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Cormoran Strike stood across the street from Hartwell and Wren, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The pit in his stomach reminded him of the first time he’d ever entered a derelict apartment block in Afghanistan. He’d locked eyes with Sam Starnes and given a nod before they’d rounded the doorway into God only knew what. Granted, the threat posed by a London women's boutique wasn’t quite on par with that of Afghan rebels, but the tight dread was the same. He waited for the surge of adrenaline that had gotten him and Sam through that crumbling doorway, but it never came. He heaved a sigh and heard Pat’s gravelly voice in his head, “It’s shopping, not dental surgery. Stop your whinging and call me when you’re done.” Bloody harpy, Cormoran thought, though knew it was past time that he made a real effort with his sister and her kids this Christmas. “No bags of Rolos this year, you stingy bastard,” Pat had said.  “She’s had a hard year.  You get her a proper gift.” She was right, of course, and since tailing Roger Whinson had taken him to the heart of Bond Street, Cormoran knew that he had no excuse. “Just fucking do it,” he muttered and pulled his collar up against the rain.   It was no St. Crispin’s Day speech, but it got him across the street.

The Christmas clamour of Bond Street fell away as the boutique's heavy glass door swung shut behind him. Cormoran stood in the softly lit boutique entry and slid his hands into his pockets. So this is how it would feel to stand in the centre of a chocolate eclair, he mused. The entire store was an earthtoned ode to luxury; a color palette that had overtaken the remodel of many a country manor belonging to one or another of Charlotte’s friends.  Cormoran recalled Charlotte oozing false jealousy when they’d gone to Amanda Malloy’s housewarming party at her penthouse overlooking Hyde Park.  Amanda had begun a color analysis the depth and specificity of which had surely never been replicated outside of the UK Space Agency and involved paint names like Heritage Biscotti and Almond Whisper. “It’s all bloody beige,” he’d muttered to Charlotte, which Amanda had overheard. She’d never spoken to him again. 

This boutique could have been designed by the same person, or at least someone who had been inspired by the same bucket of sand.  Cormoran scanned the displays of-what were they selling here, anyway?  Sweaters?  Books?  Candles? Bottles?  Every table seemed to be equally filled with each.  He felt failure closing in and inhaled deeply. What was that scent? Not the typical aftershave and gardenias assault he typically endured.  This was what?  Saffron?  Smoke?  It made him think of  a dim room with dark orange pillows, thick cream tika masala and a warm fire. Not bad. He looked at the meticulously arranged display on the large circular table in front of him and tried to think of what Lucy would like.  Pat had mentioned a bag.  “Get her a bag,” she’d said.  And a nice one.  Nooo…” her voice rolled its eyes as Cormoran started to reach for a fabric tote hanging off the back of a chair. “That’s not-you’re hopeless.  Go to Hartwell and Wren, you heathen.  They’ll set you straight.” Now he looked at the array of leather and metal that dotted the  shop and immediately discarded Pat’s advice.  He’d never be able to find anything that was right for Lucy. He eyed a vase filled with exquisitely arranged silk flower stems.  She likes flowers, he thought.  Why not? Wait-is that even for sale? He leaned over to search for a price tag but straightened almost immediately. Fuck it, he thought.  This is why God invented gift cards. He was turning on his heel back toward the door when a sliver of emerald green figure in the sea of taupe stopped him mid-spin.

Robin Ellacott pushed the tiny bag and its hefty receipt across the counter, smiling absently at the woman who smiled back just as distractedly. She mumbled some kind of pleasantry to the woman and locked eyes with the dripping giant who stood in the foyer. Well well well. What have we here? she wondered. The slick, shiny men who typically wandered into the store slid among the tables like oiled weasels. This one looked like he’d broken up through the floorboards.  She met his stare with a professional smile and started towards him.

  Robin began her assessment along with her approach. No wife, clearly.  Not only was there no ring on his left hand, which he was now running through his damp hair, no London socialite alive would allow her husband out of the house looking like this.  Scruffy shoes-one much more so than the other. Unkempt hair, rough knit sweater. He looked like he’d just disembarked from a schooner that had been at sea for a month. Rough hands and rough ways.  The flush in her face and the warmth in her belly came on sudden and strong.  Since she’d kicked Matthew out, she’d started to wonder if she’d ever be attracted to a man again. Her body’s instant and intense reaction to him shocked her. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and added a hint of sway to her walk just to give him something to think about.  Well done, she congratulated herself. Let’s call this progress. Now calm down, for God’s sake.  Fifteen minutes from now you’ll never see him again. 

Cormoran’s plan to leave evaporated along with the room around him.  He was suddenly back in Cornwall, twelve years old and watching Lucy trying to ice skate around the living room.  She had been obsessed by a vintage Christmas card that his Aunt Joan had framed on the wall.   He’d passed the card a thousand times, and all he remembered about it was wondering why this woman was ice skating in a fancy dress. Eight year old Lucy had been obsessed with it. She had wanted nothing more than to wake up one day and look exactly like the peaches and cream beauty on that card, smiling in her cocktail dress and white earmuffs under lightly falling snow.  Sorry, Luce, he thought. That wish had already been granted.  He had yeoman’s work just keeping his eyes from traveling up and down the length of her emerald dress.  Eyes up, sailor, he heard Shanker’s voice in his head. Wouldn't want her to get the right impression.  Bugger off, he thought back.

He ran his hands over the rumpled lapel of his jacket.  Oh God. He looked like he’d been sleeping in his office for a week which, considering it has been closer to three, was quite a feat. Cormoran gave up the flitting fantasy that he could brush the creases from his jacket or fix his hair.  By the time she stood smiling before him an air of exhausted acceptance accompanied his smile.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,”  Her accent was crystal cut glass, upper-crust old money, country estates and governesses.  For a sinking moment Cormoran was back in a sea of voices just like hers.  That accent was the passport to all of  Charlotte’s friends’ parties, parties that he hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place, but knew that declining could end in a four-day battle of attrition.  So he would acquiesce, endure small talk, evade questions, retreat to a room, be cornered by Charlotte, be accused of not being friendly enough, not trying hard enough, not loving her enough and the four-day battle would happen anyway.  He cleared his throat and reminded himself that the past wasn’t the past if you couldn’t stop bloody thinking about it.  

“Welcome to Hartwell and Wren. Can I help?”

“God I hope so.” His gruff voice was tinged with wry desperation. “I’m trying to find something for my sister. A bag.” he said.  

“Oh, how lovely.  Any particular designer she likes?”

Cormoran and Lucy grew up being dragged in and out of ateliers, workrooms and studios by their mother, who had been a muse to not one but three major creatives of the ‘70s.  Cormoran hadn’t minded it-there was something about the single-minded focus of artists that he respected, but Lucy had dismissed all of it as useless, self-centered prattle. “Not that I know of.”

Robin turned and walked further into the shop. “Do you see anything here you think she would like?”

Strike followed her, looking around the opulent room.  He thought of Lucy’s cramped apartment, filled with plastic toys, crooked lampshades, unfolded laundry and half eaten meals. “Not really, no.” He took a deep breath and considered.  How to phrase this so that he didn’t come off as a narcissist with abandonment issues? How to lie, in other words.  He heard himself say,  “She’s…she deserves something nice.  And someone nice to give it to her.  But unfortunately, all she has is…” he gestured at himself haplessly. “And I guess I didn’t realize how little I really know her.  What she likes. So I’m a bit stuck, I suppose.” 

Honesty.  A surprising choice.  Most of the men who came to the store were there to impress or atone.  This one appeared to fall into a rare but endearing subset-the Male Trying to Make an Effort.  Typically these men led with bravado and ill-timed jokes, but not him.  Robin nodded slowly. Maybe it was the rumpled overcoat.  Maybe it was the scruffy stubble and the soulful blue eyes. Maybe it was the fact that she’d felt actual spontaneous lust for the first time in years, but she had a sneaking suspicion that she liked this man. Stop, she scolded herself.  Fantasy time is over.  Make this sale and get back to work. 

“I think I know what you need,” It was meant to be cheery, Christmas-elf style reassurance but somehow came out as a breathy promise. She almost apologized but stopped herself, though there was nothing she could do to stop the ferocious blush that rose up her chest to her neck. She cleared her throat and turned to the back of the store.  “Come with me.” When he didn’t follow right away, she looked back over her shoulder. “Come on.”

 She led him to a secluded area at the back of the shop. Dimly lit and painted in a deep, moody charcoal, it was a haven for the men who accompanied the women who shopped here, men who were willing to spend money but not time. Cormoran suppressed a shudder as he took in the scene. This was the future of his other life , the one where Charlotte had succeeded in stripping away from him everything that wasn’t for her, the one where his days and nights were spent just waiting for her to get ready or get finished. The one spent in alcoves just such as these, an accessory to someone else’s life. Now he sank into the chair and the sigh he let out wasn’t just relief from his leg. His prosthesis didn’t bother him nearly as much as it had before he’d had it refitted, but he’d spent the morning tailing Roger Whinson from his office to his mistress’s flat to a jewelers and back to the office so he needed a seat.  

Robin reached up to a shelf decorated with a glass decanter, old books and an antique hourglass.  The decanter was half filled with an amber liquid that he’d assumed was just tea, but when she turned back to him with a glass in her pale hand as well, his hopes began to rise. 

 “Laphroaig?” she asked, smiled at his gruff, “Dear God yes,” and splashed the liquid into the glass.  He accepted gratefully, telling himself not to drink like he needed it, but by the time the glass made it to his lips he’d forgotten all about that. He swallowed it in a single healthy gulp.  Ah well. Moderation was overrated. He set the glass down and relaxed into the chair.   

“I like to know who I drink with.  Or at least in front of.  I’m Cormoran.”

“Robin.” She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms.

He nodded to the glass.  “Thanks for that.” The whiskey was spreading through his chest, thawing him from his hours outside.  Some color returned to his cheeks and he rubbed his hands together. “Customer service has improved since the last time I’ve been shopping.”

“And how long ago was that?” she kept her face suspiciously straight.

“Well, let’s see,” Cormoran glanced up at the ceiling. “Had they switched the streetlights over to electricity yet or were we still using gas?” 

She nodded knowingly.  “I see. And you want to get your sister a bag, but you’re not sure which one.” Strike nodded. “What can you tell me about your sister?” she asked.

Strike sat back and scratched his head. “She’s thirty two.  Three kids. Full time Mum.”

“Sounds busy.”

“She is busy, yes.”

“How old are the kids?”

“Fourteen, twelve and…” Oh God, how old was Alan? Cormoran tried some quick maths but found that the dimple in her cheek just wasn’t letting him focus.  He ballparked it, hoping she hadn’t noticed the pause. “Seven.”

“So, no nappies or sippy cups. Snacks, though.  Lots of snacks. What kind of bag does she usually wear?”

He looked up at the ceiling again. “Shoulder bag?” he guessed. 

Awww,

Are you patronizing me?

God yes. Would you happen to have any pictures of your sister I could see?”

Grinning, Cormoran reached into his overcoat for his phone.  He scrolled past images of  other people’s lives; people entering and leaving buildings, number plates on cars, houses with lights on, houses with lights off, people chatting over lunch, people sitting on a park bench, people kissing in lobbies and cars, on bridges and bar stools, in car parks and offices. He finally found the pictures he took of Lucy and the boys the last time they’d all gone away for a weekend. That had been more than a year ago now, as Lucy had reminded him during yet another conversation about his failings as an uncle.  If I’d wanted a relationship with kids I’d have had some my bloody self, he’d certainly not told her, and instead had made yet another empty promise to try harder.  He handed his phone to her.  “That’s Lucy,” he said.  

Her brows gathered almost imperceptibly as she enlarged the picture. “Is this in Whitby?”

“Yes,” he replied, surprised.  “Do you know it?”

She nodded. “A school chum had a summer place in Yorkshire.  So charming. Are these your nephews?”  He nodded again.  Robin continued to swipe. She paused on a few pictures until she froze.  A startled “oh” escaped her lips.

“What?” Cormoran went cold.

“I’m sorry, she said.  She extended the phone. I…Isn’t that Charlotte Campbell? I’m so sorry, I just…wasn’t expecting to see-”

His hand shot out and took the phone.  Sure enough, there was a picture of Charlotte-fully clothed, thank God-that must have made it through a particularly drunken evening of deleted pictures, some light drywall damage and ended in a hangover so bad he’d sworn off for two months. It was a beautiful picture of a beautiful day-warm sun, the smell of the roses, the feel of her hand on his arm. They’d been at Sissinghurst Castle, roaming through the gardens on the first sunny day in weeks. Charlotte had spied an old climbing rose trailing from a wrought iron trellis and had pulled him over to it.  He’d taken the picture as she’d buried her nose in the huge white rose and inhaled. Her skin shone, her eyes closed against the sun. Later that night she’d thrown a glass ashtray at his head and it had shattered a stack of dishes right behind him.

“She’s an old friend,” he said.

“I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to-” 

“Of course you didn’t. Don’t give it another thought.” He put the phone back in his coat pocket and she stood.  She’d seen everything she needed to see anyway. 

“I have some ideas.  Wait here.” A few minutes later she returned, carrying three different bags. Cormoran tried not to stare as she walked towards him. God, she was beautiful.  No, not beautiful, he corrected himself.  Pretty.  Charlotte had been beautiful-dark and dramatic moonlight.  Robin was a summer morning.  As she neared, he saw that blush reappear on her cheeks, and he looked away quickly.  If she could sense what he was thinking she’d be well within her rights to call the authorities.

Robin could indeed sense what he was thinking and the answering flutter in her stomach made her feel more alive than she’d felt in years.  This man was hardly the first to send a look her way, but he was the first that made her consider sending one back.  He was so different from Mathew-rough where Matthew was slick, weighty where Matthew was slight, rumpled where Matthew was smooth.  Her eyes flicked to his hands resting on the chair-large hands, warm and worn.  Hands that knew how to work. “Here we go,” she said and set the bags down on the only clear shelf in the alcove. She flipped a switch and three spotlights illuminated the three bags.  On the left was a dark brown crossbody bag with brass hardware.  In the middle was a fawn brown leather quilted tote.  To the right was a jet black bag with glinting gold accents. He stood and surveyed each of them with something approaching awe.

“You’re a witch,” he said flatly, earning a laugh. “No, I mean it. She would love any one of these.” They stood shoulder to shoulder, studying the shelf until she realized he wasn’t studying it at all. He was studying her. Robin felt his gaze and snapped her head back .  “I want her to look at it and think about that time she saw something in a little shop somewhere.  Something she loved but didn’t buy and all these years later, she still really wishes she had. Something special. A treat.” 

He gestured to the middle bag.  “She’d use that one the most.”

Robin nodded.  “She’ll love it.”

They both took a step towards the shelf and stopped just before they ran into each other.  With an awkward laugh, Cormoran stepped back and gestured for Robin to go ahead. Instead, she paused for a moment, tapping her lips with her index finger.  Cormoran watched her, hoping she’d keep thinking for a while. “Hang on,” she said, and stepped out of the alcove.  “I’ll be right back.”

Cormoran felt a pang of longing as she walked away. Leave it, he told himself.  She was part of a world he’d left behind and done so gladly.  He didn’t need to return to country estates and small talk.  He had his tiny office and attic room and that was all he needed.  He’d almost convinced himself when she returned, running a large silk scarf through her hands.  She folded it into a long tube and tied it in a simple knot around one of the handles. She rested her finger on her chin and turned to Strike. Pointing to the scarf she said, “I’ll give you that for being brave enough to come in.” She waved away his protests. “Now I'll show you how much of a witch I am,” she gave a sly smile.  “I’ll tell you exactly what will happen when she sees this gift.”

He raised his brows. “Fortune telling, are you?”

“My coven prefers ‘prophecy,’ but you couldn’t know that.” She ran her hand down the tail of the scarf. “The first thing she will do-well, the first thing she’ll probably do is cry, but the next thing she’ll do is to take this scarf off the bag.  Don’t be alarmed.  It doesn’t mean she doesn’t like it.  She’ll love it, but you will never see this scarf again.” 

“No?” Cormoran was starting to remember why he hated shopping.  At least a £50 note couldn’t be misinterpreted. 

She ran her hand over it again. “A silk scarf is a frenemy.  Every woman has at least one that she will never wear but can never bear to part with.  Lucy-it is Lucy, right?- will take it off the bag and hang it somewhere- over the back of a chair, over a lampshade if she was around for the 70s.  Somewhere it won’t be ruined and she can see it every day.”

“And that’s your prophecy?”

“It is.”

Cormoran had lost his appetite for whimsy by the time he was twelve, when his mother’s assurances that the kibbutz she was dragging him and Lucy to was “like a magical fairy land” where they could “get back to nature.” As it turned out, what these particular magical fairies were after was about eight months of unpaid labor in a soybean field, and thus was born Cormoran’s lifelong contempt for magic and fairies. And nature, come to that.  But she could have been stirring an actual cauldron and he wouldn’t have batted an eye.

“Only time will tell, I suppose.” 

She smiled and took the bag up to the register. Cormoran congratulated himself on only watching her walk away for a few steps before averting his eyes. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. He reached for his phone and brought up Charlotte’s photo again.  He gazed at her face, so beautiful in the sunshine, calm as the summer day on which it was taken. Before he could stop himself, he tapped the picture with his thumb and deleted it. He considered pouring himself another Laphroig, but decided it wasn’t worth looking like he was sneaking drinks when Robin returned. He should probably slow down on the whiskey anyway. He heard Pat’s voice in his head, “You’re going to have to feel some feelings at some point.  All appearances to the contrary, you’re not a slab of granite.” He rubbed his hand across his face, suddenly exhausted. Should he just move somewhere?  America maybe?  Change his name and start again? Surely there was somewhere in the  Midwest that had never heard of Johnny Rokeby or his estranged son. He was trying to remember the names of American cities in the Midwest when the clicking of her heels grew louder. Then she stood in front of him, extending a beautiful gift bag to him and all thoughts of an anonymous life in the Dakotas went up in smoke.   

The first time he’d ever seen Charlotte he’d known immediately that no matter how many other women he met in his life, Charlotte would always be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.  In fact, during the drunkest, angriest hours of the nights following their many breakups, it had been the thing he hated most-the knowledge that she would always have that piece of him.  Sitting in this overstuffed chair in this ludicrous boutique, he realized he’d been wrong.  Robin was the physical antithesis of Charlotte but she was every bit as beautiful.   

He stood and took a breath. Within twenty minutes of meeting Robin, he’d found a perfect Christmas gift for Lucy, deleted a final picture of Charlotte and untethered himself from one of the most depressing shackles of his toxic relationship.  He felt a fizzing sensation run through him, a sensation he barely recognized as…hope?  Optimism? He reached for the bag and felt his leg shift, causing him to shuffle in place.  Her hand came up from her side but he had steadied himself before she’d had to do it for him.  She glanced down at his feet and back up at him, and just like that, he felt the fizz go flat. He took the bag and gave her a tired smile. The young, reckless man who had approached Charlotte in that smoky bar all those years ago was sadder and wiser. He now had a solid answer to “what’s the worst that could happen?” and he didn’t need to run that experiment again. Best to keep the memory of today and not ruin it with inevitable disappointment and recriminations. “You’ve been a great help,” was the best he could manage. “Thank you.”

Robin gave him her brightest smile.  She kept telling herself that he was just another customer and this was just another transaction.  It was time to wish him Happy Christmas and send him on his way.  You will never see him again, she told herself sternly, though she didn’t know if she wanted to stop herself from making a move or to free herself to do it. 

“Happy Christmas,”  she said, with finality.

“You too.”  He inhaled deeply as he eased past her, hoping at least he might be able to find her scent again one day.  He kept his eyes on the floor, knowing that if he looked at her he wasn’t responsible for what he did next.  Just keep walking, he told himself.  Keep walking and don’t turn around. Like Lot’s wife.

“Wait, Cormoran?” she called after him. Her use of his given name-correctly pronounced, to his astonishment-stopped him in his tracks. He turned and she was walking toward him.  Good God-was she going to do it?  Was she going to be the brave one?  God bless her-he would owe her forever if she would just-

She looked up at him and held his credit card up between her fingers. “Don’t forget your card,” she said. 

His chin dropped momentarily to his chest and he reached up to pluck the card from her hand. There was a window closing, he could feel it, a window that would close and never open again and that was fine-did he need to jump through every window he saw? But he leaned toward her as he removed his wallet from his pocket, and as he did he smelled her hair again.  “Thanks,” he said, “Listen would you perhaps want to-”

“Let me know what happens with the-” she said over him, and then, “Oh, sorry, were you going to say?”

“No, nothing-yeah.  Of course. I’ll let you know.”

“Right,” she said, both of them laughing a bit breathily now. 

He slid his wallet back into his pocket. “I’ll be in Cornwall until the New Year.  Would it be all right if I came by when I got back into town?”

She beamed, “I’ll be here.” 

His smile spread across his face and crinkled around his eyes. “All right.  I’ll see you then,” he said, and walked out into the London rain.  

TWO WEEKS LATER

Robin gazed out the leaded panes of the boutique to the snow blanketed cobblestones outside. Her eyes roamed the familiar scene, but she saw almost none of it.  Instead, she was standing on a frost-covered shore, watching a battered but sturdy ship return home. A brawny figure emerged from the cabin, silhouetted by a red dawn, hair damp and sweater beaded with salt spray. The man’s eyes were the same blue as the frigid ocean, uncoiling ropes onto the deck, then standing to search the shore until he found her, a huge smile splitting his rugged face, a smile that promised that he would warm her as she warmed him, that he would show her how much he’d missed her, that she’d forget her endless nights of longing in a single night with him. Her forehead pressed against the cold glass and she snapped back to the present. Stop it, she chided herself, brushing absently at the cold condensation on her forehead.  Be real. She’d never see Cormoran again, which was fine.  Better, really.  Men had rarely made her life an easier place to be.  In fact, had they ever?  Violence and betrayal.  That was the currency of men. Dodged a bullet, truth be told. She turned away from the window and walked back to the table display. She had put away the holiday decor and was putting the finishing touches on the new displays.  It was turning out rather well, if she did say so herself, but she was still unsatisfied. Did it need more?  Less?  The bell above the door rang and she fixed her smile in place. Putting the flower stems down she turned and said, “Welcome to-” 

She froze.

He was even taller than she remembered, snow melting on his peacoat and in his hair. His eyes were just as blue, though, and that huge smile just as endearing.  He ran his hand over his hair, getting most of the snow off it and mussing it in the process.  Her look of shock melted into a smile.  Why was it that the more rumpled he got the better she liked it? She wanted to slide her arms inside that coat and press herself to him, feel his arms close around her, his chin on her head. 

“Hello,”  his deep voice rumbled through her. “God, it’s a mess out there.” He started to unbutton his coat, revealing a roll neck sweater underneath it.  Well, that’s just not fair at all, thought Robin. He hadn’t actually been on a schooner, had he?

“You’re back,” she said, surprised at how calm she sounded. 

He stopped unbuttoning for a moment. “I said I would be,” he said and she almost reached out for his coat before she remembered she was at work. He looked around the almost empty shop.  “Is this a good time?”

“Of course.” She stepped toward him then immediately back tracked.  “Come in away from the door. Let’s-” she gestured to the seating area at the back of the shop.  “Care to sit?”

“I would, yeah.” He followed her, letting his eyes look their fill.  She was wearing a cream colored sweater that matched her skin and made her hair look redder than he remembered.  He hung his coat up on a hook and tried not to rush to the chair. These icy sidewalks were hell on his bloody knee and he sank into the chair gratefully.

“Tea?” she asked.

“God yes,” he said.

She laughed and soon returned with two steaming mugs. She handed him one and sat across from him, sipping from the other. He wrapped his hands around the mug for a moment then took a sip. 

“God that’s good.  Thank you.” He set the mug down and looked at her. She was blowing on her tea to cool it.  Get a hold of yourself, he thought. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you,” she replied through the steam from her mug. 

“Before we get to the main attraction,” he ran his hands down his torso, “How was your Christmas?”

Sad.  Lonely. Boring. Inevitable.  “Lovely.  Went over to the neighbors.  They always have a big to-do.” She waved at him to hurry up.  “But enough about me…”

“All right, all right.” He leveled his gaze at her. “She loved it.”

Robin’s face lit up and she immediately tried to cover it up with false bravado.  “Well, of course she did.  I never doubted it for a second.”

“I believe it was no less than a prophecy, if memory serves.”

“Memory does indeed serve. One for one.  And the scarf?”

“I shudder to even tell you, but…immediately came off the bag.  Folded up and went somewhere.  I still don’t know where.” 

Her eyebrows shot up. “Really?  My goodness.  Who could have seen that coming?  Oh, wait-”

“All right,” he held up his palm. “Two for two.  I’ll even let you crow a little longer because you also predicted something else that I absolutely did not see coming.  You said the first thing she would do was cry.  Well, it wasn’t the first thing she did, but she did get a bit teary.”

Robin’s mouth formed a perfect O before she stuck out her lower lip.  “Oh God, really?”

“She did.”

“I may have said it but I don’t think I really believed it,” she conceded. “I’m so glad she really loved it.”

“She did.  It was a lovely Christmas. ” Cormoran said. He wouldn’t say there was no tension whatsoever-Lucy’s middle kid was a little shit and no doubt-but it had been one of the best he could recall. “And you were three for three on your predictions. Can I take you to dinner to say congratulations?” 

Robin had never felt more like the dog who caught the car. She opened her mouth to give the perfect reply but nothing came out.  All she could do was smile and reach her hand out for his phone. He took it out of his pocket but held it up in the air instead of handing it over.  

"There's two things I want to tell you now, before anything else…you know,” he trailed off and she sat up a bit. He cleared his throat, “First, I’m a private detective.  That means I keep strange hours.  Stakeouts, travel.  It’s been an issue in the past so I want you to know.  Secondly, I have a prosthesis.” He kicked out his left leg. “Lost it in the war in Afghanistan.  It hurts sometimes and it makes me cranky.”  

“Also been an issue in the past?” 

“The crankiness?  Absolutely.”

“Noted.” Rather than reaching out for the phone again, she looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.  She was mortified to realize her throat was starting to tighten up and her eyes were starting to prickle.  Oh God please don’t cry, she said to herself.  Oh God please not now. She inhaled deeply, trying to regulate her heartbeat as she calculated her next move.  Because of course there were things he needed to know too.  Things that had been an issue in the past, things that would be an issue for the rest of her life, most likely.  Things she had shared before; with Matthew, with the police, with her parents, with the courts.  And other things that she had never shared with anyone, like the fact that since the attack, she had never had an orgasm during sex. That sex was a flashback trigger.  That Matthew had never known.  That she had, in effect, lied to Matthew every time they’d had sex.  That she didn’t blame him for fucking Sarah, not really.  At least when he was with her there wasn’t a man in a gorilla mask lurking in the bedroom corner.  She mentally shook her head. There was no way she was going to share the unshareable with Cormoran-and probably not ever with anyone, so it wasn't like she was lying to him exactly.  It was her story to tell or not to tell after all.  If she took it to her grave, so be it.

She looked up at him, eyes thankfully dry and unblinking.  Of course she’d suspected about the prosthesis-the difference between his battered left shoe and his pristine right shoe was a dead giveaway.  The detective part was a bit of a surprise-she’d guessed he’d still be affiliated with the military somehow.  She found it interesting that he didn’t include the fact that he was Johnny Rokeby’s son in his list of Things She Should Know, but estranged means estranged, she supposed. Mutely, she stretched out her palm for his phone.  He handed it over, she typed in her number and handed it back to him. The door opened and she glanced to the front of the store.

He pocketed his phone and took a final sip of tea. She stood along with him as he shrugged his coat back on. “I’ve got a case on right now, so my schedule is a little crazy.  I know it’s soon, but how about tomorrow night? I’m waiting for some leads to develop and it's a bit early in the game for anything drastic to happen.”

“That sounds perfect.  The Frightened Fox is just up the road-I can be there at six,” she said. He nodded and her phone pinged. He’d sent her a text-just his name.  She smiled. “No emojis?”

“Which ones are those again?” he asked.

She laughed.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

                                                             THE NEXT NIGHT

  Robin had discovered The Frightened Fox the first night she’d left Matthew.  Tear stained and furious, she’d found an Indian takeaway down a narrow alley and eaten an entire chicken tikka masala in about seven minutes and then decided to get well and truly drunk.  As she’d been hunched over the plastic tub and eating her feelings, she’d been half aware of a rhythmic screeching sound emanating from the street. Dropping her fork into the remnants of her self-pity, she turned her swollen face to the street and identified the culprit as an old wooden pub sign swinging noisily from a rusted wrought iron pole.  Snuffling into her sleeve, she’d eyed the image of a wide-eyed fox leaping crazily into the dark and thought, “You and me both, mate.” She’d stumbled across the alley and through the pub’s thick oak door, finding a seat at the bar and ordering a shot of whiskey. That was the first night she’d met Jimmy, the barman, who’d served her a shot and two pints and then slid her a glass of water when she’d requested a third. It had been her local ever since. For his part, Cormoran had only been there once before, trying to gather information on a roofer whose wife suspected him of having an affair.  He’d grudgingly respected the fact that no one had said a word to him, even though it meant another two days of surveillance.  Tonight, he had arrived early and claimed a table near the hearth, in the hopes that the roaring fire and a pint of Doom Bar would melt his day away.  By the time Robin arrived he was feeling almost human.  

 A few pints helped to calm their nerves and by the time they were finishing up their food, they’d relaxed into an easy conversation. Cormoran’s phone buzzed for the third time that evening and he pointed to Robin as he picked it up. "This is down to you, you know. You've cursed me. Cursed me with a year of goodwill from my sister.” Robin laughed. Rumpled and curmudgeonly.  Perfect.  He grumbled as he typed into his phone, “It’s all ‘how are you’ and ‘hope you’re well’…” He set his phone down. “Your powers of intuition might be a little too good, if I’m being honest.”

She decided to give a bit back. “It’s not that hard, really.  I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but..can’t you read people as well?  You are a detective.  Aren’t details your entire job?”

He winced and nodded. “A painful irony, or so I’ve been told. I use a skill virtually every moment of the day in the workplace that I somehow cannot translate into private life.” he shrugged. “I’m working on it.”

“Are you?” Leaning across the table she said, “Tell you what. Let’s work on it now.  I’ll choose someone and we’ll both take our best shot. We’ll see who can do it better.”

“We’d better hope I can do it better,” he growled.  “If not, the British Army has quite a bit to answer for.”

Robin was already surveying the room. “Oooo, here we go,” her voice dropped as a couple walked past.  “What about this couple?” A young man and slightly older woman in slightly disheveled business clothes were making their way towards the hearth. “Come on.  What do you think, Mr. Private Detective?” 

“These two?” They climbed into a corner nook right next to the fireplace.

“Mmmm,” she was studying them intently, and Cormoran decided to play along.   He glanced up at the mirror hanging above the entrance to the hearth room, a gilded monstrosity that hadn’t been cleaned in years. He squinted through the grime. “Couple, eh?” He looked back at Robin.  “I don’t think so.”

Her eyes darted over his shoulder. “Of course they are,” she said. “Look at the way he’s looking at her. I think they’re married.” 

“Oh, they’re married, all right.  But not to each other. Look at their rings,” he started to point up to the mirror then turned the gesture into scratching his head. “Two different bands.” 

“Hers is an anniversary band,” she countered.

“And a different metal than his.  She’d keep with the same metal even if she got a new ring so she could wear the set. Also, his foot is pressed up against hers, but they’re not holding hands.” He glanced into the mirror again before picking up his beer. “They’re deciding.”

“Deciding what?” she asked automatically, still studying them.

He paused. “You know what.” 

She stopped. Her eyes flew to him then back to the couple. He was right, they were looking at each other like they wanted to meld into a single body but they weren't touching each other at all. Now she saw the flush on the woman’s throat, the jaw muscle tensed in the man’s cheek. Gone was the light hearted banter of their walk up to the nook. He leaned in to whisper into her ear, and then his lips brushed her ear. She whispered something and he brushed her hair over her shoulder, nodding imperceptibly.  She walked out of the bar a touch unsteadily and the man followed her less than a minute later. 

Robin watched all this unfold over Cormoran’s shoulder, while Cormoran watched Robin.  I hope she doesn’t play poker, he thought. She’d lose her shirt.  Robin watched the young man walk past, then turned to meet Strike’s placid gaze with a little shrug.  

“All right,” Robin said.  “I’ll give you that one.”

Cormoran bowed with good grace, and nodded to her pint glass. “Another?”

She nodded and Strike pushed his chair out from the table.  “I’ll get them,” he said, but before he could stand a small, shaven head man was pulling up a chair to their table.  Startled, Robin sat back in her chair. 

 “All right, Bunsen?”  The man's head swiveled between Robin and Cormoran, and Robin wondered if he’d do himself an injury. 

“Fucking hell, Shanker,” Cormoran’s exasperation didn’t dim the man’s frenetic energy in the least. 

Shanker?  She winced inwardly. Primary school must have been hell. Whoever this Shanker was, he certainly wasn’t intimidated by Strike, who could have quite easily put him in his pocket.  

“Oh ho ho-easy there, my son.” He turned to Robin and stuck out his hand. “Hallo darling, how are you?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Robin shook his hand but kept her eyes on Strike, who looked like he would cheerfully throttle this man. 

Shanker was totally unphased. “Come on now, Bunsen, cheer up.”He grabbed a chip from Strike’s plate and popped it in his mouth. “I’ve found him.”

That stopped Strike in his tracks and he sat up in his chair. For the first time, he looked at Robin, half expecting her to see her tapping her fingers on the table in annoyance at this rude interruption. Instead, she looked like she was about to see a magic trick. He shook his head. He didn’t want this night to end yet.  But he had lost Tommy O’Malley once.  He’d be goddamned if he’d lose him again. He turned back to Shanker.

 “You’re sure?”

Shanker nodded. “Oh, I’m sure. But we’re going to need to move.  He won’t be there in an hour.”

Robin couldn’t stop herself any longer. “Wait-who will be where?  And who are you anyway?” 

“Name’s Shanker, darling,” the man extended his hand again, which she dazedly accepted again.  “And you are?”

“Robin,” she replied, but her introduction was drowned out by Cormoran’s, “Nobody.  Nobody is meeting anyone-Shanker, could we talk by the bar?  Let me get you a pint.”

Shanker ignored Strike completely. “Robin, you say?  Lovely.” he turned to Cormoran. “Does she work with you?”

“No, she doesn’t work with me.” Cormoran’s voice was low and cold.

“Ohhhh,” said Shanker, in the manner of one finally understanding the situation. He leaned toward Robin and dropped his voice, “You could do worse, darling.  ‘Course, you could do much better,” he turned to Cormoran. “You sure you can’t hire her right quick?  She could make this a lot easier.”

Robin asked, “What do you mean, I could make it easier?”

Shanker held his hand up to silence Strike’s protests and said, “We’re looking for a bloke.  Nasty piece of work.  We’ve got him in a council flat and we just need him to open the door.  If you could be…a council worker, a social worker, someone who just needs a quick word.”

“You mean something like…” she slid into a perfect east London accent, “Morning, it’s Katie from the council.  Would you mind cracking the door a minute?  I just need to check a few things and I’ll be on my way.” 

Strike and Shanker stared at her.  It wasn't just the pitch perfect accent. She also had the chirpy, officiously friendly manner of a South London social worker. Shanker swung slowly back to Strike, the corners of his mouth pulled down.  “Not bad.”

Strike shook his head, but Robin and Shanker saw that he was not quite as vehement as before. “I-look…” he turned to Shanker. “Where is he?”

“Back in Beckford Estates, the bloody idiot. He’s probably trying to get a bag together so he can get out of town.  Considering how skinny the fucker is, that bag is not going to take long to pack at all. We don’t have much time.”

Cormoran chewed the inside of his lower lip and glanced at Robin.  Oh Lord. The last time he saw eyes like that Lucy was six years old and asking for a puppy.   He shook his head again, but this time he wasn’t even really convincing himself. 

“I can do it,” she said, her voice quiet and calm. 

“I believe you.” he said, surprised to find he really meant it. “ I’m not worried about what you’re capable of,” said Strike. “I’m worried about what he's capable of.  He’s on the run.  He’s desperate.  We don’t know what he has in that flat.”

“Come on, Bunsen,” Shanker said. “If we break down the door, we’ll have the entire estate down on us. Let her try to get us in quietly.” 

Strike ran a hand over his face.

He was close to caving.  She could feel it. “I can get him to open the door.  And then I’ll run away.” She was almost pleading but she didn’t care.  Whatever this was, she knew she had to do it.  

“She’ll run away, Bunsen,” Shanker echoed.  She could have kissed him. They shot each other a sidelong glance while Cormoran ran his hands through his hair. They waited for an interminable five seconds before he raised his head. 

“You can’t wear that,” he said. Her cashmere sweater was from the boutique and it showed.

 “Shanker will loan me his jumper and anorak, right? ” Shanker nodded, the maniacal grin back in place. She reached into her bag for an elastic and started scraping her hair up into a ponytail. Strike pulled out his wallet and threw some bills on the table. The three of them stood and looked at each other.

“This is a terrible idea,” Cormoran said.

“Undoubtedly,” agreed Shanker. 

“I can’t wait,” grinned Robin.

Twenty minutes later, Strike and Robin were standing in front of the Beckford House estate.  Robin clutched the clipboard that Shanker had handed her on the drive over. “Better than a skeleton key,” he’d said. “Nobody stops someone with a clipboard.”  The entrance to the block of industrial flats was cold, chipped concrete and the buzzer panel looked like a tetanus shot waiting to happen, but Shanker had assured them the buzzer to 317 was working. Strike pulled his collar up against the cold and nodded to Robin. 

“You’re up. You ready?” His wide shoulders protected her from the worst of the frigid gusts, but she still had to wipe her eyes from the cold.

She nodded, adrenaline humming through her veins.  She could see he was nervous. He had every right to be.  He had no idea who she was or what she was capable of. She smiled to herself. I guess we’ll find out together..  

“Stay calm. Be natural. You’ll do great.” He reached out and tugged the collar of her anorak.

She nodded again. Should she tell him to take his own advice?  Best not.  He seemed tense enough as is.

“All right. Like we practiced in the car.  His name’s Tommy, you need to talk face to face.”

She nodded again. His anxiety was so endearing, like a parent seeing their kid off to school for the first day.  She kind of wanted to hug him.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” 

She smiled and pointed past him to the buzzer.  He looked over his shoulder and realized he was standing in her way.  He stepped to the side and she exhaled, shaking out her shoulders. She walked to the panel and rested her thumb on the intercom buzzer. Tossing her ponytail over her shoulders, she looked over her shoulder to Cormoran.

“Timmy, you said?” she asked and pressed the buzzer.

“Tommy!” he hissed as a static encrusted “Yeah,” grumbled through the intercom.

She laughed and pressed the button “Hiya, Tommy “ she chirped. “It’s Katie from the council. How are you, love?” She released the button, turned and winked at Strike.  He stood speechless. 

The raspy voice said, “All right.  What’s this about?”

Robin replied, “Nothing to worry about, love. Just wanted a quick word.”

Silence.

Robin’s chin dropped to her chest and she waited.  The seconds stretched out long enough that Cormoran started to shake his head. Without looking up, she raised her hand and he stilled. She pressed the button again. “I don’t need to come in or anything, Tommy.  It’s just easier to talk face-to-face, yeah?” 

Cormoran stood staring at the back of her head, his panic rising. Tommy was never going to open his door to her. This was insane.  What was he doing? He had to get her out of there and he had to do it now.  He opened his mouth to tell her they were leaving when she turned to face him and raised her index finger. Her other finger pressed the button and her tone grew a shade sterner. “I need to see you today, Tommy, and I’d rather we meet properly so I don’t have to keep coming back,” Cormoran winced at her. “Too much,” he mouthed. She shook her head reassuringly and pressed the button again. “I can stand here all afternoon but I’d really rather not.”

Strike stood frozen in the silence, staring at her.  She removed her thumb from the button and gave him a slow smile.  Cormoran watched as she slowly reached out for the doorknob.  Just as her hand closed around the frigid metal, the door buzzer sounded. She broke into a huge grin and pulled the door open.

“They always listen to Nanny,” she said, and walked into the lobby.  Strike could only stare as the door started to swing shut.  He jolted forward to catch it before it closed again and followed her through the lobby. Of course the elevator was out of order. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“Should I just go ahead?” She felt like she could take the stairs three at a time.

He shook his head.  “You stay here. He might have already unlocked the door.” She listened to his uneven gait as he disappeared up the stairs. 

She stood in the lobby, nails clicking on the back to the clipboard. This was more adrenaline than she could ever remember feeling.  Every part of her was vibrating.  Did this explain Shanker’s energy?  She felt like an overcaffeinated chipmunk.  She hoped desperately that Tommy hadn’t unlocked his door. She didn’t want this to be over. She heard Strike hissing her name and looked up the center of the stairwell.  

“Door’s still locked.” he waved her up. “Come on up.”

Robin jogged up the stairs and met him on the third floor landing. The stairs led to a single open air hallway.  Tommy’s flat would be about halfway down.  Strike leaned past her to check that no one was there and nodded to her. 

“Still ok?” he asked.

“Never better,” she said and she actually meant it. “You ready?”

“I’m right behind you.” She nodded and they started walking. She heard his steps slow behind her, and then she stood in front of 317, clipboard clutched to her chest.  She gave him a last look, nodded at his thumbs up and knocked on the door.

“Hiya Tommy, it’s Katie.  Thanks for the buzz up, love.  Let’s not shout through the door at each other, all right? I’ve just got a few questions and then I can sign the cheque right over to you.”

Cormoran heard a muffled response then Robin saying, “Well it’s your name and this address. Did you complete a survey regarding council services a few months ago?” 

Another muffled reply , this time with the sound of the chain. Robin gestured to Strike and stepped away from the door. Strike strode to where she had just been standing and pointed down the hallway. “Run,” he mouthed and Robin nodded, jogging down the hallway.  The door swung open to reveal  a scrawny young man in a baggy tee shirt and jeans.

“Hello, Tommy,” Cormoran said.  “Remember me?”

Tommy certainly did remember Cormoran, as Cormoran had been the one to beat him bloody after finding him with Fergus Morrisey’s little sister.  He also remembered that while he couldn’t outfight the old fucker, he surely could outrun him. 

“Don’t know you, mate,” he drawled before shoving both his hands into Strike’s chest and darting back into the flat. Swearing loudly, Cormoran pushed himself back up off the brick wall of the hallway and barged back through the door. Tommy wove through the cheap furniture with the agility of a border collie, finally making it all the way back to the kitchen. Cormoran lumbered in behind him, practically hurling the kitchen table across the room just in time to see Tommy’s emaciated body shimmying through a gap in the wall. The last thing Cormoran saw was the middle finger of Tommy’s left hand as he disappeared into his neighbor’s apartment. Cormoran roared and turned to run back up to the front of the flat, stumbling out the front door just in time to see Tommy run full tilt into the back of the clipboard that Robin had just swung into his face.  Tommy dropped like a stone and Robin stood up, chest heaving. She leaned a shoulder against the wall, grinned at Cormoran and gave him a thumbs up. 

Cormoran looked quickly over her shoulder.  The hallway was still empty but he needed to act fast.  He strode over to her and reached out his hand, “Give me the clipboard.” 

Still breathing heavily, she handed it over to him. 

“Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?” Robin looked at Tommy’s prone body and then back to Strike. 

“Go downstairs and get Shanker. Quickly, ok?” Strike kept scanning the hallway, and Robin nodded. She ran down the stairs, returning with Shanker in a matter of minutes. They pushed open the door to Tommy’s flat and for a moment the three of them just stood panting and staring  down at Tommy’s prone body. Then Shanker kicked the bottom of Tommy’s shoe and Tommy moaned. “Ah, Tommy,” Shanker said, with mock sympathy.  He squatted down next to his head and slapped Tommy’s cheek. “There’s some people looking for you, Tommy.  Friends of yours.  Well, I guess we can say ex-friends now, can’t we?” he glanced up at Robin, then to Strike. “How’s your nose, Tommy?  It looks to be spread about three foot wide across your face, mate,” he stood and turned to Cormoran. “Did she just tell me she knocked him out with that?” he nodded to the clipboard.

“No, I think you misheard her,” Strike said. “That was me. She was all the way back in the stairwell.  Nowhere near it.”

Robin stared at Strike, who did not meet her gaze. Shanker nodded, grinning. “That’s what I thought she said,” he turned to Robin. “Well done, you. This one,” he gestured to the figure in front of them, “has a few things to answer for.”

Robin nodded, eyes still trained on Strike. 

“Off you go, you two,” Shanker said.  “I’ll take it from here.”

Cormoran was in no mood to argue.  Robin gave Shanker back his anorak and jumper and she and Cormoran headed back down to the street. She said, “We’re getting a cab,” and he nodded. He waved a cab to a stop and they clambered into the backseat. Robin gave the driver her address and they pulled into traffic as Cormoran and Robin slumped back into their seats.  They breathed heavily into the faint sound of Sting singing An Englishman in New York and waited for their hearts to calm.

“So…gelato?” asked Cormoran and Robin started to laugh.  She tried to control it, she really did, but once she started she just couldn’t stop.  Cormoran started to laugh as well, and by the time they quieted, the driver was looking at them in the mirror, smiling along curiously. 

Robin wiped her eyes. “What does it say that that was the most fun I’ve had in…ever?  Maybe?”

Cormoran shook his head, still grinning,  “Oh, dear. There may be no hope for you.”

She sat up and faced him, about to say something then noticing a bruise on the side of his forehead for the first time.  She reached out to touch it and tsked.  Cormoran sat still, savoring the feel of her fingertips. 

“Let’s get that taken care of,” she murmured.

He shook his head and regretfully moved her hand. “No, it’s fine,” he said.  “I don’t need a doctor.”

She scoffed, “For a little bump like that?  Of course not. I’ve got gin at my house.” She settled back into the backseat.  “That should fix you right up.”

“Yes, doctor,” he said gratefully, and dropped his head back against the headrest.

Robin’s accent may have been pure London socialite, but her apartment wasn’t.  She’s really taking her slumming seriously, thought Cormoran, as she led him to a tiny door between a Vodafone store and an internet cafe.  She opened it and his heart sank to see a flight of narrow stairs leading to two doors. He was determined to stay close behind her and they reached the landing at almost the same time. She unlocked the door and turned the lights on, revealing a small studio apartment with a kitchenette and folding table and chairs. The furniture was cheap and sparse, but she could have taken him to a refrigerator box under the train tracks and he would have been thrilled.  Now he sat facing her across her small round kitchen table, cold gin in his hand and an ice cube in a towel pressed to his head. 

“I think you’ll live,” she put the gin bottle back in the freezer and sat down.

“But I’ll never be the same,” he said.

Her brow lifted. “Come on, that’s hardly-”

“No, I mean-” He shook his head, “I won’t lie, I thought involving you in this was the craziest-I was going to kill Shanker and I still bloody well might.  But you,” he looked at her, “you were perfect.  Perfect.  You pushed just enough but not too much, you even knew where to be when he bolted.  I’m not saying it will ever happen again-ever, Robin. I mean it.  But I have to admit, you’re a natural.  I never could have done it so well.”

His easy praise made her want to stretch and purr.  She pulled the ponytail out of her hair and scratched her nails across her scalp, trying to decide if she should ask what she was wondering. Finally, she asked. “Who was looking for Tommy?  What…what did he do?”

Cormoran sighed. All his anxiety about where his relationship with Robin could go may be about to become a dead letter issue.  He could claim confidentiality and refuse to tell her, but he knew the moment he involved her in Tommy’s apprehension, he forfeited that right. He rested the ice on the table and said, “I was hired to find a runaway.  She was with Tommy when I found her.  It…wasn’t a great situation. When she told her family what had happened, they wanted to kill him.   I think I was able to talk them out of it, but I had to find him before they did and give them one hour alone with him. Then they’d let him go to the police. Shanker is there to make sure he makes it there.”

“What are they going to do to him?”

“Nothing he doesn’t deserve, as far as I can tell.” Cormoran asked, then locked eyes with her.  “Is that a problem for you?”

Robin pushed her glass across the table and stood up.  She walked around the table and stood in front of Strike. She looked down into his blue eyes, put her hands on his cheeks and gave him a sweet, simple kiss. 

When she straightened up again,  he was looking at her so carefully that her heart broke a little.  There was a story to tell, a terrible story that would change everything forever and could never be untold.  But standing in front of this pillar of a man, his hand both rough and gentle on her legs, she knew that all she had to do was tell him what she needed, and he wouldn’t really care why.  She ran her hand over his cheek.  “We have to…we have to go slow.  Is that ok?”

Strike nodded, his eyes searching her face. “I’m no Mario Andretti myself,” he glanced down at his leg. “So yeah,” he said.  “That’s ok.” 

“It’s just that I get…nervous.  Sometimes I need to slow down and sometimes I need to stop.” 

He nodded. “We’ll go slow.  And you can tell me to stop whenever you want.” She bent again and kissed him again.  His pulse jumped. “Do you want to try it?”

“What?” her confusion made him smile.

“Do you want to tell me to stop?” 

Surprised, she pulled back to see his gentle smile. She shook her head and reached out her hand. “Come on.” She led him back to her bedroom. 

Robin’s bed was a simple, queen sized affair with a reasonable number of pillows, Cormoran was relieved to see.  Too much rigamarole played havoc with a prosthetic leg. She was nervous.  So was he, come to that.  He’d had no shortage of women since Charlotte, though none of them had become the obsession Charlotte had.  That role was reserved for his work.  Until Robin, the women he’d been involved with ranged in category from harmless distraction to humiliating lapse in judgement, and though the breakups were as messy as they’d ever been (he kept promising himself he’d get better about it but he never had) his life had barely been disrupted by the changing of the guard.  Robin was different.  She was smart, insightful, independent, beautiful, tough.  She was warm and companionable but held part of herself back, a characteristic he recognized immediately.  They stood at the foot of her bed, her legs backed up to the mattress. He ran his hand down her arm and took her hand.

 “I’m nervous as well,” he admitted.

“Do you want to stop?” 

That made him laugh, really laugh. “No,” he said eventually.  “Robin.  I do not want to stop.” He ran his hands over her hair. “There are other things I want to do.  Shall I tell you what they are?” 

Her smile vanished and she became very still. Eyes wide, she nodded solemnly.

“I want to kiss you.” His hand brushed the side of her neck.  “Here.”

She was vibrating like a bow string.

His hand moved gently.  “Is that all right?”

She nodded. 

“I’ll start here, all right?”  He kissed the soft skin under her ear. “You’re so soft,” he smiled into her ear and her chin dropped. She could hear his breath get heavier as he nipped at her earlobe. “I want to kiss you here,” his hand slid down to cup her through her tee shirt. She nodded and his hand moved across her.  “I want to kiss you here as well,” his hands coasted down her hips and she felt her cheeks flush. “And I want to kiss you here,” his hand slid down the zipper of her jeans, until the heel of his hand pressed into her clit.  Her head snapped up and he smiled down at her. “You like that, do you?”

She nodded jerkily, trying to keep her breath steady.

“Mmmm. I can tell.” He moved his hand back and forth slowly. “Do you want me to kiss you here?” She nodded. He whispered into her ear as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear, “On your pussy?”

Her mouth opened but she couldn’t speak. She nodded again.

His chuckle reverberated down her spine. “Can you say it?  Say it.” He pushed into her pussy and she choked down a moan, staring at him now with wide eyes. Her mouth moved but no sound came out. “Come on, Robin.  Tell me.  Tell me you want it.”

Her hands couldn’t seem to find somewhere to land. She grabbed onto the front of her shirt and stared at him. He kissed her, and this time there was nothing sweet about it.  His kiss unlocked her, and she felt the tension melt out of her body.  He turned her around so he was sitting on the bed and she was standing. 

“This comes off now,” he breathed, tugging at her tee shirt.  She was wearing a sweet white lace bra under it, something he bet was a little fancier than the ones she usually wore.  She unhooked it and he stared at her small, perfect breasts.  “Please,” he said. “Can I-” she leaned forward, and his mouth was on her nipple.  He sucked gently, looking up at her.  He ran the flat of his tongue over the tight pink buds. 

“Like this?” he asked, and she nodded.  

“Not too hard,”  she said, and her head fell back as he covered her in kisses. She fumbled at his shirt but he stopped her. “Not yet, ok? I want…can I take these off?” he pulled at her waistband. She unzipped her jeans, stepping out of them and back into his arms. She started to pull her panties off but he stopped her. “Wait.  I want to look.  I want to look at you.” He ran his fingertips over her torso. “God you are so beautiful.” he leaned forward and kissed her above her hip, running slow kisses right above her panties. His fingertips ran down her thighs and over her pussy in long smooth strokes.  She threaded her fingers through his hair and he wrapped his arms around her, turning her and laying her back onto the bed.  He stood up and looked down at her. She felt her excitement building so fast she started panting, gasping in anticipation of what was about to happen.  She did her best to swallow her moans, but she couldn’t control herself.  She didn’t want him to be embarrassed for her the way that Matthew had been.  But Strike didn’t seem put off by her noises at all.  He seemed to like it.  He stood over her, drinking in her moans and gasps. trailing his fingertips over her thighs and belly until finally he leaned over her and murmured,“Fuck, I can’t wait to hear you come.”

Her head whipped from side to side on the bed.  She was gulping for air now, and every breath was getting louder. Her arms stretched out to her sides. Cormoran knelt at the end of the bed and dragged his hand over her panties. “I want to take these off,” he said. She lifted her hips and he dragged them down her thighs. He wrapped his arms around her legs, pulling her down toward him. 

“What do you think I’m going to do now?” he asked.  

“You-you’re going to-” a spasm racked her and she moaned long and loud.

“I’m going to kiss you here,” he said, his fingers tracing over her pussy.  “Would you like that? I want to taste you.”

He was rewarded with a exhaled “fuck” that made his cock throb.  

“That’s my girl," he said and licked her with the flat of his tongue. Robin reached for the top of Cormoran’s head. Her fingers threaded through his curls, unable to suppress the noises that Matthew had assured her were “put on”  and “a bit silly, really.”  The way Cormoran was kissing her pussy-really kissing it, as if it were her mouth, as if he was sucking a ripe peach-she knew she could hold it in. The spasms that racked her were so intense they brought her shoulders off the bed. 

Cormoran laughed in between kisses.  “You like that, baby?” She moaned her assent. “Tell me.  Tell me you like it.”

“It feels so good, I can’t-I can’t-”

Cormoran’s fingers played over her swollen clit. “Yes, you can.”

“I can’t,” another wave of pleasure tore a cry from her.“It’s too much-it’s too fast-” 

“You can take it,” He closed his lips around her clit and sucked, long, deep pulls that dragged her further and further down into this whirlpool, his deep voice and big hands and warm tongue making it impossible to think about anything but what he was doing to her.  It was just Cormoran, his blue eyes and rough hands, asking her if she liked it, telling her how good she felt, how hot and wet, how sweet. 

He was lost in her. He wanted to feel her come on his face, on his tongue, in his mouth. Nothing could pull him away, nothing could stop him from pulling her orgasm from her. Nothing except-

“Don’t,” she was saying, pulling on his hair.  He raised his head, gasping. 

“Don’t?” he asked. “”Don’t what?”

“I’m going to- “she was heaving now, almost hyperventilating. “I think I’m going to-” she was getting louder now. “I’m going to scream, please don’t-”

“Don’t make you scream?” he asked. “Oh, darling, I don’t think you know what you’re asking of me.”

“They’ll hear-they’ll hear me-downstairs…”

He kissed her clit again. “Let them. Fuck, let them, Robin. No no no,” he admonished as she tried to cover her mouth with her hands.“Don’t be quiet,” he said.  “Let me hear you.  Let it out, Robin.  Let it out.”  She shook her head furiously and bit her lips closed, even as her hands were reaching for his hips. Her face was twisted in the most beautiful agony. He wanted nothing more than to hear her come apart. 

“I want to fuck you.  Do you want that?  Are you ready for me?”

She nodded furiously. 

“What do you want?” his voice was next to her ear now as he pushed the head of his cock against her clit, drawing another stifled groan from her. “Do you want me to go slow?  Nice and slow?” 

“No,” she snapped back and he laughed. 

“No?” he asked. “Fuck you’re so warm,” he reached down and pushed himself inside her. Her hands flew to cover her face again now, as he started fucking her, deep and hard. Her cries became an incoherent mix of please and yes and now and fuck and please oh fuck please God now. He fucked her deep, grinding his hips into hers. Her wide eyes were blind now, and her hands groped over him, a drowning woman searching for anything to cling to. Her gasps came louder and faster as her climax roared towards her like a freight train. He crooned, “Hold on baby. Don’t come yet.  You wait for me. Can you do that?”

Her “no,” came back as a wail.

He couldn’t stop a breathy chuckle.  “Yes you can, baby.  You can do it,” He was exploring her with his cock, switching angles and pace, watching her every moment to see what she responded to.  “You have to give me time.  You have to give me time to fuck you.” His voice broke, “You feel so good, Robin.  Fuck, you feel so good.” His chin dropped to his chest and let out a groan that nearly pushed her over the edge. 

“I can’t-I can’t stop- I can't stop it,” her orgasm was building and there was nothing she could do.   Her eyes flew around the room, unable to focus herself on any one thing that would keep her head above water once this tsunami consumed her. Cormoran was losing control now as well, his moans and grunts distorting his words. “Let it go, Robin.  Let me hear you.  Let it out.  Give it to me.”

Her orgasm hit and she filled her lungs, releasing a wail that in turn filled her flat, the stairs, the very sky itself.  It went on and on, as wave after wave hit her. He kept fucking her through it, holding on for dear life until his cries joined hers, desperate in their need. The waves took them both for long minutes, eventually fading to ripples. Their cries became moans, then gasps, then panting.  He fell beside her, trying to catch his breath. For a few minutes all they could do was lie there and breathe. Finally he became aware of her giggling. He turned to see her hiding her face in her hands.

“What?” he asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

“I’ll never be able to use the internet cafe again,” she said.

Strike waved his hand, chuckling. “They all have earbuds in.  And if anyone says anything, just tell them it was me.  It probably was me.”  

They looked at each other, grinning like fools, then looked back to the ceiling. A million thoughts were running through Strike’s mind-that was incredible, you are incredible, why are you affecting me like this, my God I hope I’m not heading into another obsession, please don’t be another Charlotte please just let this be a thing I don’t fuck up please just let me be right about her.

She kept looking at the ceiling and said,  “I have to tell you something.”

Fuck. 

They turned on their sides to face each other. Cormoran did his best to steel himself.  She’s married?  She’s on parole?  She’s contagious? She took a deep breath, looked him dead in the eye and said, “I’m from Yorkshire.” 

Wait…what? His brows came together as he tried to process what she’d said. It took him a moment to recognize that her accent had changed. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.  Into the space, she said, “I got the interview at Hartwell and Wren from a friend and she said they’d probably hire me if they thought I was, you know…” she waved her hand, “a posh shopgirl, so I put the accent on for the interview.   I got the job and now I’m stuck.”

He couldn’t stop blinking.

“But this is how I really talk,” her broad Yorkshire accent filled the room. It was the most beautiful thing Cormoran had ever heard. He propped himself up on his elbow and grinned down into her worried face. Then his brow furrowed again.

“Is your name really Robin?” he asked.

She looked mortified. “Oh God, yes.  Of course. I mean, I don’t have a false ID or anything.  It’s just the accent. Everything else is true. Well, except for Christmas at the neighbors.  I stayed in with a takeaway and did a puzzle.”

He burst out laughing.  He wiped his hand down his face then waved a finger at her. “I thought you were lying then.  People only do that on sitcoms.”

She grabbed at his wagging finger. “No you didn’t. You had no idea.”

“And nobody’s ever caught you out?”

She gave a casual shrug, “Not yet.”

“That’s pretty impressive.  How long have you been undercover?”

“About a year now. And it’s hardly being undercover,” she grabbed a corner of the duvet. “This is being undercover,” and she pulled it over them, his growl of approval almost drowning out her squeal of delight.