Chapter 10 #2
His gaze travels over me again.
Hair.
Eyes.
Face.
Hands.
Then returns to my eyes.
Not sexual exactly.
Something deeper.
Wonder.
Like he spent years looking for something he wasn't entirely convinced existed and now doesn't know what to do because it's sitting on his sofa drinking tea.
My chest aches.
“What?”
He doesn't pretend not to understand.
“I'm looking.”
“I noticed.”
“I've waited a long time.”
The honesty in it knocks the teasing answer out of me.
I lower the cup.
“Am I disappointing?”
His brow furrows.
“Is that a serious question?”
“Maybe.”
He moves closer.
Not much.
Enough.
“No.”
One word.
Absolute.
“Drew was expecting a blonde.”
“Drew expects blondes everywhere.”
“You were too.”
“For approximately thirty minutes.”
I smile.
“Big blue eyes.”
“I'll kill him.”
“Big boobs.”
His eyes close.
I laugh.
“Sabine.”
“What?”
“He will never be allowed to describe a woman to me again.”
“Were you disappointed?”
His eyes open.
Drop briefly.
Return to mine.
The slow heat in that look sends a chill down my spine.
“No.”
Oh.
All right.
I reach for the tea again.
Xavier's mouth twitches.
He knows exactly what he just did to me.
I hate that too.
The scones arrive.
He doesn't let the staff member enter.
Takes the tray himself.
Locks the door again.
Security.
Always.
But for once it doesn't feel like a cage.
It feels like walls between me and everything outside.
He puts the tray on the table.
Warm scones.
Butter.
Jam.
More honey.
I break one apart.
Steam curls upward.
“This is absurd.”
“What is?”
“This.”
I gesture between us.
“Tea?”
“Us.”
That stops him.
The fire cracks.
Rain taps against the windows.
I stare at the half-open scone in my hands.
“You're Blackwell.”
“Yes.”
“My father worked for Blackwell.”
“Yes.”
“I've spent years breaking into your systems.”
“I've noticed.”
“I may have blackmailed several people using information obtained through them.”
“I suspected.”
My eyes snap up.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“That is different.”
“Slightly.”
I shake my head.
“You've been hunting me.”
“Yes.”
“And I have been investigating you.”
“Yes.”
“We are rivals in every possible sense.”
“Probably.”
“Enemies.”
His expression changes.
“Are we?”
The question is too quiet.
I look away.
Outside, London glitters through rain.
“I don't know.”
“Neither do I.”
“That should bother you.”
“Most things about you bother me.”
I laugh softly.
“There he is.”
“Who?”
“Ghost.”
His gaze holds mine.
“He never left.”
My throat tightens.
That is the problem.
I spent days telling myself Xavier and Ghost were different men.
Ghost was safe.
Xavier was Blackwell.
Ghost was the man who stayed online while I cried for Papa.
Xavier belonged to the company whose name appears throughout every mystery surrounding his death.
Ghost made me laugh.
Xavier hunted me.
Separate them and everything remains manageable.
Except they aren't separate.
The man who made my tea is the same man whose systems I penetrated.
The hand that brushed my hair from my face belongs to Blackwell.
The eyes watching me now belong to Ghost.
Same man.
I hate how badly I want that to be true.
“What happens tomorrow?” I ask.
“We start figuring out what happened to your father.”
“And tonight?”
His expression softens.
“Tonight you eat.”
I smile faintly.
“That's it?”
“Then you sleep.”
“Very exciting.”
“You were hoping for another kidnapping?”
“No.”
“Then work with me.”
I eat another piece of scone.
He watches until I do.
That should annoy me.
Instead butterflies scatter through my stomach.
Ridiculous.
I haven't had butterflies since I was seventeen.
I am a woman who infiltrates intelligence networks.
I have hidden from governments.
I have crossed borders under names that never existed.
Xavier Blackwell looks pleased because I ate half a scone, and apparently this is what destroys me.
The fire throws warm light across his face.
His tie is gone now.
Top button open.
Sleeves rolled once.
Less Blackwell heir.
More Ghost.
I let myself look.
Really look.
He's beautiful.
Not the polished photographs online.
Those don't capture him.
They flatten him.
In person there is something restless beneath all that control.
Something watchful.
Alive.
His fingers flex once against his knee.
My eyes catch the movement.
Those hands typed every word.
Every message.
Every tease.
Every quiet still here.
My chest tightens.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you really invite me to the wedding?”
He looks toward the fire.
For the first time all evening, Xavier hesitates.
Then he looks back.
“Because everybody I love was going to be there.”
My heart stops.
He seems to realize what he said.
But he doesn't take it back.
“Leo. Vale. Drew. Kane. The women they somehow convinced to tolerate them.” His mouth curves. “Everyone.”
“And?”
His eyes hold mine.
“And I wanted you there.”
The room becomes very quiet.
“Why?”
His gaze moves over my face once more.
“Because I was tired of you being the only important person in my life who wasn't real.”
I can't breathe.
Not because the words are romantic.
Because I understand them.
I know exactly what it is to carry someone everywhere and nowhere at once.
Ghost was real to me.
But he couldn't sit beside me.
Couldn't hold my hand.
Couldn't make tea.
Couldn't wrap a coat around my shoulders when I was cold.
Until tonight.
I look down at our hands.
Mine rests between us on the sofa.
His beside it.
An inch apart.
I move my little finger.
Barely.
Touch his.
Xavier goes completely still.
Then his hand turns.
He doesn't grab.
Doesn't pull.
Simply opens his palm.
An invitation.
My heart beats painfully.
This is a terrible idea.
Possibly the worst I've ever had.
I slide my hand into his.
His fingers close around mine.
Warm.
Firm.
Real.
I stare into the fire.
“We can't do this.”
“No.”
Neither of us lets go.
A laugh catches in my throat.
“This ends badly.”
“Probably.”
“Our families—”
“Not tonight.”
“Blackwell—”
“Tomorrow.”
“Papa—”
His thumb moves across mine.
“Tomorrow, Sabine.”
I close my eyes.
Tomorrow there will be ARGUS.
My father's death.
Xavier's father.
Blackwell.
Questions I may not want answered.
Tomorrow I may discover something that makes sitting beside this man impossible.
But tonight his hand is around mine.
His fire is warm.
His coat is still around my shoulders.
The tea tastes exactly the way I like it.
And for the first time in years, Ghost is not a blinking cursor in an empty room.
He's here.
Breathing beside me.
Close enough that when I lean my head back against the sofa and turn slightly, I can feel the warmth coming off his shoulder.
Xavier looks at me.
That same expression returns.
Like he's found something rare.
Something he thought existed only in theory.
I should be frightened by how much I like being looked at that way.
Instead, I curl my fingers more tightly through his.
Just tonight.
One cup of tea.
One fire.
One impossible little fantasy that Ghost and Vesper could simply be Xavier and Sabine.
That there might be some version of this story where Blackwell doesn't stand between us.
Where Papa's death has an explanation I can survive.
Where I don't have to choose between the man I've been falling in love with and the truth I've spent years chasing.
Tomorrow can ruin it.
For tonight, I let myself dream.
He makes me finish the tea before he tells me to shower.
Not asks.
Tells.
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m French. We’re dramatic.”
“Hot shower.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He points toward the hallway. “Second door on the right.”
“You really enjoy ordering people around.”
“Only difficult ones.”
That almost earns him another argument, but the truth is the fire has warmed the outside of me and somehow left the exhaustion underneath untouched.
Everything hurts now that the adrenaline is gone.
My wrists.
My head.
My lip.
Places along my ribs I didn’t notice until I stopped moving.
Even my hair feels heavy.
So I surrender.
Temporarily.
The bathroom looks like a private spa someone forgot to charge admission for.
Pale stone.
Glass shower large enough for a small family.
Steam controls.
A tub facing the London skyline.
And on the heated bench beside the shower, Xavier has already placed a thick white towel and an equally ridiculous robe.
Fluffy.
White.
Soft enough that I run my fingers across it twice.
There’s a toothbrush still in its packaging. Shampoo. Conditioner. Face cleanser. Everything new.
Nothing from some previous woman.
I hate that I notice.
I hate even more that relief follows.
From the other side of the door, Xavier calls, “I’m ordering dinner.”
“What?”
“Dinner.”
“I heard you.”
“Then why did you ask?”
I smile despite myself.
“What are you ordering?”
“Something uncomplicated.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“You were kidnapped today.”
“Temporarily.”
A pause.
Then, “I’m adding dessert.”
I laugh softly.
The shower nearly puts me to sleep standing up.
Hot water rolls over my shoulders and washes London, fear, concrete dust, dried blood, and three false identities down the drain.
Black dye from one of the temporary hair products disappears in thin ribbons around my feet.
When I'm finished, there is no Jenny.
No blonde from California.
No woman in muddy contacts.
Just Sabine.
I stand beneath the water until it begins cooling.
Then I dry off and pull on Xavier's robe.
It swallows me.
I cinch the belt firmly around my waist and push the sleeves up enough to keep them from dragging over my bandaged wrists.
My hair is another problem entirely.
Clean and damp, it does what it has always done when I stop fighting it.
Curls.
Not neat curls.
Big spiraling caramel ones that tumble down my back and around my shoulders like they have been personally offended by every wig I've forced them under for the past month.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
No makeup.
No contacts.
Bruised jaw.
Split lip.
Bare feet.
Xavier Blackwell is about to see the least engineered version of me that exists.
Suddenly I'd rather face the kidnappers again.
Ridiculous.
I open the door.
Xavier is standing near the dining table with his back half turned to me, speaking quietly into his phone.