The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (29 page)

She retreated upstairs, took a long hot shower, and put on a pair of silver silk pajamas. Then, she crept back down to the kitchen to fix herself a sandwich and a cup of tea. She left the lights off and sat eating in darkness, listening to the wind and the occasional creaks of the settling house, at peace for the first time in weeks.

She paused on the way back to her room, seeing the light still spilling from a crack under Conor's door. She thought of his face as she'd railed at him—bleak and compliant, as if her negation was no more than he deserved.

He hadn't deserved it, of course. She'd perversely withheld forgiveness for something that wasn't his fault. After a few seconds of indecision Kate walked to his door. She knocked, and entered at his quick invitation.

Conor reclined on the bed with a book propped open on his chest, in the same V-necked sweater and gray khakis he'd been wearing on the day she met him. He looked well; his color was good and his eyes had recovered their dark glitter. He seemed surprised and hesitantly pleased to see her, but now that she was inside the room Kate wasn't sure how to begin.

"I noticed your light. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You were insane to go out in the pouring rain, Conor. The doctors warned—"

"Right." He cut her off quietly, a flash of disappointment in his eyes. "The summary of what the doctors have warned me about is already well represented, and repeated often. Thanks for checking, though. I'm fine."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to start out like that."

She considered leaving, but then came in and closed the door behind her, leaning against it. Conor swung his legs from the bed and sat up to face her. He looked wary, and she didn't blame him. Almost too afraid to go on, she stalled for time.

"What are you reading?"

Without taking his eyes from hers he shut the book and showed her the cover. Robert Frost. "The man to go to. Sort of like Vermont's version of Yeats."

"The secret sits in the middle." She gave a shaky laugh. "I'd never heard it before, and now that poem seems like the theme to our life."

Our life
. The inclusive pronoun was not lost on him, and seeing his hopeful smile Kate's eyes filled. She'd been damaged, and had paid dearly for her misplaced trust—but so had he. They each had what the other needed.

"Will you help me?" she whispered. "I can't sit there alone with it."

He was on his feet before she'd finished. Kate lifted her arms to circle his neck and sank her fingers into his hair, feeling his chest expand in a grateful sigh as she kissed him. It was long and deep and she was the first to come up for air. Undeterred, Conor moved down her neck, his breath stuttering as her hands slipped beneath his sweater, pressing against the warm, hard muscle of his stomach before sliding down under his belt.

Shaking, she fumbled with buckle, button and zipper while his fingers moved up her sides until the slippery silver top was lifted off over her head. He explored every inch of her with slow intensity, his mouth lingering on each susceptible area and landing at last on a place that turned her legs to water. With a hand on the small of her back, he pulled her against him with a jerk, and she felt as much as heard his gravel-edged hum of satisfaction.

"Come here to me,
chuisle.
You've more sweet spots than a honeycomb. Let's see how many more we can find." They stepped from the tangle of clothing on the floor and he drew her down onto the bed. As her hips settled against him, he took in a sharp breath.

"Did I hurt you?" Kate gently ran her fingers over his side, and Conor exhaled a quiet laugh.

"Not there. And not the way you think."

He rolled her beneath him, his mouth covering hers while his calloused fingertips began a slow passage over the curve of her breast and down her stomach. The indescribable sensation pulled a husky, unfamiliar sound from her throat, and as her back arched, Kate felt something dig into the back of her shoulder. Without pausing, Conor reached behind her and pushed the book to the floor. It landed with a ponderous thud as his musical voice sounded close her ear.

"Good night Robert, aul' fella. Promises to keep, don't you know."

27

A
S
THE
LAST
SLIVER
OF
SPACE
BETWEEN
THEM
DISAPPEARED
, Kate’s universe condensed until it contained only as much as her arms and legs could embrace. Later, exhausted but ready to talk, they tentatively confronted the "secret" sitting in the middle, and the enigma at the source of all of its pain. Once started their conversation continued well into the night, streaming through a filter of bewilderment rather than anger. Some questions held out hope for solution—such as where the man might be and what he planned to do next—but others would remain forever unanswerable.

"He sent me a Christmas card every year," Kate said. "A money-laundering, paramilitary fugitive, my fake dead husband, sent his fake widow a Christmas card every year. What kind of bastard does that?"

"A sick bastard." Conor lay spooned against her with his hand resting on her stomach. Kate felt his chest moving in a deep, regular rhythm against her back.

"Are you falling asleep?"

"Absolutely not."

His hand started traveling south. Kate smiled and captured his fingers, and since their electrifying texture was a matter of some fascination for her, she lifted them up for closer inspection.

"I wonder if he thought this would happen. Between you and me." She brushed her lips along the top of each of Conor's fingers. "He set the whole thing up for you to come here. Why? Wasn't it a risk?"

"Risk be damned. I think he can't resist fucking with people's lives. I was actually the one who suggested coming here. He'd mentioned this place a few times over the years—what a laugh it was, his cousin's widow trying to run a farm. I'm sure he had another laugh when I gave him an easy way to keep tabs on both of us. And here was me, sick with guilt and so grateful for his help. Good old Pip Ryan.”

"I don't even know what name to call him anymore." Kate said.

"I can think of a few."

"You know what I mean."

 
"Right." Conor sighed. "Let's follow Frank's lead and stick to Robert Durgan. The name for a man none of us knows."

"What about me? He was declared dead. Am I still married? Or was that even legal?" Without warning, Kate felt close to crying again. "What do I call myself?"

He swept aside her hair to deliver a warm kiss behind her ear. "I can think of a name there as well."

Kate twisted in his arms to face him, smiling sadly. "Is this a proposal?"

"Only if you're ready for one, but I'm guessing you're not."

"When I am, will you ask again?"

"I'll go on asking for the rest of my life. If that's what it takes." Conor's face was the very image of transparent sincerity. No mystery. No equivocation.

"Don't be ridiculous." She snuggled in closer, tucking her head under his chin. "It's not going to take that long."

W
ITH
EYES
STILL
closed Kate shifted, rolling into the kiss lightly brushing her cheek while a hand on her waist stopped her momentum. She felt his lips curve into a smile.

"Careful, love. You'll end up on the floor."

Kate forced open one sleepy eyelid to focus on Conor, already dressed, kneeling by the edge of the bed in the pre-dawn darkness.

"Sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep."

"What time is it?"

"Only half-four."

"Oh my God." Kate burrowed drowsily under the covers. "How can you stand doing this every day?"

He laughed, and kissed her again before getting to his feet. "I've got to admit, it just got a bit harder."

After he left she drifted off, but woke less than an hour later with her arm stretched across the mattress, as though straining for something just out of reach. With the passage of years she'd grown accustomed to the emptiness next to her, but now after being warm and full for one night, the space seemed colder and twice as wide as she remembered. She pulled her arm back to the warmth of her side and decided there was no point in lying in bed any longer.

She showered and dressed, but instead of heading downstairs Kate brewed coffee in the french press she kept in the apartment's kitchenette. She wasn't ready to put on her public face just yet, or confront any new challenges, or do anything that might resurrect the pain she and Conor had managed to subdue. Lingering in the moment, and hoping it could stretch around the clock to give them at least one normal day, she carried the steaming mug into her studio, drawn irresistibly to the window framing the barn on the opposite hillside. Through the darkness a light from the milk room beamed a watery fluorescent glow.

After first ignoring them and suffering the consequences, Conor had obeyed the hospital's discharge orders and remained idle for a week before returning to work a few days earlier. Kate gazed at the square of light, visualizing him in the barn. The radio would be on—WDEV for the morning, VPR in the afternoon—its soundtrack occupying only half his mind while he moved in rhythmic, prayer-like stillness.

A movement on the road caught her attention, and as Abigail's car turned up the driveway Kate realized she'd been staring and daydreaming for longer than she'd thought. She left her mug in the sink and headed downstairs for a second cup of coffee with her chef before beginning her own routine.

Productivity eluded her that morning. Kate couldn't manage to concentrate on anything, but she finally switched on her computer and while it chugged to life she made a half-hearted attempt to organize the piles surrounding her, which gave her another excuse to think about Conor. She badly needed his flair for bringing order to chaos, and decided to find some ploy to put him on desk duty one day soon.

She reviewed the registration system for the day's arrivals and checked the dinner reservation list, and then opened her email. The first item in her inbox had been sent at two o'clock that morning. Kate clicked on it with a sense of foreboding, and needed only an instant to read its terse message.

"Crap." She sat back and sighed, her tender fantasies colliding with reality. It was seven o'clock in the morning, and the "normal" part of her day was already over.

"G
HEDI
,
DID
YOU
remember to pick up soy milk?" Abigail asked the question without turning from the stove. "We're due any minute for the special order I told you about yesterday. Oatmeal with raisins. Soy milk only."

"Soy milk, ma'am? Oh yes, yes. Yes. Oh dear."

Waiting for his breakfast at the kitchen island, Conor looked up from his newspaper. The Somalian chef's dark, liquid eyes had fastened on him in stark panic. He gave the young man a reassuring wink.

"It was on the list, mate," he murmured. "Door of the fridge, red carton."

"Something I need to know?" Abigail pivoted to confront them. Ghedi's face, which had been subsiding into relief, froze again.

"Only that his baby girl was running a fever yesterday, so I collected the shopping while he went to the doctor's." Conor tossed the sports section aside—American papers never covered sports he actually cared about—and smiled to see Abigail's face predictably crumpling in sympathy.

"Poor little Ayanna. Is she all right, Ghedi?"

"Yes ma'am, thank you. It is an ear infection, but she is much better."

"Well, why on earth didn't you say something when I—"

"Abigail," Conor said mildly. "Are those my pancakes you're waving about? Could I ever have them before they're cooled entirely?"

As Abigail was putting the plate in front of him, Kate swung through the door with a tray of dirty dishes. "Oatmeal-with-soy-milk is here. Please, tell me we can do that."

Ghedi offered a bright smile. "Of course, ma'am. Straightaway."

Conor swung around on his stool to face Kate, bursting with the knowledge of a secret shared and curious to see what she'd do with it. She saw him and stopped short, flicking a nervous glance at Abigail.

"I didn't know you were back," she said in a neutral tone.

"Just got here," he replied, equally bland.

She set the tray on the counter next to him, and as Conor prepared another banal remark she suddenly stopped him with a long, demonstrative kiss. His muffled laugh escaped around her lips, and over her shoulder he watched Abigail's rounded amazement crinkle into delight.

"Thank God that's finally settled," she muttered, heading back to the stove. "Took them long enough."

Kate reached into her pocket and reluctantly presented him with a folded piece of paper. "Arrived early this morning. And I was hoping for a quiet, normal day."

Conor accepted the paper without looking at it. A quick glance confirmed Ghedi was busy with his soy-spiked oatmeal, well out of hearing range.

"Is this going to put me off my breakfast?"

"I don't think so. It's pretty short."

Dubious, he peeled back the corners of the paper as though defusing a bomb, and read the email message.

Have him call me this morning ASAP. On his cell. My number is the same.

"Is he still in India?" Kate asked.

"Last I knew. Frank was supposedly coordinating strategy with him."

"I didn't think you had a cell phone."

Conor looked up from the note, grinning. "I don't, actually. The MI6 lads took it off me when they debriefed me in the hospital last March. They were glad to have something back. I'd lost or broken everything else they gave me. I suppose I can get one cheap at the WalMart?"

"Wow. WalMart. Where the discerning spy shops?" Kate gave him an arch look. "You're a regular James Bond, aren't you?"

"Seems like you thought so last night."
 

His impertinence earned him a vicious poke in the shoulder, but the laughter in her wide blue eyes was worth the punishment.

T
HE
SMOKE
-
GRAY
sky was unloading a style of precipitation he'd never seen before. It wasn't snow, nor was it exactly hail or freezing rain. Sitting inside the truck, Conor was transfixed by the perfectly round dots bouncing off the hood, obsessed with the challenge of putting a name to them. He noted the sudden squall had not cast the same spell over his fellow shoppers. They continued across the parking lot, their stolid gait signaling this was not a weather event of any interest to them. Maybe because Vermonters knew what to call it. Maybe—like the Inuit—they had a rich vocabulary for types of snow. Conor tried to think of how many words the Irish had for rain, but decided their talent lay more in describing what the rain was actually doing—lashing, teeming, pissing, bucketing . . .