A/N: This chapter takes place before and during the episode "Among the Few." The characters are not mine, some of their words come straight from the show, and no copyright infringement is intended. I am just having fun here and hope that you are, too!

If you are still reading at this point, then you know that this is a Sam/Foyle fanfiction and you'll kindly stay away from it if you don't fancy May-December romances.

Thank you to Dancesabove for her wonderful editing and to Treva Rea for her suggestions about the chapter.

~Emma

Sam spent the next week at the Reids' house while she continued her search for a more permanent billet. While she certainly had no complaint about the Reids, Sam was angry at having been so summarily dismissed from Foyle's house. To make matters worse, he had begun to treat her as if she were nothing more than his driver: his invitations to dinner ceased, he was back to calling her "Miss Stewart," and he appeared not even to notice when she made an extra effort with her appearance.

Sam still had to put the rest of her life in order—find a place to live, apply for more clothing rations, write to her parents—so she didn't have as much time to dwell on these changes as she would have otherwise. The weeks slipped by and things gradually came "back to normal," where Foyle and Sam slipped back into their detective and driver roles with each other—except it wasn't the kind of normal that Sam wanted.

Nor was it what Foyle wanted, although Sam would have been hard-pressed to deduce this from his behavior towards her. Outwardly, he was formal, a little reserved, but unfailingly polite in his interactions with her. He did not ask to spend more time with Sam, but neither did he avoid her; she picked him up most days, as she always had done, and he continued to treat her with the same combination of condescension and admiration that had so goaded her from the beginning. But she could not get past this outward show of indifference towards her—no matter how many times she tried to catch him looking at her, no matter how often she sighed just a little too loudly at his side. Foyle would not bite.

"The one thing I don't understand, Sir, is why you didn't just have me transferred," Sam prodded him suddenly one day as they were driving on the outskirts of Hastings.

Foyle adjusted his hat and raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to be transferred?" he asked her. "I'm sure we can put in a request to the MTC."

"That's not at all what I mean," Sam said. "And you jolly well know it."

"So what you mean is…?"

"If you don't want to see me outside of work anymore, if you don't want to be involved with me, then why didn't you have me transferred? Why didn't you get rid of me?" Sam looked straight ahead, at the road, a bit scared now that she had finally asked him what was on her mind.

"Didn't see the need," Foyle answered brusquely. "You do your job well. No use asking for another driver, even assuming the Force would honor my request a second time." His words struck her hard—the casual way in which he implied that he had kept her around because she was useful to him, because he needed a driver, and nothing more. "Now, Sam, I'm a working man, you're a working woman. I'm sure that we can continue on as we were. Put things behind us, in other words." He looked at her questioningly.

"Yessir," Sam murmured. If he can pretend this didn't matter to him, then so can I! She thought determinedly. I can sport a stiff upper lip about things, too! Aloud she said, "I just wanted to make sure that I wouldn't have to look for a billet in another town anytime soon."

"Certainly not," he said.

They had arrived at the station. Sam turned off the engine and calmly walked around to the passenger door, which she opened for Foyle. He tipped his hat to her as he climbed out of the car and walked into the station. Sam stayed behind to attend to a noise she had heard coming from under the bonnet. It was an excuse to spend a few moments by herself and let his words sink in. Foyle could not have been clearer with her: she was his driver again, only his driver, and nothing more. He kept her around because it would have been inconvenient to find another driver in the midst of the war.

So this is how things stand between us. I wish that I could turn off my feelings for him as easily as he is able to stop caring about me. She fought the urge to cry and turned her attention, instead, to the Wolseley's oil gauge. For once she was grateful to the persnickety car for giving her something to think about other than herself.

Several weeks later, Sam heard from Milner that Andrew had returned to Hastings. His arrival explained why Foyle had stopped working late, and also why he now rushed out the door in the morning as soon as he saw the Wolseley arrive, instead of waiting for her to knock. Either he couldn't wait to get away from Andrew in the morning, or he didn't want Sam and Andrew to meet again. Whichever it was, it was a change in his behavior that interested Sam.

But Sam and Andrew did meet, soon enough, in a situation that neither had anticipated.

Foyle and Milner were having some difficulty deciding what to do about the situation at the Bexhill fuel depot. They had reason to believe that someone there was siphoning off gallons of fuel and selling it on the black market, but the depot's records looked clean. The best way to discover what was happening there was to send someone undercover to investigate, which was a tricky business at the best of times. Mr. Foyle was in his office at the station, considering the situation, when Sam knocked on the door. She entered bearing a cup and saucer.

"Tea, sir?" she asked. She still brought him tea, still kept up this little gesture of friendliness. To her eyes, Foyle looked tired, and she wished that she could reach out and smooth the lines in his forehead, comforting him with her touch. She hoped that he understood that her bringing tea to him was a way to show him that she cared for him, even if he didn't feel the same way in return.

"Thanks," he said curtly, stepping away from her. Her heart sank.

Foyle scratched his head, distracted.

"Is there a problem, Sir?" Sam asked, wishing he would tell her what was wrong, but suspecting that he would keep any concern he might have to himself. If only he were thinking about me, Sam thought. Now, there's a problem that could be easily solved!

"Yeah…there is, a bit," Foyle said, stepping a few feet closer to her as she came around his desk to face him. He looked down at the paper in his hand and bit his lip.

Milner came through the open door. "I've just spoken with Freddy Pearce's widow," he announced. He then informed Foyle and Sam that he knew whom the dead fuel driver had worked for. Sam listened intently, caught up in the intricacies of a new case, hoping that she could be of some use.

Milner came around to the desk, where Foyle had seated himself to examine the documents more closely. His sergeant peered over his shoulder, asking, "Who's it going to be, Sir?" Sam looked on, quiet but curious, the wheels in her head turning.

Foyle's voice was flat with discouragement. "I've no idea, Milner."

"It is a problem, isn't it?" Milner asked.

"What is?" Sam interrupted.

Foyle looked up at her. He knew that his driver would jump at any chance to become further involved in detective work, but he hesitated to tell her what the problem was, for fear that she'd volunteer herself.

"We're just trying to think of who we can put into this Bexhill Fuel Depot," Foyle said, his eyes firmly fixed on the papers at hand, as if he were refusing to look Sam in the eye. "You see, we're seriously short of men."

"Yes, I know what you mean," Sam said briskly, raising an eyebrow.

Foyle's eyes shot upwards and her caught her gaze. Did she actually mean…? Was she referring to her shortage of men? He looked at her with disbelief, and yet appreciatively, too. Sam was a clever woman; she had responded to his comment without a moment's hesitation. He had caught the implication behind her words, but he doubted that Milner had. Foyle looked back at Sam, waiting for her to explain herself.

Sam shrugged one shoulder, as if dismissing the idea that she had said anything untoward. "Does it have to be a man?" she asked.

Thank God you're not a man, Foyle thought. Although then you'd be much less trouble, as far as I'm concerned. Foyle was more taken aback that he would have liked by Sam's comment, with its double meaning. He had known for some time—since he had first kissed her—that his driver was not nearly as innocent as she let on. He wouldn't put it past her to voice her complaint at his leaving her through a well-timed jab—in front of Milner, no less!—that only Foyle could interpret. Damn her! She still knew how to get under his skin.

Sam went glibly on. "I've driven a tractor on my uncle's farm. Even a three-tonner, during training." Sam paused. "Only on fields, mind," she added as an afterthought. Foyle stole a dubious glance at Milner as if to say, Can you believe what she is suggesting?

Foyle caught her gaze as he quickly decided what to say. "Thank you," he began, "but I don't—"

Sam interrupted him. "—Any racketeer worth his salt would spot a policeman a mile off," she said convincingly. Foyle's jaw dropped slightly as he contemplated Sam's suggestion. She stood upright before him, the picture of propriety and obedience. Yet what she was suggesting—spy work—was a risky job for a woman. "No one would suspect me," she went on.

Surprisingly, Milner agreed with her. "She does have a point, Sir," he said. Damn you too, Milner, Foyle thought. Now you're siding with her!

"I'd be completely invisible! Like a sort of secret agent!" Foyle struggled to shut his gaping mouth and come up with a suitable reply. The manifest enthusiasm in her face made him loath to turn her down, yet he knew that the job would carry some danger, and it made his heart still to think of what he would do if something happened to her, especially while under his command.

"Um—um," he stammered. "I'll think about it," he said, in a tone that indicated that his mind was already made up. Sam looked crestfallen. He gave her a grim half-smile, hoping she'd leave it at that.

But Sam being Sam, she didn't give up the idea. She could hardly stop talking about it in the car that evening. As she drove him home, she peppered him with questions about the case, and even when he refused to answer her, she provided him with her own theories.

"What about the Germans?" she asked. "Do you think they might be buying the fuel and sending it to their own troops? I heard once about a Jerry spy who was caught pilfering food rations in London. Of all things for a spy to be taken in for! And then there was the Russian who dressed up like a woman and tried to buy all of the silk stockings at Harrods …" Sam breezily continued her speculations, heedless of the fact that Foyle had sunk more deeply into his seat. He was about to pull his trilby over his face and hide himself completely—either that, or he would have to silence her with kisses, and he had already excluded that tempting remedy from consideration—when he suddenly had a thought that made him bolt upwards.

Andrew knows someone who works at Bexhill! he remembered. Some girl or other… Rose? Iris? He couldn't recall her name. Perhaps Sam could do double duty—keep an eye on the fuel depot—and find out more about Andrew's girl! He smiled to himself.

"Carry on, Sam," he said. "I think you're quite right, after all. Excellent idea about the fuel depot. We'll see about getting you that transfer tomorrow. I'll talk to the men I know at the MTC."

"Really, Sir?" she asked, delightedly. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "Now, drive me straight home, before I regret it."

"I'll make sure you don't regret it," she assured him. "I promise."

Several days later, Sam was working undercover at Bexhill, the fuel depot, when Andrew happened to stop by on his motorbike to put in a requisition order for the RAF. He recognized her and asked her what she was doing there, but before he could blow her cover in front of the depot manager and her new colleague—who also happened to be his girlfriend, though Sam did not know that—she explained that she and Andrew had stepped out together, long ago.

Sam had put some thought into her back-story before applying to work at Bexhill; Foyle and Milner had helped prepare her, too, asking her possible questions that might arise, such as how she had learned to drive large machinery (working at her uncle's removal firm), and why she was asking to transfer from Ipswich if her supervisors had such glowing reviews of her (her mother was ill and she wanted to be near her). Sam had planned for every contingency—except for being recognized by someone who knew her as Foyle's driver.

She couldn't explain to herself why the first thing that had popped into her head was to say that she and Andrew had stepped out together, but Andrew seemed to enjoy the farce and played along willingly enough. Sam didn't think of it again, until Andrew's real girl, Violet, became a little too curious about their history together. It was then that Sam realized how very difficult the whole spying business could be. If only I had said some rubbish about us belonging to the same Bible study or something, she thought ruefully. Though the idea of Andrew studying the scriptures is rather hilarious!

No, it was better that everyone think she had been his "best girl"—it was more in line with his character, and at the least, it wasn't a lie that she had been the best girl of a certain Foyle, even if it was the father, and not the son. Sam only hoped that her boss wouldn't find out which excuse she had used for already knowing Andrew.

Sam waited outside of Connie Dewar's house, dressed in the camel-colored, one-piece uniform she was required to wear while working at the fuel depot. She had agreed to meet Foyle and Milner there, between fuel runs, in order to tell them everything she knew about Connie.

"Is it murder, Sir?" Sam asked anxiously, as Foyle came down the walk.

"Looks like it," he said, matter-of-factly. He was dressed in his suit and, as he came down to join her, she notice how dashing he looked, even when leaving a murder scene. Milner was close on his heels.

"You don't think she could have thrown herself down the stairs?" Sam asked.

"Why?" Foyle came closer to her, his shoulders almost touching her own as he leaned in to hear what she had to say. His proximity sent a shiver down her back and she had to force herself to pay attention to what he was saying.

"She was so miserable yesterday," Sam said.

"Was she?" He moved away from her, and she missed his closeness.

"It had to do with Rex, this pilot she was seeing." Foyle nodded, deep in thought. He glanced at her as she spoke, impressed by Sam's level-headedness in the face of her colleague's murder. "She got very angry with him for—getting involved in a fight," Sam informed him.

"No, it wasn't suicide," Foyle said, answering her other question.

"This is all about petrol, isn't it, Sir?" Sam asked gravely.

"Well, maybe," he said, not wanting to acknowledge that she might be right. "You're sure it was Rex Talbot she was seeing, yeah?"

"Yes," Sam said.

"What about the other girl?" Foyle asked her unexpectedly. Sam paused before answering.

"Violet?"

Foyle nodded. "Was she seeing anyone?"

Sam hesitated. Violet was seeing someone, that much she could confirm. But if Foyle had to ask her that question, it meant one of two things: either he had no idea that Violet was seeing Andrew, or he wanted to find out if Sam had been privy to that information. He might be asking an innocent question, or he might be testing her, to see how well she had spied, and where her loyalties might lie. It was difficult to know how to respond.

"I don't really know," Sam said vaguely, avoiding his stare.

"You don't really know?" Foyle asked, the suspicion evident in his voice. Damn it! Sam thought. This was a test—either of Andrew or of me!

Sam looked away bashfully, stammering a little before she spoke. "Well, I—"

"—Oh now, for God's sake, just tell me the truth!" Foyle interrupted her brusquely. "Do you think I'm an idiot? Really! Don't keep anything from me just because it involves my son!" He was angry at her now, and he wasn't afraid to let her hear it. He was angry that Sam had obviously lied to him—to him, who could detect a lie from a mile away (and well she knows it, he thought)—and he was angry that he could not figure out by himself why she had done so. Was she withholding information to protect Violet? To protect Andrew? He couldn't decide which prospect upset him more.

If she was protecting Violet, then it meant that she was not nearly as good a mole as he had hoped; it would mean that she felt sympathy for Violet and had, in essence, "gone over" to the other side. On the other hand, if Sam was protecting Andrew, what might that mean? Foyle hardly liked that prospect any better. He had purposefully avoided introducing Sam to Andrew when she had first started working for him, and had tried his best to keep Andrew as far away from his driver as possible.

It's unlikely that Sam knows Andrew apart from our work together, Foyle reminded himself, taking a deep breath. He knew that he was overreacting to Sam's white lie, and his response troubled him. He needed to keep his head clear, so that he could concentrate on the work at hand. There was a dead woman, one whose death was a mystery, and Foyle wouldn't be of any use to her if he kept ruminating on the behavior of his driver and his son.

"She was seeing Andrew, wasn't she?" he asked her.

"Yes, Sir," she demurely replied, looking down. Milner politely turned away, embarrassed for Sam's sake.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" Foyle asked bluntly. He was disappointed in her, she could tell from his voice and from the look on his face. She wondered if she were imagining the other things she saw in his expression: vulnerability, earnestness, a fear that she no longer trusted him enough to share everything with him.

"I didn't want to say," she offered ineffectually. Then, as if to explain herself, she added, "I know he's not involved in this, Sir."

He licked his lips and interrupted her, no longer making eye contact. "Of course he's involved. It's quite obvious he's involved, and it's murder, and that means nobody is protected, not even him." He turned away from Sam and she felt suddenly bereft. "You understand?"

"Yes, Sir," Sam said petulantly. Foyle walked away and Milner flashed her a sympathetic glance before following the Chief Superintendent, leaving Sam to her own musings.

How could he think that Andrew had anything to do with this? His own son! You would think that Andrew at least would be above his suspicion. Golly, if that isn't the case, then nobody is exempt in his book! For all I know, Imay be a suspect, too! What if he thinks that I killed Connie to get to Rex? Anything is possible, right? Sam almost laughed at the thought, but she was too disturbed by Foyle's cold interrogation and his willingness to consider his son as a suspect. She had to admit that she knew little about Andrew, but what she did know did not indicate that Andrew would be a cold-blooded killer. The fact that his father would even consider such a possibility made Sam wonder how much Foyle really loved his son.

At the same time, Sam was ashamed of having lied to Foyle. He was right, in the end; she should not have tried to protect Andrew. She should have known better. It wasn't up to her to decide who would become a suspect and who wouldn't. No, that was Foyle's job, and she should not have questioned his judgment, even implicitly, by withholding important information from him.

She wondered what he thought of her now. She couldn't imagine that he saw her in a good light, now that he knew that she had lied to him. Sam wished that she could turn back the clock and say the right thing. It occurred to her that, to make things right, she would have to turn the clock back several months, to that conversation they'd had together in his dining room. She still wondered why Foyle would not answer her questions about men and women, and why he had grown so stodgy and old-fashioned all of a sudden.

Most of all, though, she hoped that she had not irremediably lost his trust and esteem.

A/N: I'm working on the next section. Hopefully it won't take me so long to update this time around. Thanks for your patience.

Emma.