Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [269]
“I want to meet those brothers,” she said. For the first time, she felt like smiling, and so she did, a lovely smile that was filled with hope.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Washington, D.C.
Late Saturday night, it was colder in Washington than it had been in Stockholm. The temperature had plummeted early in the day and the skies had opened up and sprinkled a dusting of snow all over the East Coast. Lily was finally in bed, her shoulder and back no longer throbbing from the shards of marble that had struck her. “Nothing important here—all surface pain,” the Swedish doctor had said, and she’d wanted to slug him. Now she would probably have more scars.
When she’d said this on a sigh to Simon, he’d said, as he’d eased some pillows around her on the roomy first-class seat, that he liked banged-up women. The scars showed character.
“No,” Lily had said as she let him ease a thin airplane blanket to her chin, “what it shows is that the woman has bad judgment.”
He’d laughed as he’d kissed her. Then he’d smoothed the hair off her forehead and kissed her again, not laughing this time.
Then Simon had cupped her face in his palm and said very quietly, since the movie was over and everyone was trying to sleep in the dimly lit cabin, “I think we’re going to make a fine team, Lily. You, me, and No Wrinkles Remus.”
Lily snuggled down under the comforter. She hoped Simon was doing better than she was. Like her, he’d been ready to fall flat on his face from exhaustion. She hoped he was sleeping.
Actually, Simon was turning slowly over in the too-short cot, not wanting to roll himself accidentally off onto the floor. He had managed to get the blanket carefully wrapped around his feet, no easy thing, since his feet were off the cot and on the big side. He’d taken up temporary residence in Sean’s room, down the hall from Lily, since the baby was still with Mrs. Savich. A precaution, Dillon had said as he’d helped Dane Carver, a new special agent in his unit, carry in the narrow army cot that would be Simon’s bed. He’d announced to both men that he didn’t care if he had to fit himself into Sean’s crib, if that’s what it took to get to sleep.
Simon knew she was okay, just down the hall. Not near enough to him for the time being, but Simon had plans to change that. He could easily picture her in his brownstone, could picture how he’d redo one of those large upstairs bedrooms to make it her workroom. Great light in that room, exactly right for her.
Simon was smiling as he breathed in the scent of Sean. Nice scent, but he would have preferred to be in the guest room with Lily, in her bed. He’d always been a patient man, which, he supposed, was a good thing, since he’d only known Lily for a little more than two weeks.
As for Lily, she didn’t know why she couldn’t sleep. It was after midnight in Washington, morning in Sweden. But she and Simon had been in Sweden such a short time, her body had no clue what time of day it was. She was beyond exhaustion, yet she couldn’t sleep.
She was still very worried about her brother. Tammy Tuttle hadn’t shown up, hadn’t come after Dillon, and both her brother and Sherlock were frustrated and on edge, at their wits’ end.
On Friday afternoon, as announced, Dillon had taken a taxi to the airport and checked in for a flight to Texas. Then, at the last minute, he’d deplaned and slipped back into the house in Georgetown.
Now it was Saturday night, well beyond the deadline, and Lily knew there were still agents covering the house. Jimmy Maitland wasn’t taking any chances, and the very sophisticated house alarm was set.
Lily hoped Dillon and Sherlock were sleeping better than she was. She knew they missed Sean. When they’d all come up to bed, they’d automatically turned to go to Sean’s room.
She rolled onto her side and sucked in her breath at a sudden jab of pain. She didn’t want to take any more pain pills. She closed her eyes and saw that huge room again, its walls covered with her grandmother’s paintings. So many to be returned to museums