Page 12 of The Number of Love
Once the cigar was smoldering, he leaned against the building as if it were there solely to hold him up on a lazy afternoon.
Dark eyes filtered into his mind, full of intelligence that begged many a question. What was she called? No doubt he could discover that easily when next he went to London. His sister would be able to tell him. But more to the point—would she perhaps have dinner with him? Give him another taste of that wit of hers?
He sighed around the cigar. Even if she did, what then? Unless the war was over by the time he reached London, he’d just be sent away again in a week. Hardly enough time to get to know someone.
Besides, compelling dark eyes and a quick tongue didn’t make a girl someone he’d actuallylike. For all he knew, a longer conversation might prove her the type he couldn’t stand—another Ada. Which, come to think of it, confirmation of such would convince his mind to stop throwing the memory of her eyes before him at all hours of day and night.
Yet another reason to try to meet her.
Cigars burned slowly enough that he could amble a few feet closer to the door without it looking odd. There was no one stationed outside the warehouse—a good sign or bad?—but he’d bet there’d be someoneinsidesomewhere.
He catalogued all he’d been able to discover about the building from out here. There was a back door—locked. He’d tested it. A front door, which was near him now. And a loading bay with a large rolling door that moved upward. He’d spent a couple of hopeful minutes examining the few inches it had been up today, calculating whether he could slip underneath.
Perhaps, if he didn’t breathe and could angle his head correctly. But it was risky. He could get stuck, and it would likely take quite a bit of maneuvering, which could draw the attention of any workers inside the warehouse.
“Al pie. Al pie, Barto.”
Drake’s gaze flicked up, over. Across the street, an aged man walked, a cane in one hand and a dog straining at a leash in the other. Upon the command, the dog came to a halt. But it whimpered and looked back at its master, tail wagging. The old man paused, patted a pocket, and felt around the ground with his toe. “Where did it land, Barto? Eh?”
The dog whined a response, and the old man muttered a mild curse. “Come, dog, I heard the coin fall, and we need it if you’re to have a bone tonight. Where is it? Coin? Eh?”
The dog wagged its tail again.
Pushing off from the building, Drake jogged across the street. “Can I help you find something?”
The man looked around, his gaze skimming over Drake. When his eyes rested not on Drake’s face but on his shoulder, Drake realized he was blind.
“I believe I dropped apeseta.” His voice was hesitant. “If you happen to see it, young man?”
Drake quickly took in the area around the old chap. Within a few seconds, the glint of sun on the coin drew his attention to a dirty crack where road met building. “There it is. Just a moment.” He moved over to grab it. “Here you go,señor.”
The old man stretched out a hand, surprise lining the crags of his face when Drake pressed the coin into it. His fingers curled around it, feeling its contours. “Gracias.”
“De nada.May I pet your dog?”
The old man chuckled and slid the peseta back into his pocket. “I would rather you didn’t. I’m sorry, but he works best when he is not distracted. I promise you, he receives his reward for a job well done when he guides me safely home.”
Drake was glad he’d asked, then, and not just reached out to rufflethe mutt’s fur. “I understand. Is there anything else I can help you with, señor?”
The man grinned. “No, gracias. Are you new to the neighborhood, young man?”
“Just visiting,sí. Esteban Martín Caminante.” It was the name Thoroton had provided for him to use when not in a part of the city where he was already known, or when in another part of Spain—that second surname literally meaning traveler. A little joke that no one would understand.
The old man smiled. “And I am Pietro Rodríguez Brasa. You have made my dog’s day and done me a kindness, Esteban. Again, gracias.” When the wind shifted, Señor Rodríguez turned his face a bit and sniffed the air, his eyes lighting at the whiff of cigar smoke that drifted by him.
Drake grinned too. “I don’t suppose you would care to finish my cigar, señor? I probably shouldn’t take the time to do so. My abuelo expects me home.” He’d have offered the old man a fresh one, if he’d had one on him to offer.
Señor Rodríguez didn’t appear to be put off by the thought of sharing. His eyes brightened still more. “I haven’t enjoyed one in nearly two years. If you are certain you don’t want it ...”
He had no idea how happy Drake was to give it up. “I will have another tomorrow. Here. Enjoy.” Drake slipped the smoldering cylinder into the man’s outstretched fingers. “Buenas tardes.”
“Good afternoon to you as well, Esteban.” Looking far happier than he had when he told his dog to heel a minute ago, the old chap gave a command to walk and sauntered down the street.
Drake watched him until he turned the corner, still smiling a bit. He’d have helped the old man regardless, but in this particular case, helping him could help Drake too. He angled a glance across the street to make sure their exchange had been out of sight of the tiny window in the warehouse’s door and, satisfied, jogged over and pounded on it.
Within a few seconds, the creaking door swung open, revealing a man with a cap pulled low over his eyes. “Sí?”
“Sorry to bother you.” Careful to keep an expression of mild concern on his face, Drake gestured to the street. “My uncle Pietro—his dog slipped away from him. Perhaps you heard him calling to him? Barto?”
