FOUR - Blue Satin
Mid-afternoon brings two new officers to replace Mark Donaldson and Zoe Finch, and to Grace's surprise they bring with them a small grey suitcase that assuredly doesn't belong to her, but is filled with clothes, toiletries and other sundry items that most definitely do. A short, handwritten note from Eve is included, and as she sits on the edge of the double bed reading it, Grace can only marvel at her colleague's swiftness and efficiency. The clothes selected are from the more practical end of her wardrobe and include a thick lambswool sweater that she hasn't worn for several years, but is suddenly very grateful for, an old pair of jeans that she'd forgotten she even owned, a pair of sensible, flat-soled shoes, and a functional array of tee-shirts, blouses and underwear. It's less than she'd pack for a week's holiday, but a welcome addition to what little she hurriedly grabbed on that very first night.
Right at the bottom of the case, buried beneath an almost-new pair of cotton pyjamas, and a lightweight brown fleece jacket that she bought for a short autumn walking holiday six or seven years ago, she finds irrefutable evidence of Eve's questionable sense of humour. Dark blue satin edged with even darker blue lace. Fetching night attire for the mature lady; one who once intended to spend a hedonistic weekend in Amsterdam with a charming Scottish psychiatrist who only admitted at the very last minute to being extremely married with no less than four adult children. Staring in surprise at the unlikely inclusion, Grace isn't sure whether she should laugh or cry. Lifting it from the case, she allows herself the luxury of imagining all the suitably pithy things she could – will – say to Eve when they are reunited.
If she'd thought about it, she would have realised that it was somehow inevitable that Boyd would choose exactly that moment to knock loudly on the bedroom door, open it without waiting for a reply, and march straight into her room with, "This is bloody stupid, Grace. We need to talk about… fucking hell…"
There's not much else she can do to save face except hold up the blue satin and say, "Too much, do you think?"
He stares, blinks, and continues to stare. "Um… Maybe?"
It's worth the initial flush of embarrassment. Most definitely. "There, and I thought you'd be something of a connoisseur of ladies' nightwear, Boyd."
He looks very much like a man who's regretting embarking on such a bold course of action. Looks as if he's fervently wishing he could step back just a few minutes in time to reconsider simply walking into her room without waiting for a reply. "Well, er…"
"All these years," Grace says, letting the cool satin slide through her fingers as she places it back in the near-empty open suitcase, "and I never knew there was such an effective way to render you completely speechless."
"You… wear… that…?" It's clear that Boyd is struggling with the concept. She watches him with amused tolerance until he manages, "Christ, you're a dark horse, Grace."
"What did you expect?" she inquires, narrowing her eyes a fraction. "A floor-length flannelette nightie?"
A helpless, hapless shrug. "Well, you know… based on last night…"
"Ah." She nods. "I see. Now, what was it you came barging in here to say?"
"Eh?" Boyd seems to be having trouble dragging his gaze away from the delicate folds of satin. "I… um…"
"Yes?" It's far from noble of her, but she's thoroughly enjoying his discomfiture. "Come on, spit it out, there's a good boy."
He frowns, then looks more disconsolate than annoyed. "I've forgotten."
It's a barefaced lie, and they both know it. If it helps to avoid an argument, though… "Okay."
She expects him to retreat then, but he doesn't. He shoves his hands roughly into the pockets of his jeans and wanders to the window. Her room overlooks the fields, and he stands with his back to her gazing out at the view for several long, drawn-out seconds before saying, "If it makes you feel any better, you're right. I do my best to block it all out because I have no fucking idea how to even start to come to terms with it."
"Why," Grace asks honestly, "would that make me feel better? Seeing you go through so much pain… it breaks my heart, Boyd, it really does."
"Don't." His voice is low. "Don't, Grace."
Instinct drives her to her feet, pushes her across the short distance between them. Stopping just behind him, she says, "Admitting you need help is not a sign of weakness, you know. Far from it."
She sees his shoulders rise as he takes a deep breath, sees them fall as he exhales. "Just leave it, eh? Even if I wanted to talk about it, this… is not the right time."
"Maybe not," she agrees, moving carefully to stand next to him without touching him. The light is beginning to fade from the sky again. Watching the cawing crows flapping around the bare trees along the edge of the ploughed field, she says, "I honestly believe some sort of grief counselling would help, though. I know people – good people – you could talk to."
"Grace." The warning is gentle, but it's firm.
She sighs. "All right, all right. Message received and understood."
"Good." Boyd turns a fraction, looks down at her. "Blue satin, eh?"
Once again, he's shut it all out of his mind, and perhaps it really is for the best. For now. Almost, but not quite coquettish, she inquires, "Prefer red?"
"God, no. Far too obvious." The faintest hint of a foxy grin starts to show. "So, if I was to come knocking on your door again tonight…?"
"You'd find me safely tucked up in bed wearing my chastity belt and flannelette nightie," she tells him primly. "And, by the way, you didn't knock. I just woke up and there you were beside my bed, glaring at me."
"You were snoring so bloody loudly you wouldn't have heard me if I had knocked, Grace."
She scowls up at him. "Oh, I was not."
The grin broadens, its wickedness ever-increasing. "How would you know?"
That grin… That wonderful, mischievous grin. It's never been good for Grace's equilibrium, and it isn't now. She's looking up, Boyd's looking down, and there's barely any space between them. Sixteen years. Sixteen long and often difficult years they've known each other, and every moment of every one of them is hanging right there in that tiny distance that separates them. God help her, she's going to kiss him. The realisation doesn't dawn until she's already stretching up, and by then it's far too late.
It's not much of a kiss, not really. A gentle brush of her lips against his, that's all. Doesn't last for more than a couple of seconds, and then she's settling back to her usual height and they're staring at each other almost as if they're seeing each other for the very first time. Her heart is thudding heavily in her chest. Her palms are suddenly clammy. Boyd's grin has disappeared. He looks, in fact, rather solemn. Bemused, but solemn.
It was a mistake. A silly, spur-of-the-moment thing that should never have happened. Running away from it is not an option. There's nowhere to go and anyway, running away isn't the way she deals with anything. There's only one realistic way to save the situation, and Grace takes it. She opens her mouth to apologise, but Boyd steals the words away from her in a fierce kiss that far surpasses hers in length and sheer wanton recklessness. His hands are on her waist, and suddenly there's no space at all between them.
A door bangs downstairs and they jolt away from each other, the dangerous spell broken.
"Fuck," he says, gruff with embarrassment. "Jesus, Grace, I'm sorry. I didn't… Sorry."
"Boyd…"
He's already heading for the door. "Sorry, Grace. Sorry."
-oOo-
Dinner is an awkward, uncomfortable affair. Four of them sitting around the tiny kitchen table, eating a scrappy, unappetising meal and conversing in stilted sentences that mostly go nowhere. The two WPU officers, Sarwar and Heath, don't have very much to say for themselves, and Grace wonders if they are just too aware of Boyd's senior rank to relax in his company. Detective Superintendents, in fact Superintendents in general, are not exactly a rare species, but with perhaps less than twenty in the entire Essex force, she guesses they're not used to spending an extended amount of time with one. Maybe they've been instructed by their own senior officers to be guarded about what they say to, or in front of, the high-ranking interloper, given the usual rivalry between forces. Either way, their presence at the table doesn't provide much in the way of insulation between her and Boyd.
"Vic Taylor?" Boyd says, in response to a reluctant comment from Sarwar, the older of the two other men. "Short, bald guy, used to be a permanent feature at the Romford dog track?"
Sarwar nods. "Sir."
"Nicked him myself, once. Must've been in about… 'eighty-six? Something like that. We were…"
Grace returns to her own thoughts, barely listening to the story as it unfolds. Usually, the telling of a new anecdote, one she's never heard, captures her full attention. For a man who's so taciturn when it comes to speaking about his private life, Boyd has always been remarkably loquacious about his professional one. Then, after thirty odd years' service, he's amassed a vast array of interesting, amusing, and often just plain outrageous stories, and, she has to admit, he's good at telling them. Even Sarwar and Heath seem to be more engaged as he ploughs on.
What, she asks herself, becoming ever-more introspective, the hell really happened this afternoon?
It's not an easy question to answer. The simplest explanation is just… proximity. They've been dumped together in an unusual, stressful situation, well-away from all the usual boundaries and routines that exist between them. Separate bedrooms instead of entirely separate houses with a big river and half a damn city between them. No space to get away from each other, not really. But…
Things like… that… don't just happen. Do they?
Looking at him as he talks, Grace assesses what she sees. A bearded, undeniably handsome grey-haired man in his late fifties. Articulate, intelligent. Charming when he wants to be. Dark sense of humour, unstable temper. Driven by his own relentless demons. Attractive and charismatic, yes, but flawed. Often insensitive, obnoxious, and hard-headed. Does things his own way and has little tolerance for being challenged. Expects everyone around him to be every bit as meticulous and committed as he himself is but has to be in complete control. Failed marriage, wayward – now deceased – son. It's a very mixed picture, she concludes.
"Grace…?"
Dragging her attention back to the here-and-now, she meets his gaze, says, "Hm?"
Boyd heaves an exaggerated sigh. "Pay some bloody attention, will you? Donovan Drummond."
"Oh." She shrugs, reels off the details without needing to think about them. "Serial rapist. Intense hatred of women rooted in severe childhood trauma. High-functioning sociopath with a related personality disorder. Worked in a bank and used his position there to obtain the personal details of the women he chose to stalk. Eighteen known victims over a period of four years."
"See?" Boyd says with evident pride to the other two men. "Encyclopaedic knowledge of the crimes and psychopathology of most of the country's most notable imprisoned offenders. Very useful."
If she didn't know better, she'd almost think he was bragging. About her. What on earth…?
"Of course, offender profiling does have its critics," he continues, "and some have gone as far as to call it a pseudoscience, but as an experienced detective, what I think is…"
Astonished, she listens to Boyd hold forth on the merits of the discipline she has so often heard him deride. It's far from empty flattery, too. He is passionate and persuasive, seizing the attention of his reluctant audience and doggedly holding onto it as he explains subtleties and concepts she believed him barely aware of. Watching him, Grace begins to understand why, year after year, the CCU's funding is renewed in an increasingly difficult financial climate. More, she begins to understand why her own contract has been extended, time after time. It seems her most credible, influential, and tenacious supporter is far closer to home than she ever realised.
David Collier. Her mind flies back decades in time. A scruffy, argumentative little boy who tormented her relentlessly in the school playground, often reducing her to tears. Escaping him by passing her eleven plus and obtaining a scholarship to the local girls' grammar school had been a huge relief, even if it had been a considerable strain on her family's limited resources. Five years later, she'd met him again at a local dance and had barely recognised him. The grubby schoolboy who'd teased and persecuted her had become a tall, good-looking, lanky youth with a shy, captivating smile. He'd walked her home, and they'd shared a clumsy kiss on the corner of Tennyson Street.
Little boys torment little girls because they like them, her much-wiser older sister had told her, later that same night.
Because they like them.
Because he likes you, Grace. That's why he fights with you, why he's always fought with you, and don't pretend you haven't somehow known it all along.
-oOo-
The dark sky turns impenetrably black save for a few distant, twinkling stars. Frost starts to form; not metaphorical but literal, sparking on every exterior surface. DS Spicer telephones with no useful news. The night shift arrives and Sarwar and Heath leave. The strange routine of their internment continues undisturbed by anything of any significance. The incoming officers take up residence in the kitchen and settle into what Grace suspects will be the first of many games of cards. Boyd is as elusive as the restricted space will allow, eventually settling but choosing to leave the kitchen door open as she listens to the radio and he pretends to read. He gives her no opportunity to talk privately to him, and as her frustration with him increases so does her keen desire to be out of his company. She goes upstairs to bed at just after midnight, silently damning him to whichever circle of hell will actually have him.
She hears footsteps on the stairs less than ten minutes later. Hears the creak of a loose floorboard out on the landing, the sound of the bathroom door being closed. Elderly pipes above her in the loft start to roar and rattle as they struggle to provide enough water for the shower. Normal, everyday noises. Lying on her side with the bedside lamp still illuminated, Grace stares at Eve's grey suitcase, standing accusingly by the wardrobe. Dark blue satin. The priceless look of bemusement on Boyd's face. The warm pliability of his lips, the not altogether unpleasant rasp of stubble against her cheek…
Don't think about it. Far too dangerous. Whatever's happening between them, it's purely circumstantial. Doesn't fit into the strict pattern of their normal lives. How could it?
The pipes cease their mournful cacophony. Minutes later Grace hears the bathroom door open again. There are footsteps, another door closing, and then quiet sounds of movement in the tiny room next to hers that cease almost immediately. Still gazing at the suitcase, she wonders what Boyd is thinking about. Wonders if he's as unsettled and perplexed as she is. Maybe he's forgotten about it already. Swept it tidily away into whatever dark corner of his mind he reserves for all the things he doesn't deem important. The thought is a bitter one, not easy to accept, but part of her believes it's the truth.
Switching off the light, Grace unconsciously curls herself into a tight defensive huddle beneath the thick quilt. The room is forbiddingly dark, so dark that she can barely make out the lighter rectangle of the curtained window. No light pollution, no blazing city streetlamps. Hardly any noise, just the subdued whisper of the cold winter wind outside, and the occasional noises of the building settling for the night.
She's too old for all the ridiculous things that keep prickling at the edges of her mind. Far too old. It's been years – a lot of years – since the last romantic relationship she could honestly call half-successful, and that… ended badly. Ended in the bruising divorce that robbed her of so much, including the two lively stepchildren she couldn't have loved more. And where, she wonders, are Stephen and his children now? Halfway across the world still? Maybe she should try again to get in touch with them… but with what objective? Stephen wouldn't thank her for making the effort, she knows, even if Will and Emma could be persuaded to forgive and forget. And really, what did she do that was so very wrong? It wasn't as if she was unfaithful or unreliable, even if the hours she worked were long and often unpredictable. Yes, she might have missed a few birthday parties, might have failed to attend a few important school events, but…
Annoyed with the direction of her thoughts, Grace squirms over onto her back. The bed is large, and its emptiness seems to mock her.
Peter-bloody-Boyd. It's all his damn fault she's so introspective tonight.
Nineteen ninety-two. The Richard Hare case. Detective Inspector Peter-bloody-Boyd. What was he then, she thinks, just a shade over forty? Still married and living with his wife and son, but far from blissfully happy. An energetic, volatile man with a sterling reputation for being able to bring even the most difficult, complex cases to a satisfactory conclusion. Far from universally liked but grudgingly admired by many. Quick to criticise, slow to praise, but absolutely loyal to those who deserved it. They'd had a blazing row halfway through her very first day consulting on the case, his fault not hers, and if it hadn't been for immediate desperate pleas from higher up the chain of command, Grace would have walked away from the investigation then and there without looking back.
He'd called her difficult. Said she was impossible to work with. Eight years later he took her to dinner and asked her to join the embryonic specialist unit he'd just been given command of. Cold cases. Hundreds of them. She'd accepted the unexpected offer the same night.
Blue satin. Bloody Eve Lockhart, too. There will be words. Oh yes.
Minute after long drawn-out minute crawls past, and there's still no sound from the next room. No restless pacing, no surreptitious footsteps out on the landing.
He's not coming.
Of course he's not fucking coming, Grace tells herself angrily. Why on earth would he, and why on earth would she want him to?
-oOo-
"Mm…?" is Boyd's muffled, sleepy response to her light knock on his door. A pause, then, "What?"
"It's me," she informs him, her voice low. "We need to talk."
Grace is not sure if he groans or not, but there's certainly a note of irritable complaint in his voice as he responds, "At this bloody hour of the morning?"
"Yes," she insists, mind made up, "at this bloody hour of the morning. Am I coming in, or are you coming out?"
An indecipherable mutter is followed by a tetchy, "I guess I'm coming out. Wait."
A thud followed by strange scuffling noises beyond the door make her frown. "What are you doing in there?"
The response is terse. "Putting my damned shorts on. That all right with you, is it?"
Oh. "Perfectly all right."
The door opens perhaps six inches and a disgruntled-looking Boyd looks out, blinking against the harsh light. "Well?"
"Not here," Grace tells him in not much above a whisper, "I don't want to be interrupted."
He gives her a derisive look. "By whom?"
She glowers back at him. "Boyd, there are two men downstairs who are going to spend half the night drinking tea. You don't think one or other of them might need to use the bathroom at some point?"
He grunts and finally steps aside. "Fine. Come in, then, if you really must."
"There's more space in my room," Grace points out.
Boyd does not move. "Take it or leave it."
Childishly stubborn, she thinks. Just for the sake of it, too, she's sure. Switching off the landing light, she steps through the doorway into the tiny, dimly-lit room beyond. There are still clothes piled on the three-legged stool, not so tidily arranged this time. As Boyd closes the door behind her, she reluctantly returns to her earlier place at the foot of the bed. Surprisingly it's only then that she really registers that he is, indeed, only wearing a plain pair of loose cotton boxer shorts. At eye-level, given her seated position, a distracting smattering of dark hairs emerges from beneath the elasticated waistband as a thin, sparse trail that heads upwards and stops short at his navel; above that... Realising that she has been noticed noticing, Grace fixes her gaze on his face, raises a deliberately arch eyebrow and says, "Somehow I always thought you'd be more of a trunks man."
Hands on hips, he regards her with baleful disdain. "I'm sorry to disappoint you. Well?"
"We need to talk."
"So you said."
"About… what happened this afternoon."
Boyd's bearded chin lifts a fraction, but otherwise he remains motionless. "No, we don't."
"I think we do," she contradicts, refusing to give in so soon to exasperation. "Boyd, we have to work together. Don't you think that's going to be a touch uncomfortable with… what happened… hanging over us?"
He exhales loudly, impatiently. "It was just a bloody kiss, Grace. A heat of the moment mistake. Christ, I think we're both old enough to be able to deal with that sort of thing without going to pieces over it, don't you?"
"Look, do you think you could possibly sit down?" she asks, unconsciously fiddling with one free end of her dressing gown's belt. "Standing there scowling isn't going to make the situation any easier – for either of us."
For a moment Boyd looks obstinate, but then he joins her on the bed, positioning himself as far away from her as he can, arms folded across his broad chest. Wondering if it will help, Grace looks away, stares fixedly at the heap of discarded clothes on the stool. She's about to speak again when he growls, "I'm the last man alive you'd voluntarily look twice at, Grace; yes, I know. You really don't have to drive it home with a sledgehammer. I said I was bloody sorry, all right? I really don't know what else you expect me to do."
The belligerent words linger in her mind for a moment, making no sense whatsoever. The sharp, taut laugh that forces its way from her throat is involuntary. Shaking her head, she mutters, "Clueless. Absolutely clueless."
"What?" It's a grumpy inquiry, not a challenge.
"Nothing," she says, sitting up a little straighter and turning her head to look at him. "That's what you think, is it, Boyd? That's what you really think?"
He scowls in confusion. "What is what I think? Fuck's sake, Grace, we don't speak the same language at the best of times… and this is not the best of times, trust me."
"I give up," she says, and in that moment, she wholeheartedly means it. Getting to her feet, she adds, "That's it, I give up. I really do."
"Now what have I done?" Boyd demands.
Utterly clueless. Starting into motion, Grace snaps, "Oh, work it out. Even you can manage to do that eventually, surely?"
She doesn't get very far. A strong hand seizes her wrist in a solid grip that proves to be far more difficult to escape than she expects, stopping her dead. Glaring down at him has no effect. The powerful grip does not release. "You wanted to talk, so talk."
"Let go," she warns him. "I mean it, Boyd. Let go."
"No." He stands up without loosening his hold on her wrist at all, and rarely has she felt so diminutive in comparison. He stares down at her, brows drawn together in a perplexed frown. "What am I clueless about?"
The last threads of her patience snap and she all-but barks at him, "You. Me. Us."
Boyd shakes his head. "I'm not clueless."
"Yes, you are," she accuses, making a renewed effort to free herself. It doesn't work. "Completely bloody clueless."
"No, I'm not," he insists. His intense gaze bores into her. "All right, let's abandon all the pretence for once, shall we? You really think I don't know why we fight like cat and dog? Why every time a new woman comes onto the scene you spend days snapping and snarling at me? Why sometimes just being in the same room together is almost bloody impossible? You think I don't know the reasons for all of that, Grace?"
From him, it's practically a soliloquy. Again, she tugs against his punishing grip. "You're hurting me."
Boyd lets go immediately, but instead of apologising, he continues, "You're one of the best damn profilers in the country, if not the best. The CCU is lucky to have you, and it certainly can't afford to lose you just because I… because we…"
"What?" Grace snaps, too infuriated to care what his answer might be. She's going to make him say it if it takes all bloody night. "Because we what, Boyd?"
Too late, she sees a dangerous spark of reckless impulsivity flash his eyes. She's already stepping back as he bears down on her, but in the ridiculously small room there's no escape. Her back collides with the closed door and Boyd pounces. She couldn't stop him if she wanted to, a distant part of her realises, but that's okay, that's fine – stopping him is the very last thing on her mind as he closes in, trapping her with every ounce of strength and muscle he possesses. Caught in a rough, aggressive kiss that feels like an open declaration of war, she twists her fingers into his hair, grabs what she can, and matches him, pouring all her frustration and anger into the bruising battle for… whatever it is they're trying to rip from each other. Truth, acknowledgment, acceptance. So many frustrating, impossible, half-revealed things.
Eventually Boyd pulls his head back, but he keeps her pinned against the door. In the subdued lighting his eyes look as if they're aflame, as if some wild, unnatural fire is burning in their dark depths. His voice is hoarse as he says, "Now tell me I don't have a bloody clue."
Fear. Excitement. Anger. They're all surging through her. "Boyd…"
"Fucking," he says, and Grace knows the bald choice of word is quite, quite deliberate, "is easy. Anyone can do it. Making things work afterwards, that's the difficult part."
Startled by his insight, and the sheer accuracy of it, she swallows hard before whispering back, "Isn't it worth the risk?"
"High stakes, Grace," he tells her. "Very high stakes. It's not just me and you that's at risk, it's the whole damn unit. Every single one of our friends and colleagues, everything we've achieved as a team, and could still achieve. That's a hell of a price to pay if – "
"'If'," she interrupts, letting her hands slide down to his bare shoulders. The dense muscle she can feel there is taut with tension. "If, Boyd. You haven't spent a single day of your life living in fear of 'if', and neither have I."
"You're wrong," he says, but offers no further explanation. "Grace…"
"Listen to me," she tells him, tightening her hold on his shoulders and all-but shaking him. "This whole ridiculous, fucked-up situation… it's not real. Don't you understand that? We're a million miles away from everything. Lost in some… some artificial bubble. When it ends – and it will end – none of it will matter. None of it. The world will go back to exactly the way it was, and everything that's happened since Wednesday night will just… vanish. Time will erase every moment of it. If we want it to."
"No." Boyd shakes his head. "Maybe for you, but not for me. I live every day with everything I've ever said and done. Every bad choice I've ever made, every unwise decision I've ever taken. Every single stupid fuck-up. Every moment of it is right here in my head. Forever."
There's no fight left in her. None. Grace lets her hands fall away from his shoulders. "Then you'll never be happy, Boyd."
He takes a half-step backwards, reinstating the traditional space between them. "Is that your professional opinion, Doc – "
"Don't you dare," she snaps at him in a final brief stab of weary temper. "Oh, don't you bloody dare."
Boyd's shoulders drop, as if he, too, has simply and suddenly run out of fight. They stare at each other in exhausted, hollow silence, not a single word left between them. Pushing away from the door, Grace turns, reaching out for the worn brass doorknob. There are no clear thoughts in her head, and all she feels is… empty.
"Oh, Christ," Boyd mutters behind her. "Grace. Grace."
Something about the raw note of hurt in his voice makes her look round at him. He looks as tired and beaten as she feels, and maybe that's the reason she at least tries to give him a weak, reassuring smile. It doesn't work very well, but perhaps it's enough because he holds out a tentative hand to her and says, "Come and lie down."
She's too tired to be surprised. "Why?"
"I don't know. Just… come and lie down."
Nothing seems to be making any sense anymore. Pragmatism, dredged from some unknown place, makes her say, "But the bed… it's tiny."
"We'll manage."
Almost trancelike, she takes his hand. The room is so small she's forced to release it almost immediately to sit back down on the edge of the bed. Somehow both clumsy and graceful, Boyd manoeuvres round her, past her, stretches himself out under the window and eases her down against him. There's far too little space, but Grace is long past caring about such trivialities. Shoulders tight against his chest, back against his stomach, she lies rigid and confused, not knowing what to do or say. Behind her, he murmurs, "Relax."
She can't help snorting, under the circumstances. "Hilarious."
His voice remains soft, though it's insistent as he says, "You're safe, Grace. Nothing's going to hurt you."
She closes her eyes for a moment. "Including you?"
The answer is delayed, but when it comes, it's steady. "If I said I'd never hurt a woman in my life, I'd be lying, but it's never been deliberate. Not once."
It's not the best time to ask, but she needs to know. "And Zahra? Where does she fit into tonight?"
This time there's no hesitation. "She doesn't. It was just a couple of casual dates, Grace. Nothing more."
Knowing it's none of her business, but possessed with the keen desire to know, she asks, "Did you sleep with her?"
"No." The reply is so quick and so definite that she knows it's the truth. She feels him shrug. "Intended to. Would have done if it hadn't been for DAC-bloody-Lambert."
Cautious in the limited space, Grace manages to wriggle over onto her back. Her companion is watching her in a quiet, contemplative manner that's just short of unnerving. Finding his hand, she laces her fingers through his. "If it's just tonight – "
"Grace."
"No," she says, "let me finish. If it's just tonight, Boyd, that's all right. It really is. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Boyd shakes his head. "Not remotely, but I'm used to that."
Silence falls between them again, unconfrontational this time. The frustration and fury's gone from them both. The first gentle kisses and hesitant caresses only confirm it.
-oOo-
Cont...
