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As I enter the foyer, a memory returns like a wave.
I remember going to an amusement park with Micki and Paul when we were about ten. I hated the rides, but they begged me to go, calling me a spoilsport. When we go there, they dared me to go on the spinning teacup ride. I hated it even more than the Ferris wheel and the roller coaster. Once it started whirling, I panicked and screamed. The operator brought the ride to a sudden halt, knocking everyone to the floor.
I remember stumbling out, crying and shaking, while the other riders and the operator berated me for spoiling everyone else’s fun. Mick and Paul looked ashamed for pushing me. We never went back.
The sensation of rotating and revolving at high speed, wanting to stop but clinging on tightly, afraid the acceleration will fling me out, is nauseating. And now I’ve reached another crossroad. If I can’t stop clinging to the deep belief that Max may never make good on his promise to shake his difficulty in sharing secrets, and I can’t overcome my refusal to accept that reality, we may never make it.
ChapterFourteen
Max
The walk from the Lamb & Flag to Clos Maggiore is only a minute but JL and I take an evasive path, down St. Martin’s Lane, up Long Acre past the Covent Garden tube station to Bow Street. We dawdle a bit by the Royal Opera House before turning down Russell Street, where we duck in and quickly check out Benjamin Pollock’s Toyshop before ending up on King Street in front of Clos Maggiore. No followers as far as either of us can tell.
Clos Maggiore is so much in demand I made our reservation in January, as soon as I knew when we would be in London. Even then, this was the only night they had available and nothing earlier than nine p.m. My long meeting with the Chicago work group means I’m still running it fine.
The problems at GSU might be the proverbial straw, even though I’m leaving everything in Jarvis’ hands. The blow is like being hit in the back of the head with a cricket bat whilst the ball whacks me in the chest. I am aggrieved and desolate all in one fell swoop. For a moment I toy with rushing back to Chicago, but Jarvis is technically better able to deal with the coding issues and Clay has operatives well-placed to find the saboteurs. With Nasim Faez on the loose, I face bigger issues.
Maybe I need to put Cress on a plane for Chicago, whether she likes it or not. Damn, much as I want to, I can’t treat her like the helpless heroine of a Victorian novel. She knows the risks, and I am grateful she stands with me, even though I want her to run away.
A black taxi pulls up at the red awning and Cress hops out just as we reach the entrance. I breathe a sigh of relief.
JL punches me in the arm. “I’m off now. Think I’ll go somewhere for pizza.”
I nod absently, unable to take my eyes off Cress as she crosses toward me. My breath catches as I take in her slender figure, wrapped in a black cashmere agnès b Swindon coat is an extravagant replacement for the red coat ripped by a bullet when Tina shot her last year. The stand-up collar frames her delicate oval face. She has it unbuttoned, and I notice flashes of green underneath as she comes toward me. I slip my hand into hers, dropping a kiss on her cheek, and lead her into paradise.
“Hello, you,” she whispers.
“I feel like it’s been forever, even though it’s only been a few hours.”
I check her coat, and when I turn to look at her, I’m transfixed. Even though I saw the dress when she bought it, the ivory V-neck bodice, lace design at the waist, and flared green silk skirt, sheer enough to hint at the satin underskirt in a slightly darker green, shows off her figure to perfection.
Her face lights up as I slip my hand onto the small of her back as we follow the maître d’ through the elegant Georgian townhouse to a room festooned with a forest of branches, fairy lights, and cherry blossom hanging from the ceiling and running down the walls, to a cozy table for two, to the right of the fireplace. The mirrors surrounding it made the room appear twice the size.
When we first walk into Clos Maggiore, Cress sniffs the air and checks out the tiny flowers hanging everywhere. They are so lifelike, I can understand her reaction. When she’s not assaulted by fragrance, her shoulders, which had been brushing her ear lobes, drop.
“Not to worry.” I smirk. “Can you imagine the mess if all those blooms were real?”
She snorts. “I can imagine the floors covered with drifts of blossom, waiters in hip boots shoveling them into giant trash bags.”
I try to hold in my laughter without much success as the other diners turn at the sound.
Cress drops into the rose-colored armchair the host had pulled out for her. She kicks at the fabric of the burgundy underskirt for the white tablecloth, trying to put her feet under the table. No time to chat as a waiter comes up asking for our drink order. After ordering cocktails, a Negroni for Cress and an old-fashioned for me, Cress leans her elbows on the table, chin resting on her entwined fingers, eyes pinched with worry.
“Did you have a bad day?” She pitches her voice so low even the soft jazz in the background makes it hard to make out her words. “You look tired, and sad.”
I swallow more of my drink while I try to decide what to tell her. This meal is supposed to be a tangible expression of how much I love her. Why am I treating it as if it is the last meal of a condemned man? I finger the small box in my jacket pocket. Now is not the time.
To distract her, I lob a question. “How wasBrown’s?”
I expect Cress to give me the blow-by-blow. But she frowns at my attempt at a diversion.
The glass in my hand is empty, and I wave over a waiter. “Another, please.” As he grabs the heavy crystal beaker, I glance at Cress’ Negroni. She has only taken a sip.
We sit, barely moving, waiting for my fresh drink. I can’t figure out to respond to her earlier statement. Right now, talking about my meeting with Allan Mason is off the table.
Instead I peruse the extensive wine menu. Whatever we order, Cress will want a red. For myself, a Montrachet Grand Cru will be perfect with seafood. I’m twenty-six pages in before the reds appear. The depth of their cellar is astonishing, and I give all the options careful consideration as a welcome diversion from terrorists and saboteurs and arsehole former colleagues. I toy with the idea of a Côte de Rhone or a Pomerol or even a Chianti Classico because I know she likes all of those, but in the end, after a serious conversation with the sommelier, I plump for a Brunello. They have an excellent selection, and it is Cress’ favorite.
Once the sommelier moves on, she tries again. “Is it the terrorist, Faez? Have you heard of something else? Is he in London?”
