Hey guys, thanks for all the awesome feedback! Y'all are the coolest. Glad you enjoyed! I'm definitely planning on more chapters, they won't all come this quickly but hopefully I can get another one up tomorrow. Thanks again, and as always, let me know what you think!

Jack Robinson occupied her thoughts for the remainder of her day. She floated through her appointment at the milliner's so that she hardly remembered at all what sort of headwear she had ordered. She barely garnered anything at all from the lecture she attended with Mac, so much so that she ducked out early. In the end she sent Dot on to give her regrets to the group of heiresses she had arranged to meet for luncheon and retired home early, closing herself in the quiet of her bedroom to allow some privacy and space to air out her nagging, clamorous thoughts.

He was shutting her out of the case but he had asked her back this evening. Well, allowed her back, at least. With whiskey. He was in a vulnerable, needy state, though he was trying even more desperately than usual to keep it sewn up. Alcohol and emotional rawness were the perfect recipe for Phryne to finally make her move. He would need comforting, and oh, how she longed to give it to him.

There was little doubt in her mind that he knew how she felt about him. She had offered him so many wordless invitations, given him so many openings, done all but ask him outright to take her to bed, yet each time he resisted her. With difficulty, if Phryne's instincts were correct. And they usually were.

She could guess well enough what gave him pause. For one thing, he was no doubt concerned that Phryne would struggle to make their relationship exclusive, as she never made a secret of the fact that monogamy was not really her taste.

Yet somehow, now, the idea intrigued her. For Jack she thought she might be able to make an exception. She was certainly willing to try, at least. These days, when she thought of other men, they paled in comparison to Jack. When she felt a surge of desire it was only for him, and any man she used to scratch that itch was little more than a feeble stand-in.

Her thoughts flitted back to two nights ago, when she had dipped her face unnecessarily close to bid him good night. Mostly she did it to make him squirm, although he wasn't the sort of man to truly squirm. But she hoped it would unnerve him. It also allowed her to take in his glorious scent, leather and cedar with the tang of citrus from his aftershave.

"Jack," she'd murmured, their faces so close that eye contact was difficult and her gaze fell instead to his parted lips.

"Miss Fisher?" His warm breath drifted sweetly over her face, smelling of gin and the ginger biscuits they had just eaten.

She then reached up to straighten his hat, which had not been at all crooked. "Until the next time."

"Indeed, Miss Fisher. Sleep tight, now."

And with only a moment of deliciously taut hesitation, during which he stole a fleeting but pointed moment of eye contact, he had pulled back from her and into the night. She was certain there was a bit more tension in his bearing as he walked away.

As soon as his motorcar pulled out of sight, a rush of frantic longing had lit through Phryne like a swig of Irish Moonshine. The loss of him yet another time was heat and emptiness and arousal and distress. It heightened her excitement, as it always did, but she wasn't sure how much higher that excitement could climb before she lost her footing and tumbled into something else entirely.

It was a role reversal of almost laughable irony. He often adopted the virtuous, restrained female role while she was the brash, conquering, insatiable male, trying every trick in her register to lure him to her bed.

So far, her usual tricks were not getting the job done. He resisted her usual charms again and again, instead matching them with his own, and she was beginning to doubt she was ever really skilled at seduction to begin with. But no, others slid gladly between her sheets. Jack Robinson was the one that got away. And got away. And got away.

And yet, she couldn't give him up. There was something searing and sexual between them that showed no signs of waning, no matter how often he silently refused to give in to her. The only way to escape from it completely would be to cut him out of her life, and they had tried that once all ready. It would never work. They were drawn together like magnets, again and again as if by the very laws of physics, and she had neither the strength nor desire to push him away.

She would get him where she wanted him. He was a man, after all. He had needs, needs he had been repressing for some time if her suspicions were correct, and it was only a matter of time before instinct would triumph over honor. She would find a way to have him, it was simply a question of determining the method. It seemed the long, heated gazes and innocent caresses were not enough. But if she pushed him too far too fast she would trigger his defenses. It was delicate game, but Phryne was the master of delicacy. In the end, she would find a way to solve the mystery of Jack Robinson.

Phryne dressed carefully for her evening visit with Jack. She wanted to be comforting—provocative yet conservative, sweet yet alluring. She needed to be appealing and nonthreatening all at once. She landed on a simple, girlish drop-waist frock of coral chiffon with a skirt of tiered ruffles and a neckline just low enough to be interesting. She went back and forth with the matching cloche but ended up leaving it behind, feeling that it closed off her face when she wanted to be nothing but open to him.

She even chose to go without her signature red lipstick, deciding that glamour was the wrong note to play tonight. Warm and familiar and soothing was what Jack would need. And these days, what made him happy made her so as well.

She had Mr. Butler wrap together a small meal of brie and crusty bread and aged salami, something simple for him to nibble on while he worked. And the most important element, her largest and finest bottle of Scotch. She told Mr. Butler to hold the glasses—she felt that tonight would be a straight-from-the-bottle sort of night. If she could get enough of it in him...well, there was any number of things that might happen.

"Magnificent, Mr. Butler, as always," said Phryne, deciding to speak rather than explore the heated path of her thoughts. If she could find a way take advantage of him tonight, she would do so without shame. If he didn't know what was good for him sober, he would have to learn in his cups.

"Off I go then," she announced to Dot with a kiss on the cheek.

"Are you sure you won't let me come with you, Miss?" asked Dot, looking concerned. "I'd rather you weren't all alone after dark."

"Honestly, Dot, do you really think I cannot handle myself? After knowing me all this time? " Phryne gave her companion the slyest grin she could conjure.

"No, Miss, of course not. You're perfectly capable, I know that. Never mind."

"And I'll be with the inspector, no harm could possibly come to me in his care."

"You're right, of course, Miss."

Satisfied, Phryne bundled her bottle and picnic into the Hispano-Suiza and motored into the darkness, her mind on nothing but Jack.