Catching the Wind(35)

“And a new assignment.”

He turned toward her, his chest bare. “I don’t want to talk about work.”

“The girl in your house. What language does she speak?”

He reached for her again. “I don’t want to talk about the girl either.”

Lady Ricker shook off his hand. “What language, Eddie?”

Sighing, he inched away from her. “She doesn’t speak at all.”

“Not English, perhaps.” She stood up, her dark-blue nightgown trailing behind her as she paced toward the black curtains and peeked outside. “I’m told she speaks German.”

“Who told you that?”

She waved her hand. “It’s of no matter.”

He propped himself up on the pillows. “And you want to use her—”

“You make it sound so crass.”

He moved to the window beside her. “You are a crass woman.”

She intertwined her fingers in his. “That’s our secret.”

He kissed her neck. They shared secrets, lots of them. Secrets he would die for.

“No one will suspect her.” She wove her fingers through his hair. “We need her help.”

“Then you shall have it.”

“Olivia won’t be pleased.”

“Olivia will do what I say,” he assured her.

“Very good.”

She leaned in to kiss him, but the scream of the air raid siren cut through the room.

“Blast it.”

Lady Ricker sighed. “I suppose we must go to the boiler room with the rest of them. Make a show out of it.”

Eddie swore as he rebuttoned his shirt.

The sooner this war was done, the better it would be for all of them.





CHAPTER 20





_____

“This makes no sense,” Quenby insisted, shielding her chest with her iPad.

“It doesn’t have to make sense.” Chandler paced across the span of her corner office, waving her cigarette as she moved past Quenby’s chair.

She leaned forward. “You told me Evan would love this story.”

“Apparently I was wrong.”

“I thought you’d already told him my idea.”

Chandler marched by her again. “I wanted to surprise him.”

Evening had fallen across London, and a school of cars and buses swam below the window, streaming between their office building and the department store across Brompton.

Just yesterday Chandler had implored her to do everything she could to secure the interview with Mrs. McMann, saying there wouldn’t be any problem revealing a decades-old espionage scheme in print. Then all of a sudden, with a wave of Evan’s wand, Quenby’s story disappeared.

Chandler edged into her office chair, facing Quenby from across the cluttered desk. As if Quenby were a naughty student, at the mercy of her teacher.

“Did Mrs. McMann’s lawyers threaten him?” Quenby asked.

“They called, but I wasn’t privy to the conversation.”

“Evan’s never seemed to concern himself with lawyers before.”

“Defamation is a major offense.”

“I know that, Chandler.” She pulled her chair toward the desk. “I’ve never defamed a person in my life.”

Chandler placed her elbows on her desk. “For the record, I thought it was going to be smashing. Thought it might even win us some awards.”

“Let me talk to Evan. I’ll explain what I’ve found so far and all of my documentation from the National Archives.”

“I told him what you’d found, but he still shut it down.”

Quenby looked back down at the sea of vehicles, trying to make sense of Chandler’s words, but there was no sense in them. “I must be close to something big or Mrs. McMann wouldn’t threaten a lawsuit.”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“The lawyers can’t stop me from asking questions. I’ll write the story and then you and Evan and a whole team of lawyers can read it before you decide whether or not it’s publishable.”

Chandler crushed her unlit Kent Blue on a tea saucer. A ring of darkred lipstick coated the cigarette butt. “Evan wants you to take a break.”

“A break?”

“You haven’t taken leave for more than a year.”

Anxiety mounted in her chest. “I don’t need a holiday.”

“Two weeks, Quenby. Visit the south of France or Spain or someplace where you can sit on the beach and rest.”

“I hate sitting on beaches.”

“And you hate to rest, but it’s good for you,” Chandler replied. “If you won’t travel south, spend some time with your friends in the States and focus on yourself for a change. When you return, we’ll talk about a new assignment for you. Something just as fresh that Evan will love.”

“Someone else is going to scoop my story.”

“It’s not yours, Quenby.”

But it felt like it belonged to her. She’d personally vested herself in this story, like she did with every story she wrote. How could she quit, when she didn’t know how this one ended?

Chandler opened the door, and when Quenby stepped outside, she looked both ways down the hall as if she were lost. Chandler wanted her to focus on herself, but her work kept her mind engaged, her eyes focused on someone else. Since she’d started this job three years ago, she’d always had a story to work on, even if it was just preliminary research during a public holiday. Old, worn feelings flared inside her again, as if Evan Graham had personally rejected her instead of just her idea.