London Twist: A Delilah Novella

gray, rainy morning. They took the express train to Paddington Station, then stood awkwardly outside the turnstiles to the subway. Fatima broke the silence.
    “When do you go back to Paris?”
    It was the perfect cue. Delilah said, “Soon, I suppose. I’ve already sent in our interview. I don’t have a reason to stay much longer. A professional reason, I mean.”
    Shit. There had been no good reason to add that last part.
    Fatima nodded. “I know. That was pretty… crazy, wasn’t it?”
    Delilah nodded, thinking,
You have no idea.
    Fatima said, “You’re not… sorry?”
    Delilah shook her head quickly. “No, not at all. Are you?”
    What the hell was wrong with her? She should be sorry. She
was
sorry, though not at all in the way Fatima had intimated. And regardless, reassuring Fatima was exactly the wrong way to play it.
    There was a long pause, then Fatima, her eyes on Delilah’s said, “Stay with me tonight?”
    Say no,
Delilah thought.
You have to go back to Paris. For work. Don’t be an idiot.
    Instead: “I want that, too.”
    Fatima’s face flushed with relief—and excitement? She smiled and said, “Anytime after dark. I’ll text you the address.”
    Delilah nodded wordlessly, and suddenly they were in each other’s arms. The embrace felt like a delicious secret—a harmless hug to any of the passers-by around them; recollected intimacy, and the promise of pleasure to come, between the two of them only.
    She showered and changed back at the rented flat, then went out, did a surveillance detection run, and called Kent from a payphone, using the code he had established to tell him where he could set up a meeting.
    Two hours later, they were sitting in a back corner of The Wolseley, a posh restaurant near the Ritz in Piccadilly, all vaulted ceilings and dramatic pillars and huge chandeliers. Over pluperfect English breakfasts, tea, and a basket of croissants so mouthwatering they would have induced a fit of jealousy in any self-respecting
boulanger
, Delilah briefed Kent on Bora Bora. He had already received the upload from the app and was delighted by her success.
    “The technicians are optimistic,” he told her, amid the buzzing backdrop of conversation among the scores of power brokers, beautiful people, and wannabes around them. “Of course we can’t be certain until we can access her laptop, but I’m told the recording was exceptionally clean. You must have been very close, and in a quiet place. Was it your room?”
    Nothing about Plan B being forestalled. She supposed he didn’t particularly care. Or maybe he really had just invented it to motivate her, and now barely remembered having done so.
    “Yes. My phone was right next to her laptop.”
    “But you only managed to bring it off on the last night. Had she been careful before then?”
    “Yes. It was the first time she’d logged in when I was nearby.”
    “Well, how did you manage it? Considering how careful she’d been.”
    “I shot some pictures of her and gave her the card. She downloaded them to her laptop.”
    “But only on the last night.”
    She wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “As I told you.”
    “She hadn’t let you shoot her before then? Because you’d shot her in London. Why was she suddenly so… modest?”
    “She’s concerned about her image. She didn’t want to be photographed in a bathing suit and a sarong. That’s all.”
    “And yet you managed to persuade her.”
    She was getting annoyed, and not sure why. “Yes. By telling her she could have the card as soon as we were done with the shoot. Why are you so interested?”
    He smiled and took a sip of tea. “Well, I’d like to tell you I’m just curious about your tradecraft. But honestly? I find I’m rather enjoying the thought of the two of you, scantily clad, photographing each other. It reminds me of some of my boarding school… ruminations. Appallingly unprofessional, I know. I really should apologize. Do you still have the pictures?”
    She rolled her eyes. “No, you
cochon,
as I told you, she kept the card. And I wouldn’t give them to you even if I still had them.”
    His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Protecting her, are you?”
    She wondered if he had been deliberately baiting her. He’d read the sympathetic interview she’d sent in; just how concerned about her loyalties might he be? Her irritation increased.
    “Protecting you, Kent. From your own unprofessional proclivities.”
    He smiled. “I don’t think you give