Page 69 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

A flicker of her true self again, even through the fear and the rain. I clenched my hands together. I wanted to touch her so badly my hands hurt. “Come back to the office,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “No.”

“Mary.”

“I can’t go back into that marble lobby while emotionally compromised. I’ll say something terrible to your receptionist.”

“Andrea will survive.”

“She looked kind. I don’t want to test her.”

“Then coffee.”

She looked past me at the cafe. Her face shifted, and I understood before she spoke.

Too public, too many people, too much chance of shaking apart in front of strangers.

“My office is private,” I said. “You can sit down. We can call Lincoln. Or not call him yet, if you want to breathe first. You can have tea, water, food, whatever you need.”

“I don’t need you to fuss.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re pregnant, soaked through, and shaking on the Thames path.”

“A concise but unflattering summary.”

“Come inside.”

She looked at the river and I waited. Finally, she held out her hand. “Fine. But if your office has a chandelier, I’m leaving.”

“No chandelier.”

“A sculpture?”

“Possibly.”

“Hudson.”

I smiled despite the terror still trying to climb my ribs. “I’ll walk you past it quickly.”

She huffed, almost a laugh. When my fingers closed around hers, her scent warmed. So did mine.

“Don’t get ideas,” she said, staring straight ahead as we walked back toward the building.

“Too late.”

Andrea was at reception when we returned. Her gaze moved from my hand around Mary’s to Mary’s wet coat and pale face. To her credit, she didn’t ask a single question.

“My office,” I said. “No interruptions unless it’s Mr. Hart.”

“Of course.”

Mary leaned closer as we crossed the marble floor. “She knows.”

“She knows you’re important.”