Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) by Piper Maitland

mezzanine bar, watching for the ministry representative, when a man in a brown leather jacket strode through the doors and up to the reception desk.
    She drew in a ragged breath. It was the ponytailed man from Heathrow—Jude something-or-other. Caro couldn’t decide if she should get his attention or spy a bit longer. Why was he really here? He might not be a reporter but he was acting like an archaeological groupie. Better to hang back, right?
    She grabbed her duffel bag and stepped into the shadows, watching as Jude rested his elbows on the fake marble counter. He had a square face with a boyish, cleft chin. The collar of his jacket stood up against his neck, a tender, boyish neck. He shifted, and his ponytail fanned across his back. Dense shoulders filled out his jacket, the kind of biceps you’d see on a rugby player.
    He looked up at the mezzanine and smiled at her. Dimples. God, she couldn’t stand it. He passed under the chandelier, and the lighting washed over his face. His nose was straight except for an endearing bump near the bridge.
    Breathe, Caro. Count to twenty. But he was already climbing the steps, his glossy ponytail spilling down his back. He stopped in front of her and extended his hand.
    â€œI was hoping to see you,” he said.
    She shook his hand. Firm grip. Smooth palm. No calluses. Just how tall was he? She was almost five foot eight, but his chin could easily fit on top of her head. This morning his face had been smooth, but now there was a grainy shadow along his jaw. Through the stubble, she saw a tiny white scar on his chin. His eyes had a sleepy, jet-lagged look, and she felt an urge to sit him down with a cup of tea and a biscuit.
    â€œYou look lovely tonight,” Jude said. He slipped one hand in his pocket, and his jacket parted, showing a cornflower-blue sweater.
    â€œSo,” she said. Small talk wasn’t her métier. Ask anyone and they’d confirm that she was a cut-to-the-chase sort of girl. Not one of her better qualities. Not by a long shot.
    â€œDo you have time for a sit-down?” He stepped closer, and light from the chandelier passed over his face. He no longer resembled an exhausted boy who needed coddling. He looked like a man who wanted to get laid.
    â€œI’m waiting for a ministry official,” she said. “But I really want to see my uncle’s letters.”
    â€œWe could talk later. Over dinner, perhaps?” He smoothed one hand down the front of his sweater, the gesture of a man who was accustomed to wearing a suit and tie. But wasn’t he a biochemist? Maybe he was into polo, pageantry, the peerage.
    â€œI don’t know how long the meeting will take,” she said, but she was thinking, I’m vulnerable tonight. I don’t trust myself with you .
    â€œNot to worry. I’m in room three fourteen. Ring me, if you get a moment.” He unzipped his backpack and pulled out two creamy envelopes.
    â€œYour uncle’s letters,” he said.
    She started to thank him, but her uncle’s boxy handwriting caught her attention. The first envelope was addressed to Dr. Jude Barrett in Lucerne, Switzerland.
    When she looked up, Jude was halfway down the stairs. She stepped closer to the railing and watched him stride toward the elevators. Caro stuffed the letters into her duffel bag. Just then, the black entry doors swung open, and an entourage stepped into the lobby: A balding, pear-shaped man marched past the front desk, followed by three men in uniforms. The bald man wore an official-looking black coat, but he was gripping a red backpack under one arm. The ministry official, no doubt. As he stopped beneath the chandelier, light bounced off his round eyeglasses. He looked up, spotted her, and walked up the stairs.
    â€œMiss Clifford?” he asked.
    â€œDa. Dobar vecher,” she said in halting Bulgarian.
    â€œI speak English.” He produced a business card and waited while she tucked it away.