It was a well-worn route from the seminar room to Harry Shaw’s bed, via dinner and cocktails: a sleight of hand that he’d perfected over the years.

They rolled apart, catching their breath, and Harry enjoyed for a few seconds the feeling of lightness: anxieties temporarily banished. Tabitha turned, watching him with dark eyes.

“Well, Doctor Shaw. I’d heard graduate supervisions at the old English universities are intense, but I hadn’t expected them to be quite so…stimulating.”

“Some traditions” replied Harry, stretching, “are worth upholding.”

His phone rang, again, and he groaned as anxiety seeped back, spreading like a stain.

“You are a wanted man, Harry Shaw.”

“You could say that, yes.”

She traced slow circles on his chest with her fingertips. “Your stone-age nanocomputer?”

He started. “How did you…”

“Contacts.” Smiling, she put a finger to his lips, shushed him. “But Harry…let’s not worry about that now.” She drew closer, gently bit his chin. A hand moved beneath the covers. He gasped.