“Did someone walk over your grave?”
Ava spun around to find James standing behind her, a newspaper tucked under his arm, the word Standard from the Evening Standard just visible at the fold. It was the first time she’d seen him since the kiss, when the PVDE had followed them.
“I certainly hope not,” Ava responded tersely.
He frowned. “Has something happened?”
As much as she hated to admit it, he might know what to do. She waved him to follow her. “Walk with me.”
He joined her without question as she led him toward a café and slipped into a table at the far back. She laid the stack of papers on the rough white tablecloth and lifted it so he could read the note, aware that his Portuguese was strong enough to do so.
“The Austrian?” He arched a brow.
Ava nodded.
“I can join you in the mornings if you like.” He set his newspaper down. “After all, I have my own publications to obtain.”
“Isn’t the PVDE following you?” she asked in a low whisper.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Not anymore. It was a matter that was cleared up. But I never did thank you for your assistance that night.”
Ava’s cheeks went hot as a flame at the memory. “That isn’t necessary, and it won’t be repeated.”
The corners of his lips rose in a hint of a smile. “I would not presume.”
“Good,” she said, feeling suddenly awkward. “Because it won’t.”
He nodded, that grin notching higher. “Coffee?”
“Please,” she said stiffly.
This time he didn’t bother to conceal his chuckle as he pushed to his feet and ordered their beverages.
While he was gone, she opened her messenger bag to deposit the papers when she caught sight of Combat still resting within. She considered it for a moment and turned her attention back on James as he waited for their drinks.
The Allies all worked together, and though she hated to admit it, James was knowledgeable on many various topics. More so than Mike, she had discovered. And James was by far more approachable than Sims.
She pulled the single page of Combat from her bag and replaced it with the stack she’d obtained from Alfonso’s kiosk. The top flap of her messenger bag hung crooked despite her best efforts to cram everything in properly.
James peered at the French newspaper as he returned with their small cups of bica and dumped a generous helping of sugar into the dark liquid. “What’s this?”
“The latest edition.” She turned it toward him, then hesitated. “Do you read French?”
James inclined his head. “Mais oui.”
“Good.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Do you notice anything unusual about this piece?” She indicated the article on factory bombings.
He winced. “It could use a strong edit.”
She nodded. “Except that this particular newspaper is generally the most meticulous. I don’t think it’s an accident.”
“Then it probably isn’t.” James pinched the small handle of his mug and sipped the drink.
Ava let her shoulders sag forward. “That’s it, Watson?”
“You mean Sherlock, I presume.” He gave a haughty tilt of his head. “I dare say, I think I’d make a proper Sherlock. I’ve the accent and everything.”
“Watson was British too.”
James nodded toward her. “True, but may I mention that you aren’t British at all.”