Where is he?
I weave my way through the crowd, casually sipping champagne, attempting to look as though I am not searching for a spy, a chill running down my spine.
And then I see him.
The colonel is tucked away in the corner of the room, his back against the wall, engaged in conversation with a woman whose hand rests on the sleeve of his dress uniform and another gentleman who gesticulates wildly.
“Beatriz?”
My stomach sinks at the sound of my name, at the voice I recognize too well.
I pivot, pasting a false smile on my face, my heart pounding.
“Ramon? What are you doing here?” I ask, not giving him a chance to pose the same question to me first.
If I’ve learned anything in the social whirl or as a spy, it’s to bluff my way through everything.
“I—uh—I came with some friends,” he answers. “What are you doing here?” he asks after a beat, and the time I’ve spent watching him stumble over his answer has given me ample opportunity to formulate my own response.
“I’m on a date.”
Ramon blinks.
“I didn’t think you and I were exclusive or anything,” I say, feigning the apology in my tone. “I assumed you were seeing other people as well.”
“I was,” he answers, the surprise in his voice contradicting his words.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the colonel break away from his companions, walking across the room.
Go away.
“I should return to my date.” I lean forward, attempting to keep my tone light. I flash Ramon a peek at my cleavage before pulling back.
Is he here for the Soviet colonel? To spy on the colonel’s movements for Fidel to pass on to the Soviets? Or is he here for some other reason entirely?
The decision is reached, quickly, no time for second-guessing. I glance over my shoulder, making eye contact with Ramon, channeling all of the inner turmoil and angst I felt when I saw Nick earlier, attempting to look like a girl who is torn between two men, a silly, foolish girl—and one easily discounted at that.
Confusion stirs in Ramon’s eyes, confusion and a prick of male vanity. He never once considered I was indulging in other dalliances while we flirted, and I hope that misstep combined with his surprise at seeing me tonight is enough to throw him off the scent.
I need the microfilm.
I turn away from Ramon, my legs wobbling as though I am unsteady on my heels, as though I am a girl who is rattled by this.
I pitch forward, colliding with the Soviet colonel, upending my champagne glass all over his elegant uniform. I rear back, just in time for him to slip the microfilm in my clutched hand, my body shielding the handoff from the rest of the room. I babble apologies to the colonel while he dabs at his jacket with an elegant handkerchief. I don’t look back at Ramon, but I feel his gaze on me, and I hope I have done a good job of convincing him I am just an innocent girl, even as a sense of triumph fills me, the microfilm curled in the palm of my hand.
With one last apology, I brush past the colonel, ready to be done with the party, to return to the safety of my flat and wait until the next morning when I can complete the dead drop.
I stumble, my heel catching on some nearly imperceptible fault in the flooring, and this time, the reaction is entirely genuine.
Nick stands near the front hallway, his coat in hand, his gaze riveted by the scene I’ve just made. His expression is one I’ve recognized countless times before, the mask he wears in public when he is the consummate politician firmly in place. And still—I know him well enough, have seen the personal side to him often enough, to register that he hasn’t been fooled by any of this, and I almost feel sorry for him.
He fell in love with a socialite and has gotten a spy in return.
I sweep past the colonel, careful to keep from meeting Nick’s gaze once more. I fear he will read the expression on my face, that he will do something to give me away.
The cool air hits me as I walk out the front door, scanning the line of sleek cars manned by drivers waiting for their clients to emerge. I glance around, slipping the microfilm into my clutch.
It’s just my luck there isn’t a cab to be had this evening.
I pick up my skirt in my other hand, steeling myself for the walk ahead of me.
“Need a ride?”
I turn slowly at the familiar voice.
“Actually, I do.”
He smiles.
“Where should I tell my driver to drop you?”
I take a deep breath.
Fate, and timing, and all that.
“The Ritz,” I tell Nick.
* * *
• • •
The door to the hotel room slams closed. Nick’s tuxedo jacket hits the floor. My dress follows.
There truly is something indescribably right about coming home.
Would I have gone to his hotel if I hadn’t looked up and seen him standing there? If there had been a cab, would I have returned to my flat and fallen into bed by myself?
Who knows?
If I’ve learned anything at this point, it’s that life comes down to timing. Things happen the way they are supposed to, the seemingly insignificant moments stringing together to lead you down a path you never imagined traversing, with a man you can’t let go of and you can’t keep.
My back hits the mattress, Nick’s body covering mine quickly. We left the hotel room lights off, and I’m glad for it, as our hands and mouths relearn each other, the sheets rustling beneath our weight, the rest of the world and all of its problems firmly locked out on the opposite side of the door.
I don’t want reality now, don’t want to worry about the microfilm tucked in my purse, discarded somewhere on the floor, or what we will say to each other tomorrow, or what will happen when the time comes for Nick to return to the United States.
I want this evening. We’ll worry about tomorrow later.
* * *
• • •
I wake to sunlight creeping in through a slit in the drapes of Nick’s hotel room, a bright sliver of sun bisecting the coverlet. Beside me, Nick sleeps on his back; his body is sprawled as it always is when he is in a deep slumber, after I have done my part to exhaust him. I shift in the bed, turning over onto my side to watch him, indulging in the moment. Mornings like this have always been a luxury for us, nights spent together typically reserved for husbands and wives, and the impulse to savor this one is inescapable.
He’s as handsome as he ever was, but now I have the opportunity to view him up close and in private, and I study the subtle changes in his face. The lines that have cropped up in my absence.