She gave him a dirty look, though of course he couldn't tell since she was still wearing the sunglasses. "You're the one who provided the wardrobe. Heels are the only suitable shoes I have with me."
"Okay, we'll dance a few dances." He looked in danger of smiling again. "I'm going to be making it pretty obvious we're together, putting some strong moves on you, so don't panic."
"Why the strong moves?" Her throat had gone dry. She wished the waiter would hurry up with the mineral water John had ordered.
"So, if anyone notices us going off together, they'll just think we're looking for someplace more private- such as your room."
And instead they would be going through files. "What about Ronsard? And Cara?"
"I'll take care of her. Ronsard's a bit trickier. We may have to take our chances and hope he'll be too occupied to come to his office." He paused. "Here comes the waiter." He leaned over and took her hand, thumb rubbing lightly across the backs of her fingers. "Walk with me after lunch," he was murmuring when the waiter set down the crystal goblets of mineral water.
She drew back and picked up a goblet, sending a shaky smile in the waiter's direction.
"How much time do you need to plant the bug?" he asked when they were alone again.
"I'd like to have half an hour." She could probably do it in less time than that, but she wanted to be very, very careful with this one, because she was going to have to get into the wiring in the walls and she didn't want to leave any telltale marks. "What about the computer files? How long will it take on those?"
"Depends," he said helpfully.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Information."
He fought another smile. "I don't know what system he uses, if it's password protected or encrypted- though I'd be very surprised if he doesn't at least have a password. I have to get the password-"
"How on earth can you do that?"
"People usually write it down somewhere handy. Or it's something obvious, like their mother's name, or their kids-"
"Ronsard has a daughter," Niema said. "Laure." "A daughter? That wasn't in our information," John murmured.
"She's an invalid. He adores her, and is very protective of her privacy. For security reasons, very few people know she exists. She's so ill, she may not live long." A lump rose in her throat as she remembered Laure's skeletal face, with those dark blue eyes so like her father's, and her mischievous, practical spirit.
"Then he'd take very seriously any incident involving her," John mused.
Niema sat up straight, and snatched her sunglasses off so he could get a good look at how furious she was. "Don't you dare," she said between clenched teeth. "If you involve that child I'll-I'll..." She couldn't think of anything bad enough, but her eyes promised severe retribution.
"I'll do whatever's necessary," he softly replied. "You know that. I don't put limitations on what I'm willing to do to get a job done."
"Yes, I heard that about you," she said just as softly, rage boiling through her veins with a suddenness that took her off guard. "They say you even killed your own wife, so why would you worry about upsetting a little girl?"
Leaden silence fell between them. John's face was absolutely expressionless, his eyes so cold and empty they looked dead. "Her name was Venetia," he finally said, the words a mere rustle of sound. "Why don't you ask me if I did it? How do you think it happened? Did I shoot her, or break her neck, or cut her throat? Maybe I just tossed her out a thirty-story window. I've heard all those scenarios. Which do you think is most likely?"
She couldn't breathe. She had wanted to hit him, say something that would make an impression on him, and she had evidently succeeded beyond anything she could have expected. She hadn't believed those wild stories, hadn't really believed he had ever even been married. To know that he had, to know that his wife's name was Venetia and she had existed, was to suddenly think that those stories could be true.
"Did you?" she managed to say, barely able to force the words out through her constricted throat. "Did you kill her?"
"Yes," he said and leaned back as the waiter approached with their meal.
She strolled with him across the lush, manicured lawn. She hadn't had a chance to recover, to ask him any more questions, after he dropped that bombshell at lunch. First the waiter had been there, setting out their lunch, refilling their water glasses, asking if they needed anything else, and by the time he left, Ronsard "happened" to walk by and stayed to chat.
Niema had scarcely been able to talk; she had managed a few short answers to Ronsard's questions, but her lips were numb and she kept seeking refuge in her water glass. She remembered eating a few bites of lunch, but she had no idea how it had tasted.
After lunch, John put his trousers on over his dry swim trunks, then took her hand and led her out here. The hot sun beat down on her, bringing welcome warmth to her cold skin. She felt as if her heart were breaking. Innocence was an invisible fortress, keeping one safe, and oblivious to some things that were too horrible to contemplate. But now she no longer had that innocence, that obliviousness; she was aware of the pain, the horror, the cost. What must it be like for him, to have lived through it?
"John, I'm so sorry," she whispered.
She saw his surprise. Evidently he had expected her to be repelled by who he was, what he had done, maybe even frightened of him. She searched for the right words. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I hadn't believed the stories, or I never would have brought it up."