Chapter 2

The First Embrace After I Collapsed

Tamsin met Kit Dacre because of a stuffed wolf with one crooked ear.

Two weeks earlier, she had been in New York for a neurological scan she did not want and results she liked even less. On her way out, she stopped at an old arcade to wait for the rain to ease.

Kit stood alone at a claw machine, feeding it tokens while a nanny argued on the phone several steps away. Each time the metal claw closed around the grey wolf, the toy slipped free.

Tamsin watched him lose five times.

"The machine is cheating," she said.

The small boy looked up at her. Dark curls framed a serious face. "Machines don't cheat."

"This one does. It has dishonest eyes."

Kit studied the painted face on the machine, then moved aside.

Tamsin won the wolf on her second try. She handed it to him and expected nothing more than a thank-you. Instead, he hugged it to his chest and followed her until his nanny finally noticed.

He had not forgotten her.

Now, standing in the Ashcombe guest room, Tamsin read his message again.

Arcade tomorrow?

She should have said no. She had lawyers to meet, a family to fight and a piece of metal in her skull that had started punishing her more often.

Rook rested his chin on her knee.

Tamsin typed, Ten o'clock. Bring your dishonest machine face.

Kit replied with a row of wolf stickers.

The next morning, he waited beside the arcade entrance with his nanny and two men who tried very hard to look like ordinary pedestrians. Tamsin noticed both guards before she crossed the street. She also noticed the black vehicle parked half a block away.

She gave none of them a second glance.

Kit ran to her and stopped just short of throwing his arms around her legs. "You came."

"I feared the machine might hurt someone else."

His mouth twitched. It was the closest he came to a smile.

They spent an hour at the arcade, then walked through older Manhattan streets where fire escapes climbed red-brick buildings and tiny shops sat between towers. Kit spoke little, but his hand found hers whenever the crowd thickened.

He pointed out dogs. Tamsin gave each one a name. A fat bulldog became Lord Pudding. A furious little terrier became General Teeth.

By lunchtime, Kit had laughed three times.

From the rear seat of a dark car, Corin Dacre watched his nephew enter a diner with a woman he had never seen before.

He had come straight from his pre-surgical checks, and the hospital band still circled his wrist beneath his cuff. Each breath pulled faintly at the scar across his chest.

Nolan sat beside him with a tablet. "Her name is Tamsin Penrose. Twenty-eight. From Montana."

"Why is she with Kit?"

"According to the nanny, they met at this arcade two weeks ago. Kit asked to see her again."

Nolan's tone made the harmless words sound like the start of an attack.

Through the window, Corin watched Tamsin bend to listen while Kit spoke. Her long chestnut hair fell over one shoulder. She did not fuss over him or force him to talk. When the waitress brought a burger, she quietly removed the onions from his plate after he wrinkled his nose.

"It could be an approach," Nolan said. "People have used children for less."

"She has not looked at the security team once."

"That could mean she is very good."

"Or it could mean she came for lunch."

Nolan glanced at him. "Your optimism is unsettling."

"Find facts. Do not write your conclusions ahead of time."

Inside the diner, Kit pushed his nanny's phone across the table. "Uncle Corin's number."

"Why would I need that?"

"If I get lost."

Tamsin looked toward the nanny, who gave an awkward nod. Apparently refusing Kit was not a skill anyone around him had mastered.

She saved the number.

"What name?" Kit asked.

She looked through the window at the tall man stepping out of the dark car. He wore a black suit, black shirt and an expression better suited to a funeral.

"Mr. Funeral Suit."

Kit followed her gaze. "That's Uncle Corin."

"My name was close enough."

Corin entered before Kit could answer. People moved out of his path without being asked.

His deep grey eyes settled on Tamsin.

For a strange second, the noise of the diner fell away.

She knew power when she saw it. She also knew danger. Corin Dacre wore both as naturally as his dark suit.

Kit climbed down from the booth. "We ate burgers."

"I can see that." Corin wiped a dot of sauce from the boy's sleeve, then held out his hand to Tamsin. "Corin Dacre."

She shook it. His grip was controlled, his palm warm. "Tamsin Penrose."

His gaze sharpened, as if her name meant something he had not yet remembered.

They stepped outside together. Kit was explaining Lord Pudding when three men stumbled from a bar farther down the street. One of them blocked Tamsin's path.

"Where are you rushing to, sweetheart?"

She moved around him.

His friend laughed. "She thinks she's too good to answer."

The first man reached for her arm. Tamsin turned her wrist, caught his thumb and folded his hand back until he swore and dropped to one knee.

The second man lunged toward her. She shifted Kit behind her, drove a knee into the man's stomach and used his own weight to send him against the wall.

The third made the worst choice. He grabbed for Kit.

Tamsin's calm vanished.

She trapped his elbow, twisted once and forced him face-first across the hood of a parked car. The movement was fast, clean and careful. She could have broken the joint. She stopped just before she did.

"Touch him again," she said softly, "and you will need someone to feed you."

Corin had gone still.

That was not street fighting. Tamsin had measured distance, protected Kit and ended three threats without wasting a motion.

Formal training.

The men fled as soon as the guards closed in.

Kit clutched the back of Tamsin's coat. "Are you hurt?"

"Not even my pride."

Then pain exploded behind her eye.

The street tipped. Sound stretched into a low hum. She tried to reach for the wall, but her fingers caught empty air.

The last thing she saw was Corin moving toward her.

He caught her before her head struck the pavement.

Kit made no sound. That frightened Corin more than a scream would have. The child stood frozen, his small face drained of colour, while Tamsin lay limp in Corin's arms.

"Bring the car," Corin ordered.

At the hospital, Tamsin woke to the smell of antiseptic and a steady monitor beep.

Corin stood beside the window, jacket removed, one hand pressed briefly to his chest. His breathing was too careful. When he turned, the open collar of his shirt revealed the edge of an old surgical scar.

Recognition brushed the back of her mind.

Not his face. Not his name. The shape of the scar, perhaps, or the way he protected one side of his body. Her instincts as Dawn began fitting pieces together before she forced them apart.

"Kit?" she asked.

"Safe. His nanny took him home."

Tamsin sat up. The room swayed once, then settled.

"The doctor recommends you stay for a full work-up," Corin said.

"My neurosurgeon would call you meddlesome."

"At least that means someone keeps you in line."

Her gaze dropped to his chest again. "You are the one who looks like you ought to be hospitalised."

"I just came from there."

"Then learn to follow doctor's orders."

Something almost like amusement touched his eyes, then vanished.

Tamsin pulled the monitor clip from her finger. "Thank you for catching me."

"You lost consciousness after disabling three grown men. Forgive me if gratitude does not end my questions."

"You can ask. I can refuse. It is a beautiful system."

He watched her sign the discharge form against medical advice. "My driver will take you home."

"He can drop me two streets away."

"Why?"

"Because I asked him to."

Corin did not press. He only stepped aside and let her leave.

When the door closed, Nolan entered with the first background report.

"Her meeting with Kit feels too convenient," he said.

"Find facts. Do not write your conclusions ahead of time."

Nolan handed him the tablet. "These are the facts. School records, a few addresses, short contracts. Then gaps. Large ones. Her travel and employment history have been cleaned so well that the missing years look deliberate."

Corin studied Tamsin's photograph. He remembered the exact point at which she had stopped twisting the drunk man's arm. Strength explained force. It did not explain that kind of restraint.

"A woman capable of that level of restraint combat," he said, "yet no certified training courses appear anywhere on her public file?"