The desk was locked. In his own home. Out came the trusty nail file.
More letters. Letters, letters, letters. She snapped seven more pictures, finishing the reel, and then confined herself to shorthand, not thinking about what she was writing, not thinking about all the talk of cacao, of exclusive contracts with Nestlé, of a great family restored, of plans for an illustrious future as head of a media empire, so natural, with a man of Simon’s breeding and connections and caliber. Simon couldn’t possibly know what he was doing, or whom he was doing it with. He was desperate to help his family. That was honorable, and he was an Honorable. He wasn’t going to be proof against the offer of real help, and especially if it gave him something more, something he always wanted. But he wasn’t going to be a puppet on a string, doing as his benefactors demanded. He just needed to understand whom he was dealing with, what it all might mean, and then he and Maisie could have a bonfire with these papers.
She slipped the camera and pad back in her bag, locked the desk, and glanced back at the messy open desk. She could just see the corner of brown leather—a diary, it must be. She shifted aside some papers.
“May we help you?”
Maisie lurched forward into the desk, banging her knee so hard she thought it might be fractured. It was the dyspeptic Trent, looking as though he’d like to beat her to death and refraining only because he didn’t want blood staining the parquet floor.
“I was just looking for some international letter paper,” she explained. “I wanted to write to my mother and tell her about my engagement.”
“And did Mr. Simon say you could have the use of his desk?”
“I was going to use the sofa, actually. He’s still asleep. But I’m a lark type of girl. Very keen on catching worms.”
He looked her up and down, probably wondering what the attraction was. Eyes locked on hers, he pulled out a drawer and withdrew several sheets of thin blue paper.
“Ah, there you are,” Simon murmured. Maisie turned to see him, clad only in pajama bottoms resting at his hips, running his hand through already tousled hair. That body. Smooth, sculpted, strong. She had touched every inch of that lightly burnished flesh. She could go to him now and touch him again. She wanted to. Better to do that, better to touch him, to kiss him, to lose herself in him, take him back inside her, than to believe all her eyes had told her. He had been drawn into something he didn’t understand. Who among us didn’t make mistakes, after all?
“I thought you’d used and abandoned me,” he said, pulling her into his chest and kissing her neck. “Let’s go back to bed. I’m never up before nine. Trent must think the end is nigh.”
“I’ve got to be at work long before nine,” she reminded him. “Very busy day ahead, I’m afraid.” Just got busier, too.
“Mm, busy little bee. And I suppose you want to go home and change. Do you want breakfast first? Trent makes a rather lovely mess of bacon and eggs.”
“No, that’s all right,” she said, instantly regretting it. Her turning down food was a dead giveaway. “Miss Matheson said she was going to stand us muffins and jam this morning, and, well . . . for once, I’m not feeling hungry for food.” She ran her hand down his back, thrilling to his shiver. She could do this. She had the right to touch him now, to . . .
What the hell am I doing? He’s not . . .
“I hope you weren’t riffling too much in my desk, there,” he said suddenly, and she wondered if there was an edge in his voice.
“No. Just hoped to find some blue letter paper. But the mess was a bit of an allaying force.”
He laughed.
“Yes, I imagine your secretary brain looks at that dog’s dinner and wants to fill it with any amount of bourgeois in-trays and labels and files.”
“Nothing bourgeois about organization,” she snapped. “And I’m not a secretary anymore. I’m a Talks assistant.”
“Of course, of course, I know. And soon you’ll be a producer and then the director and have the power to come in whenever you like and dictate the whole course of action.”
She barely heard him. She had to get to the BBC. She had to talk to Hilda.
“If you’re not going to be a good girl and come back to bed with me, then it’s cruel to stay,” he chided her. “Shall I give you cab fare?”
“No,” she said. She wanted to walk, clear her head. “No, that’s all right.”
“I promised the lads a drink tonight, but will we have dinner tomorrow?”
“I’d love that,” she said, hardly registering either of their words.
“And what else do you love?” His eyes were teasing, and so warm. So honest.
“You,” she told him, kissing him again. “I love you.”
But I have no idea who you are.
NINETEEN