“Photographs taken earlier than the ones Diana showed us. There are several of all of the panels. There might be something in them that can tell us what Cate was after.”
“Kris...”
“And I had him enlarge the photographs Paul Bennett took,” she continued, needing the distance of conversation.
“About this evening...” He needed her to understand.
“I made notes,” she added.
He heard it in her voice, knew her well enough now that he recognized it, that way she had of retreating into details—calm, everything under control, emotions carefully hidden. Like the morning after the attack in London.
He saw it as she reached for another piece of note paper, the way her hand shook, and she almost knocked over the bottled water. She made a grab for the bottle. His hand closed over hers just as it was about to topple over.
“We need to talk.”
She did look at him then, eyes as cool as ice.
“You should have called.”
It was that simple, but nothing simple about it.
“There wasn't time,” he explained. Or the opportunity, he thought, at the club or in the alley behind the gallery, and then with the latest attack, the city was like an armed fortress. But there were things she needed to know. She pulled back, glanced at him again.
“It's late.”
She shoved the piece of paper on top of the pile she'd gathered and pushed past him. She needed space, thankful that he was there, and at the same time needed him to not be there.
He followed her. He needed her to listen, to apply some of that logic, and to understand. This wasn't a game. It wasn't some holiday weekend with a side-trip to Paris. People had been killed, and she was in the middle of it.
She laid the paperwork on the table beside the bed.
“Those bandages probably need changing.”
He'd taken off his jacket, wet from the ride through the rain back to the apartments. There were damp spots on his sweatshirt, and some other stain that hadn't been there before. Her stomach tightened at the thought his wound might have started bleeding again. She gathered gauze pads and tape that Daenerys had provided earlier.
“You'll have to take off your shirt.”
“It can wait.”
She gave him that look and tossed the bandages onto the side table.
“Fine.”
She wasn't prepared for how fast he moved. He pulled her around and pinned her against the wall, a hand flattened on the wall at each side of her head.
“Enough!”
Her head came up—surprise, then anger and some other emotion she wasn't prepared for. She went with the anger and tried to push past him. He blocked her.
“Supper is ready...”
Innis had followed from the salon and stood in the open doorway. He glanced uneasily from one to the other.
“Get out,” James told him. “Now!”
“Right. No problem.” He was already gone.
They stood there like two combatants, each unwilling to budge, unwilling to step away.
