Jack wasn't sure who was the first to wake, but when he became aware of her stirring in his arms, he tucked her closer and whispered in her ear, "Good morning, Miss Fisher."

"Morning?" He could tell she was smiling, though she was facing away from him. "We've slept the whole day away, Jack. It's the middle of the night again."

He reached back to his night table and squinted at his fob watch in the muted moonlight. "Good God, it's half three! I have to get to the station, we've lost an entire day—"

She turned over and pressed against his shoulder, forcing him back down to his pillow. "You are not due back at the station until seven o'clock. Hugh telephoned yesterday, late in the afternoon. Thank goodness the telephone didn't wake you. He said the superintendent wanted you to recuperate before you returned to the case."

"Thank goodness it didn't—? I should have been back hours ago, I cannot believe—"

"Now just calm down, Jack. They have half the force on this case, according to Hugh, and the superintendent wants you in tip-top shape before you return to take over. Another hour of rest will do you good. I fear it will be a scarce commodity in the days to come."

Jack was still uneasy but allowed her to soothingly stroke his face, eventually settling back down beside her. He would regret being such a layabout later on, but it felt too good to be in bed next to her and the dread of what was to come in the Crossley-Scott case allowed him to justify just one more hour of rest, as Phryne had insisted. He knew it might be days before he found his way back to a bed.

They lay quietly together until Jack gave in to himself, reaching over to re-spoon her, his arm curling around her as his legs bent to gather her up again. Anxious thoughts of what had happened—what was happening between the two of them began to override his consternation about staying in bed. The comfort and familiarity he had felt with her before, in his haze of distress and exhaustion, had been shaken somewhat now that he had a few hours of sleep to clear his mind. Now his inhibitions started to creep steadily back, confusing the bliss he had awoken with. Had he made a mistake? Had he allowed his mental and physical weakness to obscure the very real reasons he had for maintaining his distance from her? He lay quietly for several thoughtful moments, simply listening to her breathing and trying to understand what they were to each other now.

"What are we doing here, Phryne?" he asked finally, hoping to pass off his vulnerability as inquisitiveness. He doubted she would be fooled.

She turned back over to face him, giving him a sleepy, cat-like grin. "Why, my dear man, we would appear to be canoodling."

His face remained serious. "No, I mean, what are we doing?"

Phryne's lovely smile widened and she reached up to trace his eyebrows with a sly finger. "What we have always done, Jack. Just with more...touching."

"What I'm asking is…" It was so difficult to say the words out loud. He feared the answer too much. "I want to know if...please, you must—tell me I am more than just another man to warm your bed. That is, not to say that...that you entertain a lot of—and of course not that there's anything wrong with—"

Her warm lips put a stop to his clumsy queries, pressing hard and sweet against his own which, he was embarrassed to admit, were trembling slightly. He kissed her back with open-mouthed hunger, so very weary of having to restrain himself around her.

When she pulled away, her voice was like smoke and honey. "First of all, I am the one warming your bed, Jack Robinson, and only in the most literal sense. Do not give yourself credit for acts you have not yet committed. Secondly, I dearly hope you do not believe me capable of such ignominious cruelty as to try to seduce you when you are at your weakest only to throw you over the moment another man catches my eye. I pray you don't think so little of me. And thirdly," she carried on over his protests, "I do not know precisely what we are doing yet, Jack. But there is nothing 'just another' about you. I want only you, and have wanted only you for some time now. I cannot make promises about forever. You know me better than that, and I won't give you empty assurances. But the way I feel about you—it is unlike anything I have felt for any other man. I'm willing to pursue that, to see where it leads. So long as you are."

Jack didn't hesitate. He didn't need to. "I am. I'm terrified, Phryne, but it doesn't make me any less willing." He swallowed, reaching out to brush a strand of dark hair off her cheek. "And don't concern yourself about forever. My marriage taught me that forever is a charming notion, but rarely reality."

Her brow furrowed and she scooted closer to him so that their foreheads and noses were pressed together. "Right now is our forever, Jack. Let's make it last as long as we can. I don't know about you, but it's making me blissfully happy at the moment."

The corners of his mouth curved upwards. "Yes, Miss Fisher. That you bring me pure, utter happiness is something I will not try to deny."

Happiness really seemed a flimsy, stupid word. The feeling in his chest was as if he had swallowed a piece of the sun itself, its heat and vitality expanding within him until he felt his ribs would crack. Meanwhile something fierce squeezed tightly at his heart, fastening him to her as if with invisible irons. The fear of heartbreak was no longer strong enough to keep him away from her. He had long since passed over that threshold. He would have her as long as she would allow it, and no doubt love her even longer.

But of course, these were not things he was ready to say out loud to Phryne. Luckily, she was not the sort of woman to require sweet nothings from him to bolster her confidence.

Something suddenly occurred to Jack as he studied her enchanting features, thinking back over their earlier conversation. "Wait just a moment. You answered my telephone?"

"Only the once, when Hugh rang," she admitted innocently.

He regarded her with exasperation. "Yes, and what sort of conclusions do you think Hugh is drawing about us right now?"

There was that cat-like grin again. "Hopefully the right ones."

"Phryne!"

"What, Jack? Surely you know Hugh will be discreet. He worships you, he would never do anything to damage your reputation. Besides, you spend quite a lot of time at my house, what is it to anyone if I visit yours?"

"You know perfectly well," he said impatiently. "At your house we are attended by Dot, Jane, Mr. Butler, often Cec and Bert, and whichever other people you have parading through on that particular day. We are never truly alone there. Here, however...here we are very much alone."

"Yes, we are," she agreed, a sudden heat flaring in her eyes. Beneath the covers one of her bare feet, surprisingly warm, began to caress its way up his calf.

"Wait, Phryne," he protested sternly, panicking a little. "Not like this. I'm not—"

She only laughed at him. "Settle down, Jack, I'm not going to make a man of you just yet. Why don't you go wash and I'll try to conjure up something passable for breakfast? Keeping busy will curtail our libidos." And with a kiss on his cheek she slipped out of bed. Jack allowed himself only a brief glance at the way her silk garment just barely covered her buttocks. The only thing for his libido right now would be a very cold shower.

A while later, after he was clean and dressed, with only a few lingering shivers from his icy ablutions, Jack found that there was indeed a reason Mr. Butler had a job. Phryne had cobbled together some runny eggs and overcooked slices of bacon, arranging them haphazardly on the plate she set before him.

"Sorry it's a bit of a mess," she apologized laughingly, not sounding the least bit sorry.

Jack, who could honestly not remember his last meal, was too hungry to care. "Thank you, Miss Fisher. I can see we have a chef in the making here."

She gave him a playful push on the shoulder and sat down to her own meal. "So who are your suspects, Jack? Do you have any? Do we even know where to start?"

Jack took a bite of bacon and found himself praying his teeth wouldn't crack. "I'm sure they are already combing the records for similar crimes. We'll see where they are when we get in, but I don't think there's much to gain from it. If this had happened anywhere else in Australia within the last several years, every policeman in the country would know about it. It is not the sort of crime that stays quiet. We should be getting an autopsy report back sometime today, so that may get us somewhere."

"Was there anything distinct about Marjorie's injuries? Anything to indicate a ritual or particular obsession of the killer's?"

Jack frowned at her. "Phryne, I still feel as I did before—you are restricted to Lily Crossley-Scott's disappearance. I don't want you anywhere near the Marjorie Hyde investigation."

Phryne's eyes narrowed at him; she was no doubt gearing up for battle. "That's nonsense, Jack, and you know it. I will be much more useful in drawing conclusions about Lily's abduction if I know what became of the victim who preceded her"

"What happened to Marjorie isn't pertinent to Lily's investigation. All you need to know is that she died," argued Jack, already knowing she would wear him down eventually, it was only a matter of time.

"Oh what hogwash, Jack! The way Marjorie died has everything to do with how you'll go about looking for your perpetrator! If it was a ritual killing, you will be looking at a completely different suspect than if the crime was sexually motivated. You have to give me some details about Marjorie or I'm useless to you."

Jack pressed his lips together firmly and regarded her. "Marjorie was not sexually assaulted, if that clears anything up for you. But her injuries were extensive. And she appeared to have lost quite a lot of blood. Most of it, in fact. You'll get no more out of me, so do not ask."

This seemed to be enough to get her to concede the point. But the spark of intense interest in her eyes had been set ablaze, just that quickly. "So a ritual is a good possibility. Do we know of any Satanists in the area?"

Jack passed an impatient hand over his mouth. "Satanists, Phryne? Listen to yourself."

"Or were there any signs of cannibalism? There was this ghastly American serial killer called—"

"The Americans can keep their serial killers, Miss Fisher. It does us no good to get ahead of ourselves thinking we have a Satanic cannibal on the loose. We must follow the evidence we have. Without the autopsy report all we can really say with conviction is that Marjorie Hyde was murdered."

"You don't have to patronize me, Jack, I know the procedure perfectly well. I was just tossing out ideas," she looked a tiny bit miffed at his censure. "In any case, are you going to try and track down the man with the cleft lip Giulietta mentioned?"

Jack shrugged. "Yes, I suppose I ought. Come on, let's get down to the station, we can arrange to set her up with a sketch artist, see how far we get with that."

It was still very early when they pulled up to City South Police Station, hardly five o' clock, and only the night shift officers were milling about. However, Jack's telephone had begun to ring almost they moment the two of them stepped into the office. As Jack answered it Phryne was picking up her gloves from the floor where he had tossed them two nights before. He couldn't help but smile at the mischievous little grin on her face.

"City South Police Station," Jack said habitually into the receiver.

Dot's voice came through the line tense and agitated. "Oh thank goodness. Inspector, it's Dot. Please, is Miss Fisher with you? Hugh said she answered your home telephone yesterday but I couldn't get through to anyone. Is she there?"

So much for Hugh keeping quiet. "She's here, Dot. I'll pass you to her, one moment." He lowered the receiver from his ear and held it out to Phryne. "It's Dot for you, Miss Fisher."

She took the phone and listened intently as Dot described whatever calamity had lately transpired at the Fisher residence. Jack found himself simply gazing at her, drinking in the smooth, sculpted planes of her face and considering how lovely she looked even in the rumpled pink frock she had been in for nearly two days now. In fact, she looked downright unkempt, something one could rarely say of the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher. He found it wickedly endearing. It would be very difficult indeed to keep from taking her right there on his desk.

Moments later she had carefully cradled the receiver, her face somber and oddly distant.

"Everything all right?" he asked, realizing he had been too busy looking at her to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"I'm not quite sure, Inspector. I fear I'll have to leave you for a bit and attend to matters at home. You'll keep me abreast of all developments, I hope? I'll return as soon as possible."

He reached for her hand before she could hurry away. "Phryne, tell me what it is. You look concerned."

She shrugged, clearly trying to minimize whatever news she had received. "Well, I suppose we don't know for certain yet," she murmured, her voice unusually flat. "But Dot seems to think that, well...it seems...she has reason to believe that our Jane has fallen pregnant."

Gah! I may have lost it. LOL. We'll see where this goes! Thanks for sticking with the story, and as always, let me know what you think! You guys are the coolest!