Alessa plonked herself down on the kitchen stool. “How do you know all this?” They weren’t Skyping, but she could imagine him twiddling a dark curl around his forefinger, as he did when absorbed in his reading.
“It’s called an education? Rather than being too hungover to go to lectures at university? But, yeah, I guess even if you had, journalism and creative writing?” He scoffed. “Not quite as useful as politics and economics…”
“Oh, don’t come it with me, Mr Holier-than-thou—you just read all that on Wikipedia.”
“It’s a fair cop,” he sniggered. “But, Ali, this does look interesting. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of info on the ring, including de Winter. What’re you thinking, to write a long read on him? I’m assuming there’s a Montford connection? Did he have a getaway property there, some remote cottage?”
“There is a property, yes, still connected to the family. Not really a hideaway house. An old farmhouse in Blazeby, just through the village.” Hugo had said it was family property, and Alessa was presuming his father’s side, rather than his mother’s, due to the study full of Peter de Winter documents.
But, thinking about it, the papers and photos looked more as if they were stored there, and she hadn’t gotten the vibe that the place was an old family home, going back generations. In fact, it hadn’t looked very lived in at all. Yet it must have cost a pretty penny—that part of the county had always been exclusive. Had Peter brought it with the money he’d gotten for selling out his country’s secrets, then died before he’d really taken up residence? The question she’d been squashing flat ever since last weekend popped up again, loud and insistent: had the cottage been Hugo and Amanda’s marital home, before they’d split? “I’ll email you the address and anything else I can think of.”
“Hmm. Still connected to the family, you said? As in, family members still about? Might be useful for research.”
“I’ll handle that side. I’d…rather.” God, she didn’t even want to think about the ethics—or lack of them—of digging into someone’s past in this way without telling them. But the ends justify the means, right? They have to. “And this is strictly between us,” she cautioned Tom.
“And, of course, you can’t afford to pay me,” he groaned. “Well, how about I get half the credit if it pans out? And do most of the interviews about it, when it’s a bestseller? I always fancied myself on the BBC.”
“Yes, on kids’ TV, dressed as a dinosaur. Okay, we need to get all the background we can. How’s best to do this? I can access at work the newspapers which have fully searchable digital archives. Could you start with the ones that don’t? They’re all in London anyway. The ones I can read are…”
An hour later, with the two of them having coordinated and distributed what work they could plan so far, Alessa felt exhausted but happy. Her plans were underway. She’d soon have information for Hugo, and then it was up to him. Until then, it was just a matter of taking things slowly with him, as hard as that might be, when she was more than fascinated by the handsome, witty, crazily sexy man. But it was necessary. Firstly, she a little apprehensive about the winter-spring aspect of things and couldn’t foresee a frank conversation about it with Hugo being on the horizon—that would require him to open up.
But mostly, she couldn’t risk giving herself and losing herself in someone who wasn’t able to give himself in return. She wasn’t conceited or stupid enough to think herself the exception to Hugo’s rules. She couldn’t be another Amanda.
Chapter Nine
“Is everything…all right now?”
“Everything…?” Hugo enquired of Xander, wanting to see how far his friend would go.
“With Alessa.”
They were both standing on the small mezzanine of Whyte’s Gallery, Candle Lane, Montford, looking down at the showroom floor below at Alessa, there to begin writing a profile of Hugo, local Chamber of Commerce’s Entrepreneur of the Year, for the Herald’s weekend magazine supplement, and being shown around by Benjy, one of their gallery assistants.
“She’s very pretty, and obviously great at her job,” Xander continued, when Hugo remained silent. “And fun. She really threw herself into the puzzle evening, and she’s turned out for the Sunday football. Seems to be going along okay? Slow but sure?”
Slow. Taking things slowly. Not like at first, when they’d thrown themselves into the heart of the fire burning between them. That had been one hell of a conflagration, its sparks electrifying. Sparks. Funny how things came back to Alessa. But sparks died down, didn’t they? Burned themselves through? That heat couldn’t sustain. Was that why Alessa had pulled back? It hurt, that she was tamping her flame that wanted to burn so brightly and heatedly. But he thought he knew why. Learning he’d been married and that there was a child he hadn’t planned on, hadn’t wanted, had shocked her, and now she was waiting, perhaps cautiously, for him to open up, to explain. And that was the hardest thing in the world for him. And yet, for her, he was…taking baby steps to be able to do just that very thing.
“I’ll let you know,” he murmured to his partner.
“Oh, let me ask him! No, it’ll be fine! Hugo!” Alessa called up, and his heart leapt to see her grinning happily, fully given over to the moment, fully engaged. “Benjy’s revealed your nickname, and I want to use it as the title of the piece! Say you agree!”
“Fine!” he called back.
“What?” Xander stepped back in amazement. “You don’t even know what it is. Wow, man!” And his silence, his look, said more than all the conversation he’d been trying to have.
And he’d be right. Hugo did…care for her. So very much. When that red-faced thug, MacDougal, had stepped up to Alessa, Hugo’s heart had almost stopped, and when it thudded to life again, it had pumped fury through him, making him want to beat the ex-councillor senseless. When Alessa had fought not to tremble afterwards, God, the urge to gather her in his arms, keep her safe from the world, lay down his life to protect her…
He thought he’d shown remarkable restraint in merely telling the ex-council member to back off, rather than leaving the slimeball a beaten, bloodied wreck, as he deserved. Hugo had also spoken to a chief inspector from the Montfordshire Constabulary, a neighbour, suggesting the man have a quiet word with MacDougal. The inspector was a friend, from whom he’d also obtained Alessa’s address. He’d intended to advise Alessa to take out a restraining order against the man, but Amanda’s arrival had scuppered all his plans for that day. Amanda. And therein lies a tale. One he’d have to tell, soon. And Amelia—
“What’s Hugo’s nic?” Xander leaped down the stairs four at a time to reach Alessa and Benjy. “Anything you can repeat in public?”
“An Officer and a Gentleman!” Alessa could barely catch her breath. “It’s perfect! Oh, sorry.” She took out her ringing phone and looked at the screen. “Oh, I have to… Excuse me. Yeah, one sec,” she said into the phone, looking all around.
“And who’s Tom?” enquired Benjy, one hand to his chest and raising an eyebrow to his hairline. “What? I just happened to see the name on the screen before Little Miss Coy bolted…” He was all injured innocence as Alessa made her way to the back of the gallery floor, obviously seeking privacy.
Hugo hadn’t intended, wasn’t intending, to snoop. He’d swear to that in a court of law. Just, Alessa exiting from the staff door into the yard at the back coincided with Hugo heading to his office, which overlooked the space, and where he had an open window.
“The articles you found mostly suggested Peter de Winter had been recruited to the Soviet cause by a talent-spotter at Cambridge?”
“Yes,” Alessa confirmed to Tom.
“Whereas a few old reports I’ve seen say the deep-cover Russian woman posing as Stella, the secretary, turned him, in a honey-trap scenario.”
“Hmm. Well, broadsheets would publish a more cerebral version, and tabloids a more salacious?” she guessed.
“The other scientist arrested, the one still in prison, had
a Polish wife. So there’s some slight Eastern Bloc connection there, but nothing like that with Peter. But he did buy the Montfordshire house a few months before he was arrested, which suggests he got or been getting cash from somewhere. Although comments by his Hampshire neighbours say he wasn’t flash, didn’t splash on fancy cars or holidays.”
“Yes, quiet, always working, even at home. Right.” Alessa kept her voice low. She pictured the study in Hugo’s house. Would there be letters, from his father to his mother and to Hugo? Communications from other people involved in the ring? Bank statements showing the source of the money? Oh no, wads of cash would probably have been handed over in attaché cases in coffee bars or at railway stations.
“Have you spoken to anyone else about this?” Tom enquired.
Alessa flushed. There was one person she should have, or still should. “No.”
“Well, don’t. If my instinct is good here, and it usually is, this is something. Something big.”
“Like, more people involved? I mean, the Cambridge ring was reckoned to be a lot bigger than five, wasn’t it? And covered up?”
“More, or different people involved. The best thing is to work on it together, during Festive Respite.”
Tom, the child of divorced parents, had always hated the holiday season and spent the bare minimum of time, if any these days, with either parent. He usually organised a safe haven for Christmas refuseniks and the Christmas fatigued, with various university friends or more recent friends stopping for a day or two’s rest over the holiday season.
“I’m housesitting for the vice-chancellor again this year while he’s skiing. And you and your gang always mocked my friendship with him back in the day! Let’s see who has the last laugh in his handsome, bay-fronted detached Edwardian mansion on the edge of Montford, shall we?”
Alessa laughed. They’d stayed in some lovely places, Tom putting in the effort to arrange them. And the vice-chancellor’s house was spacious and tasteful, with a huge library. “Why are you inviting me for the winter break already? It isn’t for ages!” she queried, her amused voice carrying around the small enclosed yard.
“It’s next bloody week, Alessa. I’ve been reminding you.”
“Really? So soon? Hmm. And luxury accommodation, you say… Well, I’m sure I can manage to pop along for a couple of days…you haven’t forgotten which expensive wine I like?”
“Sparks, you drink anything,” Tom answered wryly. “But I’ll get you your usual case of St Emilion for Christmas, of course.”
“Of course.” Tom got his close circle of friends red wine as gifts. Always had done, his hobby matching people to varieties and grapes, and the results were delicious.
Above, Hugo ducked to one side when a laughing Alessa finished reminiscing about a previous break in Mayfair, said her good-byes to someone called Tom and turned to re-enter the gallery. His heart hung like lead in his chest and his head spun, whirled back into the past, reliving things with Amanda. Would Alessa admit to seeing other men, if he asked her? He thought he understood why she was keeping her options open. She was entitled to; he didn’t have a great deal to offer her, as things stood. Reason why he was planning to alter…things, hoping he wasn’t too late. His age was against him now, in forming a new, true, loving, and giving relationship, of course, and there was nothing he could do about that. All he could do at the moment was give the woman he believed he loved, the only one for him, space, not pressure her, even though the mere thought was like a knife to the gut.
And was it wishful thinking to feel Alessa seemed interested in him as a person, her questions going beyond what he might have expected for an interview, even for an in-depth piece? “I’m happy to talk about my time at university and my army career, prior to entering the world of business, and what I’ve been involved in since,” he said, over strong Irish coffees before the fireplace in the Rose and Crown, around the corner from the gallery. A pub in which the young bartender had seemed too familiar with Alessa for Hugo’s peace of mind. “I’m not prepared to get into personal details.” He wondered why she stilled. Oh. His marriage. “Such as, oh, what’s the term these days, being happily divorced?”
“Are you?” Her sapphire-blue eyes were fixed on him.
“As in, no lingering feelings? Of course, there are. A person would have to be a robot not to have them. But you think I’m still pining over my ex? Please believe me when I say I’m not.”
“She’s very pretty.”
“She is, yes. She couldn’t not be, the amount of money and time she spends on it. Whereas you, you’re simply naturally beautiful.” He loved the pink wash in her cheeks. Loved simply being with her. Which reminded him. “Tomorrow, I’m going to see my mother. Would you…would you like to come with me? I’d really love it if you could meet her.” Wouldn’t that count as getting to know him?
“Tomorrow? Oh, I can’t, sorry. I’m away. I’ll be away all day and evening, I mean.”
He waited, but she gave no details. “Work-related?”
“Erm, sort of. Background. Research. Texture, you know?”
He didn’t know, and it didn’t take any techniques he’d learned in the army or in negotiating to see her unease and disingenuousness. Was he pushing, overstepping whatever boundaries she’d imposed, inviting her to meet his family, at this point? What else could he do? “Another time. And perhaps we could do something else this week? I’m booked today and I have meetings late every evening this week. About Mill Island, actually. I’ll be tied up until late but—”
“I could cook for you. In your place. Have a meal ready for you!”
It came out in a rush and seemed forced, but knowing she wanted to spend time with him made his heart swell and stole his breath. “Can you cook?” he joked, not caring if she made sandwiches for dinner with an apple for dessert as long as they ate it together.
“Of course!” she protested. “Wait. You do have a microwave, right? Kidding! A little. And how about the day after tomorrow?”
“That sounds wonderful. Tell me what you’d like me to get in.”
“Oh, I’ll take care of that,” she said quickly. “Don’t bother about anything. What time will you be home?”
Home. It sounded so good when she said it, even if she looked…flustered, was the best he could come up with. They made arrangements, him adding his address to his contact details in her phone and sharing his location with her on the Find My Friends app so she’d know when he was arriving. Alessa walked him back to the gallery, where he insisted on giving her his house key—he’d take his spare back from a neighbour. Benjy and an artist claimed his attention and Alessa left.
She had her own work to do, of course. A row of Victorian houses near the cathedral, long derelict, was due to be demolished, the plan being to erect a new student halls of residence in their place, and a protest group had formed, trying to get the buildings listed status. Shoving her pad into her bag, later, she caught her finger on Hugo’s keys. She should get them back to him, just in case he couldn’t get ahold of his spare set. She could easily get a duplicate cut of his front door key. There was a good place not far from the library. It only took a few minutes and she was walking back to the gallery, seriously considering using her bike to get around town as soon as the winter weather eased, when she saw Hugo. At least, she thought—
She checked as best she could, squinting through the glass front of the building’s lobby. Yes, it was Hugo. With a woman. A blonde, of course, standing close to him, and him bending over her, listening attentively, nodding. As the woman went to touch Hugo’s arm, Alessa managed to flee, despite the hammer blow the sight had struck, hoping like crazy the pair hadn’t seen her.
What was that building? As far as she knew, it was residential, up-scale apartments. There could be a hundred and one explanations, of course, but she doubted Hugo would offer even one. And she had no right to demand one, not when she was keeping him at arm’s length, and she knew he’d picked up on it. Well, fuck. No, shit. That was be
tter, if anything about this entire situation could be said to be better.
Hugo—her feelings for him were unlike any she’d had for any guy she’d ever met. Such a ball of tightly wound, tangled complex emotions and longings. When she was with him, she didn’t want to be anywhere else. And when she wasn’t with him, thoughts of him consumed her. That he was with another woman crushed her. What the hell was that? Love, a voice told her, and she actually whipped round to see who’d spoken, feeling such a fool to realise she herself had.
Love? Is this how it feels? Like it hurts? Although that could have been the deception she was involved in. So, the sooner she got matters solved, the better. She raced to Whyte’s to drop off Hugo’s keys, wiping away tears and breathing through the pain, desperate to get there before he did, supposing he’d been going and not, well, coming. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of all the time to make journalistic puns.
And she couldn’t tell him where she was going tomorrow: Braistone Prison, to see one John Hewitt. She’d been lucky to get clearance to see the man, the second Lantborough spy, the only one remaining alive and in the UK—Olga Petrov and the Russian diplomat having fled to the USSR—because he was a Category A prisoner. Alessa had looked up the criteria to see why Hewitt met them: His escape would be highly dangerous to the national security, and he’d been convicted of offences against the state and sentenced under the official secrets act. Well, yes, that just about covered it.
The place was terrible and she hated every minute of being there. How awful must it be to be incarcerated there? A warden stood right by the stained plastic table she and the aged Hewitt sat at, in the visitors’ room, listening in. She wondered if that was why the elderly man was so guarded.
He says he didn’t know the others, only Stella, or Olga, as she really was, Alessa messaged Tom straight after, while it was fresh. They were having an affair.
Whispers of Winter: A Limited Edition Collection of Winter Romances Page 85
