They had a pleasant dinner in Eastborne. After the busyness of the day—things always came to a head just when a crime was being solved—it was a relief for both of them to sit quietly and discuss the events together. Sam was learning which kinds of questions to ask, and Foyle felt no small satisfaction at seeing how astute she was becoming at putting together the pieces of a case. He had complimented her more than once on her insight, and he made a mental note to do so again, when the occasion arose.

Foyle remembered the moment when he had first met her, surprised beyond words to see a bright young woman standing at attention in his office, where he had expected to see a young man. But this Sam was "Samantha," after all, and not "Samuel." Now he thanked God that it had been that way, but at the time he was taken aback. He had felt that he had been slighted again by his superiors, who had left him to find his own sergeant and assigned him a woman as his driver. He had been brusque with Sam on their first drive together, when she had peppered him with questions and offered to help him at the warehouse. He was still shocked that his driver was a young woman, a very attractive young woman to boot, and he had not the time to figure out how to handle the new situation. His brusqueness was his way of concealing his surprise and, also, the slight satisfaction that he felt at being in the company of an appealing young woman.

In retrospect, he wondered if Sam had noticed his surprise or been hurt by it. By the way she had responded to Andrew's comment that he didn't know his father had a female driver, he imagined that she must have felt a bit miffed by everyone's assumptions that a woman shouldn't know how to drive. Perhaps she had started the job feeling like she had something to prove—to him, to Milner, to her father?—and so had worked especially hard to win her boss's approval.

But no matter how motivated Sam was, she wouldn't have been a good assistant to him if she hadn't had the brains to begin with. Eagerness and gumption alone wouldn't have helped her to see the connection between Graeme's behavior towards her at the pub, and his behavior towards Lucy. No, Sam had more than motivation—she was intelligent, and it was not the first time that Foyle thought that it was a pity that she could not officially join the police.

Across from him, Sam felt excited by the novelty—it still felt like one—of going out to dinner with Mr. Foyle as his special guest. Even though she was still in uniform, and even though they had tacitly agreed to behave like professionals when they were in public together, she knew that this wasn't an ordinary evening out with her boss. The way that Foyle looked at her in the eyes, for one thing, when he had tended to skirt her gaze the other times they had eaten together. He held her stare much more frequently than she was accustomed to, and his sharp gaze made her feel as if he could read her thoughts and sense her feelings. There was a difference in him from before, when he had tended to shut his face down or turn away if she pressed him about personal matters. Now, he was open to her every word, his face revealing his interest and delight in her company.

Foyle was a sensual man, she realized. His sensuality was manifest not only in the way that he held his body, upright and secure in himself, but most especially in the way that he moved his face. His gestures were subtle and difficult to read at times, but within their restricted range there was so much variation, so much meaning. He could express himself with only the raise of an eyebrow, or by opening his eyes wide and staring at her in that puckish way of his. A corner of his mouth might turn up in sympathy or in doubt. Every motion he made was significant, and Sam was just beginning to understand the code. Feeling his full attention turned on her made her feel either terribly important or terribly transparent. She felt as if she could speak with him forever, like they were now, face to face, a world of meaning passing between the two of them.

Foyle was thinking about how fetching she looked sitting across from him, still in uniform but more relaxed, less formal than when they were at the station. He was fascinated by the way she spoke with the waiters, urging them to make a dish that wasn't on the menu, and somehow succeeding. She can make anyone do anything, he thought. The woman could charm a snake. Suddenly he realized how little he knew about his driver, other than what he could glean from their work-related conversations. He felt old when he considered that to ask her about her life would mean asking her about her childhood—she had just barely reached maturity. It made him feel rather foolish to start questioning her about her schooldays and her parents, when his own childhood was so far behind him. He had already met her father, and he knew a little bit about her mother, too. Perhaps he'd start there.

"How is your mother, Sam? You said that she was ill…."

"Oh, yes, she's always ill with something." Sam grinned, trying to make her voice sound light.

"Oh?" he asked, curious.

"Yes, if it's not her nerves then it's angina or indigestion or a headache. She has always had problems with her health, ever since I was a child. That's probably why I didn't want to join up as a nurse—I've seen enough of the inside of hospitals to last me for the rest of my life. The sight of blood doesn't scare me, it's the hopelessness of the sick that gets me down. I know my father would have rather that I stayed at home and cared for her, but when I turned 22 I swore that I'd never again live in a house where I couldn't listen to music or laugh or cry. We always had to be absolutely quiet at home." Foyle raised his eyebrow. "Her nervous problems would come on if there was too much excitement. You can just imagine how hard it was for me to not run up the stairs or slam the door by mistake."

"I imagine so," Foyle said drily. "And so you're making up for all that silence now?" he asked.

"I must be," she admitted gaily. "I sometimes feel as if nothing in the world could make me be quiet!" She looked at him over her glass. "I hope you don't mind all the chatter."

"Not at all," he said. "Though I have wondered from time to time if it would take a kiss to make you stop talking."

Sam nearly choked on her water, then looked around to see if there was anyone nearby. The waiter had put them in a quiet corner, next to a window that overlooked the sea. The sun had set and Sam could see their reflections in the glass. No one had overheard him.

She couldn't meet his eye for a minute. Had he really thought about kissing her, then, when she had assumed that he was bored by all her chitchat? Foyle kept eating as if he had remarked on nothing more serious than the weather. It amused him to see her discomfited, knowing that he was probably right. The only time that he could imagine Sam being silent was if her mouth was occupied with something else. At the moment, she was eating, so that did the trick. Later, before she dropped him off at his house, he would make sure she had her moment of quiet again. But first, more conversation.

"Sam," he said. "I wondered—I mean, I asked about your mother because I feel like I know precious little about you."

"Really?" she asked. "I would have thought you knew quite a lot more about me than I know about you." He raised his eyebrows. "You're not particularly forthcoming about yourself, you know," she pointed out.

"I'm a detective," he said. "I'm more accustomed to interviewing other people."

"Is this what this is?" she asked gesturing to the table and then to both of them. "Are we here for an interview?" She smiled. Now it was his turn to feel uncomfortable. Had she deliberately misunderstood him?

"Not unless you want it to be," he returned.

"I rather liked the interrogation you gave me the other night," she said playfully.

Foyle felt a line of heat forming around his neck. He felt the urge to loosen his tie but he reminded himself that he was in public. Sam was a sly one, he knew that—he just hadn't had any idea of how much fun it would be to take their verbal sparring one step further.

Foyle put down his fork and folded his hands on his lap. Sam didn't seem to notice that he had stopped eating until she felt his hand on her knee. He had quietly lifted the tablecloth and reached under the small table, feeling around until he found her leg. Her skirt had slid up somewhat—it pleased him to imagine what she would have looked like if the table had not been in the way—and he could feel her bare skin against his palm. Sam pursed her lips into an "o" and looked at him. His hand was unexpected, but that didn't mean that it was unwelcome. But part of her worried lest he take it any further.

"What are you—" she started.

"What?" he asked her. "Is there anything wrong?"

A waiter was approaching them and Foyle withdrew his hand.

"Would you like any dessert?" the waiter asked. "Or tea?"

"I'd like a cup of tea," Sam said.

"Nothing for me," Foyle said. "Thank you." The waiter left and Sam crossed her legs under the table, sitting back in her chair.

"Was that part of the interrogation?" she asked him.

"I think this stage might be better classified as an 'investigation,' don't you?" he asked.

"Oh? And may I ask what you have learned so far?" She leaned back in her chair and waited for him to speak.

"Well, preliminary evidence would suggest that you were startled at first, but I suspect that if the waiter hadn't come by just then, you might have gotten used to it."

Sam blushed. "You shouldn't have done that, Sir—I mean Chri—sorry." She caught herself using 'sir' again. "Someone might have seen you."

"Yes, someone might have seen me. But they didn't. I'm not a detective for nothing, Sam," he said.

The waiter returned with tea for Sam and the bill for Foyle.

"Will it take you long to finish your tea, Samantha?" he asked her.

"Are you hurrying me?" She looked at him over the edge of the tea cup. "I would have thought that a thorough investigation would take more time."

"Perhaps we should continue this in the car. It has been a long day and we still have a ride back to Hastings. If I'm going to have time to properly kiss you goodnight—" he looked at his watch—"we had better leave soon."

Sam downed her tea in a hurry while Foyle went to settle the bill.

They chatted lightly during the ride home, each one secretly pursuing their own thoughts underneath the surface babble. Sam was startled by the way that Foyle had touched her under the table. She couldn't figure out what he meant by it, and that frustrated her. Did he want to tease her? Surprise her? Arouse her? He had given her no clue. Sometimes she felt as if he were speaking a different language, or operating in a different world from her own. These were the sorts of games that she had always imagined that men and women played together, but Sam felt herself at a distinct disadvantage when it came to a match with her boss. She chided herself for having imagined that she was learning to read his expressions. Foyle was still a mystery to her.

For his part, Foyle was smugly remembering how smooth Sam's leg had been, and how, if he hadn't been mistaken, she had caught her breath when he had first touched her under the table. Part of him knew that he shouldn't have done such a thing, that it might have given her the wrong impression of him. But he had been impressed at her ability to volley back any comment he gave her, and he was looking for a way to catch her off-guard. It certainly had surprised her, but he wasn't merely being hopeful when he said that he thought she would have gotten used to it. Given time, he hoped that she would learn just how much he liked surprising her. The only problem was, he had promised her that he would take things at her pace, meaning that he might not have many opportunities to catch her unawares.

It was Foyle's turn to be surprised when Sam pulled the car over on the coast highway, about a mile outside of Hastings.

"I though we'd stop here," she said. "I'm ready for my nighttime kiss, you know. Better to do it here than in town."

"Good thinking, Sam," he said, almost formally. He looked out of the car window, out to the dark sea. There was no blackout that night, otherwise they would have been stuck in Hastings, and it was clear enough that he could see the moon rising over the water and, just very faintly, lights on the French coast.

Sam had opened her door to get out. She walked to the front of the car and leaned back against the hood, staring out at the sea. Foyle let himself out and joined her, sitting next to her, his hip just barely touching hers. He reached for her hand and she let him take it, but she kept her face fixed out on the waves.

"Do you ever feel frightened?" she asked. "Looking across the Channel, thinking the Germans might come…it makes me nervous."

"It makes me nervous too, Sam," he said. "But we can't worry about that all of the time. We have our jobs to do, our lives to lead…" He thought that his answer sounded too tidy, too much like what a chief superintendent was supposed to say. "Andrew reminded me recently that life goes on, even during a war. I suppose that's why I'm here with you, Sam," he confessed. "The first war changed me. It made me into a man. It showed me that I could lead others, that I was more than the station I was born in to. Now this war is showing me other things."

"Like what kinds of things?" Sam asked him quietly, not wanting to interrupt him for fear that he would not continue his soliloquy. It was so rare to hear him talk about himself.

"The excuses that people make for their behavior in times of war. That makes my job more difficult. The rules have changed, the enemy is bigger. There are always people who want the police to bend the rules for them, but now we're dealing with people who have the protection of the government, and the excuse of wartime." He was silent for a minute.

"Then there's Andrew. He and I—I can't say that we never got along, when it's just been the two of us for all these years. But things are changing between us. It's his turn to be heroic and he needs someone to fight against, only the Jerries aren't here fast enough for him, so I'm the one he chooses to fight with."

"That must be difficult," Sam sympathized. "But you got him out of the R.A.F. lock-up, right? Wasn't he grateful for that?"

"He expected that I would come through and get him out of this scrape, just like I've gotten him out of most every scrape he's ever put himself in. But I'm afraid that one day he'll knock up against the wrong people and do something that his father can't fix."

"You'll have to let him do it then," Sam said, squeezing his hand. "It's up to him to take care of himself, right?"

"Yes." Foyle grew silent again. Sam wondered what he was thinking.

"Then there's you, Sam."

"Me?" She hoped he would say more. He turned to look at her, putting his hands on her shoulders.

"Yes, you." He smiled at her. She could just barely make out his face in the moonlight. He sighed. "There's you, here with me, and part of me feels like the scummiest old man imaginable to be sitting here about to kiss my driver, and another part of me feels like this is right, like you have come into my life to remind me that I have to keep living."

"Did you ever want to stop living?" she asked, concerned.

"Not that," he said. "But the joy was gone in my work—it had become routine. I was thinking of retirement. And then this War came, and it seemed like maybe I'd get a chance to do something bigger for the war effort, and then that came to nothing, and I ended up here in Hastings again, investigating local murders and trying my best not to ruffle the feathers of military intelligence or the R.A.F. But then they assigned you to me, and you know the rest, Sam."

"Do I?" she asked. She wasn't going to let him get away without telling her how he felt.

"As much as you need to know," he said. "Suffice it to say: I enjoy your company. I want to see more of you, outside of work, though I probably would have settled for just seeing you in uniform. I couldn't bear the thought of you leaving with your father before we had had time to get to know each other better. And I can scarcely believe—" he hesitated, then stopped.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing, Sam," he said, pulling her face close to his as he kissed her. "Nothing, I am just happy that you are here with me." He pressed his lips on hers as he pulled her to her feet.

Sam wrapped her arms around Foyle's neck and kissed him in return. He was taken aback by the fervor of her kisses. Whereas Sam had responded passionately to his kisses before, he sensed a difference now. She was leading him instead of waiting for him to direct her. She kissed his lips fervently, moving her tongue into his mouth to see if he liked it. He was surprised and relieved by her forwardness. It reassured him to see that she was a passionate woman and, moreover, that she could direct this passion towards him. He became aroused by her kisses, though he tried to keep his lower body away from hers so that she wouldn't notice right away. He still didn't know how much Sam knew about sex and he didn't want to scare her with his eagerness. Even if she was inexperienced, she was doing just fine by herself, he thought. Though maybe she should remember to catch her breath from time to time.

His arousal grew and just when he thought he'd have to pin her against the car and take the lead, he felt soft, butterfly kisses pass over his face. She flitted from his forehead to his cheeks to his chin, kissing him gently. Had he ever been kissed thus? He felt cherished—protected, even—by her delicate touch. At this moment Foyle realized that she was kissing him for himself, and not just because he was available or because he was her boss. She was kissing him for all of the right reasons: because she was Sam and he was Christopher. Affection and regard were behind Sam's light kisses, and if Foyle dared to believe it, a growing sense of love and tenderness as well. She would not have kissed him this way if it had been otherwise. He felt touched by this realization, and more determined than ever to do right by her, whatever that meant in the end. The war had changed a lot of things, and sexual morals were an early casualty.

Sam could feel the warm air blowing in from the shore, its salty smell signaling the nearness of the sea. The night felt enormous, mysterious, deep. They stood facing Europe, two insignificant people on the British coast, caught up in the only force that could rival violence.

"Shall we go back to Hastings, Foyle?" Sam asked. She liked using "Foyle" instead of "Mr. Foyle" or "Sir" - or "Christopher," which was still too familiar.

"I'd like another kiss, Sam," he said. "And then we'll head back." Sam took Foyle's hands in her own and pressed their fingers together. Foyle leaned forward for his kiss, looking straight into her eyes as he pressed his face against hers. He held her neck in his hands and turned her head so that he could see her profile and the fine lines of her cheek. Then he turned her again so that he could kiss her soundly. "Sam Stewart," he said seriously. "You do know how to kiss a man."

"I do?" she asked, coquettishly.

"You do," he said, smiling. "Do you think we could continue this another night?" She assented and the both moved back into the car.

Not long later, Sam dropped Foyle at his house. She left the Wolseley at the police station and walked back to her flat by herself. Even in Hastings, she could see the stars above. They reminded her of the stars they had seen on the coast road, shining bright and far above Europe. She pondered their distance and their beauty, remembering a poem she had studied in school.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No - yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever-or else swoon to death.

-John Keats