Murphy held her against him, one arm wrapped tightly around her waist and the other hand petting and stroking her body, as if reassuring himself that she was real.
Anne held still in his arms. Moving might break the fragile bubble they’d constructed.
They both stirred when they heard human voices in the hall.
“So”—he reached down and patted her backside—“more swimming or shall we turn in for the day?”
Murphy’s voice had taken on a deliberately lighter tone that Anne forced herself to imitate.
“And by turning in you mean—”
“You tell me horrible sex jokes and I punish you in creative ways? Yes, that’s exactly what I had in mind.”
She bit back a laugh. “I’m not sure that’s what I meant, actually.”
“Yes, it was.” He slapped her backside, rubbing it slowly when she jumped.
“Patrick!”
“Bloody hell, woman, keep your voice down—you’ll embarrass the servants.”
Then Murphy threw a thick towel over Anne as she laughed, and strode out of the pool room wearing nothing but the skin he’d been born in.
THE following night, their meetings dragged. Anne couldn’t keep her mind off Murphy’s rough commands when she woke him with her mouth and fangs. He’d roused with a gasp, only to drag her up the bed, taking her mouth with his, nipping at her tongue before he pushed her away and let her continue to pleasure him. He lay back and closed his eyes; the slow stream of curses that dropped from his lips was thanks enough in Anne’s mind.
Now he was covered in more of his Savile Row armor, as she thought of it, taking tidy notes in a leather-bound journal and scrutinizing the newest additions from the Americas.
Anne had never met Cormac O’Brien, but she’d heard of him. He appeared to be in his midthirties. He wore a full beard and a pocket watch that made Anne wonder if he still reminisced fondly over the late nineteenth century. The rest of his clothes seemed designed to distract. His glasses were likely an affectation—she’d never met an eye problem that immortality didn’t cure—but they suited him. His waistcoat was blood-red velvet, and he wore a worn tweed jacket over it. Dark plaid trousers and black motorcycle boots rounded out the look. It was as far from coordinated as Anne could imagine, but somehow O’Brien made it work.
His daughter, Novia, had taken the O’Brien name when she turned, though she was clearly of African-American descent. Her hair curled around her face in a mass of reddish-brown corkscrews, highlighting her light brown skin and vivid green eyes the same shade as her sire’s. Novia listened with rapt attention to every detail, took furious notes, and said nothing, often glancing at O’Brien for cues. She was young but sharp.
The Americans hadn’t contributed much to the conversation about Elixir, though Cormac had offered a few bits of intelligence about ships he’d encountered in the Baltic Sea. Mostly, despite Cormac’s brash appearance, he listened.
Neither Cormac nor his daughter were what Anne had expected, and she wondered if Murphy even considered them allies. She’d have to talk with him later.
“Later.”
It had been his whispered promise before he’d left to bathe and dress for the night. A single word drenched in sensual possibilities that had Anne’s blood leaping to life within her. She saw Murphy’s knuckles whiten as he gripped his pencil. His eyes turned to her.
“You need to stop,” he said under his breath, clearly distracted by her arousal.
Anne took a deep breath and thought about translating notes. About Ruth and Dan’s litter of Irish terrier puppies. About Brigid’s latest whim to dye her hair midnight blue. Anything but what Murphy’s eyes told her he wanted to do later in the safe confines of their suite.
Having forced her thoughts back to those talking, she heard Jetta mention the Russians another time.
“The fact that suspicious ships have been spotted in the Baltic and yet no reports have come out of Russia regarding Elixir makes me suspicious about the Russian’s involvement. I know you’ve spent time building a trade relationship with Oleg, Terry, but if we’re talking about someone who has access to the Black Sea or the Eastern Mediterranean and the capability of shipping something like this that targets political powers in the North Atlantic, we can’t ignore him. It would be foolish.”
“I’m not saying we ignore them,” Terry said. “I’m simply saying that trying to determine Oleg’s motivations is damn near impossible. So far, the status quo has been profitable for him. Why would he change that?”
Anne froze. They were talking about Russia. Again. They were talking about Oleg.
Oleg and the Black Sea.
Murphy leaned toward her and spoke quietly in Gaelic. “What is it? You had the same reaction the other day when someone mentioned Russia.”
“I… Murphy, I can’t say.”
She hadn’t anticipated this. There was information she could share, but it would break every rule of confidentiality she’d ever lived by as a healer.
“What do you mean, you can’t say?” He sounded annoyed. “Is it Mary? Because we’ve been nothing but open with her about—”
“It’s not Mary. It’s…” How could she explain without revealing that Oleg was a patient? Not that he considered himself a patient, but in Anne’s mind, he was. “I can’t say, Patrick.”
He still looked confused, verging toward angry.