and then backs away, burying his face in her neck, while his fingers glide away from her heat, and down her thigh. Then he slides those same fingers up her outer thigh to her hips, and then belly, before waiting for Ruth's inevitable objection.

Hearing Ruth's disapproving growl from deep in her throat, Harry smiles, and then trails his fingertips southwards once more, again settling between her legs.

"You are the most infuriating ..." and Ruth words fade as she responds to his skilful touch.

He could do this all day - bring Ruth close to climax before retreating - but he can't hold off his own completion for much longer. When at last he slides inside her, his movements are slow and languid, until he hears Ruth say his name, her tone pleading. He closes his eyes, gradually increasing speed until she cries out, her body grasping him in a regular pulsing rhythm. He can't hold back his climax ... or his joy. He is in bed with an extraordinary woman, a woman who appears to love him as he loves her.

Harry rolls onto his back, taking Ruth with him. "Christ," he says, "I am so knackered."

He barely hears Ruth's light giggle, as he closes his eyes, allowing sleep to envelop him once more.