brought him to Panama, and she assumed it was something government related that was none of her business. In fact, as the evening progressed, he spoke very little about the EA at all. He had plenty of funny Panamanian stories to share but seemed most interested in hearing her talk about the RUNA.
“You could just visit, you know,” she teased at one point, after he’d quizzed her extensively about the latest happenings in Vancouver. They were more than halfway through the wine. “Find me, and I’ll show you around.”
“Ever been out to Vancouver Island?” He looked astonished when she shook her head. “It’s gorgeous. And in the middle, there’s this observatory from before the Decline. They’ve restored it, and you can go outthere and stand on the hill and feel like you’re in the center of the galaxy.” He spread his hands out. “Stars everywhere. And so quiet. Not many places are that quiet anymore.”
Mae wasn’t one for fantasies, but she could suddenly picture it and found herself taken with the idea of some starry escapade with a guy she’d just met. “Then you’ll have to show me.”
He gave her that heart-pounding smile, though it was tinged with a little wistfulness. “I’d like that, but…I’m pretty busy here. I don’t get home—or anywhere—very often.”
“Diplomacy’s hard work, huh?” She nodded toward the jacket he’d tossed aside.
“I suppose,” he said in amusement. “I don’t really think of what I do as diplomacy, though. Mostly I read people and figure out puzzles.”
“Are you any good at it?” He was right about the wine. It was excellent. Too bad she couldn’t experience the full effect.
“Well, I’d be fired if you were part of my job. You’re not so easy to read.” When she didn’t say anything, he gave a low chuckle. “But you like that I said that, which starts to tell me something after all.”
She lifted her eyes from the wineglass. “Like what?”
His eyes held her once more as he pondered for a few seconds. “That your whole life is—and has been—about different images. What people think you are. What people want you to be. What you want yourself to be. You don’t like people making assumptions about you, but you don’t want to show them the truth either.”
“And what truth is that?” She tried to sound joking but couldn’t quite manage it. His words hit too close to home. Again, he took a long time to answer.
“That you’re sad, for one thing.” He reached out and brushed messy, damp hair from her face. It was a gentle gesture, but it sent a spark of electricity through her. “What does a devastatingly beautiful Nordic woman who can throw grown men around and play piano arrangements of Saint-Saëns have to be sad about?”
Something in Mae tightened, and she suddenly had to fight an overwhelming urge to tell this handsome stranger about everything: herfather, Porfirio, the prætorians, the recurring sense of an inexplicable force controlling her…. Instead, she smiled at something he’d said. “You know Saint-Saëns.”
“Of course I know Saint-Saëns.” The tone of his voice implied it would be ludicrous if he didn’t. “You’re trying to dodge answering.”
“Will you answer the same question? Why are you sad?”
Because he was. She hadn’t noticed it right away, not until he’d called her out. He’d been all charisma and wit tonight, and that disarming smile and the rest of his looks had done a good job at keeping her distracted by what was outside rather than within. But she could see it now as he studied her so intently: a melancholy inside him that resonated with her own. She expected him to respond with a quip, but he answered in all seriousness.
“I’m sad because you remind me of home.” He dropped his hand from her and sighed. “Because you’re beautiful and bright and dynamic and a whole lot of other things I haven’t seen for a long time…and won’t see again any time soon.”
Mae rested
“You could just visit, you know,” she teased at one point, after he’d quizzed her extensively about the latest happenings in Vancouver. They were more than halfway through the wine. “Find me, and I’ll show you around.”
“Ever been out to Vancouver Island?” He looked astonished when she shook her head. “It’s gorgeous. And in the middle, there’s this observatory from before the Decline. They’ve restored it, and you can go outthere and stand on the hill and feel like you’re in the center of the galaxy.” He spread his hands out. “Stars everywhere. And so quiet. Not many places are that quiet anymore.”
Mae wasn’t one for fantasies, but she could suddenly picture it and found herself taken with the idea of some starry escapade with a guy she’d just met. “Then you’ll have to show me.”
He gave her that heart-pounding smile, though it was tinged with a little wistfulness. “I’d like that, but…I’m pretty busy here. I don’t get home—or anywhere—very often.”
“Diplomacy’s hard work, huh?” She nodded toward the jacket he’d tossed aside.
“I suppose,” he said in amusement. “I don’t really think of what I do as diplomacy, though. Mostly I read people and figure out puzzles.”
“Are you any good at it?” He was right about the wine. It was excellent. Too bad she couldn’t experience the full effect.
“Well, I’d be fired if you were part of my job. You’re not so easy to read.” When she didn’t say anything, he gave a low chuckle. “But you like that I said that, which starts to tell me something after all.”
She lifted her eyes from the wineglass. “Like what?”
His eyes held her once more as he pondered for a few seconds. “That your whole life is—and has been—about different images. What people think you are. What people want you to be. What you want yourself to be. You don’t like people making assumptions about you, but you don’t want to show them the truth either.”
“And what truth is that?” She tried to sound joking but couldn’t quite manage it. His words hit too close to home. Again, he took a long time to answer.
“That you’re sad, for one thing.” He reached out and brushed messy, damp hair from her face. It was a gentle gesture, but it sent a spark of electricity through her. “What does a devastatingly beautiful Nordic woman who can throw grown men around and play piano arrangements of Saint-Saëns have to be sad about?”
Something in Mae tightened, and she suddenly had to fight an overwhelming urge to tell this handsome stranger about everything: herfather, Porfirio, the prætorians, the recurring sense of an inexplicable force controlling her…. Instead, she smiled at something he’d said. “You know Saint-Saëns.”
“Of course I know Saint-Saëns.” The tone of his voice implied it would be ludicrous if he didn’t. “You’re trying to dodge answering.”
“Will you answer the same question? Why are you sad?”
Because he was. She hadn’t noticed it right away, not until he’d called her out. He’d been all charisma and wit tonight, and that disarming smile and the rest of his looks had done a good job at keeping her distracted by what was outside rather than within. But she could see it now as he studied her so intently: a melancholy inside him that resonated with her own. She expected him to respond with a quip, but he answered in all seriousness.
“I’m sad because you remind me of home.” He dropped his hand from her and sighed. “Because you’re beautiful and bright and dynamic and a whole lot of other things I haven’t seen for a long time…and won’t see again any time soon.”
Mae rested
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