Page 69 of While You Were Spying

“Right.”

She heard the amusement in his voice and peeked around the chair to watch him again. He squatted in front of the basket, shuffling through it and apparently looking for something. Why was he acting so strangely? Three minutes ago she’d been hysterical—crying and screaming at him to go. And now he served her tea? Didn’t he think her mad?

“Here it is,” he said. He placed another linen-wrapped item from the basket on the table in front of her. No trace of censure or disgust in his features, he took a step back and raised a smug eyebrow.

“There. If my sources are correct, that ought to make you feel better.”

“Sources? What sources?” Her gaze flicked from the linen to his face.

“I can’t answer that. It will ruin the surprise.” He gave every appearance of being extremely pleased with himself.

“Open it.”

With a confused smile, she put a tentative hand on the napkin and felt the warm, solid form beneath it. Feeling like a child at Christmas, she held her breath and unwrapped the package, slowly revealing the surprise underneath.

Gingerbread. Warm, fragrant gingerbread with just a sprinkle of cinnamon on top.

She stared at it, uncomprehending.

“I heard it was your favorite.”

She looked from the gingerbread to him. He still had the self-assured look. She tried to speak, to say something—ask him why or thank him.Something. Instead, she burst into tears.

“What the—” He knelt beside her instantly. “Very well. Forget the gingerbread.” Panic rose in his voice. “It was a mistake. No gingerbread.”

He reached out to slide the linen away from her, but she grasped his wrist. “No. I want the gingerbread,” she wailed, sounding exactly as she had when she’d been five and her mother had taken sweets away from her.

“The gingerbread stays then,” Ethan said quickly and cupped her hand in both of his. “You can have as much as you want. Chocolate tarts too. Just stop crying.”

She snuffled and laughed a little. As if she could control any of the emotions rushing through her right now. Through salty tears, she saw his eyes imploring her.

“Please,” he said. His plea, so out of character, set her off again. Lord, how could she have ever mistaken him for Roxbury?

He rose and paced the room, crossing it with three long strides then back again. He muttered to himself, something about doing everything wrong.

“No, you’re not,” she finally managed to squeeze out between sobs. “You’re doing everything right, and I just don’t understand why you’re being soniceto me!”

He stopped in mid-stride and stared at her. “Why I’m being so nice to you?” He frowned, took another step or two, obviously trying to make sense of her comment. “Well, I suppose I don’t have a reputation for being nice.”

“No, you don’t.” She sniffled.

“You didn’t have to agree with that.” His tone was dark, suitably offended.

She started laughing, and her chuckles mixed with the lingering sobs. “Sorry.”

He gave her a look of chagrin and came to stand by the table again, just across from her. “At least you’re laughing and not crying. If insulting me is all it takes, do so as much as you like.”

“Oh, no! I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“No, I’m sure you only meant to insult yourself.” He gave her a penetrating look that made her uneasy.

“I don’t understand.”

He leaned a hip on the table beside her and crossed his arms. “You implied that you didn’t expect to be treated well.” His gaze seemed to bore into her.

“No, I didn’t. I said I don’t understand why you are being so nice to me.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she shrank back in her chair, wishing she could escape his gaze. The fire in the hearth seemed as though it was blazing, and the room felt much too warm.

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