Chapter 4 #3
Another memory surfaced—her hands gentle on his face after an incident in Mariposa, cleaning a cut above his eye that he’d gotten slapping through the trees. “You don’t always have to be the hero,” she’d said. “Sometimes it’s okay to just be human.”
But being human meant feeling things. Like fear. Like the way his chest tightened every time he thought about…
Maybe her breaking up with him had been for his own good. Because sometimes he couldn’t think straight around her.
But he certainly couldn’t think straight without her, either.
Perfect.
The door behind him opened. Justin stuck his head out. “Hey. I was just talking with our housekeeper—she said she suggested the Paradise Café to them.”
“Where’s that?”
Justin gave him directions. Something about turning at the mini-storage place. He’d figure it out. He got into his tin can just as his phone buzzed again.
“I’m not sure why we ever hang up.”
“Scarlett called,” Ham said. “Selah’s cell pinged on about an hour ago. Scarlett tracked it north of town for a bit, then it went dark.”
“North of town?”
“Over the river and into the woods.”
“Are you being cute?”
“Get some coffee. I’ll send you a pin.”
“I’m afraid to hang up.”
The line went dead.
He found the café and ordered a coffee to go. Ham sent him the pin, and he followed it, headed north out of town.
The road led northwest, past a few wineries, then into the mountains, broken now and again by pockets of farmland, lakes, and rising peaks.
The rain had started, the sky turning dark, drops pounding so hard he had to pull over.
Torrents splashed down the mountains into the rivers along the roads.
He turned on the heat in the car, pulled out, and kept creeping along.
The road fell away into deep gulleys. One wrong move and he’d be a floater.
Ham finally called again.
“I was getting lonely.” Frankly, he could barely hear the man over the thunder of the storm.
“Sheesh, are you in a war zone?”
“I can barely see the road. Can you track me?”
A moment, then, “Yeah. Good news. Her phone just fired up. Signal’s solid. I’ll send you another pin.”
“How far am I?”
“Maybe thirty miles.”
Could be thirty hours with this rain. “Great. I’m hanging up now.”
He pressed her number in his favorites.
The phone rang. And rang. Voicemail. C’mon!
He tried again as he rounded a curve, the little car working to putter up the mountain. Rain pelted the windshield. The wipers squeaked, and the defroster wheezed, and her phone just kept going to voicemail.
Maybe she was fine. Maybe she was having lunch with some nice farm family. Maybe she’d seen his name on the screen and declined the call.
And that just sent a fist into his gut.
The road wound north, following the river. Dark clouds pressed against the mountains. His third call went straight to voicemail, like she’d turned off her phone.
Or someone had turned it off for her?
No, no, he was losing his mind. Tired. Not enough coffee, clearly.
The highway narrowed, shouldered by steep banks thick with wet pines. The mountain rose on either side as Ham’s coordinates pointed him up some country road that probably turned to mud three miles in.
The Sonic’s engine whined as the car flew down a hill.
Lightning split the sky. The windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge.
Another memory surfaced—her falling asleep against his shoulder on a transport plane out of Lagos.
The way she’d mumbled something about feeling safe, like his presence was enough to keep the darkness at bay.
He’d sat there for hours, barely breathing, wondering how someone who’d seen his capacity for violence could still look at him with such trust.
He’d clearly lost that trust in Mariposa.
The Sonic’s tires hit standing water. He corrected, but the tiny car wandered. The heater couldn’t keep up with the dampness seeping through his clothes.
The road curved ahead, disappearing into sheets of rain. His phone showed one bar of service, then none. The coordinates pointed another twelve miles north, but the clouds had turned the morning dark as dusk.
Lightning flashed again. In that instant, he saw it—water rushing across the road ahead, carrying branches and debris.
He hit the brakes. The Sonic slid, tires hunting for grip on the wet pavement.
He cranked the wheel, but physics won. The car slewed sideways, back end dropping into the ditch with a sickening crunch.
The engine died.
Rain drummed on the roof. Water coursed across the road ahead, lethal.
He sat there, hands tight on the wheel, thinking about Mariposa, his words to York. How Selah had looked at him after he’d killed that man. Except Selah could never get over thinking of him as a kid…so yeah, that’s what her reaction had been about.
She’d left him because of what he’d done. Not what he’d said.
And there weren’t any right words to fix that, were there.
But what was he going to do? Leave her to Martin’s plan?
North pushed the driver’s-side door open. Rain plastered his shirt to his back as he waded through knee-deep runoff to assess the damage. The Sonic’s back wheels hung suspended over the ditch, the front ground into the mud.
One push and the entire thing would tumble over into the runoff, probably float all the way back to Cashmere.
Perfect.
Lightning split the sky again. Thunder answered. And North stood in rising water on a Washington backroad, sixty miles from anywhere, wondering when he’d learn to let go.
Probably never.
He started walking.
* * *
Twenty or so years ago…
He shouldn’t be this excited to meet a woman whose heart he’d have to break.
Alexander Steele tucked his hands into his wool coat pockets and leaned against the cast-iron lamppost outside Café Gerbeaud, watching morning crowds hurry across Vorosmarty Square.
October winds whipped yellow leaves across centuries-old cobblestones, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and approaching rain.
The ornate facade of the café rose behind him, its marble columns and gilded trim a reminder of Budapest’s imperial glory days.
Third Hungarian lesson. Third time seeing her. Third morning his pulse quickened at the sight of dark hair flowing past slim shoulders.
Timea Kovács wove through the morning crowd, her leather jacket caught by the wind. She clutched a worn paperback to her chest, head bent against the growing breeze. When she spotted him, her smile transformed her entire face.
“You’re early.” She reached him, slightly breathless. A strand of her dark-brown hair caught on her lip, and she brushed it away with fingers that trembled slightly from the cold.
“Eager student.” The lie rolled off his tongue. He pulled open the heavy brass-handled door. “After you.”
Inside, the redolence of coffee and cinnamon wrapped around them. Crystal chandeliers caught the gray morning light filtering through tall windows. At the counter, white-aproned servers arranged pastries beneath glass cases that had survived since the Habsburg Empire.
Timea led him to a small marble-topped table in the corner. “I brought something.” She settled into her chair and held up the paperback. “Le Carré. Have you read it?”
“The Spy Who Came in from the Cold.” Interesting. “Required reading where I went to school.”
“Really? For business school?” She tilted her head, blue eyes bright with curiosity.
“International relations component.” He waved over a server, switching to careful Hungarian. “Két kávét, kérem.”
“Better.” Timea’s lips curved up. “But you’re still hitting the r too hard, like you’re talking Russian. I know it’s hard to remember, but in Hungarian, make it softer, like you’re afraid of it.”
“Like I’m afraid of it?”
“Everything in Hungarian should sound like you’re telling a secret.” She demonstrated, her voice dropping. The words flowed like water.
The server arrived with their coffee in gold-rimmed cups. Alexander ordered plum dumplings, pleased when he got through the phrase without stumbling.
“Now, about Leamas.” Timea opened the book, her fingers tracing a passage. “Don’t you find it fascinating? The way he has to pretend to be something he’s not?”
“Fascinating.” Alexander sipped his coffee, bitter and strong. “You enjoy spy novels?”
“I love them. The intrigue, the secrets.” She leaned forward. “The way nothing is quite what it seems.”
A strand of her hair dipped into her coffee. Alexander reached across, tucked it behind her ear before he could stop himself. Her skin flushed pink.
“Sorry.” He pulled back. “You were about to wear your coffee.”
“My hero.” She covered her mouth when she laughed, like always. “Speaking of Russian, there’s someone you should meet. My classmate Damien—he’s from Moscow. Perfect for practicing.”
And there it was. The opening he’d been waiting for. The reason he’d chosen this particular Russian tutor from the university’s bulletin board.
Thunder rumbled outside. Timea glanced at the windows, where drops had started to fall. “We should walk before it gets worse. The castle is beautiful in this weather.”
They paid and stepped into streets that smelled of wet stone and an approaching storm.
Wind tugged at Timea’s hair as they climbed the cobblestone paths toward Buda Castle.
She pointed out architectural details, making him repeat their Hungarian names.
And then making him translate them into a Russian sentence.
“You’re getting very good.” She bumped his shoulder when he got through a particularly difficult phrase. “You’ve been practicing.”
“Maybe I just have a good teacher.”
The rain picked up, fat drops splattering the stones. Timea grabbed his hand. “Quick!”
They ran down the path, onto a sidewalk, and ducked into an arched doorway at a corner, right near the tram stop. She pressed against him, laughing, rain dotting her face. Her fingers were cold in his.
“You’re freezing.” He rubbed her hand between his. Oh, he was in trouble. The way she looked up at him, those impossibly blue eyes in his, a smile on her beautiful lips.
He was not here to fall in love. But maybe it could be part of his cover?
“Worth it.” Her eyes caught his. “I love this city in the rain.”
Him too.
A streetcar’s bell clanged. Timea glanced behind her, stepping back, out of the doorway.
Everything happened at once—her heel catching the wet cobblestone, the streetcar’s brakes squealing, Alexander’s hand circling her waist and yanking her back against him.
They stood frozen, her clinging to his jacket, his arm locked around her waist. Her heart hammered against his.
“That was…” She gasped. Her face tilted up. “You really are my hero.”
Before he could respond, she rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his. Soft. Sweet. Everything he’d tried not to imagine.
He shouldn’t kiss her back. Shouldn’t pull her closer. Shouldn’t let his hand slide into her rain-damp hair.
He did it all anyway.
She tasted sweet, of the Hungarian pastry, a hint of the forbidden.
When they broke apart, her eyes were wide. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually…”
“Don’t apologize.” His voice came out rough, his pulse in his throat. “But maybe we should get out of this rain.”
They found another café, this one small and wood-paneled, with windows fogged from coffee steam and warmth. They sat close at a corner booth, hands wrapped around hot cups, knees touching beneath the small table.
“Tell me about your father.” He had to focus. Had to remember why he was here. “Teaching English literature must be fascinating.”
“He loves it. Sometimes I think he lives more in books than reality.” She stirred her coffee. “You should come to dinner. Meet him. He’d love discussing Le Carré with someone who appreciates the complexity.”
Remember. He was here to meet Russian student Damien Gustov. Turn the young man, son of a cabinet member, toward the CIA’s goals. Complete his mission.
He didn’t want to break her heart.
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating her face. Trust shone in her eyes, along with something deeper. Something that made his chest ache.
He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be watching her lips curve into a smile. Shouldn’t be memorizing the way her finger traced the rim of her cup.
But he was already in too deep, drowning in blue eyes and secrets and the taste of her kiss in the rain.
Thunder rolled across Budapest’s spires. In the window’s reflection, he watched himself smile back at her, already knowing he was in big, big trouble.