possible, but they’ll prioritize the other twenty or so exits. They wouldn’t have a big resource out there, at any rate. Come here. Your hair is showing.”
He tucked a black lock under her wig and pulled down her cap. Under the sunglasses, about the only visible parts of her were her chin and nose, already pinking up in the cold air. He resisted the urge to touch.
“Perfect,” he said.
“Peerrrfect,” she repeated, to herself.
“Are you mimicking my accent, Samira?”
She bit one corner of her lip. “Sorry, it’s just...”
“Indecipherable, I know. Sometimes even I have trouble understanding myself. I wonder if we could...borrow another coat for you. The enemy will have seen you in that one. Or maybe you could take it off? What do you have on underneath?”
“A black dress. I have another coat, in my backpack. It’s thinner, but...”
A thumping noise. “Shite, the chopper.” He pushed her back inside. “Change the coat, just in case...” He raised his voice. “You have a brolly, Mariya?”
“Course I do,” she said, in an are-you-still-here voice.
“Can I borrow it?”
“Borrow, as in...?”
“As in, I probably won’t be passing back this way but I’ll think of you every time it rains.”
“I thought we were square.”
“I’m unsquaring us.” He held out a hand. “Come on. It’s just a fucking umbrella.”
“Fine.” She whacked it into his palm. “Whatever. I’ll just catch pneumonia.”
“A small price, Mariya. Lovely catching up.” He nodded sharply and turned. “Wow.” Samira was belting a bright blue coat that wrapped up her curves like a Christmas present. But not one with your name on it.
“I can change my footwear, too,” she said.
“Sure.”
She unzipped her boots and slid on a pair of heels to match the coat, over her black stockings. He imagined himself slipping the shoes off in the nearest hotel bedroom. Rolling the stockings down, slowly. Running his hands back up her legs to—
“Jamie?”
“Sorry, what?”
She’d been speaking? Mariya caught his eye, raising her eyebrows. Samira retied her purple scarf with a convoluted series of twists, then pulled on cream leather gloves.
The scarf—it was the one he’d bought her, the one that made her eyes breathtaking. “La couleur de minuit,” he murmured, clenching the umbrella in both hands so as not to reach out and touch the fabric.
“The color of midnight,” she whispered, her mouth softening. Just the way it had that day beside the river in the moment his self-control had deserted him.
He cleared his throat. “They’ll have seen your rucksack. We’ll pack your things into mine,” he said, loosening the straps to expand his pack. “There’s plenty of room.”
A few minutes later they stepped outside. He tucked in a label jutting from her coat collar. On her nape, above the scarf, a sliver of skin goose pimpled. Don’t go doing that to me now. He opened the umbrella.
“Jesus, I’ve seen dinner plates bigger than this,” he said, looking up. “Can you hold it while I keep an eye out?” He swung her to his left, anchored his arm around her waist and pulled their hips flush, gratified by her tiny gasp. “We’ll walk to that gate, nice and smooth.”
They set off, awkwardly, given their height difference, Jamie hunching to fit under the umbrella. It always took a while for a couple to settle into a stride. Not that he remembered what it was like to be in a relationship where you strolled arm in arm. And not that he and Samira were a couple or ever would be—he’d broken enough hearts attempting a regular life, and hers was scarred enough already. Even through her coat he could feel her suppleness, his fingers moving as her hips swayed. Wasn’t often he missed relationships...
He pushed open the gate into a northwesterly blast and ushered Samira out. The bear with the paper bag lumbered past, head bent against the drizzle, breath labored, face as gray as the pavement. A jogger approached from the other direction. The path was otherwise deserted. As the gate locked behind them, Jamie coaxed Samira around to head south. They were channeled in by the wall but a canopy of trees still clinging to amber leaves provided air cover, and the shower gave them an excuse to huddle close and walk fast. A cluster of tourists in raincoats rounded a bend, some taking photos of Westminster. He clutched her tighter, skirting to one side of them. Fat drops of rain unleashed, blurring everything into gray.
A stout dark-haired man pushed through the tourists, scanning from person to person, hand inside his coat. Shit. One of the goons who’d been waiting for Samira’s train. He’d paid no heed to Jamie at the station but he’d know Samira’s face.
Jamie angled her to face him, planted a hand on each of her cheeks and drew her close, laughing as if she’d whispered something suggestive. As he sensed the enemy glancing their way, he lowered his head and did the only logical thing. He kissed her.
She went rigid.
Don’t pull away. Trust me. Between his hands and his lips, he was covering the only identifiable part of her. All the guy would see was a brunette in heels and a blue coat.
She took the hint and relaxed against him, pulling the umbrella low over their heads and sliding her free hand under his bomber jacket to the side of his waist. He bore down to stop from flinching. Oh man, he shouldn’t be getting a full-body reaction from that but there it was, as strong as a year ago—the nerves firing from his lips to his toes and back up...
The tourists passed and he released her lips, keeping his hands in place and touching his forehead to hers while taking a read from the corner of his eye—and catching his breath because...damn. The goon had moved away with the group, toward Westminster Bridge. The bear was lumbering the other way. Jamie dropped his hands.
“Oh my God,” Samira breathed.
“I’m sorry. There was a guy, from the station. It was the only thing I could think of.”
“Eshi. I mean, don’t apolog—” She touched her lips with two fingers. He yearned to do the same. “It’s fine.”
Fine.
Fine.
Fine wasn’t the reaction he normally shot for when he kissed a woman. Goddamn, those lips were just as smooth as he remembered. And insistent. And he’d remembered her a lot since—
Movement, to the south. The bear had tripped and was falling like a tree. No, not a trip—he was clutching his chest. He landed with a smack, his arm bouncing lifelessly on flagstones.
“Shite,” Jamie said, taking a step. The goon had turned, watching.
