Page 9 of Stay Close
That gets his attention, and he reaches forward. “Bribery and blackmail are my business,” he says, tone and stature shifting before my eyes. It’s like watching a puppy turn into a wolf. “Give me the note.”
I hand it over. “You won’t find anything in there, but Caroline has to know how much a Sergei San Martin coat is. I’d be surprised if she doesn’t know my salary down to the cent. Do you think accepting this offer would make me more or less of a neutral arbitrator?”
He holds my gaze for a long time and nods. “Does Queen Helena need to be on my watchlist?”
I tip my head and the bun slides off my shoulder like a slinky. I tug it loose and run my fingers through my hair. “Likely not. She saw an advantage and pressed it, but this is the kind of thing I need to look out for.”
He hands the paper back, narrowing his eyes. “Most of my clients are either paranoid or have to be reminded about the realities of human nature.”
I grin. Why don’t I? “The first rule of being a lawyer is to assume everyone is lying. The second is to not take it personally.”
The agenda for today was supposed to be light. Get over jet lag. Find my bearings. I’ve added one more item: buy a coat. I scribble a note on the palace stationary and fold it in half.
“I have to go shopping. So”—I wave my hand in his direction—“do what you have to do. I’ll get myself ready, and we can leave within the hour. Have you eaten?”
Maybe it’s because I’m a lawyer and sit across the table from people knowing they’re going to lie to my face that I catch the pause. “Yes. I’ll be ready to go when you are.” He touches the page in my hand. “That’s for the queen’s secretary?”
“Yes,” I answer. “A thanks but no thanks.”
“I’ll run it down to her office while you get dressed and gather a couple of shopping suggestions. Will that be all right?”
I’m already working the zipper of my bag undone, almost weeping when I unearth a pair of wool slacks. I nod. “Ask for the name of a few cafes, while you’re at it, would you?” I pop upright and catch him staring. I touch the hem of the t-shirt. Still in place. “Can we grab a bite to eat?”
“Sure. I can take you anywhere you like.” He pauses at the door and gives me a reassuring look. “We’re working great together already.”
An hour later, when I look like the competent professional I am, he walks me out of the palace to the waiting car. “Caroline suggested the food hall of a luxury department store. She said that Bette’s has a bit of everything, and you can shop upstairs.”
He tucks me into the passenger seat of the Fiio, leaving me free to gawk out the windows of the car, familiarizing myself with the different traffic patterns and signs. “Handsel looks nice when you’re not being chased through it by a pack of wild activists.”
“Do you travel much?” he asks, navigating through a narrow lane, allowing the steering wheel to slide through his hands. He wears a watch with a complicated brass face and a black leather band that won’t send him health alerts or vibrate with an incoming text.
“Some. If I nail this assignment, some will turn into often. I’ve done background legwork for these kinds of negotiations, but this is the first time I’ve ever led the talks.”
He taps the wheel, rubbing his thumb along the grip. “Speak any other languages?”
“My Mandarin is likely to cause an international incident, but I can get pretty far in German, Swedish, and Spanish.”
“Spanish?” He lifts his brows. “El lenguaje de los ángeles, según mi abuela,” he looks over to check if I got it.
“The language of angels, according to my grandmother,” I translate.
He faces forward, a smiletucking his cheek.
I follow closely behind Lucas when we enter Bette’s and gasp at the brightly lit banks of gleaming glass display cases filled with thin-sliced smoked salmon, an array of meat pies, free range roast chicken, Seongan summer rolls, fresh baked pastries, and bacon sandwiches.
“I could get champagne and oysters at 10 AM, if I wanted to,” I say, tugging his sleeve.
“Do you want to?”
I shake my head. “I like knowing I could.”
I get an apple strudel and coffee while Lucas watches my back.
“You have to get something,” I tell him. “You’re going to upset my digestion if I have to eat alone.”
“Choose for me,” he says, his focus unwavering.
I settle on a sausage breakfast wrap—something he can manage with one hand—and he steers me past several empty tables to a booth. “You have to be on this side,” he points. No more people watching unless I crane my neck.
