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His eyes pierce me with their intensity and then he jerks
his head. ‘There is a risk of that.’
‘God.’ I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘We have got to be so careful, Connor.’
He nods again.
‘I would never do that.’
‘I know.’ He braces my body with his strong hands on either side. ‘I know that.’
‘This is different. I didn’t want to want you...’
‘Believe me, that’s mutual.’ He strokes my hair. ‘I came to London to clear my head and you are definitely not helping.’
My heart turns over and I hear the vulnerabilities deep beneath his confession. ‘Why did you need to clear your head?’
He visibly retracts, withdrawing from me. ‘Forget the assignment,’ he says instead. ‘Forget I mentioned it. I shouldn’t be using what I know of you to colour my assessment of your work.’
‘It’s not that easy,’ I dismiss. ‘Connor? It’s Donovan, isn’t it?’
His eyes show me truths his mind isn’t willing to share. ‘It’s a milestone case.’ He shrugs. ‘You’re meant to be cooking.’
I’m frustrated by his unwillingness to open up to me, but I have learned a thing or two from Connor. The way he dips and dives through conversations, extracting little nuggets of information that he seeks without my realising that he’s excavating my brain.
I nod, as though I’m accepting he’s closed the conversation down.
‘So,’ he says, his tone noticeably brighter, ‘did you say sisters? Brother? How many Amorellis are there out there, fighting to save the world?’
I smile, relaxed by the thought of my family. ‘Only one other—my dad. He’s a superintendent with the Met police.’
‘Ah.’ Connor’s eyes narrow. Damn it. I’ve done it again, handing him crumbs about myself when I want to learn about him.
‘My two sisters are both surgeons. One vascular, one paediatric. My brother’s a pilot and Mum’s a teacher.’ My cheeks flash with colour as I imagine just what she’d say about this little debacle.
‘Your parents must be very proud,’ he says with a smile. He’s trying to put me at ease. And because I know Connor now, and I know how he is so not the kind of person to care about relaxing people, this knowledge does something funny to my stomach, my heart, my blood, my brain.
I smile back at him, the tension that coiled through me just before dissipating completely. ‘As yours must be,’ I prompt, my basket out, ready to collect crumbs of my own.
His eyes meet mine. There’s a battle on his face and he weighs his words with care.
‘My parents are dead.’ His smile is tight. Again, I feel it’s to offer reassurance, but it doesn’t work this time. Guilt rushes over me.
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
He reaches for my wine and sips it.
‘When...?’ My curiosity is natural and I hope he doesn’t resent me for it. He watches me thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.
‘I was twelve. It was an IRA attack. They were away for their wedding anniversary, in London. A bomb went off outside a bank. They died. My mother instantly, my father in hospital a week later.’
‘Oh, God.’ I forget about the cannelloni. I forget about everything except the twelve-year-old boy Connor was. I move around to him and put my arms around his shoulders. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Yeah. The shit people do,’ he says with a lift of his shoulders that would dislodge my arms if I were less determined to hold on. He clears his throat, his eyes contemplative. ‘I think about that often. The act of violence and madness. I think about the people who perpetrate these crimes, and I try to see that there is more to them than just that one act.’ He shakes his head, frustrated by words he can’t find. ‘There are bad people out there, but few people who are wholly bad.’
I nod, understanding this, agreeing with him, but needing to fix him as well.
I press a kiss to his temple, and I wonder if he was afraid. What was he like? Questions trip through me, questions that I want to ask and don’t know if he’ll welcome. So I cup his face in my hands and kiss him lightly on the lips, hoping I can convey sympathy with the feel of my mouth.
