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“He disappeared during the last year or so.”
“Suspicious,” Clay comments.
She shrugs. “May not mean anything. It was a quick search and they’ll do more digging.”
I cough. “Uh, Yavuz hasn’t really disappeared. I got a message from him a couple of days ago. He heard I was going to be in London and suggested we meet up. He’ll be there on business too.”
Three pairs of eyes glare at me.
Finally, Metin says, “You probably need to talk to Cress. Convince her to stay home.”
I consider how I can do that without letting her know about the threat to me.
“Don’t do it, Max.” Metin’s voice is harsh. “You need to let Cress know what’s going on.”
I’m feel like my eyes are bugging out. How the fuck does she know what I’m thinking?
“Don’t let the screen come down. Don’t keep this a secret from her.”
JL breaks in. “Max likes his secrets.”
My mind shifts to the past, to Istanbul and Nasim Faez. Metin and JL’s voices fade out, then filter back in and I wrench myself back to the conversation. “What makes you think…”
“Take it from an old married woman. Keeping secrets is not a good way to build a strong relationship. I think you’re at a crossroads with Cress. Make sure you take the right path.” Metin’s eyes are cold with warning as we all depart.
ChapterThree
Cress
I love rainy days. They feed my writer soul. Usually. But not today. Rivulets of water run down the tall windows onto the deck as I contemplate the outline not taking shape on my iPad. Even though the thrumming sound of the downpour creates a soothing backdrop to my disordered thoughts, it doesn’t help.
For the forty-thousandth time today, I berate myself. Why? Why did I think this book project was a good idea? Maybe I should put on my coat and walk in the rain to clear my head. Then a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning dissuade me. I run a hand through my long, tangled curls, shaping them into ringlets with my restless fingers. I should probably have a trim before we leave for London.
I pace up and down the library, thoroughly disgusted with my lack of progress. My gym shoes make no sound on the parquet floor. I’ve been staying in Max’s mansion on Chicago’s Gold Coast since early December and I appreciate the spacious rooms, even though I’m still not used to the austere luxury. This room may be the coziest with its corner fireplace, mahogany bookcases crammed with an eclectic collection of over-loved books, and a plethora of Grant tartan lap rugs piled high on one end of the brown leather sofa. Floor pillows, scattered carelessly around the room, are in the same tartan. A large, highly polished teak desk faces the wall of windows and comfortably accommodates my computer with its large monitor and the iPad that sits in front of it.
Moving from a two-bedroom condo to this mansion has been an adjustment. My carefully curated space has given way to vast rooms, most minimally furnished with a few elegant antiques.
When I moved in, Max put in a few touches for me—a small armchair and a lovely chaise perfect for my size, both upholstered in a rich silk damask. The gilded emerald fabric glows in the soft light, throwing beautiful shadows on the wall, especially when Max lights a fire. He chose the leaf-and-floral Lionheart pattern, knowing how it would appeal to me as a medieval historian.
Instead of turning my thoughts back to my work, I continue to procrastinate. I picture his oversized, four-poster bed, so comfortable, even if we use very little of the space. Waking up in his arms every morning is the perfect start to the day. Then delightful goose bumps turn into a chill and I rub my arms, feeling sweatshirt fabric caress my skin as a sense of future loss washes over me. I still feel like a guest rather than an inhabitant, wondering if, at the stroke of midnight, all this will evaporate.
Max has burrowed into my life, and I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him. The remodeling of my vandalized condo is taking forever, so I can’t move back soon. We’re only a few months in and that realization makes my heart plummet. Nowhere to run if life goes pear-shaped. Ever since he opened up about Istanbul, things have been so much easier between us. And yet, a small, nagging fear persists.Everybody leaves, a small voice whispers. I know it’s not true, but somewhere within me, doubt persists.
Not one of my better days. Instead of making my packing list for our European adventure, I’m fretting over my new writing project. I’ve shelved the planned book about two rival painters, based on Turner and Constable. Instead, I’ve shifted to research to a little-known member of the Bletchley Park team, Munro Innes. I’m not sure whether writing a book with him as the main character is a good idea or not. The idea is seductive, starting with spying in the Middle East in the 1930s, then moving onto Bletchley Park.
The hitch is he’s Max’s great-uncle. When he dropped that little nugget, I was both gob-smacked and distraught. I still wonder if pursuing this project will damage any relationship with his family. Max is enthusiastic, assuring me that everyone will be thrilled about the project. I’m skeptical, but Innes had an interesting life and I think it will make a great story.
Usually, I don’t use a real person for my main character, but his obscurity made the idea attractive, and the romantic possibilities are intriguing. Still, the fact that he was married to Max’s grandfather’s sister is a complication and I don’t want to upset anyone.
Fitting in with Max’s family is still a work in progress for me. My mother’s death when I was eight, my father’s abandonment and betrayal, and my grandparents’ indifference left scars exacerbated by bullying in school and the feeling that I am a perpetual outsider. That’s one reason I was thrilled to be nominated for the historical novel award, both in my category and the overall novel of the year.
When I suffered attacks from an envious rival that year, old wounds reopened and reminded me why I don’t trust people. Max has helped me heal, and one goal of this trip is to forge a stronger bond with his family. To make myself believe that I can have a family, even if it’s not the one I was born into.
Rubbing my eyes, I turn on quiet music that reflects my mood and consider my problem with Munro. Maybe he should be a strong secondary character. Or I could change his name. I’ll have to broach the subject with Max’s father when we’re in Scotland, and I’m nervous about his reaction since he knew Munro well.
At least another hour goes by before the front door slams. The rain has redoubled, crashing against the windows. Max calls out from the foyer. “Hi. I’m soaking. Won’t be a mo’. Going to change.” His footsteps pound up the staircase.
His minute is more like half an hour. Beautiful hardwood floors in the living room are highlighted by rich Persian rugs with a gigantic, cream-colored couch taking pride of place. It is long enough to accommodate Max’s height and deep enough that we can sleep on it together without having to remove the cushion.
