“I’ll be fine,” she whispered, studying our hands.
I found myself questioning whether my decision not to divulge that I remembered our night together had been a good one.
I had no choice, though, at least not yet. My reason for being in Boston had less to do with Emerson—the woman I longed to take into my arms and tell how happy I was to see again—than it did with her role at MIT.
Just the idea that Emerson and Dr. Charles were one and the same, had blindsided me. My decision to act as though we hadn’t met prior to this morning was off-the-cuff. The longer I continued the charade, the less I saw an outcome in which I could be honest with her. All I knew for certain was I’d vowed that if I ever saw her again, I would do everything I could to get Emerson back in my bed. Now, that was out of the question. I needed her help to find my missing agent as well as a former British diplomat, who had also disappeared.
Dr. Emme Charles appeared on my radar shortly after she’d gone to work for MIT, where her research on Chinese policy and strategy landed her on the watch-list of nearly every international intelligence agency. Why she used Emme professionally rather than Emerson, remained a mystery.
When Saint moved into the apartment down the hall from hers, it wasn’t by accident. He’d been tasked, by me, to convert the brilliant Dr. Charles into an MI6 asset. When the CIA got wind of it, they brought Irish in to do the same thing, only instead of him moving into her building, Irish became her research assistant.
Rather than fight over her, I, along with my counterpart at the CIA, agreed there was no reason she couldn’t become a shared asset. However, neither Saint nor Irish had been particularly keen on the idea.
While Saint had been the one to facilitate it behind the scenes, I had been the one to arrange the introduction between Dr. Charles and Adam Benjamin, the man she was supposed to meet with this morning. Dr. Benjamin was not only a former British diplomat, but also a world-renowned expert on China and long-time MI6 asset. When he’d learned of the work Emerson was doing, Dr. Benjamin was anxious to reach out, believing that in her, he’d found a comrade in arms.
With him as a policy influencer for the U.K. and her a policy writer for the U.S., they made a formidable team. They were equally impassioned about the threat China posed not just to our two countries, but to the world.
What loomed great in both their minds was the idea that China had become a “systemic rival” to the world’s superpowers, one whose economic power and political influence had grown with unprecedented scale and speed. However, Emerson and Dr. Benjamin had their own agendas—even beyond that of their respective countries. Benjamin’s, I feared, had resulted in his disappearance and Saint’s, since in addition to being responsible for Emerson’s recruitment, he was also on Dr. Benjamin’s detail.
“Where are you staying?” Emerson asked when the driver pulled up to her building.
“With Niven.”
“Is he in town?”
I shook my head.
“I know your friend said I shouldn’t be left alone, but I honestly feel fine,” she said as we waited for the lift.
“Simon isn’t a friend; he’s my cousin. If it weren’t imperative you not be left alone, he wouldn’t have said it.”
“Tommy’s—Mr. St. Thomas’—place is just down the hall. I’ll walk over if I’m feeling poorly.”
“I’m beginning to think you don’t like me,” I said with a wink as we exited the lift and I watched her rummage through her handbag.
“Oh no!” she gasped, leaning into the wall and resting her forehead against it.
“You’re dizzy. Give me your keys.”
“I left my bags in my office. I need to go back.”
“We can discuss that later. For now, give me your keys so I can let you into your apartment.”
“I need my bags,” she said, putting one hand on her hip.
I sighed impatiently. “Very well, what is so important that your bags need to be retrieved today?” I’d been meaning to ask what was in them. The three large canvas bags felt as though they contained bricks.
“Everything.” She lifted her head as though she was about to knock it against the wall and then thought better of it. Instead, she looked up at me. “I don’t have my keys.”
All the better as far as I was concerned. I now had every reason to ignore her pleas to be left on her own.
Saint had had a keypad installed in order to get into his apartment—standard for any MI6 agent whether they were undercover or not—and I had the code. Given the position Emerson held at MIT, I was surprised she hadn’t done the same, or that Saint hadn’t suggested it. I made a mental note to arrange for one of my team to take care of it.
Emerson walked over to the sofa, and I opened the draperies only to close them again when I remembered that Simon had advised against bright light.
“He was right about the headache,” she mumbled, resting her head against the pillow. I watched as her eyes closed and then opened again, almost in slow motion. “I don’t like to take painkillers.”
I remembered her reaction to Irish’s suggestion she go to an emergency room. The two must somehow relate.
I went into the lavatory and found a bottle of the over-the-counter medicine Simon mentioned and gave her two tablets along with a glass of water.
“Thank you,” she said, handing the glass back to me.
I took it to the kitchen and then looked inside Saint’s refrigerator and cupboards. Both were empty sans a few bags of tea.
“When did you last eat?”
When she didn’t respond, I walked over to the sofa where she’d stretched out. It appeared she was asleep, but hadn’t Simon also said that if she lost consciousness, I should take her to the hospital?
“Emerson,” I whispered, sitting beside her on the cushion.
Her eyes opened quickly, but she seemed disoriented. “Lynx?”
“You fell asleep,” I said, brushing her hair from her forehead and pretending I didn’t notice her use of a name that, thus far, she had no reason to know. “Very quickly, I might add. I’m sorry I woke you. I was concerned that you might have lost consciousness.”
“I’m a good sleeper,” she said, averting her eyes.
“I asked when you’d last eaten.”
“I had breakfast.”
I hadn’t, and given it was close to noon, I was famished. I looked out the window and saw a corner market on the other side of Boylston. Dare I leave her long enough to go pick up some groceries?
“Where’s your mobile?”
“Right there,” she said, pointing to the table next to the sofa.
I picked it up, put in my number, and then set it in her hand. “I’m going to run across the way and pick up a few things. Is there anything in particular you’d like?”
She thought for a minute, and I expected her to reiterate that she wasn’t hungry. “A chai latte, please. Tell Rashid it’s for me. He knows how I like it.”
“How do you like it?” I asked, curious as to what options there were.
“Spicy and half-sweet.” She rested her head against the sofa’s cushion and closed her eyes again.
I couldn’t keep myself from running my finger from her temple down her cheek. “Go ahead and sleep,” I said when she opened her eyes and they met mine. “I’ll only be a few minutes, but ring me if you don’t feel well.”