Chapter Four
Bea was a little disappointed not to spot him at breakfast on Sunday.
She kept telling herself that she wasn’t.
Or at least that she shouldn’t be. But in the end, she had to admit it, she’d been hoping to see him.
She wasn’t going to let herself get derailed by fanciful thoughts, though.
She’d enjoyed their shared journey back to the hotel last night.
Hopefully, she’d see him at the arena again tonight—but that was all there was to it.
It’d be foolish to hope for anything more.
She checked herself over in the mirror and nodded.
She didn’t look bad, if she said so herself.
She wasn’t going to skip the plans she and Meg had made for this afternoon.
It might seem an odd pairing with a three-day country music concert, but the other thing she and Meg had both been looking forward to this weekend was a visit to the British Museum.
Bea had fallen in love with the place during a semester in London a lifetime ago and tried to visit whenever she came up to the city.
Considering her plans to leave the country, who knew when she’d get the chance again?
She slipped on the comfortable walking shoes she’d managed to cram into the old suitcase, glad she hadn’t left them behind. The new case was a little bigger; there’d be plenty of room for them in there.
She eyed the old suitcase in the corner, not sure what to do with it.
It seemed unfair to leave it here for housekeeping to deal with—but she didn’t know what other options she had.
There was something fitting, anyway, about abandoning it in a very nice Bloomsbury hotel.
The one thing she knew she would not do was take it on the plane with her when she left.
It might seem a silly thing to most people.
But to her, leaving the case behind was symbolic.
She’d never liked the thing. It was part of a set Simon had bought her years ago, and in his perfectly reasonable way, he’d expected her to be grateful.
Appreciative, at least. That she didn’t like it—that she’d had her eye on a different set entirely, one she’d fallen in love with—was neither here nor there, as far as he’d been concerned.
She pulled herself together and tidied the book she still wasn’t reading back onto the bedside table. She’d worry about the suitcase tomorrow. For now, she should be on her way. She could get a few hours wandering the museum before she needed to come back and get ready for this evening.
From what she’d seen online, there was a whole room of pieces from ancient Crete.
She’d no doubt spend most of her time in there.
She took her new leather jacket down from the hanger, collected her things, and made sure the room was locked behind her.
Walking down the corridor toward the lifts, she couldn’t help smiling.
Thinking of Blane, the smile turned into a grin as she imagined what Meg would have to say.
Meg would have opinions, no doubt. Bea would of course tell her about him—but if she could just show her friend a photograph of the man…
Well. He’d probably flee, just as he had from the girls last night, if she whipped out her phone and suggested a picture. Not that she needed one for herself. That handsome, stony face had already etched itself into her memory.
She was grateful to him, in a way. He’d taken her focus off being alone here, in this strange little limbo between her old life and the new one. He might not appear cheerful, but he’d certainly brightened her days.
When she reached the lifts, it occurred to her there might well be a conspiracy after all. Whenever she needed to go down, they were invariably sitting on the ground floor. She pushed the button and waited, glancing—only occasionally—down the corridor to where room 1211 must be.
If the man was working, he was hardly likely to come sauntering out.
And there was no reason for her to feel quite as disappointed as she did when he didn’t step out of the lift when it arrived, either.
She really needed to stop this. She was off to see Minoan artifacts.
She did not need to keep thinking about a large American.
When she reached the lobby, she waved at the girls on the reception desk, and they beckoned her over.
“Is everything all right?” she asked as she approached.
“Everything’s fine, Miss Hartley. We just wanted to say thanks again for the chocolates and cookies.”
“Oh, you’re most welcome. It’s always nice to have something sweet while you’re working, isn’t it?”
The two girls exchanged a glance and giggled. Bea could only smile; she wasn’t in on the joke.
“We think you’re very sweet,” said the younger one, Carla. “We just wanted you to know we appreciate it. And what are you up to today? Heading to your concert early?”
“No—I know there are artists who play in the afternoons, but…” She made a face. “You’ll think me an old fuddy-duddy, but I’m going to the British Museum.”
“No, that’s wonderful,” said Lauren. “I envy you. I love to just walk through the rooms whenever I can—it’s so handy, being this close. You know it’s only five minutes on foot?”
“I do, thanks. I’m going to take a little stroll. Is it busy in here today?”
“It’s Sunday morning,” said Carla, as though that explained everything.
“Well. I’ll leave you to it and see you later.”
When she reached the front doors, she heard heavy footsteps behind her and turned with a smile—because even though there was no way she could have known it was him, she knew it was him.
“Hey, Bea.”
That voice was far too deep, and had far too much gravel in it, to be doing what it was doing to her.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Are you headed out?”
“I am. And you?”
“Yeah.” He waved a brochure in the air. “One of my partners says I’m not allowed to come home till I’ve done some sightseeing. So…” A beat. “What about you? Where are you headed?”
“The same, as it happens. Though probably not the kind of sightseeing you have in mind. I plan to spend the afternoon in the British Museum.”
His eyebrows shot up. “The British Museum. Really?”
She laughed. “Don’t look so horrified. Some people still like to wander around museums, you know.”
“I know. That’s not what I meant. It’s—” He stopped short.
“What did you mean?”
“I was surprised, I guess. Since that’s where I’m going.”
And for the first time, a small wariness crept over her.
That he was going to the same place, at the very same time—it seemed a little…
suspect, to say the least. She probably shouldn’t question it.
Probably wouldn’t have, once. But she’d been well trained, at Simon’s hand, in the art of things arranged to look like convenience.
He’d had a gift for making his own preferences seem logical, coincidental, in her best interest and simply working out that way.
She’d learned—at some cost, on occasion—that a thing presented as coincidence wasn’t always one.
“Wasn’t inviting myself along.”
Her gaze snapped up to his. He sounded—not angry, but… hurt? Could that be it? No. She was being ridiculous.
“I’m sorry.” She meant it. “I’ve learned to be a little suspicious of coincidences.”
She couldn’t read his stony expression as he looked at her for a long moment. Eventually he let out a small huff of air—whether indignation, agreement, or the sort of warning a bull gives before it charges, she couldn’t tell. Not until he spoke.
“It’s good you’re suspicious. You should be aware of what people around you are up to.” His scowl deepened. “I’d like to ask what made you so suspicious. What—” He shook his head. “None of my business. But—here. How about this.”
He took his phone from his pocket and held it up. She stared at it, not understanding.
“Shit. I mean, I can play you a voicemail. Here. Listen.”
“Hey, bud. Would you get your ass out of that hotel today? You’re in London, Blane.
Don’t sit in your room and work. Leave the building—with your body, not on a secure line.
Use your feet. Go outside. There’s a dozen things within a ten-minute walk.
Hell—go to the British Museum. Go see the Magna Carta.
Or the Rosetta thing. Whatever else they’ve got.
I think there’s mummies. Just don’t lie down and join ‘em, okay? We need you. And call me, bud. We need to talk about what’s happening. About getting you out of there.”
She couldn’t help smiling as she listened to his friend’s voice. Another American—far more outgoing, by the sound of him. But what struck her more than the accent was the care in it. This was someone who clearly loved Blane. Who knew him well and wanted the best for him.
He raised his eyebrows, watching her smile. “Did I make a fool of myself?”
She chuckled. “Not at all. I think you stated your case. And, by the way—you have every bit as much right to go to the British Museum as I do. It needn’t be an either-or. You or me.”
“Yeah. But I didn’t want you thinking I invited myself along. It was my plan anyway.”
She hesitated only a moment. There was no reason not to. “I know you weren’t inviting yourself along. But I’m inviting you.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You are?”
She nodded. “I’ve spent a good deal of time in that museum over the years.
I can probably give you a few pointers. And you may need some—if the chap telling you to go thinks the Magna Carta lives at the British Museum.
It’s actually at the British Library. The Rosetta Stone, however, you’ll be able to see.
And mummies,” she added. “Any particular interest?”
He almost smiled—she could see the corner of his mouth twitching. “Not sure about the mummies. But I wouldn’t mind seeing the Rosetta thing.”
“Stone, Blane. It’s the Rosetta Stone.”
That not only cracked the smile but earned her a small laugh. “I was teasing. Whatever you Brits think, we’re not all heathens.”
“Well. I think you may need to prove that before I believe you, Mr. Blane. But if you’re coming—let’s go.”