CHAPTER 11
IT WAS AN EXTRAORDINARY COINCIDENCE AND HE DID NOT BELIEVE IN coincidences. Just when everything had gone so well—now all he could feel was a grave uneasiness. It was all the more difficult because he was not yet certain that it wasn’t, after all, an extraordinary coincidence. If it wasn’t, there was a message here but damned if he knew what it was.
After work Doyle walked over to Acton’s building and then waited for him at the lift in the lobby. He was a few minutes late and apologized, which in itself was a sign of the change in their relationship. “I had to push back a meeting; something unexpected has come up.”
“Whist,” she said easily. “No need to explain.” She was careful not to call him “sir.”
They descended the lift to the premium garage, and she was almost amused to discover that any constraint she had felt in his presence had completely disappeared. All prior uncertainties had arisen because he was one of the few people she was unable to read, but now she had a very good guess at exactly what he was thinking and apparently there was little she could do to fall from grace. She ducked her head to hide a smile and was aware that she was very, very happy. She would have touched his arm, but she still felt a little shy around him and besides, there were security cameras in the lifts and the security personnel were not known for their discretion.
Acton drove a new model Range Rover, and as they made their way in the evening traffic to the West End, she admired its finer points. “You’d be ill-advised to let me drive it, though,” she confessed with some regret. “It’s a hazard, I am.”
“You need practice, is all. We’ll go out of the city sometime and find a quiet road.”
“I would be much obliged.” Although men were particular about their cars and there was perhaps no faster way to take the bloom off the rose—not to mention it was hard to imagine Acton off the clock. But in the same way she was consciously trying to be at ease with him, she was trying to imagine how this new and unrehearsed relationship would work. She tested it out in her mind—we are like any other couple, and we will do things together and go places that do not feature mangled corpses. The picture thus presented was so utterly fantastic she decided to think about something else.
Apparently Acton’s thoughts were running along similar lines as he threaded his way through Piccadilly. “Have you spoken to anyone about us?”
Here was a question that, coming from him, generated equal parts surprise and alarm. “No one.”
He turned to her for a moment, searching her face. “No mention to anyone? No hints given?”
Doyle shook her head. “Not a soul, my friend. Is rumor control a concern?”
He turned back to face the traffic. “I only wondered.”
She teased him, “Little risk there, no one would believe me in the first place.”
He glanced at her again and she suddenly felt a little warm. “They will.”
Here was a thought that made her uneasy—when she was with him, she felt they were well-suited; she was gaining confidence with each passing minute, and she could easily imagine going somewhere quiet together to practice her driving. However, a cold knot of dread formed in the region of her midsection when she contemplated the reaction of the public at large to this monumental mismatch. Not to mention his mother, the dowager. He had mentioned his mother only once, and Doyle had sensed he held her in great dislike; she didn’t sound like one who would embrace the fair Doyle to her aristocratic bosom.
“Has anyone guessed, do you think?” he persisted.
With some surprise, she intercepted a glimpse of unhappiness—no, more like uneasiness—emanating from him, startling in that it seemed so out of place and of a tenor that did not gibe with mere concerns about office gossip. “Acton,” she said gently. “Tell me what is afoot.”
He paused. “I’d rather not, I’m afraid. But I would like an answer.”
It was a measure of her respect for him that she did not pursue it; whatever rumor he was trying to quash she was apparently better off not knowing—although she was well-aware there was rife speculation about their association. She thought for a moment. “Perhaps Habib.”
“Your supervisor?” He raised his brows in surprise.
“He’s very sharp, is Habib. He saw you on the mornin’ of Giselle’s murder when you were searchin’ for me.”
Acton frowned. “He doesn’t strike me as a gossip.”
“Definitely not,” Doyle agreed.
Acton mulled it over. “The woman who is your friend from church?”
Doyle blinked. “Nellie? No. She knows who you are, but she doesn’t know about us.” She didn’t mention that there had hardly been enough time to know about “us” herself, let alone tell anyone else.
“How about the dark-haired DC?”
Very pleased that he couldn’t seem to remember her name, Doyle said, “Munoz? I don’t think she has guessed unless she is trying to spread a false rumor to get me in trouble not knowin’ it is, in fact, the truth. Do you understand what I’m sayin’?”
He gave her a look. “She sounds charming.”
Doyle chuckled. “Oh, we’re cutthroat at the bottom and no love lost, I assure you.”
He reached to touch her hand. “You needn’t work there any longer, if you’d rather not.”
“We’re gettin’ ahead of ourselves,” Doyle replied in a fluster. “Work is one of my two questions.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said gravely. “I withdraw the comment.”
She smiled out the window at the city lights—definite sightings of a sense of humor. This was not so difficult after all. In fact, it was rather fun, except that he was worried that someone knew about their relationship, which seemed a bit odd, as he had not indicated he wanted to keep it a clandestine type of thing. She wondered what he had heard and then decided that whatever it was, it couldn’t hold a candle to the truth.
When they arrived at the upscale restaurant, she realized it was a good choice for a private discussion. The back wall of the China Flower was lined with semi-enclosed wooden booths, and it was to one of these they were escorted by a deferential host. As was his custom, Acton sat where he could watch the restaurant and Doyle sat facing him. They ordered, and he opened the conversation by saying without preamble, “I’d like you to start wearing a weapon.”
So much for romance, she thought—all in all, this is a very odd sort of date. “I am not authorized to wear a weapon, Acton.” The protocol required six weeks of weapons training before a concealed weapon could be carried by a detective.
He contemplated her. “Nevertheless.”
She contemplated him right back. “So I’m to ignore the protocol?”
His eyes didn’t waver. “Yes.”
She considered this. “I suppose I should not be surprised, comin’ as it is from the man who wanted to have his way wi’ me in the midst of a sequestered crime scene.”
He smiled that rare and wonderful smile. Proud of it, he is, she thought—men; honestly.
“I’d like you to start tonight.”
She remembered his questions on the ride over and could not suppress a twinge of alarm. “Is there a particular reason that I should be concerned about my safety?”
He paused, deciding what to say. “Nothing specific. It is a precaution, and your safety is important to me.”
This was true, which was a relief. She decided there was no harm in it—at least if she didn’t get caught. The fact that she could be sacked and arrested—and not necessarily in that order—did not seem to enter into the equation. Come to think of it, this request was very much in keeping with their conversation after the pawnshop visit, when Acton had been trying to avoid a direct statement that would reveal he was involved in selling illegal weapons. A rare brumble, this was—a DCI selling black market; and here she was worrying about such trivialities as departmental policy. “All right, then. And where am I to get a weapon?” She listened for his answer with veiled interest; obtaining a legal gun in England was the equivalent of pulling hen’s teeth.
But as could be expected, he was not going to give specifics. “I have it in the car—it’s an ankle holster and shouldn’t weigh you down much. I’ll show you how to wear it.”
Nodding as though this were an ordinary conversation, she privately thought that she’d best look lively and get to weapons training to keep them both out of trouble. She knew how to fire a gun—they had been taught at the Academy—but she hadn’t practiced in a while. No question he was concerned about something tonight. Or he might be suffering from a general paranoia; he was a Section Seven, after all.
Their food was served and they began to eat, sharing between them. Despite it being a first date, he showed little curiosity about her past—apparently because he already knew everything. Aware on some level that she should probably be uneasy about this situation, she realized she was not; she trusted him. She knew—the way she knew the things she knew—that he would never harm her. And she knew she made him vulnerable—perhaps was the only thing in the world that made him vulnerable—which in turn made her fiercely long to protect him.
Any attempts to draw him out about his own background were deftly turned aside, giving her a very good guess he didn’t want her to have a clear picture of how disparate their lives were. I am a coward, she thought, and I’d rather not know—not yet, anyway. Much of the meal was spent in companionable silence, which was one thing that had not changed between them; neither was inclined to idle conversation.
Nothin’ for it, she thought. “I need to tell you two things.” He waited, watching her. Doesn’t like this whole discussion business, she thought; but there’s no bunkin’ it. With a steadying breath, she began her recitation. “My parents didn’t have much; my mother met my father at a dance and I made my appearance in short order. My da left us before I was two, so I don’t have any memory of him. My mother died of cancer two years ago.” She paused, because here it was and no putting it off. “I am not sure that my parents ever married—my mother never spoke of it to me.”
“Yes,” he said. “There is a record of it.”
She stared at him in surprise. “There is?”
He leaned back, his manner matter-of-fact. “You’ve been vetted, of course, and because you are Irish, it’s been very thorough. Their history is in your personal file and it shows they were married at St. Bridget’s Church outside of Dublin. It notes you were born six months later.” He showed a glint of humor. “I can show you the record, if you’d like, even though it would be against protocol.”
“No,” she replied, lowering her eyes. “That won’t be necessary. Well, that is a relief—I was worried about stainin’ the Acton escutcheon.” She glanced at him to see if he appreciated the ten-pound word.
“It wouldn’t matter to me in any event.”
Doyle smiled at him, as it was the truth. “No, I suppose not.” There was no question, of course, that a review of the parish records of St. Bridget’s would show her parents’ wedding. The real question was whether it had actually taken place, and she very much doubted it had. It didn’t matter; she would not pursue it in deference to him—she had duly noted that he had couched his words so that she could not spot the lie. He was a wily one, he was.
One tangle patch down, one more to go. She soldiered on, “The other thing I have to tell you is about sex.” Ah, this caught his full attention. “Truth to tell, I haven’t much experience.”
He met her gaze thoughtfully. “That is not a qualification.”
She smothered a smile and explained, “And by not much, I mean none.”
There was a pause. “I see.”
So here was something he didn’t know. She tried valiantly not to color up but failed. “Just so you are aware.”
“Yes. Thank you.”