Chapter Six

He closed the door and leaned on it for support as she half-ran across the space between them and threw herself into his waiting arms. He could do no more than hold her. More tightly. And bury his face in her shoulder, in her hair, and finally - finally - his lips found hers, and he was home.

When at last he raised his head to meet her eyes, he realised an unruly tear was making its way down her cheek. She was smiling still, but more gently now. Her lipstick was a little smudged, he noted with a degree of satisfaction, as he made an inventory of her features.

"Jack ..." she said teasingly, as though neither of them would notice her voice being a little lower. Blame the heat. Don't ever blame the urgency of the moment. "Two lips, indifferent red, two grey eyes, with lids to them... were you sent hither to praise me?"

"I'll appraise you as it suits me. Given that I seem to have acquired a wife without so much as a by-your-leave, I think I'm entitled to inspect her. Thoroughly." He raised an eyebrow and was pleased to see the twitch of her lips that his words prompted. His Phryne had class, and charm, and courage in abundance - but above all, she had a sense of humour.

"Ah, yes. That."

"That," he agreed.

"I needed to see you before you got to London, there's just too much to discuss. About the case" she added hastily, before his regard became too cynical. "No kidding this time, Jack, it's horrible and I have needed your hugs more times than I care to count." For a moment, she withdrew. Not physically; but he knew that there had been a memory she couldn't – or wouldn't – ignore. Almost unconsciously, he closed his arms a little more firmly round her. Supporting her was second nature; he couldn't pretend not to sense it when she faced a challenge. "The Train Bleu seemed the best way to do it, and I couldn't risk using my own name in case anyone followed me on to the boat." Of course. Heaven forbid she could use anything other than the most glamorous way to achieve her ends.

Then she paused, and her eyes lit up with mischief. He knew that look, and waited apprehensively.

"On the other hand, I understand it will take us about six days to get to London. By my calculations it will take me about two or three hours to tell you everything I know about the case. Allowing for eating ... and sleeping ... Jack, did I mention how much I have missed you? Though do bear in mind that I've kept my stage name on our marriage."

He closed his eyes for an instant, recalling a certain fan dancer. "Which is ...?"

"Beatrice, of course. Beatrice di Messina." She rolled the name off her tongue in the Italian style, as though he might not be sufficiently quick on the uptake.

It could have been worse, he supposed.

"It's all right," she smiled at him fondly. "The crew are already aware that you are tired of being introduced as Mr Messina."

Or perhaps not.

Jack walked to the telephone. With his back to her, he lifted the receiver and tapped for the operator.

"Hello. John Benedick here. Yes, thank you, quite a relief for all concerned. I'm ringing to ask, though - please could you pass a message to the crew that my wife is exhausted? I would be grateful if the steward could wait until he hears from me before disturbing her. Her schedule was extraordinarily hard to clear, and I fear she has rather overdone things. What's that? No, no, you're very kind, but I think the ship's doctor will concur with my view that nothing more than bed rest for a few days is really needed. Yes. Yes, I will do so. Thank you."

Counting in his head, he slowly replaced the handset. Presuming to know Phryne Fisher's wishes? Dangerous. Announcing your presumption to the world? Little short of suicidal.

Having reached ten, and not heard any expostulation, he took his courage in his hands and turned to face Phryne, now perched on the side of the bed. She appeared to be leaning down, and as he watched, sat up and, narrowing her eyes slightly, pitched first one and then the other frivolous sandal on to the window seat. One, not landing quite squarely, tipped slowly over. Then it fell to the floor. Where it rocked, slightly, and gave up to gravity, landing gracefully on its side, the golden laces curling happily into the sole.

Its progress was followed studiously by them both; whereupon Phryne turned to look at him, lips slightly open, breath coming more rapidly than would have been expected from such light exercise.

"Now, Jack? Can we? Now?"

His reply could only be delivered as a hoarse whisper.

"Yes" Inaudible. He swallowed, tried again. "Yes. Please."