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The wind off the ocean kicked up stinging sand, and Phryne and Jack stopped abruptly to shield their eyes. The thick air was humid and overly-warm.
“Miss Fisher, I don't think we're going to find anything else tonight.” He flipped up his collar to guard against the small raindrops that started to pelt them. “And I've already had my constables search this area.”
She had to speak loudly to be heard above the distant thunder. “I know, Jack, but the night will come, that storm will roll in, and any hope we have of finding anything will be greatly diminished, if not erased.” Her keen eyes continued to scan the vicinity as she spoke, the daylight practically gone and an eerie and sudden gray-yellow cast settling in the air. “It was clearly unmeditated, something as crass and blunt as that. The killer would have had to...there!” she interjected, running a few paces ahead and crouching down. She came upon something flapping, a bit of green whipped around by the wind. A twig with a few leaves attached looked as though it been buried in the beach, next to a small mound in the sand. She began to dig, sand flying behind her, until she came across something and smiled broadly, looking up at Jack.
“Well Jack, if I had to guess--”
“Yes, Miss Fisher,” he interrupted her, kindly, sliding the red-splattered garden spade into an evidence bag. “I'd agree.”
“Do you think…?” she pointed to a notch in the handle, and looked up at him. He responded with an affirmative grunt and tucked it into an inside pocket.
They'd been doing that lately, speaking in short-hand, their work and thinking often so coordinated that words were superfluous. And on those glorious occasions when their impressions didn't align, when they did disagree, and words became very important tools for proving points and impressing the other, their banter reached a pitch that had Phryne reeling delightedly. She suspected the same held true for Jack, but, uncharacteristically, she held annoying, niggling doubts about his attraction to her. After all, she'd purposefully made several opportunities for romance, but never once had he taken the bait.
Was he so shy that he would not make an advance? She thought not. Which left two other possibilities—he was misreading her and did not think she would respond positively, or he simply didn't want her, and preferred only her friendship. (Why she herself felt so hesitant to make a move was something to consider another day.)
As they gave a last look around for any further clues and began to head toward his police vehicle, he gave her a warm smile, full of something like pride and wonder.
“How did you know?”
“It was out of place. All of the other debris from the beach had been pushed along toward the cliff. The twig looked like it had been buried, like a child would have done, but this is such an awkward spot to bring children to. I suspect the killer just dug the hole and filled in the sand and the twig went in with it.”
Seeing her cleverness marveled at, rather than tolerated, was a small thrill Phryne had only just started getting used to. As she smiled back at him she felt her heart beating a little more wildly, a little more erratically.
At a particularly loud crack of thunder, they turned to see the storm begin in earnest, and made a dash for his auto when the rain became nearly a solid wall of water. Rather than try to make it all the way to the road, they sought shelter in the lee of the cliff which had a shallow but useful overhang, and while they still felt the warm rain, it was much less penetrating.
She looked herself over and gave a silly, hopeless look at him as she regarded the state of her rain jacket and clothes. The smile he returned was so boyish, admiring the clinging garments, and simultaneously loving that it made her shiver. He took her hands in his to warm them, assuming her shiver to be a chill.
Unable to be heard above the full force of the storm, he leaned over and spoke directly into her ear. “Do you want me to…” she couldn't understand the rest over the squall, and turned to face him, giving him a puzzled look and shaking her head, mouthing “What?” He leaned in to repeat himself, and this time she heard nothing, just felt his breath and the reverberation of his voice on the shell of her ear.
At that tickling rumble at her ear, any restraint or hesitance to seduce Jack Robinson went directly out the window, and when he brought his face around to see if she understood him this time, he was clearly surprised by the look in her eye, though he didn't have much time to decipher it, as her lips were on his and her hands began clutching at his chest, moving gradually to his face, wrapping around his neck, smoothing back down his chest. His kiss in return was reserved, but not unfeeling.
Her heart sank briefly when he slowly pulled away to look at her, but soared again when she felt his palm cradle the back of her head, gently rubbing her neck and scalp with his thumb. She felt the warmth spread down her neck, through her spine, filling her body.
As the last light faded, and through the distortions from the storm, in an odd land of fantasy and unreality, he asked her a question with his eyes, brows raised, a beautiful and penetrating stare: Is this something, Phryne? Is this meaningful?
She understood, and nodded slowly.
She lowered her eyes and then looked back up at him, willing him also to understand: I can only be myself. He too nodded, slowly. Then, after a few beats to confirm the solemnity of the moment, he wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her into him. With a rough, ragged breath, a silent 'Geronimo', he finally put his lips to hers.
Their rain-soaked kisses slipped and slid, often missing their mark, landing in a frantic, patternless fury, matching the rhythm of the rain.
They felt, rather than heard, the endearments of the other, their breath soft against the others' cheek and lips, the vibrations rumbling through their pressed chests.
Some minutes later, as the noise and rain slowed, they did as well. The rain continued in a half-hearted way, and they were reluctant to break contact, keeping hands together, touching forehead to forehead, then cheek to chest. It was dark now, and quiet.
He fanned his broad palms down her arms and laughed, a disbelieving chuckle through a closed mouth. “What was it you thought I'd said?” he asked her in the stillness.
She laughed in return, then responded honestly: “I didn't hear anything.”
In a heartbeat her laugh turned to a simper and she batted her lashes. “But there is more to communication than words, Jack Robinson.”
She grabbed his hand again and silently encouraged him across the beach, back to the car, where they enjoyed and explored lengthier, slightly drier, non-verbal interactions.