you wanted to say?”
“Is there something else I should apologize for?”
“No, I . . . Em, a lot of things happened, and I didn’t know if you regretted . . . That is to say . . .”
The kiss. Was that what he was talking about? Did he regret kissing her? She certainly didn’t, and she didn’t think she was too bold in claiming that he’d quite enjoyed being on the other end of it. Unless her own passion had overexaggerated his returned eagerness. Considering all that had transpired—a yelling match, lies, and a slap—his rejection would be nothing less than she deserved.
It would also be a pain worse than death to her. A torture of the most heartbreaking kind.
She knotted her hands, forcing the words past her lips. “If there’s something you feel I missed—”
“No. No, I don’t mean that. Unless you were having second thoughts about something.” His words tripped over one another as if to reassure her he held no grudges.
Relief poured through her. Not such a terrible move, that kiss, after all. “I apologized for what I needed to.”
“Ah, good, then.” Barrett looked away and cleared his throat. “I see Ms. Chekhova is taking an interest in you.”
“A little more than passive.” She slowed to a stop beside the staircase, allowing the other guests to pass into the dining room as she rummaged in her handbag for an excuse. “She warned me about Eric.”
Barrett’s eyebrows slanted together. “What do you mean?”
Kat stepped closer, dropping her voice. “Somehow I think she knows more than she lets on and that Eric may do whatever is necessary to fend off threats. Including using Ellie against me.”
He didn’t move except the deep rise and fall of his chest that swayed the red-and-gray-striped tie over his flat stomach. Unblinking, he stared over the top of her head to the window and the inky night beyond. Finally, he blew out a breath that ruffled the wave of hair around her face. “Not a surprise.”
“I find it quite surprising and alarming that some Russian actress is aware of our problem. Has a broadcast been made without our knowing?”
“There’s a rumor in the intelligence circle that Ms. Chekhova’s acting does not stop after the film quits rolling. She may be playing the same game we are for her own country.”
“Truly?”
He grimaced and shifted his shoulders, stretching the back of his jacket. “It’s only a rumor, but she has the perfect cover giving her access to Hitler’s private circles. And it would explain her tip about Eric.”
“Are we suddenly trading secrets with Russia, that she could know so much about us?”
“We do enough dealing to keep the upper hand against Germany. ‘The enemy of my enemy’ and all that.”
As if the fireplace fumes had followed her around the corner, its heated fingers trickled down her sides. She resisted the urge to flap her arms to stir the air. “And Eric? What are we to do about him? How are we so sure what he knows and what he doesn’t?”
“Beyond the tickets we aren’t, but it’s safe to assume his suspicions are on overdrive.”
“We need to get out of here.”
Barrett shook his head. “Too late now. We leave early, and he’ll know something’s up.”
The heat surged to her head, sparking her temper like a wire shortage. “How do you know they aren’t serving us for dinner? Roasted and flayed open to tortured perfection for their evil consumption.”
Amused horror twisted his face. “That is the most grotesque thing I have ever heard, and as a bartender that’s saying a lot. You need to stop reading those propaganda posters.”
“He’s got something for us, but he’s going to pick his opportune moment to spring it. Like a wolf playing with his food before he devours it.”
“We really need to work on your descriptions.”
“Descriptions of what?”
They both jumped at Eric’s voice sliding down the hall from where he stood in the doorway to the dining room. Eyes slanted and lips pulled back to reveal white teeth in the dim hall light, he did indeed fit her description of a wolf.
“Food,” Barrett said without skipping a beat. “Kat smells beef, but I think it’s pork. Braised, not roasted.”
“Why don’t you come in and see who is right?” Eric’s lips pulled back even farther. “Unless you have more whispering to do about dessert.”
The dining room was rectangular with a long, gleaming table in the center and sixteen red-cushioned chairs around it. Wood panels flanked the walls with a built-in china cabinet on