Overseas

  “God forbid,” I said. “Do you mind? I’ve got a lot to do. I’m trying to get out of here by eight tonight.”

  “Hmm. I smell a hot date. Let me close that window for you.” She reached out and clicked, and the blank desktop appeared. “Okay. All yours. Clients folder, you said?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Got it. See you later.”

  I sat down in my seat, feeling her warmth there with a trace of revulsion. What the hell had that been about? Why was she snooping on my laptop? Looking to feed her gossip habit?

  “Charlie,” I said, two hours later, when he staggered in and collapsed in the cubicle next to me, “is there some kind of log I can access on the computer, showing me what stuff’s been opened lately?”

  “Yeah, pretty sure,” he said, taking a drink from a coffee cup and closing his eyes in pain, “but you’ll have to ask one of the tech guys. You don’t have any Advil on you, do you? Mine was fucking expired. Whatever that means.”

  “I think so.” I reached for my bag and dug in. I usually kept a small bottle for emergencies.

  “Thanks.” He tossed down three gelcaps with another drink of coffee.

  “Don’t OD,” I said, “or if you do, don’t sue me.”

  “Yeah, whatever, dude. So have you seen the Post?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Come on, dude. Log on.”

  I’d been avoiding it all morning; I was trying to convince myself that if I didn’t read it, it didn’t exist. “All right,” I muttered, flipping to the Post on my bookmarks list. I clicked on Page Six.

  HEDGE FUND HERO. Gotham’s money-managing titans aren’t usually known for their chivalry, but Southfield Associates honcho Julian Laurence gallantly played against type Wednesday night, flashing his knight-errant creds to one lucky damsel in distress. According to police reports posted on The Smoking Gun, the hunky hedgie, who tops many insiders’ eligible bachelor lists, came to the aid of 25-year-old investment banker Kate Wilson when she was confronted in Central Park while jogging, not far from the site of the infamous 1989 attack that made headlines worldwide. British-born Laurence helped restrain the unnamed thug until police arrived to take him in custody, and was back at work the next morning, running his $20 billion fund.

  I let my breath out in relief. “Oh. That’s not so bad.”

  “No shit. You’re a boldface now. Congrats.”

  I handed him the white paper bag over the cubicle wall. “Here. Have a bagel. They’re good for hangovers.”

  “Thanks, dude. Mmm, onion. You rock.” He paused to nibble carefully at the bagel. “So have you heard the rumor?”

  “Which one?”

  “They had a steering committee meeting early this morning. Traders are saying someone’s got some massive position we’ve got to unload.”

  “How massive?”

  “I don’t know. But it was enough to call a meeting on a Friday morning.” He shut his eyes again and stared up at the ceiling. “Hope it doesn’t blow up until after we’re gone. I need my last paycheck for fucking b-school tuition.”

  “What’s the trade?” I asked.

  “Who knows. Some kind of fucked-up derivative, probably.” He paused, drummed his fingertips on his armrest. “I also hear,” he went on slowly, “they’re all pissing blood about trading volumes with Southfield.”

  “Southfield?” I frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Couple of traders last night. Your boy Laurence have anything to say about it?”

  “Why does everyone think Julian tells me his trading secrets?”

  “Okay, dude. Calm down. I get it. No shop talk over the pillow.”

  “There’s no pillow involved, Charlie. Not all of us are as slutty as you are.”

  “Wow. Touché.” He sounded appreciative.

  I pursed my lips and stared at my computer screen. “So are they up or down? Trading volumes, I mean.”

  “Up, dude. Way up.” He snickered. “Some fucking coincidence, huh?”

  “Go to hell, Charlie.”

  “Ugh. I’m already fucking there, Kate.”

  I gave him a moment’s peace before speaking up. “So, I have a question for you.”

  “Another one? Shit, Kate. Can’t you just figure stuff out on your own this morning? I’ve got a massive fucking hangover.”

  “I just want to know why you sent that e-mail to Julian last night.”

  His grinning skull rolled sideways to take me in. “’Cause I was fucking sick of that lost-puppy look on your face, that’s why. I told you, dude. You need to strap on a pair of fucking balls.”

  Amiens

  Someone was in the room with me, rustling conscientiously: the repressed stir of someone trying to be quiet. I opened my eyes. “Julian? Captain Ashford?”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.” He emerged from some corner of the room, looking anxious. “Only adding a bit of coal; it’s gone frightfully chilly. How are you feeling?”

  I sat up, letting the blanket slide down to my lap. I’d left the lamp on, not wanting to settle too deeply to sleep, and the dim glow made everything look old and weary: the low ceiling, nearly grazing Julian’s head; the rusty brown water stain in the corner by the window, creeping lazily over the aging wallpaper; the small cast-iron fireplace with its tarnished scuttle. A small room; though Julian stood politely by the mantel, as far from the bed as he could manage without catching himself on fire, he was no more than eight intimate feet away. “Much better, thank you. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He paused self-consciously. How handsome and competent he looked, in his well-worn khaki tunic with its large pockets and brass buttons and wide Sam Browne belt, the strict knot at his neck splitting his shirt collar exactly in half. That boyish replica of the face I adored.

  I smiled and drew my knees up. “You’re feeling awkward, aren’t you? Let me guess what you’re thinking.” I adjusted my tone, took on his supple clipped accent. “Bloody hell, Ashford. How the devil have you gotten yourself in this mess? A strange woman in your bed at three o’clock in the afternoon! Just how the deuce are you planning to get her out and on her way, without being rude?”

  His smile spread slow and dazzling across his face, just as it always had. “In fact,” he said, “you’re not remotely close.”

  “I’m not?”

  “For one thing, I’d never use such language in your presence.”

  My mouth twitched. “Oh. I beg your pardon.”

  “And for another thing, it’s gone nearly five o’clock.”

  I glanced at the window. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You must stop all this apologizing immediately.”

  “I know, it’s a bad habit.” I laughed shallowly and turned back to him. “But I have put you in a difficult position, haven’t I? Did you have time to ask about a room for me? Don’t worry if you haven’t,” I added. “I can find something. I feel much better now, with a little rest.”

  “The landlady has another room available by this evening,” he said. “Some chap going back up the line. You can stay here, of course; I’ll move my own things upstairs.”

  “Thanks. Thank you. You probably think the worst of me already, allowing myself in here without a chaperone.”

  He laughed. “You don’t need a chaperone. You’re perfectly capable.”

  “But the girls you know wouldn’t be caught dead here, would they?” I gestured around the room, at his pack resting significantly in the corner.

  “No, but you’re not like the other girls, are you?”

  “Obviously not. I probably curse like a fishwife, by comparison.” I smiled repentantly. “Aren’t you afraid of my character? Some cheap seductress, maybe?”

  He tilted his head, still smiling. “Are you?”

  “Of course not. I’m a respectable widow.” My voice choked on the word. “But how would you know that? How could you be sure of me?”

  “Kate,” he said, “it’s writte
n on your face. The way you hold your head, just so.”

  The air between us seemed to slow and thicken. I watched him helplessly, his sturdy figure planted before the fire, hands behind his back, the lamplight casting such deep shadows beneath his cheekbones that he might nearly be thirty, might nearly bridge the gap between himself and the man I knew. “You’re so trusting,” I whispered.

  He shook his head. “Not indiscriminately, in fact.”

  “Why me, then?”

  He seemed to take this seriously. “I suppose,” he said, almost to himself, “because it feels almost as though I know you already. That we’ve met before. I’ve never… But it’s absurd, of course. I beg your pardon.”

  “It’s just because of the way I’m talking to you, probably. I started on in like some kind of brazen idiot, assuming things…”

  “Have we met before?”

  “Wouldn’t you remember? You don’t forget faces, and you’re never drunk.”

  His eyes widened. He flung his arms across his ribs and paced the short distance to the window with that leonine grace of his. “How would you know that?”

  “I just know things.”

  “That second sight of yours?” he asked, not looking at me.

  “I thought you said it was a load of rubbish.”

  “I’d always thought so.” His fingers spread out along the windowsill, digging into the wood.

  “Julian, trust me. Don’t be afraid of this.”

  “I’m not afraid.” He turned, meeting my gaze with wide curious eyes. The irises were backlit with emotion, with dawning recognition, the way I’d felt around him all those months ago. “And I do trust you,” he added.

  “Do you really? I mean really trust me? I know that’s a stupid question to ask, when you’ve only just met me, and in the most bizarre circumstances.” I set my chin on top of my knees and studied him. “All I can say, in my defense, is that you can trust me. I’d never hurt you; never, never.”

  “Who are you?” he breathed.

  Silence gathered in the little room. The light from the single electric lamp gasped and shuddered and went out, leaving us in a dusky gloom; then it flickered back on again, just as I reached for the candle on the bedside table.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It keeps doing that. Come sit down.”

  He hesitated.

  “You don’t have to sit next to me,” I said. “The chair is just fine.”

  He walked over and sat down gingerly on the bed, a few feet away. His scent crept toward me, soap and damp wool and smoke, pungent with masculine activity.

  “Julian, there’s something I know, something I need to tell you.”

  “What sort of thing?” he asked evenly, guardedly.

  “Something that’s going to happen. Don’t ask how I know it. It’s the reason I came here, to warn you.”

  “How on earth…”

  “You’re not allowed to ask, remember?”

  “How can I not ask? How can I believe you, if I don’t know?”

  I reached out to take his unresisting hand and hold it between mine. “Well, that’s where the trust comes in.” I rubbed his thumb, wondering at the ridged toughness of it, a laborer’s thumb. “Look at you. I can see the doubt in your eyes. I don’t suppose I can blame you, either; I’m probably not the most credible object you’ve ever encountered.”

  “I’m not doubting you, Kate. Not your intentions, at least.”

  I smiled. “That’s a relief, anyway. You doubt my information, then? Or… or perhaps you think I might be right, and so you don’t want to hear it.”

  “I’m not quite sure, to be honest.” His hand began to curl around mine.

  “May I tell you, then? And then you can decide the rest for yourself.” I drew a slow circle on the back of his hand with my fingertip. “Will you let me, please?”

  He nodded.

  “Thank you. So here it is: You’ll be going on a night patrol, as soon as you’re back up the line. Does that sound reasonable?”

  A reproachful upward tilt of his mouth. “One doesn’t need much second sight to guess that. You must know I’ve run dozens of them.”

  “So I’ve gathered.” I smiled back. “You and your heroics. But this one will be different, Julian. You won’t come back safely to your trenches this time. During that night patrol, something will happen to you, something that will lead to your death.”

  I saw his face stiffen in the instant before the lamp went out again, leaving us alone in the faded daylight.

  “And so I’m asking you, please, please, Julian,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady and not quite succeeding, “not to go on that patrol.”

  “How do you know this?” he asked, quite calm.

  “I told you not to ask me that.”

  “How…” He bit his lip.

  I tightened my hand around his. “Can’t you just trust me? Promise me you’ll find someone else to lead the patrol?”

  His face cleared. “That I can’t do. Won’t do.”

  “You won’t even consider it?”

  “Of course not. What, and let some other man die in my place?” He shook his head. “In any case, every time I put my head up, I run the risk of being killed. It’s war.”

  “But I know,” I pleaded. “This is real, Julian.”

  “Whether you’re telling the truth isn’t the point,” he said gently, “not that I doubt you. Surely you understand. One doesn’t desert one’s company. Shirk one’s duties, out of fear of death.”

  “Fear of death? Julian, it’s an absolute certainty!”

  “All the more reason I should go, if the bullet is meant for me.”

  “In the first place, it’s a shell, not a bullet.”

  “And what about the man who dies in my place? How do I write that letter home to his mother?”

  “And what about the letter home to yours?” I asked wildly, feeling desperate now, realizing I’d badly miscalculated. “Please believe me. You will die. You will, Julian. You can’t do that to me.” I slid from the bed, onto my knees before him, supplicating. “Please. Please listen to me. What can I say? What can I do?”

  He grasped my hands and stood up, tugging at me. “Don’t, Kate. Don’t. Dear angel, what are you saying? You know I can’t do that. If you know me, as you say, then you know I can’t decline a patrol, shift the burden elsewhere. Don’t ask it of me.”

  I stared at the roughened khaki wool of his tunic, at a brown stain on the right side, just under his belt, round and ominous. I rose and pulled my hands free. “No,” I said dully, “of course not. I don’t know what I was thinking. Just telling you, without the rest of it. Of course it wouldn’t work.”

  “The rest of it?”

  There was no reading his face, shadowed and inscrutable now in the cold diffuse light from the window. “Look,” I said, “I know you’re going out with Geoff and Arthur and your colonels tonight. Could you do me one favor, please?”

  “Anything,” he said softly.

  “Could you stop by my room when you’re back? Nothing… nothing improper, I guess, is the word. Just to talk. I have something else to tell you, and it’s difficult to explain. You may not believe it at all.”

  He searched me, so thoroughly I began to flush. I balled my hands into fists, curling the fingernails ruthlessly into my skin. I would not embrace him, could not reach out to take him between my palms. He wasn’t my Julian.

  “Please,” I said, into his silence. “If you knew how far I’ve come, how hard I’ve fought to find you.”

  “But why?” he said. “Why? I’m a stranger to you.”

  “Would it be deeply unfair of me to promise to tell you later?” We were standing so close, there in the failing light; I could hardly breathe, for fear his scent would be the end of me. “When you’ve come back tonight? Because it’s hard to explain on its own.”

  His right hand rose, grasping, and then fell back. “Kate,” he said, “I’ll send a message to Warwick and Hamilton, make my excuses. T
he rain’s stopped. We can have dinner. Is that all right?”

  “They’ll be suspicious. My reputation will be ruined.”

  “I’ll tell them I’m unwell. Exhausted. That I’m keeping to my room.”

  “I don’t have anything suitable to wear,” I said.

  “That doesn’t matter. You look lovely.”

  “I might be sick again, at some point.”

  “I’ll find you a basin. Please, Kate.” He lifted his hand again, more confidently, and brushed my elbow. I could hear the coals now, new lumps catching fire at last, hissing with renewed strength to warm the air around us.

  I said: “You’re impossible to resist, did you know that?”

  He grinned, broad and iridescent.

  “All right, then, Captain Ashford,” I sighed. “It’s a date.”

  9.

  Julian stood waiting for me in a shaft of sunlight at the back of the ballet studio, arms folded, with a peculiar smile on his face.

  “They’re not supposed to let members of the general public inside,” I complained, to disguise the way my heart skidded at the unexpected sight of him. I’d been thinking about him constantly over the past two days, and still I wasn’t quite prepared for the reality. He stood so tall and broad-shouldered and vital, so radiant with good looks. His extravagant eyes glowed at me.

  “I managed to persuade the receptionist to make an exception,” he said, stepping forward to drop a kiss on my lips. The other dancers streamed past us, glancing back curiously. Enviously.

  “I’ll just bet.” I sighed. “So how much did you see?”

  “Just the last ten minutes.” His mouth turned up in that intimate way of his. “Enough to become enchanted with you all over again.”

  “Oh, please. I’m about the least competent woman in the room. They’ve all been doing it nonstop since about age three; I only picked it up again last year. I’d forgotten pretty much everything.”

  He made the smallest shake of his head, still smiling. “You had me mesmerized.”

  My eyes slipped downward, fastening on the trim white shirt collar showing above the V of his sweater, last button ajar. “Well,” I said, “I think I’d better get dressed. Can you wait in the lobby this time, like everyone else?”