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“Got it. I have to learn to open up about the big scary stuff.” I swallow. Not going to come easily. “Somehow, I have to trust that you can cope with anything I tell you. Then my protective side kicks in and convinces me you are better off not knowing.”
“You need to talk yourself out of that, Max. When the voice in your head tells you, ‘Keep her safe and in the dark,’ just say ‘hell no.’ I’d rather know what’s facing us. I know you think this guy may be targeting you. Tell me how serious this revenge threat is.”
I frown. My first thought is—how much can I keep back? NO, NO, NO. Wrong thinking. I have to come clean.
She strokes my cheek. “Hey, you don’t have to tell me every detail. Use the Homeland Security levels if that helps.”
Her casual use of Homeland Security levels makes me realize how embedded the mindset after 9-11 has permeated public consciousness. “Uh, between yellow and orange, I guess. We don’t have absolute confirmation that Nasim Faez is targeting me directly. We’re not sure whether the white powder sent from Istanbul is a threat or a warning. It might be from him, but we have no real proof. And if I am the target, why the cat-and-mouse game? He could have sent something that would kill me. Or he could activate a latent cell in Chicago and blow up the house.” I put my head in my hands.
“I guess I should take this seriously. In fact, I toyed with the idea of staying home.”
An unreasoning bubble of hope rises up, followed by a wave of desolation when I think about being without her.Get a grip, Max. You can’t have it both ways. I give my shoulders a shake.
I must look unfocused, because Cress taps my chest. “I decided against that. I still believe I could be in just as much danger alone. Besides, I would miss you far too much.”
“I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.”
She laces her fingers with mine, pulling me close for a kiss. “Same. That’s why I’m going. We have to take care of each other as best we can.”
ChapterTen
London
Cress
We land at Heathrow at the same private terminal where heads of state arrive. The posh lounge is inviting and I want to drink in the experience. Pretend I’m the first female President of the United States, arriving to visit the Queen.
Thick blue carpeting, decorated with colored lines that remind me of the Tube map, muffles sound, making the room much quieter than most airport lounges. Plush, dark gray upholstery tones beautifully with light gray walls, the effect soothing. Great for anxious travelers. Small, round granite-topped tables dot the room, mostly for the drinks that are available at the corner bar, although they are big enough to accommodate a laptop in a pinch.
My stomach burbles and I would kill for a bottomless pot of coffee and a full English breakfast. But there is no time to hang around absorbing the atmosphere. Max tells me that GSU arranged a limo service that takes us straight to the RAF Club. JL is staying around the corner at the Athenaeum Hotel, so it’s a one-stop trip.
Ian pulls me aside. “I didn’t think to mention it on the flight, but knowing Max, I’m sure he didn’t tell you that he and dad have the same birthday.”
“No. In fact he sidesteps every time I ask when it is.”
“He doesn’t like to celebrate it for some reason. Especially this time, when we are have a big party for Dad coming up. He walks to the curb, where a traditional black cab idles, and calls out, “Tomorrow at Rules.”
I yell back, “Aren’t you staying at the Club?”
“Of course, but that doesn’t guarantee I’ll catch you tonight or tomorrow morning.” He waves, then ducks into the backseat.
Traffic is heavy making the trip a bit slower than the half hour it normally takes to drive into central London. After the eight-hour flight, we are tired of sitting and gladly tumble out of the car when it pulls up the curb. A few deep breaths in the mild London sun, wonderful. Then I stand on the sidewalk, looking up at the enormous white pile of a Victorian building.
“It’s a Grade II-listed building that originally housed the Ladies Lyceum Club, with stables behind. Lord Cowdray, the founder of the club, financed the leasehold of the building and architect Maurice Webb handled the reconstruction between 1919 and 1922.” Max waves a hand toward the large white Victorian mansion that looms up from the sidewalk. “After the renovations were complete at the end of December 1921, it opened to members in January 1922. The Duke of York attended the official opening in February 1922.”
I grin, watching Max take on the role of tour guide.
Max puts his arm around me, and I snuggle into his warmth. “I haven’t stayed here in years, but Mum and Dad use it as their London base.”
I flush as my stomach gurgles.
Max smirks and gives me a pat. “Let’s check in. JL, do you want to walk ’round to the Athenaeum and drop your bag, then come back here for breakfast?”
“I’ll leave it with your stuff and eat first. I’ve heard the club offers an amazing breakfast.”
Max checks his watch. “After that message from Cress’ stomach, probably a good idea. They only serve until ten, and it’s already past nine.” He sweeps me into the elegant hall and up to the desk.
The receptionist raises his head up as we walk in. “Good morning. May I help you?”
