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He woke up suddenly from a dream. He’d been back in Paris at the George V Hotel with Charlotte when they were 22. She had insisted they stay there among the Art Deco architecture and fragile furniture despite his empty pockets. He had felt out of place the entire time, but she had been so beautiful and loving that they hadn’t quarreled until the end of their stay. Back then she could still charm him into doing almost anything but in the dream, he had awoken in their bed and just walked out, leaving Charlotte behind, to wander the streets of Paris looking for--he tried to remember--something undefined.
He turned his head and looked at the woman next to him, huddled under a rough wool blanket. It was a cold night so he’d insisted she wrap up in it. Closing his eyes, he drifted, thinking of all the women he’d been with over the years. They had always been drawn to him for some unknown reason. His mates at school had been awestruck at his ability to draw girls like flies to honey. He thought he’d mostly been gentlemanly with them, at least he hoped so. He’d had his share of one night stands and passionate love affairs, but none had lasted. He wasn’t the stuff husbands are made of, and in the end most women wanted security and the home life he could not offer. He had some spectacular memories but that was all. He shifted a little, trying to get more comfortable. His companion turned over and the blanket slipped off her shoulders. He could see her hair glowing in the moonlight now.
He reached awkwardly over the seat of the battered old Land Rover and pulled the blanket up again around her neck to keep her warm. His knuckles brushed her cheek and she smiled. A bit more of the shell around his heart cracked at seeing that smile. He told himself he left his hand there to keep from waking her but the truth was he wanted to touch her. How could he have fallen so much in love with a woman ten years younger, who was engaged to someone else, whom he had never even kissed? This brief accidental touch was nearly the only time he’d ever come into contact with her. He was going to have to put a closer guard on his feelings. She deserved better.
But he left his hand where it was until his arm was numb and fell asleep again dreaming of her smile.
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Meanwhile on the other side of the seat….
Robin shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench seat, not able to sleep soundly on the unforgiving cushion. She wished she’d had the nerve to suggest that they fold down the bench seat and sleep together in the back, but that would have taken more self-confidence than she possessed, even though it would have been much warmer as they could have shared the blanket and body heat at the very least.
She’d found the Christmas Tatler issue featuring his former fiancé Charlotte’s up-coming wedding in her boss’s trash can and smuggled it home in her tote bag to pour over later. Of course she’d seen photos of Ciara Porter everywhere, especially in the aftermath of Lula Landry’s murder since they were best mates and often photographed together, both socially and in advertising. There was no way she could compete with those beauties, no matter how often Strike’s stern features softened into a smile when she entered a room, or how proud he was when she came up with a sound theory for a case or was able to coax information out of suspects that he was unable to get himself. It was silly to think that he would ever think of her as a desirable woman. He had been an Oxford student, had famous parents, had traveled the world in the military, and drew women to him without effort. She was just a small town girl with very little experience with men or the world. At first she’d not understood his appeal—he wasn’t nearly as handsome as Matthew—but slowly it had dawned on her just how understanding his smile was and how sexy confidence and experience were.
She sighed slightly and stretched out her legs, pulling the blanket he’d insisted she wrap around herself away from her shoulders. She was beginning to drop off, dreaming of his big hand gently touching her cheek before pulling her in for what she knew would be an amazing kiss, when she realized that the touch was real. He had carefully pulled the blanket up around her shoulders again. She laid there without breathing, eyes closed, hardly believing that he was really touching her. It was feather-light but warm. She wanted to savor it as long as it lasted, even though he was just taking care to keep her covered. Eventually he pulled his hand away very slowly and carefully, and Robin was left only with the memory of how it had felt. She would fall asleep dreaming with that memory for many nights to come.