“Mr. Graves.”
“Ms.Cordero. Tour of the compound is at oh-eight hundred. I thought you would want coffee first.” He held out a paper cup.
Refusing would’ve been theatrical, so I took it. I wanted it badly enough to resent him on principle.
It was the right temperature and right strength. Strong, hot, no room left for milk. It was exactly how I drank it, and exactly what I had told no one in this building.
At the first sip I made the small, involuntary hum I made when coffee was good and I was happy about it. I loved coffee with my whole unguarded heart and always had. It escaped before my professionalism could intercept it.
Dominic looked over. One eyebrow cocked.
Heat climbed my neck, the first blush I’d produced on assignment in years. I buried it the only way I had. “It’s fine,” I said, which fooled neither of us.
I didn’t ask whether Dominic had guessed, asked someone, or had decided overnight that my caffeine dependency was now part of his jurisdiction.
“Thank you.”
He nodded. He stayed on the wall. I drank the coffee in the doorway. He watched the corridor. I watched him watch thecorridor.
He was wearing a different black coat.
“You are staring, Ms.Cordero.”
I took another sip of coffee and worked to keep my expression neutral and pleasant. Pleasant was useful. It made people underestimate the amount of information being collected behind it.
“I’m evaluating my escort.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth as I sipped, then returned to my eyes. “Of course.”
“Did you sleep well, Mr.Graves?”
“No.” A flat, immediate answer with no social padding.
I lowered the cup. “That was a polite question, by the way.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve saidfine.”
His gaze went to the corridor, then back to me. “I prefer not to lie to you.”
* * *
The tour took two hours. He walked me through the public zones first. The lobby, the conference suites, the press room, the ceremonial dining hall, the library. He named every space but didn’t narrate them. He had given this tour a thousand times and wasn’t going to dress it up for the thousand-and-first.
“Library.”
I provided a small nod.
He moved on. “Conference Three,” he said. “Used for trade delegations.”
He waited the half-beat that meantnext room. “This corridor is closed to visitors during shifting hours.”
The corridor looked like every other corridor: timber, steel, glass, expensive silence.
“What are shifting hours?”
“Variable.”
