Regina. Now the million-dollar question.” Jordan’s fingers tightened, cutting off enough of her air to get her attention. “Why did my father send you his journal? And if it’s not the truth, I just might snap your beautiful little neck.”
“I have an…ability,” Regina whispered. She closed her eyes against the tears. From embarrassment more than fear. Jordan wouldn’t hurt her, otherwise, Chris would have never trusted him to help her. If she couldn’t put her faith in Jordan, she’d put her faith in the belief that Chris had known what he was doing.
“By ability, you mean a talent.” It was a statement, but when she tried to shake her head in disagreement, he tightened his grip.
“I don’t consider it a talent,” she whispered, fighting back the humiliation that came with being different. “I read something, one time—technical manuals, contracts, books, newspapers—anything with words. And it’s committed to memory.”
For a long moment he didn’t say anything, but his fingers didn’t loosen, either.
“Chris wanted you to memorize the journal,” Jordan stated. “But he must have known he would put you in danger.”
“Yes,” she said, “But he also sent you to protect me.”
“How many pages were in the journal?”
“Almost a hundred.”
“That would’ve taken someone what, a few days of hard studying, to memorize,” Jordan commented. “How long did it take you?”
“A little over two hours, but I read it twice to make sure I’d committed it to memory.”
Jordan loosened his hands and shifted sideways so he could look at her profile. “Two hours?”
“I can’t recite it to you, my head hurts too much.”
“That doesn’t tell me why I should believe you’re not involved with the people who killed him.”
Startled, she stiffened and tried to look at Jordan but he held her fast. “I thought a cocaine addict killed him?”
“That’s the official story. But we both know there was more to it.” Slowly, one of his thumbs stroked the nape of her neck.
A shiver made its way up her spine. But lord help her, it was from anticipation, rather than fear.
“Chris never told me he was the British Ambassador to the United States. I had no idea until after he died and his photograph was flashed all over the news.”
“That’s hard to believe, considering you read so much.”
“I haven’t reached the section on the modern politics of the United Kingdom, yet.”
“He told you he was British intelligence.”
“The point is, he didn’t tell me about his job, but he did tell me something once in confidence. Something about you. You were six. And it was a few weeks before Christmas. Chris said he was in Bangladesh at the time. Your mother mailed him a letter you’d written to Santa. One you had asked her to mail to the North Pole.”
Jordan’s hand dropped from her. He hadn’t thought about that letter in ages.
“He gave it to me a few weeks ago. At the same time he told me he was MI6. He’d carried the letter in his wallet all these years.”
Regina saw Jordan’s jaw working, the muscle flexing.
“Do you still have it?”
She shook her head. “It was in my jewelry box on my dresser.” She didn’t admit she took it out and read it almost every night.
“You know it word for word, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Dear Santa Claus, I went to get our tree today. Mother was busy, so I went with our chauffeur, Stephen. I saw so many kids with their parents. They all laughed together. It made my chest hurt. I’ve been good this year. Desperately good. So I’m asking just this once. Could you send my papa home for Christmas? Sincerely, Jordan Beck.”
Headache or not, she remembered every aspect of that letter. The painstakingly perfect lettering. The carefully folded creases.
“He never came.”
“He received the letter a week after Christmas,” Regina said. “And carried it in his wallet ever since.”
The silence was deafening, heavy.
“I’m sorry, Jordan. I didn’t mention it to be intrusive—”
“You didn’t intrude. It was a long time ago. I’d forgotten about the incident actually until you’d mentioned the letter.”
Suddenly, he stood in one fluid movement, putting distance between them. “If you’re well enough, we need to talk to a friend of mine. I’ll get you some aspirin on the way.”
That was it, no explanation, no apology. “Now?” She glanced at the nightstand. “It’s after ten. And we smell like we’ve been barbecued.”
“He’ll still be awake. And he’s smelled worse,” Jordan replied flatly.
“THE LIGHTS ARE OFF,” Regina whispered as they stepped out of Jordan’s car in front of a three-story Victorian house. Extinguished Christmas lights draped well-groomed hedges. The occasional bulb poked out from spots in the snow and a big plastic Santa with a bag full of toys stood smiling in the front lawn. The scent of neighboring chimneys filled the air. An ache squeezed her chest, catching her off guard.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said, then waved it off. His face set in the hard line she’d learned to identify with his stubbornness.
“It’s just that this is what I always pictured Christmas to be. The lights, the fireplaces, the tree in the window. The silly, plastic North Poles littering the lawn.” Embarrassed, she climbed the porch stairs, grateful when Jordan said nothing.
“Are you sure—”
“They’re awake, Regina.”
The storm had broken, leaving the sweet scent of new snow, along with the chill of more to come. Regina hugged herself tighter in Jordan’s leather jacket.
Jordan wasn’t wearing more than his crew neck sweater and jeans, but the biting wind didn’t seem to bother him.
He pushed the doorbell, then paused only a moment before he pounded on the door a few times for good measure.
“Well, if they were sleeping, they’re up now,” Regina muttered.
“I told you—”
The porch light flipped
