Chapter Text
Phryne slipped up soundlessly from the cells, where her client was enjoying City South’s finest hospitality, and paused just past the top of the stairs to stealthily observe a certain DI.
Jack had not been at the station when she had first arrived. Sometime between arguing with a new constable about having to sign the visitor’s log (she practically worked there for God’s sake), and extracting her client’s alibi for the night in question (spent at a club known for catering to unusual tastes – easy enough to verify when one knew the owner), he must have returned.
In the months since her return to Melbourne, she and Jack had picked up where they had left off at the airfield, courting openly even as they worked in lock-step. (Well, perhaps with Phryne just the teensiest step ahead.) Now that they were together, she was free to admire Jack Robinson as much as she pleased without consideration for how it might appear – not that she had ever shied away from it.
But this was different. Watching him without his knowledge felt dangerous and forbidden and just a little bit… wrong. It was intoxicating.
In the sphere of his own company, his movements were not designed to entice or tease her and their fluidity was captivating for all its artlessness. His expressions were not for her amusement but rather, little windows to the machinations of his mind and heart and gut. And when he talked aloud to himself, it was in an unpolished, gruff sotto voce that ensnared her in its velvet-steel trap more tightly than Archie Jones’ practiced patter ever could.
He was perched on the corner of his desk (her corner, as she had come to think of it), facing away from her. But even from her hiding place just beyond his office’s second door, she could make out the satisfied twist of his mouth and the smug wriggle of his snub-tipped nose as he gazed down into his cupped hands in awe.
A feral grin stole across Phryne’s face, and she licked her eyetooth in a manner that suggested sharpening.
It had been a very wicked thing to do, slipping that boudoir photograph into his suit pocket. (What she would have given to have seen his expression at the discovery!) But watching him indulge in the image while he was on duty was almost better. Jack’s brazenness and greed for pleasure was surprising her at every turn. Anticipation began to coil, pulling taught at the base of her spine, wound tighter by the swelling that ached so sweetly between her thighs.
Distracted as she was watching her lover (and imagining striking the same pose for him in the flesh), she hadn’t even noticed Sergeant Wilkins sidle into the room – his piggy eyes fixed possessively on what Jack was holding.
“That’s quite a piece you scored, Robinson.”
The unexpected voice of the nasally tenor startled her but Phryne took a calming breath and quickly found her equilibrium - determined for once, not to be the freight train he delighted in calling her. It was a risk they had identified early on, when they decided not to hide their relationship, and not one that Jack would allow to stand in their way. His solve and conviction rates were indisputable and his reputation, sterling (Phryne swore the prosecutor practically salivated every time he read ‘Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson’ on the court docket). Jack had sworn that if he was ever questioned, he would deal with it and so she had promised him the space to do just that.
Now that the time had come, she was not all that surprised to find herself coated with a warm flood of desire. Phryne rocked back on her heels and waited for Jack to school the prig (she did so love when he exerted his authority). Wilkins wouldn’t manage an assignment beyond slopping out the cells for the next fortnight.
Jack stood, circling around to the front of his desk, to lean cock-sure against its hefty weight. He cleared his throat, the rasp of air catching on the textures of his mouth. After long minutes of sizing up the other man, Jack finally spoke.
“She’s a real beauty alright.”
(That’s right, Jack! Give him hell— Wait! What?)
Wilkins’ eyes searched the Inspector, his gaze finally finding the object of their mutual lust – intentionally placed on the desk by its owner to send a message.
Jack reached over nonchalantly and began to stroke it – the smooth rocking of his arm apparent to her, even from her vantage point. It was a tactical maneuver she recognised at once and felt her skin crawl. (You can look, but you cannot touch.) It was a taunt. A dare. And it reeked of possession.
White hot flames licked at the sides of her face. (So much for the noble Jack Robinson.) Had Phryne ever wagered on her immunity to blushing, she would have lost what remained of her not-insubstantial fortune.
“Dunno how you managed to get her past the Chief—”
“The Chief,” Jack interrupted, “Is perfectly aware of the potential entanglements. He believes the benefits far outweigh the risks.” His voice was as placid as Lakes Entrance, but his head tilted in that maddening way that anyone who knew him would read as a challenge.
“Hmph! Sure you can handle her?” the sergeant sneered, “You’re getting a bit up there in years. Maybe the reflexes ain’t what they used to be?”
“I think I know how to handle her better than you, Wilkins. I am the commanding officer in charge here, after all. That means I have the most experience of any man in this station." Jack’s mouth curled into a knowing smile. “And, there are distinct— advantages to having her in my pocket.”
Pinpricks lit across her palms as her nails fisted into the balled-up flesh and she bit her tongue hard to keep her howl of betrayal buried firmly in her breast. The pain kept her feet firmly tethered to the dingy lino, hell bent on letting the scene play out to its bitter end (to see him for the actor he really was). Phryne Fisher could abide pretty fools and clever dags, but she had long had her fill of charming scoundrels.
Sergeant Wilkins’ laugh snorted loudly through the station, turning Phryne’s stomach until she tasted bile. (Was the entire Victoria Constabulary aware that Inspector Robinson’s partnership with her was an elaborate rouse?)
Stripes gleaming on his starched uniform, Hugh Collins strode into Jack’s office. “Everything alright, Sir? I heard a ruckus,” he asked, concern written across the lines of his forehead. (The entire Constabulary except Hugh, then. Bless him.)
“Fine, Collins,” Jack tutted. “The sergeant, here, was just admiring my latest acquisition.” He gestured to his left, toward the desk.
Hugh’s eyes grew wide as saucers. He leaned forward, hand outstretched, and licked his lips as if tasting the words to ask for permission. (Dot never need know of this.) Just as his fingertips got within inches of the desktop, Collins lost his nerve and pulled his hand back as if it were burned. The heat mounting in his high complexion completed the image as his two superior officers chortled at his naiveté.
Wilkins clapped his hands in derisive applause and wiped an errant tear from the corner of his eye. “What say you, Constable?” he finally asked the younger man. “I know you’re loyal to Robinson— But do you really think your boss has what it takes to squeeze that off?”
“Well—” Hugh began nervously, “Miss Fisher told my Dottie that Inspector Robinson holds the record for, ah—”
Wilkins’ eyebrow nearly leapt off his face in curiosity. “Yes, Collins? Go on.”
“—Being able to perform under pressure.”
Phryne had to clap her hand over her mouth. (She didn't recall sharing that particular detail with her companion - of course, that it didn't make it any less true.) The thought didn't make her feel any better.
“Did she? Well! Now I am impressed,” Wilkins bowed his head playfully toward the Inspector.
Jack smirked in return. “Years of piano lessons. My fingers don’t tire easily,” he said, his shoulders giving an arch little shrug. (You smug bastard! You’ll be lucky if I don’t break them all.) “The record is unofficial, of course. I believe Miss Fisher holds the current title.”
“I suppose it’s only fair then,” Wilkins huffed. “But Collins is my witness— I’ve got dibs! I’d be happy to take her off your hands when you get bored.”
“I don’t think that’s likely to happen any time soon,” Jack teased, lacing his arms across his chest in victory. “But I’ll take your offer under advisement.” He leaned his hip against the edge of his desk, stretching himself out like a tom cat. “Miss Fisher! See there, gents? Speak of the devil and the devil—”
!!! SMACK !!!
(to be continued...)