The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 Read Online Free Page A
Author: Kathryn Guare
listened, and exhaled. No, he probably hadn't yelled. He looked over at the clock on the bedside table and groaned. Wide-awake and wired like a watch spring at two in the morning. He rubbed a hand over his chin and squeezed his eyes shut. God, he wanted a cigarette.
3
M ORNING ARRIVED WITH A FRESHLY WASHED QUALITY ; the dew could almost be wrung from the air and sipped. Vaporous bundles of fog crouched on the pastures, and a breeze stirring the curtains of Kate's bedroom brought in the loamy smell of softening earth and everything that had crumbled into it the previous fall. She breathed in the aroma with a shiver of pleasure. Spring's grip was established and strengthening daily.
She went to the hallway of the guest bedroom and stopped short as she rounded the corner. Empty. No tea tray left outside for her. Annoyed, Kate considered giving a sharp, housekeeper's rap on Conor's door before shrugging off the irritation and heading downstairs. An aroma of coffee and warm cinnamon wafted up the staircase along with the sound of voices from the kitchen.
"Careful now, don't drip on the edges. It bakes on like concrete. Nice and—whoa! Too full."
"Are you sure you want me doing this?"
"You're managing fine, and if a little work scares you, stay in the dining room and don't be poking around back here."
"I'll try to remember that."
Kate swung through the door to find Conor standing at the stainless steel prep counter, pouring batter into muffin tins. A completed batch sat in a basket on the marble-topped island in the center of the kitchen, and with a pinch of remorse she noted the teapot and mug she'd delivered to his room were drying in the dish drainer.
"New trend, Abigail? Make the guests cook their own breakfast?"
As the clatter of the tea tray had startled Conor the previous evening, her abrupt entrance prompted a nervous, involuntary jerk in his shoulders, sending a splash of batter across the counter. Abigail spun to face Kate, smirking.
"Fine, very funny, but you should have warned him. Anyone lurking in my kitchen is fair game. I found him prowling around the cupboards when I got here this morning."
"Prowling." A muscle moved in Conor's jaw, but his face was unreadable. "I was only looking for the dish soap."
As he wiped up the spill Kate tried to judge the effect of this first, unfiltered dose of Abigail Perini. People exhibited varying reactions to her theatrical chef. Correctly anticipating when to laugh and when to apologize was a skill she'd sharpened out of vital necessity. "I hope you at least got some breakfast before she put you to work?"
"Breakfast!" Abigail bellowed cheerfully. "I should say he's had breakfast! Sausage, eggs, three rounds of toast and a big pot of tea. We'll go broke trying to keep this one fed."
"Abigail," Kate pleaded.
"I'll admit he needed some persuasion to get beyond the tea, but eventually he found his appetite."
"I don't think I'd much of a choice." Head lowered, Conor was again focused on the flow of batter into the muffin tins. Kate raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Abigail, who responded with a wink.
"I'm going down to inspect what's left of the pickles. You're in charge." The kitchen door swung on its hinges as she exited and Conor gave a low whistle.
"Here endeth the lesson."
Kate tossed up her hands. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. She came with the place when I bought it."
"Like a poltergeist?"
"Exactly." She was relieved to see a grin steal over his face. "Actually, I wish I had half as much energy as she does. We have a sous-chef who covers breakfast when the inn is open, a young Somalian man who just graduated from the culinary school, but most mornings Abigail shows up anyway. Her husband, Dominic, is our dining room manager. He'd never get a hot meal if he didn't work here. She's right, I should have warned you, and honestly Conor, you don't have to finish those."
He was lifting the muffin tins with careful concentration. "Oh, I think I do.
3
M ORNING ARRIVED WITH A FRESHLY WASHED QUALITY ; the dew could almost be wrung from the air and sipped. Vaporous bundles of fog crouched on the pastures, and a breeze stirring the curtains of Kate's bedroom brought in the loamy smell of softening earth and everything that had crumbled into it the previous fall. She breathed in the aroma with a shiver of pleasure. Spring's grip was established and strengthening daily.
She went to the hallway of the guest bedroom and stopped short as she rounded the corner. Empty. No tea tray left outside for her. Annoyed, Kate considered giving a sharp, housekeeper's rap on Conor's door before shrugging off the irritation and heading downstairs. An aroma of coffee and warm cinnamon wafted up the staircase along with the sound of voices from the kitchen.
"Careful now, don't drip on the edges. It bakes on like concrete. Nice and—whoa! Too full."
"Are you sure you want me doing this?"
"You're managing fine, and if a little work scares you, stay in the dining room and don't be poking around back here."
"I'll try to remember that."
Kate swung through the door to find Conor standing at the stainless steel prep counter, pouring batter into muffin tins. A completed batch sat in a basket on the marble-topped island in the center of the kitchen, and with a pinch of remorse she noted the teapot and mug she'd delivered to his room were drying in the dish drainer.
"New trend, Abigail? Make the guests cook their own breakfast?"
As the clatter of the tea tray had startled Conor the previous evening, her abrupt entrance prompted a nervous, involuntary jerk in his shoulders, sending a splash of batter across the counter. Abigail spun to face Kate, smirking.
"Fine, very funny, but you should have warned him. Anyone lurking in my kitchen is fair game. I found him prowling around the cupboards when I got here this morning."
"Prowling." A muscle moved in Conor's jaw, but his face was unreadable. "I was only looking for the dish soap."
As he wiped up the spill Kate tried to judge the effect of this first, unfiltered dose of Abigail Perini. People exhibited varying reactions to her theatrical chef. Correctly anticipating when to laugh and when to apologize was a skill she'd sharpened out of vital necessity. "I hope you at least got some breakfast before she put you to work?"
"Breakfast!" Abigail bellowed cheerfully. "I should say he's had breakfast! Sausage, eggs, three rounds of toast and a big pot of tea. We'll go broke trying to keep this one fed."
"Abigail," Kate pleaded.
"I'll admit he needed some persuasion to get beyond the tea, but eventually he found his appetite."
"I don't think I'd much of a choice." Head lowered, Conor was again focused on the flow of batter into the muffin tins. Kate raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Abigail, who responded with a wink.
"I'm going down to inspect what's left of the pickles. You're in charge." The kitchen door swung on its hinges as she exited and Conor gave a low whistle.
"Here endeth the lesson."
Kate tossed up her hands. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. She came with the place when I bought it."
"Like a poltergeist?"
"Exactly." She was relieved to see a grin steal over his face. "Actually, I wish I had half as much energy as she does. We have a sous-chef who covers breakfast when the inn is open, a young Somalian man who just graduated from the culinary school, but most mornings Abigail shows up anyway. Her husband, Dominic, is our dining room manager. He'd never get a hot meal if he didn't work here. She's right, I should have warned you, and honestly Conor, you don't have to finish those."
He was lifting the muffin tins with careful concentration. "Oh, I think I do.
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