The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (19 page)

Overcome with relief, Conor's knees buckled slightly as she rushed across the lobby and into his arms. She circled his waist, and when her hands brushed against the gun through the fabric of his jacket she hitched in her breath, letting her face rest against his chest.

"I was so worried. Abigail said you seemed ready to collapse when you left and I've been sitting here freaking out since she called. This doesn't make any sense, Conor. Why would anyone be coming after me?"

"I don't know." Conor held her close and brushed his lips against her hair, breathing in its fresh scent.

He had to admit her skepticism was justified. He could think of nothing Durgan would gain by targeting Kate and complicating his main objective, and allowed himself to consider the possibility of being wrong. The phone surveillance was real but the bug on Kate's phone might have been incidental, another means of gathering intelligence about him. Maybe he was delirious—he felt hot enough to be—and maybe this rescue operation was a neurotic over-reaction. What was he supposed to tell her? That his mother had whispered to him in a dream and it sounded like truth? That he believed its murky warning even now, despite the lack of any rational explanation? Kate stirred in his arms.

"You're trembling," she said.

"I think we both are." He rested his chin on top of her head.

"But you're the one with a fever. You're not trembling with emotional derangement."

"Don't be so sure."

She pulled back and examined him. "Do you think we're in danger right now?"

Still holding her by the elbows Conor let his eyes travel around the lobby, realizing its majestic size and an accumulation of furniture had created a false impression of emptiness. He counted eight guests sprinkled amongst the sofas like artfully arranged bric-a-brac. Studying each of them—golfers, senior citizens, a few mothers with young children—he found nothing menacing for even the most paranoid mind to fix on as a threat. Frustrated by his own uncertainty and aware that the circumstances made him appear unhinged, he dropped his hands and took an unsteady step away from Kate.

"I guess not right now. Nothing looks dangerous, anyway."

"Did you eat anything today?"

"Darla heated up some soup."

"A clever non-answer which I'll take as a 'no'." She circled her arm around his and drew him forward. "Come on, they're serving lunch on the back veranda. If you don't sit down and eat something you won't be able to protect either of us from anything."

Having satisfied his concern for Kate's immediate safety, Conor could spare a bit more attention for their surroundings. He spent a moment leaning on the back veranda's spindled railing, looking out at a panoramic view of the Presidential Range. The epic bulk of Mt. Washington dominated the scene, trails drizzling down its sides like lines of rainwater. Below him the hotel's back lawn rolled down to a brook about a quarter-mile away. It was spanned by an arched footbridge that connected the resort to its golf course, which sat in a bowl-shaped valley in the middle distance. Before returning to the table where Kate was already seated he swept a gaze over the veranda. Along its length guests were sitting in similar groupings, in wicker chairs arranged around low tables. Some were eating, others chatting or simply admiring the view. All of them clearly innocuous.

"You didn't bring Jigger along after all?" he asked, sitting down across from her.

"Oh, he's here." Kate accepted a menu from the waitress who came to take their order. "We were just heading out to the Cog Railway when Abigail called. My sister took him instead, along with her kids."

Conor declined to take a menu and smiled at the young woman. "Just a cup of tea would be grand, thanks."

"No, not grand." Kate plucked the menu from the server's hand and presented it to him. "Eat something."

He ordered a BLT, and when the sandwich arrived he ate a little before sitting back, tired from the effort. Watching him Kate nibbled at her thumbnail, looking as if she was trying to decide what to do with him.

"What now? Do you want me to go home with you?"

"Oh . . . ehm, I hadn't thought that far ahead." Conor realized he'd given no thought to anything beyond the priority of having her in his line of sight again.

"Should I ask them to add another place for dinner?"

"Jesus. No." The thought appalled him. "Look, just go ahead and have your party and I'll sort of hang about, keep an eye on things and on . . . well, you."

"How? By hovering behind my chair like a bodyguard?"

"Something like that, I suppose. I'm not exactly dressed for a fancy dinner with your family."
 

"And how long are we going to need to do this?"

"How the f—, how should I know? I'm making this up as I go along." His exasperation brought on an alarming cough, which threatened to get away from him until he smothered the spasm against his jacket.

"Okay. I'm sorry." Kate lowered her voice and put a hand over his. "I'm not trying to upset you, but I need to be honest. You're the one who's got enemies, not me. You've had to stay alert for weeks, trying to guess what they'll do and and when, trying to keep everyone from getting dragged any further into your nightmare. You're under a huge amount of stress, you're exhausted, and you're sick. Isn't it possible your mind is playing tricks on you? That it's created an illusion of danger around me that doesn't exist?"

"Yes. It's possible, of course." Conor dropped another slice of lemon into his tea and took a swallow. "You want evidence and I don't blame you, but all I've got are ghosts and dreams, and a bit of my mother's sense for the uncanny. I was never comfortable with it, but I've learned to respect it."

Kate sat back, staring at him. "God almighty. You're like a Napoleon pastry; layers without end. Are you telling me you're clairvoyant? On top of everything else?"

Conor squirmed in his chair, wondering whether the spark in her eyes indicated skepticism or amusement. "It's not really like that. Listen, I'm not asking you to believe in any of this. I'm just asking you to humor me."

"I understand." Kate signed for the lunch and got to her feet, extending a hand to him. "And as a matter of fact, I do believe in it. Come on up to my room and rest. We'll figure something out later."

No longer dozing in its mid-day hush, the lobby and its protesting floorboards had come alive with new arrivals. After they'd dodged a rumbling luggage trolley and navigated around the front desk's gathering crowd, Conor sensed a presence looming close behind them and quickly turned.

"Katie! Have you seen Jeanette and the kids?" A stocky man of medium height came to an abrupt stop to avoid running into them. Impatience masquerading as concern flashed across his face. He rubbed a palm over thick black hair that stood up from his head like a piece of manicured topiary while Kate gave him a teasing smile.

"Cog railway, Richard. I was there when she told you."

"Ah, jeez. Okay." Richard relaxed. "I just wasn't sure what suit to bring in from the car. She brought two for me. Are your Dad and Anna here yet?"

"No." Kate pulled an ironic face. "They'll swoop in at the last minute. I'm surprised they're staying this year. Daddy doesn't see the point of grand old hotels. He only likes things that are new."

"Right, right." Richard looked between the two of them with an ingratiating tilt of his head. Before Conor could decide what to do, Kate was talking again.

"Oh Richard, you remember my friend Conor? The Classical violinist from the Dublin Conservatory?"

Conor immediately stuck out his hand. "Good to see you again."

"Well of course, of course. How are you, Conor?" Richard crushed his hand and gave his shoulder a manly thump. "What brings you up to the mountains?"

"A surprise." The words burst from Kate's lips and she paused, giving Conor a nervous glance that he returned in kind, wondering what in the name of God was going to come out of her next. She took a breath.

"For Oma. She loves music. He's going to play during the cocktail reception. He came as a favor to me."

"Sounds wonderful." Richard was already looking beyond them at a group of golfers coming through the door. "I'm sure the princess will enjoy that. Will you both excuse me? There's a fellow I want to catch before he leaves."

"Either a donor or someone he hopes will become one," Kate said as they watched him cross the lobby. She giggled. "I do that to him all the time. Introduce him to people he's never met like they're old friends. He's a Massachusetts state senator. He can't afford to admit he doesn't know everyone."

"Yeah, that's hilarious
Katie
," Conor said drily. "Can we talk about this plan you've hatched without telling me? Fair play, the idea's not a bad one, but where am I supposed to get a violin? Or even a suit?"

"Milton can help us." She pulled him toward the elevator behind the stairs. "He's the head concierge and he's been here forever. A suit and a violin? Piece of cake. He won't even break a sweat. We just need to get you rested and ready."

"'Oma.' That's your grandmother, yeah?" Conor allowed himself to be dragged forward without protest. He was beginning to feel quite sleepy. "Why did he call her a princess? Is she a bitch?"

"No, not at all. Far from it. Her name is Sophia Marie." Kate punched the elevator button and said nothing more. Conor raised an eyebrow and she dropped her head with a sigh. "My grandmother is part of Luxembourg's royal house of Nassau-Weilburg. Her father was the last crown prince of Bavaria."

During the stunned silence that followed the elevator arrived. It was a real antique, manually operated and claustrophobically small. It looked like the first elevator ever invented. Avoiding his eyes Kate stepped in and Conor followed, taking up a position against the opposite wall. He watched a telltale flush of pink spread up her neck and over her cheeks, and gave her a broad grin.

"What's so funny?" she asked in a small voice.

"No, nothing. This is just an interesting sort of treat for me, discovering you've got secrets of your own."

"I would have told you, eventually." Kate shrugged. "As you can imagine, these are not the circumstances under which I thought I'd be introducing you to my family."

Conor put his back against the wall of the elevator, still smiling, pleased by the idea she'd thought about introducing him to them at all.

18

H
ER
ROOM
WAS
ACTUALLY
A
SPACIOUS
TWO
-
BEDROOM
SUITE
. The main area had a canopy bed, a fireplace and luxurious furniture, along with a separate den with more furniture, the television and a mahogany desk. Conor conducted a methodical sweep of every corner, inspecting light fixtures, running fingers over the framed landscapes on the wall, examining the phones. Kate monitored this performance without a word. He imagined it confirmed all her suspicions about him wandering in a paranoid delirium, and he couldn't entirely dispel the idea himself.

Once satisfied the room was "clean" he collapsed on the sofa in front of the fireplace while Kate went to phone Milton, the concierge. Conor's operational discipline relaxed into dull exhaustion as he gazed around the suite, trying to make sense of the fact that an ordinary farmer from Dingle—not entirely unrefined or lacking in unconventional skills, but still, of humble origin—could be in love with a product of European royalty.

He put his head back and closed his eyes.
Bloody hell. What would the neighbors say?

He lapsed into a doze until Kate returned and dragged him up from the sofa, insisting he move to the bed. Conor felt ridiculous lying beneath the fussy-looking drapery, but the pillowcases had a pleasant alpine scent and the bed was irresistibly comfortable. He sank into the mattress as he would a hot bath, and made no fuss as Kate settled the comforter under his chin.

"You must feel lousy. You're not being difficult."

"I wouldn't dream of hassling a princess."

"Don't." She ducked away, hiding an uneasy frown. "Please. Not even as a joke."

"Why so sensitive? Where I come from you can't throw a rock without hitting some plonker who swears he came from kings."

"This is different," Kate insisted. "My grandmother has been in this country since the 30s. She married a scientist from Boston, and then my mother married a hedge fund manager and I married a cash register salesman. There's nothing 'royal' about any of us, but the bloodline is real, and the heritage, and of course the European relatives. It's a challenge to navigate. I try not to get too involved."

"Right, so." On the edge of sleep, Conor nodded. "I promise not to call you a princess. I'll just think of you as one."

He woke some time later and slid a hand under the pillow, confirming the gun had not wandered out of reach, then cradled the second pillow against his ribs as his rumbling cough sent pain like the sharp end of a knitting needle through his chest. While recovering, Conor became aware of a more insistent but less agonizing sensation—a pinch on his right big toe, and then the same on his left. Conor lifted himself up on one elbow and saw Jigger at the foot of the bed.

"It worked." The boy laughed. "Hi Conor."

"Hi yourself. What's the idea, abusing my toes while I sleep?"

"Kate said to wake you up at five o'clock, but she told me to be careful when I did."

"Where is she?" Conor sat up, instantly alert.

"Taking a bath."

"Oh."
 

His sigh aggravated the feathery, tickling thing in his chest and Conor dropped amongst the pillows, using them to muffle the racket. Empathic instincts awakened, Jigger hurried forward to rub his back, woeful and fascinated.

"Kate thinks you have pneumonia. I think she's right."

"Which makes three of us, then. Unanimous vote."

"And she said you're going to play some music for her grandmother, but you left your fiddle at home."

"Also correct."

"You seem to have a lot of troubles, don't you?"

Conor choked out a laugh and pulled himself upright. "You've noticed that as well, have you?"