Chapter Thirteen

After dinner, Strike followed Robin back up the stairs again, and though he'd prepared himself for it, the act of following her into the room was equal parts intensely arousing and frustrating. All the cues were there: the beautiful woman, the large soft bed, the privacy and proximity, as well as all the right feelings: lust, adoration, simmering desire. And so, every cell in his body was screaming to do the thing that nature intended with the flesh and bones of his masculine vessel, and yet his mind was sternly cautioning him.

'Do you want to go first?' Robin said, motioning towards the bathroom, 'or shall I?'

'You go,' Strike said, bending to haul his kit bag up onto the bed.

Robin took her bag from the chair and entered the bathroom, closing the door. It was small but clean, with barely enough room for the toilet beside the narrow sink and a walk-in shower at the other end. She was relieved not to find a bathtub-shower combination, as she imagined navigating that arrangement would be difficult for Strike and would only further fuel his foul mood. Though she knew it was unreasonable, she felt a strange pang of guilt about the mix-up that had landed them in the same room. As she undressed and showered, she briefly wondered if Strike had thought she'd orchestrated it intentionally, but then remembered she had presented the printed receipt as proof she had booked two rooms, and the manager had provided them with a reasonable explanation.

Then, when she exited the shower and began towelling herself dry, the reason for the extent of Strike's irritably finally occurred to her. She was naked, merely a metre away from him in the other room. Though she'd been initially aware of the awkwardness and inconvenience of the room mix-up, in her dominant mindset of practical efficiency - off doing what needed to be done - and still feeling flustered from the events of the day, it hadn't yet dawned on her exactly what this meant. Suddenly acutely aware of the full range of tantalising opportunities before them, she better understood the tension this scenario presented. She smirked when her mind flashed up the image of her in an alternate reality, opening the bathroom door, just as she was, completely nude, and striding out to see Strike's reaction.

She blushed, noticing the thrill of arousal humming through her, and considered the erotic nature of hotel rooms. There was something about them: the anonymity, the plush comfort, the brief insulation from reality, the temptation to luxuriate, the dominance of the bed in the space, the virginal cleanliness and order just waiting to be defiled, that all strongly suggested sex. Then, she couldn't help but wonder - although it was unlike her to be superstitious - if fate had put them together there, if sharing a room was a sign it was finally time to advance their relationship.

Considering the inevitability of slipping under the sheets with Strike now, she wondered what it would take to change this act from one of platonic friends merely sharing a bed out of necessity, into the act of new lovers excitedly seeking out each other's bodies, eager to finally consummate their already special bond and transform it into something more. But then her hopes were dashed when she remembered the sheer discomfort she'd read in Strike's demeanour upon needing to share a room - his clenched jaw and frown that was almost a scowl, the way he'd become suddenly uncommunicative over dinner. It may have meant he was wrestling with similar thoughts, but even so, he'd erected his defences and they were so well practiced and strong, she feared they were almost impenetrable. Then, remembering Natalie and Ryan, she berated herself for even entertaining such thoughts, dressed in her pyjamas and cleaned her teeth, occupying her deviant mind by counting the iridescent black mosaic tiles covering the bathroom walls.

Meanwhile, Strike had occupied himself by digging out the book of cryptic crosswords he had, mercifully, packed at the last minute. He was perched on the edge of the bed, sitting uncomfortably straight, as if he had no right to be there, balancing the crossword book awkwardly on his knee. Robin emerged from the bathroom, dressed in her grey pyjamas and Strike swallowed hard when he looked up and saw her, braless, in the t-shirt. Gone was the firm foundation of her underwear; there was no sturdy uplift or barrier between her naked skin and the thin cotton. The absence of her bra revealed the actual contours of her full bust; the heavy, natural weight of her breasts and the little peaks of her erect nipples.

Strike's imagination briefly entertained the idea that if he had broached the subject of the near kiss at The Ritz and confessed his desire for her tonight, she might also feel compelled to admit she too had feelings for him, and if things escalated quickly, and he was quite sure they would, Robin would need only raise her arms, and he would need only make one swift tug of that t-shirt over her head to reveal her naked breasts fully. Clearing his throat, he discarded the crosswords, stood hastily and marched over to look at the thermostat on the wall while Robin watched him with a curious expression. He turned the dial to increase the temperature, hoping warmth would relax Robin's nipples, then took his kit bag into the bathroom and shut the door.

Finding the room small, he relaxed somewhat. It suited Strike as he was able to move about easily, having surfaces helpfully always within reach to support him balancing on one leg. When he turned to place his bag in the corner, he noticed two white towelling robes hanging from hooks on the back of the door. Intended for a couple, they hung, snuggled together, as if whispering sweet nothings to one another, taunting him with their guiltless union. Pressing his hands to the door, he sighed, resting his forehead on the soft robes. He was at least thankful that the shower wasn't a combo bath, which, being difficult for him to navigate, would have tempted him to skip the warm, soothing flow of water he was counting on to calm him. He removed his belt and trousers and closed the lid of the toilet to sit on it and take off his prosthesis, stood and discarded the rest of his clothing, and then hopped into the shower to douse himself in a consoling cascade of too-hot water.

When he was finished and dressed – expecting to be alone in a hotel room, and preferring to sleep in the nude, he had neglected to pack pyjamas and had improvised with a t-shirt and boxers – and having cleaned his teeth, Strike stood in the bathroom doorway, using the frame to support himself, looking at Robin preparing for sleep. She had pulled back the covers and was sitting on the bed, fluffing the pillows. Her hair was tied up into a tight chignon to prevent it from getting wet in the shower. When she pulled the band out, releasing her hair, it fell around her shoulders in waves made more prominent by the steam of the shower. He imagined this was the natural state of her hair - deep waves tending towards curls at her temples, but that she must usually style it straight. He liked it better this way.

Wearing her grey shorts, Robin's legs were bare below mid-thigh. He'd never seen so much of her bare legs before, he noted, because she'd always worn tights under her skirts at work, or jeans or trousers, and whenever they'd been to more formal events, she'd usually worn longer dresses. He'd only ever glimpsed her legs briefly when they had stayed at the Z Hotel after the office had been bombed and she'd worn the same pyjamas that time, but had swiftly wrapped herself in a robe to cover them before he could see them properly. Unfortunately for Strike, and just as he'd imagined, he could now see that they were really, really lovely legs. His eyes lingered on them for a moment: the lithe length of them, the shapely curve of her calves, the unblemished, smooth porcelain skin, before she slipped them under the covers. She sank lower into the bed and rolled onto her side, glorious golden hair strewn over the pillow, and he thought she was more beautiful than Botticelli's Venus.

'What do you want to do?' she asked him.

He was still standing in the bathroom doorway. 'Huh?' he grunted in surprise. Having been lost in thought and feeling completely disoriented by the bizarre prospect of sharing a bed with Robin, he'd interpreted her question as suggestive.

'Do you want to go straight to sleep?' she asked.

'What!?' he asked, incredulous at the question under the circumstances, still hearing implication in her words. What else would we do?

He gulped.

She gave a small laugh at his expression. 'I mean,' she clarified, 'do you want to read or do your crosswords…?'

'No,' he said, 'I'm tired.' But he did not move from the doorway.

'Come on,' she said, laughing and patting the covers of the vacant space on the mattress next to her, 'you can't stand there all night.'

But he still would not move from the doorway. She shoved her elbow into the pillow and propped her head on her hand. 'Look, I know it's a weird situation, but we're stuck with it. I'm not going to bite you.'

I wouldn't mind if you did, he thought, and them imagined Robin's teeth grazing his jaw and recalled their conversation in the office the day prior.

'I like Vanilla.'

He thought of delicious things: Italian gelato, rich and creamy and dotted with vanilla seeds, of tasting Robin and making her come with his tongue, of her beneath him - her soft sighs, the sudden snatch of her breath, the quake and tremble of her climax and the blissful, blinding release of his, and he wrestled with himself momentarily, considering broaching the subject of The Ritz again now.

There were likely two possibilities if he did, he thought; either she would reciprocate or decline. If she reciprocated, they could have amazing sex. Right. Now. But then what? What would it mean for their future, their business, their friendship? If she declined, the night would become even more awkward. He would have to sleep in the car and then, moreover, he would be exposed - doomed to live under the dark shadow of unrequited love while she went merrily on her way, pitying him and marrying Murphy. Then, the idea of her in a white dress again, at the altar again, with another man, again, made him clench all over. He could hardly bear the thought, and the distress it caused was almost enough to make him confess everything to her. To help him decide, he looked at her face, tried to read it for any hints she was torturing herself with the same thought process, that her inner dialogue had turned as salacious as his. If it had, it could be the catalyst for a frank conversation. But she simply looked at him in that sweet, accepting way she always did. And so, he decided not to take the risk, reached for the bedside table to steady himself, hopped to the bed, pulled back the covers and slipped under.

They both turned out their bedside lamps and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out Robin's form, lying beside him in the glow of the digital clock next to her. They both tossed and turned, tugging at the sheets, acclimatising to a new bed and a new experience of lying together in the dark. After a long time they were still and she said: 'tell me a story?'

'What?' he asked softly.

'I can't sleep. Tell me a story.'

Strike consulted the filing cabinet of his mind, thumbed through his many and varied experiences and, in keeping with the theme of tempting fate, it quickly and assuredly settled on the story of Dave Polworth and the shark.

'When I was eighteen,' he started, 'I went on a trip to Australia with Dave.'

'Polworth?' she asked, yawning.

'Yes.'

'What was it like?'

'It was amazing. It was summer. Hot and bright and it felt never ending. Dave had a wealthy uncle with a beach house. There was a mango tree in the back yard –'

'I've never had a mango, what do they taste like?'

'Ah, sort of crossed between a pineapple and a peach. Tangy and creamy. Anyway, it was the best holiday a teenage boy could imagine. Brown girls in bikinis everywhere, endless beer and barbecues. And you'd think you could get sick of looking at the same view everyday, but we could stare out the windows at the sea for hours, it was bright as a jewel, the sand was pure white and burned the soles of your feet…'

'Mmm,' Robin murmured sleepily.

'We were surfing one day,' he continued, lowering his voice to a mere whisper, 'well we were surfing every day, but this one day, we were flat on our bellies, just drifting on our boards past the breakers and this massive shark went gliding beneath us. I froze, but Dave reached out his hand and…'

Strike left the story unfinished, hearing that Robin's breathing had become deep and even with the onset of sleep. Watching her, so peaceful and vulnerable beside him, he thought of Dave: reckless, rebellious, act-first-think-later Dave Polworth, and knew that his friend would not hesitate to make a move if had found himself in this situation. But then, Dave bore the scar of a black-tip shark's bite and suffered many other consequences for his follies.