Thanks for the comments so far. I'm really glad that people are reading and enjoying this story.

Emma

After Foyle got back to his house, it took him longer than usual to get ready for bed. He took his time tidying up the study, noticing each small sign that Samantha had been there earlier. There was red lipstick on the edge of her tumbler—he reluctantly washed it off in the kitchen—and he next discovered a half-dozen golden hairs on the armchair where she had sat not long before. He supposed that, if he were to look in the mirror, he might find his face covered with her lipstick, too. Had he walked through Hastings like that? That's the least of my concerns, Foyle thought. There are more important things to worry about. I don't know where Andrew is, there's something fishy about Alistair Graeme, we still haven't solved the Smith murder, and now I've taken a step with Sam that I don't think I can—or want to—undo. He sighed. As much as he knew that he should concentrate on the cases, he found it much pleasanter to think of his driver. She had been so pliant, so eager, when he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. He remembered the taste of her skin, slightly salty, and the smell of her soap. There was the shock of feeling her at last, in his arms, when he had imagined those sensations for so many weeks. But even in his imagination he could not have anticipated that rare combination of innocence and eagerness that Sam exhibited when he had kissed her. The way she had gasped, for instance, when he had kissed her neck—hadn't she ever let someone kiss her neck before?, he wondered, before reminding himself that he knew little about what a young vicar's daughter would have done befre. It excited him to think that he might teach her something new. Calm down, Christopher, he reminded himself. Don't put the cart before the horse. If she's new at this, then you'll need to show even more patience and consideration for her.

Foyle reflected that, for all that she flirted with him, Sam was probably a lot less experienced with men than she had let on. She might know how to get under his skin, metaphorically speaking, but she seemed to have little knowledge of the pleasures of the flesh. This made kissing her all the more enticing to Foyle, for it meant that he might be showing her, for the first time, how to use her body—and what she might do to a man's body in turn. It caused him unspeakable delight to remember the sounds that she had made when he kissed her. If she had let herself go so completely with a few kisses, what would she do if I touched her elsewhere? he asked himself. He quickly reprimanded himself for the thought. It was one thing to kiss his driver, it was quite another to contemplate making love to her. I guess it doesn't matter how old a man gets, he thought peevishly to himself. We still have only one thing on our minds. Fortunately for Sam, though, I've had a lot more years of restraint under my belt than those young men she likes to dance with…

For her part, Sam had no difficulty getting to sleep: alcohol always made her drowsy, and the sweet memory of Foyle's kisses made her descend quickly into unconsciousness. Sam had always been a good sleeper, just like she was a good eater. Good thing I've got those bodily functions down at least, she thought to herself as she dozed off. It bodes well for the one I've yet to master.

Surprisingly for her, she woke up earlier than usual the next morning, before the sun had risen. The birds had already begun to sing outdoors and she knew that it would be daylight soon. Stretching lazily in bed, Sam recounted the night before. Despite her apparent boldness, she had been so afraid that Foyle would reject her outright. What made him act like he did? She asked herself. Was it because I'm about to leave? Sam realized that she had no idea what was going to happen next with her boss—or was he Christopher now? She felt so confused about things that she was tempted to hide under her covers and not come out for another week. In her mind, she couldn't figure out any solution that would allow the two of them to be together, and that made her feel quite frustrated. Just as I find a man that I really like, a man I think that I could love some day, I have to give up my life here and return to Lyminster.

Sam thought of the alternatives. She could refuse her father's request to come home, but her mother was ill and her father would hold it against her for the rest of her life if anything happened to Mrs. Stewart while Sam was away. She might continue her tack of trying to persuade her father to let her stay, although she felt that she hadn't gotten very far with that, even with Foyle's help. Maybe she could move back to Lyminster and visit Hastings from time to time? But it wasn't likely that she could get train tickets very often, and she didn't know whom she'd stay with if she came to Hastings. The other possibility, that Foyle come visit her in Lyminster, seemed equally problematic, for Sam couldn't imagine her parents welcoming a mature suitor for their young daughter.

And as for Foyle himself, Sam was confused about why he had done what he had done—or, better put, what he had let them do together. Where did he think all of this could go? Maybe he had a plan for them, even if she didn't. How did he really feel about her? He had clearly enjoyed kissing her, had complimented her, even. Even now she blushed when she thought about how he had called her beautiful. She hoped that he had said those things in earnest, and not because he was trying to seduce her.

Startled, Sam reflected on this last thought. She couldn't decide if she liked the idea of being seduced or not. I don't know what I want, either. Do I want him to kiss me? Or do I want him to be chaste? If I like his kisses, then why does it bother me to think that he might have "ulterior motives" for calling me pretty? Why do I go back and forth, wanting him to want me one minute, and hoping he'll let me set the pace the next?

Sam dressed as she continued to think about Foyle. After last night, when she had admitted to him that she thought there could be more between the two of them, she wondered if Foyle thought that she was a bit "fast". There she was, prepositioning her boss in his own home! She promised herself to be more reserved from now on, something that it was not in her nature to do. Her friends would be the first to say that Samantha Stewart was a bit wild—not for nothing was she a vicar's daughter—but her wildness had tended more towards the sporting and sailing variety. Before the war she had been a great hand on a sailboat, and had spent many hours trolling up and down the south coast in her father's small craft, getting into not a few scrapes with her girl friends. Sam could be counted on to be the one to hatch a plan and execute it. She was the one who always carried a map, who knew how many miles they could go before the winds changed, who knew exactly how many sandwiches to bring for lunch, and which islands to anchor on. But Sam had to admit to herself that, when it came to Foyle, she had no idea how to proceed. There was no clear-cut plan here, no map to follow. She was lost.

Time to back off and let him steer the course.

When Foyle climbed into the Wolesley a few hours later, Sam could hardly contain her anxiety. Letting go of the responsibility to do anything about their situation, she hoped that he would show her the way.

"Where to, Sir?" she asked.

"Oh, back to 'Sir,' I see," he said. She looked straight ahead. "To the station, Sam."

There was an awkward silence. Sam pretended to have difficulty shifting the gears while Foyle put his hat on, then took it off, then put it on again. He was thinking of how to start the conversation that both of them knew was coming.

"I think we should wait and see what happens with your father," Foyle said, out of the blue.

"What?" Sam asked, daring to look over at him. He looked very serious and she felt a bit worried.

"Maybe he'll let you stay after all," Foyle said.

"I don't think that's very likely," Sam said. She almost pouted as she stared hard at the road.

"I'll see what I can do to convince him," he said. "You know, about last night—"

She interrupted him. "I've been thinking about it, Mr. Foyle, and I don't think that anything needs to change between the two of us." He raised his eyebrows in surprise or doubt. "I mean, I'm still your driver, until my father says otherwise, and you must know that I take my duty very seriously."

"I know you do, Sam," he said quietly. "That was never in question."

"It was wrong of me to say what I said to you last night," she told him. "It was highly unprofessional, and if you would accept my apology, I would be most grateful."

Most grateful? Foyle thought, somewhat insulted. All of this moral rigmarole that I put myself through in the past few months—all of the arguments I put to myself about why this shouldn't happen—and when I finally resolve to let things take their course, she wants to forget that anything even occurred? He wouldn't let her off so easily.

"I would accept your apology, Sam, if I thought it were sincere." Foyle looked at her as he put his hand over hers, where it lay on the wheel. She jumped a little, surprised at his touch. He removed his hand, hoping she hadn't minded it. "But while what you said may have been 'unprofessional,' I certainly don't think that it was wrong. In fact," he paused, "I had rather hoped that we might spend some more time together. Off duty."

"If you think it's a good idea, Sir," Sam said. Inside her heart was beating. He wasn't angry at her! He didn't regret last night!, she thought. But she still did not know how they would ever move forward.

Foyle smiled. "In fact, I think it's a very good idea. What are you doing tonight?" Sam pulled into the station.

"After driving you home?" she asked. "Nothing whatsoever."

"Good. Then I can take you out to dinner." She stopped the car and they got out. Sam nodded her assent, anxious that no one would hear what they were talking about. Back to being his employee again, she thought as she walked into the station behind him, maintaining the distance appropriate to her position. He stopped to look at some files, then they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Foyle and Sam found Milner and Mr. Stewart in the detectives' office.

Surprised to see her father there, Sam exclaimed, "Dad, what are you doing?"

"Why, I've come to collect you," he said in a measured tone.

"I'm afraid you can't have her yet, Sir. She's needed," Foyle interrupted, looking at her. "Sam, follow me!" Sam hesitated, torn between her father and her boss. She looked down at the floor before turning to go after the detective. The vicar looked downcast as he heard the door shut. Sam had left with Mr. Foyle.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked.

"To the Graemes' house," he said.

"Why there?" Sam asked, surprised. She had no desire to see Alistair Graeme again.

"There was another murder last night. Milner rang me about it early this morning. I would have had us go straight there but I needed to pick up those files first," he explained.

"Another murder?" Sam asked. "Who died?"

"Mr. Graeme. Stabbed with a knife to the chest, just like the other man. Come, let's go talk to his widow." His brain was whirring as he tried to put the connections together. Graham Smith killed with a knife to the chest, Alistair Graeme killed the same way—did it mean anything?

For her part, Sam repeated Foyle's words to herself as they walked back to the car: "She's needed." Did he mean that he needed her? Even with the impersonal phrasing, that was what he had implied. He needed her and he wasn't going to let her go back. She missed the intimacy of the car ride, but part of her was glad that Foyle had put aside their morning's conversation and was back to being her boss again, focused on solving a murder and finding his son. She felt more comfortable when he was like that, because she knew where she stood with him. As her boss, he would explain the case to her, she would take a stab at solving it, and he would show her an alternative. She would press him for more information than he was willing to give and he would sidetrack her. And so on and so forth, all day long. It had been lovely these last few months, and she certainly was going to miss it, if she ended up leaving.

After Foyle had spoken with Mrs. Graeme, he returned to the car and met Sam, coming so close that she thought he was going to bump into her—or embrace her. But Foyle was just making sure that, whatever they had to say, no one else would hear it. He was sure that Sam would have some theory about the case. She had been looking at the body and now she wanted to tell him something.

"Sir," she addressed him. "Couldn't it have been a woman who did this? I mean, after what happened last night at the pub, I wouldn't be surprised if there were one or two who would gladly stick a knife in him." She gestured as if she were stabbing someone. Foyle considered her idea. It wasn't bad, really.

A couple of men in blue uniforms interrupted her. R.A.F. police, they brusquely informed them that they would take over the murder investigation.

"You got my son," Foyle said carefully.

The taller officer turned in surprise. "Who told you that?" he asked.

"I want to see him," Foyle said firmly.

"Well, that's not possible. Anyway, I'm afraid this takes priority."

"You don't feel they're connected?" Foyle asked, smiling slyly.

"I'll be taking over this investigation," the other man said, annoyed. "So it's my job to find out."

"Well, you're a bit late," Foyle announced. "I already knew who killed him, and why he was killed."

The officer looked interested. "Tell me."

"Not until I've seen my son," Foyle bargained. The officer reluctantly agreed, and before she knew it, Sam and Foyle were following the R.A.F. officers in the Wolesley.

"Well done, Mr. Foyle," Sam said. "But do you really know who killed him?"

Foyle smiled. "Yes, I do, Sam. Remember what you said about some woman wanting to kill Graeme? I thought, what if it's not a woman, but someone close to a woman—a father, say? Someone who has a motive for revenge. The female plotter who killed herself—we need to learn more about her. There might be a connection with Officer Graeme. In fact, I'm almost sure that there is."

"So that's the story?" Sam asked. "Sounds awfully complicated."

Foyle sighed. "It's actually quite simple. Graeme must have gotten her pregnant, she committed suicide, and her father wanted revenge. But then it got more complicated, because he killed the wrong man."

"Graham Smith?" Sam asked, shocked and a little self-satisfied to have understood his meaning.

"Yes, precisely. He thought he was killing Alistair Graeme but he killed the wrong Graham. And so he had to go back and try again—same weapon, same wound, same name, different man."

"That's capital, Sir!" Sam said, delightedly. "I hope it's true."

"So do I," he said. "Or, I should say, I wish it weren't true—for in our business, we rarely want anything to happen that actually happened."

"I see what you mean," Sam said. "We don't want an innocent man to be killed, but we do want to find out who did it!"

"Right," he said. "It's a question of semantics." He paused, lost in thought. "I still don't know exactly what happened between Graeme and that plotter. But I'm guessing that, if he did what he did to you yesterday in the pub in plain sight, then we could expect him to do a lot more if he had a pretty young woman under his command."

Sam felt uncomfortable. For once, Foyle didn't seem to grasp the implications of his words.

"Forgive me," she said, "but I can't help but think—er—" she stammered.

"Yes, Sam?" he asked, distractedly.

"That I am also a young woman under an officer's command," she said.

"Did you think I would—? Sam—" Foyle sounded concerned. "You must know I would never –-"

"Never what, Mr. Foyle?" she said, icily. He noticed that she hadn't used his proper name once that day.

"I hope you don't compare me to Mr. Graeme," he said. "Please, I thought we talked about this last night. I would never make you do anything you didn't want to do. I thought you liked my attentions but if you don't, just say the word." Sam blushed.

"I did like them, Sir, but I just want to get one thing straight," she said. "Make that two things. First, am I under your command or am I your friend?"

"Both, for now," he said.

"And second—" she paused, gathering up her courage and sneaking a glance at him. "I want you to know that I am not going home in disgrace from this job. No P.W.P. for Samantha Stewart. Is that clear?" she asked pointedly.

"Perfectly clear, Miss Stewart. I believe you have made your point." What kind of man does she think I am? Foyle thought to himself. I would never get an unmarried woman pregnant. He considered her situation. She did not know him so well as she might, he thought. But he could hardly blame her for worrying about her virtue, what with the example of Alistair Graeme laid out before her just minutes earlier.

The R.A.F. officers had stopped before a large brick building, and Sam pulled over to park the car. "Shall I come in with you or wait here?" she asked.

"Wait here," he told her. "I'd like you to keep a watch out."

"Yessir," she said.

"Don't you think the 'sir' business is a bit forced at this point, Sam?" he asked, teasingly. "I'd much rather you called me Christopher."

"Not when I'm on duty," she responded. "It's 'Sir' or 'Mr. Foyle' during working hours. Or everything will start to get muddled up." Damn, she was right!, he thought.

"All right, Sam. On the condition that you consider calling me 'Christopher' on off hours."

"I'll consider it—Sir," she said, as he opened the door to leave. "But some habits are hard to break."

Up next: a date!