Where the Heart Chooses Page 8

  Nigel must have been watching. “Is something wrong, Portia?”

  “I’m a trifle indisposed. Would you mind…?”

  “Of course not!” He hurried around the table and pulled my chair back, allowing me to rise.

  “Oh, no, please don’t get up,” I said to the men as their chairs scraped back. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Mann. Mrs. Mann, everything was delicious. Please give my compliments to your cook.”

  Mrs. Roberts hid a smile behind her hand. She knew a polite lie when she heard one.

  “We’ll do this another time,” Mr. Mann announced.

  “Of course.” I gave him a wan smile—after all I was supposed to be ill. “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

  Nigel took my arm and we walked out of the dining room. “Portia, do you need to see a doctor?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’ll tell you once we’re in the car.”

  The butler was standing in the hall. “Mr. Nigel?”

  “We’re leaving now, Peabody. Miss Sebring isn’t feeling well. Our coats, please.” The butler moved quickly to fetch them. “Thank you.” Nigel held the mink so I could slide my arms into the sleeves, and then did the same with his overcoat.

  As he handed me into his car, I murmured to him, “I’m sorry I ruined your Thanksgiving.”

  “Don’t be. Dinner with my family is always trying. Although this time Mother outdid herself.”

  I found it interesting that he should refer to Mrs. Mann as ‘mother,’ but Addison called Mr. Mann by his first name.

  I didn’t know what had happened to Nigel’s birth mother—he’d been four when she’d packed her bags and left. His father remarried later that same year, a widow with a son even younger than Nigel.

  Meanwhile, Nigel was saying, “Why she insisted on seating me beside Laura Garfield…I’m assuming you saw her actions?”

  “Yes. I was about two seconds away from leaping across the table and tearing that witch’s hair out by its bleached-blonde roots.”

  “Portia!” A blush mounted his cheeks, turning the tips of his ears red. Was he offended by my words? But then he said, “No one’s ever felt the need to defend my honor before!”

  “That’s because no one was me. And if your stepbrother hadn’t distracted me by deciding he was the one to thaw the ice princess, I would have given your father’s guests a story to dine out on for quite some time.”

  I was interested to see how he would react to that. After all, I was a female, and most men would have felt the need to exhibit their caveman side and protect the little woman.

  I should have realized Nigel wasn’t most men. “You must tell me what you said to him. I swear I thought he was going to throw a tantrum right at the table.” He closed the door, strode around to the driver’s side, and got in. He put the key into the ignition and turned to smile at me. That smile lightened his expression and made him seem younger. But then he frowned. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing, darling. I’m just pleased to know you realize I can take care of myself.”

  “You’re a Sebring,” he said, as if that explained everything. And in a manner of speaking, I supposed it did. “However, I hope you won’t object if I ever step in and punch someone’s nose for making a pass at you?”

  “Of course not. Why should I be selfish and keep you from having any fun.”

  “I’m just sorry you missed the rest of the meal. Mrs. Armstrong makes an excellent pumpkin pie.”

  “Perhaps next year? I hope this won’t offend you, darling, but if we have to dine with your family again before next Thanksgiving, I may be obliged to slip something into their wine.”

  “I’m not offended in the least. I don’t see them too frequently myself. Father was very heavy-handed today. I don’t know if he did that for himself or his wife,” he mused. After a few moments, he cleared his throat. “Portia…you see us together next year?”

  “Am I being too forward? I know that’s what I would like.”

  “Darling!” He leaned across the bench seat and brushed his lips over mine. Then he put the car in gear and drove out of his father’s drive.

  “Do you know, I love your mink, Portia.”

  “Really?”

  “I’d…I’d like to make love to you on it, if you wouldn’t object.”

  “No, Nigel. No objections at all.”

  “It…it might get a trifle messy.”

  “Darling, that’s what dry cleaners are for!” The image of him laying me out on the cool fur and then following me down to cover my body with his was arousing. Desire arrowed down to the core of my body, and I shifted restlessly in my seat. What would Nigel think if I reached under my dress and began touching myself? If I spread my legs and slid a finger over the crotch of my panties? Or better yet, reached for his hand and had him do it? I crossed my legs and squeezed my thighs together. “Nigel, which of our apartments is closer?”

  “Mine is. Why?”

  “It’s too light for us to pull over and make love, and I don’t believe I can wait until we arrive at my apartment.”

  He stalled the car.

  But once he got it back in gear, he lost no time in getting us to Arlington.

  * * * *

  Chapter 6

  We continued deciphering codes for the Venona Project, until late in 1960, when Nigel’s talents were no longer needed by the National Security Agency, and he returned to the CIA.

  My family was surprised that we remained together, although they did try to conceal it in my presence. Tony was annoyed, but for some reason his ire was directed not only at Nigel, but at Father as well.

  “What did Father have to do with me keeping company with Nigel, Tony?”

  “Too damn much,” he growled under his breath, but I heard him anyway.

  “Explain that, if you please?”

  “There’s nothing to explain.” Father approached us, a bluff smile on his face. “I simply knew you and Nigel would make an ideal couple.”

  And beyond that he would say nothing.

  * * * *

  Nigel and I never spoke of love, but the ties—emotional as well as physical—that bound us together were stronger than words.

  “Portia?”

  “Yes, darling?” I stood before the mirror, screwing into my ears the sapphires my parents had given me for my eighteenth birthday. We’d been to the inauguration—in spite of Mr. Mann’s words, the young senator from Massachusetts had defeated the former vice president—and now we were getting ready to go to the inaugural ball.

  “Bryan is sending me on a mission.” Nigel’s eyes were reflected in the mirror, and I watched them, almost gray-green now to match the muted colors in the tie I had given him as a Christmas gift.

  “Official cover, Nigel?” A sham position which would afford him diplomatic immunity in whatever embassy he was assigned.

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have been lying to me, but I was able to see the truth in his eyes.

  I picked up the bottle of the perfume he’d had blended for me as a birthday gift—Solo Tu—tipped it, and stroked my fingertip behind my ears and over my pulse points. It was going to be the first time we’d be apart. How long would he be away?

  “Portia, if I asked you to come with me on this mission, would you consider it? I know a justice of the peace in South Carolina. As soon as we’ve put in an appearance at the reception, we can slip out and get married today.”

  Ah. That explained the drive to South Carolina. The three day waiting period was unnecessary.

  “Isn’t that going a bit far for cover? I mean, we could get false documents that would simply state we were husband and wife.”

  He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. “Obviously I’ve done this wrong. I’m asking you to marry me.”

  I blinked and turned to stare at him. “Marry you, marry you?”

  The corner of his mouth twisted in a wry grin. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “I hadn’t though
t…Would this be just for the mission?”

  “No. It would be for the traditional reasons—in sickness and in health, until death did us part. Would you consider it?”

  “Mother would have wanted to pull out all the stops for my wedding.” I sighed. “This is the only chance she’ll have to play mother of the bride.”

  “All right, darling. I understand. Of course you’ll want a fancy wedding with someone who had your parents’ approval. I just wish it might be me.”

  “You didn’t let me finish, Nigel.” It was naughty of me to tease him, but I couldn’t resist. I went into his arms and curled my hand around his neck, stroking the hollow at its base. Burn for me, Nigel! God knows I burn for you! “I want you to realize that even if we do get married today, we’re still in for a huge, formal wedding.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve never really seen Mother in action. This is what she does best. Firstly, she’s going to be adamant about a June wedding, and for what she’ll plan, that will be June of ‘62 at the earliest. Banks of orchids all over St. Matthew’s Cathedral. My Tau Zeta Epsilon sisters as bridesmaids, and we’re talking about a dozen of them. The woman I’ll ask to be my matron of honor has a set of twins, a boy and a girl, who’ll be four in a year and a half, so that means a ring bearer and a flower girl. The men in cutaways, and you…” I rrowled at him flirtatiously. The man was gorgeous in formalwear. “Me in a white dress with a train that will rival Princess Grace’s…Although I really shouldn’t wear white. Ice blue, perhaps, or champagne pink—”

  “No. It never mattered to me, Portia.” Nigel turned me in his embrace, looked down into my eyes, and said softly, “You’ll look beautiful in white.”

  My eyes burned with tears, and I dropped my gaze to study the pin in his tie. “And there will be relatives crawling out of the woodwork.”

  He frowned. “Mother will want Addison to be my best man.”

  “Must he?”

  “It’s the conventional thing to do.”

  “But we aren’t a conventional couple.”

  “No, we aren’t, are we? I have a friend…we served in Korea together. I hadn’t seen him in a number of years, but I happened to run into him a few weeks ago. I’ll give Carter a call and see if he’d be interested.” He smiled down at me. “Well, if we have that sorted out…Are you game, darling?”

  “I’m very game.” I reached up and kissed his chin.

  “Portia…” he breathed. “My ice princess.”

  “My ice prince.”

  His smile was a little crooked. He kissed me quickly. “Let’s go. Jackie will hate it if we’re late!”

  * * * *

  Nigel’s mission was based in Berlin.

  There had been rumors that the Communists were becoming increasingly agitated about the number of East Germans who were choosing to leave the country of their birth and make a life in West Germany, and he was assigned to look into it.

  We’d been in the American sector of Berlin for almost three months, and while Nigel dealt with bureaucrats both German and American, I toured the city. I was as poor a cook as ever, but I’d found a German woman who was willing to prepare dinner for a few marks plus the cost of the food.

  On this particular day, Nigel came home early. “Sorry, darling, but I won’t be able to have dinner with you this evening.”

  “Oh? Are you looking up an old girlfriend?” I teased him. I knew he’d never do that. He was too honorable a man.

  “If only,” he teased right back. “I need to make contact with a former associate.”

  “Shall I keep some schnitzengruben warm for you?”

  “Not necessary. I’ll grab a bite after I meet with Milos Diomedes.”

  “The Greek?”

  “How do you know the Greek?”

  “Be careful.”

  “It’s just a simple—”

  “I know.” I went to him and stroked my palm over his hair, smoothing it down. “Humor me?”

  “What’s wrong, Portia?” He took me in his arms, and I tucked my head under his chin.

  I couldn’t tell him that for the past two days I’d felt as if someone had been watching us. I’d glance around casually, but couldn’t see anyone suspicious.

  I raised my head. “Just please be careful tonight.”

  Nigel stared down into my eyes, then cupped my face with both hands and brought my mouth to his. His lips were warm, and I deepened the kiss and wrapped my arms around him and held on.

  We were both breathing heavily when we broke the kiss. He rubbed his cheek against mine. “I wish we had time…”

  “When you return home. Right now, you’d better shave.”

  His huff of laughter teased my ear, and I hummed with pleasure. Finally I stepped back.

  “Shave, darling. You don’t want to keep Diomedes waiting.”

  * * * *

  I was in bed when Nigel returned home shortly before midnight. “How did it go?” I asked casually.

  “Waste of time. He never showed up.” He sat on the edge of the bed, untied his shoes, and toed them off. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.” He removed his socks and stood, tugging his shirt out of his waistband.

  “It’s all right. You know I can’t sleep unless you’re next to me.”

  “God, I’m exhausted.” He unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off.

  “Come to bed, darling.” I watched as his torso was revealed. My fingers twitched with the need to stroke the hair that covered his chest, but if he was that tired, I’d let him get some rest.

  The early hours of the morning were always an excellent time to make love.

  * * * *

  In the hours just after dawn I was awakened by abdominal cramps and a wave of nausea. I barely managed to get to the bathroom before the nausea overwhelmed me.

  The sound of my retching woke Nigel, and he found me doubled over the commode. He held my hair off my face as I continued to vomit until finally there was nothing left to come up.

  “That schnitzengruben really didn’t agree with me!” I was certain it must be a touch of food poisoning and tried to make light of the situation. “I don’t understand it. I’ve never reacted to German food this violently.”

  “I’m sorry, darling. This hasn’t been much of a honeymoon for you.”

  “Nigel…” I pressed my palm to his cheek. I wanted to tell him that it was being there with him that made it such a pleasure, but I felt too wretched.

  “I promise for our next honeymoon I’ll take you to Paris.” He brushed sweat-damp hair out of my eyes.

  For two intelligent people, we were amazingly blind.

  “Do we have any Bromo-Seltzer?”

  “No, but there must be an all-night pharmacy somewhere. I’ll go—”

  “You can’t. You need your rest. You have that meeting in the morning.”

  “I’ll cancel it. “

  “No! You worked too hard to set this up; it’s too important. If Bryan thinks I’m a liability to you, he’ll try to make me go home.”

  “Do you think I’d let him separate us?”

  “Of course no-” My stomach roiled, and I breathed shallowly. “Perhaps you’d better try to find that pharmacy, Nigel.”

  He worried his lower lip. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Will you be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine, darling. I promise you. Just help me back to bed.”

  I expected him to set me on my feet, but he scooped me up in his arms and carried me to the narrow bed we shared. That was such a gallant action. Weak tears filled my eyes. I never wept, and that frightened me even more than the pain that I was keeping from my husband.

  He set me down on the bed and pulled the duvet up around my shoulders, then stroked my hair, leaned down, and pressed his lips to mine before I could turn away. I murmured a protest.

  “Portia, why wouldn’t you want me to kiss you?”

  “I’ve been puking my insides out. My mouth is so sour.”

  “Darling, I…�
�� His smile held a touch of sadness, and if I hadn’t felt so wretched, I would have questioned him about it. As it was, I just wanted him out of the room while I could still bite back the moans. “That’s a rather inelegant manner of phrasing it. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  I nodded, and he dressed and kissed me once more before he left. And of course, as soon as he closed the door, the pain subsided. I gave a sigh of relief and closed my eyes, determined to catch up on the sleep I had missed during the night.

  But the need to use the bathroom became overpowering, and I growled a swear word I’d overheard my brothers using when they hadn’t realized I was nearby. That was something I would normally never permit myself to do. I pushed aside the duvet and got to my feet.

  The tugging pain was back, coming in waves now, and I had just reached the bathroom when I felt a warm gush between my legs.

  Blood, bright red, pooling on the floor. I was having a miscarriage.

  * * * *

  My diaphragm had failed; the doctor who saw me gave that as the reason for the pregnancy. He had no explanation for its loss.

  I wondered briefly if the baby I’d lost would have been a boy or a girl, and if he or she would have resembled me or my husband. But there was the crisis in Berlin to worry about, and I pushed it out of my mind.

  Nigel had seen that the information was passed on to Bryan, who sent word that we were to return to the States, that the NOCs, the officers with non-official cover, would take it from there.

  We were in Nigel’s office, packing up the odds and ends we had accumulated in the past six and a half months, when Jefferson strode in.

  “Hello, little sister.” He kissed my cheek. “Mann.”

  “Sebring. I assume Bryan contacted you?”

  “Yeah. This is my sector now.” Jefferson would make sure key people were in place in East Germany, and he would encourage equally key people to leave before it became impossible. “Word is a Wall will go up within the next two weeks.”

  A junior officer tapped on the door. “Mr. Mann? The ambassador would like to have a word with you.”

  Nigel looked puzzled but shrugged. “I’ll be right back.”

  “No rush, Mann.” My brother’s expression was bland. I knew he was up to something.