Page 17 of Lone Spy

Yes.

I hear the hotel suite door swoosh open. The view of it is blocked by billowing linen curtains on either side of the balcony doors.

I sit back in my chair, taking the lukewarm coffee with me. Ash appears between the curtains almost like an apparition but so much more solid. "There's someone coming to see you," he says.

I wait. Sip my coffee. His eyes scan the table, pause on the untouched basket of pastries. "You want one?" I ask, some instinct knowing the question will bait him—wiggle just a little under his skin—though I'm not sure why.

Ash's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Just the slightest wrinkle of skin. If I wasn't studying the man, I would have missed it. It dawns on me: acting as though he might consider his own needs gets under Ash Fraser’s skin. He wants to be seen as selfless.

I file that away.

"Have you eaten?" he asks, still frowning at the croissants, cinnamon rolls, and scones that came with my coffee order.

"So who's my mysterious visitor?" I ask, ignoring his question the same way he ignored mine.

Ash brings his focus back to me, and I take in a measured breath, bearing the weight of it with grace—hiding behind an impenetrable mask of confidence.I can handle whatever you've got and a lot more.

"An MI5 agent named Elliot Kendricks. He's a part of the team investigating last evening's incident."

My eyes flick to the paper next to my coffee carafe. The queen smiles from the front page. Her blue eyes twinkle under the caption:Queen Collapses at Charity Gala: Dehydration Blamed.

The article implied the queen was on death’s door. And that her son, His Royal Highness Prince Edmund Arthur George Philip Windsor—Victoria’s father—was ready to become king. More than ready.

The author hinted that Prince Edmund resented that his mother had not already abdicated the throne in her “weakened” state.

The article noted some believe that the accusations of Edmund’s late wife—that he was physically abusive—were why the queen continued to cling to power. It also managed to squeeze in a brief recap of the tragic boating accident Victoria’s mother died in soon after the divorce.

Leave it to the British press to air all the royals’ dirty laundry while reporting on the queen fainting.

"Be careful with Kendricks,” Ash says, drawing my focus.

"Why?” I blink up at him. “We both know I had nothing to do with this. She was dehydrated." I wave a hand at the paper. "She's fine, they are just keeping her for observation."

Before Ash can respond, there's a knock on the door—quiet because of the distance, loud because of the implications. A man, whom I must be careful of for unknown reasons, has arrived.

"Does he…" I pause. "About me?"

"It's a possibility." Ash's gaze holds mine.

"Anything else you want to share?"

A tightness around his eyes. Wonder what that means?

"I can't." Ash doesn't flinch at the denial. But I don't think he likes it…there is a subtle strain in his voice. Not very noble to keep a woman in the dark, is it?

Selfless. Noble. Synonyms.

Ash leaves to answer the door. My gaze falls to the rain-shined pedestrians below, their jackets and umbrellas slick with drizzle. A slight thrill of voyeurism comes over me. They don't know I'm up here watching them.

Men's voices float from the other room. Footsteps approach. My gaze falls to the coffee cup in my hands—bone china hand-painted with pert pink flowers. I place it on the table with a soft clatter.

As the two men reach the threshold, I rise. Elliot Kendricks wears a three-piece suit and an affable smile. His hair is summer mud brown, straight and floppy. The MI5 agent’s eyes are a bright ocean blue, friendly and slightly awed. He does not look threatening. He looks like the kind of man I could eat for breakfast.

"Absolute pleasure to meet you, Ms. Daniels." He offers me a hand. "Elliot Kendricks. Sorry to come see you so early, really a terrible inconvenience, I do apologize." His skin is soft, nails trimmed, grip confident but not dominating.

“Please." I wave to the seat across from me. "Coffee?"

He moves toward the offered chair as I sit. Elliot’s movements are fawnlike, legs too long to be graceful, but the man is still agile. "I have to tell you I'm a big fan of your work. You’re brilliant. Just brilliant."

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