Leonhard takes her arm and tucks it into the crook of his arm. “Hold it against me all you like. But I need you angry this morning.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You provoked me on purpose?”
“Yes.” He pulls out her chair and helps her settle into place at the table. Their voices are low. Polite. No one would guess they are hovering on the edge of a quarrel. “For one, you’re at your sharpest when you’re angry. I’ve always rather appreciated that about you.”
She snaps out her napkin and then presses it smooth across her lap. Gertrud skewers him with her gaze.
“Well, if I’m honest, it also terrifies me a bit. But I can’t deny it’s sexy.”
“Shall I congratulate you on your bravery?”
“No. But I’d appreciate it if you’d let me finish my point.”
She waves a hand indicating that he should go ahead.
“Look around, Liebchen. What do you see?” He leans an arm across the back of his chair. “I’m rather surprised you hadn’t noticed already. You do dislike the man after all.”
The American. Holding court. In the promenade beside the dining room. He is clear-eyed and clean shaven, showing no signs of a man who was up half the night drinking. He never looks in their direction, but Gertrud knows he’s watching them nonetheless. His body is angled in such a way that the Adelts are right in his peripheral vision. He is surrounded by a small crowd of male passengers. Whatever he says makes them roar with laughter, and Gertrud looks away in disgust. She is offended at the mere suggestion that such a man could be funny.
Leonhard summons one of the dining stewards to their table. His name tag reads SEVERIN KLEIN, and his face reads Aryan poster child. Blond hair. Square jaw. Blue eyes. “Coffee for both of us, please.”
She catches Klein’s quick surveillance and immediate approval of them. He tips the silver carafe over her mug, and Gertrud begins an elaborate preparation ritual involving so much sugar and cream that Leonhard shakes his head in disgust. She is soon nursing a full cup of ivory coffee and a viscous mood. Klein hasn’t been nearly so attentive to the Jewish businessmen seated next to them. Nor was he last night.
“Do you see what we’re up against now?” Leonhard asks. It takes her a moment to realize he is not talking about the steward or all that he represents. He’s watching the American with that look he gets when there’s a puzzle to be solved. “He’ll have them believing anything he says before the dishes are cleared. So yes, I made you angry on purpose. And I’ll gladly keep you that way so long as you do not, for a moment, forget that there are certain protections your husband can provide. I’d suggest you make good use of them. Even if the thought does chafe your unique sensibilities. It’s what I’m here for, damn it.”
It’s then that she notices Leonhard has placed himself strategically between her and the American. No matter that the man is twenty feet away or out of earshot. It’s a small thing, but he has created a buffer between them. Marking his territory as it were. Leonhard is a man after all. And, she must admit, a good one.
“You are right.”
It’s the closest she will come to offering an apology, and Leonhard knows well enough to take what he can get. He lifts her hand from the tablecloth and kisses it.
The American’s audience has grown by a handful as the passengers wait for breakfast to be served. “What is he going on about over there anyway?”
“Funny you should ask, Liebchen.”
THE AMERICAN
The American has been watching Leonhard Adelt for twenty minutes. The journalist rises from the table and goes to greet his wife. She looks a bit worse for wear, though it appears as though she has at least managed a shower this morning. The tips of each curl hang heavy with moisture against her jaw, and Leonhard escorts her to their table and seats her in the chair farthest away. Once settled, they begin to have a calm but rather intense debate. The American would wager that her husband was not aware of, or in favor of, her little excursion in the middle of the night. He can tell by the stiffness of her spine and the set of her jaw that she is being taken to task for it now.
His attention is drawn to one of the couples sitting near him. The wife is complaining about the trip, and he has to hide his irritation. Wealthy brats. They expect to be entertained at all times. The press makes it sound as though movie stars and royalty crowd every voyage, and she is vexed to find herself mingling with common businessmen and housewives.
“This isn’t the most exciting voyage so far,” she says to her husband. She is disappointed. The weather is dreary. And the company more so. The food is decent, but she has had better. The beds are too small and the temperature too cold. “I wish we had been on the Millionaires Flight last year.”