He curled his fingers against his leg to keep from reaching out and touching the temptation. “So no engineering. What else don’t you like?”
She ran a hand over the weathered stone base, a wry smile twisting her mouth. “Poetry. The subtle intricacies baffle me. I prefer not to have to guess what the artist is trying to say.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re having so much trouble with Ellie. The situation she’s created for herself isn’t exactly straightforward.”
“She forgives his horribleness time and time again, dancing to his tune and making excuses for his behavior, while I get the silent treatment for daring to question his motives. Does that make any sense to you?”
“People in love do stupid things.”
“Well, if that’s love, I hope it never happens to me, because I can’t bear the thought of losing all common sense for no good reason.”
His mother’s photograph crept to the edges of his mind. He wished he’d been old enough to have a memory of her. His father had been too busy hoarding his to bother sharing. “You’re preaching to the converted.”
Love. The sickness of all mankind. He’d managed to avoid the disease his whole life. Sure, he’d dipped into the pretense when a pair of pretty eyes fluttered his way, but by the next morning he was resolved once more to remain alone. Only in the deep darkness of night would he admit to the loneliness and the need to share it with someone. To share anything with someone.
Next to him, Kat stared silently over the water as they walked down the bridge. Despite the Nazi patrols marring the city around them, she exuded quiet assurance. Not just someone to share with but someone he didn’t have to hide from. She saw him for all the things he was without fear. If their time together had proved nothing else, Kathleen Whitford was fearless.
The hairs tingled on his arms. Her eyes on him always did that. “You’re doing it again.”
She jumped as if a gun had blasted. “Doing what?”
“Last time you claimed it was a bee buzzing around my head, but since there aren’t any flowers around here I’m reluctant to believe that excuse again.” He stopped and turned to face her, leaning an elbow against the stone rail. “Care to tell me the truth this time?”
“When will the pretending end?” The current of blue dipped and rolled in her eyes. The same look he had seen during the storm in Bavaria shuddered in their depths, but unlike that night she didn’t move toward him. “Aren’t you tired of it all?”
Aye, more than you can possibly know. Tired of fighting, of pretending, of answering to someone else’s beck and call, of running from the shackles that sought to hold him prisoner to the past. Alfred Whitford’s deal was the chance to change his life. Get the man’s daughters out, and his debt would be cleared with enough money in his pocket to start over anywhere he chose. The last thing he’d expected was the daughter throwing a wrench into his well-laid plans. In fact, she’d managed to overturn his entire being.
He glanced to her mouth. Those full lips now pressed into a line had demanded everything from him, only softening as his eager response surged to meet her insistence. Was he tired? Aye. Tired of needing to resist her at all costs and failing miserably.
Keep to the task at hand. The sooner it’s done, the sooner you can forget about her. “But here we are, and here we’ll stay until the agency relents and gets us out of this boggy hole.”
The surging current in her eyes stilled. “A few days ago we managed to walk free from the very heart of evilness, a feat I didn’t believe possible after staring into Hitler’s hideous black eyes.” She shuddered and turned to face the water, folding her hands on the rail in front of her. “Now, we’re right back where we started, and if I have to smile one more time over some Goebbels movie premiere destined to glorify the Nazi magnificence, I’ll scream. I don’t know how you do it day after day.”
“A dram of whisky and a little bit of fight training at the end of the day help release all that pent-up rage.”
She snorted. “I envy you. Grappling around on the ground is at least a useful skill. Planning the next party and practicing dance steps fall woefully short of such value and, if anything, merely increase the frustration after seeing