‘And?’
He remained quiet, and then I understood.
‘Oh. You want to be seen with me, but not to be with me.’ I straightened my back and tried to hide behind an aloof veneer. ‘I see.’
‘No, Angel. I do not think you do. Things are . . . uncertain here. My work. The people I must associate with. I cannot allow that to endanger you. I will not.’
‘Do you want to break it off with me?’
‘No!’ His reaction was visceral. Calming himself down, he looked at the ceiling, the floor, at the storm breaking outside, and finally at me. ‘No, although I should.’
Any association with Eduard Graf was dangerous. I didn’t want to look too hard at my reasons for wanting it to continue, only knew that I did.
‘Then the risk is mine to accept or not.’
His head was shaking before I’d finished my sentence. ‘No, Angel. I cannot allow that.’
‘Yes. You can. Stay with me.’
‘You don’t know what you are saying. We were shot at. You are frightened.’
His hand was at my nape, strangely gentle.
‘I’m not frightened. I’m angry. Stay with me,’ I pressed, even though I could see he was resolute.
I wanted to kick something. Take his gun and run out and find the assassin. Kill the bastard now to prove that without the threat, I would still want him. Me, not just Solange Verin. I might hate myself for wanting this man, this decorated Abwehr Officer, who hunted people like me. But I did want him. Despite all reason.
And I knew he wanted me as well. Or at least, he wanted Solange, and that was good enough.
‘Give me the time to figure out who is trying to kill me and why. If this, you and me, is meant to be, there will be another time. And I will look forward to it.’
He raised my hand to his lips and stood back.
‘You don’t strike me as the fatalistic sort, Eduard.’
‘No,’ he said, his voice holding a different sort of resolve. ‘I am not.’
‘Very well.’ I tried to force a rational tone. ‘But it’s not safe for you to leave. The sniper may still be outside. If you won’t sleep with me, then stay in a spare room. I won’t have you leave only to have to pick up your body outside my door tomorrow.’
Chapter Thirty
Eduard’s car was still parked outside my villa, although Andreas Neumann had picked him up shortly after dawn. Eduard had apologised, not qualifying whether it was for the shots of the night before, the rejection of my bed, or the shredding of my reputation, but mitigated the statement with a kiss that left me – and his adjutant – in little doubt of his intentions.
The storm had passed overnight, and the morning sun was bright and hot. With Claudine in isolation, Gabrielle Ribaud visiting friends in Sintra, and Julian doing whatever it was that Julian did, I spent the morning listening to the wireless and trying to sort through my own emotions. The latter was shoved aside when the formal announcement was made at midday: the Italian Grand Council confirmed that Benito Mussolini, Il Duce, had been replaced by Pietro Badoglio.
Unable to remain alone with my thoughts, I went for a walk, half hoping to draw out whoever had tried to shoot at me. The afternoon passed without incident and the sun was sinking as I walked up the hill. As I passed the arched buildings at the base of the casino, a pale car slid past me, the driver hunched low in the seat, unrecognisable under a dark fedora. It idled at the side of the street for a few moments before the ignition was cut.
The best agents took pains not to stand out, but this man acted like a spy in a bad film.
I dipped my head, hiding my face under the sun hat’s brim and watched as one leg slowly emerged from the car. The rest of his body followed, pausing to look up and down the street – checking to see who else was watching. Almost unconsciously, my hand grazed my thigh, reassured by the familiar feel of the sgian dubh.
The man pulled a black briefcase from the passenger seat and adjusted his hat. He glanced right – uphill – first, and then downhill before crossing the street. He was evidently used to cars driving on the left-hand side of the street.
British? Or someone who had spent a fair amount of time there?
He adjusted his grip on the briefcase and straightened. Rupert Allen-Smythe was appearing in far too many places for a low-level diplomat.
Instinct propelled me down the incline and into the hotel. Past the first foyer and into a rose-coloured armchair near the bar as he approached the concierge. Through the glass doors, people were beginning to congregate on the patio with their pre-dinner gin and tonics. I leafed through a copy of Time magazine and watched the concierge pass a key to Allen-Smythe. There might have been a perfectly legitimate excuse for the subterfuge, but something felt wrong. The Palácio was too public – too much a British hotspot.
A small man in a crisp suit stood at my elbow. His hair was slicked back and his small moustache was shiny with wax.
‘May I help you, madame?’
His supercilious voice was inordinately loud, but he blocked me from view as Allen-Smythe crossed barely five feet in front of me into the bar.
If Allen-Smythe saw me, he didn’t show any concern. Unsurprising, as he had only seen me as blonde Veronica, not Solange, with dark hair dishevelled from a day at the beach.
‘A cup of tea, please.’
I opened the pages of my book, dismissing the waiter. When he passed from sight, I slid into the next chair over, changing my view from the arched hallway to the dark panelled walls of the bar. Allen-Smythe sat at the bar, fiddling with his cuffs. At his feet was the black briefcase.
Next to him another man sat in a low chair,
