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By now, the doorman has popped out of the Club. “Everything all right, Mr. Grant? Sorry I wasn’t here. Helping a party in to register. Should I call the police?”
Head down, arms wrapped tightly around my middle, I can’t face anyone. I clamp my teeth on my lower lip.Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“No, it’s all right. Just a few drunken football louts.”
The doorman a doubtful expression on his face, shrugs and walks back into the vestibule.
Max hugs me tightly, rubbing my back as I shiver.
He turns me around toward the doorway, then lowers his head and whispers, “Let’s get you inside.” Then he interlaces his fingers with mine and leads me through the doorway and up to our suite.
I move stiffly, my knees bruised. The chiffon on my dress is scraped and dirt speckles my coat. Max helps me undress and slips both pieces into a garment bag. Once he has me settled in an armchair wrapped up in an enormous white bathrobe sporting the RAF Club insignia, he calls down for ice, then roots through my stuff for an extra pair of glasses. When I fell, my favorite pair slipped off and broke. Now they lie on the dresser, irreclaimable.
Max puts down the house phone, which he had used to call the desk to pick up the dry cleaning and bring some ice. I notice that his knuckles are swollen from the fight and he had been flexing his fingers.
“What do you think caused him to go after you?” Max faces the bed, taking stuff out of my case and throwing it on the bed. “And why didn’t you unpack?”
I shrug. My unpacking practices are none of his business. “When he came out with his statement last year about the plagiarism, I looked him up. I had always avoided any mention of him, but I was curious. Why come out of the woodwork then?”
“And?”
“He always expected to be a captain of industry. That’s why he was working on a graduate business degree. But he never made it past middle management, and he changed jobs often—and not in a good way. I guess, because success eluded him, he somehow resented the woman he discarded having done so well. The award nomination might have been the last straw.” I take in a sharp breath as the stinging from my knees starts in earnest. “A guess, but a plausible one.”
He turns from the search, and I try to focus on his face. Brandishing my glasses, he puts them on the small table next to the chair. Then, fetching a tube of antiseptic cream and a damp cloth, he drops to his knees and carefully cleans off the debris, rubbing cream into the abrasions. I inhale sharply as the antiseptic stings in the wound. Max strokes my face with his fingertips, sending tingles everywhere to compete with the burn in my knees.
Electricity runs up my spine and I lean into him. Gently, he gathers me into his arms, repositions me on his lap, my legs dangling over the arm. Kisses rain down into my hair, onto my cheeks, against my neck. A knock on the door is an unwelcome interruption.
A male voice calls out. “Dr. Grant? I’m here with the ice.”
Max lets out a low growl, then slips out from under me, making sure that I am still securely settled. “Half a ‘mo,” he calls out. After straightening his clothes, he grabs the garment bag and strides to the door, exchanging it for the container of ice. “Thanks, mate.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Think we’re set. Have a good evening.”
The man closes the door and we hear his footsteps as he retreats down the hall.
Coming back with the silver ice bucket, he sets it on the desk and fetches a towel, wraps up some cubes, and holds it against his swollen hand. Even though every muscle aches, I manage to get upright. “Sit down, Max.
He groans and lies down on the couch in the sitting room. I pull the desk chair over, and hold the ice against his hand. After a while, he pulls away and peeks at his hand. “Enough ice for the moment. The swelling is going down. I’ll just get some Nurofen. I’m sure I’ll be right as rain the morning.” He pauses, then gives me a speculative look. “I plan to go swimming tomorrow morning with the Serpentine Club. Are you up for it?”
I roll my eyes. “No. I don’t like to swim and the idea of getting into a cold lake in the middle of a park…”
“It would set you up for the day.”
“Or make you a sitting duck for a sharpshooter.”
“Unless a sniper is waiting outside the club, I don’t really see that as a possibility. In any case, if that happened, I’d never get to the Serpentine in the first place.”
Horrified at his matter-of-fact acceptance of the danger, I put my hands up to my mouth.
“Hey, it’s all right. The theory right now is that Faez wants to be face to face when he kills me, so a sniper isn’t really in the cards.”
As if that makes me feel better. The idea that someone would kill him is overwhelming. For all my insecurities about our relationship, I am stupid in love and I can’t imagine life without him.
Max moves my hands away from my face, caressing them with his now somewhat oversized thumbs.
Eventually, I ask, “How will you explain the swelling at your meeting?”
