Run Among Thorns (18 page)

“Get to it.”

“Sir.”

Alan’s house was a big three-story Victorian thing on a leafy street just outside York’s city walls. At least it was leafy in spring and summer. Now the bare lime trees stood sentinel on a wet, grey road. It was a dark afternoon. What light seeped through the low clouds lit greasy-looking patches of pavement.

Jenny reached into the pot of lavender on the step for the key and tried to ignore the sardonic lift of Kier’s brow. So, it wasn’t the most secure of arrangements, but it had always worked. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, into the long, narrow hall that ran alongside the living room on one side and the kitchen and dining room on the other.

Kier passed quickly by her and pushed the door out of her hand to close it. Jenny ignored him and went down the hall to turn on the lamp on a cabinet halfway along. The soft glow of light didn’t quite illuminate all of the hall, only where they stood.

“What are you planning now, Kier?” she asked, while the man she was trying not to think of as in charge looked around the hall with what she was coming to classify as his “on duty” expression.

“Let me check the place out. You go ahead to bed if you want.”

She ran a hand through the light film of dust on the top of the cabinet. “No, I think I’ll make a cup of tea first,” she said.

Kier started to say something, and then they heard the key in the lock.

She froze, but McAllister was already moving, lifting his gun from inside his jacket, moving back to the front door. He waved at her furiously to get out of sight, but she was caught by the movement of the opening door, and by the motion of Kier’s skilful fingers against gleaming steel.

He moved back silently as the door opened, pacing, shifting his weight, and she was transfixed, like a passenger in a car about to crash, convinced she was about to witness a tragedy, and powerless to prevent it.

She saw a long-fingered hand on the door frame, a glimpse of blue sweatshirt sleeve, and a blond bent head followed it through. She must have made a sound, because that head lifted, revealing a watchful face, blue eyes, and a wide, mobile mouth now lifting and stretching in a grin.

“Alan!” she cried. “Alan, it’s Alan!” and her brother paused, half in and half out of the door, still shielded from Kier’s murderous intent by a couple of inches of panelled oak. That grin slipped a bit, registering the frantic urgency and strange phrasing of her greeting.

“Sis? What are you doing here?”

And then he stepped all the way through the door, and Kier closed it behind him.

She’d have jumped, Jenny thought to herself. Alan just stilled and turned half towards McAllister, scanning him out of the corner of his eye. Then he moved smoothly away a pace or two.

Belatedly, Jenny registered that Kier’s gun was now nowhere to be seen, but his expression was hardly welcoming, and she wasn’t surprised when Alan’s next question was downright hostile.

“Who the hell are you?”

Kier didn’t answer, so she performed the introductions like an automaton, dreading the inevitable explanations to follow. “Alan Waring, Kier McAllister.”

Alan shifted his weight from one leg to the other. His eyes went from Jenny to Kier and back to Jenny again. “And?” he prompted.

“I’m helping your sister with a … situation.”

He had to feel the tension, she thought miserably. Had to see the way she was standing at one end of the room and McAllister was standing, no, lounging at the other. He had to mark the way her arms were around herself and his hands were jammed deep in his pockets.

And Alan was nothing if not perceptive.

“Right,” he said in a slow, measured drawl. He turned to Kier, gave an ironic inclination of the head. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to my little sister in private for a few minutes.”

“Alan, it’s not—” she began, but Kier’s voice came, loud and authoritarian over hers.

“But I do mind.” He levered himself up off the wall he was leaning against and sauntered over to her, standing half behind her, facing Alan. “There’s no need for any private words here. Anything you have to say can be said here and now. Clear?”

“Oh, very,” said Alan, and his voice was now dripping politeness, getting more refined every second. Which was a sure sign he was royally pissed off. He moved over to the cabinet and took out a bottle of beer, hunting out a bottle opener in the drawer, and pouring it slowly and carefully into a glass he’d taken from the top shelf.

He took an apparently appreciative swig and turned back to them. “So, Jen. Why did you hook up with the Yank?”

She closed her eyes. His antipathy couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d painted it in big red letters on his forehead. She wondered bleakly how much of that was concern at the obvious trouble she was in, and how much of it was an instant dislike to her big, assertive companion.

She opened her mouth to speak but Kier was there before her, smoothly speaking into the silence.

“Because she needs protection.”

“She does?” Alan raised his brows in a perfect picture of polite incredulity.
Oh, go collect your Oscar, bro
, she thought in exasperation. “Is this some sort of racket?”

“It is not,” replied Kier. The cold, clipped words sent a chill down her spine and had hairs rising on the back of her neck. “She’s with me because of a situation we both find ourselves in. One in which her safety is threatened. It’s my job to ensure she’s not harmed by that situation.” He was matching Alan polite for polite now, and it made her want to scream.

Alan drained more of the dark bitter and wiped his mouth with his fingers. She opened her mouth again, but this time it was her brother who interrupted her.

“And that’s all the explanation I’m likely to get, I suppose?”

“That’s right.”

“And the likelihood of you letting Jenny answer any of these questions, which, I might add, had been addressed to her in the first instance?”

“Slim.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps, then, you could explain how Jenny feels about this situation?”

“I’m sure she feels …”

Oh, that was outside of enough. She tried to move away from Kier, only to find he had his fingers anchored in the waistband of her trousers. With a growl of outrage, she twisted sharply away. Alan immediately held out his hand to her, and looked shocked when she ignored it, moving past them both to the bottom of the stairs.

“Right. That’s enough,” she snapped. “You two seem to have forgotten I have a voice. Well, I do, and I’m going to use it.”

“Jen, sis …”

“Shut up.” Alan looked like she’d slapped him. Kier just looked, well, closed. Impassive. But his eyes were glinting at her, and that was hypnotic.

“I ‘hooked up with’ that… that stupid oaf…”—okay,
now
he looked shocked—”… because he was there, and I needed what he was offering. Alan, if you remember, you weren’t battering down my door to help me.”

“Jen, that’s not fair, I—”

“I have no use for
fair
. Fair has been written out of my life completely. And how I
feel
about it is awful. I hate it. I hate being talked over. I hate depending on someone else to look after me. I hate being bullied and coerced and taken advantage of. And I really hate you two
posturing
down here and trying to score points off each other!”

“Jenny—”

“Jen—”

“Shut up!”
she screamed, and any other time would have laughed at the way their heads went back and their eyes opened wide in perfect unison in that male,
what on earth have I done?
thing.

“I,” she said with dreadful calm, “am going to bed.”

“Sir, about the McAllister issue?”

Groven paused on his way down the corridor. “Well?” It struck John that Groven never said yes if he could avoid it.
I’m here, come in
, and
well?

Concentrating on achieving a neutral tone and expression, Dawson said, “I was wondering if I could get an update on the Jenny Waring case, sir. For the sake of the files, you see. I’ve complied with my instructions, but I’ve heard nothing else.”

Now Groven turned to face him fully. His eyes flicked over Dawson as if checking that everything was in place, lingering on the name tag that said, “Profiler.”

“You did what you were told. That’s all we asked for.”

“Yes, sir, but I was wondering—”

“You’re very concerned all of a sudden, John?” It was the first time Groven had ever used his first name. He fought the urge to grimace and decided he never wanted Groven to call him John again.

“No, sir. But, for the files, and in the interests of accurate recording and proper …” he faltered, knowing even then that he’d blown it.

“Procedure?” Groven barked a derisive laugh. “No. No update. You don’t need an update. And I want those ‘files’ on my desk within the hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

He delivered them on time. He’d always been a model employee.

And he tried hard not to evaluate why he’d taken copies first.

Kier watched Jenny retreat up the stairs.

Which left him at the bottom with the captain of the warm beer brigade. Still smarting from what Jenny had just said. Although what had he expected? Praise and adoration?

Alan was eyeing him over his beer. The man’s arrogance was grating on McAllister’s nerves. And he certainly didn’t like the idea of him talking to Jenny behind his back. Getting at the details. Revealing exactly what he’d been doing to her, up in Galloway.

Frowning down at the floor, Kier had to admit that if he were Jenny’s brother, he’d want to pound on him for a month if he found out what he’d been up to.

Which wasn’t altogether an unattractive prospect. He was more than ready for a bit of physical action after the past hours of mental trial. In fact, a bit of controlled violence would probably do him a world of good. He just couldn’t risk being incapacitated while Jenny was still at risk.

Which lead him to size Alan up. The other man was, what? Fifteen pounds lighter? Just about. A little shorter than him, but with longer legs in proportion to his body. He had the build of a long-distance runner. He certainly exercised. Training would make Kier faster and stronger, but, frankly, he thought they would probably be fairly evenly matched. Which only made the prospect of a little … disagreement all the more satisfying.

Alan’s fair hair was too long, though, Kier thought. Then he remembered how he usually looked after a long stay abroad, and shrugged that thought off. Jenny’s hair was so different from her brother’s. He couldn’t think of a greater contrast between Alan’s fair, floppy hair and Jenny’s curling brunette mop.

Alan’s voice startled him. “She … er. She can be somewhat opinionated, Jenny.”

It sounded like an olive branch, which was odd. Then Alan waved a bottle of beer at him.

Branch. Olives on it. Definitely.

He nodded, and Alan flipped the cap off the bottle, handing him bottle and glass. The label said Waggledance.

“Waggledance?”

Alan’s mouth quirked. “Yes. We like to use more than one syllable to describe our beverages. It’s a honey beer.”

He tried it. It was good, if a little … thick for his taste. He thought for a moment.