Quenby thanked her, and with the plastic bag at her side, she cleared security and descended the staircase to the locker room. The ground floor smelled like cinnamon rolls and coffee, the scent lingering from the cafeteria. Lunch had been an afterthought today, a quick meal of crisps and an apple she’d stored in her locker.
Her phone blinked again: another message from Lucas asking about dinner. She did have plans—a run through the heath and eating take-out sushi on her patio.
Her briefcase secure over her shoulder, she crossed the plaza by the reflecting pool. Then she heard someone call her name from near the car park. Turning, she saw Lucas hurrying toward her, waving a bouquet of peonies and lavender like it was a white flag.
Groaning, she walked faster toward the train station, but he caught up quickly to her side. She refused to look over as she hurried toward the street. “I thought you were in New York.”
“I flew back last night.”
With a glance to her right, she stepped off the curb. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Your editor said you were here.”
She just might wring Chandler’s neck.
He held out the flowers. “I couldn’t find an olive branch at the florist.”
She didn’t take the flowers, but on the other side of the street she stopped and faced him. His brown eyes reminded her of a puppy, guilty of stealing his owner’s shoes, then chewing them to shreds when no one was around. “What do you want, Lucas?”
“A truce.”
“Really?”
“And dinner,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’m guessing you’re hungry too.”
“Please stop making assumptions about me.” She resumed walking toward the Underground station.
He caught up beside her again, the flowers down at his side. “I’m paying.”
Of course he was. He probably thought she couldn’t afford to buy her own dinner. “I can pay for myself.”
“I’m sorry for being so abrupt before—”
She didn’t stop walking. “You were downright rude, Lucas.”
“Tell you what,” he said, ducking under the limb of a tree. “You choose the place and the conversation. Or for that matter, you can choose not to talk at all. I will completely ignore you if that’s what you want.”
She hiked her handbag up on her shoulder. “Did Mr. Knight tell you to play nice?”
“He really wants to hire you.”
“Your job’s on the line, isn’t it?”
“No, but he’s done a lot for me, and I want to help him.”
She slowed her pace. How could she argue with that? “I can’t linger for hours.”
“Nor can I.”
He followed her to the station, up the flight of stairs. Sterile lights illuminated the tracks and platform, the board above ticking through arrival times. Her train would be here in three minutes.
“How about Italian food?” she asked.
“Actually . . .” He paused. “I made reservations at the Garden House.”
The Garden House was an elegant, award-winning restaurant near Kew Gardens, known for insanely high prices and excellent food. A place she’d always wanted to try, but still—“You said I could choose the place.”
“I’ll cancel.”
She faced him again, people streaming around on both sides of them. “If I eat dinner with you, you’ll answer my questions.”
“I’ll answer anything I can.”
“Which probably isn’t much.”
He flinched ever so slightly before he regained his composure. “Mr. Knight asked me to tell you about the last time he saw Brigitte.”
Her breath caught against her will. “What if I decide not to search for her?”
“He thinks you can keep a secret.”
The word—secret—whistled through her mind, her thoughts jolting back again to that day with her mother long ago, to the secret she’d kept for more than twenty years. Ironic, really, since she searched daily for the truth about other people, often finding men and women who didn’t particularly want to be found. Just never the person who’d once mattered most.
Even as she sought other people to interview, she’d refused to seek the truth about her own past.
“Quenby?”
She turned toward Lucas, barely registering the use of her first name.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded slowly.
Mr. Knight was right—she could keep secrets. And whether or not she chose to search for Brigitte, she would keep his story secret as well.
Chapter 10
Belgium, October 1940
The dogs barked again as Dietmar stumbled around a lake, Brigitte lying motionless against his chest. There was still life in her; he could feel her breath in the cold, the heat from her skin.
He ducked into the dark forest, branches scraping his arms and face as he fled.
It would be impossible to escape a pack of dogs, even if she ran beside him now, but the alternative was unthinkable. They’d come so far these weeks, struggling to survive. If the Nazis didn’t kill them, they would surely separate him from Brigitte.
She would never survive their treatment, and he—
He didn’t think he could bear being torn from someone else he loved.
If the enemy overtook them, they would go down together. Nothing would make him leave her side.