Keeper's Reach. Carla NeggersЧитать онлайн книгу.
porridge.”
“As many times as I’ve been to England, I still don’t know what a kipper is.”
“Fish.”
“I know that much. Have you ever tried kippers?”
“Yes. They’re good grilled. Not the most attractive food.”
He was clearly not there to talk about kippers, either. The waiter returned with her coffee press. Naomi settled on porridge for her hot breakfast, and he again withdrew, giving no indication he sensed she wasn’t that happy with her breakfast mate.
She poured coffee into the mug already on the table and added cream from a small pitcher. Kavanagh eyed her without comment. He didn’t look tired or distracted or as if he’d had nightmares. He looked alert and impatient, a know-it-all who figured he could tell what she was thinking before she thought it. A good FBI agent, maybe, but not her favorite. She had tolerated him in Afghanistan because she’d had no choice.
Without comment, she got up and helped herself to the buffet. She filled a bowl with natural yogurt and added a couple of scoops of chopped fresh fruit, then put a croissant, still warm from the oven, on a small plate.
“I’m disappointed,” she said as she returned to her seat. “I wanted scones.”
Kavanagh frowned at her. “A croissant and porridge? That’s a lot of carbs, Naomi.”
“I’m flying later today.” She figured he already knew that. “Carbs will help me sleep. I have to tell you, T.K., it creeps me out that you’re here.”
He poured the last few drops of his tea. It was the color of coffee by now. “You should feel well protected.”
Naomi dipped a spoon into her yogurt and fruit. “Why is it that I don’t?”
“Because you have a habit of placing your trust in the wrong people.”
“If that were true, I’d be dead by now.” She leveled her gaze at him. “So would you.”
“Maybe so.”
There was no maybe about it, but Naomi didn’t argue with him. Kavanagh wanted her to have a habit of trusting the wrong people because it would help him somehow, if only to throw her off balance and get in her head.
He glanced at a row of framed botanical prints on the side wall. Local grasses, wildflowers and herbs. “What are you up to, Naomi?” he asked, shifting back to her.
She tried the yogurt. It was smooth and creamy, made without added pectin. With the fruit, it was perfection. “Are you following me because you think I’m up to something? As I told you in London, you’re wasting your time. I’m a crisis management consultant who met with a group of medical volunteers who are planning their deployment to a hot spot in Africa. I’m helping them assess their security needs and then take appropriate steps to meet them. That’s all I’m up to.”
Kavanagh smirked at her. “It’s not all.”
“I’m not arguing with you, T.K.”
“Why this particular twee English village?”
Naomi ate more of her yogurt and drank some of her coffee. What she wanted to do was to eat six croissants and go back to bed. She made herself smile at the FBI agent across from her. “Twee. I love that word. I’ve wanted to visit the Cotswolds but never could find the time. Now I have, if only for one night.”
“That doesn’t explain why you chose this village,” Kavanagh said.
“This place comes highly recommended by an internet travel site I trust.” It was true, as far as it went. “What about you? Did you follow my car, or did you overhear me when I told the bellman where I was going? It wasn’t a secret, but the only person I actually told is my mother.”
“How is your mother, Naomi?”
“Great. Sewing up a storm. Think where I could be now if I’d paid attention and let her teach me how to sew drapes and beauty-pageant dresses.”
“Or if your father hadn’t been killed by an IED when you were a freshman at Vanderbilt,” Kavanagh said quietly.
Naomi finished the last of her yogurt. “Yes, that, too.” She refused to let him distract her, even if she had given him the opening. “This is a good place, don’t you think? I’d love to relax here for a few nights.”
Kavanagh leaned forward, his pale green eyes narrowed on her. “You’re giving me careful answers, Naomi.”
“Why wouldn’t I, seeing how you’re an FBI agent?”
Her porridge arrived. The waiter didn’t linger. Naomi didn’t blame him. Kavanagh wasn’t in full-blown FBI interrogation mode, but it was close enough.
She decided to lighten her tone and change the subject. “Did the rooster wake you up this morning? He did me.”
“I didn’t notice a rooster. I sleep soundly.”
She broke off a piece of croissant and popped it in her mouth as she noticed a drizzle of the promised blackberry compote in her porridge. Breakfast was delightful, she decided, refusing to let her companion spoil the moment. “Do you know what kind of rooster has white-spotted black feathers?”
“I’m not here to talk about roosters. Neither are you.”
She picked up the fresh spoon that came with her porridge. It was a lot of porridge. “I’ll look it up. I’m dying to know.”
“You’re playing with fire, Naomi. You know that, don’t you?”
“By having yogurt and porridge with you, you mean?”
Kavanagh’s eyes flared with anger, but he quickly got himself under control. All that FBI discipline and training, she supposed.
Assuming he still was an FBI agent.
She thought about asking to see his credentials to check if they were current, but she wouldn’t be able to identify a good forgery—and Ted Kavanagh would only have a good forgery.
“You know how to get on people’s nerves when it suits you,” he said.
“Sometimes it just works out that way.”
“It’s not on purpose, you mean?”
She didn’t respond. She started on her porridge. It was the chewy pinhead kind, and the trickle of warm blackberry compote turned out to be a sweet, delicious pool. In another life, she would do things like make compotes. In this life—her life now, at this moment—she did things like get through surprise breakfasts with FBI agents she didn’t trust and who didn’t trust her.
“I appreciate that it’s your business to find out things,” he said. “It’s how you make your living. It’s also who you are, though, isn’t it? It’s a control issue. This need to know things.”
“Psychoanalyzing me? It won’t get you far.” She held up her spoon. “This porridge is incredible, T.K. I never would have thought to add blackberry compote, but it’s a stroke of genius. I’m happy I chose the porridge instead of a full English breakfast, since I don’t like black pudding and have trouble with the idea of baked beans before noon. There’s not much you can do to a blackberry that I wouldn’t like. Without the compote, I can’t imagine how annoyed I’d be with you right now. You can’t just make up stuff about me.”
“I’m not making up anything, and I don’t care if you’re annoyed.”
“I’m getting that picture.”
He fingered a bit of loose-leaf tea that had fallen on the table next to his mug. “I need you to be straight with me, Naomi.”
“That’s a two-way street.”
He shook his head. “No, it isn’t.”
“Now