Chapter Fourteen
Another envelope.
Darcy had moved from her spot at the table at the end of the stack and was instead sitting cross-legged on the floor, the latest box open beside her. She had turned the corner, quite literally, coming to the end of the first stack and moving over to the other side of the aisle. Such were the pigeon steps by which she had to mark progress.
She turned the envelope over. It was unsealed and she untucked the flap...
‘Nice top...That colour suits you.’ She looked up to find Max standing at the end of the shelves, watching her. He was softly backlit by the library lights above the end tables. Even his silhouette was handsome. ‘You forgot this.’ Her scarf was bundled in his hand. ‘It was on the sofa.’
‘Oh...’ She hadn’t even noticed it was missing. She got to her feet as he came down the aisle towards her and held it out. ‘Thanks.’
She swallowed, remembering their latest tense interaction – the altercation on his doorstep the other night. She felt embarrassed now. They’d both been tired. ‘...I’d make a rubbish burglar,’ she murmured, aiming for levity.
He gave his half-smile, stuffing one hand into his trouser pocket. ‘Yes...There were other signs of your presence.’
She looked at him questioningly.
‘Some fries on the floor.’
‘...Really?’
He nodded and she winced, appalled. She reached for something to deflect from her embarrassment. ‘Well, there wouldn’t have been if you had a dog.’
He looked surprised – as was she – by the comment. ‘You think I should have a dog?’
‘Free hoovering,’ she faltered. ‘...Not to mention, it might add a little life to the house.’
There was a perplexed silence. It was a wholly unexpected turn of the conversation. ‘I work long hours. It wouldn’t be fair.’
‘No, probably not,’ she muttered, looking down and squeezing the scarf in her hand. She had absolutely no idea why she’d even brought up the topic of dogs. She stared at her pale blue sweater instead. He really thought this colour was good on her?
‘A cat might be better?’
Was he trying to rescue her? She looked up at him. ‘If you like cats.’
‘I take it that means you don’t?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s generally accepted that you have to pick a side, and I’m Team Dog.’
He crossed his ankles as he leaned against the shelves, watching her. ‘I see.’
At least they hadn’t picked up from the argument on the step. ‘Thanks for this. But you really needn’t have gone out of your way. It’s only a scarf.’
‘Well, I know you would rather have lost the scarf than ever set foot in my house again.’ He caught her eye and she felt her stomach drop as she saw the look on his face.
‘Max...’
‘We should talk.’
‘No. There’s really nothing to—’
‘I think there is, Darcy.’ He stared at her for a long moment. ‘I shouldn’t have kissed you on Sunday. It was wrong and I’m sorry.’
She swallowed. Each word felt like the snap of an elastic band on her skin – because it hadn’t felt wrong to her. This wasn’t the apology she wanted. She didn’t want him to be sorry for kissing her; she wanted him to be sorry for having Natalia in his life, for having let her leave and Natalia stay...But he didn’t regret those choices, only kissing her. ‘It’s really fine.’
‘It’s not, though. We had agreed to keep things professional and I crossed the line.’ He opened his mouth as if to say something else, but closed it again. ‘I won’t make excuses. I did what I did –’
As far as she recalled, they had both done it.
‘– And I don’t blame for you not wanting to work in my house again. I know I’ve made your job more difficult when you’re already under pressure.’ He swallowed, looking uncomfortable. ‘So I came here to say that if you do need to work late, I’ll stay out until you’re ready to leave. You can text me when you’re done. I’ll steer clear till you’re gone.’
She stared back at him, seeing how ready he was to avoid her. ‘That doesn’t seem reasonable. It’s your home,’ she replied. ‘We’re both adults, both professionals...And besides, it was only a kiss.’
‘Yes, but –’ He stopped again, and this time she knew what he had been going to say: it wouldn’t have been only a kiss. It had only stopped there because Natalia had turned up; they both knew that a couple of moments more and they would have completely lost themselves. ‘I just should have had more self-control. I assure you, it won’t happen again.’
She looked away with a small snort. ‘Oh I believe you. I’m sure you’ll be a paragon of virtue.’ She hadn’t meant to sound so sarcastic, but she couldn’t hold back her pain at his words and it made her feel exposed: could he see that she felt everything, while he felt nothing? She stood still for several seconds, trying to compose herself. ‘...I need to get on,’ she muttered, going to move past him, but he caught her elbow.
‘Wait.’
She felt the scarf and envelope fall from her grasp.
‘What?’ She looked back at him, seeing the same look that was always in his eyes, even though his words told different stories. ‘...What is it, Max? You’ve said what you came here to say.’
His mouth opened to speak but he couldn’t seem to find the words, for once.
‘It’s all fine between us. Honestly,’ she said. Another lie. ‘If I need to work the extra hours, then I’ll do what needs to be done. You don’t have to stay out of your own home to accommodate me. I’m a big gir—’
She looked away from him, her words faltering as she glanced down and saw the contents of the envelope, spilled out on the floor. A necklace lay there like a snake.
What...?
Seeing the abrupt change in her focus, Max released her arm. ‘Darcy?’
He watched as she bent down to pick it up. The necklace was made of red wooden beads; they were tiny, the necklace’s diameter small, with a loop closure and a single bead in the centre painted gold.
She blinked. What did this have to do with Trier? Had he bought it as a gift? For his mother, perhaps?...She frowned, her grip closing around the necklace as something stirred in her brain. A memory.
A memory...of an image. She lifted her hand and stared at the necklace more closely.
‘What is it?’ Max asked.
‘...I feel like I’ve seen this before.’ Her voice was barely more than a murmur as she sank into her mind, sifting and dredging through all the material she had waded through in the past ten days. So many photographs, slides, etchings, studies...
‘Wait,’ she whispered. It was a command to herself, she wasn’t talking to him, but he stayed where he was nonetheless as she suddenly stirred. ‘I need...’
She ran back down the aisle towards her worktable at the end and opened up her file of notes. It was pathetically paltry still, little more than a timeline of Trier’s movements during 1918–1920; a list of names of the women in his officially recognized works...but the colour printout Otto had given her was still folded in half. She opened it, staring down at the portrait. It was like peering through muddied bottle glass – the ultraviolet light could only reveal so much through such thick materials as board backing, and the colours were an indistinct, brownish smudge. There were only contrasts of tones and shades from which to work, but against the woman’s neck, partially obscured by the high neck of her blouse (or dress), there was the suggestion of a delicate necklace. Darcy might have assumed seed pearls from the shape and size of them, but the brightness of a singular bead at the throat indicated a tangible difference in material or colour.
Darcy looked again at the necklace in her hand. She set it down on the printout. The scale was off, of course, but...
She looked at Max, who had come to stand by her. ‘Do you think it is?’
He squinted, leaning down for a better look. ‘I mean, it could be...Hard to say for sure without any colour reference, but the gold bead does make it quite distinctive.’
Darcy looked down the corridor. Was Viggo at his desk? ‘Viggo?’ she called, grabbing the necklace and printout and running down the room. ‘You need to see this!’
The archivist, who was working at the computer in the east wing, peered round a shelf. ‘What is it? Have you found something?’
‘This necklace just turned up.’ She hurried over to him, showing him the image and beads. ‘See this here,’ she said, pointing out the bright gold bead. ‘Do you think this could be the same necklace?’
Viggo repositioned his glasses on the end of his nose and scrutinized the image, just as she and Max had done. He took the necklace from her, running his fingers over the small red beads almost meditatively, a small frown beginning to furrow his brow as he straightened slowly.
‘Do you recognize it?’ she asked, watching him. ‘Have you seen it before?’ There had been no identifying information on the envelope; nothing to indicate to whom it had belonged – or been intended to belong – nor who had ever worn it.
But if it was the woman in the portrait’s...it was a thing they could link to her. The first sign that she had been in Trier’s life.
Darcy felt hope spring for the first time. Finally, was this something to work with?
Viggo was still thinking hard, staring at the shelf opposite but not seeing it. He wasn’t here, downstairs in the dim light, below the gallery where tourists trod; he was...
‘...Upstairs.’
‘What?’ Darcy asked, but he was already moving towards the staircase. She went after him, followed by Max. Viggo used the security card on his lanyard to open the door, and they emerged into the bright daylight. The galleries were as full as ever but Viggo moved like an old cat, sure-footed and silent, through the crowds, knowing exactly where he was headed.
Darcy felt her heart pound. They had their first clue! Something to give to Otto and Margit.
Viggo led them towards the Madsen Heritage room where he had been working the other morning. He walked over to a corner where some black-and-white images of the family were displayed and stopped in front of one, peering at it closely, then pulling back with a satisfied nod.
Darcy went closer, her gaze travelling over the foursome depicted. She recognized the younger Madsen men immediately – Frederik and Casper in summer linens, playing croquet – but the two women, a blonde and brunette, were unknown to her. July 1921 , said the plaque beside it.
‘Who are they?’ she asked, her gaze already fixed on the dark-haired woman’s throat.
Viggo pointed with great deliberation. ‘Sofia, Frederik’s wife,’ he said, pointing to the blonde woman. ‘And Lilja, Casper’s.’
Darcy stared at Lilja Madsen. She was wearing a loose white cotton dress with pintucks and dark embroidery on the skirt, and a neckline that cut straight across the clavicle, dropping to little capped sleeves. She was thin, her long hair worn down but for a pearl comb holding back the front strands. A dark, beaded necklace could clearly be seen at her slender neck, the gold nugget winking brightly at her throat.
Darcy pressed her hand to her mouth. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. After days and days of no progress, suddenly they had it? Just like that? The riddle had been unlocked with a string of red beads and a photograph that had been hanging on the wall above them all this time?
She gave an astonished laugh, locking eyes with Max, who had brought up the rear. He looked as disbelieving as her. ‘Can you believe it?’ she asked him.
‘...No.’ He looked stunned, his customary self-assurance absent for once as the situation developed at pace.
Darcy looked back at the photograph, studying the details of a face that had been little more than an impression till now. A silhouette and the attitude of her deportment – the tucking down of her chin, the slight angle at which she held her head – had been the only indicators of this woman’s demeanour and from those, she had been expecting a sophisticated society lady. But the woman in this photograph was far younger than she had expected; in fact, she looked little more than a girl. She had delicate, fine features but there was something in her eyes that was somehow challenging. She was holding the croquet stick with careless insouciance, as if the outcome of the game was of no consequence to her. Or perhaps she had already won, or lost? ‘She’s really his wife ? She looks so young!’
‘Different times,’ Viggo shrugged.
Darcy’s eyes roamed the image. The garden was mature, with orchard trees and clumps of silver birches dotting the further reaches of the lawn; a brick gate pillar was just coming into shot and a body of water – a lake? – shimmered at the top right edge. Lilja’s companion, and sister-in-law, Sofie was looking to camera, like the men, but Lilja’s gaze was slightly averted towards something over the photographer’s shoulder. A child? A dog? A car? The possibilities were endless and even here the woman, captured in a still, seemed to move somehow. Elusive.
‘Of course, we must not rush to conclusions,’ Viggo said cautiously. ‘Lilja, in this photograph, may not be the woman in the portrait simply because she is wearing the same necklace. They might have been friends.’
Darcy nodded. It was indeed conceivable Lilja could have loaned the necklace to the woman to wear during the sittings, or given it to her following a chance compliment. Or it could be that everything was the other way round and it was Lilja who had been gifted or loaned the necklace by the woman in the portrait. If Lilja was married to Casper Madsen, the son of Johan Trier’s patron, she had surely come into contact with many of the women he painted? She might even have recommended him to her own friends.
‘I agree,’ Darcy murmured. She had to consider all hypotheses. ‘We mustn’t get carried away. This might not be an ending to the mystery, but a middle. We’ll need to see where the evidence leads.’ She looked over at Viggo and gave an excited smile. ‘But at least we’re no longer stuck at the beginning.’
‘Indeed.’
The necklace had led her to a name, and that was a solid start, but she needed more information to help build the story. She wondered where that garden was – clearly not Copenhagen. She would have to find out.
‘I must tell Otto.’
Max, standing behind them, said nothing. He didn’t share their academic fervour; he was a businessman, concerned with profits and gains. To him, this woman’s name simply added to the legend of a painting that was a national asset. But to Darcy, this was a whole life found again. A woman who’d been quite literally locked in the dark for a century was feeling air on her painted face once more. Darcy remembered something she’d read once: that the dead are only truly forgotten once their name is uttered for the last time.
Well, this woman wasn’t dead yet. She was coming alive again. And it might just be that Johan Trier was going to give her the gift of immortality.
‘Pleased to meet you, Lilja,’ she murmured. ‘It’s about bloody time.’
‘Thanks, Christoff,’ Max murmured. ‘To the Royal Academy.’
The driver nodded, closing the door with a sedate thunk .
Darcy looked around at the plush interior – blonde leather, tinted windows, walnut trim. The two back seats were separated by a console with bottled water and a control suite that wouldn’t have been out of place on an A380.
Max checked his phone quickly before slipping it back into his jacket pocket. ‘Helle’s going to meet us there.’ He’d been making calls too while Darcy had been talking to Otto.
‘Really?’ Her nerves were beginning to rise as it was; she hadn’t expected a full-on meeting to be called on the back of the potential identification. It was bad enough that Otto had called in Margit, without Helle Foss’s scrutiny too. Max was accompanying her because she was taking source material off site. ‘Why?’ she had asked him, holding the file Viggo had given her on her lap. ‘It’s not a Madsen issue. And nothing’s confirmed yet; Lilja Madsen may not be the woman in the portrait. This could turn out to be a false alarm.’
‘Or it might not – in which case the Madsen name is implicated, and we have a right to know.’
Darcy glanced at him, remembering Otto’s warnings. They all wanted the same thing – but were on different teams. ‘You want the portrait?’
‘I want whatever will continue to grow, drive and protect the Madsen brand name. No one can deny this discovery – with or without Her Children – is pertinent to our interests,’ he said, holding her gaze without even blinking. His manner – so calm and unruffled – was quietly intimidating and she didn’t want to imagine what it must be like sitting opposite him at a conference table; but then she remembered him in his kitchen, drinking coffee and reading the papers; in his sweats and socks, watching the football on his iPad...She tried to remind herself he had his human moments too.
‘So that’s why you’ve been so unduly interested in my progress on this project, is it?’
‘...Unduly?’
She swallowed. ‘I know it’s not the insurers insisting on the working arrangement at your place. It’s you.’
His gaze was steady. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Viggo slipped up when we were talking.’
He looked away again, staring out of the window. ‘I see.’ It wasn’t a denial.
‘...So is it true? You’ve been keeping an eye on me because you can’t do your job until I’ve done mine?’
He was quiet for another moment. ‘...Exactly, Darcy,’ he muttered. ‘That’s what it was.’
They sank into silence as the car pulled out into the traffic and Darcy stared out of her own window, trying, for once, to move her mind away from him. She had to focus. She needed to plot her next steps for researching the young Mrs Casper Madsen. Margit would want not just details, but a plan.
She watched the city slink past, muted and tinted bronze. Everything felt different inside here, as if she had been hermetically sealed in a parallel world.
Beside her, Max checked his watch.
‘We’ve got half an hour before we need to be there,’ he murmured, seemingly thinking out loud. ‘Any objections if we make a quick pitstop?’
‘Where to?’
‘The Christmas market. I need to pick something up for Sara.’
She swallowed at his audacity. Really?
‘She’s my PA, Darcy,’ he said, as if reading her mind. ‘She’s sixty-three, married for thirty-eight years and she has seven grandchildren.’
‘It makes no difference to me what she is to you,’ she said quickly, even though the rapid clatter of her heart told a different story. Was her dismay really so obvious? ‘Stop if you like. If you’re sure there’s time.’
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly at her dismissal. ‘...To H?jbro Plads, please, Christoff.’
‘Of course, Mr Lorensen.’
The silence in the car seemed to thicken but Darcy didn’t feel compelled to speak. There was no neutral ground between them, it seemed; saying nothing was the only safe option.
The car pulled up at the square several minutes later and Max looked across at her. ‘Coming?’
She looked out across the Christmas market. Dusk was already falling – she would never get used to the short days here – and the red wooden huts and trees were all picked out in glittering fairy lights so that the entire square glowed with a golden light. It made for a beautiful scene. The place was filled with shoppers and tourists, music was playing through speakers...
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll just stay here.’
He blinked but gave no reply, although a tiny sigh escaped him, barely audible. She winced as his door slammed shut.
She swallowed, squeezing her hands into fists, knowing she was being petty and face-spiting again, but—
Her door suddenly opened and he peered in. ‘Just come with me...What else are you going to do?’
She wanted to reply that she would check her emails, but something in his look told her not to toy. He held his hand out for her and silently she took it, giving a small shiver as she adjusted to the biting chill.
‘I see you forgot your scarf again.’
Had she? In all the drama and haste...‘Oh.’
He tutted, shaking his head at the trail of mild chaos that surrounded her. ‘...This way.’
He turned left, heading towards the upper end of the square. The crowd was slow-moving as people ambled, in no rush – certainly they didn’t appear to have meetings to go to – but from his leisured pace, seemingly neither did Max. He walked alongside her, not striding ahead, his hand hovering lightly on the small of her back, and she felt exactly as she had the night of the drinks reception at the National Gallery. She glanced across at him, just as he looked at her too. Was he thinking the same thing? She had no idea. He was almost impossible to read, his emotions never breaking past a certain pitch. Even when he would contradict himself – say one thing, do another – his surface still never cracked.
Perhaps he was just being gentlemanly, she told herself as he guided the way – protecting her in the crowd. He’d do it for anyone...Kristina. Angelina. Natalia. Sara.
They passed by stalls selling knitwear, wooden toys, fl?deboller cookies, colourful glazed ceramics, even artisan chocolate moulded as tools: cogs, padlocks, scissors and wrenches...
‘So random,’ she said with a puzzled smile.
Max seemed to know exactly what he was heading for and came to a stop a few minutes later at a stall selling felted Christmas tree decorations. There were terriers on skis, polar bears in Santa hats, gingerbread men holding Christmas stockings. Darcy looked at him, surprised. She wouldn’t have thought this was his bag.
‘It’s a tradition,’ he said, as if sensing her stare while he viewed the assorted goods. ‘I get Sara a new one every year for her tree.’ His eyes roamed for several moments before he picked up a teddy bear dressed as a Nutcracker and looked at her questioningly.
Darcy couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You want my opinion?’
‘Of course. Do you think she’ll have a desperate need for a teddy bear dressed as a Nutcracker hanging on her tree this year?’
She grinned at his tone. ‘Well, I’ve never met Sara, so it’s hard for me to say, but...who wouldn’t?’
He broke into an open smile. ‘So then we’re in agreement – for once.’ He handed it across to the stallholder, who began wrapping it in tissue as he reached into his suit for his wallet.
‘Aren’t you going to get one for your own tree?’ Darcy asked wryly as he handed over his card.
‘I don’t have a tree,’ he murmured.
Darcy’s eyebrows raised up. ‘You don’t have a Christmas tree?’
‘No.’
‘What?...Never?’
‘No.’
The card machine beeped as the payment went through and the vendor handed back his card and the toy, now tissue-wrapped and placed in a paper bag.
‘How can you not have a Christmas tree?’ she asked in astonishment as he started to move along again. She had to skip to catch him up.
‘Because I don’t celebrate Christmas.’
‘Why not? Religious reasons? Lack thereof?’
He turned to look at her. ‘Because I don’t do Christmas. That’s all.’
It was no answer, but clearly he had no intention of opening up to her on his opinions of the Holy Trinity. They walked past some more stalls in silence, but if he was emotionally distant, he remained close by her side, his hand ever hovering behind her but never quite touching.
She gave a shiver, and he noticed. ‘Cold?’
She nodded, seeing he was wearing the scarf Angelina had passed to him at the weekend. Cashmere, no doubt; it probably still smelled of her perfume.
‘I know how to warm you up,’ he said. She looked at him sharply, but he was already heading for a hot drinks stall. ‘A hot chocolate,’ he said to the stallholder. He glanced back at her. ‘Hold the cream?’
She shook her head.
‘What are you? Ten?...You want the sugar dump?’ he asked, surprised.
She shrugged. ‘Sugar. Tequila. Crystal meth...My days are long at the moment.’
He grinned as he looked back at the stallholder. ‘With cream and marshmallows.’
Darcy’s gaze fell to the neighbouring stall and she drifted over while the drink was being made to admire some ceramic lamps she saw there – they were matt white domes studded with tiny pinpricks, tracing the shapes of angels and stars, through which the light shone.
‘Here,’ he murmured, joining her a few moments later.
‘Thanks.’
They began to walk again, but more slowly now; ambling past the stalls, along avenues punctuated with Christmas tree sellers and small fairground rides. They passed larger-than-life-size reindeer figures, completely made of lights. Max pointed at an elaborate Cinderella coach – as round as a pumpkin and lit like a birthday cake – where people were paying to have their photograph taken.
‘You should get a picture. Remember this day for ever,’ he said drily.
‘I’m not sure this should be the memento of my only Christmas in Copenhagen,’ she replied with equal cynicism.
He looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean, only?’
‘Well, I’m here for a year. I’ll be heading back to London come the summer...You knew that, surely?’
He was quiet for a moment. ‘Yeah. Of course...I wasn’t thinking.’
She watched him, wishing she could see inside his head, wondering if even then he would remain an enigma to her.
‘Watch out,’ he said suddenly, hooking his arm around her and pulling her out of the way of a man coming towards them at pace with a beer barrel on his shoulder. ‘...You okay?’
‘Sure,’ she nodded. But as they resumed walking, his arm didn’t drop from her waist and she fell into the daydream she’d been trying to ignore – being with him here, not on an errand but out of choice, the two of them wandering around together on a Saturday, in their jeans and not their work clothes, his arm slung lazily over her shoulder, kissing her hair as they shopped for the quiet Christmas they’d enjoy together at his place...Why was it such an impossibility, when she knew he was drawn to her too?
She finished her drink and looked around for the nearest bin. Reluctant to leave his accidental embrace, she nonetheless headed over and dropped the cup in, her eyes catching on another lamp stall; these projector lamps were wooden and revolved slowly and she dropped into a half-crouch to watch, enchanted for a moment.
He came and stood beside her. ‘You like those?’
‘Love them! I had a little carousel light when I was little. I haven’t seen one of these for years.’
She looked at the display: they were all unpainted larch with the wooden figures set in the round, 360 degrees. There were some with woodland animals: bears, deer, rabbits; a seascape with crested waves and ships at full mast; ponies on a fairground carousel...She crouched further in front of one of a winter wonderland scene with reindeer, Christmas trees and stars.
She reached a hand forward to turn over the price tag. Ouch. Withdrawing her hand, she straightened up.
‘What was yours like?’ he asked, watching her watching it.
‘Oh, it wasn’t anywhere near as lovely as these. It was a silvery metal and had butterflies sort of springing from it. You’d put a tealight in the middle and the heat would make it revolve and the butterflies would spin round...I was a bit of a wired kid and I used to have trouble falling asleep sometimes; but I could always drop off watching the butterfly shadows on my wall.’
‘Do you still have it?’
‘God, no,’ she scoffed.
‘What happened to it?’
‘My brother pulled the butterflies off the wires after we had a fight. Mum couldn’t get them back on again.’ She shrugged but she could still remember how upset she’d been as she had watched it go into the bin.
‘...Brothers, huh.’
‘Yeah.’ She shot him a look. ‘Consider yourself lucky you don’t have one. He was the bane of my life till I was about sixteen.’
There was a pause. ‘What changed at sixteen?’
She shot him a wry look. ‘He started to fancy my friends. He had to be nice to me.’
Max gave a small smile. ‘Why don’t you get it, if you like it so much?’
Her eyes fell again to the price tag and she shook her head quickly. ‘No.’ But she bent her knees again to get a last look at the revolving scene. She could just imagine how dazzling it would be at night, in a dark room, throwing golden light shadows onto the walls. It was hypnotic, the steady, relentless turn of the shapes, and it triggered in her strong memories of childlike wonder, when Father Christmas had still been real and there was such a thing as happy ever after.
A pair of hands came into her field of vision and she looked up with a start as the vendor plucked it from the stand. She straightened, remembering herself. ‘Anyway, we should probably get g—’
She turned just in time to see Max handing over his card once again.
‘Max? What are you doing?’ she asked, looking back to see the carousel being set inside a box, which was then put in a bag.
‘Buying it for you.’
‘No! You can’t do that!’ she protested.
‘Why not? You obviously love it.’ He frowned and shrugged. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘But you don’t do Christmas.’
‘No, but you do...’
She stared at him until he threw his hands out. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘I don’t understand you! How does this come under “being professional”? People who are just colleagues don’t buy each other Christmas presents.’
He held up Sara’s felted teddy bear.
‘She’s your PA. That’s different. She runs your life.’
His hand dropped back down and he didn’t reply immediately. ‘Fine...Then consider it an apology.’
‘An apology?’
‘I don’t want you to hate me.’
‘...I don’t hate you,’ she said, baffled.
‘No?’
‘Max, you’re the most frustrating man I’ve ever met, but that doesn’t mean I hate you. This isn’t necessary. You’ve already apologized for the kiss.’
‘It’s not about that.’
She frowned. ‘Then what?’
He stared at her and she could see conflict in his face – thoughts he wouldn’t express, whole conversations she would never hear, running behind his eyes – even as she felt the pull between them again, tugging...
The vendor cleared his throat, intruding, and Max looked away to take the bag from him.
‘We should start heading back,’ he said, checking his watch again. ‘Shit, now we’re going to be late,’ he said brusquely, and for the first time he walked ahead of her in the crowd, setting such a brisk pace that she had to fall into a trot to keep up. They wove through the bodies with a haste that had been missing earlier, until the car came into sight, parked illegally on the kerb.
‘Here.’ He got to the car first and reached back with the bag for her, but she made no attempt to take it from him and he looked back in puzzlement.
‘Tell me what you’re apologizing for, if not the kiss.’ She willed him to say Natalia’s name.
‘Why don’t we just say it’s for everything I’ve got wrong with you?’ he shrugged.
‘Because that’s not an answer.’
‘It’s the best I can give.’
She rolled her eyes. He made her want to scream! ‘Then I don’t want it.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
They glowered at one another, fighting over she didn’t even know what.
‘Unbelievable.’ He gave a small snort as he opened the car door for her, resting one arm on the car roof, waiting for her to get in. ‘You know, you’re the first and only woman I’ve ever known who’s not wanted a gift by way of apology.’
‘A dubious distinction. Perhaps you should reconsider the kind of women you know,’ she clapped back.
He cracked a half-smile. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘They’re predictable.’
‘And that’s what you want, is it? Predictable women?’
‘Absolutely.’ His gaze was steady. ‘I like known entities and managed outcomes.’
‘Wow. Life lived by spreadsheet.’ She rolled her eyes as she went to slide in past him. ‘Do you even have a pulse?’
He caught her wrist and stopped her with a look. They both knew the answer to that.
A moment beat between them as he stared at her the way he had on Sunday night. But instead of kissing her, he held out the bag for her instead. ‘Just take it, Darcy. It can be a Christmas present, an apology – whatever you want it to be.’
She just couldn’t be what he wanted.
Predictable.