Part 22 (1/2)

She drew a deep, shuddering breath. Seth's hold tightened.

”I'll miss you, too,” he murmured into her hair, misinterpreting her sigh. His hands slid down her back, kneading, caressing.

Her stomach gave a liquid roll. The moment she'd cracked open her eyes in the cold, watery light of the November dawn, she'd known her mistake. Known that she hadn't made anything better, not for either of them. She hadn't made it easier to let go of him, or for him to let go of her.

She'd made a monumental error.

And it had become a G.o.dd.a.m.n disaster in the making.

She pulled out of Seth's grasp. ”I should go. Traffic-I don't want to miss my flight.”

”I still don't want you to leave.”

”I'll be back tomorrow.” She stretched her mouth into what she hoped would pa.s.s for a smile. ”You won't even have time to miss me.”

He framed her face with his broad, strong hands and kissed her forehead. ”I already do.”

Alex picked up her keys from the hall table and shouldered her overnight bag. She turned to the door.

”Alex.”

She looked back, into eyes as dark as night itself and the steady warmth that glowed in them.

”I love you.”

She spun around and stepped into his embrace, burying her face in his chest. Memorizing his smell, his warmth, the sound of his heartbeat. ”I love you, too, Seth Benjamin,” she whispered. ”With all my heart.”

Then, tears blurring her vision, she fumbled for the doork.n.o.b.

Aramael knew.

She didn't know how, but he did.

She saw it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible sagging of his black wings . . . the bleak agony etched into his face. Her step slowed, and only with grim effort did she keep moving toward the vehicle.

She went around to the driver's door and unlocked it. He remained still. Staring across the roof at his back, she tried-and failed-to come up with words to . . . what? Apologize? Explain? Ease his pain? None of those things were possible; none of them should have been necessary. He knew Seth was her choice. She'd made it clear to him time and again. Abundantly so. He couldn't claim he hadn't expected this, d.a.m.n it.

Clamping her mouth shut, she climbed into the sedan. Aramael followed suit. Silence hung over them like a toxic cloud for the duration of the drive to the airport, making every breath burn in the back of her throat. Not until she parked the car, switched it off, and opened her door to get out did Aramael finally speak.

”You're making it more difficult for both of you.”

She went still, then leveled a cold look over her shoulder. ”This is the only time you get to mention it,” she said, ”and the only time I will tell you that it's none of your business. Are we clear?”

The tiny muscle in his jaw flexed. ”Crystal.”

”Good. We have a flight to catch.”

Chapter 50.

”Detective Jarvis? They'll see you now,” a male voice said.

Alex looked up from the magazine she'd been pretending to read and dug up a smile for the admin a.s.sistant who had previously offered coffee to her and Aramael.

Aramael, who glowered out the window, his palpable hostility giving her ample reason to feign interest in the future of motocross in Canada. He'd been like this ever since the apartment, making the past few hours-at the airport, in the plane, in the taxi they'd shared-the most uncomfortable of her life. Bar none.

She set aside the magazine and stood.

Aramael straightened.

”No,” she said. ”We've been over it a dozen times, Ara-Trent. You're not coming in with me.”

His voice stopped her at the door. ”Just-be careful.”

Be careful what you say, what you tell them. Protect our secrets.

All valid warnings, but if they'd called her to Ottawa, it was almost certainly too late for careful. And far too late for secrets.

She followed the young man down the hallway. Her cell phone vibrated with another call from Jen-the fourth one this morning. Thumb poised over the b.u.t.tons, Alex hesitated. Then, as the administrative a.s.sistant stopped in front of a door and looked askance at her, she smothered her guilt and touched the b.u.t.ton to ignore the call. Jen hadn't left a voice message with any of her other calls, so it wasn't urgent. It would wait until tonight.

Stepping past the a.s.sistant, she entered the room and scanned its occupants. Three men, one woman, all seated at a small, circular table; all wearing suits and the vaguely harried expressions of those who carried too much responsibility. She recognized none of them.

But she did recognize the logo of the Toronto coroner's office on the DNA report laid out on the table.

One of the men, middle-aged and balding, with the lean look of a habitual runner, stood. ”Detective Jarvis, I didn't realize you'd been injured. I hope the trip wasn't too much for you.”

She touched fingertips to the healing cuts on her face. ”It's nothing,” she said. ”Superficial.”

He nodded. ”Well, thank you for coming. I'm Stephane Boileau, aide to the minister of public security. This is Frank Allan from CSIS, Vic Hamilton from the RCMP, and Madeleine Renault from the GOC.”

The Canadian Security Intelligence Service, the national police force, and the Government Operations Centre responsible for coordinating the country's emergency response management. Oh, yeah. The time for secrets had definitely pa.s.sed.

Alex shook hands with everyone and then took the only empty seat.

Stephane Boileau slid a pair of wire-framed gla.s.ses onto his nose and pulled a notebook toward him. Turning to a clean page, he jotted down a note. Alex waited. At last he looked up.

”Detective, I trust you understand that what we're about to discuss here is highly sensitive.”

”I'm fairly adept at keeping secrets, Mr. Boileau.”

He peered at her over the gla.s.ses, then nodded. ”Bon,” he said in French. Good. ”Then we begin. You know why you are here, of course?”