Her Spy to Have (Spy Games Book 1) (21 page)

The concierge knew her by name. “He hasn’t registered yet,” he told her when she asked after her father. “He left a message for you saying he’ll be out of the city for a few days, and that you’re to wait for him.”

“Thank you.”

She crossed the foyer to the tiny lift and punched in her access code for the floor of her room. The hotel was very old and its architecture unique. Walls and ceilings slanted at whim. Furniture and doors appeared in unlikely locations. The overall effect was charming, and surprisingly functional.

She unlocked her door and saw at once that her father had arranged for a delivery to be left on her bed—clothes from PAUW, an exclusive Dutch fashion house, along with shoes and jewelry.
Because you deserve pretty things,
the accompanying note read.
Meet me for breakfast at the Rijksmuseum Café Tuesday at 09:30.

The extravagance dismayed her, not because she wasn’t used to this from him, but that it came so close on the heels of months of hardship. She could think of far better uses for the money. She also recognized the gesture for what it was—an attempt to mollify her. How many times had she allowed him to do this very same thing, without question, in the past?

But Bangkok had scared her. So had Garrett, and the things her grandparents told her. None of it made her love her father any less. He was what he was. So was she, however, and she couldn’t be part of his self-destruction anymore. She’d come here to tell him so.

Tomorrow was Tuesday. She’d meet him at the museum. Then she was going back to Canada to finish those four years of university if they killed her. Everything her father had purchased was being returned, and the money added to her tuition fund.

After a quick meal at a nearby café, she crawled into bed and slept for twelve hours straight.

When she awoke the following morning there was a light skiff of snow on the window ledge, but the sun was shining. She showered, then, ignoring the neat pile of new clothing, dug through the scant contents of her battered duffel bag. The nicest things she currently owned were her fleece-lined jacket and skinny jeans. Knee-high leather boots, not necessarily stylish but comfortable and warm, would also have to do. Rijksmuseum visitors came from all over the world and from all walks of life. No one in the café would notice—or care—what she wore.

She walked the short distance to the museum and entered through the bicycle tunnel beneath it. The glass and steel ceiling flooded the central Atrium with bright daylight that shone off the polished white stone floors. A short flight of stairs led to the open café overlooking the Atrium.

Isabelle looked up and spotted her father, sitting a few tables back from the guard railing. He lifted a hand and waved to her. A part of her had worried he might not be here, and the sight of him, alive and well, filled her with an overwhelming relief.

And then anger nipped at its heels. He’d chosen a very public place for an intensely private conversation. For months she’d been so afraid, both for him and herself, and yet here he was, acting as if he’d seen her yesterday, not almost a year ago.

As she mounted the stairs and wended her way through the tables, however, she began to see the changes in him. He’d always been an exceptionally handsome man, but while there was no mistaking the family resemblance, he drew attention whereas she did not. There was noticeable gray in his hair. His shoulders were more stooped than she remembered, and he’d put on weight. When he stood to welcome her, folding her into his arms to kiss her cheeks, she could read the deep lines etched around his eyes and the anxiety lurking in them. He scanned the floor of the Atrium below them as if looking for someone he hoped not to see.

“
Ma Belle
,” he murmured, speaking in French. “I’ve missed you so much.”

She slid into her chair and waited while her father ordered more coffee, and ham and cheese on bread. Once the waiter left, she immediately chastised him, also in French. “I was so worried. Where have you been?”

His hand, resting on the table, trembled slightly, and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now. You know I can’t speak of my work.”

Then, changing the subject, he launched into a long, very detailed description of all the things they would do together while they were in Amsterdam.

It took a moment for her to grasp the importance of what he wasn’t saying. A frisson of anger chased away her disappointment in him. He planned to give her no explanation for his disappearance. Neither did he want to know what it was like for her to be stranded in Southeast Asia, then Canada, without any means of survival. He’d always been this way. He simply wasn’t capable of dealing with confrontation, or the complex emotions accompanying it.

She managed to cut him off after the waiter delivered their fresh coffee and food. “I have work and school, Papa. I had to claim a family emergency to get this time off. I can only stay for a few days.”

Her father’s expression went blank for a second, then cleared. “You don’t have to go back to Canada. I have money now.”

“But how long will it last?” she asked gently. “I’m an adult. It’s better for me to build a life of my own. I can’t expect you to keep on providing for me.”

She’d offended him.

“You’re my daughter. I’ve always provided for you. I intend to keep on doing so. My work is more stable. The money is better. The past few years have been difficult, yes, but that’s behind us.”

“So what do I do the next time you disappear for months? How long am I supposed to wait for you, wondering if you’re dead or alive?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Isabelle,” he snapped. He set down his heavy porcelain coffee cup with such force that it rattled the saucer. “I’ve never let you starve in all your twenty-four years.”

Blood began to pound in her ears, its roar dulling the noise from the milling crowd in the museum Atrium. He refused to acknowledge the truth—that her grandparents had seen to her care, and her mother’s, for the first years of her life. That she’d taken on work as an au pair once she’d finished school because he was traveling so much and been short on funds. There had been plenty of cash flow problems in between as well. Many moves in the middle of the night. Those desperate weeks in Bangkok, and even with the Mansfords, were especially difficult for her to forget. If not for Garrett, her situation could easily have become very ugly.

She could see the escalating pattern of irresponsibility, not to mention the wear of the past few months on her father’s health. Whatever he was involved in, it was growing more complicated, not less. It had cost her any hope for a relationship with Garrett. That particular pain squeezed at her heart, leaving her momentarily breathless, but she pried it loose and pushed it away. She’d gotten past it before. This wasn’t the time to try and subdue it again. She had to move forward.

“I’m going back to Canada,” she heard herself saying. “For twenty years my grandparents didn’t know what happened to me. I’m not going to walk away from them again. They’ve already lost their daughter.”

“And because of them, I lost my wife. Why should I allow them to take my daughter from me, too?” His expression hardened. “Don’t feel sorry for them, Belle. They never wanted us in their lives. They made that clear.”

They’d made no secret of the fact they had no love for her father, true enough, but he had none for them either, and Isabelle had no intentions of becoming caught in the middle of a decades-old feud. They didn’t have to deal with each other in order to have a relationship with her. She wasn’t a child, anymore.

A loud bang in the Atrium caused them, and everyone seated around them, to jump, then turn and look. Isabelle heard the heavy tread of running footsteps, then loud apologies spoken in American English. It sounded as if something glass had shattered on the stone floor.

She shifted her gaze back to her father and saw he’d gone very pale. The trembling in his hands had worsened so that he’d spilled his coffee across the table. Isabelle grabbed their napkins and began to sop it up, her thoughts racing to an inevitable conclusion that she’d known, but in many ways was too much his daughter to admit.

He was afraid for his life. That was why he’d arranged for such a public place to meet her in, not because he hadn’t wanted to deal with her disapproval. She’d looked the other way too many times over the years. She’d been too indulgent of his
laissez-faire
ways. She’d facilitated them. Now she had no idea how to help him. Arguing with him would solve nothing. Neither would any attempt to use reason. He was well beyond all that.

Garrett would know what to do
.

The thought crept, unbidden, into her head. But he’d already tried to warn her, and when she hadn’t listened, he’d washed his hands of her. She’d have to deal with this alone.

“Why don’t we go back to the hotel, where it’s quiet?” she suggested. “Have you registered yet?”

His hands had steadied, although his color concerned her. “I’m staying at a different hotel this visit.” He offered no explanation as to why, or which one it was. Before she could ask, he changed the subject. “Since we’re here, we may as well see the exhibits.”

They spent the rest of the day wandering through the galleries. Late in the afternoon, he glanced at his watch and suggested they go out to dinner.

“You can meet me at the restaurant,” he said. “First, go change into one of those pretty dresses I bought you. Oh, I almost forgot.” He reached into an inner pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a small packet of papers. “I need this delivered. I’d do it myself, but I have a meeting I’m going to be late for. I was so happy to see you, I lost track of time. It’s not far out of your way—just a few streets over from Hooftstraat.”

The desperate, haunted look in his eyes betrayed him. As Isabelle accepted the packet, she wondered how many times he’d lied to her over the years. Even though she felt certain this was the first he’d tried to include her in his activities, ultimately, it didn’t matter. She thought of the things Garrett claimed her father had done, of the lives already lost because of them, as well as the ones to come. She couldn’t live with that on her conscience.

She couldn’t imagine how her father lived with it, either. Or the fear. Espionage was a dirty game.

“I’ll see you at seven,” she managed to say, surprised by how light her voice sounded when inside, her heart was breaking.

She had to call Peter and Cheryl and ask them to help her contact Garrett. She was going to turn her father in.

* * *

Garrett waited in the cold outside the small, very exclusive, extremely discreet hotel. The winter days were short, and despite the early hour, dusk had already descended on the narrow streets. After the warmth of India, the damp chill in the air settled deep in his bones. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and hunched his shoulders.

Isabelle wasn’t inside. He’d asked the reticent concierge to leave her a message for him, and if she’d been in her room, she would have responded to it immediately. He’d been explicit about the urgency.

He wondered if she’d be happy to see him. They’d parted on friendly enough terms.

No. Not friendly enough. And definitely not the terms he’d wanted. He’d made a mistake in walking away from her. He planned to rectify that. Either they became much more than friends or they’d be nothing at all. While he couldn’t offer her reassurances over the fate of her father, he’d already distanced himself from that part of the investigation. He hoped that would suffice. It was the best he could do.

He straightened as he caught sight of her in the glow of the street lamps, crossing the bridge over the canal running behind him and then turning onto the street where he waited. His heart beat a little faster. He’d recognize her anywhere, simply by the way she moved. Her head was uncovered, and pinpoints of snow settled onto her dark hair, melting almost instantaneously.

He was nervous, but it was too late to worry. He stepped forward, blocking her path as she approached.

She looked up. Her expression blanked as if she couldn’t quite process what she was seeing.

Then, with an exclamation in French of such intense relief he couldn’t begin to interpret it, she threw herself into his arms. She hugged him, pressing her face against his throat. “Garrett! Thank God you’re here.”

Although he’d hoped she’d be happy to see him, this was a far more exuberant reception than he’d expected from her. He held her close, almost hating to ask why, but common sense and past experience had already weighed in with an opinion. Something was very wrong.

He looked around, unsure what to expect. A busy street wasn’t the best place to talk. They were drawing far too much attention. “Can we go inside?” he asked. “I’ve been out here for hours and I’m frozen.”

She gripped his hand as they entered the hotel, edging her slender fingers between his so that they interlocked, as if she were afraid he’d vanish if she didn’t hold onto him.

As soon as the door to her room closed behind them he pinned her against it, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her. Her cheeks were so cold. So was the tip of her nose. He wanted nothing more than to peel every layer of clothing off her body and make love to her, slowly, for the rest of the night, warming them both.

She couldn’t seem to stop touching him. Her hands dipped into the warmth of his coat, smoothing the front of his shirt as if reassuring herself he was real. He lifted his head and searched her eyes. He saw happiness in them, but also something else. Darker.