One of the people I follow on Tumblr posts gifs and pictures of Richard Armitage's Philip Durrant every week. They were the inspiration for this two-shot. The title for the first chapter comes from 1940s slang meaning "hey girl, are you taken?" (Get it? Because they had to ration sugar back then.) So basically, it's a '40s version of a pick-up line…that doesn't actually get used in the chapter. But I was vastly amused by it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Philip Durrant (Agatha Christie does).

Enjoy! I sure did while writing it. ;)

Part I: "Hi Sugar, are you rationed?"

The woman walked into the pub, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor, and took a seat at the bar. Philip noticed her right away. She had attracted the attention of many other men, as well, but with her flaming, red hair and figure-hugging dress, how could she not? The woman stuck out like the first autumnal leaf in a tree of green, and from her slight look of discomfort, she knew it.

The men were watching, but thus far, only one had approached her. She conversed politely with him, but Philip saw that her smile did not reach her eyes. So, being the gallant gentleman he enjoyed to portray, he stood and walked over to her.

"Good evening, madam," Philip greeted her. "I was sitting in that corner over there," he turned and pointed to his table, "and I couldn't shake this feeling that we've met somewhere before."

She looked at him, a small crease forming between her brows. But then she smiled, and this time, her eyes did, too. Philip didn't bother to quell the smugness that swelled in his breast.

"Why, I believe you're correct, sir," she replied, in a distinctly American accent. "Perhaps this morning at the newspaper stand."

The other man, realizing that he was quickly losing favor with the woman, tried to reclaim her attention with a question about her origins.

Before she could answer, Philip interjected. "May I buy you a drink while we get to the bottom of this conundrum?"

"I'd like that," she said. The woman apologized to her first suitor and followed Philip to his table. "I'm grateful to you," she remarked, once they had sat down.

"I know the look of a woman who's heartily bored," he said, with a smirk.

Her gaze traveled over him, taking in his impeccably tailored suit and neat, dark hair.

"Yes, I'm sure you do," she quipped. Her lips twitched, and there was the hint of a glimmer in her eyes that intrigued him. "But you know," she mused aloud, "I really do think I've seen you before."

"At the newspaper stand?"

The woman laughed. "Maybe. You're hard to miss, after all."

"I am quite tall," he confessed.

"Indeed," she agreed, that mischievous expression still present on her face. "Your scowl is quite memorable, too."

He arched a brow, while a half-smile, half-smirk played on his lips.

"But I never scowl, madam," he said gravely. "You must have mistaken me for someone else."

"I'm sure I haven't," she insisted. "You were with a tall, black-haired woman."

Philip very nearly scowled in response. He had been in town with Mary this morning, but he certainly would not be telling the woman that.

"Well, it appears that I am mistaken, then." Smiling, he inclined his head. "I bow to your superior talent of observation."

She watched him with those sharp, gray eyes, and Philip knew she had seen his brief flash of irritation. But instead of commenting on it, she held out her right hand.

"I'm Zelda."

"Philip," he replied, shaking her hand. "Like Zelda Fitzgerald?"

"Yup." The woman opened a small, silver case and withdrew a cigarette. Philip dutifully lit it. After taking a drag, she explained, "Mom's obsessed with the '20s. Absolutely hates the '50s."

"And you?" he asked.

"Me? I'm partial to the '40s." She indicated her black dress with a low-cut neckline.

When Zelda had walked into the pub, her shapely figure, accentuated by the cinched waist of her dress, had caught and held his attention. But now that she was sat in front of him, Philip could not resist sneaking a glance at her décolletage.

"Ah yes," he murmured. "Your ensemble is so authentic that it gave me flashbacks of the war."

She looked at him blankly, as though she were unsure of how to take his words. He smiled. That seemed to put her at ease, because she gave a sharp laugh while taking another puff of her cigarette and exhaling the smoke.

"Didn't you promise me a drink?" she inquired.

"I did indeed," Philip answered, standing. He donned his coat and held out his hand towards Zelda. She took it and allowed him to help her into her coat. "But not here," he said, his voice pitched lower. "Somewhere more...private."

Proffering her his arm, he led Zelda out of the pub, his cold, blue eyes surveying her features.

"Of course, only if you are amenable," he added, almost as an afterthought.

She looked critically at him, and for an instant, he feared she might decline. But then the frown cleared, and she said, with a wink, "Well, you do owe me that drink."

#

Since taking Zelda to the lodge was out of the question, Philip bought a bottle of brandy and followed her to the hotel at which she was staying. As he entered the room, he was struck by the realization that he knew absolutely nothing about this woman, nor she about him. He'd had his fair share of affairs, but all had involved women with whom he was at least acquainted. Zelda, however, was a mystery.

Never one to conceal his thoughts, Philip asked, "So...what's a beautiful American doing in this sleepy part of England?"

She arched a brow at him, unimpressed by his flattery, and took a careful sip of brandy.

"My grandfather died and left me some money," she replied. "So I'm here for his funeral."

His eyebrows rose in mild surprise. "You don't sound very bereaved."

"I barely knew him," she said, shrugging. "He and Dad were estranged for most of my life. In fact, I was shocked to have been included in his will at all."

"Your father's side is British, then," deduced Philip.

He took a swig of his brandy, watching Zelda cross one leg over the other. Clad in sheer, black stockings, her legs were long and shapely. His hands itched to feel them.

"Nothing gets past you, does it?" she quipped good-naturedly. Although he was generally averse to being teased, her irreverence had charmed him and had dulled the irritation he would ordinarily feel. "Yes, my father's side is British. Dad came to America in 1926, met Mom, and the rest, as they say, is history."

Philip leaned forward and placed a hand on her knee.

"What say you and I make a little history, too?"

Her face was expressionless for an instant, then it broke into a grin, which was accompanied by giggles.

"I cannot believe you just said that."

Philip indulged her with a sheepish smile, a rarity for him. "I'm not...how shall I say?...accustomed to flirting," he conceded.

"No, I would imagine not," Zelda intoned, eyeing him pensively. "Well, in answer to your question, that would be just the bee's knees."

"The bee's knees?" he repeated, raising a skeptical brow.

"Like I said," she replied, "Mom loves the '20s."

He pulled her up from the sofa and wrapped his arms around her waist. "The bee's knees it is, then."