Black As Night (Quentin Black Mystery #2) (11 page)

The faint flavor of real emotion I felt behind that act also felt less like ownership and more like protection––like a warning off of predators in the middle of a lion’s den.

I definitely felt whatever he was reacting to in here.

Something about the climate in this room raised the hairs on the back of my neck, despite the opulent surroundings and the hush of quiet.

Black continued to hold my arm lightly in his fingers as he led me deeper into the restaurant, and eventually into a darker, more narrow corridor. I felt a flicker of nerves off him that made me wonder if he regretted bringing me. Before I could dwell much on that, the corridor ended at a narrow staircase, with a red-painted door at the top. Beside that red door, a waiter in a white suit bowed deeply to Black, then punched in some kind of combination code on the wall.

The door unlocked with a click. The same white-gloved attendant opened it.

The walkway beyond led us out onto the roof.
 

Outside, more cloth-covered tables stood overlooking a breathtaking view of the river.

The space was entirely empty of people apart from us. Flowering plants and potted trees decorated a wooden deck around pristine tables. Only after we rounded a corner could I see a small group of men sitting at the far end, smoking cigars and talking amongst themselves.

Like Black, they all wore suits.
 

They also practically breathed out money when they spoke.

Black led us directly up to that table.

Only when we stood over it did he release my arm.

“You’re late, Bouros,” a man sitting directly across from us said.

My eyes shifted to the speaker.

He was looking at me, not Black. His stare appraised me openly like Black’s did at times, yet somehow this man’s stare was a lot more offensive than Black’s ever were. He looked at me like I was a particularly fine cut of steak, or maybe a horse he was considering buying.

There was entitlement in that stare.

I felt something else too, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was at first.

Whatever I saw in that fleshy face, I stiffened under his watery blue eyes, almost without knowing I did it. As I did, Black touched me lightly again, that time at the small of my back. I felt reassurance in his touch, although his fingers were fleeting, there and then gone.

It struck me to wonder again why Black himself never scared me.

He’d certainly never scared me as much as these four men did in less than ten seconds, with their expensive suits and their bland expressions.

Funnily enough, now that we were here, I strongly felt myself in Black’s corner again. A part of me really wanted to speak to him in fact, mind-to-mind I mean, but I hadn’t forgotten what he’d said about not using our psychic abilities in here.

Who the hell were these people?

Did they have something to do with those kids being killed?

And if not, what did Black have to do with any of them?

“Where have you been, you old dog?” a different man said.

He had an upscale British accent and looked over his shoulder at us from where he sat on the nearer side of the table. He smiled up at Black, who flinched a bit, as if he hadn’t expected to see that particular man here. In fact, I distinctly got the impression Black
hadn’t
expected this man. I honestly couldn’t decide if that was a problem in his mind or not.

The Englishman turned, smiling at me right before he winked at me teasingly.

“...Or are we meant to extrapolate your whereabouts from the presence of your lovely companion here?” he said. “Who you’ve undoubtedly brought here to charm us...and, even more likely, to make us all positively
green
with envy?”

Black smiled, recovering from his surprise.

It was a somewhat predatory smile I noticed, right before he stepped closer, so that his body pressed right up against mine. Before I could decide how to react, he’d slung an arm over my shoulder and halfway around my neck.

That time, there was no mistaking the proprietary meaning he projected.

“Apologies, gentlemen...” he drawled, his accent unmistakably European and nothing like any accent I’d heard him use before. He pulled the sunglasses off his eyes with his free hand before he aimed that shark-like smile around the table. “You know how it is.”

Knowing chuckles came out of the four men sitting there.

Black turned, winking openly at me.

In the direct sunlight, his gold eyes looked almost like living flame. I was still lost in the expression there, barely recognizing the man I knew, when the first man who’d addressed Black motioned with a thick hand to two empty seats to our right.

“All right,” he said, amusement in his voice. “We get the idea...you like your new friend. And we can all clearly see why. Have a seat. We’ve been waiting for you.”

I followed the pressure of Black’s hand when he slid his arm from around my neck, touching the base of my spine gently once more. Something in the caution behind the gesture caused me to relax again, at least with him.

Another of the men spoke and I turned.

“What will you and your...ah, new friend...be having to drink?”

I looked over, hearing the man’s East Indian accent. He was light skinned, gray-haired, dark eyed, but I could see the Indian in his features now that I looked for it. He smiled at me too, but like with the first one, I saw a harder look behind his brown eyes.

So three white guys, one Indian guy...and now me and Black.

“Scotch,” Black said.

“What kind?”

“Surprise me.”

The Indian man smiled then lifted his phone, speaking into it in a low voice.

“So where did you meet this lovely lady?” the first man said, the one with that fleshy face and watery blue eyes.

I realized his accent was American...something I hadn’t paid attention to the first time he spoke. Somewhere from the South, but I wasn’t up on my Southern United States accents well enough to pinpoint the state. I watched as he ashed his cigar in the glass tray in the middle of the table. Leaning back in the padded lounge chair, he leered openly at my chest, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was watching him do it.

“She’s not local, is she? Is she Greek? Italian?”

It struck me suddenly that no one had bothered to ask my name.

“None of your fucking business,” Black said, giving him another of those shark-like grins. “And keep your eyes to yourself, you dirty old bastard...this one’s not on the market.”

“Everything is on the market,” the Indian man said, his voice amused, despite the mocking rebuke. “For the right price. You should know that, Bouros.”

“This one isn’t,” Black said, turning to stare at the Indian without missing a beat. “She sucks my cock. That’s it.”

I flinched, feeling my face warm.

When I glanced up, the men were watching me with decidedly more heat in their eyes.

The one who hadn’t spoken yet, who sat to my right, let out an involuntary but strangely high-pitched laugh.

I glanced at him, and saw him staring at my chest too, a disconcertingly boyish smile on his face. He looked at me almost shyly, like I was some kind of exotic animal, but I found myself distinctly not liking the look there, either.

Glancing around the table and seeing all of their eyes on me now, I bit my tongue but tried to keep my reaction out of my expression.

“I think your friend is shy, Bouros,” the American said, giving me a thin-lipped but knowing smile. “You’ve made her blush...quite alluring I must say. And how unusual for this town.”

The other three men chuckled, murmuring in agreement.

“You risk a lot, bringing her around these animals,” the Englishman said, winking at me as he ashed his own cigar.

Black gave him a flat-eyed smile in return, wrapping his arm around me again.

“Or maybe I just know what’s mine,” he said, his voice a touch colder as he tugged me against him.

“What if I wished to persuade you otherwise?” the first man said, his voice soft.

Black’s gaze darted back to him. “I’d tell you to eat shit,” Black said. “Or did you miss the part where that pretty mouth of hers only sucks on me?”

“Bouros...manners, for crying out loud,” the British man said. He shook his head, giving me a glance with sharp gray eyes, his expression bordering on apologetic even as he smiled. “You will have all of us blushing with your crude talk,” he added, still watching my eyes. “Not just your charming companion.”

“Manners?” Black said, glancing at him. “He’s the fucker who just tried to buy my girlfriend. She’s too old for him anyway. Frank here likes them young. Isn’t that right?”

I glanced sharply at the fleshy faced American after Black said it. I focused on his features in time to catch a harder expression tightening his full lips.

A noticeable curl of...disgust? Anger?

“We all like them young,” the Indian man joked.

Black’s eyes shifted back to him.

“Do we?” he said, his voice colder.

“We most certainly do not,” said the blue-eyed one, causing both me and Black to turn. “Where did you hear such a disgusting thing, Bouros?”

That disgust made it to his voice.

Black shrugged, his expression back to disinterested.

Even so, something in that exchange struck me as more true than the others.

On both sides, maybe.

Even as I thought it, Black turned. Glancing back at me from where he leaned over the table, he gave me a darting once-over then winked at me lasciviously, that more predatory glint still flickering around his eyes and his well-formed mouth.

I cocked an eyebrow at him, forcing myself to smile back.

I knew he was playing a game here; I just hadn’t figured out quite what that game was yet. Was I supposed to find the child killer among these four men? He’d obviously brought me here to evoke exactly this reaction. He’d probably wanted to check their responses to a living and breathing adult woman, one he was deliberately sexualizing for them.

Or maybe I was simply his alibi for however-long he’d spent hanging out on the streets, playing Thai gangster.

With him, it was impossible to know for sure.

When I gave another glance around the table, I found all eyes on me again, with the exception of the man with gray hair, the one Black had called “Frank.”

Frank watched Black alone.

He’d raised an eyebrow in the pause just like I had, but the look on his face gave me the impression he wasn’t amused, despite the thin smile ghosting his lips. Looking at that reptilian face, I felt a prickle go down my spine.

Even if he wasn’t a pedophile, there was something seriously wrong with this man.

Really, there was something wrong with all of them. The Indian man with his cold stare and jokes about “liking them young.” The Englishman with his fake charm. The boyish-looking one with his blond hair and silence. Frank, who still stared at me like a dog he wished was his.

These were the men Black wanted me to profile.

Whoever they were, they all felt dangerous to me.

They seemed like different variants of the type of guy who might move to Thailand so he could pursue his predilections without much fear of legal repercussions or scrutiny. I definitely got the impression they didn’t hear “no” very often. Nor did they readily accept it when they did, regardless of context. Black was seriously pushing his luck, screwing with men like this. Psychopaths were dangerous enough. Psychopaths with this much money and entitlement could only be exponentially
more
dangerous.

Putting me in the middle didn’t thrill me either.

I could guess why he’d done it, and even see the efficiency of it, but I couldn’t help hoping they never got curious enough to track down Black’s story about who I was.

Before the silence could grow too awkward, the British man let out another indulgent laugh, leaning slightly over the table to ash his cigar.