Dinner In Question

Rain had dried to a gray sheen on the office windows by the time Isabella stepped inside. She carried a red purse in one hand and a paper shopping bag in the other, as if she had come from errands instead of from the city.

Aleandro did not rise from behind the desk.

Vincent stood near the door, hands folded behind his back. Two security men remained outside in the hall.

Isabella crossed the carpet with a small smile already set in place. “You’re working late.”

“So are you.”

She leaned down and brushed a kiss near his cheek. Her fingers touched his sleeve, then slipped away before they settled.

Aleandro watched the pause. Watched her face recover itself.

“How was your afternoon?” she asked.

“Busy.”

“Mine too.” She set the paper bag on the credenza. “I brought dinner from that place you like.”

“I’m not hungry.”

A flicker crossed her mouth and was gone. She glanced at Vincent. “Is something wrong?”

Aleandro opened a folder and turned one page, slow enough to be annoying. “Tell me about the port schedule.”

Her brows lifted. “The port?”

“Pier 42. The grain shipment. When does it clear customs?”

She blinked once. “Tomorrow morning. I think.”

“You think.”

“The paperwork changed after lunch.” She stepped closer to the desk. “You know how they are.”

He looked at her long enough for the silence to settle. On the street below, a horn blared, then faded.

“The manifests moved to Thursday,” he said.

Color left her face by a degree. Not enough for a stranger. Enough for him.

“Right,” she said softly. “Thursday.”

He closed the folder.

Vincent came forward without being asked and placed a matte-black device on the desk between them. It had a green light the size of a pinhead, still glowing.

Isabella’s gaze dropped to it.

Her throat moved once.

“What is that?” she asked.

“A listening device,” Aleandro said.

Her hand went to the back of a chair and stayed there. “No.”

“You were seen leaving the study with your red purse on Wednesday evening,” he said. “You came back twice before sunset.”

She stared at him, then at the device, then at the door as if measuring the distance.

“Who told you that?” she whispered.

“A child did.”

Her mouth opened, then closed.

Vincent waited by the desk like a man at inspection.

Aleandro turned the device with two fingers. “Emma said it looked like a bug on a tomato vine.”

Isabella’s knees buckled a fraction, then locked. She did not sit. She did not cry. The color in her face drained to the line around her lips.

“No,” she said again, smaller this time.

Aleandro stood. “You can tell me who else knows. Or you can let me find out the hard way.”

Outside, rainwater tapped the glass in slow, even strokes.

He laid the device beside the folder and slid both to the center of the desk, where she could see them.

Then he reached for the grandfather clock key in his pocket and turned toward the study door, already planning the next room, the next lock, the next question.