He took a deep breath and proceeded.

"I find myself in a bit of a bind, Samantha," he said quietly, rolling the ice around in his glass.

"How so?" she asked.

"On the one hand, I spoke with your father not long ago and assured him that you would be safe working for me. Meaning, of course, that he had nothing to worry about as far as your moral reputation was concerned." Foyle stood up and took a step towards her. "But here I am with you tonight, and I cannot figure out what you want from me. I ask myself, 'What is a pretty young woman like Samantha doing, flirting with me over a drink?' For you are a bit of a flirt," he said, as she was about to protest. He put his hands up and said, "Don't deny it." Foyle took a step over to his desk and began to play with a piece of paper that he had left there before continuing.

"And just now we were talking about men like Graeme, men who like to take advantage of young women. Isn't that right?"

Sam nodded.

"And so I have to ask myself: what does Samantha Stewart want from me? Does she see me as a Graeme? Inviting her here to my home in order to have my way with her? Or does she see me as her boss, as a man old enough to be her father? Or would she have me be something else?" He turned and looked pointedly at her. Her breath caught in her throat. He is brilliant!, she thought, admiring the way he had turned her own questions back on her. She thought a moment before answering, wondering how to phrase what she was about to say. Still seated, she spoke.

"I don't know how much longer you are going to be my boss, Mr. Foyle, and I can assure you that I in no way meant to draw any comparison between yourself and Mr. Graeme."

"And?" Foyle asked. "Is there something else?" He hoped that she could not hear how loudly his heart was beating, nor the sweat that he noticed had started to form across his forehead. He hadn't felt this nervous during an interrogation since his early days in the police force.

"Yes," she said, daring to look up at him. He turned away from her, bringing one hand to his face, moved to silence for a moment.

"Good God," he said, glancing down at her. "Sam-"

She stood up and interrupted him. "Sir, I will leave right now if you want me to. But I want you to know that I do think sometimes that there might be something more between the two of us, if you were ever to want it." He turned his head to look back at her, stunned at her candor, then looked away.

"You must know that there is a great distance between what a man wants and what a man can have, Samantha," he said quietly.

"Not so," she countered. "I am right here in front of you! Why won't you look at me? I want you. There! I've said it. What is the obstacle?"

Foyle grew angry. Who did she think she was, to toy with him in this way? When he spoke, his voice was heated.

"You know very well what the obstacles are. I don't have to tell you that I'm your boss, and I'm at least twenty years older than you are."

"So you're saying that, under other circumstances…?"

"Yes, under other circumstances, perhaps—"

"Then I resign, Sir," she said. "Effective immediately."

"That joke only works once, Sam," Foyle said, laughing despite himself. "Besides," he said, stepping towards her and pulling her to him, "Even if you resign, I'm still old enough to be your father." He put his hands on her upper arms and held her eyes with his for a long minute. "Are you sure, Sam?" he asked.

"Well, I'd rather not lose my position as your driver, but given that that's the probable outcome anyway, what's the harm in resigning early?" She looked back at him, scarcely believing that he was so close to her. She could feel the heat of his hands through her sleeves. It felt nothing like being next to Tony, nor any of the other boys that she had gone out with in the last few years. She felt a deep pull towards him, a murmuring in her chest that signaled her growing attraction.

Foyle asked her again: "Are you sure about this?" She nodded, transfixed by his stare. Keeping her gaze, he kissed her, softly, on her lips, then pulled back to examine her expression.

"That's very nice, Sir," she said. "And I'm still sure about it."

"Can't I persuade you to call me by Christopher?" he asked quietly, bringing her face close to his again for another kiss. She gasped as he kissed her more urgently this time, applying a firm pressure to her mouth. "Is it terribly wrong of me to like this, Sam?" he asked her. "Is it wrong of me to want to kiss you again?"

"No," she whispered. "I wish you wouldn't stop."

"I won't stop if you don't want me to," he said, drawing her even closer to him. He wrapped his arms around her torso and rested his hands at the base of her back, securing her tight next to him. Sam closed her eyes, ecstatic, enjoying his kisses.

She had thought about kissing him so many times before, in those vacant hours when all she had to do was wait for him in the car, and she could let her imagination wander. Lately, she had not been able to get him out of her mind. She had wondered what kind of lover he would be—not that she had much experience with lovers, she thought ruefully, but she certainly did have preferences. She liked mature, trim men, like Foyle. She had always been one to fall in love with her male teachers or with the older movie stars; young men were too easy to read, too transparent in their desires. Their eagerness to bed her she also found troubling, and this tendency of theirs had only seemed to increase as the war loomed closer. A virgin still, but not totally innocent of the delight that could be had from her body, Sam had thought that she would like an older man best, someone who would teach her, slowly and deliberately, how to make love. She imagined that Foyle would be this kind of lover, considerate and mannerly, restrained yet passionate. It made her thrill to imagine how he might undress her, taking his time with her buttons and ties, lavishing attention on her small breasts.

Now, under her uniform, she could feel her nipples harden as Foyle pressed her against his chest. He continued to kiss her mouth, then moved to kiss her neck, making her gasp as he touched the soft area underneath her chin.

"You must know that you are so beautiful," he told her, admiring the silky feel of her skin under his lips. It overjoyed him to hear her small gasps, knowing that he was responsible for her delight. He moved back up to her mouth, opening it with his tongue as he held her even closer. He felt her go limp suddenly as he moved his tongue against hers, making her cry out. "This is beautiful," he told her. "The way you are, right now." He felt tears behind his eyes as he breathed in deeply. What have I done to deserve such luck? He thought to himself. Better not push it, Foyle. Keep your head on straight. Pulling back from Sam, Foyle steadied himself against the writing desk. She looked at him, willing him to close the distance again. But Foyle knew that he had to stop now, before he let things go too far. No matter what Sam said, no matter how many times she resigned, she was still under his care.

"Please—Sam," he said. "This was—lovely." Wondering what he would say next, she stepped closer, but he kept her at arms' length. "But tomorrow I have to find my son, and I won't be able to do it without a driver."

"I see what you mean, Sir," Sam said, back to treating him like her boss. She knew where he was heading, but she couldn't help but feeling a bit disappointed that he had so quickly moved to assume their prior positions. In her fantasy, he would have invited her to spend the night. But in reality, if she were honest with herself, the idea of sleeping with Mr. Foyle was about as frightening to her as it was enticing. She did not know him—nor herself—well enough for that. And so she was grateful that he had ended things where he had, before she did something she wasn't ready for.

"Right," Foyle said. "So, what do you say, we call it an evening and see each other tomorrow morning, same as always?"

"Same as always, Mr. Foyle," Sam said significantly. Of course, nothing could be the same between the two of them again. She leaned over to kiss him one last time, quickly. His hand on her hip, he led her to the door.

"You've had a large drink, Sam," he said. "I would feel better if you left the car here and came back for it in the morning. Come, I'll walk you home." He threw on his overcoat quickly and opened the door before she could protest. "Come on, Sam."

Just moments before he had been kissing her, but out in the warm night air, in a street that was dark with the black-out, Sam felt as if an impassable breach had developed between the two of them. He walked an arm's length away from her, careful not to reveal their new intimacy to any passerby by taking her hand in his. She felt lonely, as if he had gone somewhere very far away. When they reached her flat, Sam brought out her keys and let herself in. Foyle stayed back, tipping his hat to her as he watched her close the door. He whistled as he let out the breath that he had been holding. This woman will be the end of me, he thought. And I'm a perfectly willing victim.

"Good-night, Sam," he said.

She turned, hoping that he would give her a kiss good-bye, at least. But he stayed on the bottom step.

"Good-night, Mr. F—Christopher," she said. "I'll come by tomorrow bright and early."

"Up with the lark, eh?" he asked jovially.

And to bed with the wren, she finished in her head, turning to leave him.