She subtly checked the instrument switch panel on the side of the vehicle, noting the heat indicator was in the neutral position. She scowled.
“What is it?” Oliver asked, his voice a pleasantly low rumble that entered her ear and traveled insidiously through to her extremities.
“Nothing,” she snapped. “It grows warm, and I do not care for it.”
“Perhaps you carry a fan?”
“Perhaps you carry a fan!” Even as the phrase left her lips, she drew her own brows together in befuddlement. As arguments went, her statement was ridiculous. Why would he carry a fan?
His lips twitched. “I do not,” he said, appearing to deeply consider the topic, “but I suppose I could from this point forward as a service to you.”
She took a measured breath. “Kind of you to offer, Detective, but that is unnecessary. I do indeed have a fan of my own—several, in fact. One for each ensemble.”
“Shall I retrieve it for you? From your reticule?”
Emme was certain heat in the form of steam was escaping her ears. What a ridiculously inane conversation. The notion that this man who was her nemesis—she mustn’t forget—was teasing her flitted on the edges of her thoughts, and she brushed it away angrily. They had no business discussing fans or any other sort of accessory.
She opened her reticule with more force than necessary and shoved her hand in, her fingers closing around her fan. She pulled it out and flipped it open with a flair worthy of a French courtesan. She waved it in her face and glanced at him, only to see his familiar, assessing regard.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes,” she ground out. “But perhaps matters might be improved upon if you were to move your person over on the bench. This carriage is ridiculously small.”
He raised a brow in surprise. “Oh, you ought to have said so earlier. I was unaware you were feeling cramped. Here.” He put his hand on the seat between them and then moved to the bench opposite her. “There. Much more room.”
She nodded stiffly, still fanning herself and relishing the light breeze. The problem now, however, was that he was positioned directly in her line of sight, and his long legs stretched forward until he was nearly into her personal space yet again. He’d braced his feet on either side of hers, and she was irritated that he didn’t turn to the side slightly and cross one leg atop the other. It would have been the polite thing to do. It was highly suspicious, because she knew he possessed impeccable manners.
She drew in a deep breath, briefly closing her eyes and counting to ten. For the rest of the brief ride, she scribbled notes in the margins of her lists, which kept her brain and hand partially occupied, though she was altogether too aware of the man sitting across from her, apparently not suffering ill effects from having spent the entire morning and early afternoon together. Or if he was, he hid it well. Of course, why should he be the irritated one? She wasn’t encroaching upon his space, his schedule, his entire life.
That wasn’t completely true, she conceded, knowing he’d set his own life aside for hers, but she was happier wallowing in her own sense of victimhood and frustration. Perhaps it was better. If she was too busy being irritated with him, she was less likely to allow in the unsettling fears that stemmed from the Bad Letter and had continued through the accident that morning. Far better to find something—or someone—to be irritated with than to be afraid.
The days leading to the Summit were filled with planning meetings with the International SRO and Signore Giancarlo, last-minute shopping, one additional dress fitting, and dinner with Daniel and Isla. Oliver was her shadow for the entirety, and, to her surprise, Emme found herself growing accustomed to his company. She even began asking for his opinion on a variety of issues that arose during the day, at first because he was often the only one at hand when she was mulling something over, and later because she realized his judgment was sound and she was of a similar mind with him more often than not.
There were no further threats on her life, although one luncheon was canceled because arsenic had been found in three of the teapots. A quick investigation proved the culprit to be an employee who was protesting the restaurant’s use of manufactured spices. The target had been the restaurant, and the poison was not intended for any one person.
Miles and Lucy Blake had arrived in Town, and together with Daniel and Isla, and Sam and Hazel, Emme and Oliver had attended the theatre and enjoyed dinner at the Blake townhome. It was not lost on Emme that she and Oliver rounded out the group as the last “couple,” but nothing could have been further from the truth. They were only just learning how to be civilized with each other.
In preparation for one of Emme’s presentations about shifter history, Lucy had loaned Emme two small, old journals containing some of the Blake family history. Emme kept them, along with her personal notes, observations she’d made over the last three years, a small ray gun, a knife, a tin of fresh biscuits, and a military canteen, in a medium-sized portmanteau that resembled a carpetbag. It was heavy, but Emme couldn’t bring herself to put the priceless journals in a trunk that would leave her side during travel. She couldn’t afford to lose them, if even for a moment.
The evening of departure finally arrived. The nighttime flight would allow Emme to accomplish more the first day of the gathering instead of spending time traveling. She made a final sweep of her bedroom, satisfied she had packed everything she might need for her trip.
She paused before her vanity and examined her appearance. She wore a stylish new outfit in burgundy and
