"Actually, I think he's a policeman, too." [23/???] [Midsomer Murders]
"Actually, I think he's a policeman, too."
Chapter 22: A Change In Course
After such an early end to the day, Troy hardly knew what to do with himself. Days that never ended and yielded hours of overtime were so familiar they were almost normal. The last three weeks, at times, had felt like one endless shift. But a workday that ended at four in the afternoon? That allowed him to be home before five? He had checked his watch several times before believing he was standing in the kitchen at his flat, rather than hallucinating behind his desk.
A cup of tea was in order; he let it brew whilst he shed his work clothes, exchanging his dark grey suit and light blue dress shirt for jeans and a black t-shirt. That consumed several minutes, and Troy returned to the kitchen to remove the teabag from his mug at just the right moment, adding a small splash of milk and a few spoons of sugar.
As he let it cool slightly, Troy reached for his mobile. It was far too soon for Cully to call about the end of the day's rehearsal, but he wanted it at hand nevertheless, to be able to hear her voice immediately. Just the memory of its sound was transforming into a torment while he waited. How had he managed to do without it for months at a time when he now doubted his ability to last a few hours in its absence? Lifting his mug, Troy frowned at his hand; it was shaking slightly. How was it that the anticipation of her voice and the ache that went with it were so easily stoked...and how were they so simply tamed in the end? Even that quick phone conversation with her in the car earlier today-even with Barnaby at his side!-was enough to soothe both.
The ringing of his phone was not unexpected at this stage in the case-reports could be completed at any moment-and he thrust a hand in his pocket to retrieve it. Or attempted to, for his hand collided with the slick fabric of the seat belt for a moment before he could work his fingers around it. Finally pulling it out of his jacket after three or four rings, he answered it before looking at the caller's name. "Troy."
The short response was clear, maddening-and lovely. "Hi, Gavin?"
His heartbeat quickened and his muscles tensed, but both relaxed just as quickly: sensibility followed by inevitability. "Oh-hi."
"Did I catch you at a bad moment?" Cully asked.
Though her voice was not loud, Troy shifted the phone to his left ear and pressed his shoulder to the passenger door, farther from Barnaby. "No, not at all."
"Is something wrong?"
"No," Troy said again, shaking his head as if she was in the car to see it, "we're just on our way to Midsomer Magna."
Her answer was delayed by mumbled words on her end of the line, the tones of the individual speakers bleeding together. "Weren't you there already?"
"Yes, earlier, for the fete-" Troy halted in the middle of the sentence. No use in blathering on about her mum's croquet stall. "Something's come up," he said instead. Why make it easy for Barnaby?
"Do you think you'll have another late day?"
"No, I don't think-" He stopped again, awareness of the chief inspector's presence growing with each passing word. Before continuing, Troy took a deep breath, warm and calming air filling his lungs. "Don't know yet."
"Is Dad with you?"
He had said nothing, but she had heard everything. "Uh, yes. Why?"
"It's nothing," Cully said quickly. Despite her comment, Troy now had to listen more for her voice; it was quieter than before. "I just thought I should let you know, rehearsal is probably going to run long tonight."
"It's going that badly?"
"Not badly."
"Really?" he asked, not believing her as he pressed the receiver closer to his ear.
Her sigh was gentle, though she probably thought it only sounded exasperated. "The director can't make up his mind."
"Isn't it a bit late for that?"
Now it was her laughter going ahead of what else she had to say, beautiful and light. "I told you, Gavin, not until the final curtain of the final performance. Then it's too late."
"Right. Well, give me a ring whenever you're done."
"Sure." The voices around her grew stronger, more hurried. "See you tomorrow, I guess?"
"Maybe tonight," Troy said quickly.
"Right. Call you."
His eagerness for that phone call was already growing, for the moments and minutes of talking to her without Barnaby at his shoulder with his curious ears. "Bye."
Troy downed the first mouthful of tea with an expectant-and rather pointless-glance at his mobile. It wasn't even five o'clock, the time her rehearsals often let out, and she had already given him fair warning about the later end to tonight's. Dropping into one of the wooden chairs at his kitchen table, he knew a long afternoon waited before him.
The hours trudged on, the impatience stoked by so many days on which, by this time, he had already seen her and spoken to her and kissed her. Almost thirty minutes elapsed while he read the morning paper he usually ignored. ("Local man suffers mushroom poisoning, collectors cautioned.") Another few minutes disappeared as he half listened to the news. ("The European Commission has approved an additional €9 million-£6.5 million-in funds for the upcoming Afghanistan presidential election.") When his stomach complained of hunger for the first time since midday, Troy considered ordering a takeaway until he recalled the leftover Indian congealing in his refrigerator. He ignored the sensation.
In her absence, though, he primarily sifted through the buried dreams that had haunted him for so long. As desperately as he enjoyed her presence-sometimes, he craved it like a drug-that desire paled beside what his mind wove when he permitted it to drift. At times, the visions were so vivid, so real, Troy supposed they dwelt in the deepest circle of his mind, a place untouched by common sense. And over the last month, their details had become clearer, sharper, and nearly painful.
In those moments, it was not just her mouth and lips fitting perfectly to his, but her entire body. Every inch of her skin was laid bare like his own, pale and warm and soft. She laughed when she kissed him and shivered when his fingers ran over her collarbone.
A torment indeed, and one he happily endured.
Her call came around six thirty, far later than was typical-and even later than he had anticipated, despite her warning. Again, he answered his mobile without looking at the caller's name on the display. Who else could it be? "Hello?"
"I told you it would be long."
"Spot on about that," Troy said, the tension loosening in his chest. With just a few words from her, he remembered how to breathe.
Cully laughed quietly; it was the same sound he had just heard repeated in those dreams, and his cheeks flushed like she had sat beside him and seen them as well. "The longest until tech, probably," she said.
"I hope so," he muttered, his mouth dry.
"What, Gavin?"
He had not realized he had spoken so quietly, but all the better. "Nothing." Troy flattened his free hand against the table; his fingers were almost shaking once more from the desire to see her face and properly hear her voice. "When should I be there?"
"We're almost done-I think he wants to pick everything over one more time."
A smile curled across his mouth and his fingers no longer threatened to tremble. "That picky, is he?"
There was silence for a moment, and Troy wondered if she was shaking her head. "You need to choose your puns better."
"When do you want me to be there?" he asked, not bothering with a real response. If he'd been meant to crack proper jokes, he would have gone the comic route.
"Gavin, I didn't mean-"
"I know you didn't," he said, almost sighing. After all, she was right. "But when?"
"We'll be out around seven."
The time was too important now, and Troy blinked before he focused his gaze on the hands lazily turning on his watch, which read six thirty-seven. Twenty-three minutes, if she was right. "I'll see you then."
"Yeah," Cully whispered, the word catching somewhere in her throat. Another voice rang out in the background, heavy and deep, and before ending the call, she quickly added, "Sorry, I have to go, Gavin."
It was slipping away through his fingers, even as he tried to catch hold of the conversation that had ended almost soon as it had begun. Troy could not identify what he had heard in those last few words. They had been quiet and cautious and...What was it? Wistful? Merely thoughtful? He shook his head before setting his mobile on the table again. Perhaps he was hearing things, hearing what he wanted. No, not after...His skin prickled as his mind drifted back a few evenings, touching her again, feeling her shudder, and wanting-
As he shoved his chair back, he ignored the empty mug still sitting in the middle of the table. It could wait, he decided, shrugging into the first jacket he found hanging from the coat rack. Sometimes, Troy wondered why he still had that bloody thing in his kitchen when he rarely wore anything but a suit jacket, barring a raincoat over top of it. Well, at least it kept them out of the way, even while he wondered how they never gathered a layer of dust.
The short drive to the Causton Playhouse lasted for an eternity, one light remaining red longer than Troy ever remembered, and several cars moving at far less than the speed limit. Or so it seemed, for the speedometer revealed that he-and they-were actually several miles over. Not that it made a difference.
The clock on his dashboard read a few minutes before seven when he turned the engine off just across the street from the playhouse. With the workday complete for those with quiet, dull jobs and most of the town's shops closed for the evening, the street was nearly deserted. The clang of the car door when he shut it after extricating himself from the vehicle was terribly loud; unnoticeable in Causton's midday clamor, it was impossible to ignore now. Though the parking was metered, its enforcement ended at six and Troy crossed the street pleased enough to keep the coins in his pocket if that was the way of the world today. But on the whole, he would have preferred to spend a few pence at five thirty.
The first couple evenings, he had just waited in his car, not certain where he should meet her or what to do. That had quickly changed, and he now waited at the corner of the alley that led to the stage door. The cast usually emerged in a swarm and Cully had introduced him to various actors, though their names were only mentioned as a matter of politeness.
The men playing Colonel Pickering and Professor Higgins were both older and somewhat gruff. Then there was Mrs. Pearce, a middle-aged woman with greying hair above her ears and a hint of mischief in her brown eyes; she winked at him occasionally. Freddy Eynsford Hill was portrayed by a tall young man Troy decided smiled too much, with dark hair and a slightly crooked nose, like he had broken it several years ago. The others' faces were too confusing to remember, and all their names had blurred into a mass of nonsense.
Tonight, now even a few minutes after seven, there was no one.
Nor at seven ten.
Nor, he learned after a quick look at his watch, at seven twenty.
Patience, Troy had known for a very long time, was not one of his best traits; Barnaby had given him more than one lecture about the need for more of it. While he could muster some when it proved necessary, Troy found himself twitching with impatience more often than not. The most important lesson he had taken from the chief inspector's talkings-to had been how to better conceal it.
At seven twenty-five, he returned to his car, sitting heavily and closing the door before pulling his mobile from his jacket. It had no record of calls or messages of any sort. Almost done my arse, he thought, shoving the phone away again. The irritation was useless, he knew, but it was satisfying, even if it was probably the fault of no one. Well, maybe the director was due to be assigned some.
The interior of the car was already growing stuffy, the lingering heat of the summer evening almost suffocating until he started the engine long enough to roll down the driver's window halfway. A figure darted across the street and Troy learned forward-but it was only a man with a mobile pressed to his ear, his gaze fixed on the tarmac.
Frowning at his disappointment, Troy leaned back into the seat, his right hand resting on the door handle and his left lying against the gearshift. While he waited-when his eyes closed briefly-he already saw her smiling and let his fingers explore her warm, bare skin.
"Gavin?" Her words and the accompanying rap of her knuckles on what was visible of the car window woke him, though his sleep had hardly been a deep one.
"Oh-sorry, Cully," Troy muttered. As the last dregs of his short nap fled from his mind-he was not yet awake enough to feel if his skin was reddening-he just caught sight of the dashboard clock. A few minutes past eight thirty. Ignoring his shoulder, half numb where it had lain against the paneling, he opened the car door slowly. She stepped back to avoid its swing, then forward again when it closed heavily.
"Why?" she asked before quickly kissing his cheek the way she always did at this moment. Each day, he anticipated it with more ferocity, and its near daily fulfillment was equal parts happiness and relief. Today's delay had been maddening.
"Well-" Her gaze was not on his face, but traveling up and down him, like she was trying to decide what she was seeing. And she was almost ready to laugh. "What's so funny?" he asked.
"You." Now her hand settled on his, clasping it after a moment. "It's still strange seeing you in something other than a suit and tie."
He had to think just to remember the time he had taken to change to the jeans and t-shirt. His jacket was black leather-or whatever passed for it in these more animal-friendly times-and he had grabbed a pair of tan boots he rarely wore. Their comfort was worth their being an eyesore. "Oh." It was an idiotic answer, just something to fill the empty air. But what else was there to say, Troy wondered as the first pulse of blood crept beneath his pale skin. And how could her words freeze his own tongue?
Cully was dressed as she was every day, in jeans and a simple blouse with her bag over one shoulder. Frills had no place in acting until the final costumes were donned. Until then, they were merely a hindrance. If her simple, friendly kiss was a relief, then seeing her was a torment again: her beautiful face surrounded by locks of ever longer hair; her frame with the gentle, hidden curves he had almost worshiped a minute ago yet had never seen with his own eyes; and still her voice-
"I wouldn't have called you if I'd known he was going to keep us so long," she added.
Troy reminded himself to blink, to swallow against his suddenly parched mouth. "I was starting to wonder," he managed. Each of her smaller fingers was suddenly entwined with his larger ones, so familiar-and so new that the pleasure of just touching her had yet to be dulled by that familiarity.
"We were finished," she said quietly, sounding drained as she turned for another look at the playhouse. Even in the faint light of the day's end, it was still something of an impressive building. The plain, white stone façade bore classical columns and the bright green doors displayed several small posters with details about the upcoming run of Pygmalion. The plants that had once hung on either side of the black sign painted Causton Playhouse had disappeared a couple of years prior. A nice theater for a small town, but no one would place it anywhere else. How different must it be, Troy thought, returning from London to this? Why would you stay, Cully?
"The director changed his mind again?" he asked, squeezing her palm. Was that her pulse he felt? No, his fingers were too far from her wrist-but neither was the rhythm coming from his own veins.
"Yes," she said, letting all of her weight fall against the side of the car. Her face, too, was tired, as though the day that had just passed had been without end. Lifting her free hand, Cully touched the side of her head, rubbing a tiny circle against her skull. "We had half an hour of yelling and ranting, then another hour of running scenes."
"So, par for the course?" Perhaps it was his own heartbeat he was feeling, pounding so heavily.
"With him, yes."
"Why do you do it, Cully?" Troy asked, shaking his head.
"Do what?"
"Put up with him?"
"What do you mean by that?" The tone of her voice rose as her hand fell away from her head.
"Well, all of you," Troy said quickly, scrambling for words. God, the last thing he needed to do was insult someone she obviously admired. But a spade was a spade. "Sounds like he's a pompous git."
"He isn't, Gavin."
"Doesn't sound fair on you."
Cully tugged her hand away, leaving his chilled. "He's one of the best directors in the southeast."
"That can't be a good enough excuse," Troy said. Even standing this close to her was a weak consolation for the loss of her hand, of the feel of her skin against his. Mere proximity yielded the wrong sort of warmth.
"Maybe, but the committee looks past most of it. We're lucky he's willing to direct at the Playhouse at all."
"The creative process makes it all right?"
A tired hiss rose from her throat. "I was almost out the door."
"Good thing he caught you then," Troy muttered, reaching for her hand again. Every moment with her was valuable-ridiculously so-since so few of them were to be had. They had work days to discuss, barbs to trade, and-only a final kiss and embrace to exchange. Bloody hell, it was driving him mad to only touch the skin the rest of the world saw as well when he imagined-
"What?" she asked.
His words had been muddled even in his own ears, thank god. "It's nothing," he said. And what would she say?
"He's unpredictable at the best of times."
"At least you know what to expect."
For a minute they stood by the car, silent, a light breeze drifting from the still bright western horizon. Troy was content to wait there longer, to ignore the point that came sooner each day: the unavoidable goodbye. But Cully's palm soon turned clammy and he saw her shiver when a stronger gust of air rolled through the street.
"We should probably be going," she said quietly, pulling her hand from his again as she walked away, around the front of the car to the passenger door. He had the doors unlocked before she even tried to open it, and they settled into the front seats in silence; Cully nearly collapsed, like it was the first moment she had found to sit since the morning.
"Look," Troy said as she dropped her bag by her feet, "let me take you to dinner. Get your mind off it."
"I'd like that."
He had turned the ignition and put on his seat belt before he saw her staring through the windscreen, almost biting her lip as she considered something. Or she's just tired, Troy thought. As usual. He shifted into reverse-
"Gavin, wait," Cully said, her hand dropping onto his. Was it too much to hope that she had not noticed the quick breath he had just taken in?
"Did you forget something?"
"No, just-" The exhaustion vanished from her face, replaced by a smile. "Let me make it up to you."
"What?"
"The wait," she said, fastening her own seat belt. "You do have food in your kitchen, right?"
God, not now. "Cully-"
"Well, you dodged the chance I had to make you dinner before."
I never would, he thought. "When?"
"After that first cricket match of yours."
If his face had not darkened in embarrassment when he first saw her this evening, he knew it had now. "Oh, that..."
"Are you still bothered by it?"
"Then what was Monday?" he asked unhappily. That afternoon so long ago-most of it-still rankled. How the hell did you ignore such a pathetic outing even a month on?
"Mum's leftovers don't count," Cully said, her hand tightening on his. "You never answered my question," she added when he said nothing.
"Which one?"
"Do you have any food in your kitchen?"
Troy considered his cupboards and the tiny fridge beneath his counter: there was little to work with. A small grin broke across his face. "Up for a challenge, are you?"
With a laugh, her hand left his, her fingertips gliding over his skin. "It's that empty?"
"You can decide that for yourself," he managed, the tension building in his chest again. And it was a dangerous challenge, when even breathing was becoming difficult.
Chapter 22: A Change In Course
After such an early end to the day, Troy hardly knew what to do with himself. Days that never ended and yielded hours of overtime were so familiar they were almost normal. The last three weeks, at times, had felt like one endless shift. But a workday that ended at four in the afternoon? That allowed him to be home before five? He had checked his watch several times before believing he was standing in the kitchen at his flat, rather than hallucinating behind his desk.
A cup of tea was in order; he let it brew whilst he shed his work clothes, exchanging his dark grey suit and light blue dress shirt for jeans and a black t-shirt. That consumed several minutes, and Troy returned to the kitchen to remove the teabag from his mug at just the right moment, adding a small splash of milk and a few spoons of sugar.
As he let it cool slightly, Troy reached for his mobile. It was far too soon for Cully to call about the end of the day's rehearsal, but he wanted it at hand nevertheless, to be able to hear her voice immediately. Just the memory of its sound was transforming into a torment while he waited. How had he managed to do without it for months at a time when he now doubted his ability to last a few hours in its absence? Lifting his mug, Troy frowned at his hand; it was shaking slightly. How was it that the anticipation of her voice and the ache that went with it were so easily stoked...and how were they so simply tamed in the end? Even that quick phone conversation with her in the car earlier today-even with Barnaby at his side!-was enough to soothe both.
The ringing of his phone was not unexpected at this stage in the case-reports could be completed at any moment-and he thrust a hand in his pocket to retrieve it. Or attempted to, for his hand collided with the slick fabric of the seat belt for a moment before he could work his fingers around it. Finally pulling it out of his jacket after three or four rings, he answered it before looking at the caller's name. "Troy."
The short response was clear, maddening-and lovely. "Hi, Gavin?"
His heartbeat quickened and his muscles tensed, but both relaxed just as quickly: sensibility followed by inevitability. "Oh-hi."
"Did I catch you at a bad moment?" Cully asked.
Though her voice was not loud, Troy shifted the phone to his left ear and pressed his shoulder to the passenger door, farther from Barnaby. "No, not at all."
"Is something wrong?"
"No," Troy said again, shaking his head as if she was in the car to see it, "we're just on our way to Midsomer Magna."
Her answer was delayed by mumbled words on her end of the line, the tones of the individual speakers bleeding together. "Weren't you there already?"
"Yes, earlier, for the fete-" Troy halted in the middle of the sentence. No use in blathering on about her mum's croquet stall. "Something's come up," he said instead. Why make it easy for Barnaby?
"Do you think you'll have another late day?"
"No, I don't think-" He stopped again, awareness of the chief inspector's presence growing with each passing word. Before continuing, Troy took a deep breath, warm and calming air filling his lungs. "Don't know yet."
"Is Dad with you?"
He had said nothing, but she had heard everything. "Uh, yes. Why?"
"It's nothing," Cully said quickly. Despite her comment, Troy now had to listen more for her voice; it was quieter than before. "I just thought I should let you know, rehearsal is probably going to run long tonight."
"It's going that badly?"
"Not badly."
"Really?" he asked, not believing her as he pressed the receiver closer to his ear.
Her sigh was gentle, though she probably thought it only sounded exasperated. "The director can't make up his mind."
"Isn't it a bit late for that?"
Now it was her laughter going ahead of what else she had to say, beautiful and light. "I told you, Gavin, not until the final curtain of the final performance. Then it's too late."
"Right. Well, give me a ring whenever you're done."
"Sure." The voices around her grew stronger, more hurried. "See you tomorrow, I guess?"
"Maybe tonight," Troy said quickly.
"Right. Call you."
His eagerness for that phone call was already growing, for the moments and minutes of talking to her without Barnaby at his shoulder with his curious ears. "Bye."
Troy downed the first mouthful of tea with an expectant-and rather pointless-glance at his mobile. It wasn't even five o'clock, the time her rehearsals often let out, and she had already given him fair warning about the later end to tonight's. Dropping into one of the wooden chairs at his kitchen table, he knew a long afternoon waited before him.
The hours trudged on, the impatience stoked by so many days on which, by this time, he had already seen her and spoken to her and kissed her. Almost thirty minutes elapsed while he read the morning paper he usually ignored. ("Local man suffers mushroom poisoning, collectors cautioned.") Another few minutes disappeared as he half listened to the news. ("The European Commission has approved an additional €9 million-£6.5 million-in funds for the upcoming Afghanistan presidential election.") When his stomach complained of hunger for the first time since midday, Troy considered ordering a takeaway until he recalled the leftover Indian congealing in his refrigerator. He ignored the sensation.
In her absence, though, he primarily sifted through the buried dreams that had haunted him for so long. As desperately as he enjoyed her presence-sometimes, he craved it like a drug-that desire paled beside what his mind wove when he permitted it to drift. At times, the visions were so vivid, so real, Troy supposed they dwelt in the deepest circle of his mind, a place untouched by common sense. And over the last month, their details had become clearer, sharper, and nearly painful.
In those moments, it was not just her mouth and lips fitting perfectly to his, but her entire body. Every inch of her skin was laid bare like his own, pale and warm and soft. She laughed when she kissed him and shivered when his fingers ran over her collarbone.
A torment indeed, and one he happily endured.
Her call came around six thirty, far later than was typical-and even later than he had anticipated, despite her warning. Again, he answered his mobile without looking at the caller's name on the display. Who else could it be? "Hello?"
"I told you it would be long."
"Spot on about that," Troy said, the tension loosening in his chest. With just a few words from her, he remembered how to breathe.
Cully laughed quietly; it was the same sound he had just heard repeated in those dreams, and his cheeks flushed like she had sat beside him and seen them as well. "The longest until tech, probably," she said.
"I hope so," he muttered, his mouth dry.
"What, Gavin?"
He had not realized he had spoken so quietly, but all the better. "Nothing." Troy flattened his free hand against the table; his fingers were almost shaking once more from the desire to see her face and properly hear her voice. "When should I be there?"
"We're almost done-I think he wants to pick everything over one more time."
A smile curled across his mouth and his fingers no longer threatened to tremble. "That picky, is he?"
There was silence for a moment, and Troy wondered if she was shaking her head. "You need to choose your puns better."
"When do you want me to be there?" he asked, not bothering with a real response. If he'd been meant to crack proper jokes, he would have gone the comic route.
"Gavin, I didn't mean-"
"I know you didn't," he said, almost sighing. After all, she was right. "But when?"
"We'll be out around seven."
The time was too important now, and Troy blinked before he focused his gaze on the hands lazily turning on his watch, which read six thirty-seven. Twenty-three minutes, if she was right. "I'll see you then."
"Yeah," Cully whispered, the word catching somewhere in her throat. Another voice rang out in the background, heavy and deep, and before ending the call, she quickly added, "Sorry, I have to go, Gavin."
It was slipping away through his fingers, even as he tried to catch hold of the conversation that had ended almost soon as it had begun. Troy could not identify what he had heard in those last few words. They had been quiet and cautious and...What was it? Wistful? Merely thoughtful? He shook his head before setting his mobile on the table again. Perhaps he was hearing things, hearing what he wanted. No, not after...His skin prickled as his mind drifted back a few evenings, touching her again, feeling her shudder, and wanting-
As he shoved his chair back, he ignored the empty mug still sitting in the middle of the table. It could wait, he decided, shrugging into the first jacket he found hanging from the coat rack. Sometimes, Troy wondered why he still had that bloody thing in his kitchen when he rarely wore anything but a suit jacket, barring a raincoat over top of it. Well, at least it kept them out of the way, even while he wondered how they never gathered a layer of dust.
The short drive to the Causton Playhouse lasted for an eternity, one light remaining red longer than Troy ever remembered, and several cars moving at far less than the speed limit. Or so it seemed, for the speedometer revealed that he-and they-were actually several miles over. Not that it made a difference.
The clock on his dashboard read a few minutes before seven when he turned the engine off just across the street from the playhouse. With the workday complete for those with quiet, dull jobs and most of the town's shops closed for the evening, the street was nearly deserted. The clang of the car door when he shut it after extricating himself from the vehicle was terribly loud; unnoticeable in Causton's midday clamor, it was impossible to ignore now. Though the parking was metered, its enforcement ended at six and Troy crossed the street pleased enough to keep the coins in his pocket if that was the way of the world today. But on the whole, he would have preferred to spend a few pence at five thirty.
The first couple evenings, he had just waited in his car, not certain where he should meet her or what to do. That had quickly changed, and he now waited at the corner of the alley that led to the stage door. The cast usually emerged in a swarm and Cully had introduced him to various actors, though their names were only mentioned as a matter of politeness.
The men playing Colonel Pickering and Professor Higgins were both older and somewhat gruff. Then there was Mrs. Pearce, a middle-aged woman with greying hair above her ears and a hint of mischief in her brown eyes; she winked at him occasionally. Freddy Eynsford Hill was portrayed by a tall young man Troy decided smiled too much, with dark hair and a slightly crooked nose, like he had broken it several years ago. The others' faces were too confusing to remember, and all their names had blurred into a mass of nonsense.
Tonight, now even a few minutes after seven, there was no one.
Nor at seven ten.
Nor, he learned after a quick look at his watch, at seven twenty.
Patience, Troy had known for a very long time, was not one of his best traits; Barnaby had given him more than one lecture about the need for more of it. While he could muster some when it proved necessary, Troy found himself twitching with impatience more often than not. The most important lesson he had taken from the chief inspector's talkings-to had been how to better conceal it.
At seven twenty-five, he returned to his car, sitting heavily and closing the door before pulling his mobile from his jacket. It had no record of calls or messages of any sort. Almost done my arse, he thought, shoving the phone away again. The irritation was useless, he knew, but it was satisfying, even if it was probably the fault of no one. Well, maybe the director was due to be assigned some.
The interior of the car was already growing stuffy, the lingering heat of the summer evening almost suffocating until he started the engine long enough to roll down the driver's window halfway. A figure darted across the street and Troy learned forward-but it was only a man with a mobile pressed to his ear, his gaze fixed on the tarmac.
Frowning at his disappointment, Troy leaned back into the seat, his right hand resting on the door handle and his left lying against the gearshift. While he waited-when his eyes closed briefly-he already saw her smiling and let his fingers explore her warm, bare skin.
"Gavin?" Her words and the accompanying rap of her knuckles on what was visible of the car window woke him, though his sleep had hardly been a deep one.
"Oh-sorry, Cully," Troy muttered. As the last dregs of his short nap fled from his mind-he was not yet awake enough to feel if his skin was reddening-he just caught sight of the dashboard clock. A few minutes past eight thirty. Ignoring his shoulder, half numb where it had lain against the paneling, he opened the car door slowly. She stepped back to avoid its swing, then forward again when it closed heavily.
"Why?" she asked before quickly kissing his cheek the way she always did at this moment. Each day, he anticipated it with more ferocity, and its near daily fulfillment was equal parts happiness and relief. Today's delay had been maddening.
"Well-" Her gaze was not on his face, but traveling up and down him, like she was trying to decide what she was seeing. And she was almost ready to laugh. "What's so funny?" he asked.
"You." Now her hand settled on his, clasping it after a moment. "It's still strange seeing you in something other than a suit and tie."
He had to think just to remember the time he had taken to change to the jeans and t-shirt. His jacket was black leather-or whatever passed for it in these more animal-friendly times-and he had grabbed a pair of tan boots he rarely wore. Their comfort was worth their being an eyesore. "Oh." It was an idiotic answer, just something to fill the empty air. But what else was there to say, Troy wondered as the first pulse of blood crept beneath his pale skin. And how could her words freeze his own tongue?
Cully was dressed as she was every day, in jeans and a simple blouse with her bag over one shoulder. Frills had no place in acting until the final costumes were donned. Until then, they were merely a hindrance. If her simple, friendly kiss was a relief, then seeing her was a torment again: her beautiful face surrounded by locks of ever longer hair; her frame with the gentle, hidden curves he had almost worshiped a minute ago yet had never seen with his own eyes; and still her voice-
"I wouldn't have called you if I'd known he was going to keep us so long," she added.
Troy reminded himself to blink, to swallow against his suddenly parched mouth. "I was starting to wonder," he managed. Each of her smaller fingers was suddenly entwined with his larger ones, so familiar-and so new that the pleasure of just touching her had yet to be dulled by that familiarity.
"We were finished," she said quietly, sounding drained as she turned for another look at the playhouse. Even in the faint light of the day's end, it was still something of an impressive building. The plain, white stone façade bore classical columns and the bright green doors displayed several small posters with details about the upcoming run of Pygmalion. The plants that had once hung on either side of the black sign painted Causton Playhouse had disappeared a couple of years prior. A nice theater for a small town, but no one would place it anywhere else. How different must it be, Troy thought, returning from London to this? Why would you stay, Cully?
"The director changed his mind again?" he asked, squeezing her palm. Was that her pulse he felt? No, his fingers were too far from her wrist-but neither was the rhythm coming from his own veins.
"Yes," she said, letting all of her weight fall against the side of the car. Her face, too, was tired, as though the day that had just passed had been without end. Lifting her free hand, Cully touched the side of her head, rubbing a tiny circle against her skull. "We had half an hour of yelling and ranting, then another hour of running scenes."
"So, par for the course?" Perhaps it was his own heartbeat he was feeling, pounding so heavily.
"With him, yes."
"Why do you do it, Cully?" Troy asked, shaking his head.
"Do what?"
"Put up with him?"
"What do you mean by that?" The tone of her voice rose as her hand fell away from her head.
"Well, all of you," Troy said quickly, scrambling for words. God, the last thing he needed to do was insult someone she obviously admired. But a spade was a spade. "Sounds like he's a pompous git."
"He isn't, Gavin."
"Doesn't sound fair on you."
Cully tugged her hand away, leaving his chilled. "He's one of the best directors in the southeast."
"That can't be a good enough excuse," Troy said. Even standing this close to her was a weak consolation for the loss of her hand, of the feel of her skin against his. Mere proximity yielded the wrong sort of warmth.
"Maybe, but the committee looks past most of it. We're lucky he's willing to direct at the Playhouse at all."
"The creative process makes it all right?"
A tired hiss rose from her throat. "I was almost out the door."
"Good thing he caught you then," Troy muttered, reaching for her hand again. Every moment with her was valuable-ridiculously so-since so few of them were to be had. They had work days to discuss, barbs to trade, and-only a final kiss and embrace to exchange. Bloody hell, it was driving him mad to only touch the skin the rest of the world saw as well when he imagined-
"What?" she asked.
His words had been muddled even in his own ears, thank god. "It's nothing," he said. And what would she say?
"He's unpredictable at the best of times."
"At least you know what to expect."
For a minute they stood by the car, silent, a light breeze drifting from the still bright western horizon. Troy was content to wait there longer, to ignore the point that came sooner each day: the unavoidable goodbye. But Cully's palm soon turned clammy and he saw her shiver when a stronger gust of air rolled through the street.
"We should probably be going," she said quietly, pulling her hand from his again as she walked away, around the front of the car to the passenger door. He had the doors unlocked before she even tried to open it, and they settled into the front seats in silence; Cully nearly collapsed, like it was the first moment she had found to sit since the morning.
"Look," Troy said as she dropped her bag by her feet, "let me take you to dinner. Get your mind off it."
"I'd like that."
He had turned the ignition and put on his seat belt before he saw her staring through the windscreen, almost biting her lip as she considered something. Or she's just tired, Troy thought. As usual. He shifted into reverse-
"Gavin, wait," Cully said, her hand dropping onto his. Was it too much to hope that she had not noticed the quick breath he had just taken in?
"Did you forget something?"
"No, just-" The exhaustion vanished from her face, replaced by a smile. "Let me make it up to you."
"What?"
"The wait," she said, fastening her own seat belt. "You do have food in your kitchen, right?"
God, not now. "Cully-"
"Well, you dodged the chance I had to make you dinner before."
I never would, he thought. "When?"
"After that first cricket match of yours."
If his face had not darkened in embarrassment when he first saw her this evening, he knew it had now. "Oh, that..."
"Are you still bothered by it?"
"Then what was Monday?" he asked unhappily. That afternoon so long ago-most of it-still rankled. How the hell did you ignore such a pathetic outing even a month on?
"Mum's leftovers don't count," Cully said, her hand tightening on his. "You never answered my question," she added when he said nothing.
"Which one?"
"Do you have any food in your kitchen?"
Troy considered his cupboards and the tiny fridge beneath his counter: there was little to work with. A small grin broke across his face. "Up for a challenge, are you?"
With a laugh, her hand left his, her fingertips gliding over his skin. "It's that empty?"
"You can decide that for yourself," he managed, the tension building in his chest again. And it was a dangerous challenge, when even breathing was becoming difficult.