Within minutes Nora hurried toward the winding streets of Trastevere, clinging to the west bank of the Tiber. No one followed, but she walked faster when the streets narrowed, the sun sank lower, and the cafés grew seedier.
Chapter Eight
“Major!”
Jamie took a step, gripped his wine bottle, and fought the urge to run.What is that damned woman doing here at this hour?
He breathed in, allowing the stink of street offal to mingle with the sour odor from the barroom door and pummel his senses.At least I can tell I’m alive. Is there time to hide?
“Major!” the familiar voice demanded, closer now. “I need you.”
Of course she does, the inconvenient chit.I’ve been ten days sober, and she needs me the one evening I need oblivion.Jamie pulled the bottle closer, cradling it in the crook of one elbow, and turned to face his employer.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I—” Her breath heaved in and out. “I?—”
Jamie glowered down at her. At least he tried to. Her face stopped him.The damned woman shivered. Something brought her running like a scared rabbit, and he didn’t like it one bit. He reminded himself that she wasn’t his problem.She isn’t, he repeated to himself,there’s no need to go soft on her.
Nora Haley’s eyes hardened as if she read his mind.
“What is that under your arm?” she asked.
He held up the wine bottle. The cork rested askew, the bottle open, but the contents almost full.
“As you see,” he said.Damned if I’ll apologize. We were done for the day, weren’t we?“Did you need something?”
She looked hesitant.She wouldn’t hesitate if Beaumont died. What else could it be?
“Yes, I have a paper for you to translate. Can we sit somewhere?” Her eyes darted unerringly toward the window of his room high on the side of the dilapidated house across the street.
“I think not, Mrs. Haley. Follow me.” He put a hand on her arm and led her to the café next to the disreputable tavern where she had first accosted him.
Jamie examined his nearly full bottle of wine, feeling his mouth water, while the waiter brought tea.Get on with it, he thought.
“Do you want to tell me why you are here?” he asked impatiently. The sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could drink himself to sleep. “A paper, I believe?”
The woman sipped her steaming tea and pursed her lips. He could see rosy streaks rise up her neck.She’s not as confident as she wants to appear. What spooked her?
“The paper?” he repeated.
The redness deepened when she bent to open her reticule, fetched out a familiar looking piece of foolscap, and handed it to him.
Jamie gave it a perfunctory glance. “‘Signore Antonio Salvia, Legal Representative,’” he read. “Do you want me to translate the address?”
She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes.
“You showed me this days ago.” He tossed it down in front of her. “Why are you really here?”
She told him.
Jamie Heyworth could curse in six languages and still remember to be grateful the woman across from him only understood one. He avoided English. At least she finally recognized danger when it forced itself on her, recognized it, and ran for him.Interpreter? She needs a damned keeper. I didn’t agree to be her keeper.
“Describe him,” he demanded.
“Describe him?” Her blue eyes clouded in confusion, theirsparkle gone in the gloomy café. He hated it.Her eyes should shine with all the reflected light of her quick mind.
Jamie tamped down any thoughts about her eyes and felt his anger rise. “Describe—tall, short, thin, fat? English? German?” he barked.
