But he never could. And the years had passed.

Still, one thing had always worked between them.

He signaled for the check.

•   •   •

Standing in a hotel room, Klay let his eyes linger on her face, momentarily overwhelmed as he considered this singular, brilliant woman, the one he felt he was meant to share his life with. He pulled her towards him more roughly than he intended, but she pressed her mouth just as fiercely on his. He unzipped her dress, felling himself rise as she undid his belt. She shrugged off her dress. He kicked off his shoes and stripped off his shirt. In a single motion she undid her bra and stepped into him, pressing her full breasts hard against his bare chest.

He cupped her ass intending to lift her, but she spun away from him, stood beside the bed and faced him, hands on her thighs, legs apart, challenging him with her eyes to remember, watching him as he did. He came to her then, put his mouth to her breasts, then dropped to his knees and pressed his face into her, drawing her thong down, taking in the smell of her, the taste of her. He lifted her and she wrapped her legs around him. The room dissolved and the past returned, and locked together, they fought and fucked and loved. And then it was over and they were themselves again, looking up a ceiling fan making its rounds, sweat cooling their damp skin.

He used to tell himself that being dishonest about the CIA was the best thing he could do for their relationship. If he was honest in every other way, then eventually, when he did share his truth with her, they could weather what came next. This time, he told himself each time they kissed hello. Next time, he vowed each time they said goodbye.

Now he’d crossed a line. Hungry was his mission. Yes, he was after Botha, but everything else was deception. He had to manipulate Hungry into giving him her files. It was true that they were on the same side, so success for him should mean success for her, but targeting her suddenly made him feel sick.

Hungry turned to him. “Botha,” she said.

“Who knew he could be a force for good?” Klay smiled.

A shadow crossed her face and she looked away.

He touched her hand. “My new editor loves your life story. She wants to send over a documentary film team once I’m done. Says you’re a brilliant woman.”

She forced a smile. “I did go to Harvard.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I might have.”

When she was twenty-six, she’d turned down a full scholarship to Harvard Law School to stay home and help draft Mandela’s post-Apartheid constitution.

“You might have,” he agreed. “But then you’d be eating black cod at Nobu with your future ex-husband instead of lying here with me sweaty and satisfied.”