Wow, thank you so much for all the reviews! Each and every one is very much appreciated.

I'm really sorry for the delay in updating; long hours and six days at work this week. I was also worried about this chapter being a total let down and so chopped and changed it about fifty times. Fingers crossed this version gets it about right!

By the time the doorbell rang with their delivery, Ruth was trying on her fourth outfit. She knew that the brazen hussy look would have Harry running for the hills, just as she knew that Beth might have a problem with her definition of the term, but the line between subtly seductive and an ardour-crushing display of cuts and bruises was proving a fine one. If she was indecisive about her outfit, her decision as to how she wished the evening to end gave her no qualms. Perhaps it was an adrenaline comedown. Perhaps her brush with death had disentangled her emotions and clarified her thoughts. She neither knew nor cared. The ball was in Harry's court; all she had to do was make sure he didn't pick it up and run off home.

As she smoothed the pale blue cotton over her hips she heard him calling her. It would have to do.

'Coming!'

A dab of lipgloss, a dusting of blusher, then she offered up a silent prayer to any god who might feel kindly disposed towards her, and went to join him.

As she entered the kitchen she was confronted with the incongruous sight of Harry, unpacking foil containers, clad in her Cath Kidston apron. Glancing over he caught her smile.

'What?'

'The..er...apron. Roses become you.'

He waggled a finger. 'You have obviously never tried to get hot and sour sauce out of a Savile Row shirt.'

'Not lately, no. Did you remember to warm the plates first?'

'Ruth, I'm not completely useless.'

'And how much did you order anyway? For crying out loud, Harry, there's enough here to feed the entire Grid!'

'Well, my stomach feels like my throat's been cut, so don't you dare invite them.' He tipped the soup into bowls and the prawn crackers onto a plate then placed the remaining containers into the oven to keep warm. 'Don't suppose you have any lager?'

'Lager? No. I didn't realise you drank it.'

'Best thing with a Chinese. White wine, then?'

Ruth opened the fridge door and scanned the bottle rack. 'Sauvignon Blanc or Chardonnay? Or I've got Prosecco if you fancy some fizz.'

'Prosecco. Live dangerously.'

'Okay. Um, would you mind opening it? I don't think my wrists...'

'Of course.'

As he opened the wine she got out the glasses and put them on the worktop in front of him.

'Actually, are you sure you're up to this? It's only a few hours since you were drugged, and even fewer since you were throwing up all over the place.'

'Thanks,' said Ruth, drily, 'but I'm sure the chloroform has worn off and it's not as if we're talking phaal here. Plus I'm hungry now so that has to be a good sign.'

'What about the booze though?'

She looked at him. 'Just pour, Harry.'

Suitably chastised, he did as he was bid.

Halfway through the soup, Ruth realised that she didn't have a clue how to seduce him. In her limited experience, it had always been the man who made all the running. And yet here was Harry, tucking into his hot and sour soup with gusto, chatting happily about the upcoming Rugby World Cup and seemingly immune to the effects of her Wonderbra. She knew the theory, of course; as a student she'd read Cosmo like everyone else; but truth be told she generally preferred a more reactive role in the whole thing. Slipping off her sandal, she trailed her foot along his instep, then slowly worked on his inner ankle bone and, nudging under the hem of his trousers, his inner leg. For a few seconds he seemed oblivious, then, swallowing a mouthful of his soup, he chuckled,

'For god's sake, Fidget, you're as bad as Scarlet! You've just been fed!'

Aghast, Ruth froze, and then tentatively withdrew her foot, simultaneously ducking her head to her bowl so he wouldn't see the colour blooming on her cheeks. Harry, however, resumed eating his soup as if nothing had happened, and much to her relief he didn't glance over to the other side of the room, where he would have seen Fidget lounging contentedly on the windowsill.

Despite her protests, Harry insisted on doing the clearing up, so Ruth leaned against the kitchen doorway keeping him company as he worked his way through the dishes. Emboldened by the Prosecco, she tried another tack. 'Harry...'

'Mm?'

'One thing we've never talked about...well, there's lots of things we've never talked about, but have you...did you... 'She sighed. 'When I was away. Was there...'

'No.'

'You don't know what I was going to say.'

'Yes, I do. You were trying, in your own inimitable way, to ask if I had a relationship with anyone.' He turned to her, eyebrow raised. 'Yes?'

'Yes.' She pondered. 'Nobody at all? Are you sure?'

He gave a wistful smile. 'Trust me; it's been so long, the chances of my forgetting are nil to non-existent.'

'Long? How long...roughly?'

'Ruth!'

'Sorry, sorry.' She paused. 'It is a bit like riding a bike, you know.'

As he poured the dish water down the sink, Harry muttered under his breath as a teaspoon revealed itself at the bottom of the washing up bowl. 'Sorry, what's like riding a bike?'

'Sex. No matter how long it's been, once you're back in the saddle, metaphorically speaking...or perhaps literally... No, okay...you quickly get back into the swing of things, so to speak.'

Harry's head had slumped onto his chest.

'Is-is that what you're worried about? Being unable to...you know?'

'Oh dear god.' Stripping off his rubber gloves, Harry draped them at the edge of the sink and cast around for a teatowel. 'No,' he said shortly.

'Well then!' Moving over to him her fingertips found the small of his back. She felt his breath catch.

'I don't resent you, Harry,' she said, softly. 'It's just...it's complicated.'

'Exactly!' He birled round, momentarily startled to find her standing quite so close to him. 'And since when did sex ever make anything more straightforward?'

'It clarifies things sometimes.' Reaching up she clasped his head, her thumbs gently stroking across his cheekbones. 'One night,' she murmured. 'And if sparks fly, we'll be glad we did it. And if they don't, well, at least we'll know.'

Harry unfurled the fingers clenched around the worktop edge and lifted her hands away. 'And if sparks fly, and it's one night only, do you really think I'll be able to bear that? Business as usual on the Grid tomorrow morning after I finally make love to you when I've dreamed of precious little else for so long?' Shaking his head he released her hands.

'Do you really think I could be so heartless?'

'I don't know, Ruth. I didn't think you'd proposition me for a one night stand!'

'So what do you propose? A few more years of lingering looks, brief touches, late night tête à têtes?'

'They're banned for starters,' he responded gruffly.

'And how long do you think it'll be before you pull away when I touch you? Before you can't bear to look at me like that? Before you can't bear to look at me at all?'

'Don't.'

'We-we have to do something Harry. And tonight, when for whatever reason I don't want to be on my own, that seems as good a time as any to start.' Standing on her tiptoes she laid her hands on his chest and brushed her lips against his. She felt him tense and his head reared back. Opening her eyes she looked at him, and her heart jolted at the pain that looked back at her. 'Let me love you, Harry,' she whispered.

As a thousand emotions surged through him, all rational thought evaporated.

And closing his eyes, he dipped his head to hers.

The grey light of dawn was beginning to creep through the gap in the curtains as Ruth, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, reached for him. It took a moment for it to register that her fingertips were resting on cold cotton rather than warm skin. Groggily she opened her eyes and propped herself up on her elbow.

'Harry?'

She reached for the bedside light and gave a sigh of relief as she saw his clothes amid the trail along the floor, the bare hook on the back of the bedroom door.

She got out of bed, and pulling on his shirt went along to the bathroom.

'Harry?'

It was in darkness.

She padded into the living room. In the half light she could make out his figure hunched on the sofa.

'Hey,' she said softly. She sat down beside him and rubbed his back through the thick towelling of her dressing gown.

'First roses, now pink; is there anything I should know?'

In the moment that she sensed his smile, she also realised that he was crying.

'Harry? What's wrong?'

He dragged his palms down his cheeks. 'Ohhh. Nothing. I'm fine.'

'Trust me, I know when 'fine' is anything but, and this is anything but.'

He exhaled a long, shuddering breath. 'Just a bit...overwhelmed and apprehensive, and...a million and one things, really.'

'Regretful?'

'Christ, no.' He took her hand in his. 'Whatever happens now, there are no regrets.'

She leaned into him.

'There-there were one or two, weren't there? Sparks, I mean.'

The hope in his voice almost broke her heart.

'One or two? Come off it.'

Silence.

'Oh. Right.'

Her free hand edged under the dressing gown. 'Sparks, Harry? That was bloody fireworks.'

He stared at her for a moment, hardly daring to breathe. 'So does that mean...'

The hand moved lower. 'It means whatever you'd like it to mean.'

'Really?'

'Mmm.' She nuzzled his earlobe. 'So long as that doesn't mean business as usual.'