Chapter Text
The candles on the table in front of her kept trying to gutter out, drowning in their own perfumed wax. Couples were pressed tightly together on the dance floor, swaying to the sultry music, the lights in the chandeliers above were dimmed so that, from this distance, they all looked hazy and shadowy, the occasional sequin or crystal on a dress catching the meager light and throwing a brief twinkle into the air like a shooting star was passing through the ball room.
The whole evening had felt like this. Like a dream she’d woken up and somehow stayed in. The flowers, the candles, the food, the wine, the atmosphere, all of it was perfect, like a movie set. She’d been content to watch events unfold around her, taking it all in, observing the ebb and flow of the event, the raucous grand entrance of the bride and groom, the waitstaff dressed elegantly in black tails as they circulated with champagne flutes balanced on silver trays, the guests mingling and laughing, kissing and hugging and smiling and beautifully happy to be here, tonight, in a room so full of love and happiness that they couldn’t help but be lifted along on the current of exuberance drifting through the room.
Vanessa was gorgeous, tall and willowy in her wedding gown. Her strong, toned shoulders glimmering an almost pearlescent ebony as she danced with her new husband, Oliver, handsome and fit, his eyes laughing behind his glasses as he twirled her out, then spun her back and into a dramatic dip as the song trailed off. He bent over her, pressing a kiss to her throat in a moment so full of intimacy and desire that Robin felt, again, as though she’d stepped inside a movie scene.
In real life, though, weddings weren't like this.
They weren’t romantic and sexy and fun and actually enjoyable.
They were stressful and filled with tense and awkward moments.
But this was real life, and this was a real wedding, and as she sat there with the candles at her table finally giving up their flames and evaporating into smoke she felt at war with herself.
She knew she shouldn’t compare all weddings to her own. Hers, she knew with the benefit of hindsight, had been destined to feel like a farce. Sarah Shadlock, Matthew, her mother and all of the ridiculous chaos of that day should have been the straw that had broken the camel’s back and had her calling the whole marriage off. But she hadn’t. She’d felt obligated and embarrassed and had tried to hide her head in the sand, ignoring all of the red flags being waved in her face in the days leading up to her wedding.
The only bright spot in her entire wedding day had been when he’d knocked over the flowers as he’d come in late, when she’d met the dark eyes that had been glittering with some kind of fire in a battered and bruised face.
When she’d seen him there her heart, broken and lifeless from the day he’d stormed out of her flat after firing her, had begun to beat again. Tentative flutters had started when she’d said, clearly and in ringing tones, her eyes still snagged on his, “I do,” and seen his eyes flare again with that mysterious light. Then, when she’d seen his huge form in the receiving line, waiting to reach her, she’d barely heard anyone else around her, not even the man she’d married. She’d been captive in the magnetic pull of Strike’s presence and her heart had beat in full bodied thumps, like a stalled motor had been kicked into life.
She’d known she was smiling too brightly, too happily, but she hadn’t been able to help it. The joy she should have felt in marrying Matthew had been felt, instead, when she’d looked into those dark and penetrating eyes as he’d stood in front of her.
Until he’d dropped a bomb he hadn’t even known he was dropping.
He’d called.
He’d left a voicemail.
But there hadn’t been a voicemail on her phone.
And when the realization had hit, she’d felt the heart that had been thumping with relief and joy, begin racing with anger and betrayal. An argument had ensued and a tense agreement had been reached, to get through the rest of the wedding and figure things out on the honeymoon. And her heart had begun to slow again, settling into a slow beat, a hopeful rhythm. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
But then, as she was being held in arms she wished were someone else’s, that someone else had walked out, looking completely done in, his eyes shadowed and shades of hurt wreathing his expression. She’d run after him, heart racing faster with each footfall. Out the door, down the stairs, calling his name, “Cormoran! Cormoran, wait!” as she’d panted breathlessly, desperately hoping she wasn’t too late.
And she hadn’t been.
And the arms she’d been enfolded in on those stairs had felt like home and promise and peace. Their hearts pressed together, beating the same rhythm. The cord of communion and connection that had been snapped in her sitting room when he’d fired her had woven itself back together as she’d felt his breath fluttering in the curls of her hair and the rise and fall of his chest as he’d inhaled against her.
And she’d known then, she’d have left with him, without a second thought. She’d have taken his uninjured hand and dashed down the stairs with him, climbed into the stolen car and left everything behind.
But he hadn’t asked.
She hadn’t volunteered.
So she’d climbed the stairs, walked back into the ballroom, and faced the wrath and sullen silence of her new husband.
Her wedding hadn’t been like this one, she knew now, because the man she’d loved had been the one who’d left her standing on those steps, not the one she’d left on an empty dance floor, in the middle of their first dance as husband and wife, to chase after another.
And that man was nowhere to be seen this evening.
Months ago, when the invitation had been handed to her over drinks, she’d felt a paradoxical surge of excitement and dread that had worsened after she’d opened the envelope and seen, in beautifully curling script, Robin Ellacott; Plus One, on the invitation.
She hadn’t started dating again, her calendar was too full of work and the idea of willingly subjecting herself to the rigors of dating when she hadn’t been on a proper date in over thirteen years had not been enticing. So she’d texted Strike from the back of the cab she’d taken home that evening, sending him a picture of the invitation and asking simply, “Fancy being my plus one? Rx”
He was her best mate, it was a best mate thing to ask. She’d have accompanied him to any event he’d needed a date for had the situations been reversed.
And he hadn’t answered.
Not right away.
She’d made it home to the flat she still shared with Max and Wolfgang, with the addition of Max’s new boyfriend Felix, and had washed her makeup off, changed into her pyjamas and was just crawling into bed when the ding, signaling Strike’s response, had sounded in the room.
“I’ll pencil it in,” he’d replied and she’d sent back only a thumbs up emoji and gone to sleep secure in the knowledge that with him, there wouldn’t be any awkward moments.
But now, months later, he wasn’t here. He’d been stuck taking a shift of surveillance after Sam’s daughter had broken her leg and had to go to hospital. Naturally Sam had wanted to be with his wife and daughter during such a scary situation and so here she was, feeling lonely and entirely too conspicuous at one of her best mates' wedding.
Vanessa had very kindly sat her at the same table with their mutual friend and her former partner Detective Inspector Eric Wardle and his wife April. However, Robin had always been closer to Vanessa. Strike had been the one who’d developed the friendship with Wardle, so while it wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t entirely smooth and easy either.
She sighed gustily before standing and making her way toward the nearest tray carrying waiter, lifting a flute of champagne from his tray with a mumbled, “Thanks,” ignoring the way his eyes landed on the low neckline of the gown she’d chosen simply because it had reminded her of the color of the feathers on a male peacock’s body.
Deep blue.
Which, she supposed, was an apt description for the way she was currently feeling. A deep, dark, blue.
Lonely blue.
Sad blue.
She meandered through the mingling guests, her small clutch in one hand, the flute full of pale golden champagne in the other, sipping idly, smiling softly as her eyes caught others along the way.
She’d had a plan, damn it.
She’d hoped that this evening would have seen them take another step toward what she’d felt brewing between them since that night on the steps at her own wedding. The tension between them had grown so thick in the last six months that their new contractor, Michelle, had apparently asked Pat if they were a couple and had scoffed when Pat had answered, truthfully, “No.”
It was clear to everyone that they were circling each other, but neither had made a move yet. And she’d hoped the atmosphere of this wedding would clear the way.
But he wasn’t here.
She tilted her glass again, feeling the cool champagne touch her lips, the dry flavor sliding over her tongue as she came to a stop at a tall cocktail table with candles still flickering in the middle of it.
She set her clutch down and covertly slipped a foot out of one of the heels she was wearing, the cool, smooth hem of the dark blue gown pooling against the top of her foot and toes, concealing the fact that she was standing on a bare foot, giving both feet a break from the towering heels she’d bought with the idea of putting herself at eye level with Strike. She leaned against the table, lazily sipping from her dwindling wine, watching the antics on the dance floor.
Her eye was caught by Vanessa, who grinned at her, jerking her head in a clear invitation to join her on the dance floor. Robin grinned back, raising her glass in a silent toast, eliciting a rueful headshake from her friend.
She allowed her gaze to drift from the dance floor, over the heads of other guests, to the bank of windows directly across from her. It was a clear night. The London Eye was twinkling with lights in the distance.
And she was alone.
Her eyes caught on a figure walking up the steps outside the windows.
Broad shoulders encased in a black suit and a headful of dark unruly curls had come into view just as two men stumbled across her field of vision blocking her view of the door, and the figure she was desperately hoping she hadn’t imagined.
She took another sip of her wine and picked up her clutch, determined to head that way, just to be sure. But she couldn’t find the shoe she’d slipped off. Her toes tapped the ground around her, feeling for the shoe and finding nothing. She was loathe to take her eyes off that area of the room, but the two men were still blocking her view and her shoe was still refusing to be found.
She finally glanced down, tugging at the skirt of her gown, lifting it off the ground, and revealed the shoe, lying on its side, inches from where her toes had been tapping. She struggled for a moment, sliding her foot back in, then shook out her skirt and turned back to the windows.
The men were still standing there, still blocking her view.
She snatched the champagne flute off the table and started toward the windows.
And suddenly, there he was.
He stood just inside the doors, one hand in his pocket, the other tugging at the knot of his tie as his eyes scanned the room, she assumed, looking for her.
Her heart raced as she swigged the rest of her champagne and deposited the empty flute on the tray of a passing waiter, waiting for him to spot her.
His lips turned up in a smirk as Wardle approached him, holding out his hand for a shake and then leaning down to press his cheek against April’s in an air kiss.
She saw his lips move, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Though from the way Wardle began scanning the crowd she assumed he’d asked if they’d seen her. She turned away for a moment, took a deep breath, accepted another flute of champagne from the waiter who’d paused to offer one and then, sipping it in a manner she hoped seemed casual, she turned.
His eyes were locked on her.
He was nodding at whatever April was saying, but his eyes never left her own.
She felt as though the blood in her veins was bubbling with carbonation. Like the champagne she’d just swallowed had bypassed her stomach and entered her bloodstream, making her fingertips tingle with the need to walk to him and touch his beard, with her hands.
Her cheek.
Her lips.
She inhaled deeply, rooted to the floor as she wondered what it would feel like to feel that beard rasping against the skin of her breasts and her inner thighs.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them looked away.
Time stopped.
Her heartbeat slowed.
She could hear the rush of it in her ears.
He’d come, and now, he was walking toward her.
With a jolt she felt her heart begin jackhammering in her chest, as though someone had zapped her with a defibrillator.
This moment was electric, alive and crackling with tension and want and need.
And then, he was there, reaching for her, his big hand sliding into her hair as he tugged her against him from breast to thigh.
His lips descended, pressing warmly just to the left of her slightly parted lips.
She gasped quietly as his beard gently chafed her skin.
His fingers tangled in her hair he looked into her eyes and said, “Hi.”
She felt her eyelids flutter and she swallowed hastily.
“Hi.” Her voice was nothing more than a throaty whisper and as his fingers shifted at her back, releasing his hold on her and slipping along the silk at the curve of her waist, she suppressed a shiver. She cleared her throat. “Surveillance?” she asked.
“Finished. Got what we needed.”
“Oh.”
“How was the ceremony?”
“Lovely.”
“Anyone knock the flowers over?”
She gasped out a laugh at the unexpected joke. “Nope. No gatecrashers here.”
“Probably for the best,” he sighed. “How was the food?”
“You’d have loved it,” she grinned at him, laughing when he groaned in longing.
“I’m going to murder Sam.”
She chuckled and stepped back, sweeping the length of her skirt behind her as she tucked her clutch under her other arm and slipped her newly freed arm through his.
“How about this? Let’s go get you a beer.” He gave a humming grunt. “And then I’ll track down one of the waitstaff and see if they can put together a plate for you.”
He leaned toward her and she thought she felt, just for a moment, his lips press to the side of her head, against her hair, before he whispered in her ear, “There are moments I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She smiled smugly, “Then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t plan for you to ever find out.”
Fifteen minutes later they were leaning against the stainless steel island in the middle of the hotel’s kitchen as he tucked into the dinner she’d cajoled the catering manager into plating up for him. She’d had to bend the truth a little, explaining that Strike was a colleague of the bride and groom’s and that he’d been caught on an investigation that had caused him to miss the dinner he’d RSVP’d for, all of which was true, aside from the insinuation she’d allowed to hang out there that Strike was a member of the Met.
She leaned back against the counter next to him, sipping more champagne, as he methodically cleaned the Beef Wellington, mashed potatoes and gravy and fresh steamed green beans from the white ceramic in front of him while the waitstaff went about cleaning up on the other side of the kitchen.
Neither spoke as he ate, but the silence was, as always, comfortable.
Finally he finished, dabbing his lips with the linen the catering manager had supplied, then stacked his cutlery on the plate and picked it up, turning, she knew with the intention of taking it to the sink where the other dishes were being washed, but instead one of the waiters took it from him as she walked by with an armload of linens. He murmured his thanks and then looked around for the manager, nodding his gratitude when he caught his eye.
She stood up straight as he turned back to her and said, “You did not oversell that.”
“It’s a classic for a reason,” she shrugged. “Need another beer?”
“Could do. And a fag.”
“Well let’s go then,” and she slipped her hand into his and tugged him through the swinging door, and back into the ballroom.
They made a brief stop at the bar for his beer. He took a swig, and then grasped her hand again, holding tightly as they slipped through the other guests toward the door he’d entered through and then out into the cool evening air.
They strode down to the end of the long balcony, away from the other smokers and revelers, away from the light and the heaters that had been set up along the stone railings. He reached into his inside jacket pocket, extracting his cigarettes and matches, then shrugged out of the jacket and draped it over her bare shoulders.
She sighed as the material surrounded her, imbued with the warmth of his body and the scent of his cologne. “I wasn’t even cold,” she grinned at him.
“You would have been by the time I finished here,” he tilted his head, a gesture that clearly said, “Am I wrong?”
He wasn’t wrong.
“You want to tell me about your night? The surveillance?” she asked.
“Not just yet.” He exhaled a plume of smoke. “It’ll keep.”
She nodded and turned away from him, looking toward the Eye and drawing in the scent of him wafting from the jacket much the same way he was drawing the smoke from his cigarette into his. It was intoxicating.
“I’m sorry, Robin.” His voice rumbled softly behind her.
“It’s okay.” She looked back at him. “Who understands the job better than me?”
“It doesn’t make me any less sorry.”
“Well stop it then,” she said firmly, turning back to him. “You’re here now.”
He nodded slightly, stepping closer to her, his free hand clasping hers again, his fingers slipping between hers. She’d never noticed before how sensitive the skin on the sides of her fingers was until now, when his fingers were woven with hers. His thumb stroked the back of her hand as he smoked, sending goosebumps along her arm, hidden by the sleeves of his jacket.
“Did Wardle look after you?”
“He and April tried. They’re nice.”
“She is at least,” he joked.
“Ha.Ha. He offered to dance with me, but I don’t really know him well enough to not have felt awkward, so I declined.” She tilted her head curiously. “But you knew that already didn’t you?”
“Wardle texted me when you showed up alone. Wanted to know where I was.”
“I see. So he knew you were supposed to come with me?”
“I didn’t tell him,” Strike explained.
“Neither did I.”
“Maybe Vanessa did?”
“I never told Vee I was bringing you.”
“So…”
“You realize that they all just assume we’re a couple, Strike.”
He didn’t answer.
“They all think we’re just incredibly private and discreet,” she went on. “Because of course we must be together.
Again he remained silent.
She felt his fingers flex slightly against hers, as though he was about to pull his hand from hers and then thought better of it. And she felt a tiny piece of the hope she’d felt splinter and fall away. She cleared her throat and slipped her hand from his, brushing stray strands of hair back behind her ear. With a sniff she shrugged his jacket off her shoulders and was about to hand it back to him when he asked, “Do you want to be?”
Her eyes darted to his.
“What?” she asked dumbly, unsure she’d heard him correctly.
“Do you want to be?” he asked again, then clarified, “A couple.”
“A couple?”
“Are you about to ask, ‘A couple of what’?” he chuckled.
“No. I…Are you asking me—”
“If you want to be with me? ” he bent his head, his lips catching in her hair as he whispered softly against her ear. “Yes. I am. I’m tired of fighting it. Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
His lips pressed, so warm, behind her ear, and she heard him inhale as he brushed his nose against the thin skin there, where she’d dabbed the perfume he’d chosen for her birthday gift earlier that evening. She tilted her head to the side to give him more space and felt the edge of his teeth as he bit gently at the tendon revealed there. Her quiet moan was involuntary.
“Strike,” she gasped in a whisper, as he took the jacket out of her hand, tossing it over the railing beside her clutch.
His mouth slid along her jaw bone, tilting her head back further as his lips nibbled at her chin. She felt his hand clutch into a fist at the small of her back as his lips finally met hers. He kissed her once, twice, three times, delving deeper each time. He drew her bottom lip between his, sucking at it gently before sliding his tongue over it meeting and tangling with hers, the flavors of champagne and beer and fresh smoke mingled between them.
Her hands were trapped between them, pressed against his chest, and she felt his chest rising and falling, his heart racing, once again in time with hers, as he kissed her over and over. She felt the groan rumble on his chest, even as she heard it.
He pulled back slowly, keeping his hand fisted in the small of her back, as he stroked his thumb over her bottom lip, spreading the moisture left from the kiss back and forth, as he dropped his forehead to rest gently against hers.
“That was better than I’d imagined,” he rasped.
She hummed a soft sigh in agreement.
They stood there, pressed against each other as moments passed. Both unwilling to let go of the other now that the final barrier had fallen. The cards were on the table, the die had been thrown, and both of them had won.
She slid her hands around him, wrapping her arms around his waist so that they were once again pressed against each other from breast to thigh. The linen of his dress shirt was soft against her cheek, the warmth of his skin seeping through it and into her.
“What now?” he asked softly.
“I’m not sure why you’re asking me. You’re only my second boyfriend,” she chuckled, prompting an answering chuckle from him. “What would you usually do next?”
“None of the ‘usual’ applies to this situation, Ellacott.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because you’re not like any of the other women I’ve dated.”
“That’s a good thing…right?” she tried to hide the uncertainty in the question, but knew she’d failed when he gently nudged her back.
His eyes were intense on hers as he answered, “A very good thing.”
She nodded, swallowed and nodded again.
“I’ve never been friends with a woman before,” he explained. “Not in a situation like this, I mean. Before the relationship.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” he asked gently. “Because I already know everything about you. All the important stuff, I mean. All of the things you’d typically learn as you date someone. I know how you like your tea and which biscuits are your favorite. I know your handwriting and the tone of your voice when I’ve made you angry.”
“Perturbed. Not angry,” she corrected.
“Uh, no. Angry. Raging.”
“It was one time, Strike,” she swatted his arm playfully. “And you absolutely deserved it.”
“No question,” he agreed. “I also know how loyal you are and how dogged. I know I don’t scare you and that you won’t back down from a fight, though you’re remarkably levelheaded. I know that you love the job as much as I do and that your capacity for understanding and patience is unparalleled.”
“Okay then, tell what you don’t know then, and we can take it from there,” she challenged, even as she blushed with his effusiveness.
“Well,” he dipped his head and stole another kiss before he answered her, “I don’t know what you look like first thing in the morning.”
“But, Barrow—”
“That doesn’t count. We slept in the Land Rover.”
“Okay, then,” she snickered.
“I don’t know how you dress to go to bed. Do you wear pyjamas or just a t-shirt or,” he paused, leaning down to her ear, “nothing?”
“It depends,” she replied primly.
“You asked,” he reminded her. “I don’t know what routine you follow in the mornings. I’ve never seen you put on your makeup or brush your hair. I don’t know what you look like, fresh from the shower, though I have imagined that a few times.”
She gasped theatrically. “Strike!”
“It’s true,” he laughed. “I couldn't help it. I am a man you know.”
“Yeah,” she hugged her arms tighter around him. “I know.”
“So, this is a situation I’ve never been in before, because with any other woman I’ve ever been attracted to, I’ve never had this much at stake. I’ve never wondered if learning what they look like in the morning would affect the state of my business, which is no longer just my business. I’ve never agonized over whether I should say, ‘Let’s go back to your place’ because it might upset the delicate balance of friendship and partnership I have with them, because I’ve never cared about any of them in the way I care about you.” He leaned back again, looking at her solemnly. “So I need you to tell me what next, because I’m just as scared as you are, but I’m also not willing to pretend this hasn’t happened, not now that I know that everything I’ve ever imagined about what it would feel like to kiss you pales in comparison to the real thing. And I’m not willing to give that up…Unless you ask me to.
“So what now, Robin? What do you want to do next. Your wish is my command.”
“Take me home, Cormoran,” she smiled softly at him. "Take me home and you can start learning.”