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The concern in her eyes overwhelms me. Her fingers brush against the crystal tumbler, and she regards as if she’s forgotten that she ordered it. After a sip or two, she sets it carefully on the table and runs her finger around the rim. “Heavy base.” Her eyes crinkle as her mouth turns up in a cheeky grin. “Less chance of knocking it over.”
Relieved that she’s decided to let things go, the knot in my chest loosens and I wish we weren’t sitting in the most romantic restaurant in London. The siren song of our RAF Club bedroom calls as if inviting us to give up on dinner for another kind of feast. Cress flushes as if she can read my mind. I stare at the open fire and breathe in the calming atmosphere of a Provençal auberge.
“Nothing like that. Nasim Faez has gone to ground at the moment.” Telling her about my meeting with Allan is pointless. “Work problems. Issues with the software update. Plenty to worry about, but I can’t do anything.”
“Do we need to go home?”
My head jerks up. She would do that for me? After all the arguments about this trip, I can’t believe it. Pointless, though. If we’re together, then the danger is still there. The only thing to do is to find Nasim and eliminate him once and for all.
“No.” My voice shakes. “No. I’m on holiday. And I’m damned well taking it.“ Firmer. “Jarvis can deal with the software issues.” I stroke the soft skin of her inner arm from wrist to elbow. “Once my meeting with the bankers finishes, we’ll celebrate with my family and enjoy your triumphs.” I gulp down half of my drink. “And to hell with terrorists.”
Cress salutes me with her own glass. “To hell with them.”
* * *
Cress
After the afternoon feast, hunger is not an issue. In fact, I am still so full I worry I won’t be able to eat much. The lure of oysters with caviar and foie gras with duck confit from the starter menu makes my mouth water. I can’t pass up a rack of lamb either. “Max,” I wheedle. “Can we share some dishes? I want to taste everything, but I’m not sure how much I can manage.”
“Order what you like, and I’ll hoover up whatever you don’t eat.”
“What are you going to have?”
He scratches his cheek with one long forefinger. “Seafood, I think. I’ll start with the Cornish crab and then the lobster with the spinach salad. You can try it all if you like. And save room for pudding.”
“Will you share it with me?”
“Knowing you, I won’t have the chance. I’ll take the cheese plate.” He takes another small mouthful of his old-fashioned. “They have some excellent wine pairings with the desserts.”
Now I lean back after my final scrape of a luscious peach and raspberry dessert and take another sip of the recommended Coteaux du Layon. Even though I have a sweet tooth, I’m not fond of sweet wines, but this dessert wine from the Loire Valley was the recommended accompaniment and complements the fruit flavors perfectly. True to his word, Max finishes with cheese, an assortment of savory biscuits, and port.
I suppress a yawn.
“Tired?” He picks up on my moods so scarily quick.
I nod and cover my mouth to hide another yawn. “Hard to believe we only arrived this morning.”
I’m nonplussed when he stands and holds out a hand to help me up. “We should make a move.”
“We haven’t gotten the bill.”
He waves a hand in dismissal. “Already taken care of. They have my card.” We walk out and he points to the line of taxis queueing nearby. “I’ll flag a taxi.”
I cover another yawn. “It’s a lovely evening. Can’t we walk?” Ignoring Max’s frown, I start toward the Piazza and stumble on the cobbles.
Max’s arm snakes out and grabs me around the waist. “Taxi.” He guides me toward one of the black behemoths.
“Fresh air might be good,” I mumble.
“We can take a stroll in Green Park later, if you’re up for it. I don’t think anyone followed either of us to the restaurant, but I’m taking no chances. Walking back to the club isn’t a hop, skip, and a jump.”
Grudgingly acknowledging his concern, I climb into the cab. A quick ride later, we roll out of the taxi at the gates of Green Park. I take a deep breath and the ground undulates. “Too much to drink, Max,” I slur. I can see the doorway to the club. The doorman is helping a couple, one using a cane and the other in a wheelchair, through the entrance.
He rests his hand on the small of my back and guides me toward the entrance across the way, when a rowdy group, dressed in Arsenal gear, tries to push past us. “
“Hey, watch it.” Max growls and pulls me to the side.
A stocky middle-aged man turns to confront us with a belligerent glare that turns into searching confusion. I eye him without a hint of recognition. His eyes widen and his mouth drops open as he chokes out, “Cress Taylor?”
