In the immediate aftermath of what Phryne ironically called The Cherry Jam Incident, very little seemed to change. Anthony slept that afternoon and through the night, and when Jack greeted him the next morning before breakfast the child reacted with the same cheerful alacrity as always. But there were signs, so subtle Jack was uncertain whether they had been present all along and he had simply not noticed, where it was clear that he was not as well as he first seemed. He shied from strangers, becoming mute and retreating to the nearest familiar adult; his hold on Cleopatra was fierce and unrelenting, and when Dot attempted to remove it at the breakfast table he fell silent and absent until Jack returned the toy; they needed to coax him into engaging with games he had previously sought out.
On Sunday night, another family dinner over and the guests gone home, they were ensconced in the parlour. Phryne shook her head.
"I almost miss the climbing," she said.
"Give it time," said Jack.
"That's easy for you to say; you've been working all day. The boy spent most of the day trailing after me, one hand firmly gripping my trouser leg."
Jack was surprised that she had tolerated such behaviour, but perhaps she had felt that she had no other choice. He extended his arm against the back of the chaise, and she moved to sit against him.
"I suppose this puts a rather large damper on Tuesday's night away?" she said wistfully.
His fingers tickled the back of her neck and she laughed lightly. He had, in all the commotion, completely forgotten about the night he had booked before Anthony's arrival.
"I don't know," he answered honestly.
"Dot said she'd stay with him here. Hugh's working an extra shift—I think they might be eyeing a larger house soon, with a third bedroom, though she hasn't said anything yet—and says it would be no trouble, but that was before…. Well, I'm not sure it's fair on poor Dot to take on that unknown."
"Especially not if we're two hours away," Jack added.
"Remind me again why I thought this was a good idea?"
"Because you went in with incomplete information and a good heart, Miss Fisher."
She sighed contentedly and wrapped her arm around his waist.
"And you, inspector, love me too well to point out when I am foolish."
"If I did that, I'd get nothing else done," he teased. "It's simple self-preservation."
"Of course," she said, too solemnly to be serious. "But about these other demands that you have on your time?"
If he had ever thought that a secure relationship would be enough to make him less distracted by that look in her eyes, he had been a naive fool. The hand caressing his thigh wasn't helping matters either.
"Upstairs," he said in a near growl, and she laughed.
"Or what?"
"Or I'll carry you up myself."
Phryne draped herself against the chaise, languidly wanton.
"Do your worst, Jack."
Never one to back down from a challenge, he was out of the seat and scooping her up in an instant. She laughed as he mounted the stairs and carried her through to the boudoir; once inside he placed her on her feet. Her hands curled around his lapel, a pleased look on her face; and damn it all, that look of peaceful love was stronger than every lustful gaze put together, and from the smirk on her lips she knew it.
"If that's your worst, I look forward to seeing your best," she said, stroking down the front of his vest as she swayed.
It was the work of a moment to stumble them both towards the bed and make an attempt.
—
Phryne was gently shook awake on Monday, and she promptly rolled over and attempted to ignore the sensation.
"Phyne, love, I have to get to the station."
"I," she said as imperiously as she could when her mouth felt full of cotton and a sated contentment filled her body from the night before, "have no such commitments."
Jack laughed, a deep and utterly at ease sound she was still surprised by.
"I had a thought, about tomorrow."
She hummed inquisitively in response.
"I'll reschedule the cottage, because you're right about that. But if Mrs. Collins is still happy to watch Anthony, we can look somewhere closer to home. It's only for a night, after all."
Still half asleep, she attempted to mull it over as Jack finished dressing. It was a good solution, really. And the idea of escaping, even for the evening, certainly appealed; she was still getting nowhere on the aunt. She'd found someone who knew the woman and given her more information, but progress was absurdly slow, and Phryne had other investigations—she'd begun to take on other cases once more, unwilling to suspend her business indefinitely—and she was beginning to think that Welfare would have a foster spot open up long before she had answers. But getting those answers had become a matter of professional pride. The point remained, a night away from small children and the case—ugh, and now she was back to irritated about that. Definitely a night away.
"I'll speak with Dot," she said, rolling over and pulling the blankets up. "Later. At a reasonable time of day."
She heard Jack mutter a curse beneath his breath, and she sat upright to regard him with one elegantly raised eyebrow.
"Dropped my cufflink," he explained, eyes scanning the floor.
"Is that it? Just under the table?" she asked.
He bent over, giving her a perfect view of his arse, and she thanked gods she didn't believe in that he hadn't put his jacket on yet.
"Found it," he said, still in position.
"Mmm, I think I might have dropped an earring there the other day…" she said lightly. "If you want to keep looking."
"Which one?"
"The…dangly ones with rubies?" she fibbed, cursing herself for her inability to lie to those close to her.
Jack clearly caught her tone, because he stood immediately and gave her a chastising look.
"You can't blame a girl for trying, Jack," she pouted.
He strode over to the bed, kissed her goodbye, then paused and shook his head without saying a word before heading out the door. Spoilsport.
When she went downstairs two hours later, she found Mrs. Bowen watching Anthony and the Collins children—Dot's mother was visiting a relative out of town, so Dot had taken to bringing the children with her whenever possible—as Dot attended to some darning. Phryne explained the situation, and Dot gave her a rather firm look.
"Miss, of course I'll watch him. The children and I have been looking forward to it," she said, and Phryne wondered exactly how she could tell when the most coherent statement she'd ever heard out of any of them was Aggie's desperate 'Help 'e mum' when she'd gotten herself stuck somewhere.
"And of course I'll be around tomorrow as well," Mrs. Bowen added, coming into the kitchen to prepare the children a morning snack.
They had been vague about Anthony's incident, merely saying that he had taken ill and was still recovering, but Phryne trusted that the woman would do her best. She had known him the longest, after all. And it was not as if Phryne and Jack would be unreachable. Satisfied that that aspect of the plans were under control, she left the room to make some telephone calls.
—
Coming home that evening, Jack was surprised to be greeted by a small blur barreling around the corner at full speed; Anthony stopped up short when he saw Jack, their eyes meeting. Then there came footsteps and Mrs. Collins calling after him, and he giggled and ducked to hide behind Jack's legs.
As Mrs. Collins came into sight she brushed flour off her hands.
"Anthony! Leave the inspector alone. It's time for dinner."
Anthony squealed with laughter and attempted to climb up Jack's coat. Jack picked him up, shifting him to his hip and giving the boy a stern look.
"Are you giving Mrs. Collins trouble, Ant?"
"Noooo!" the boy giggled, shaking his head. Then he reached towards Jack's head. "Hat?"
Before Jack could redirect him, Anthony had snagged his hat and stuck it on his own head. The resulting pride on his face was enough to make Jack and Dot both laugh, which egged him on.
"Well, I'm glad to see your mood has improved," Jack said. "Good evening, Mrs. Collins."
"Evening, inspector," she said, reaching out to take Anthony; Jack took back his hat once he was safely in Dot's arms.
"Did Miss Fisher—"
Dot nodded.
"All arranged," she said brightly. "I'll just take Anthony through to the kitchen with the other two. Miss is in the study."
Jack nodded his thanks, then hung his coat and hat up and headed to the small study where Phryne kept the documentation for her cases and her finances—it had surprised him to discover the neat and precise filing system that seemed to run contrary to her very nature; she had laughed and called it the high price to pay for freedom and he'd felt ashamed of his assumptions. Phryne was generous and spent freely, but never frivolously. Still, it was the most austere and unused room in the house, and that was in a house with three guest rooms.
When he peeked into the study, Phryne was sitting at the small desk with her head in her hand as she studied papers before her.
"Shut the door, Jack," she said without looking up.
"I think Mr. Butler's about to serve dinner," he offered, stepping inside and doing as instructed.
She looked up then, blinking tiredly.
"Already?"
Jack nodded, crossing the small room to stand beside her and began to massage her neck. "Still no luck on Betty?"
"The three sisters spent a lot of time in various foster homes, so I'm trying to figure out where they were at any given time and whether she's still in contact with the families. It requires far more paperwork than my usual investigations," she sighed, shaking her head. "And the telephone calls—if I talk to one more outback equivalent of my Aunt Prudence I might just scream; I really do not care that your cousin's Jimmy's girl once knew a Betty Rickon, honestly."
"Do you want me to go through some of it tonight?" he asked.
"No," she said. "I want to use these files to start a fire in the parlour, lock the doors, and have my wicked way with you."
"I'm not sure that's entirely feasible," replied Jack, feeling a smile tug on the corners of his mouth. "But Mrs. Collins has agreed to our amended plans, and I can think of other ways to start a fire."
Smirking at the implication, Phryne adopted her most innocent tone. "Dot, as I may have mentioned once or twice, is a treasure. Whatever I did to earn her loyalty I will never know."
Jack snorted. "I imagine the defending her from a murder accusation and then giving her gainful employment and your friendship might have helped."
Phryne hummed in agreement, giving the papers in front of her another glance before pushing it all into a folder.
"Well, I suppose the bright side is that tomorrow I will have twenty four hours where I can utterly forget this whole affair," Phryne said lightly.
Standing and turning to perch on the edge of her desk, she looked at Jack with slow deliberation. He had put a moratorium on snogging in his office after an incident where he went to a meeting with the Chief Commissioner with lipstick on his collar and Phryne's knickers in his pocket; two days later she had replaced the small writing table that had previously been in the study with a solid oak desk. She maintained that it was a complete coincidence.
"Dinner," he reminded her, stepping closer to kiss her in greeting. "And afterwards we have to figure out where we're making our escape."
"Oh, that's already sorted," she smiled. "It's no holiday cottage in Lorne, but a suite at the Windsor will have to do. And possibly dancing—I haven't been out in ages."
Jack returned her smile, trying not to be annoyed. Between work and Anthony's nightmares—improving but still wearying—he had been looking forward to the quietness of a secluded cottage, not a night of debauchery on what would inevitably be Phryne's accounts. Still, she was right; with the situation as it was it had been nearly a month since they'd gone out for his birthday. And really, the actual point was to be together.
"That, my love, sounds like a perfectly acceptable compromise."
—
Checking in the Windsor the following afternoon, Phryne declared that the first order of business was to verify the suitability of the bed, followed by a hot bath. Jack began unpacking the bag instead; Phryne wandered out of the bedroom and into the sitting room, trying not to roll her eyes at his fastidious nature. It was, perhaps, why she let her guard down long enough that she was surprised by his quiet approach only seconds later; there was a brush against her neck and she shrieked and found herself in his arms.
"Mmm, this seems familiar," she purred, heart still pounding, once she realised what had happened.
"No journalists this time," he replied, the somewhat sheepish grin on his face a sufficient apology for the fright.
"You're still my ball boy. How goes the unpacking?"
"I continue to marvel at all the necessities you insist upon bringing," he said with an amused shake of his head. "But perhaps you might have a point about the bed."
"Oh yes?"
"Oh yes," he said, his voice raspy. "I sat on it. Hideously uncomfortable. Might keep me up all"—a kiss to her shoulder—"night"—her neck—"long."—the spot behind her ear that made her knees go weak every time; thankfully, for the last one, his hands were still holding her steady.
They didn't make it to the bed, but Phryne was quite content to vouch for the comfort of the chaise. And the bathtub was divine.
She dressed carefully for dinner, shooing Jack out of the room for maximum impact. The dress was new, a gorgeous aubergine number with a floor-length skirt, asymmetrical neckline, and silver sash. And a slit up the skirt that made all sorts of things possible. She'd need to change if they did end up dancing somewhere disreputable, but dear heavens above it felt glorious against her skin. And Jack looked suitably impressed—that was, his mouth opened slightly and he didn't say a word—so it was a success all around; she did so like to make an impression. Taking his offered arm, they went down for dinner.
Two hours later they were back in the suite, plans to go out dancing forgotten somewhere between the tired look in his eyes—he was stupidly proud and unlikely to say a word against the plans, but she had not been born yesterday—and the delicious way his hand slipped from his lap onto hers beneath the table, his long, calloused fingers and blue eyes promising all sorts of salacious things even as the rest of him was the height of propriety. So they were back upstairs, his hand beneath her skirt before the door shut behind them.
"So the—" a gasp, a sigh. "The burglar is targeting—yes, there darling—targeting couples with marital problems?"
A kiss, desperate and hot.
"It's the only—damnit, turn around so I can see the buttons—only connection we can find, and it's tenuous at—" a satisfied groan as her mouth found his again.
The dress slipped to the flooring, eliciting another groan that quickly became a whimper as she cupped him through his trousers. She chuckled, squeezed lightly; he started working on the truly hideous number of buttons that came between them.
"Divorce?"
The slightest shake of his head, his mouth too full to speak. Good grief, the attention that man lavished upon her breasts; she gripped his hair, tugged him slightly towards the bedroom. They were both naked by the time they made it, and their resulting grins were hungry and wolfish. They had lost the train of conversation but neither was ready to admit defeat, and so possibilities were slipped between kisses and discarded just as easily.
His hands spanning her hips, he walked her backwards until she sprawled across the bed; his eyes met hers, waiting for her sign—she hooked her legs around his waist and pulled him in. Enough foreplay.
"Good god, woman," he panted when they were both satisfied, his head resting against her breastbone. "I'm pretty sure I saw the nature of the universe."
She laughed, tugged him upwards for a soft kiss.
"I did have a sudden insight into the case," he murmured when they broke apart.
"Glad to see your attention was on the matter at hand," she replied, laughing again as he reached up to cup her breast.
"Oh, my attention is always on the matter at hand. But I need to make a telephone call before I prove it."
She fell back dramatically against the pillows.
"The sacrifices I make for you, Inspector Robinson," she sighed.
He grimaced and she regretted her words—it had been a bone of contention in his marriage, and she usually steered well clear of it. Closing the gap between them, Phryne traced the shape of his lips with her tongue and caressed his cheek.
"Go on, Jack," she said quietly. "I'll be here when you get back."
His answer was a vaguely reprimanding scowl before pushing himself off the bed. She watched him walk out of the room still naked (and wasn't that delightful) then heard him place two telephone calls from the other room. She couldn't make out the words, but the deep tones—so quietly confident, so controlled, so fundamentally masculine—was enough to make her mind wander. He came back in a few minutes later, a lightness in his step.
"I take it your sudden insight was successful?"
"It was," he said quietly, climbing into bed beside her. She moved closer to cuddle, not quite ready for another round. "Collins will have to chase it up in the morning, but it shouldn't take long."
"And it will look good on his record, if he decides to pursue promotion," she pointed out mildly.
"That was a consideration, yes. But mostly I didn't want to have to get out of bed at seven am to do it myself."
She chuckled, trailed her finger across his bare chest.
"Mmm, yes. I'd be quite cross if you did."
"I'm all yours until tomorrow afternoon," he promised.
"And the other telephone call?" she asked, not quite certain why she was asking. "Squirrel all settled in?"
"Mrs. Collins continues to be an absolute treasure," Jack said, a slow and lazy smile pulling at his lips.
"Good," said Phryne. "That's good."
