Page 9 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Eight

The gray sky hunkers over mist-sheened limestone buildings—stalwart and grand, impervious to the morning chill pressing against my wool sweater and pants. I’m finishing my second cup of coffee on the balcony of the Presidential Suite.

A text from Ash pings.

May I come in.

Apparently they don't teach knocking in spy school.

Yes.

I hear the hotel suite door swoosh open. The view of it is blocked by billowing linen curtains on either side of the balcony doors.

I sit back in my chair, taking the lukewarm coffee with me. Ash appears between the curtains almost like an apparition but so much more solid. "There's someone coming to see you," he says.

I wait. Sip my coffee. His eyes scan the table, pause on the untouched basket of pastries. "You want one?" I ask, some instinct knowing the question will bait him—wiggle just a little under his skin—though I'm not sure why.

Ash's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Just the slightest wrinkle of skin. If I wasn't studying the man, I would have missed it. It dawns on me: acting as though he might consider his own needs gets under Ash Fraser’s skin. He wants to be seen as selfless.

I file that away.

"Have you eaten?" he asks, still frowning at the croissants, cinnamon rolls, and scones that came with my coffee order.

"So who's my mysterious visitor?" I ask, ignoring his question the same way he ignored mine.

Ash brings his focus back to me, and I take in a measured breath, bearing the weight of it with grace—hiding behind an impenetrable mask of confidence. I can handle whatever you've got and a lot more.

"An MI5 agent named Elliot Kendricks. He's a part of the team investigating last evening's incident."

My eyes flick to the paper next to my coffee carafe. The queen smiles from the front page. Her blue eyes twinkle under the caption: Queen Collapses at Charity Gala: Dehydration Blamed.

The article implied the queen was on death’s door. And that her son, His Royal Highness Prince Edmund Arthur George Philip Windsor—Victoria’s father—was ready to become king. More than ready.

The author hinted that Prince Edmund resented that his mother had not already abdicated the throne in her “weakened” state.

The article noted some believe that the accusations of Edmund’s late wife—that he was physically abusive—were why the queen continued to cling to power. It also managed to squeeze in a brief recap of the tragic boating accident Victoria’s mother died in soon after the divorce.

Leave it to the British press to air all the royals’ dirty laundry while reporting on the queen fainting.

"Be careful with Kendricks,” Ash says, drawing my focus.

"Why?” I blink up at him. “We both know I had nothing to do with this. She was dehydrated." I wave a hand at the paper. "She's fine, they are just keeping her for observation."

Before Ash can respond, there's a knock on the door—quiet because of the distance, loud because of the implications. A man, whom I must be careful of for unknown reasons, has arrived.

"Does he…" I pause. "About me?"

"It's a possibility." Ash's gaze holds mine.

"Anything else you want to share?"

A tightness around his eyes. Wonder what that means?

"I can't." Ash doesn't flinch at the denial. But I don't think he likes it…there is a subtle strain in his voice. Not very noble to keep a woman in the dark, is it?

Selfless. Noble. Synonyms.

Ash leaves to answer the door. My gaze falls to the rain-shined pedestrians below, their jackets and umbrellas slick with drizzle. A slight thrill of voyeurism comes over me. They don't know I'm up here watching them.

Men's voices float from the other room. Footsteps approach. My gaze falls to the coffee cup in my hands—bone china hand-painted with pert pink flowers. I place it on the table with a soft clatter.

As the two men reach the threshold, I rise.

Elliot Kendricks wears a three-piece suit and an affable smile.

His hair is summer mud brown, straight and floppy.

The MI5 agent’s eyes are a bright ocean blue, friendly and slightly awed.

He does not look threatening. He looks like the kind of man I could eat for breakfast.

"Absolute pleasure to meet you, Ms. Daniels." He offers me a hand. "Elliot Kendricks. Sorry to come see you so early, really a terrible inconvenience, I do apologize." His skin is soft, nails trimmed, grip confident but not dominating.

“Please." I wave to the seat across from me. "Coffee?"

He moves toward the offered chair as I sit. Elliot’s movements are fawnlike, legs too long to be graceful, but the man is still agile. "I have to tell you I'm a big fan of your work. You’re brilliant. Just brilliant."

"Thank you," I say, dipping my chin, and folding my hands in my lap. Demure, nonthreatening, charmed.

"Sorry to be more of a bother, but would you mind terribly, chap, if we could just have some privacy?" Kendrick looks up at Ash and then to me, his smile an embarrassed grimace.

I give a small nod and Ash leaves us—as if he needed my permission. "Coffee?" I offer again.

"No, no, please. Thank you. I just have a few questions, just routine." His hands flap around like baby birds not sure how to land.

"Of course. It's terrible. I'm not sure what I can tell you, though; I never even spoke with the queen. From what I've read, she was dehydrated. That happened to my grandmother quite a bit as she aged."

"Well, you know, it's always good to get multiple points of view. Just due diligence really." He waves away any objection I might have with his fluttering hands.

Fine. We can play this game if he wants. "I'll admit, I don't know much about your profession. Eyewitness accounts are vital to an investigation?" I lean forward, adding a subtle eager note to my voice. Please teach me something. There is so much I don't know.

His eyes light and he nods, eager to share his knowledge. "Very. While each individual account is colored from the personal perspective, when we have a large group, the more points of view we have, the easier it is to create a clear picture."

"I see. How interesting."

"And besides," he says, now almost preening. "You have a habit of being in the room when people collapse." His expression doesn't change—still a fawn. But turns out this one’s got sharp teeth.

The night Vladimir Petrov crashed onto the dance floor—dragging me onto his seizing body—comes back to me in vivid color. The swell of power I felt at his distant gaze, at the horror I had wrought.

I also felt guilt then, too. Not now. I didn't kill Vladimir Petrov the night he "collapsed.

" It would have been easier if I had. Instead, I was forced to bludgeon the man to death in my home.

The sickening memory of his skull cracking and the wet spatter on my skin snaps me back to the hotel balcony.

"What an awful way to put it,” I say, my brow falling, my pretty lips turning into a sad frown, my eyes growing distant.

"Ivan Petrov collapsed in your arms. Poisoned." He picks up one of the scones, pulling it onto a small plate and then reaching for the butter, his attention apparently completely on the task.

"Are you suggesting the queen was poisoned?" I ask.

He smiles down at his pastry, now cut in half, as he slathers butter over one side. "I'm just making an observation."

"Is dredging up sad memories important for your investigation?" I ask, my tone as light as his, my teeth as sharp.

He takes a bite and then waves with the rest of the scone, as if scattering away my words. "I do apologize, didn't mean to upset you. I'm sure what you witnessed last night was quite a shock."

I don't answer because he didn't ask a question. Instead, I stare into his eyes and wait for him to speak again. He stares back, takes another bite of the scone, jaw working, gaze locked on mine.

"You know, I knew Temperance,” he goes on. “It's terrible what happened to him." My expression remains totally blank. I am behind a wall and no one can see through it. "If you ever need to get him a message, you can always call on me."

He breaks eye contact to find a napkin and wipe his hands before reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a business card.

"I won't take up any more of your time." He places the card next to the coffee pot—the same bone china and pink flowers as the cup.

"Please don't hesitate to contact me if you need anything at all, Ms. Daniels. "

Ash appears in the doorway again. "Our car is waiting downstairs."

"I was just leaving," Elliot says, pushing back his chair to stand. I also rise. He turns to me. "An absolute delight to meet you, Ms. Daniels. And, again, please never hesitate to reach out."

I smile but don't speak. Elliot gives Ash a curt nod and then moves past him into the suite. Ash turns to follow. I stand on the balcony, the chill air biting my cheeks and the tip of my nose. The curtains billow, blocking my view of the hotel room door, but I hear it open and then close.

Ash returns and I'm still standing in that spot. "What happened to Temperance?" I ask.

"You'll be late if we don't leave now."

"Answer me."

"Alesana will be here any second, and we can't discuss this in front of him."

I step forward, closing the space between us to a mere foot. Craning my neck to look up at him, I'm reminded again of Vladimir—he was a giant like Ash. He made me feel small. But I felled him.

The hotel room door opens and Alesana's voice reaches us: "All set?"

"Yes," Ash answers for me.