Smoke and Mirrors (31 page)

Jane gave a tight nod and said, “Irishmen.”

“Irishmen?”

“Big burly ones. They could stuff the boxes, then us.” She broke from folding heaps of hand-dyed silk to illustrate the finer points of her lithe black-clad figure. “We could spin like roulette wheels until one of them fit just right.” She made a hatchet motion with her hand. “Or well enough a few whacks in the right places would set ’em straight. And ringa ding dong go the bells of St. Paul’s.”

It had been a long time since Sam imagined relying on anyone, let alone a man.
Ever After
belonged on Netflix, where Dougray Scott would forever sulk in tights. She said as much.

“You’re wrong.” Jane flipped the last of the custom draperies into a cavernous box. “I refuse to believe men can’t be molded into perfect mates.”

Slipping through the maze until the labels came to light, Sam said, “Some maybe. But you go looking for play dough pliability in rockers and – ” She jabbed at the corner of the elegant, oval sticker but failed to budge it. “How’s a person supposed to catch the edge of these?”
It’s not as though I chew my nails anymore
.
Not since Granddad soaked my hands in vinegar, then dropped dead on his way back to the pantry.

Jane straightened, her glossy black ponytail perpendicular to her level shoulders. “The hedge is cut?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gesturing to Sam’s hands and enunciating her words with
My Fair Lady
precision, Jane repeated, “The edge of what?”

“Oh, labels.” Sam attacked again. “I designed new ones to go on our packaging. Gotcha.” She balanced the freed decal on one finger and headed for a nearby carton where she set about trying to center it. The result wasn’t pretty. “God, now the thing’s gone and plastered itself askew. And there’s a fucking crease to boot.”

Jane examined the wrinkle.

The scent of Jo Malone was overwhelming.

Sam tipped her chin so they were face to face. “You’re a space invader.”

“And you’re deaf as a doornail, not to mention ridiculous. Who’s going to see these when we deliver them? Hmmm? The maids.” Jane smirked when Sam growled. “Temper, temper,” she tutted, “Once they’re hung, these’ll be whisked straight to the bin. And if we’re truly lucky,” she carried on like a mad pixie, “they’ll go to attic heaven where they’ll gather dust. Lady Kate will never even see them.”

“Oh, just stop.” The crease, dust-laden or not, would cause Sam sleepless nights. Precision had always been a real part of her. And in the last decade, it had done wonders for her work with ‘Acquisitions Group’, the shadowy organization to which she had become inescapably tied. Her jobs were charted out to the minutest detail, and if she hadn’t been so sickened by the whys and wherefores, she might have taken pride in their execution. “Where’s my pen? It’s got a flat tipped cap.”

Sam’s hair tumbled loose when Jane snatched it. “Right where you always leave it.” But Jane’s smile was quick to vanish.
Maybe she knows I’m finally going to kill her.
“What is
that
?” Jane reached past Sam and hoisted a handful of silver and blue into view. “There’s a stain on them!”

For a brief age, Sam panicked too. Then the black swirl took on a familiar form. She brushed the knot away. “No, it’s dog fur.” The Thai silk winked back. Pristine. Jewel-like. Jane was quite definitely a master of her trade.

A grim line of lips colored Bobbi Brown Red cleaved her friend’s Eurasian features. “I wish he didn’t shed so much. I found one in my latte this morning, and its cover was still on.”

They both turned. Tam, unaffected by the evening’s chaos, lay motionless beneath a sprawling draftsman desk. There was an unmistakable gleam of defiance in his chocolate eyes. Sam pointed her pen at him. “Here’s your chance, Auntie Jane.
Mold
him.”

Jane resorted to a regal pose and tucked the edges of the box nearest her under one another. “At least I try. You scan men like catalogs. You don’t even bother to read the articles. And you make ridiculous excuses so you can be alone despite the fact you’re miserable. Honestly, I’ll never understand you.”

Sam worked at the sticker’s crease until satisfaction was hers. “That’s because, like catalogs, men don’t have articles. Just captions.” The deceit came easily. “You confuse them with books, when the latter are far more interesting and don’t snore.”

Jane sealed the next carton. “Have it your way. Only what was wrong with Brad’s caption?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, drop it
.
Perfect snaps, Janie. Snaps to bits of nothing under very little pressure.
But she clamped down on her annoyance and tried for indifference, thinking back to the first time she’d met Brad. He’d been playing the piano at a wedding, and she’d thought him hired – not a guest like herself. “Nothing. It was dead on. He was delicious, hilarious, rich, and a
great
shag. He should have had it tattooed on his cock.”

“So why break up with him? At least, for a few weeks, you went o…u…t. You know, that place beyond these walls.”

“I go out,” Sam ground through clenched teeth. “In fact, I travel to Asia more times a year than you go clubbing.”
Granted I don’t want to be there. And I’m doing things that would make your head spin
. Her mind flitted to the little Beijing museum and the pretty white vase she’d just stolen.

Jane wasn’t easily thwarted. “I’m talking about out with friends, out with members of the opposite sex. That kind of out.”

The last thing Sam needed was Jane playing cupid. It was a bloody dangerous game in Sam’s hidden world. “It doesn’t matter. We were never dating anyway, just having a good time.”
Though I wish it had lasted a whole lot longer, Mr. Brad Milton. You’ll never quite understand how much your friendship meant to me.

It was regrettable that Jane was as tenacious with gossip as silk and dye. “You don’t do ‘good times’; and you were damn lucky he didn’t - ” Thankfully, Jane finally registered the label’s fresh design. “Let me see those.” She opened her hand, curling fingers in Sam’s direction.

Sam tossed them over, beyond relieved by the interruption.

“They really are gorgeous.”

“Thanks.” Sam traced the label nearest her. “I used Uncle Loch’s font. It’s based on 19
th
century manuscripts. French ones. I thought I’d use it on the new stationery. Considering…”

A small pinch of distress marred Jane’s smooth brow. “How’s he doing?”

In truth, Sam wasn’t certain. When her Uncle John died, she’d finally told Loch about AG, terrified that John hadn’t really died of cancer. There had been a job – careful though she was about saying no – that Samantha had yet been unwilling to take.

But when Loch convinced her the organization had nothing to do with his husband’s death, he had nevertheless closed up their apartment and vanished in a puff of withdrawn cash.

‘
If I’m gone, they’ll have nothing left to use against you.’

And away went yet another man in her life, the loss almost unfathomable in its devastation. “I got an electronic postcard from Antarctica. Apparently grief therapy comes in the form of penguins now.” Her resentment and guilt over the matter were toxins hardly touched by humor.

Fortunately, Jane was still focused on the label. “I like the paw print between the B and T.
Posh Paws
, like our latest fabric.”

It’s for you too, Uncle John, for giving me Tamar
. Thirteen years ago they’d walked into the shelter, on the suggestion of one of John’s police friends, a canine officer who did freelance companion training on the side.

In the end, she hadn’t the heart to tell Loch that she wouldn’t be leaving. Not yet anyway. After thirteen years, even if Loch could manage to stay hidden, there was no way she’d put Tam’s life in danger. Never that.

Only when Tam was gone. Only then could she leave.

Jane parked the roll beside her cell and glanced apologetically at the remaining mess. “Sorry, Sammy, I’ve got to run. Got a date with more play dough.” She slid her scarf from the back of the metal stool nearest her. “Shite. More bloody hair.”

“Count your blessings it’s not drool.” Sam kicked her shoes into view and slumped onto the nearby stool.

Jane shuddered into the cashmere couture of her scooped-up coat. “That’s got to be a sin in some religion.”

“Pradism.”

They shared a short laugh.

Two buttons later, Jane looked up. “We’ll be at Bella’s. Come by if you want. Dan’s got a brilliant friend. I think he flies planes or something.”

“Remind me not to fly that airline.”

Jane’s jaw tensed. “Maybe I misheard and he
files plans
. Would that be any better? You’re not going to
date
him.” She snatched her cell and Tod’s hobo on her way to the door. “Just sleep with him. You need some sex. It makes a girl’s skin glow.”

“That’s disgusting. Sun makes my skin glow. And the reason I don’t want to go,” Sam lied while corralling her mane into an elasticized mess, “Is because I’m exhausted. But no one’s stopping you. Have fun. Mold someone.”

Jane paused by the antique bamboo coat rack beside the door and moved to a more neutral subject. “Can I borrow this?” She held up Sam’s grandfather’s tweed hat.

No. It won’t smell like it’s supposed to.

But Sam merely nodded, knowing it was Jane’s way of keeping the peace.
Please, God, let her be sober enough to bring it back again.
“Remember, we’ve got to be at Barkley Manor by eight tomorrow. The charity tea’s at two.”

Jane dropped the hat into her bag and curtseyed. “Aye, ma’am. Oi’ll be there unless Dan’s got me knickers up o’er me head.”

Sam banged her head against the table, and Jo Malone vanished into the dark night.
Really, I must buy that girl a bottle of Billet Doux next time I’m in Paris.

A deep sigh rippled through her slinky-bent frame. God, she was depressed. She studied Tamar’s figure through the gap between her crooked elbow and the worktable. He thumped his tail. A lover of early nights and her personal fuzzy blanket to be sure, but the prospect of going to bed with someone who didn’t lick his balls would have been a nice change. And it wasn’t just the sex. She missed talking with someone about stupid everyday things like new sneakers and the smell of laundry detergent. Missed having two toothbrushes in her
Ski Chamonix
mug.

You do remember Marc misses out on everything, don’t you
?

The dark sarcastic whisper was enough. She lifted her head and watched Tam roll to his back. Her foot followed his lead, scratching his ribcage. She felt him groan with pleasure. Rolling her neck, she counted slowly. At least one of them was getting what he wanted. What he deserved.

“One hundred.” She snapped her fingers and quit the stool while Tamar shook and stood in no particular order. A few glossy strands floated down and disappeared into the slate. “Jane’s going to have you made into a rug.”

He yawned, an imitation of the big bad wolf, and butted his head against her hand.
I suppose I can do the rest early tomorrow.
She eyed the box-laden space. “Keys first. Shoes next.” Drool and all. Then home for dinner.

Crap.
She groaned, “How’s grilled cheese sound? I don’t think we’ve a single kibble left in the house.”

Tamar shot her a sidelong look of long-suffering patience and eyed something around the corner.

It took her a second.

She’d forgotten about the tin in the office kitchen. Together they traversed the oak floored hallway, old friends without needing to remind one another.

Light flipped on, Samantha scooped up a bowl and filled it with a sizeable portion of dried brown pellets.
Oh, yum.

He stared back at her, mind filled with similar thoughts. “Now then, what to add.” She rummaged through the refrigerator for anything with which to bait the bowl. The sneering black muzzle followed her movements – until she found a fresh container of plain yogurt.

She held it up. “Good?”

The sneer lessened.

Triumphant, they pulled back. Within minutes, Samantha was leaning against the stone counter, flipping through her cell’s messages while Tamar minced his way through £10 worth of organic fare.

Her heart gave a double-whack.
Brad
? He was back, or back in touch. Months had passed since their last exchange. She’d deliberately let him go, knowing their separation would keep him from harm’s way. Knowing she wouldn’t have to worry about AG targeting him.

What could he want?

Something pebble-like rolled beneath her bared foot. Her focus drifted to Tamar who had coughed up some kernels. She ought to bring him back to the vet. Though fear, deep and terrifying, kept her away. Tam’s death might mean freedom of one kind. But the thought of losing him made her nearly mad with grief.

“You okay, Dingo?” He silenced her worry with a jab of a glance. “Fine.” She made a face. “Just making a pig of yourself then.” His expression mellowed.

Her attention returned to the message’s contents. “Brad’s back.” He had arrived in London that evening and was staying for at least a week. The dog’s tongue worked loose crumbs from his whiskers. “He wants to know if we’ll meet him for dinner tomorrow night at L’Osteria.”
Oh, to be so lucky.

She steeled herself against temptation. Never again would she be responsible for an innocent person’s life. But Tam, tail livened at the idea of leftovers, nosed her expectantly.

“Sorry, Tam. Not in the cards.”

She meant to delete the message.

To set the cell down.

Instead, a surge of fury burst from her fist.

And the travertine counter paid the price, splitting into sandy chunks where its natural imperfections had required filling.

“Leave it.” Appalled by her lack of control, Sam swooped to gather the pieces before he could mistake them for food. She tossed the bits into the sink, and shakily examined her grandmother’s wedding ring. There was a deep scratch along the band and one of the prongs holding a row of alternating sapphires and diamonds had been knocked askew.

Blood was already running from a scythe-shaped slice down to the well between her knuckles. A drop hit the counter and spread like a mulish jelly blob, deep and dry before she managed to wipe it with her elbow.