“You’re divorced?”
Galiano nodded. He lifted my hair and drew a finger down the side of my neck. It left a smoldering trail.
“What about Ryan?” he asked.
“A working relationship.”
True. We worked together.
Galiano leaned close. I felt the warm wetness of breath on my cheek. Then his lips slid behind my ear. Onto my neck. My throat.
Oh, boy.
Galiano took my face in his hands and kissed me on the lips.
I smelled male sweat, cotton, something tangy, like citrus. The world kicked into slo-mo.
Galiano kissed my left eyelid, my right.
Galiano’s cellular shrieked.
We flew apart.
He yanked the phone from his belt and clicked on, one hand lingering in my hair.
“Galiano.”
Pause.
I held my breath.
“When?”
Longer pause.
“Does the ambassador know?”
I closed my eyes, felt my fingers curl into fists.
“Where are they now?”
Please, God. Not another body.
“Yeah.”
Galiano disconnected, ran his hand across my head, and dropped it onto my shoulder. For a moment, he just stared at me, the Guernsey eyes liquid in the darkness of the car.
“Chantale Specter?” I could hardly get the question out.
He nodded.
“Dead?”
“She was arrested last night in Montreal.”
14
“SHE’S ALIVE?” I KNEW IT WAS STUPID AS SOON AS I SAID IT .
“Lucy Gerardi was with her.”
“No way!”
“They were nailed shoplifting CDs at the MusiGo at Le Faubourg.”
“Shoplifting?” I sounded like a moron, but this wasn’t making sense.
“Cowboy Junkies.”
“Why?”
“Guess they’re into folk rock.”
I rolled my eyes, another pointless response in the dark.
“What could have brought them to Montreal?”
“Air Canada.”
Asshole. This reply I held back.
Galiano started the engine, pulled out of the lot.
On the drive back I sat with feet up, knees hugged to my chest. The protective posturing was unnecessary. The news about Chantale Specter had squelched any amorous intentions either of us might have harbored.
At the hotel, I popped the door before we stopped rolling.
“Call me as soon as you know anything.”
“Will do.”
