I take a cab to the house where the party is being held: an elegant structure in Mayfair. I show my invitation at the door, and as soon as I walk in, I accept a glass of champagne for courage from one of the waiters passing it around on silver trays.
The gathering appears to be mainly the intellectual and diplomatic set; how many of these people are operating under covers, how many of them are foreign intelligence officers?
I don’t see the Soviet anywhere.
I take a turn around the home’s elegant ballroom, curious and admiring glances thrown my way, flaunting myself in the hopes I will catch the Soviet colonel’s attention and he will seek me out.
And then I feel it—like a palpable thing—a gaze following me, like a fingertip trailing down my spine. I scan the room, looking for the colonel, only to come up short, the image in the picture nowhere to be seen. And still, I can feel his gaze on me.
Where is he?
And then the feeling changes, the faint prick of awareness transforming into something else entirely, and in that moment, I know.
How could I not?
Fate, and timing, and all that.
There’s a tightness in my chest, a tingle that travels down my spine as my gaze darts around the room. There’s an inevitability to this, too, the knowledge that the world is really and truly not so large, that eventually our paths would cross again—
Another year. Another ballroom.
His name travels throughout the room, a murmur in the background. There are those who hope to speak with him to curry favor, women who aim to flirt with him, others who simply want to glean whatever they can about him so they’ll have an interesting tidbit to share, those who wish to bask in the glory of being in the presence of an influential, handsome, and wealthy man. These people cling to power like barnacles on a boat, and he is the pinnacle of that power whether he is in Palm Beach or London.
My gaze scans the ballroom once more, my feet rooted to the floor.
Where is he?
Is his wife with him?
“Beatriz.”
Goose bumps rise over my bare arms at the sound of his voice—low, husky, familiar. It turns out eighteen months weren’t nearly enough to forget him.
I turn, steeling myself for the blow that will come when I look into his blue eyes, when my gaze will rest on his ring finger and the gold band I will surely see there.
And come, it does.
He looks unchanged by the year and a half apart; remarkably similar to the man he was when we were last together in Palm Beach. It seems silly to think marriage would have altered him all that much, that I expected someone different to stare back at me, but all I see is Nick. The Nick who has held my hand, kissed my lips, laughed with me, slept beside me.
My Nick.
His ring finger is bare.
Is he the sort of man who chooses not to wear a wedding ring?
I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
“Hello, Nick.”
chapter twenty-three
“You look beautiful.”
The sound of Nick’s voice momentarily transports me back to our time together in Palm Beach. It’s a not entirely welcome sensation to realize a person can feel like home—especially when they’re just out of reach.
Time has been good to me, as it has been to him, and really, the last thing I want to do is exchange pleasantries.
“I’m surprised to see you in London,” I reply, stumbling over the words.
Is his wife here with him tonight?
He smiles. “Are you, really? Surprised to see me in London?”
I incline my head in a subtle nod, acknowledging his point, the feeling of inevitability that has always pulsed between us.
Fate, and timing, and all that.
“No, I suppose not.”
Nick steps toward me, his voice lowering for my ears only. “You look as though you’re a bit warm. Would you like to get some fresh air?”
I hesitate. I’ve yet to make contact with the Soviet colonel Dwyer sent me here to meet. And yet, surely, taking a moment to myself won’t matter?
“That would be lovely.”
I follow Nick to the balcony, ducking my head, the weight of a hundred gazes upon us. Despite their curiosity, the Europeans have a much more laissez-faire attitude about these things than the Americans.
Nick’s steps are quick, his strides sure as he leads me outside. I drink in the sight of him: his broad shoulders, long limbs, muscular frame, the elegant cut of his tuxedo.
I curl my fingers into a ball to keep from reaching out and touching him. Once we exit the party, the cool air hitting my face, I move away from him, striding to the edge of the balcony, leaning forward and resting my elbows against the railing.
Nick mimics my position, our arms inches apart.
I wait for him to speak, to pick up where he left off when he invited me out here, but he seems content for the silence to linger between us. In that time I acclimate to his presence again, my body shifting, fitting itself closer to him so the inches of stone between us disappear, and his sleeve brushes my wrist, our chests rising and falling in rhythm, our breaths in quiet tandem.
“I missed this,” he murmurs finally. “Just being near you. Everywhere else feels exhausting these days.”
“The world is exhausting these days.”
“That’s the truth,” he acknowledges.
“I’m pretty sure you once said I was exhausting.”
A faint smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “I did. Long ago. And you are. But it turns out missing you is the most exhausting thing of all.”
“Are you happy?” I ask.
I’m not sure I’m prepared for either answer he could give me. I can’t stand the idea of him miserable, and I’m equally uncomfortable with the notion that he is madly in love with his wife.
He shrugs. “Does it matter, really?”
Not for people like us. “Happy” has gotten lost somewhere in between plots and politics, nation building and regime change, family and fortune.
“Why did you leave Palm Beach?” he asks.
“You know why. I couldn’t stay.”
“Will you ever come back?”
“I don’t know. It still feels like home, and it doesn’t. Like it belongs to someone else.”
“Are you not Beatriz Perez anymore?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t think I know who Beatriz Perez really is.”
“I don’t believe that. You’ve always known yourself better than anyone.”