“Annoying?”
The server was over his shoulder, pouring white wine into his glass. Lucas sniffed it, then took the tentative sip of a wine connoisseur, seeming to consider its virtues. For a moment, she thought he might actually send it back, but he nodded his approval before resuming their discussion. “What did you ask?”
“Were you annoying as a child?”
He shrugged. “It all depends on perspective.”
“How about the perspective of your parents?”
“Unfortunately they weren’t around enough to make much of a judgment. I spent most of my growing-up years at a series of boarding schools.”
The exclusive ones, she had no doubt. She almost made a snide comment about the woes of the upper class, but something flashed in his eyes as he took another sip of his wine. Regret, perhaps. Vulnerability.
This time, she held her tongue.
“Do your parents live in London?”
“Yes,” he replied. “In Brentford. How about your parents?”
The server placed a bowl in front of her, and she dipped her spoon into the onion soup served with pancetta and a poached egg. The egg bounced in the wake.
Mr. Knight had said he wouldn’t tell Lucas about her past, but she’d assumed he would surely learn the worst of it. “I thought you knew—”
“I’ve read plenty about your career, but nothing about your family.”
“My father died when I was four, and my mother—I think I’ll have to decline commenting about her.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Family can be a tricky subject.”
She nodded, dipping her spoon back into the soup. It tasted like peppered bacon and wine.
“They are part of who you are,” Lucas said, “and yet sometimes you wish another family was blessed to have a member or two of yours.”
She wouldn’t wish her mother on any family.
“How about your grandparents?” he asked.
“I never knew my dad’s dad, but my grandmother was my best friend.” She swirled the water in her glass, watching the bubbles cling to the sides. She and Grammy hadn’t had much money, but they had each other—something she’d never taken for granted. “My grandmother loved God and loved Germany even though she had to leave her country after she married. When I was a child, she’d alternate reading to me from her Bible and the Grimms’ fairy tales in German.”
“An interesting mix.”
“She was more like a mom to me than my own mother.” The words slipped out of her mouth quickly, as if she were confiding in a friend, and when she saw the startled look on Lucas’s face, she wished she could retract them.
“What about your mom’s parents?”
“I never met them,” she replied briskly and then changed the subject. “Does Mr. Knight have family in the States?”
“None that are still living.”
“Did he ever marry?”
Lucas shook his head as the server delivered their main course. She picked up her fork to eat the risotto. “Surely you can tell me about his life as an adult.”
He leaned forward, pressing his knuckles together as he spoke. “Mr. Knight has worked his entire life to right this upturned world. He’s a generous man who is fascinated by heroes from history, discounting the fact that those who know him think he’s a hero as well for his compassion and willingness to help people in need. And he’s determined to find out what happened to Brigitte before he passes away.”
“What if Brigitte doesn’t want to see him?”
Lucas took a bite of mahimahi, spiced with coriander and lemon juice, before responding. “He would be disappointed but relieved knowing that she’d survived the war.”
“And if she didn’t survive?”
His eyes met hers, steady and calm. “Perhaps we’ll withhold that information.”
She set her fork beside the plate. “What do you mean ‘we’?”
“Mr. Knight has asked me to help with whatever you need.”
“But I haven’t agreed to look for her—”
“He’s convinced that you will.”
These men were exasperating. They had certainly piqued her interest, but she hadn’t made any promises. Nor would she until after she talked to Chandler.
“I can have an answer to you next week,” she said. “In the meantime, I have a story due for the syndicate by Friday.”
He leaned forward again. “If I help you finish your story, will you ask your boss for a week off?”
She stiffened. “I don’t need your help on my story or any search.”
“I spent almost two years trying to help one of the investigators find Brigitte.”
“And—”
“We kept smashing into dead ends.”
She glanced over at him. “What happened at the monastery?”
“Are you trying to derail me?” he asked, reaching for his glass of wine.
“Trying to put you back on track.”
He stared at her for a moment, his glass in front of him.
She shook the hair off her face. “What?”
“I was just thinking,” he said, taking a sip of his wine.