“Bryce Randolph was responsible for this evening, and the search for him is on. Perhaps now that he knows he has been identified, the threats will cease.”
She nodded but didn’t seem convinced. In truth, he wasn’t settled either.
“We’ll remain vigilant. Have you contacted Giancarlo regarding tomorrow’s address?”
She nodded again, and this time, a sheen covered her eyes. She cleared her throat as if she might speak but then swallowed and looked again at the fire. A tear trickled down her cheek. It was sadder than any she’d shed over the past many hours since her frightening jump from the sky, and his heart turned over. How did one comfort a woman? He would have to ask Sam about such things. In the meantime, he scooted closer to her and put an arm around her shoulders.
She sniffled and blinked, then leaned back, resting against his side. “He hasn’t won,” she murmured, and he was relieved at the statement.
“No, he definitely has not. We are outmaneuvering him. Keeping you hidden is strategically sound, should he have other weapons in his quiver.” He settled comfortably and stretched his legs on the coffee table before them. “I’m curious,” he said after they’d sat in silence for a moment, “why you’d never referred to Randolph as your nemesis. I know I have the honor of that title and that Nigel Crowe is ‘nemesis number two,’ but surely you have a pet name for the worst of us all.”
She turned her face toward his and arched a brow. “I do, indeed. His name is ‘Devil.’”
“Ah. Very good.” The firelight flickered warm against their faces, and he cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb softly across her skin. His heart thumped hard in his chest. Her head lay against his shoulder, and he thought of the times he’d been close to her and not nearly so content.
“Are you in much pain?” He traced her brow with a fingertip.
She blinked slowly. “Yes, but I’m growing accustomed to it. Hardly notice it anymore.”
“I have some laudanum to help you sleep, if you wish.”
The corner of her mouth lifted. “Detective-Inspector, is it your goal to render me defenseless?”
He smiled. “I would never waste energy on the impossible.”
“How is it that a handful of days ago I quite detested the sight of you?”
He chuckled softly and brushed strands of her long, dark hair from her face. “We had a good, long run on the enemy front, did we not?”
“We did, indeed. Where are we now?”
He pursed his lips as if giving the matter thought. “Unfamiliar territory. Are you concerned?”
Her brow wrinkled. “Stunned, more like. Are you concerned?”
He smiled. “Extremely. I am afraid if I do not kiss you again, we’ll not know whether our feelings on the beach were simply a reaction to stress or something more.”
“Mmm, yes. I see the need to investigate.” Her eyelids fluttered closed as he shifted, intending to place his lips on hers.
They were separated by a fraction of an inch when a quick knock sounded at the door, and Emme jumped, bumping their noses together.
“Miss Emmeline, I wonder if you—oh my! Oh, do forgive me.” Gus stood in the doorway between rooms, mouth agape.
Oliver closed his eyes and tipped his head forward, resting it against Emme, who stared at Gus, wide-eyed.
She shook Oliver’s shoulder. “Gus has a question.”
“I know.” Still, his eyes remained closed.
She cleared her throat, and when he made no attempt to move, she said, “What is it, Gus?”
“Forgive me, miss. Josephine has sent word that she is not scheduled to work tomorrow morning but would be glad to come in anyway and offer her assistance.”
Emme sighed, her breath falling softly against Oliver’s neck. “That would be lovely, Gus. In fact, I mean to speak with her about the possibility of a more permanent position.”
“Very good, miss. And . . . well . . . as you were.”
The room was again quiet, and he felt her laughing softly before he finally lifted his head and settled for a kiss on her forehead.
“It is late,” he said with a sigh and a smile.
“And the moment has passed.” She shook her head, but the corners of her mouth tilted upward.
The phone rang in the other room, and Gus answered it, pausing as he tripped over himself explaining that the detective was out . . . er . . . not out, but occupied . . .
“I’ll be right there,” Oliver yelled to Gus, who relayed the information to the caller.
“Go.” She nudged him. “I am falling asleep anyway. I’ll sit here another moment and then climb into bed.”
“Very well.” He paused, wishing he could say something poignant, or at least witty. Instead, he stood, making his way to the door. “Call out if you need anything—Gus and I will sleep lightly. Keep the corridor door locked, and do not open it for any reason.”
She saluted him, and he smiled. Perhaps a quiet day spent together would be a good thing.
Emme felt crazed by noon the next day. She knew everybody was out enjoying the festival, and she was stuck indoors. She paced awkwardly, sometimes with both crutches, sometimes with one, and other times limped around without either. She made a circuit around her room and into Oliver’s more times than she could count.
Josephine had arrived at breakfast time and was delighted at the possibility of future, full-time employment with Emme. In addition to duties as a maid, she was also an excellent seamstress and proficient on a typewriting machine. Emme was in the process of checking references, but she already knew Josephine had the temperament to deal with Emme’s restless energy. She was efficient and possessed good taste in clothing and manners. Emme had sent her out shopping again for more clothing and necessaries, and she envied the young woman her ability to leave the hotel, even if it was for only an hour.
Emme had tried to convince Oliver that the threat to her well-being no longer existed since Bryce Randolph knew he’d been found out. Oliver
