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“Anything else?”
“Ordering substantial quantities of yumminess.”
“Is he happy with your new idea?”
“Bletchley Park and the Middle East are hot topics right now, so he’s definitely happy. Everything really depends on how your dad feels about my digging into your family history and then fictionalizing it.”
“Fictionalized Grants. Great idea.” Ian is too enthusiastic. “And Munro’s sons will be at the party, so you can sound them out.”
The alarm on Cress’ face would be comical if she wasn’t quivering with anxiety. “How did you know I was planning to write about Munro Innes?”
“We all know. Max managed to let that little titbit slip out in one of our family chats.”
If my eyes could emit death rays, he’d have vaporized.
“Dad will be thrilled. We all loved Munro.” Ian points to his chest. “Let me know if I can help.”
“Leave it.” Fuck Ian, he can’t stop pushing.
Cress throws me a look that might be relief, but might also be a little irritation as I snap at my importunate brother. When she hisses “loose lips sink ships,” I know it’s the latter.
“Trying to be helpful.” Ian takes another sip of his green concoction as the waiter slides drinks and snacks onto the small table.
Cress smiles at him. Her hand is trembling, but she manages a sip without mishap. I gently remove the glass and set it on the table, holding her hand until she gets it under control.
“We are very lucky ladies to have you order these for us, Ian. The drink is delicious.” Hillary fills the gap smoothly.
“Glad you like it.” The corners of Ian’s eyes crinkle as he smiles at her.
Cress inches her hand away to pick up a wedge of lemon. When she squeezes lemon juice over an oyster and picks it up, I feel a little tingle brush over me. She stares into my eyes and everything else disappears. As she maneuvers it to her mouth, I realize no matter how dark things may be, I’m happy. She makes me happy.
I lean toward her, ready to taste the tang of oyster and salt on her lips, but she’s looking beyond me, amused. When I glance over the table, Hillary is flirting with Ian and JL.
Drinks and nibbles finished, we decamp for the dining room and what should be one of our best meals in London.
As we sit down, the maître ‘d comes over to our table. “Sorry to intrude, but there is a gentleman here who says he is a member of your party. I have a larger table over there.”
“What the effing…?” I stare at Allan Mason, who beams with bonhomie. Another thistle up my bum.
I swallow my ire, stand, all graciousness, and hold out my hand. “Hullo, Allan. Fancy seeing you here.” I throw a conciliatory smile at the maître ‘d, before turning to my gobsmacked dining companions. “I’m afraid we need to move. In the meantime, let me introduce you. Allan Mason is a former colleague.” I pause, not sure what order to use.
“MI6?” Cress lowers her voice as she asks.
Allan nods.
“JL Martin, cofounder and director of our subsidiary, WatchDog, Inc. Hillary Jones, Blue Badge guide.” I gesture at Ian. “I believe you know my brother, Ian.”
Allan inclines his head. “My brother was at school with him.”
“Alastair,” Ian affirms. “Your brother, I mean. Big family, aren’t you? Eight or nine of you? All of you have ‘A’ names.”
“Yes, all eight of us.”
I slog on with the introductions. “Yavuz Arslan, an old friend from Istanbul.” Allan narrows his eyes but says nothing.
“And this is Dr. Cressida Taylor, my partner.”
The maître d’ returns just at that moment and indicates a large table in the corner. We pick up our glasses and troop over. Allan somehow inveigles himself on one side of Cress and Yavuz is on the other. She dips her head in apology.
