Romance, M/F, rated R. "All the Queen's Horses" and its sequel, "Red, White or Blue," aroused speculations that so far remain just that, speculations--the resolution of which we (alas!) may never know for sure. It was a post on DS-L by Heather Park that gave my mind permission to range over the possibilities, and this is what I came up with.
The subjunctive mood in language is a verb form indicating a situation that does not exist, but which might: a situation tinged with emotion such as a wish, a desire, or regret...
So...he hadn't forgotten. He remembered that kiss on top of the moving train: he'd admitted as much last week, the morning the soi-disant Royal Canadian Mounted Police media relations "expert" marched him around the room, putting him through his paces as a temporary celebrity while the media hounds bayed outside the closed double doors.
Meg Thatcher frowned. It was now a week since that incident, but the proprietary manner that the media consultant had adopted toward Constable Fraser still irritated her profoundly. How dared that woman lay hands on him! It was her possessiveness, as much as the imminent danger of Fraser's blurting out something that he shouldn't, that had made Meg jump into the interview.
And the look on his face when I asked him if he'd succeeded in erasing the kiss from his memory, and he said, "No..."
She roused herself from her daydream. She was supposed to be managing the workload associated with the upcoming dinner and dance, not thinking about Fraser. Resolutely, she opened her laptop computer and began to study the spreadsheet she had created yesterday. The Ambassador's visit to the Consulate at the end of the week meant that she and her staff had to work overtime on the myriad details associated with it. As the RCMP Liaison Officer, Meg was charged with implementing the security plan with the help of her subordinates, Constables Fraser and Turnbull. But as soon as she had updated the figures in each column, her mind began to wander once more.
When had it happened? What had caused the transmutation of Benton Fraser from an embarrassing nuisance that she'd had to put on probation as soon as she arrived in Chicago, to a junior officer whose resourcefulness she increasingly relied on, to someone who was impinging on her consciousness to an extent that was really quite unnerving?
When had he gone off probation, in her eyes?
Even up to the time of The Train Incident, a few months ago, he had been merely Fraser, her handsome but exasperating subordinate. It was only when she thought she'd caused his death--by inadvertently knocking him off the roof of the train--that she realized that Fraser the law-abiding, Fraser the honorable, Fraser the morally upright, had managed to steal her heart.
And when he suddenly appeared on the train again, I was so startled I almost passed out...that was the first time he said, "Red suits you..." because earlier, that fiend Randal Bolt forced me to change into red serge at gunpoint...
And then...
She'd wanted comfort that he was indeed alive rather than dead. She wanted him, dammit. She wanted him to know that she was neither a cold-hearted bitch nor a statue made of stone, but just as human as he. She'd given him every conceivable conversational opening and to his credit, Fraser took them. Meg knew he was shy in the presence of women in general and nervous in her presence, in particular--the way he blushed when she spoke to him and tripped over the wastepaper basket every time she entered his office told her that--but on the roof of the train she noted with fascination that he was different. This Fraser expertly volleyed every serve she gave him, as if this were a game of tennis instead of a conversation in the middle of a situation fraught with terror, as he moved closer...and closer...
...she met his gaze unwaveringly as he took her in his arms.
And then of course she had to shut her eyes, yes, shut out everything else but the feel of that mouth on her own, shut out the clacking of the train as it roared over the tracks, shut out the rush of air as the train went through the tunnel, shut out the cold wind as it whipped her hair around her face.
Time stopped, it had no meaning, they traveled to a parallel universe in which there was no train hijacked by terrorists, no disparity of rank, nothing but the feeling of warm, clean-shaven skin against her face and his tongue, sliding ever so gently, so questingly, into her mouth.
And still they stood with their arms wrapped around each other, with her twisting her fingers in his hair, that impossibly thick, wavy hair that felt almost alive, and they would have stayed like that forever if Sergeant Frobisher's warning shout hadn't brought them back to reality so quickly that they sprang apart, stuttering.
I felt drunk, I swear, when he kissed me like that, it was heaven. But I thought it was just an aberration, that it didn't really mean anything...we were both in such danger of being killed at any minute, ordinary behavior went out the window.
Meg snapped the laptop shut. This was useless: try as she might, she could not keep her mind on her work. Very well. She must approach the situation rationally, like the cool-headed police officer she was.
I love him. All right, I admit it, I love the man. But how does he feel? I think he's afraid of me. He's afraid because I outrank him, and he thinks it wouldn't be appropriate to tell me how he feels.
Somehow, some way she had to bring Fraser to a declaration. She had to know, one way or the other, how he really felt about her. But how to manage it?
Walking always helped her think. Perhaps if she took a little turn around the Consulate offices...yes. She'd go to the ballroom, check the security arrangements.
As she entered the ballroom she saw Fraser standing on top of a stepladder at the far end, using a flashlight to peer at some wiring behind a panel. The sound of her high heels clicking against the ballroom floor caused Fraser to turn around.
"Carry on, Fraser," she said, making her voice cool. "How are the arrangements coming?"
He'd attempted a smile as she came near--she could see the dimples hovering at the corners of his mouth--but he seemed to think better of it. "Very well, sir. We have plenty of exits for emergencies, plenty of electrical outlets for the musicians, water sprinklers for--"
"--excellent, Fraser. Spare me the details."
"Yes, sir." Fraser climbed back down the ladder, bent over to pick up his toolkit. She tried not to let her gaze linger at the muscles of his shoulders straining against the khaki twill of his uniform shirt. What would he look like without his shirt? Was she ever to know?
"Is there anything I can do for you, ma'am?"
"What? Oh...
If only I could tell you what you could do for me, Fraser. What would you say? Am I staring at you too intently, is that why pink is beginning to stain those perfect cheekbones?
Sorry to interrupt your work, Constable. I was thinking. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir." He retrieved his brown uniform jacket from a nearby chair, slipped it on, and began folding up the ladder. Meg walked away without a backward glance. Good Lord, she really had to get hold of herself. There was no earthly reason for her to have interrupted Fraser when he was busy carrying out her orders. No reason, of course, except that the sight of him filled her with such joy that she had to bite her lip to keep it from showing.
What, what, what would induce him to throw caution to the winds and tell her what she wanted to hear?
Inspiration struck: the dinner-dance for the Ambassador. She would be required to attend, naturally, dressed in civilian clothes like a normal guest. In the intervals of appearing to be nothing more than a civil servant present at a show-the-flag occasion, she would be checking to make sure that the security detail was operating smoothly. Fraser and Turnbull would also be required to attend the event, wearing dress reds and ready to make themselves agreeable in the intervals of implementing the security plan.
Yes. During one of those intervals she would manage to get Fraser alone, preferably away from the ballroom, and encourage him to speak his mind. And to make sure he had something on his mind, she was going to find and wear the ultimate red dress. A killer dress. A dress that would change the course of her life forever.
Pleased with this idea, she stowed it in the "do later" compartment of her mind and went about her business. If she could get out of here no later than six tonight, she would have three hours to find the dress before the stores closed.
In the end, it took three evenings of searching before she found it. It was an ankle-length sheath with a neckline that plunged to a sharp V in the front: not too low to raise eyebrows but low enough to titillate. The sleeves were long, which was good: the spring of 1996 had been Chicago's coldest in years, and although it was now well into June, the wind off the lake could cool the hottest evening. The soft sheen of the silk would have told the cost of the dress, even if the masterly cut had not. Meg swallowed hard when she looked at the price tag, but told herself that this was it, the dress that would transform a wish on her part into desire on his.
The night of the dinner-dance was--mercifully--warm and clear. After inspecting the security arrangements one last time, Meg went home to change. She had decided to skip the dessert course, with the accompanying interminable speeches; that way, she would be able to save herself some boredom and take all the time she needed to look her best.
When at last she was ready, she looked in her bedroom mirror and smiled with satisfaction. The supple red silk clung to her body, showing every plane and curve. Against its clear scarlet her skin was as pale as moonlight, her black hair and brown eyes a pleasing contrast. The diamond earrings she'd bought last Christmas--the result of three years of saving--added the final touch.
The ballroom was full by the time she arrived. The Consular Trade Officer grabbed her by the arm as she was making her way toward the end of the room, intent on finding Fraser. "Inspector, I want you to meet Mr. Tarrant, he knows all about the mobile data computer system you were looking at last week at the trade show..."
She allowed herself to be led off, keeping a carefully gracious expression on her face, but her restless gaze traveled the room in search of Fraser. And then she saw him.
When their eyes met, the expression on his face made her heart turn over: her plan was working! He looked transfixed; for a whole minute he stared at her from across the room without moving. Then he began to make his way purposefully toward her and as she watched him approach she tried not to look the way she felt, as if with the slightest encouragement she'd seize a microphone and start singing at the top of her lungs.
"Good evening, ma'am." He bowed.
"Good evening, Constable." It should be illegal for anyone to be as handsome as Fraser. In his dress reds and white gloves, he looked immaculate as always, and judging by the rise and fall of his breathing, he was clearly in the grip of some strong emotion. " I trust that everything is as it should be."
"Yes, sir. I just checked." His glance flickered from right to left, as if confirming that all was well before he permitted himself to return to the business at hand. "Would you care to dance, ma'am, or are you resting?"
Very neat. Whatever she replied, he would not lose face. "Thank you, Constable," she said, appearing to consider the matter for the first time. "Yes, I would like to dance."
He held out a white-gloved hand, and not until she placed her left hand on his shoulder and took the proffered hand in her own did he take his eyes off her. The music, a slow dance tune, flowed around them as they moved into the crowd.
"Permission to speak freely, ma'am?"
"Granted."
She heard him take a deep breath. "You look beautiful. Red suits you."
She could not restrain a smile. "So you've told me, Constable. Thank you." "Oh," he said, swinging her around. "Have I mentioned it before?"
"Twice." She could not help smiling again, at the memory. The second time, Fraser had semaphored the compliment to her from the roof of the Justice Building while she peered up at him from the street.
Was it her imagination, or was he working their way toward the open French doors leading to the veranda that wound around one side of the ballroom?
It was not her imagination. She had to give him credit, he knew what he was about when it came to getting his own way. When he'd danced her through the doors into the veranda, he stopped moving, although he did not release her.
She raised her eyebrows, pretending mild surprise, although she could feel her heart beating hard. Was he about to tell her what she wanted to hear?
"I wish," he began, and then stopped.
"You wish...what?"
His face was very close to her own, the eyes as darkly blue as wild chicory at sunrise on a summer morning. She could see the yearning in them, feel the warm breath from his parted lips. Was he about to kiss her?
"I wish I could..." his voice trailed away. She saw him bite his lower lip. "I mean, if you weren't who you are..."
His voice was low, and, she thought, filled with resignation. She forced herself to speak calmly. She had to help him along. "Then what, Fraser?"
"Oh, dear. Nothing. We'd better go inside, ma'am, it's getting chilly."
If he hadn't been standing beside her, she would have given vent to an enormous sigh of frustration. But he offered her his arm, in the best tradition of courtesy, and although she wanted to stamp her foot and tear her hair out, she took his arm and walked back into the ballroom, where the Communications Officer promptly hailed her.
The rest of the evening was torture of the most unbearable kind. He had been close, so agonizingly close to making a declaration; now she sensed that the barrier between them had gone up again. At one point, when she could disengage herself from the conversation of the group that surrounded her, she'd turned her head, looking for him--and saw him gazing at her from across the room. When their eyes met, he turned away.
Later, shielded by the crowd, she was in a place where she could watch him to her heart's content, and for a few minutes she let her gaze linger on the broad shoulders, the narrow waist, the long legs encased in brown leather boots. The red serge jacket of the Mountie uniform was four inches thick. Was that to protect the wearer from cold or to serve as a chastity belt?
Seeming to feel her gaze, Fraser abruptly turned on his heel and caught her staring at him. She looked away immediately, conscious of the hot blood burning her cheeks. Now he'd suspect the truth. Suddenly the room felt suffocating. It was time to get out of here.
Home again, she unzipped herself out of the red dress for which she'd had such high hopes, and hung it back in her closet. Off with the high heels, off with the stockings, off with the Wonderbra. Now she could breathe, but each breath was a sigh.
She buttoned herself into a sleep shirt of soft pink satin, then went into the bathroom to start getting ready for bed. But after she'd cleaned her teeth and reached for the washcloth to scrub off her makeup, she threw the washcloth down on the hand basin and wandered restlessly into the living room of her apartment.
One wall of the living room was nothing but sliding glass doors that led to a balcony. Her apartment was on the third floor. Still restless, she slid back the doors and went out onto the balcony, into the soft summer night. The massive oak tree that grew past her third-floor apartment was in full summer foliage now. The breeze that rustled its leaves carried the scents of honeysuckle and new-mown grass. It was a wonderful night for everyone but her. She was going to die, like Ophelia, of a broken heart.
She went back into the apartment, closing the doors behind her. Perhaps some music would help her think. What had gone wrong tonight? Where had her plan failed?
Frowning, she slipped a CD into the player, feeling soothed as the strains of "Celtic Twilight" filled the room. The music evoked mist-filled glens, ancient standing stones, deep lochs as unfathomable as Fraser himself. She began to pace around the living room, thinking hard. He'd been trying to tell her something but he'd chickened out at the last minute. He was a man who found it difficult to discuss feelings. Not for the first time, she wondered about his early life. She'd gathered, over the months of their professional association, that his had been an isolated upbringing, in the north. Perhaps the isolation accounted for that endearing quality of Fraser's: a quality that most people had knocked out of them as they grew up, that sunny certainty that most people were good and would therefore be kind.
Quite the opposite of herself. Meg knew that most of her professional associates considered her abrasive. In a male-dominated environment where women had to be twice as good as men, simply to survive, she'd had to be three times as good, simply to succeed. And she had paid her dues: done the work, put in the hours, until after 12 long years she'd earned the rank of Inspector. And now, at age 35, she recognized what she had lost in fulfilling her ambition.
I know my own faults. I'm impatient, unwilling to suffer fools gladly. I hate laziness, lack of discipline. I can't stand people who waste my time. And sometimes when Ben starts blithering he drives me crazy, and I just want to shake him. But then, when I've torn into him about something and he accepts my reproof so humbly, because he looks up to me and thinks he deserves my tongue-lashing, I want to wrap my arms around him and kiss him until he faints.
If the ideal partnership called for complementarity, then she and Fraser would be--could be--two halves of an ecstatic whole. His exceptional sweetness of temperament was a beacon in her life, shining testimony that not everyone in the world was out for everything he could get. And she could cherish that sweetness, keep that flame shining by protecting him against those who would take advantage of his naivete to bring him down.
But before she and Fraser could embark on a life together, there was that vital first step to get through. Tonight had been a splendid opportunity that somehow failed of fulfillment. Did he not know how she longed to feel his arms around her? Did he not guess that she wanted to possess him, body, mind, and soul?
A sudden noise on the balcony interrupted her pacing. Startled, she looked at the sliding glass doors to see a shadow looming outside, silhouetted against the curtains. The fear that flooded her for a few seconds was quickly vanquished by her police training. Who the hell was that on her balcony?
She swept aside the curtains to find Fraser standing outside the glass door.
He raised one eyebrow, gestured toward the door, and mouthed the words "May I....?"
Stunned, she unlocked the door and let him in. He entered the room tentatively, obviously poised for flight if she objected to his presence.
Meg leaned against the wall, taking in his appearance: leather jacket over a gray T-shirt, jeans, running shoes. No wolf, of course. She had to close her eyes for a second, she felt so light-headed. That the person she wanted most in the world to see should suddenly appear before her eyes, in such unorthodox fashion, was almost too much to bear.
"Inspector, are you all right?"
She opened her eyes, permitted herself a slight smile. His dark brown hair, normally worn smooth, curled damply around his face. Was it raining, then? Or had he just come out of the shower? She saw a blush beginning to rise.
"I'm fine." She restrained the impulse to ask sarcastically, "What is the meaning of this, Fraser?" This behavior could have only one meaning. Instead she said, "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to explain something to you. I feel that I didn't do a proper job of explaining it to you earlier this evening."
"How like you, Fraser, to climb the tree outside my window and jump down on my balcony, instead of calling me on the telephone to explain whatever it is you want to explain."
"I don't have a telephone." He took a step toward her, locking his gaze with hers...in the hope she wouldn't notice that he was coming closer? Fat chance.
"And you couldn't have borrowed Mr. Mustafi's phone?"
"It's almost midnight. And what I have to say is private."
"Well?"
He opened his mouth, shut it, turned away, then turned back to her. "What I was trying to say earlier is that if you weren't who you are...or, conversely, if I weren't who I am...but then of course, I wouldn't feel the way I do, would I, if you weren't who you are and I weren't who I am..."
Oh, God, he was starting to blither. Knowing Fraser the way she did, he could talk himself right into a three-hour debate, during which he would argue both sides of the question and nothing would ever be settled. Nothing of any interest to herself, that is.
Just as she was opening her mouth to say, "What are you talking about, Fraser?" he appeared to give up that line of argument and embark on a new one.
"That's not what I mean, really. What I mean to say is, that if you weren't my superior officer..." He took a deep breath. "And if I weren't your subordinate..."
"In other words, if we were just two people named Meg and Ben..."
"...yes, two people named Meg and Ben," he agreed, moving closer, "then I would..."
He was so close now that she could smell the no-nonsense scent of the soap he had used, so close that when he spoke next she could feel his breath fan her cheek. She looked up at him. "You would what?"
The desire in his eyes was as obvious as if he'd announced it on the evening news. "I would do this...."
His arms went around her and she slid her hands beneath his jacket, the better to feel the hard body beneath the T-shirt. His mouth came down on hers and it was like that other time on top of the train, only better: because then she hadn't known that she was starving until he had given her what she needed, and now she did know and here he was, offering it to her again. It was nectar.
She didn't know how long they had stood locked together, but she had to come up for air. She pulled away a little, looking into his eyes. When he wasn't speaking or more rarely, smiling, his mouth looked as soft and vulnerable as that of a wistful child. It looked like that now.
His voice was low. "But we're not just two people, it's out of the question for us to--"
Now was the moment. She took his face between her hands. "Fraser--don't talk." She stood on tiptoe, reaching to cover his mouth with her own. He met her embrace eagerly. She worked her hands beneath the thin cotton knit of the T-shirt to feel the warm skin of his back and he, seemingly emboldened by this, began to let his hands roam over the satin that covered her. It was nectar, yes, but she wanted what went with it. She wanted ambrosia.
When they broke apart again he raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in the direction of the bedroom. She nodded. In the next instant he picked her up, carrying her easily out of the living room; she closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder.
It feels like a wedding night. Is this tantamount to marriage, in his mind?
And then desire met desire in a kaleidoscope of shifting images and sounds and sensations.
......herself, reaching to switch on the pink-shaded bedside lamp after Fraser put her gently down on top of the covers...
.....leaning on her elbow, watching him shrug out of the leather jacket, peel off the T-shirt...
.....Fraser, unbuttoning the satin nightshirt, tasting her skin, inhaling the scent of her hair...
....he was an artist of arousal, he used his tongue as creatively as a painter welds a paintbrush, only instead of leaving patches of color in his wake he left patches of desire...
"Ah...ahhh...."
"Ohh...ohh...!"
....if she had not known with her eyes that he was beautiful she would have known it through her hands and fingertips: the lines of his body were as incomparably sculpted as the statues of Praxiteles...
"Ah...ahhh....AAHH!"
"Oh, oh, OHH!"
....he was not so inconsiderate as to crush her beneath his weight, he seemed to have no macho need to be on top; deftly he turned and slid beneath her so that she lay on top of him, her hair falling forward onto his face, looking down at his half-shut eyes and parted lips...
"AAHHH! OH, LOVE, MY LOVE!"
"OH GOD, HOW I LOVE YOU, FRASER!"
....long, quivering shudders of delight...
...sighs of passion spent...
"Did you mean what you just said?"
"That I love you? Yes."
"I can't believe it. My God. You love me."
"Ben?"
"Yes?"
"Do you...I mean...do you think you could..."
"You want to know whether I love you?"
"Yes."
"Meg..." he laughed, low in his throat. She couldn't remember ever hearing him laugh before. "Do you honestly think I'd be here in bed with you, doing what we just did, if I didn't love you?"
"Am I to infer that that means yes, you do love me?"
"I've loved you since the morning you called me into your office and told me I was fired."
Sunlight, warm on her closed eyelids, pulling her from sleep. She sighed, turned over, sinking back into the comfort of pillow and quilt.
Consciousness, returning.
Let's see. This is the planet Earth...I think. I was in some other galaxy last night. My name is Meg Thatcher. I have had, possibly, three hours' sleep, because my lover kept me awake most of the night. I feel sore and exhausted. God, I love feeling sore and exhausted for this particular reason.
How could she ever have thought this man naive? There apparently was nothing in the realm of lovemaking Fraser hadn't at least heard of, and he seemed to want to do it all. In one night. As if--as if he were afraid that there would never be another night like this.
Nonsense. She reached out for him, to tell him that of course there would be other nights, this had been merely the first of many--but her hand encountered only air.
Meg opened her eyes. He wasn't there. The imprint of his body was still visible in the soft goose-down pillow, the sheet, but the imprint was cold. He must have left some time ago.
She lay still, listening hard. Were there any noises, as of someone moving around? Smells of coffee brewing? Doors opening, as if to pick up the morning newspaper?
No.
Then he was gone, just gone. Pain stabbed her heart. Had he regretted their out-of-the-world night together? Was he fleeing the memory of what they had discovered in each other's arms?
Had he been, perhaps, overcome with embarrassment by the memory of making love to someone he referred to as his "superior officer"?
Or--did he simply consider her to be too old for him? She was a year older than he, but she had never imagined that Fraser would get hung up on things like that.
But he had said that he loved her. And Fraser wouldn't lie. Or would he? Was this a cruel joke, to pay her back for all the times she'd made his life miserable? Was this his revenge for all those demeaning little assignments she'd given him--picking up her clothes from the dry cleaner's, scouring the whole of Chicago for rare whisky, standing motionless for hours on guard outside the Consulate?
No, no, a thousand times. Fraser was neither vicious nor petty. There must be some other reason for his disappearance, probably the first one she'd thought of. He was too embarrassed to look her in the eye after a night like that one.
Tears stung her eyes. The ache in her heart was climbing upward: soon she would have an enormous, crashing headache. Well, a hot shower and a cup of tea would cure that.
She appreciated the hot water for making her feel better and hated it for washing all traces of Fraser off her skin--his sweat, his saliva, his....
She slid into the nearest garments she could find, jeans and a sweatshirt, and padded barefoot into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Not only would she have a cup of tea, she'd down a couple of aspirin. And then she would brood. And cry. And make herself completely miserable. Her lover evidently regretted his involvement with her. Did she regret the experience? Would she have been better off if it had never happened?
Remembering the feel of his hot skin against her own, his tongue teasing her tongue, his hungry mouth on her nipples, the way he'd seemed to know how to move to bring her to a climax so strong that she'd cried out and dug her fingernails into his shoulders until he groaned, she thought not. No regrets for the immediate past. She regretted only the bleakness of the future.
The teakettle whistled, rousing her from reverie. She made the tea, added a slice of lemon, sat down at the little table-for-two in her kitchen to drink it. Something white propped against the flower vase caught her eye. She reached for it.
It was a note. She unfolded it and read:
"Meg:
Didn't want to wake you, but had to go home to take care of Dief. Back at nine (minus Dief), with coffee and croissants. By the way, you're out of cream, so I'll get some of that too.
Love,
Ben."