by Parker Swift
“That would make my life easier,” she said cheekily as she reached for one of the mobiles, getting ready to dial.
“Haven’t you got schoolwork to do?” I looked over her shoulder and saw a pair of bids from bakers side by side.
“Of course, but I’ve got that handled.” She spoke to me while reading an incoming email, as though she barely had time for my interruption. “Did I tell you I’ve switched courses?”
“No. What are you doing?” For as long as I’d remembered, Emily had said she was going to go into art history—some nonsense about wanting to once and for all be able to confirm that the eyes in the paintings at Humboldt did in fact follow her.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, I wasn’t exactly devoted to art history. So I’ve switched to the business course. Unfortunately I missed the entry for some of the key classes, so I’ve talked with the faculty and decided to take the semester, do some catch-up reading, and resume at Michaelmas.”
“Bloody hell, Em.” I hadn’t been expecting that. Not from the Emily I knew, whom I was quite sure spent her weekends gallivanting around Sloane Square with her schoolmates.
“What?” When she looked at me, her back straight, her focus evident, her efficiency written all over her, I had this sudden realization that perhaps we were far more similar than I’d realized. I’d always thought my drive had stemmed directly from the stifling pressure my father had put on me as the future Duke of Abingdon, but here was Emily, not a child, not a mind-numbing socialite, with what looked like every bit as much drive as I had.
“Dylan, do stop staring at me and say what you need to say or allow me to get back to work. I adore you, for some mysterious reason, but if you want your wedding to happen in less than three months, you’re going to have to let me get back to work.”
I found myself chuckling. “Fine, madam. But first, have you considered we could simply hire a wedding a planner—”
“I did, twice, and fired both. Completely inadequate.”
“Right, then proceed. But check everything with Lydia—”
“Obviously.”
“Christ, you’re a pill.”
She smiled broadly at me, loving that she’d obviously outsmarted me. Loving the respect I was bestowing on her. It felt good to do it, and novel for both of us. Emily was clearly not just my kid sister anymore. “And, if you can fit it into your schedule, you should come down to Hale Shipping with me on Monday.”
“Really?” She looked surprised and curious. And honestly I felt both of those things as well. I wasn’t even sure where that had come from. An idea was brewing, and she and I would just have to figure out if we could make it work.
“Really. Now where’s Lydia?
Chapter 26
Lydia
I was sitting at the vanity in our room when I heard Dylan come in behind me.
Over the six months we’d lived together, the luxurious master suite had somehow morphed into a couple’s space. One day I’d come home to find that a small bookshelf containing obscure architecture volumes had been replaced by an elegant vanity and bench, complete with an oval mirror that tilted. Another day, I’d decided to frame and hang a photograph of us that we’d taken at Humboldt, out in the wooded area on a winter day—scarves thick around our necks. I’d added some throw pillows to the couch in the sitting area, which, if Dylan noticed, and I was pretty sure he had, he didn’t say anything. My side of the bed had become populated with magazines and books I was halfway through—a habit Dylan was barely tolerating. His side of the bed never had more than a glass of water, his phone, and a single book.
But that vanity was my favorite. On the nights we went out it made me feel like I had a place to move from morning into day, to recover from whatever shenanigans Dylan had roped my body into and get ready for the day. A place to ease from day into night, to leave behind whatever had happened at work, whatever monstrous thing had been said about me on Twitter or in the Daily Mail or Evening Standard, put on a pretty dress, and let it fall away. At that moment, I had changed into a caramel-colored pleated leather skirt and a thin denim button-down, sleeves rolled up, and was applying mascara when Dylan’s suited frame filled the mirror behind me.
“What are you thinking about?” Dylan’s lyrical deep accented voice filled the air behind me, and I was pretty sure I sat a little straighter, trying to accommodate the tiny zings and zaps of arousal that darted around my body whenever he was present. His hands rested on my shoulders, adding warmth to the mix and reminding me of his strength.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I said, looking up at him in the reflection.
He leaned over and slid his palms down the front of my shirt and into my bra.
“If it’s about our phone call this afternoon, then me too.” My nipples pebbled at his touch, but I rolled my eyes for good measure, even if I was involuntarily leaning into his touch. “I like this ensemble. Who knew leather and denim could be so sexy?”
“Um, Bruce Springsteen and every music video from the eighties?” I said, looking up at him. He laughed, withdrew his hands, and sat next to me on the small bench, facing the room while I faced the mirror. He reached over and brushed my hair behind my ear and swept my bangs aside. They weren’t really long enough to be covering my eyes, but he still did that occasionally, like he’d be able to see me more clearly.
“I gave Hannah my notice,” I said, looking right at him. His eyes got bigger, filling with awe and concern at the same time.
“Lydia,” he started, shaking his head. I knew that his biggest fear was that I would give things up, making too many sacrifices to accommodate my life with him. I could see that fear written all over him.
I put my hand on his thigh. “Dylan, it’s what I want. After we got off the phone today I realized how sad I was that I can’t go with you on this trip this summer. I want to be with you. I don’t resent you going—I resent not being able to go with you. It’s not fair to Hannah to prolong it, and it’s not realistic to keep working a nine-to-five job, when we both know there will be times I need to leave work early, extended trips we’ll need to take. But even more than that, I think I’ve learned what I can learn from Hannah. I’m ready to move on to what’s next for me. I told her I’d stay on until the week before our wedding. I’ll get my replacement up to speed. I’ll make sure everything is ready to move forward with the Manhattan shop. Two months is plenty of time to do that. Then I’ll move on.”
“What will you do next?” he asked, a little of the concern falling away.
“Well, I don’t know yet, but I’m going to figure it out. I’m going to explore my options. I found this woman who does technology consulting for the fashion industry, and I’m going to take her out for dinner in a couple of weeks, learn about her job. And I’m going to schedule other informational interviews. Fiona even sounds interested in coming aboard.”
“Really?” Dylan asked, his eyebrows raised.
“Really. And if I worked for myself, there would be nothing standing in the way of me being with you, travelling with you, doing what we want and need in our life.”
“And it’s what you want?” He took my face in in his hands, trying to suss out any hesitation in my eyes. I nodded, and he kissed me on the lips, smooth, firm, and slow. “Thank you, baby.”
“No ‘thanks,’ right? We’re a team.”
Dylan pulled me against him, running his hands up and down my back, and then we both heard the muffled animated sounds of Emily speaking sternly into the phone a floor beneath us. “My sister’s a beast,” he said, smiling.
I laughed into his shoulder. “Isn’t she something? I don’t think this wedding will require too much from us, other than to show up on the day. She’s a marvel.”
“She is,” he said, pulling back, and he got a look on his face like he was getting an idea. “She’s also probably waiting for us.”
* * *
The next morning I was still reeling from all of the wedding plans that Emily had laid before our
feet. Reeling and grateful that I hadn’t had to do them myself. I sat on the bedroom floor in front of three rather large boxes we’d dragged back from the New York apartment, things I thought I might want for our London home. Dylan had gone to the office—he was trying to sort something out with Hale Shipping so he could free up time to work on a new architecture project he wanted to take on.
I removed the Bubble Wrap from framed photos and put them to the side, thinking that maybe I could get some of Dylan’s family photos too and hang them together somewhere. I unpacked a small guitar my father had bought me when I was a child and strummed it just enough to realize how little I remembered about playing and how out of tune it was. Then I dug into a pile of loose photos and papers. I’d been sorting things into “keep” and “discard” piles when I came across a yellowed oversaturated photograph that stopped me in my tracks. I stood from the floor and went to sit at the vanity where the light was better.
My father was leaning against a small blue car on a cloudy day. It was London—I could tell from the British license plates visible next to his legs. He had a mustache, which made me laugh, and he looked so young and healthy. And there, perched on his hip, was me. I was an infant—I couldn’t have been much more than six months old, and I was wearing a onesie with little leather buckled shoes and nothing else, and we were both smiling broadly, laughing. The light in his eyes was magnetic, warm. Our eyes were fixed on each other, and you could see how much he loved me—it radiated from the old photograph. I turned it over, and in handwriting I didn’t recognize, there was a note.
Rick, I can tell already that she’s just like you. Generous with her love and a joy to love in return. I know you’ll both be better off without me. Take good care of our girl.
Holy shit. It was from my mother. I had no idea if this was the last note he’d gotten from her or if there’d ever been any other communication. I don’t know what happened to her after she gave this to him. I’d never known. I stared at that photo for what could have been hours, and as I sat there, I realized I didn’t need to know. Not anymore. She was right. My mother was right: I was like my dad. Full of love. And I wasn’t like her. I wouldn’t leave.
I had been so lucky to have my dad, to be raised by him, loved by him. The man in that photo didn’t choose to love me—it was a force, part of who he was. Part of who I was. I knew that now, because I felt it with Dylan, felt what feeling love for another person made possible. What it made impossible. Taking one look at that photo made me realized I had nothing to fear.
Not today, but one day, I’d convince Dylan that he had that in him too, because he did. There was nothing to be afraid of when it came to making a family with him, because we already were a family.
I wiped the tears that had fallen down my cheeks and into my lap. I tucked the photo into the frame of the vanity mirror and silently thanked my mother—something I never thought I’d do—for that note. She never could have known that her message was exactly the one I needed to hear.
Chapter 27
Dylan
For the most part, things had become more relaxed over the previous week. Lydia was calmer since giving her notice to Hannah—she was lighter, and I caught her reading business magazines and filling up her home office with piles that seemed to have purpose. And having Frank around made me calmer. Until the wedding was over, and the MI6 operation was far enough in our past, I wanted to know she was safe. In fact, the MI6 operation was the only lurking source of anxiety. That and the weeks-long separation that would follow it.
“I don’t want you to do this.” Lydia looked up at me with her big brown eyes, searching, as though she could convince me, with just that look, not to go through with the operation. And fuck all, if there were nothing else to consider, I’d have let those brown eyes tell me exactly what to do. Those eyes fucking owned me.
It was finally here—this event that had been looming for the past several months, and we were getting ready to head out the door.
“Baby. Damsel. I will be fine. This needs to be done.” I ran my hand down her bare arm. Her skin was still warm and damp from the shower, and she was withdrawn, distracted. She was scared, and I don’t think anyone had ever been scared for me in my life. It was so raw, feeling loved like that. I imagined suddenly that’s what parents were supposed to feel for their children. Or what children were supposed to feel from their parents. It was family.
I pulled her from the closet to the bed and sat on the edge, situating her so she sat atop me, so those lean endless legs of hers bent next to my thighs, and I pulled the towel from her back. I wanted to be what kept her warm, I wanted her to feel how I wanted to be the one protecting her, that she had no reason to be scared, and I wanted my skin on hers to do that.
She ran her nose against my neck, nesting in the crook of my shoulder. When she did that she was so beautifully vulnerable. I couldn’t get enough. Her hair covered my hands, and I kissed her head.
“You’ll wait with Jack’s staff. Emily will be with you. You’ll get every update. And the whole thing won’t take more than a couple of hours.” I explained the plan as I rubbed her back. I explained how the car would be driven by a trained agent pretending to be my driver. How I’d be meeting King in the back room of a restaurant he owned. How my jacket would be wired, undetectable. How I knew exactly what I needed to get him to say and exactly how I was going to do it. How we’d been laying this plan for over a year, and it was going to work. How the officers would be waiting less than a block away, ready to intervene. How code words were in place. How I’d be in and out, and only a fifteen-minute drive away in Southwark the whole time. It was solid, and I had backup.
“And when I’m done, I’ll come right to you, damsel. I’ll whisk you off.”
“You can’t. You’re going away tomorrow.” She said, defeated.
“Yes, well, as soon as I’m back from that, we’ll get in the car, head to the airport, straight for Ikaria, and stay there for weeks. Just you and me. All right?”
“We can’t. After that we have the wedding.”
“Yes, well, fine, you annoying little thing, then I will whisk you away.”
What she didn’t know was that as soon as this bloody mess was over with and we were safely tucked away in Greece, I had every intention of telling her I wanted a family, not in ten years, but now. I wanted a child. With her. I’d stop being such a pathetic wanker and pray to god it was what she wanted too, that I wouldn’t be bloody breaking her in half by asking her to be a mother when she’d said more than once that she wanted more time, that the very idea scared her.
Her head of caramel-colored hair rose, and her damp eyes met mine. “Okay. Just promise me nothing will happen. Say it again.”
I took her face in my palms and ran the pad of my thumb across her perfect cheeks. “Nothing will happen.”
“Okay. Then let’s do this. Go be a hero, Dylan Hale.” She rose from my lap and I realized she had her knickers in her hand. “Because obviously being a duke, world-class architect, and devastatingly handsome isn’t enough. You just have to go off and save Britain and Russia, and stop human trafficking as well.” She began to mock me, doing that thing she did when she was trying to create distance and protect herself, use humor to tell herself and everyone else she was fine. She’d done it the first night I’d made love to her.
I smiled at her daft sarcasm, knowing she needed me there with her, and snatched the knickers from her hands. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing with these, damsel. If you think for one second that after this operation I’m going to want to contend with any extra barriers between me and sinking into you, you’ve gone completely mad. No knickers, darling.” I stuffed the purple silk in my pocket, knowing it was probably demented that I was about to take my wife’s undergarments as a good luck token on an MI6 operation.
“Now,” I continued as I went to the closet. I fetched her favorite jeans and some kind of loose-fitting shirt and bra and dropped them on the bed beside her. “
Get dressed, damsel. Let’s get this shit show over with, shall we?”
* * *
I’d been sitting in this fucking empty restaurant for an hour and a half waiting, and King still hadn’t shown up. I tried not to look at my watch, tried not to down the whisky in front of me. Tried not to do anything that would draw the attention of the henchmen who’d clearly been assigned to wait with me. And it was bloody hot in there. I had avoided taking off my jacket as long as I could—it was the only thing on me that was wired—but I’d started sweating, and had draped it over the back of my chair. All I could do to distract myself was think of Lydia back at MI6 headquarters waiting for me. When I’d left she’d been sitting on a couch with Emily, whom she’d asked to bring along. “You know,” she’d said, in her bloody adorable American accent, “in case I get bored.” But I knew it was because she wanted a hand to hold. I adored that she wanted to be strong, and it killed me that I put her in the position at all. But this had to be done. If successful, it cleared the path of being free of the Bresnovs, of finally restoring order with Hale Shipping, for putting Humboldt back in my name. Once this was done I’d have atoned, to some small degree, for the sins of my goddamn father.
At that moment, the door opened and five men walked in—it was immediately clear who King was. The short stocky fucker was flanked evenly by four bodyguards in matching suits.
“Let’s go for a ride, Hale. Shall we?” The fucker said it like he knew something was up. Goddammit. I was supposed to talk to him about going over the Bresnovs’ head, about offering Hale Shipping services for a better deal. I’d worked the details out with MI6, the script, and they were meant to intervene the moment the ass had incriminated himself by accepting the deal. The plan was for the conversation to take place there—why did the fucker want to move?