Will nodded and took the diary in his hands. He gently opened the worn leather cover and paged to where a black silk ribbon page divider rested and read a short entry.
May 27, 1666
Dearest Diary,
At length the day has come on which I am a mother. My tears flow as I write at the idea, for I am both full of joy and wrought with fear at the prospect. My dearest Paul and Mother Alice have been steadfast at my bedside since the labour, and they chasten me for talking nonsense whenever I speak of my fears.
Little George is so fair, but Alice says he is of nice colour. To my eyes, his likeness is that of Paul, but Paul of course says the opposite, that he is wholly a reflection of me. It is no matter, because all in the family agree that nary have they seen a child so handsome, pleasant, and hungry as George. I have placed a cutting of his hair inside the crease of this page so that I might never forget how soft and fair he was on this, the day of his birth.
As I look upon my son, asleep at my bosom, I think that there is nary a child in the world — perhaps one in one hundred generations — as perfect as he. I pray that the plague never finds him, and that God grants me the good fortune to be able to love him for a thousand thousand to-morrows.
Chapter Thirty-Two
He gazed upon the length of her long, arched naked back. Her skin was the color of crème and smelled of lavender and honey. Caramel freckles accented her shoulders, and together with her rich auburn locks, dutifully honored her Irish lineage. Starting at the nape of her neck, like a running bead of water, he ran his fingertip over her trapezius muscle, and then along the arc of her protruding, angular shoulder blade. Inward next, his touch danced across the plane of her latissimus dorsi, toward the middle of her back. Then downward, he surfed along her spine, and through a herringbone stream of delicate white-blonde peach fuzz that covered the small of her back. She purred, almost inaudibly, with delight. His caress terminated, finally, at a tiny indentation at the junction of her tail-bone and bare, exposed buttocks. In this spot, he deposited a single, gentle kiss, before retracing the same path upward, to its origin, with more kisses.
“You paint me with your touch. This must be how the stones of the Sistine Chapel felt beneath Michelangelo’s brush,” Meredith mused.
“Michelangelo considered himself a sculptor, first and foremost. Painting was conscription labor, for the Pope. Forget about the brush. If you were made of stone, which we can debate later, you would be my David. But hewn as Michelangelo should have hewn it. As a woman,” Nicolora replied, his voice baritone and seductive.
Meredith rolled to her side, and inched toward him. He drifted onto his back, propping himself up slightly, and then extended his arm outward to cradle her. She nuzzled close, pressing her right breast softly against his bare chest, and depositing her cheek in the comfortable depression between his shoulder and pectoral muscle.
“You’ve been a naughty boy, Robért,” she whispered. “Very naughty.”
“And you’ve been a naughty girl, Meredith. Especially about thirty minutes ago.”
“Don’t be cheeky, you know what I’m talking about,” she mewed.
After a pause he said, “If you’re referring to Countess Carlysle, then you should consider the discussion tabled, because I have nothing to say on the matter.”
“I’m not talking about another woman, you stupid lout; I’m talking about you sending your minions to spy on me.” Then, punctuating each word with a bite she moved her mouth across the span of his chest, and said, “I… don’t… appreciate… that.”
“I’m sure…” he said, devoting considerable effort not to flinch with each new and painful nibble, “that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Meredith sat up abruptly, facing him. Chest puffing, face flushed, nipples erect.
“Don’t play coy with me, Robért Nicolora! I know it was you.”
He did not answer, nor did he look her in the eyes, but rather let his gaze linger on her nakedness.
“Oh, you men are so pathetic,” she huffed, as she turned abruptly to exit the bed.
He caught her by her trailing arm before she was completely off the mattress and pulled her forcefully on top of him. “Now wait a minute, Meredith. Don’t do that,” he implored. “I did not mean to offend.”
“Let go of me, you wretch. I never should have come to you.” She squirmed to free herself from his iron grip. “And I never should have trusted you.”
He held her tight. After a halfhearted struggle, she collapsed onto him.
“The team is making steady progress on locating Foster. But this is not an ordinary assignment. You’ve handed me a hornet’s nest, Meredith, and I’m trying to manage it without getting stung,” he said, his eastern European accent emerging, charged by the emotion she had ignited in him.
“I know. It’s just that I’m anxious, Robért. We have to find Foster soon, before more innocent people get hurt by him,” she mumbled, her face pressed tight against his chest.
“I know we do.” They laid together in silence for several minutes and then he said. “I have concerns, Meredith.”
“Like what?”
“First, why did you keep Foster in-house? Why didn’t you hand him over to the CDC or a proper hospital for quarantine and treatment? It seems a tremendous liability for you, and for your company, to accept for the sake of one man in a vaccine trial.”
Meredith grinned unfettered, knowing her face was hidden, buried against his chest. It had required one of her best theatrical performances, but she had finally managed to win the upper hand.
“Do you think I’m heartless, Robért? Those bureaucrats would have argued over treatment protocols, insurance coverage, public safety, and God knows what other red tape for weeks. Meanwhile, poor Will would have been dying inside a giant inflatable Ziploc bag. Someone had to act. Someone had to do the responsible thing. I felt had a duty to try to help him, using any and all means at my disposal.”
“What about Vyrogen’s miracle product? Why would you offer something so experimental to him?”
“If you were in his shoes, staring death in the face, wouldn’t you take it? Even if it’s a long shot, it’s better than doing nothing at all,” she said, avoiding the heart of his question.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He paused, and then added. “Something else I don’t understand is what makes you suspect that Foster is the mastermind behind the espionage? We’ve performed a thorough investigation and background assessment on Foster, and to be perfectly blunt, the piece does not fit the puzzle. He was an advertising exec. Not even a very good one, I might add. Yes, he was down on his luck, but we found nothing in his profile to suggest that he’s capable of contemplating something of this magnitude, let alone capable of orchestrating it. Seriously, Meredith. We are perplexed. Foster has a bachelor’s degree in economics. A nontechnical background, with no experience in microbiology. He has no criminal record. No apparent ties to the pharmaceutical industry whatsoever. Your logic of implicating him escapes us.”
Her mind raced. He had brought up several points she had not considered before she briefed the team. She needed time to think of a proper rebuttal. He was horsing her into a corner. She decided to snarl at him and see if he backed down.
“He did steal the formula and sabotage the lab. That much is fact, Robért. Whether Foster is the mastermind of the plot is a separate matter. Let me remind you that I’ve never claimed to have the answers to this case. In fact, I’ve made it quite clear that my theories were only conjecture based on my extremely limited experience in such matters, and that I am relying on your expertise to unravel the case. That’s why I hired you. I should have never opened my mouth about Foster’s role in the espionage, because I set your team looking down a path that may not be the true path.”