of your work.’
‘It’s not that easy,’ I dismiss. ‘Connor? It’s Donovan, isn’t it?’
His eyes show me truths his mind isn’t willing to share. ‘It’s a milestone case.’ He shrugs. ‘You’re meant to be cooking.’
I’m frustrated by his unwillingness to open up to me, but I have learned a thing or two from Connor. The way he dips and dives through conversations, extracting little nuggets of information that he seeks without my realising that he’s excavating my brain.
I nod, as though I’m accepting he’s closed the conversation down.
‘So,’ he says, his tone noticeably brighter, ‘did you say sisters? Brother? How many Amorellis are there out there, fighting to save the world?’
I smile, relaxed by the thought of my family. ‘Only one other—my dad. He’s a superintendent with the Met police.’
‘Ah.’ Connor’s eyes narrow. Damn it. I’ve done it again, handing him crumbs about myself when I want to learn about him.
‘My two sisters are both surgeons. One vascular, one paediatric. My brother’s a pilot and Mum’s a teacher.’ My cheeks flash with colour as I imagine just what she’d say about this little debacle.
‘Your parents must be very proud,’ he says with a smile. He’s trying to put me at ease. And because I know Connor now, and I know how he is so not the kind of person to care about relaxing people, this knowledge does something funny to my stomach, my heart, my blood, my brain.
I smile back at him, the tension that coiled through me just before dissipating completely. ‘As yours must be,’ I prompt, my basket out, ready to collect crumbs of my own.
His eyes meet mine. There’s a battle on his face and he weighs his words with care.
‘My parents are dead.’ His smile is tight. Again, I feel it’s to offer reassurance, but it doesn’t work this time. Guilt rushes over me.
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
He reaches for my wine and sips it.
‘When...?’ My curiosity is natural and I hope he doesn’t resent me for it. He watches me thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.
‘I was twelve. It was an IRA attack. They were away for their wedding anniversary, in London. A bomb went off outside a bank. They died. My mother instantly, my father in hospital a week later.’
‘Oh, God.’ I forget about the cannelloni. I forget about everything except the twelve-year-old boy Connor was. I move around to him and put my arms around his shoulders. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Yeah. The shit people do,’ he says with a lift of his shoulders that would dislodge my arms if I were less determined to hold on. He clears his throat, his eyes contemplative. ‘I think about that often. The act of violence and madness. I think about the people who perpetrate these crimes, and I try to see that there is more to them than just that one act.’ He shakes his head, frustrated by words he can’t find. ‘There are bad people out there, but few people who are wholly bad.’
I nod, understanding this, agreeing with him, but needing to fix him as well.
I press a kiss to his temple, and I wonder if he was afraid. What was he like? Questions trip through me, questions that I want to ask and don’t know if he’ll welcome. So I cup his face in my hands and kiss him lightly on the lips, hoping I can convey sympathy with the feel of my mouth.
His hands wrap around my back, warm through the flimsy cotton of my dress. It is a moment of sadness and awakening—of realisation and acceptance.
It is a moment of perfection.
I reject the idea as overly sentimental, almost definitely coloured by his surprising admission, and make an effort to put some distance between us. At least, emotionally.
And I ask the first of many questions I have. ‘You were twelve. What happened? Where did you go?’
He seems contemplative. Thoughtful, like his mind is reaching back to that time in his life. ‘My priest took me in. Father O’Sullivan.’
‘Your priest.’ It’s a murmur, and I reach for his wrist on autopilot, lifting it to my lips. There is a small, dark green cross tattooed to his tanned flesh. ‘You’re Catholic?’
‘No.’ His lips twist. ‘He is. My parents were.’
I nod. ‘Do you still see him?’
‘Yeah. Once a month or so.’
Another question is heavy inside me but I don’t know how to phrase it, so I hold it tight for now. There will be time later.
‘Will you stay for dinner?’
His eyes hold mine and then he nods slowly. ‘Yeah.’
Relief surges through me. I move back to the cannelloni, which I have laid in neat rows in a deep baking dish, and pour in warm stock and melted cheese, then cover them with aluminium foil and place them in the oven.
He’s watching me intently when I turn around, and I smile slowly. Everything feels oddly perfect.
Like the calm before a storm.
* * *
He’s waiting in the hotel room when I arrive on Tuesday afternoon, only he’s not really waiting for me. When I push the door in, he doesn’t hear me at first, he’s so caught up in whatever he’s reading on his laptop screen. He’s set up on the table near the window, and the image of Connor Hughes at work is so compelling that I stand perfectly still and simply look at him for as long as I can. I don’t breathe. I don’t speak. I just stare.
He’s wearing suit pants and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. The tie he wore throughout the day has been discarded on the chair beside him and his top two buttons are undone, revealing the column of his neck and the hint of a tattoo.
I swallow to moisten my throat but it doesn’t really help.
The door slides shut behind me with a loud click and he looks up, a frown on his face that gives way to a look of surprise. ‘Is it four?’
‘Yeah. Ten past, actually.’
He stands up, his eyes dark as they hold mine. ‘This dress.’ He closes the distance between us, and I look down at the simple summery dress I donned that morning. It’s pale green with white buttons down the front. He grabs me around the waist and lifts me easily so that I laugh. His mouth comes down on a button and pulls it, his eyes laughing at mine.
I groan, though—the sight of him fills me with needs I can’t fathom.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Everything.’ He drops me back on the bed so that my hair flies around my face and then his fingers are on the dress, pushing it up my body, his hands worshipping me even as they destroy the dress, ripping at it until it opens down the front.
‘Hey!’
