She recoiled, a sick look washing over her features. “Don’t say that.”
“Then don’t think that. Marry me.”
She held up her left hand. “I think we’ve already covered this.”
“Marry me now.”
“You’re insane!”
“How is wanting to be with you forever insane?”
“For one, you just got home from hospital and you’re drugged up on painkillers.”
“Then no more pills. We can do it tomorrow.”
Grace pulled away from him, and this time he let her go. She stirred the curry in the pot, purposely not looking at him. “I’m not marrying you on a whim.”
“This is not a whim! Do you think it’s an accident that I’ve waited for you for ten years? Do you think it’s an accident that I’ve not brought anyone home to meet my family in a decade?”
She didn’t say anything, and the temper Ian hadn’t even known was building snapped. He pushed away from the countertop. “I’m going to lie down for a bit.”
He didn’t storm across the reception room to the bedroom, nor did he slam the door, though it would have suited his mood. Instead, he pushed it closed with a soft click, sealing her out. Less than a day ago, they’d shared something that should have been special. Instead, it had driven a wedge between them as surely as time and distance ever had.
When he woke some time later, more clearheaded, he expected the flat to be empty. Instead, Grace was curled on the sofa beneath a blanket, the television turned down low, knitting something in hideous multicolored wool.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he said.
“The nurse said you shouldn’t be alone tonight so I had Asha bring over some things. I’ll sleep on the sofa.” She swung her legs down and pushed her blanket and knitting aside. “Can I warm up some curry for you?”
Even though his stomach rumbled, he didn’t much feel like eating. But he sensed this was her way of making peace, so he nodded. She went to the kitchen and scooped out rice and curry into the bowl. His heart gave a little clench at the sight of her barefoot and in her pajamas. Was he wishing for things that in the end, he couldn’t have?
She sat beside him while he ate, stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Finally she said softly, “Just give me some time. It’s all too much to take in at once. I need to get it sorted for myself.”
He didn’t know if she meant Jean-Auguste’s death or their relationship or her past traumas, but he nodded anyway. “I won’t push you. Just . . . tell me I’m not losing you again.”
She forced a smile and picked up her knitting. “You’re not losing me again.”
Somehow, taken with the angry movement of the knitting needles in her hand, the words were less than reassuring.
Grace’s presence in his flat over the next four days felt not like a relationship but like a business arrangement. She cooked for him and helped him pull his arm through T-shirts, made sure he took his medication on time and fielded phone calls while he was sleeping, but anything approaching personal contact had vanished, along with the easy rapport they had shared.
No matter what she said, she slipped a little further away from him each day.
Ian quit the painkillers on the second day. The throb was just this side of bearable without them, and the medication made his memories and perceptions go soft around the edges. There might also have been a bit of masochism involved. The drugs didn’t dull only his physical pain, and if he were going to lose Grace, he wanted to experience every agonizing minute of it.
He woke up on Monday morning to find her cooking breakfast. “I’m going back to work.”
“Already? You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. And if I’m well enough to go to work, I’m well enough to be here on my own without help.”
For a second, something like hurt flashed through her eyes, though that made no sense. She’d made it clear she was here out of duty, nothing more. “Just eggs and toast this morning. If you’re not going to be rowing for a while, I figured you would want to cut back your calories. It will make it easier to go back if you don’t gain weight.”
“I’m touched that you’re so concerned about my girlish figure.”
She didn’t seem amused as she slid the poached eggs from a spoon to his plate. “I know how you get.”
“Have I been that horrible already?”
“That’s not what I meant.” She retrieved the toast, which she’d fried in the pan, and placed it next to the eggs. “Here. Are you going to need help with your suit?”
“No. But I would really like help finding my fiancée. Someone replaced her with a home health aide.”
She grimaced and fell back against the counter, rubbing a hand through her hair. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it? Because I don’t know what else to think.”
“Maybe . . . maybe we need some distance. It’s been a difficult few days.”
“No, distance is what we have now. I would like to see some feeling from you.”
She swallowed, but she didn’t look up at him again. “I can’t right now, Ian. Either you understand that or you don’t.”
Disappointment arced through him, sharp and biting. He pushed the untouched plate away from him. “Thank you for breakfast. I find I’m not all that hungry.” He strode to the bathroom and flipped the water on in the shower. He ripped the sling over his head with too much force and had to bite down on his cheek to avoid a cry of pain. So maybe his shoulder wasn’t healing as fast as he’d implied. But he couldn’t sit imprisoned with Grace and her vacant stare any longer.
Once more he assumed she would be gone, but when he got out of the shower, he heard the water running in the kitchen along with the clank of stoneware. That made no sense. If she was so miserable here, why did she stay? Was her sense of obligation that strong?
He struggled into his trousers and shirt, buttoning them one-handed, but the tie proved to be too much for him. He pushed down his pride and walked out into the reception room. Grace was in front of him in an instant, taking the tie from his hands and looping it around his neck. Even the brush of her fingers as she flipped up his starched collar ignited a yearning in him that he barely tamped down in time. She tied a full Windsor with surprising ease and smoothed down the two ends against the front of his shirt. Then she took his cuff links from his pocket and fastened them into the holes without asking. When she at last looked into his face, he saw the reflection of his own longing there.
He couldn’t help himself. He bent to kiss her, and to his surprise, she returned the sentiment as good as he gave.
“Oh, Grace, I’ve missed you.” He kissed her again, not willing to let her slip away from him again, not even an inch. When she slid her arms around him beneath his jacket, he nearly sighed with relief. “Now I hate the fact I’m going to work. Meet me for lunch?”
Slowly, she nodded, even managed a smile. Though it contained underlying sadness, a glimmer of his Grace emerged.
“Do you want me to pick up something on my way?” she asked. “You’ll be busy after being out of the office most of the week.”
“That would be nice. I love you, Grace. Don’t forget that, please?”
She stretched on her tiptoes for a farewell kiss. “I know. I love you too. Just give me time.”
“Okay. I’ll see you around noon.”
His light mood lasted as long as the cab ride to the Westminster office—he hadn’t wanted to risk the press of the morning commute on the Tube with his injury. Dread hit him as he punched the lift’s Up button in the foyer. What would await him when he arrived? He’d never taken more than two days off from the office the entire time he had worked for Jamie’s company. Would he be spending the next month catching up on whatever disasters had managed to occur in his absence?
No one waited for him outside his office, though, which was a miracle, considering he’d left word with Bridget that he’d expect an update from various employ
ees when he came in. Ms. Grey sat at her desk in front of her computer screen as she had every day since he hired her. She looked up and smiled pleasantly. “Welcome back, Mr. MacDonald. I trust you’re feeling better?”
“I am, thank you, Ms. Grey. Give me a moment to get settled and then I’ll want an update.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ian moved into his office, expecting to find a pile of paperwork on his desk. It looked as neat as it had when he left on Tuesday afternoon. He popped open his briefcase on the surface, then realized that he hadn’t taken any work home. He’d just stowed the case under his desk when Ms. Grey reappeared in the doorway, a stack of files in her hands. She settled in the chair opposite his desk, then arranged the files neatly in stair-step fashion on the polished surface. “We need to discuss budget, contracts, and some vendor changes for the restaurants in England.”
“Vendor changes? That’s James’s department.”
“Yes, but I noticed the Knightsbridge and Notting Hill locations have incurred a 20 percent increase from their seafood vendor that doesn’t correlate to menu changes or receipts.”
Surprised, Ian nodded. “I’ll speak with the chefs in James’s absence. What’s next?”
“Budget, sir.” She flipped open the second file. “The other employees have submitted their budget requests for next fiscal year as you requested. I’ve flagged areas that I thought could be a problem.” She paused, uncertainty crossing her face. “I’m sorry. Have I crossed a line? I just thought—”
“No, no. Your thoroughness is very admirable. I’ll take a look at your notes. Thank you.”
“Of course. The next matter is the network contract. It looks like Mr. MacDonald’s—” she paused, apparently unsure how to distinguish the two Mr. MacDonalds and still maintain her formality—“your brother’s show is going into syndication. Since you haven’t replaced Mr. Barrett yet, I thought you’d want to look over the contracts yourself.”
“Yes, thank you, Ms. Grey.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then. Please let me know if you need anything.”
Ian watched her go, then looked down at the stack of files on his desk. Each had been annotated with sticky notes in her precise handwriting, pointing out areas of concern, even on the network contract. His eyebrows flew up when he saw the specificity of the comments. Ms. Grey had contract knowledge as well?
Perhaps there wouldn’t be as much to catch up on as he thought. She was clearly the perfect assistant for him. For once, he had done well in his hiring.
Except just as he’d feared, she was far too capable to remain an assistant. How long before she wearied of the tedium of a support job, when clearly she belonged at the head of a department, maybe the head of a corporation?
Even with Ms. Grey’s efficiency, his e-mail in-box was filled to bursting. He sorted through the messages, tagging those that needed his immediate attention, forwarding those that could be delegated to Ms. Grey, shooting quick replies back on those that were easily solved. He was so absorbed in clearing his backlog that he didn’t notice the time creeping past noon until he looked at the clock. Good enough. Grace would be here in a few minutes with lunch anyway. If he could take care of this final list, he might even make it out of the office before 5 p.m. today.
The clock inched past one o’clock. Then one thirty. Unease crept into Ian’s gut. He pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket on the back of his chair. No messages.
Quickly, he tapped out a text message: Still having lunch today? Everything okay?
He set the phone on the edge of his desk, where he would notice if her reply came through.
By three thirty, it was obvious that she wasn’t coming and she didn’t intend to reply to his message. He couldn’t breathe through his tight chest.
“Ms. Grey, my shoulder is bothering me. I’m going to leave early. You can reach me on my mobile if you need me.”
“Of course, sir. Tomorrow?”
“Bright and early.” He shrugged his jacket onto his shoulders without putting his arms through. “Thank you for all your hard work. I’ve never been able to take time off and not come back to a disaster.”
“It’s my pleasure, sir. Rest up.”
Ian held on to his composure until he stepped onto the lift and punched the button for the ground floor. Then he slumped against the wall and let the feeling of panic that had been clenched in his stomach rise up.
When he got back to his flat, would he find a ring on the counter?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
AS SOON AS IAN LEFT THE FLAT, Grace began straightening up and found herself circling her laptop on the dining room table like a satellite around a planet in an ever-tightening orbit. Ian had insisted she stay away from the news so her memories of Jean-Auguste would remain untainted, and she’d hunkered into a fog of shock and disbelief, embracing the numbness so she wouldn’t think about him. But that morbid need to know the truth gnawed at her, a dull ache that harried the edges of her consciousness, the only relief from which was to shut down completely. As long as that fear and dread remained, she would never be able to move on. She would never be able to move forward in her life with Ian.
On her third circuit, she sat down at the table and lifted the lid of the laptop. She hesitated only a moment before typing in Jean-Auguste Cassin. A long line of news stories materialized on the page. Grace clicked one after another, scanning the text with helpless fascination, absorbing fragments that only added to the horror without explaining a thing.
Ambush. Kidnapping. Murder.
She’d worked in the Middle East long enough to read between the lines. Jean-Auguste had trusted the wrong person and been betrayed. Maybe for idealism; more likely for money or out of self-preservation. It was a risk they all took, working with fixers whose alliances were uncertain at best and ever-shifting at worst. Most of the time it worked out. Jean-Auguste proved how badly things went when it didn’t.
She was on the second page before she came up with a link to a video on an unfamiliar, sketchy-sounding site. Her hands trembled over the touchpad for several seconds before she could manage to click it.
Nothing. The video had been taken down.
Gripped with dark determination, her whole body shaking, she changed to the search page’s video tab and clicked link after link until she found one that worked.
Five seconds. That’s all it was. Grace pressed play, steeling herself for what she was about to see. But at the last moment, she lost her courage and closed her eyes, her entire body rocking with the pounding of her heart.
Watch it, Grace.
She forced her eyes open and braced herself to click it again, even though her very soul recoiled at the thought of what she would see. But she owed Jean-Auguste that much. He had died among strangers, without anyone who loved him. He deserved to have a witness who would mark and mourn his passing.
She clicked the button. And she watched all five seconds.
Sat there for five more, her breath frozen in her lungs, until the horror sank in and she had to dart for the washroom. She hung over the toilet, her stomach heaving, and yet the tears she’d felt sure would come remained locked behind a veil of horror and grief. There was only one thing she could do.
She pulled out her mobile and sent a message to a number she hadn’t used in years. Just as she had expected, she got an answering text within minutes.
Come over at 10. I’ll open the shop early. Bring coffee.
A few minutes after ten, Grace climbed a dirty, dingy stairwell to the first floor of a disreputable-looking building near Camden Market. She juggled her two paper cups while she tried the door—unlocked, even though the sign clearly stated Closed—and pushed through into a space that looked far more like the Putney art gallery than a tattoo studio. Bright-white walls bounced light within the open area, with blond wood floors and sleek, Scandinavian-style furniture in the reception room. The front desk, which would have looked at home in one of London’s expensive boutique hotels, stood empty.
“Hello?” she called out. “Mika?”
A door opened in the back, and a man strode toward her. “Grace!”
She smiled. Anyone expecting a biker-looking bloke with a beard and more ink than an art store would have been sorely disappointed. Mika Havonen was almost painfully good-looking, in that brilliant blond Scandinavian way that brought to mind tales of Viking gods: hair cropped short, model-perfect muscles shown off by a tight white T-shirt and artfully whiskered blue jeans. His only body modifications were a small, discreet diamond in each ear, and he wore a plain brown leather cuff on one wrist. The overall effect was much more like the heartthrob lead singer of a Finnish boy band than one of London’s most renowned tattoo artists.
She accepted his kiss on both cheeks, then handed him one of the coffee cups. “It’s been a while, Mika.”
“Indeed. There are exactly two people I’d open early for, and you’re the one who doesn’t wear a crown.”
“Somehow I don’t see the queen getting inked.”
“The queen didn’t lend me rent for my first year either.” He leaned casually against the desk while he sipped his coffee. “So, this was a nice surprise. What are we doing? A new project?”
He never called them tattoos. Only projects. And he was booked four months out, unless you were Grace Brennan or a handful of other close friends.
“A new one. Left arm.”
“Come to my office, and we’ll take a look.”
Mika led her to a room in the back that reminded her of a university professor’s office, overflowing with books from every nook and corner. Only the drafting table, with its computer and light box, were clear of literary debris, and a small leather sofa sat against the opposite wall. He gestured for her to take a seat and pulled up a stool opposite her. “So what have you been up to, Grace?”
Grace held out her right arm, knowing what he was really asking. He slid on a pair of black-framed glasses and gripped her wrist in strong fingers, turning it to examine her last “projects.”
“Good work. Who did it?”
London Tides Page 27