Four damn hours.



Four damn hours it took to get upstairs.



Four hours of tottering around in a stupid frilly uniform, pretending to be a vapid little girl whilst serving hot hors d’oeurves to drunken business men and their snobbish wives. Oh, Josephine hated the wives even more than the men. She hated their eyes, the way the dance of their pupils as they flickered back and forth between their husbands and Josephine, and the way their blackened lashes bowed as they narrowed…

Soft murmurs. 

"Sawyer."

No.

"Josephine."

Go away.

"Josephine!"

WHAT. "What!?"

"Are you sleeping?"

She opens her eyes, suddenly aware that he's right. As she shuffles around in her chair, trying to find comfort again, the police captain comes into focus from across the table.

'Wake up," he barks.

"I'm awake." Irritability stains her voice.

"Josephine Sawyer, I've been captain of the London police for sixteen years.…

She walks into the bar, hips swaying, the air around her tasting ever so slightly of alcohol and lovemaking. She tilts her head to the side and leans over the counter. Dark laughter breaks through the lively chatter behind her. "Well, if it isn't the clockwork babydoll herself. Hands in the air, Sawyer."



She steadies her heart. It's only the police. No worries. She drapes an easy smile across her lips and opens her arms. "Captain Randall Tawnley, ladies and…