His nice smile and manners had convinced her that love would come in time. Joke was on her. He’d needed the Whitford influence, and her father had wanted the blue-blooded name. When she’d discovered her father pulling together the strings of the engagement, the stab of betrayal had left her reeling. He didn’t even trust her to pick the right man.
She moved away to examine the marked maps on the wall. The coolness of the air soaked into her skin, pushing out the ridiculous heat Barrett had flared. His flirtation was no more meaningful than the others, but like those who had gone before him, he wanted something in return. Cooperation.
“Now that I’ve laid bare my secret, it’s time for you to tell me your plan of escape.”
Ignoring his nearness behind her, she continued to stare at the black swastikas crawling over the French map. “I thought you said I couldn’t do it without you. Having doubts?”
“Not a one, but I need to know what I’m working with. And how far I have to go to break you down to the reality of the situation.”
“Not very trusting of others’ abilities, are you?”
“I’ve found that most people lack the common sense it takes for capabilities.” He came around next to her and perched a hip on the desk. One leg swung back and forth like a pendulum. “Something tells me you don’t fall into the same category as most people.”
A wry smile twisted her mouth then fell flat. “In truth, I don’t know which category I fall into. I simply want to get Ellie and me back on proper English soil. I don’t care what it takes.”
“Choose your words carefully. It may just come to that.”
Finally, she turned to him. No use in holding back anymore. “The International Red Cross has set up a small camp near Calais. We are to meet with a contact there who will guide us to—”
“No.”
“But you didn’t let me finish.”
“Reports have it that some of the Red Cross stations are controlled by the Nazis. Step one foot in there, and they’ll pack you off to a work camp or hold you as spies.”
Each word thrust like a thorn to her bubble of hope. Her father had told her each return possibility had a one in twenty chance of going off without a hitch. Most of them called for cloak and dagger, or crossing the Maginot Line into Vichy France to sail around Spain and the fortified coast of France. After days of plotting and arguing, her father and his intelligence mates had decided this was the best course to take. How was she to know any different?
Her head dropped as she imagined Father’s disappointment. Another failure to prove her capabilities—or lack thereof. “Not what I wanted to hear.”
“Facts are facts. Those pencil-pusher boys have a tendency to think they know what’s best even though they’ve never seen a battle line besides the black marks on the map hanging over their posh desk.”
“I was given specific instructions by these so-called pencil pushers who spend their entire days poring over intelligence reports from the top agencies. Reports too secret for ordinary eyes such as mine and yours.”
An irritated noise furrowed in his throat. “Those reports are often out of date by the time they reach their sweaty little hands.”
“Sweaty hands or not, I have rules to follow.”
“And you always follow the rules, don’t you? No matter who gives them or for what reason. My guess is you don’t ask the reason. You simply obey.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and peered at her as if he could read the inner workings of her mind. “What if these people you’re trying so hard to please are wrong?”
Kat curled her toes as irritation flared. “It’s the best solution with the information at hand. Until that changes, this is my course of action.”
“So until then, I’ll simply lie and say what a brilliant plan it is.”
“Don’t ever lie to me.”
“Not a habit I dip much into. It has its uses in this line of work.” He gestured to the secret vault filled with his trained fighters. “But do it too much and people don’t trust you. And trust is what gets you what you want.”
Trust. There it was again. But whom? The intelligence agents who spent their lives analyzing every possibility and outcome or some stranger who specialized in fisticuffs and whisky shots?
The air closed in around her. Heat furled up her neck and into the thick hair