Page 13 of Beloved Beast

“People can be boorish,” Gillian said, not bothering to keep the annoyance from her voice.

“I’m used to the impolite stares. Even the screams.” He gave her a teasing grin. “People are not comfortable with what they cannot understand or anything beyond the norm. I spent a good deal of my life living in an isolated area. It was my wife who encouraged me to get out more.”

Wife? He was married? Disappointment covered her and she was not sure why or if it was even wise. The waitress picked that moment to arrive with a tray laden with cups, saucers, small plates, utensils, and a brown betty teapot along with milk and sugar. This time she purposely avoided meeting Luke’s gaze. She busily set the table. “Scones will be along directly,” she murmured as she departed.

“You’re married, then?” Gillian asked.

“Was. My wife passed away some years ago.” He frowned, his brows furrowing, and she understood the look. It would be best to avoid any personal talk if they could help it, at least this afternoon. Though she was curious as a calico cat to hear the details. Why wouldn’t he be married? Despite his gray skin and scars, he was a fine figure of a man with a soft, husky voice that would send tremors along any woman’s spine. It certainly did hers. Some years ago? Was he older than he looked? Lord, how she itched to pepper him with questions. Especially on how he could tell if she lied or not. Well, she would ask later. A public teashop was not the proper place for such a discussion.

“I am sorry. It seems we have both suffered losses of the heart.” She added milk to her teacup and motioned toward Luke. He nodded then she poured a little in his. “I know the situations are not the same, but I will never see Otto again. In fact, he may be dead already.”

A moment of silence followed. He picked up the teapot and filled their cups. “Fred did say he would try and get word one way or another.”

“What existed between us is over. I’ve been carrying the guilt of what I did for three years now. I’m afraid I do not make a good spy. I cannot fake my responses.” She exhaled. “Even if by some chance he survived, he would never forgive the betrayal. There is no future between us. I knew it then, I know it now.”

Luke sipped his tea. “I do not see why Kroger wouldn’t forgive you. He betrayed his wife easily enough. Why would he not forgive something he did himself? The lying, cheating, and so forth.”

Anger tore through her as her blood boiled. This man continued to judge her. How tempting to dash the tea in his face. And once again, her emotions were running rampant. “Not that it is any of your business, but he and his wife had a loveless marriage.”

He buttered his scone then slathered it with raspberry jam. “It was not your assignment to become infatuated with him. Rather poor judgment on your part.”

Gillian scoffed, lifting the cup under her veil to take a sip. “Quite right. I should have been more of an automaton like you. Perform my duties in a detached, cold way. I was sent there with the express purpose of seducing him to gain information. He was chosen for the exact reason his marriage was in trouble. I agree becoming smitten with him was not part of the plan. But it happened. It did, however, start as an assignment for king, country, and empire.” She let him hear the annoyance.

Luke glared at her. “Sleeping with the enemy. I am aware it was an assignment. Becoming besotted with someone is never part of the plan, is it? I apologize, for I am a fine one to talk. I fell in love with the woman who would become my wife, when all common sense told me to walk away and spare her the life she would have with a man like me. But even automatons have feelings.”

Damn him, why did he stir up such emotions in her? Frustrated tears collected on her lashes, but she blinked them away. Annoyed, she tore off a piece of scone and nibbled on it. After she swallowed she looked up at him; his face was hard-set, his mouth drawn into a taut line. “Perhaps it is best if we not speak on personal matters. If we are to be in each other’s company for the next couple of weeks, it would be best if we kept it professional.”

His mouth quirked at her cool tone. “I like the way you bristle at any hint of admonishment. Shows you are not afraid to stand up for yourself. I like the haughty way you talk back to me. You are an astonishing blend of emotions and opinions I find fascinating.” Luke chewed quietly on his scone. At this moment, Gillian wished she could see his eyes. “Not speak on personal matters?” he continued. “Then there would not be much to talk about. We both should make an effort to get along as we will be in each other’s pockets. Chalk up my judgmental statements to envy.”

Envy? He envied Otto? What could he mean—he was attracted to her? Dishes clattered all around her and conversations from surrounding tables filled her hearing. As she originally decided, this was not the place to discuss the implications of his statement. But she would broach this subject later. “You say whatever you are thinking, don’t you?” she said.

“I do. I cannot abide games or the lies told to further the game along. If I am too blunt, I will make an effort to curb my tongue.”

Gillian tore off another piece of scone. “Well, seems strange you are working for MI-6 if you’re not one for games.”

He took another sip of tea. “It is the personal and emotional ones I abhor.”

“Well, they too are part of the spy game. Actually,” she whispered, “I also like the way you talk back to me. Do not censor yourself on my account.”

“Good. Glad we got that settled.” He waved to the waitress to catch her attention. “We’d better gather up our food and leave immediately. The green Austin Eight drove by for the second time. Let us return to the game at hand.”

Gillian’s insides twisted. Were these the Nazi operatives Mr. Parker spoke of? Could her sister be in danger? With the bill paid and the take-away food boxed up, she took Luke’s arm and exhaled shakily as they stepped outside.

Chapter 6

It wasn’t often Fred Parker ventured out into the field. Instead, he worked behind the scenes coordinating agents and juggling multiple missions. Considering the circumstances, he believed it only fair he escort Joan Simm himself. According to Miss Browning, when her sister was a small child she moved to that address with her father after the divorce. She was well-established, known in the community, and close to her neighbors.

Taking Miss Simm to his parents was an impulsive decision. On a selfish level, it also answered Fred’s own concerns for his parents’ well-being. Sadly, he was acutely aware his father did not have much longer to live, and his mother had a stroke last year and was not able to look after her husband and keep the house as she was able to before. Nonetheless, he could not keep Miss Simm there at the point of a gun. It would be a temporary situation at best.

As he turned onto Aberavon Road, he observed three women dressed in overalls wearing kerchiefs about their heads chatting and walking toward the set of flats where Joan Simm resided. He couldn’t see their faces clearly, but one whose lush shape was evident as the overalls hugged her curves, waved good-bye to the others and entered the flats. Could this be Miss Simm? Parking his car across the street, he wished he had a photograph to go by, but there was no time to procure one either from her sister or by an agent keeping surveillance outside her place.

Slipping Miss Browning’s letter in his coat pocket, he locked his car and sprinted across the road. The front door to the flats was ajar, so he entered the small foyer. Miss Browning stated her sister lived on the second floor. Slowly he ascended the narrow, winding stairs. The place was not in the best of condition; cracked plaster and peeling paint covered the walls, the odor of ancient tobacco smoke permeated the air. With each step he took, the well-worn wood floors squeaked in protest.

Fred knocked on the door. It swung open and before him stood one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Over the years he’d indulged in meaningless affairs, enjoying the physical aspect of the brief encounters and leaving unscathed with his heart and emotions well intact. But here he stood as if he had been struck by lightning. An odd sensation.

He removed his fedora. “Pardon me, are you Miss Joan Simm, sister of Gillian Browning?”

“Who wants to know?” she asked warily.