The café-bar was packed, but étienne, disappointingly, was nowhere to be seen. It was rather late; perhaps he had already gone home. She would have to sort things out on her own.
D’Albret led her to a table in the back corner, but rather than sit opposite he squeezed onto the banquette at her side. He pressed against her, his breath hot against her ear, and she had to remind herself that they were in public, in an establishment where she was known, and nothing bad could possibly happen to her so long as she refused to get in his car.
He was talking again, this time about his plans for a passenger service via airplane between Paris and London. She longed to tell him it was a ridiculous idea, for who on earth would risk their life on an airplane when they could get from one city to the other by ferry and train in less than a day, but she bit her tongue and nodded approvingly.
Like étienne, d’Albret was given to talking with his hands. Unlike étienne, he had a disconcerting way of allowing them to settle on her shoulder or arm, or even, though she brushed them away firmly more than once, on her knee.
It was unbearable, truly unbearable. She was going to stand up and walk a pace or two away, thank him for a lovely evening, and go; she would hope, in that moment, that he wouldn’t dare to make a scene. Before she could act, however, he whispered something in French that she couldn’t quite make out, seized her chin, and turned her face toward his.
He was going to kiss her, she knew it, and she pushed against his chest to make him leave off, retreat, but he was surprisingly strong, and his other hand was around her waist, and oh, God, he really was going to press his mouth to hers—
And then he was gone. She heard, as if from a distance, the sound of chairs tipping over and glass breaking, and then her eyes cleared and it was Sam, right there, and he was the one who had pulled d’Albret away.
His cheeks flushed, his eyes glinting with murderous intent, Sam twisted d’Albret’s arm behind his back and marched him outside, and she just sat and stared and told herself that she mustn’t be sick, could not be sick, no matter how much her stomach was churning.
“Come on,” came a voice, and there was Sam again, his arm outstretched, and he led her away and outside to the blessedly cool night. D’Albret had vanished.
“What did you do? Did you hit him?” she asked, her voice shaking so much she had to force the words past her teeth.
“No, Ellie, I didn’t hit him. I shoveled him into his car and told him to sleep it off.”
“Oh. I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“I may also have told him to keep his hands to himself, especially when he’s around a lady. And it’s possible that I also told him to never come near you again. Because if he did, I really would hit him.”
She was shivering, although her coat was warm enough, and she badly needed to sit down. “How did you know we were here?”
“Larry Blochman was sitting at the bar. He recognized you, saw you were having trouble with that jackass, and called me at the paper. I got in a taxi and came down here as fast as I could.”
“Ah. Well. I suppose I should go back to my aunt’s.”
“You should. Come on—the taxi’s still waiting.”
They didn’t talk on the way home, and though she longed for him to comfort her, to tell her everything would be all right, he kept his silence. Not until they were standing at Agnes’s side door did he speak again.
“Good night, Helena. Lock the door behind you.”
“Please don’t be angry,” she implored. “I was about to get up and leave. I wouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t have let him kiss me.”
“What were you thinking? What if he’d assaulted you? A man like that can’t be trusted.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have gone. But he was so persistent, and I’d nothing else to do this evening . . .”
At last he looked at her, and his face was the picture of torment. Something was tearing him apart, something more than the shock they’d both just endured, but she’d no idea how to help, or what to say. So she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his mouth.
Before she could pull away, he backed her against the door, his mouth never leaving hers, and his hands went to frame her face, as he’d done the last time he kissed her. Only this kiss was different, it was wild and desperate, and though she wished to comfort him she also wanted more, so she pushed against him and opened her mouth and let his tongue press past her lips and clash against hers.
“No,” he groaned, and he pulled his mouth away. He took a step back, and his expression was so anguished that her eyes filled with sympathetic tears.
“What is wrong? Did I do anything wrong? I’m sorry if I was forward. I only meant—”
“Ellie, you know I care about you. You must know.”
“I do.”
“And so what I’m about to say has nothing to do with you. Nothing. You must believe me.”
“What is it? I told you I’m sorry about tonight.”
“This isn’t about tonight, and I’m sorry if I was mean to you just now. It wasn’t your fault. I know that.”