"I don’t think I have a choice,” Aaron said. “If you’ve managed to do this by fraud, you’re so much cleverer than me that I wouldn’t stand a chance anyway.”

“I’d prefer you to say that as if you think it’s possible.”

“I find it easier to believe in the graphology.”

“Ooh.”

Wildsmith grinned at him, the familiar spark of mischief glinting in his eyes. Aaron found he was smiling back. As if his indomitable attitude was contagious; as if the crushing weight of fear and responsibility was something he could leave outside Wildsmith’s door, just tonight.

As if...

“I do think I can trust you,” he said. “That still leaves the question of whether you might be able to trust me.”

The words landed in silence. Not uncomfortable, more a quivering awareness that he’d taken a step forward. A moment of recalibration.

Wildsmith’s eyes didn’t leave his face. “We could put that to the test too, Detective Sergeant. If you wanted. Though if you’d prefer gin and toast—”

“What test do you have in mind?”

Wildsmith took a deep breath. “I could make an indecent approach and see if you arrest me?”

Aaron’s heart was thundering. This was terrifying and dangerous and stupid, but so was everything else in his life. He’d been afraid and despairing, and now he wasn’t alone. And Wildsmith was lovely.

“Go on, then,” he said.

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

JOEL WASN’T ENTIRELY sure how to do this.

It was probably the worst-timed come-on he’d ever given and certainly the most reckless. He could have just left the offer of tea and sympathy on the table. Fowler had looked shocked, lost and hurting, but he was a big boy, he’d manage.

Only, there was that fizzing spark between them. And Fowler had harked back to that crackling moment in the pub, and God damn it, Joel lived on his intuition. He might as well stand on it.

He put down his glass and rose. Fowler looked at him, confused, then stood too. Joel stepped closer.

“Hello,” he said softly. “My name’s Joel. You’ve got gorgeous eyes.”

“Aaron.”

“Nice name.”

Joel reached up, slowly enough that Fowler, Aaron, could back away, which he didn’t. He slid two fingers over his cheekbone, down his jaw, down his neck. Felt as well as saw the convulsive swallow.

“Am I in trouble yet?”

“Depends on the magistrate,” Aaron said. His voice sounded a bit constricted.

Joel spread his fingers, running his hand slowly inside Aaron’s jacket, down his shirt, feeling firm flesh and muscle underneath. All the way down to the jut of hipbone. “Still legally sound?”

“Becoming questionable.”