Page 10 of Stay Close
I must make a face because he explains, “I’m sorry, but my back is never facing the door.”
Another rule.
Sipping the rich, dark coffee, I do crane my neck, looking about the bustling hall—at the women wearing expensive cashmere and carrying high-end handbags, the plainly dressed house managers, and even more plainly dressed nannies escorting children for a breakfast treat. None of these people look like they’ve ever heard the phrase “marine biome” or “resource allocation.”
Still, Lucas watches the room and I watch Lucas demolishing his food in a dozen neat, economical bites.
“Ready?” he asks when I crumple a napkin. He scans the room and steers me directly to a bank of elevators. Soon I’m standing on a soft patterned carpet amidst a terrifying array of gorgeous coats under the same kind of lighting museums use for priceless art.
My habit is to do so much research that the actual act of shopping is quick and straightforward. Identify the product, read the reviews, create a detailed pros and cons list, source the product, purchase the product. In and out like a knife before anyone can guess that none of this comes naturally.
I skirt the perimeter of the room, my search tentative. I hold dozens of coats against my neck, aware of the hovering saleswomen. Lucas moves through an orbiting circuit, performing his own tasks, once resting his fingertips on my sleeve, waiting a beat and then escorting me forward.
I rub my arm, feeling his touch long after it’s gone.
“You loved the coat you lost. I thought you loved shopping,” he murmurs after I’ve growled at my twentieth tasteful winter coat with quietly elegant detailing. His eyes are constantly roving around the department, up and down the well-spaced racks and along the walls.
“I don’t love shopping. I lovehavingshopped.”
In profile I see him smile. “Why?”
I asked this question a full decade before he got to it and arrived at an answer which I dislike but is nevertheless true. Idon’t like shopping because I have to trust my intuition. Planning ahead is easier. I have a goal, a hole to fill, a box to check, a test to pass. A skirt that will take me from day to night. A pair of heels that will look tasteful at a funeral. A blouse that won’t gape over the chest. Something that will make me look older. Always older. More grown up. Trustworthy. Competent.
The most remarkable thing about my coat is that those considerations came after the near-religious experience of falling in love with it. I saw it one time and knew I had to have it. Lucas doesn’t need to know all this, so I give him part of the truth.
“I don’t know what the smartest course of action is. Getting something inexpensive to tide me over? Something nice enough to impress the foreign delegations? Something I’ll take home and keep forever? Something I leave in Sondmark?”
Still scanning the room, he lifts his arm, the back of his knuckles brushing my hand. “Find something that suits you. The rest of the questions can come after that.”
“Suits me,” I mutter to myself, turning back to the racks. “What suits me?”
His low chuckle follows me. “That is a problem. You’ve looked good in all these coats.”
My face warms, and I reapply myself to shifting the heavy hangers.
“Ma’am,” a saleswoman breaks the invisible barrier keeping her away. Her English is excellent. “May I help you make a selection?”
I turn away from a colorful Prada and am immediately caught by her eyes, bright with understanding. I don’t know what it is—age, serenity, or the promise of a fat commission—but I open up to her the way some people do to their therapist or priest.
When I get to the part about the cigarette bin, she actually clutches her pearls. Then she takes me in hand, guiding me to a warm gray coat with dull brass buttons, silk lining, and belted cuffs, tucking me into it before I can object.
“Don’t you think she looks gorgeous?” she asks Lucas. I feel his eyes like a soft touch. Then his mouth sets, and he trains his eyes on the entrance of the well-lit salon. My hands warm, and a blush climbs up my neck as the saleswoman sweeps on, smothering her curiosity in well-tailored wool. “It’s not a Sergei San Martin, but you won’t contemplate throwing yourself off a bridge if it gets lost or damaged, either.”
She persuades me to pay an eye-watering sum, and I’m comforted by the cold fact that Sondmark hasn’t bribed me. I’m tempted to hand the—I grope for the proper Sondish swear—flamenisland to Vorburg and have done with it.
“What now?” I ask, matching his pace through the parking garage.
“I can drive you around if you want to get your bearings?” Lucas suggests.
More time with my protection officer? Yes.
He doesn’t try to show me everything, but he drives me past Roslav Cathedral, through the financial district, and up into thehills. We stop for a late lunch at a roadside inn with a walled garden that looks out on the city. It’s too cold this time of year to linger, but I feel a longing to return once the weather is warm and the question of Sove has been settled.
“Caroline sent me an agenda for your meeting tomorrow,” he says, walking me into the palace at the day’s end. When he stops to check a notification on his phone, I dig mine out and snap a discreet picture. He looks up and I tuck it into my purse.
“I’ll spend the rest of the day running background checks on the attendees,” he continues, eyes narrowing. “If there’s anything to report, I’ll let you know before we leave.”
“Excellent,” I nod.
