The ride home was quiet, Lucas commenting briefly on the neighborhoods they passed and Jo answering his comments with the occasional polite observation.
Outside her house, he opened the door to let her out. Seeing her slightly unsteady attempt to exit the car, he pulled her up out of the vehicle and walked beside her as she made her way to the front door. He was pleased to see some colour had returned to her cheeks.
She stumbled on the path, slipping on the icy concrete, and was only prevented from falling by Lucas's grabbing her arms to pull her to him, once again upright but now dangerously close to him, his piercing blue eyes holding hers.
He didn't let her go though, just stood there, his face millimeters from hers looking down at her, his expression unreadable. After a moment his lips brushed against hers – tentatively at first, then more certain, his arms circling her waist, pulling her closer to him.
He could feel her shock at first, the intake of breath as his lips had met hers, and he continued to hold her, his lips on hers, waiting to see what she would do.
He smelt of gunsmoke and alcohol, a heady yet familiar mix. With a start she remembered who he reminded her of. Zaf.
She closed her eyes as her lips parted under his. She could feel her hands wind their way around the back of his neck as a breathless urgency overtook them both.
Lucas was smart enough to know that she was entirely the wrong person to be doing this with. He knew he should let her go, he should turn and go right now, but he couldn't.
He knew that if he was sensible if he was to be with anyone it should be with Ros. Ros who could separate action from feelings, who could distance herself from her emotions.
But he didn't want that – he didn't want Ros and her coolness. He wanted something softer, someone softer – more like what he had had with Elizabeta in the old days. Some kind of interaction that had nothing to do with what the last eight years had been for him. Something that wasn't so obviously an impersonal exchange.
And if there was one thing Jo wasn't it was impersonal. If anything she was much too personal. It was a dangerous flaw in her job, but he found that for some reason it made her appeal to him.
Jo was everything foreign to what his life had been in Russia. She was polite conversation, consideration of others, regard for social niceties. She was emotion internalized rather than displayed through outward aggression. She was stillness and silence rather than constant discord. She had mastered some of the things he was tying to now relearn. She could pass for outwardly normal. And yet she was also fundamentally weak, she hadn't succeeded where he had in terms of self control, self discipline. Her shell wasn't as hardened as his. Her vulnerability was too close to the surface, whereas his was deeply buried.
As his hands slid down the side of her body, over the curve of her waist to rest on her hips he wondered why he was doing this.
Jo was lovely but she was also the worst possible choice for this.
There were plenty of other women who were available and it frustrated him that for some reason he had picked Jo, and now things had gone too far to stop this.
He ran his hand over her breast, the heat from his hand seeping through her blouse to her skin. He could feel himself sinking down deeper and deeper into somewhere where desire ruled and conscious thought took second place. This wasn't about her or who she was. It was about him. Eight years had been too long - and here and now he wanted her.
And surely, finally, he deserved something for himself? Some kind of comfort, even if it was only passing.
As they reached the door, she could feel Lucas' hands on her as he pressed her against the door.
She fumbles to locate her key, her hands trembling as she unlocks the door. Once they are inside the house Lucas pulls her back into his arms and everything seems suddenly fast as if he has set the remote to double time. When he releases her from his kiss she finds herself short of air, struggling to breathe as her cheeks become increasingly flushed. She wonders what kind of hold he has over her and whether he cares for her even a little.
She thinks not and wonders why she doesn't stop it. Doesn't step away from him, remove his hand from her waist, say goodnight and mean it.
Somewhere inside her head she knows what the truth is. Because this is real life. This is what they're stuck with. This is as close to romance as it will get for her.
Lucas doesn't love her, he just wants an escape and he is handsome enough, charismatic enough for her to want to follow him there.
So she presses her lips to the side of his neck and digs her fingernails into his back, pulling him closer, wanting him to take her away from this world, to make her forget everything but the present.
But as his hand slips down to unbutton her blouse she is nervous.
It isn't until she is on the couch with him on top of her and only her skirt and knickers left on that things really begin to go wrong. Badly wrong.
Because all of a sudden she can't hear his words anymore, only the sound of her own heart beat drumming in her ears until it seems as if nothing else exists. She looks up and sees a face that is not Lucas' looking back at her and her throat is suddenly dry. She tries to swallow but can't and then her hands are reaching up to push him up and away from her and now she knows, indisputedly, that everything is not fine, that she is not ok.
And Lucas knows it too.