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I shook my head.
“I know your friend said I shouldn’t be left alone, but I honestly feel fine,” she said as we waited for the lift.
“Stephen isn’t a friend; he’s my cousin. If it weren’t imperative you not be left alone, he wouldn’t have said it.”
“Tommy’s—Mr. St. Thomas’—place is just down the hall. I’ll walk over if I’m feeling poorly.”
“I’m beginning to think you don’t like me,” I said with a wink as we exited the lift and I watched her rummage through her handbag.
“Oh no!”she gasped, leaning into the wall and resting her forehead against it.
“You’re dizzy. Give me your keys.”
“I left my bags in my office. I need to go back.”
“We can discuss that later. For now, give me your keys so I can let you into your apartment.”
“I need my bags,” she said, putting one hand on her hip.
I sighed impatiently. “Very well, what is so important that your bags need to be retrieved today?” I’d been meaning to ask what was in them. The three large canvas bags felt as though they contained bricks.
“Everything.” She lifted her head as though she was about to knock it against the wall and then thought better of it. Instead, she looked up at me. “I don’t have my keys.”
All the better as far as I was concerned. I now had every reason to ignore her pleas to be left on her own.
Saint had had a keypad installed in order to get into his apartment—standard for any MI6 agent whether they were undercover or not—and I had the code. Given the position Emerson held at MIT, I was surprised she hadn’t done the same, or that Saint hadn’t suggested it. I made a mental note to arrange for one of my team to take care of it.
Emerson walked over to the sofa, and I opened the draperies only to close them again when I remembered that Stephen had advised against bright light.
“He was right about the headache,” she mumbled, resting her head against the pillow. I watched as her eyes closed and then opened again, almost in slow motion. “I don’t like to take painkillers.”
I remembered her reaction to Irish’s suggestion she go to an emergency room. The two must somehow relate.
I went into the lavatory and found a bottle of the over-the-counter medicine Stephen mentioned and gave her two tablets along with a glass of water.
“Thank you,” she said, handing the glass back to me.
I took it to the kitchen and then looked inside Saint’s refrigerator and cupboards. Both were empty sans a few bags of tea.
“When did you last eat?”
When she didn’t respond, I walked over to the sofa where she’d stretched out. It appeared she was asleep, but hadn’t Stephen also said that if she lost consciousness, I should take her to the hospital?
“Emerson,” I whispered, sitting beside her on the cushion.
Her eyes opened quickly, but she seemed disoriented. “Lynx?”
“You fell asleep,” I said, brushing her hair from her forehead and pretending I didn’t notice her use of a name that, thus far, she had no reason to know. “Very quickly, I might add. I’m sorry I woke you. I was concerned that you might have lost consciousness.”
“I’m a good sleeper,” she said, averting her eyes.
“I asked when you’d last eaten.”
“I had breakfast.”
I hadn’t, and given it was close to noon, I was famished. I looked out the window and saw a corner market on the other side of Boylston. Dare I leave her long enough to go pick up some groceries?
“Where’s your mobile?”
