4 Chapter 4: Broken Promises

Hearing the door close behind him, Natalie slumped in a chair, her pulse racing and sick to her stomach.

"Talk about a close call," she softly mumbled, "and what the hell is Oliver doing here?"

"If you're really nice to me I'll tell you."

Jumping to her feet and spinning around, she stared in shock at the only man she'd ever loved. The man who had broken his promise and her heart walked in from the bedroom. Abruptly realizing he had to stop talking she began frantically waving her hands and placing her finger against her lips.

"Natalie, you don't have to worry. We're not being watched or listened to."

"That's impossible."

"I can assure you the cameras have been disabled and the bugs are gone."

"But if the cameras aren't working, they'll know something's wrong."

"I'll explain later. We have more important things to discuss."

"No shit. What the fuck are you doing in my suite? Are you insane? What if Victor had -"

"It's nice to see you too," he continued, cutting her off as he drew closer.

"Were you in the bedroom all this time?"

"Of course, and ready to leap to your aid if you needed me."

"I repeat, are you absolutely insane?"

"No, but I think you must be. Why, in the name of King and Country did you get involved with the Russians?"

"I'm not telling you a damn thing," she angrily retorted. "You almost got me killed just now. Explain what you're doing here and make it fast. I have to get downstairs. Are you really with Interpol? Why don't I believe that?"

"Natalie, I'm here to get you out of this mess before it's too late."

"You have no right telling me what to do."

"Need I remind you," he said, lowering his voice and moving closer to her, "two years ago you promised -"

"That promise became null and void when you broke yours!"

"I'm not sure promises can become null and void, but that's a conversation for another time."

"Like never."

"Natalie," he pressed, his voice becoming solemn as his mesmerizing eyes melted her. "Victor Pichenko? I don't believe it for a minute. Who are you really working for?"

"Believe or don't believe what you want."

"The CIA? FBI? Who recruited you?"

"Oliver, I don't know where you've been for the last two years and I'm past caring, but let's get one thing straight. I won't tell you who I'm working for, if anyone, unless you tell me exactly why you're here."

"You're right. Why I'm here and why you're here are the only questions that matter. Which one of us has the courage to spill the beans first?"

"I'm just a feckless female."

"A feckless female who speaks six languages, is an accomplished art historian, and can disarm a bomb."

"Seven actually, and only some bombs. The older models. I'm here because I'm Victor's art consultant. There's no great mystery. I work for him. But there's nothing but mystery swirling around you. You're here because of the artifact, right?"

"I suppose you could say that, though there are other reasons for my presence, most notably, you!"

"The damn relic. Fuck! That is why you're here. I knew it. Fuck. Victor believes that too!"

"Didn't I spank you for using that word?"

"Those days are long gone," she muttered, dropping her eyes, "and you're a problem."

"It's not the first time I've been called that."

"Listen to me, Oliver," she said urgently. "Five minutes ago I had to talk my way out of a bullet through my skull because you messed up. You looked at me across the room like a cat eyeing a canary whose cage door is open."

"Am I not allowed to ogle a beautiful woman?"

"You were in that bedroom just now and you heard every word. You know exactly how Victor is feeling. You're in danger. Serious danger, and you're putting me in danger."

"And your point is?"

"Don't be such a smart-ass!"

"Such language, and you look so elegant in that gown. Using words like smart-ass just doesn't fit."

"I have to go," she said testily, "but you know Victor wants me to play nice and grill you."

"I'm delighted we'll be spending time together."

"The last thing I want to do is spend time with you. This isn't a game, Oliver."

"No, it certainly is not."

"I'll approach you, and please cooperate. You have to be cool. You have to act as though -"

"As though we were merely proverbial ships passing in the night."

"Exactly," she muttered, feeling an annoying flush cross her face. "Please cooperate, for both our sakes."

"Cooperate. How much exactly?" he asked, moving closer to her. "Mmm, you're still wearing that wonderful Penhaligon perfume."

"Stop it."

"Stop what exactly?"

"Stop being so cavalier about all this. Don't you remember what happened the last time we were together?"

"I remember a great deal," he purred, placing his lips against her ear. "I remember how much you enjoyed my unique way of -"

"You know what I remember?" she said sharply, cutting him off and stepping back. "I remember waiting in an airport for six fucking hours. I remember feeling anxious and terrified that something had happened to you. Fast forward two years and here you are, but God forbid you explain or apologize. I don't even get a, how are you, Natalie? "

"How are you, Natalie?"

"Tell me, point blank, Oliver," she snapped, ignoring his question, "exactly why you're here. Spell it out, just so I'm clear!"

"The priceless Roman antiquity. The one that's been missing for over four-hundred years, but more importantly what it might be carrying or is hidden in its packing crate. Something that cannot fall into the wrong hands. Aha!" he exclaimed. "A newsflash."

"You just set me up!"

"Come on, Natalie," he said, lowering his voice. "There's no way you're working for someone like him, I don't care what he's paying you. Being around him is perilous."

"We need to talk some more, but not here," she said softly. "You know I told Victor I'd see him downstairs in ten minutes and time's up. I need to go, and he needs to see us reconnect."

"Reconnect? I like the sound of that. One more thing."

"Isn't there always?"

"About my promise."

"Uh, what about it?" she asked, feeling her stomach flip.

"You should have been contacted at that airport. I found out too late the message didn't get through. You were gone."

"I don't believe you, and even if I did, two years, Oliver? Two fucking years and not a word?"

"I've been trying to find you."

"Sure you have. A man like you? If you'd wanted to find me, you would have."

"And I finally did. Here I am," he said, locking her eyes. "I'll see you downstairs, and I owe you a spanking."

"Fuck you."

"Two in fact. One for breaking your promise and getting involved with a Russian mobster, and the second for continuing to use that word out of context."

As he turned and strode away, though she hated herself for it, she couldn't help but admire how he walked. Silent, smooth and quick. Waiting until she heard him leave, she poured herself a shot of vodka. Downing it in one gulp, she picked up her beaded evening bag and walked to the door, but as her fingers curled around the handle she stopped. Her head fell forward against the hard wood and she stifled a sob.

She still loved him. She loved him from the depths of her soul.