Page 178 of Blood Game

“Several years now.”

Not a week, or a few days...?

“There's the usual paperwork to make everything official. That will take some time, but it’s finished for me.”

It was the way he said it, that accent that had a way of slipping through, wrapping around the words, something he shared with her as if it was just the two of them in spite of the crowd that moved around them.

“My time is my own now.”

There was more that was left unsaid, but it was there in that dark gaze that watched her, filled with the shadows of those raw and dark places he'd been.

She looked down at his hand, still wrapped around her wrist, the tip of the sword at the tattoo just visible at the edge of his sleeve.

“There's a place I know,” he said, watching her.

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

Did people date any more, or just hook up?

A real smile then, tired, but it was there for the first time since she saw him standing in the entrance of the bookstore.

“There's a fine single malt I'm told the owner always keeps behind the bar.”

The Tavern.

“It's a long drive,” she replied.

“There's an inn along the way. The place is a bit rowdy at the end of the day, but the bartender is a good sort, and the fire is warm on a cold night.”

He touched her cheek, the way he had that first night in London almost a year ago. She had held on then, needed to hold on. Needed it now, needed him.

The wounds were still there, for both of them—the things he had seen and done, the pain of loss, the men he had served with. For her, the loss of her brother, friends she would like to have known—a young girl called Jehanne, Isa Raveneau, Vilette Moreau. And the one person who had brought them all together.

Cate.

She would always miss her—the first time they met at that writers' conference, their work together over those books that had become bestsellers, discussions about character and plotting, late night conversations over her favorite whisky in a hotel bar after her latest book signing.

But there were new friends — Danny, Trevor Allen with so much raw talent that it was almost frightening, Diana Jodion and her passion for the tapestry, Valentine with her faith in a woman she had never met or known but loved, and Albert with his own story that needed to be told.

Things that mattered.

Her hand wrapped around his, holding on.

It was a very long drive, and a very fine whisky.