So...here we go! Onwards from series 3. This is the first time I've written an original plot for them, so let me know how you think it goes!

As usual, I acknowledge the rights of Robert Thorogood and Red Planet Pictures/Atlantique Production to the characters and setting.

Humphrey was lying in his hammock in the middle of a Sunday morning, a cold bottle of water balanced carefully on his stomach and thinking of nothing in particular.

The water was a concession to his leaden constitution. He'd drunk far too much over the last couple of nights and was paying for it now. Friday night had been Dwayne's birthday party and appeared to involve the imbibing of copious amounts of Catherine's famous punch. That would have been fine, if his appearance hadn't been mandatory at a shindig given by the Commissioner's the following afternoon. The cocktails had been many as Humphrey had stood in the Residency's formal gardens, sweating in his dark suit and attempting to make polite small talk while completely out of his depth. He'd wondered, rather resentfully, whether Richard had ever been expected to turn up at these events. Afternoon had dragged on into evening, and still he was forced to nod and smile at the silly, twitters of the over-accessorised matrons and the gruff banter of their rich husbands. It was no wonder he had visited the drinks tray perhaps a little too often, just to get through it.

Now he was taking his ease, trying to recover, and half expecting Camille to turn up at some point.

The four senior officers at the station took it in turns to be officially on-duty during weekends, although, with the office and tiny jail manned by competent Special PCs, this generally only meant not leaving the island and not hitting the alcohol, so you were available at a moment's notice. If a serious crime was committed, the on-duty officer would assess the situation and then ring the others as necessary. In theory, Humphrey could be called in to work at any time and for any case, but in reality, serious crime on sleepy little Sainte-Marie was not a significant problem. He and Camille usually made sure that at least one of them was on the island at all times, just in case.

Humphrey tended to spend part of his on-duty weekends writing up case-notes; the rest of the time, he worked on little DIY projects around his bungalow. On those occasions, Camille kept well away – whether to avoid the inevitable DIY disasters or because she was wary of getting dragged into a new case during her time off, he was unsure.

On her on-duty weekends, she suddenly switched from relaxed to hyper-energetic, and would work off her energy either at her gym or with a long run. It had come as something as a shock for Humphrey to learn that Camille was a gym fiend, but in fact he could've guessed – no one kept a body as well-honed as hers without some serious exercise. She had occasionally tried to drag Humphrey into her fitness regime, but he hated the gym with a passion and much preferred walking or swimming…not that he put an awful lot of effort into that either. It was just too hot to bother, most of the time.

So that left two weekends out of every four when neither of them was on duty, and usually Camille would visit him on one of the two days. Yesterday, she'd been to a friend's birthday party, the daughter of a billionaire, and it had been one of those swish events, held on a yacht with a band and lots of food and drink. If she wasn't too hung-over, he fully expected to engage in a mutual, lively and more than a little bitchy comparison of the rich and famous at play.

He shifted a little, and a piece of paper crinkled in the pocket of his shorts. It was a letter from Sally – their first communication in the three months since he had rejected her attempts at reconciliation. It was a carefully-worded letter, simply updating him on what was happening in her life, sending her best wishes to him and his "colleague" and hoping that he might feel able to get in touch sometime, just to chat. He could tell by the stilted writing how much it had cost her to write it, and resolved to write back as soon as possible.

One phrase in it confused him. Although she didn't give a name, he was sure that "your colleague" in the singular could only refer to Camille, and he wondered why Sally had thought to mention her in particular. After all, she had also met Fidel and Dwayne. He was fairly sure he hadn't given himself away when they had talked in the bar and, in any case, Sally had probably been too absorbed by the bad news he was giving her to even notice. But she had always been sharp-eyed, and he couldn't help wondering whether, once she'd had a chance to reflect on what had happened, she'd noticed some kind of rapport between Humphrey and his sergeant when they'd met outside the station.

He wished it would be appropriate to ask her, because he needed someone to tell him what to do.

At first, he'd been overcome by the sheer relief of being able to put a name to the growing feelings that he hadn't recognised. Now, when he walked into the office, he could recognise that heart-thumping, stomach-churning sensation for what it truly was. Not nervousness about his job, his responsibilities to the team, his desire to prove himself to the Commissioner, as he had so blithely assumed. No – it was a symptom of something far more exciting…and far more dangerous.

In one sense, it was a relief to acknowledge his feelings to himself, but at the same time he felt even more confused and frustrated than before. Confused because… well, he knew that he had never, ever, felt this way before – and what did that say about his marriage? Was he to assume that he had, in fact, never been in love with his wife? Were these feelings for Camille the real thing, or were they just the side-effects of a massive crush, one that wouldn't survive the rigours of a real relationship? He had to be absolutely sure, because he couldn't mess this up again – and certainly not with a junior colleague. If he attempted such a relationship and it went horribly wrong, they would never be able to recover their professional rapport.

Even if it did work out, it certainly wasn't ideal to be dating your sergeant. He'd been scouring the regulations to consider his options. One possibility was to promote her – and she was certainly worthy of the promotion – but then the Commissioner would probably decide that the station didn't need two DIs and might either transfer her or send him back to London.

And it was a big 'if', because there was absolutely no indication that she would, or could, ever feel the same way. And it was logical to assume not; after all, someone who had harboured feelings for a man like Richard Poole would never look at Humphrey Goodman in the same way.

It was frustrating that he couldn't work out what she was feeling. He knew she went on dates from time to time, usually organised by her mother, but occasionally it was a man she'd met in a bar or at the gym or at a party. So far, these had never progressed beyond one date, but that didn't mean that she wouldn't meet the right man one day.

It would almost be a relief to know for certain that Camille had met someone, because he certainly couldn't read her body language. Sometimes, he'd look up from his desk in the office and catch her looking at him in an oddly intense manner before turning her head away, quickly. Other times, she'd look embarrassed and refuse to catch his eye when answering Dwayne's enquiries regarding the success of the previous night's date. From what she said, no man was ever quite good enough – they were always too shallow or too full of themselves or too boring, or they had no sense of humour or sense of fun. And then there were the times when she came over and they swam together or went out on a small motorboat around the bay or went to one of the island's many fiestas, and her face would come alive, her eyes sparkling as she grinned at him.

So, every now and then, his hopes would rise… but then she didn't display what he thought of as the usual signs of interest. She didn't give him a special smile, meant just for him, or look deeply into his eyes or deliberately step into his personal space, or display any other of the flirtatious behaviour that the websites he consulted seemed to imply that she should. On the occasions when he caught her looking at him, she didn't necessarily look all that happy. He didn't think that she was still, even subconsciously, resenting his presence at Richard's former desk, so it must be something else that put that preoccupied little frown on her face.

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly half past eleven and usually if she was going to show up on a Sunday, it would be by now. He tossed back the last of the water and began to shift his leaden limbs, preparatory to hauling himself out of the hammock. He could hear the rumble of an under-powered motorbike coming towards him, but didn't pay it any attention – his shack was right at the end of a dusty road full of cheap holiday rentals, so he was used to backpackers roaring up to take in the view.

He began to shift his way gingerly off the hammock. It was easy enough to get in to the blasted thing, but his body would gradually sink downwards into a more supine position. He'd discovered from painful experience that getting out without tipping the whole thing up and getting a mouthful of sand was quite the trick.

"Good morning, Humphrey!"

"Wha -?"

He twisted in the direction of the voice while levering his left leg out; the momentum caused the hammock to swing wildly before twisting over, dumping him unceremoniously in the sand. With his right leg and both arms wrapped up in the material, he was unable to save himself and landed face down.

"Mmmph…!" He lifted his head, brushing sand off his face and spitting out a good mouthful of it, before turning towards a very familiar pair of feet. He groaned. Every single time….

Camille lifted the hammock and peered under it, blinking at him. "Are you OK? That was quite a tumble."

"Um – yes, I think so." He straightened his limbs and did the usual spot-check. "No – nothing broken. All present and accounted for."

She hummed her approval and pulled the hammock right back, so he could scramble to his feet. There was an amused glint in her eye that made him prickle with heat as he got up. He gave her a careless smile to mask his embarrassment. "So… you look… er, different?"

She was wearing denim cut-offs with scruffy old trainers and a bright yellow t-shirt that looked too big on her. Her hair was scraped back in a practical ponytail and she wasn't wearing any make-up. He didn't think he'd ever seen her looking quite so boyish; even off-duty, Camille managed to combine elegance with practicality.

She raised an interrogative eyebrow and he hurried to reassure: "Nice different, I mean, not… That colour. Um. It suits you."

He grimaced. Since the revelation of his feelings, he'd become more tongue-tied than ever, when it came to Camille. Even the greenest plod on the force would've noticed by now that he admired his sergeant for more than her policing skills. He was amazed that she'd never called him out on it. Presumably, she was too polite and didn't like to hurt his feelings.

She smiled, not seeming offended. "Thank you…I think. There is a reason. I have spent all of the morning working on… this!"

She turned and gestured, with a flourish, at the dusty-looking motorbike propped up on its stand on the road. It looked about forty years' old.

"Oh, so that was you?" He walked across the beach towards it. "I didn't think you liked them?"

"Correction. I don't like going in the side car when Dwayne is driving, but I don't mind motorbikes in general." She looked at it, her brow creasing a little. "At least, I don't think I mind them… I won it. At a poker game."

"At a what?" His mind gave him an unhelpful image of Camille playing strip poker, and he tried to hide his confusion with a cough.

"Oh, come on, Humphrey!" She grinned at him. "You must have known that I played – proper poker, not any other kind. Didn't you?"

"I didn't know, but now you tell me, I'm not surprised." He stared at the bike. "So when…?"

"Last night." She glanced at his face, seeming to read the question in it. "Oh - yes, I did go to Marcelle's party, but it was dreary. Just a bunch of overpaid, over-dressed idiots, strutting about the boat, asking each other how much money they earned last year and how they were planning to invest it." She shuddered, a little theatrically. "And so, when the boat came out to replace the daytime serving staff, I begged a lift off them back to the harbour. One of the waiters – Sam - talked me into going to a barbecue they were having on the beach." She grinned, reminiscently. "Now that was a party."

He tried to ignore his instinctive jealousy. There was no cause for it; this was Camille's home town and she knew any number of people. There was no reason to suppose that anything had happened beyond some dancing and a few drinks…and even if it had, he had no right to judge her. She was younger than him and could spend her spare time with whoever she chose to. Even if he was a young, fun-loving and probably very good-looking waiter.

He gestured towards the bike to hide his feelings. "And there was poker at this party?"

"Yes – well not there, but later on. To cut a very long story short, Sam got a little too…hands-on for my liking." She saw his expression. "Nothing I couldn't handle. He was not serious, just a little drunk. Anyway, I decided it was time to cut my losses and walk into town… and on the way, I met up with old Charles. He's a friend of Maman. He talked me into going to a poker game." She giggled. "I think he thought I was easy game. Ended up having to give me his bike."

"Camille. Are you telling me you took some old man's only form of transport?"

She gave an eloquent little half-shrug that looked particularly French. "As if I would! He deals in them. He's been trying to get me to buy one for years."

"And…and you can ride it?" He looked at her so doubtfully that she laughed, clearly incredulous.

"Of course I can! I was an undercover investigator once – remember? Can you ride?"

"Well…" He didn't like to admit that this was just another thing that he was fundamentally bad at. His balance was atrocious at the best of times. He'd taken only thirty minutes of instruction at police school before it became blatantly obvious to both him and the instructor that Humphrey was never going to make a patrol officer.

"Oh, it doesn't matter, anyway." She opened the box at the back and pulled out a spare helmet. "You can ride behind me and follow my instructions."

"What! Camille, I don't think that's a very good idea…" He was backing away, both literally and figuratively.

"Why not?" She frowned, appearing to notice him properly for the first time. "Are you feeling alright? You look as if you went to a good party last night, or something."

"Or something," he replied distractedly. "I just – I don't have great coordination, that's all."

She shoved a lurid lime-green helmet into his hands. "Don't worry! You worry far too much. I will steer, you just need to hold on and lean when I tell you to. Don't get your lefts and rights mixed up and we'll be fine."

"Chance will be a fine thing," he muttered, as he fumbled with the helmet. "Shouldn't I change into jeans or something? Aren't you supposed to cover up your arms and legs to prevent injury?"

She gave him her patented Camille Look before putting on her own helmet. "In this heat?"

After the initial shock of the unpredictable motion, Humphrey realised, much to his surprise, that he was enjoying himself. There was a major difference between trying to learn how to ride a motorbike and just riding pillion with someone else doing all the work.

Camille was true to her word – she was an excellent rider, avoiding the potholes with practised ease and cutting efficiently through the downtown Sunday morning traffic before heading up into the hills. After about half an hour of meandering around the little villages, she pulled over at a viewpoint and pushed up her visor to give him a grin.

"It's all coming back to me! Why did I ever give this up? Are you enjoying the ride?"

He nodded, enthusiastically. It was more fun than he could ever have imagined, zipping up and down the mountain roads, the cooler winds up here whipping through his flimsy t-shirt and shorts.

"Ready for a little more fun?" Her smile turned a little wicked and her eyes glittered in a way that made his stomach swoop. It shouldn't have sounded as seductive or downright dirty as it did.

Before he could really respond, she flipped down her visor again, gunned up the old bike and they were off again, faster than before. Unprepared for the sudden move, his hands couldn't find the rear handle that he had been holding on to and he panicked and grabbed at her waist.

"Oh – I'm sorry –," he shouted into her ear as he fumbled awkwardly. It seemed a little intimate to put his arms around her, but equally he didn't dare to let go – certainly not at this speed. She didn't seem that bothered, though; as they turned into a straight section, she slowed down a little, taking one hand off the handlebar to grab his hands and place them where she wanted them. Right around her waist.

He found himself leaning in, instinctively, as she gunned the accelerator again. They were turning into a more forested section, and the track was rougher. She slowed down only slightly and rode out the bumps and ruts with professional ease. He sensed that, in her mind, she was somewhere back in her undercover days, hot on the trail of a suspect, with the adrenaline of the chase thrumming through her.

He felt the excitement running through his own veins. He'd led a relatively quiet life when he wasn't on the job – and even then, he'd rarely been involved in high-speed chases. Even during his own stints of international investigation, the bulk of the work had consisted of interviewing suspects and going through reams of evidence. Hardly high-energy work, but then Humphrey had always been more cerebral than physical. And in his home life, he'd shied away from high-impact activities, fearing that he might hurt himself even more than usual.

As the bike went over a particularly sharp rut, he felt his body lift off the bike and then slam down again. The momentum had pushed him even further forward. Up to now, he'd managed to maintain a reasonably decorous distance between them, but now he found that his entire body was pressed up against Camille's, his thighs pressed against her hips and his groin pushed into the curve of her backside.

The roughness of the ride meant that his lower body kept rocking into her buttocks. His upper body seemed glued to her back. His hands were linked firmly around her waist, but occasionally they slid upwards due to the motion, moving tantalisingly close to the under-side of her breasts. He swallowed as he peered over her shoulder at the track ahead. It was becoming more and more clear that the close proximity was making a certain part of his anatomy react in a highly inappropriate manner. He attempted to shift his hips backwards, but it seemed impossible to move.

Humphrey could say with absolute honesty that he had never had this problem before. It wasn't that Camille hadn't had this effect on him in the past, but the reaction had usually been fleeting and he had put it down to a natural male reaction to an attractive, scantily-clad woman. Since he had acknowledged that his feelings for her were more than platonic, the unwarranted reactions had become more frequent, but he'd always been in a position to hide them.

Not this time. He closed his eyes briefly, but it didn't help matters – being unable to see only focused his senses more strongly on the sensuality of being repeatedly pushed against a warm, soft, curvy body. He groaned quietly as he felt himself beginning to harden. Any minute now, she would feel what was happening…and that didn't bear thinking about.

The track was getting more bumpy and she slowed down a little more to compensate. His hands slipped from her waist and he clutched tightly at her hips as he braced his thighs and made one desperate attempt to push his lower body away. One of his feet slipped on the footstep and his leg shot forward, making his body veer to the right.

"What the -?"

Camille slammed on the brakes and tried to compensate for the momentum…but it was too late. The bike swerved to the left, violently, and began to slide on the damp foilage at the side of the track. Again, she tried to correct the movement by turning into the skid, which might have worked if it hadn't been for the pothole straight ahead. The front of the bike pitched forward, coming to an abrupt halt and sending its passengers flying through the air.

As Humphrey was propelled through the air, he had just the briefest of moments to recognise that this was not going to be good… and then he hit the ground.