The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 Read Online Free PDF Page B

since he wasn't in the habit of making women cry he didn't need them.  
    "Fuck." The oath slipped out on an exhaled sigh. "Kate, are you all right, there? Should we . . . would you like to get some fresh air? Maybe?"
    They emerged from the dimness of the barn into bright sunshine, and he followed her to a picnic bench placed along a tree line separating the pasture from an adjoining hay field. Kate sat down heavily. Loose in every joint, the seat skewed dangerously sideways and he braced a hand on the edge before lowering himself with more caution.
    Kate had already composed herself, but the changing shade of her eyes—a sort of aquamarine in full sunlight—presented a different kind of distraction, one Conor could neutralize only by rationing his glimpses at them, like a man sipping at something he knows is too strong for him.
    "That was . . . weird." She sounded calm and puzzled. After considering a number of responses, he decided to risk none of them.
    "I'm not usually like this." She dropped her chin to her chest. "What an idiotic thing to say. "
    "It's not idiotic." Conor was grateful to offer a comment that couldn't be misconstrued.
    "Have you ever been married?" she asked.
    "No. I got engaged once, years ago. Didn't work out. She thought she could do better and I'm sure she was right."
    "That's very gallant." She smiled and bent her head, picking at the cracked edge of the bench. "You probably think I hate those cows. I don't, but I can't say I love them, either. He seemed to, though. We found the inn on our honeymoon. How could a painter resist a name like Rembrandt, right?"
    "Was he an artist?" Conor asked.
    "No, I am . . . was. Am." Her brow puckered. "Michael grew up on a farm in Newfoundland, but he had a falling out with his family and ended up in New York. He had a job selling software systems to restaurants and bars—high tech cash registers, basically. He still liked to call himself a 'simple Newfie farmer.' I met him at a cocktail party my father hosted at La Grenouille. He wasn't an invited guest. He'd come to train the bartender, then he crashed the party to meet me." A private smile touched her lips and quickly disappeared. "Anyway. We came back here for our first anniversary and found out the place was for sale. Eventually, we made an offer and they accepted."
    Kate stopped. The sun continued climbing and a bead of perspiration trickled down Conor's back. He removed his jacket and laid it between them. After a moment she reached down to pluck one of the early dandelions dotting the pasture like pinpricks of sunlight.
    "A week after his memorial service I went ahead with the closing. We'd already made the arrangements. My family called me crazy, but that's nothing new. I headed up here with a couple of suitcases. Good thing I had them because the rest of my stuff got lost. The moving van never showed up. Ever. Talk about a clean slate. But I don't regret coming here, not for a minute." She rubbed the flower against her lips and gazed at the barn. "I do wonder if keeping the farm was a mistake. I want to believe my motives were noble, but sometimes I think I'm hanging on to these cows just so . . ."
    She paused again, and under the influence of equally complicated thoughts Conor filled the silence without thinking. "So you can stay angry with him. For leaving you alone to deal with everything." As soon as the words left his mouth he flinched in alarm and turned to her. "Kate, I—Jesus. I've no idea why I said that. I'm sorry."
    "Don't be. You're probably on to something." Kate tossed the dandelion into the grass. "It's what happened to you, right? You had to run the family farm when your brother died."
    Conor didn't need to answer. The question was rhetorical, the assumption cemented, and he'd been taught to exploit such opportunities. He could shape the narrative to match what she already believed by simply remaining silent. Their eyes met . . . and he couldn't do it. "Didn't happen like that, but I'm