“Collect information?” Mariana repeated. “That’s almost as vague as ceremonial consular duties.”
A charged silence stretched between them before Nick broke it. “If I tell you, will you promise to leave Paris immediately?”
“Why would I promise you anything?”
“Mariana.”
“I promise toconsiderleaving.”
A frustrated, sibilant breath sounded through his teeth. “Put bluntly, I’m a spy.”
A short burst of baffled confusion transformed into rattled shock. “A spy?” she asked in a low hush. She’d been a willful fool all these years. She’d seen what she wanted to see in the man who had broken her heart: a frivolous dilettante.
But the Nick standing before her—whoeverhewas—was the real Nick. He was a collector of information for the Foreign Office. Nick was aspy. Obfuscatory beard and unfashionably shorn hair were all part of a role he played.
“Mariana, you’ve no idea what you’re dabbling in.”
“You still think of me as that eighteen-year-old girl, don’t you?” she asked, bitterness twisting every word. She hated her inability to hide it from him. “The one so amenable to your wishes and requests?”
A wry smile curved his beautifully formed lips. These were the same firm, full lips that had ravished every inch of her during their short-lived union. He pushed off the wall and strode to the door. “I wouldn’t dream of characterizing you as amenable.”
She resisted the impulse toward distraction. Their past had no place in the present. “Why did I receive the note?” she pressed.
He paused and slid his gaze toward her. Her breath arrested in her lungs. He still possessed the power to stun and captivate her with a single glance.
“I shall fix this,” he said as familiar, distancing reserve returned to his demeanor. “There is no reason to involve you.”
With those parting words, he was out of the door. And out of her life for all she knew.
She slumped against a wall of shelving. She’d forgotten how devastating he could be, and how he could slice her open with a few words.
There is no reason to involve you.
No seven words better encapsulated the story of their marriage.
Rather than allow herself to become bogged down in emotion best left to the past, she stiffened her spine and focused on the present. She had experience in moving beyond a devastating moment: place one foot in front of the other and aim for a destination. In this case, Helene’s box would do. Yet, as her feet carried her forward, a pair of refrains circled her brain like a whirlwind:
Nick is alive.Nick is a spy.
A statement of relief and truth:Nick is alive. A statement of bewilderment and intrigue:Nick is a spy. The clues had been before her the entire time she’d known him. Of course, Nick was a spy.
Within a matter of minutes—minutes which bore no resemblance to the steady tick-tock of time, given the torrent of conflicting thoughts and emotions that continued to swirl about her brain—she resumed her seat beside Helene.
“Did the air refresh you?” Helene whispered.
A quick, affirmative nod was Mariana’s response. Her unseeing eyes were fixed on the drama playing out on the stage, even as she attempted to comprehend the drama just behind her.
Nick was alive, at least, as of five minutes ago, and she was free to pick up her life where she’d left it. London was little more than a boat ride away.
A subtle nudge of Helene’s shoulder drew Mariana’s attention. “Ma chérie,” came Helene’s delighted whisper, “you have an admirer.”
As she brought Helene’s proffered glass to her face and followed the direction of Helene’s twinkling gaze, her heart banged out a hard thump in her chest. Was it possible that it could be . . .
Disappointment shot through her.
The wrong man returned her gaze. He inclined his head in a shallow nod, and his eyes shifted away.
“He may not be perfect,” Helene murmuredsotto voce, “but a flirtation with a most eligible younger man is refreshment for the soul,non?”
