The Contract (16 page)

She heard footsteps in the distance in an abstract way on the periphery of her hearing. They sounded like marching feet. When the noise stopped she looked up. Leonora was outside the bars and Birdie, the guard, was with her. He stood close to Leonora's shoulder, his cruel face split into a salacious grin.

Leonora stared at her coldly, taking in the details of her undress.

"Time to go." She nodded towards Birdie who had unlocked the door. Leonora wrinkled up her nose. "She stinks."

Birdie shrugged and then turned. Behind him the second guard unrolled a hose from the wall and turned on the tap. Leonora stepped out of the cell.

Emily braced herself as the guard walked towards her with the hose and switched it on full blast. Nothing could prepare her for the electric explosion of cold water as it hit her body. She screamed, writhing against her chains, oblivious to the pain in her shoulders and legs as the icy blast thundered on her chest. sucking the breath out of her body. The thin dress offered no protection. Emily twisted, trying to avoid the torrent. From the corner of her eye she could see Leonora smiling with satisfaction. The guard walked around her, playing the hose up and down until every inch of her flesh was wet and frozen. Emily's teeth began to chatter, her skin rising in goose bumps.

After a few minutes Leonora nodded and the man switched off the water. Emily was frozen through to the core, any last shred of resistance trickling away as the remains of the water dripped off her. She wondered if she might pass out from the shock and the cold.

Birdie stepped into the cell with a set of keys and undid the manacles and leg irons. She was so cold and stiff that she fell helplessly into his arms.

Peter Howard stared at the computer screen and then rechecked the number against the pad in front of him. There was no doubt about it. Angela had rung Johnson's home number. To double check he tucked the extension she had left him under his chin and tapped in the number.

"Hello?" said a female voice.

Peter cleared his throat. "Good evening, may I speak to Mr Johnson?"

There was a few second's hesitation before the cultured voice replied. "I'm afraid he isn't available at the moment. May I take a message?"

Peter hung up. He realised now that Angela's appearance at the hospital had been remarkably fortuitous. She had been careful to avoid the other staff. Things that had not registered before tumbled into place; she was a plant. Shit, he thought, staring at the evidence on the screen in front of him, I've delivered myself straight into a trap.

He glanced at Magenta, wondering what it was that was keeping Johnson and his henchmen away. Johnson knew how Magenta worked. There was no obvious reason for waiting before they reeled him in. Unless, of course, they thought that he had copied the key already, in which case perhaps Angela had been hired to find out whether he had made a duplicate before the plane crash. He sighed. He'd already told her he hadn't got as far as making a copy. He glanced around the comfortable room; it didn't quite make sense.

If Johnson knew where he was, why had Angela brought him home to the cottage? Why hadn't she just relieved him of the box that Johnson wanted? He would have been at their mercy in the hospital. And why…

As his thoughts spun away he heard Angela opening the annex door.

He turned the wheelchair slowly, wanting to catch her expression. In the top left hand corner of his computer screen a small light flashed, announcing the arrival of a message. He was torn between clicking to read what had been sent to him and watching Angela.

Angela won.

"Here," she said, "I hope you like chicken casserole." She stood a tray on the table by the window. "Would you like me to wheel you over here or are you going to try walking. You ought to at least -" The words died in her throat as she approached him.

Peter hadn't cleared the screen which showed Johnson's phone number. Her colour drained dramatically.

"So, when is he coming to get Magenta?" Peter said softly, watching her face like a hawk. "And what was all this about?" He lifted his hands to encompass the room. "Johnson certainly knows how to bait a trap, I'll give him that."

Angela took a deep breath. "This isn't how it looks, Peter."

As she spoke he noticed the way her nipples, stimulated by some deep animal fear, hardened and pressed against the material of her dress. For an instant he felt a flicker of an ancient hunger to take her where she stood, slap her lying face and screw her until she could do nothing but follow him blindly. He wanted to make her scream with pleasure, wail with pain.

He snorted, controlling the fury in his voice. "Oh really, well from where I'm sitting it all looks pretty convincing. Why did you want to know about Magenta? Or was it that your friend Johnson didn't let you know what you were trading your pretty little arse for?"

Angela looked furious. "How dare you!"

Peter grabbed hold of her wrists, jerking her close to him. She shrieked as his fingers bit into her skin.

"Because you've been paid to stitch me up, haven't you? Why the hell did you bother rescuing me at all when you could have taken Magenta while I was unconscious? Any half decent hacker would have known that I hadn't made a duplicate key."

She struggled, turning to try and get away from him.

"Stop it, Peter," she said. "It isn't like that at all." Her fear made the lights inside his mind flash. She was afraid of him. Her body arched against him, stoking the dark need to take her.

"So how is it?" he snapped, his fury growing alongside the lust which glowed white hot in his belly. "And what have you done with Emily?"

Angela stared at him in astonishment. "I haven't done anything with her. I'm not working for Mr Johnson, you have to believe me. Peter. Please -"

"Who then?"

Angela shook her head. "I can't tell you."

Peter laughed furiously. "Oh right, you can't tell me. Why not?"

She shook her head. "Isn't it enough for you to know that I'm on your side? If I'd been working for Johnson, you're right, you wouldn't have got out of the hospital. We could have easily taken Magenta from you then, who would have known? You have to trust me."

"And what was all that crap about ringing in for leave? You didn't even work at the hospital. Did you?"

Angela trembled. "No, but it had to look convincing. I'd done some relief work there a long time ago. I knew my way around."

Peter glared at her. "As Angela Ruskin?"

The woman shook her head. "No, that isn't my real name. But you do need my help."

Peter released her with a disgust. "Give me one good reason why I should trust you?" he snapped furiously.

Angela straightened her dress, struggling to get back into control. "You can barely walk. You need me. I promise you, I'm not working for Johnson. What choice do you have but to trust me?"

Her voice was so soft, so compelling that he had to remind himself how vulnerable he was. He snorted, meeting her bright, sparkling eyes. Angela was wrong. He did have one other option, the option to call in the organisation he was working for. They would have pulled him out, brought him in – and taken Magenta, and Johnson and Fielding operation away from him. He looked across at his rescuer.

"Are you going to tell me why you were ringing Johnson's private number?"

Angela shook her head. "I can't."

"You really can keep a secret," he said dryly.

Angela nodded. "Yes. Do you want to eat now?"

Peter glanced over at the steaming casserole on the table. "What? The condemned man ate a hearty meal?"

"If that's how you want to think of it. But I'm not condemning you. Peter. I told you before. I want to help you." She pushed him towards the table; the food smelt delicious.

"If you won't tell me who you are working for, will you tell me why you're doing this? Johnson and Fielding and the guys they work for play hard ball."

Angela fluffed a napkin across his lap. "I just want what you want."

Peter laughed without humour. "And what's that?"

"For Johnson and Fielding to lose the power they have now. We want you to bring them down."

"We?" said Peter, as she began to dish the meal up.

She nodded. "Yes, we."

Emily didn't resist as Birdie carried her, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He was a big man and she weighed barely eight stone. Her mind was dazed from the shock of the cold water and the long wait in the detention cell. She felt distant and removed, almost as if what was happening to her was a bad bad dream. Her teeth chattered, she closed her eyes.

At the back door of Deuvar a van was waiting. Birdie slung her into the back onto a padded mattress, and then took his place in the passenger seat beside the driver. She stayed very still, cold, dazed, listening to the wheels crunching over the gravel. It wouldn't be long. Leonora said they were waiting for her.

Max Fielding took a glass from the tray brought by a uniformed footman and glanced around the elegant sitting-room of Naomi Haroldson's Deuvar guest house. Canapes had been arranged on trays, the distinguished guests circled and smiled, exchanging polite social chit chat. A log fire glowed in the grate. It could have been the prelude to a family dinner party.

Naomi Haroldson circulated, exchanging a few words here and there, looking suitably gracious in a beautifully cut red cocktail dress. Her elderly husband, George, watched the proceedings from the comfort of his armchair, fortified by a large glass of brandy.

Naomi smiled at Max and then glanced up at the clock.

"They should be here soon. Have you tried the smoked salmon?" she nodded towards a tray on one of the side tables.

Max laughed. "You are really quite remarkable, Naomi. I see all the regulars are here. How's Franz?"

Naomi smiled broadly, revealing a row of perfectly shaped shark-white teeth. "Oh, he's very well, very eager."

From outside came the sound of a vehicle arriving. Naomi flashed him the icy smile again. "If you'll excuse me, I think my little present has arrived. The footman will show you to your seat."

In one wall of the sitting-room a servant had opened a pair of double doors, discreetly disguised amongst the wealth of oak panelling. Inside was a luxurious room set with sofas, low chairs and side tables – once again replete with canapes and bottles of champagne.

Opposite the double doors the whole of the far wall was made of glass, giving the small audience a compelling view in the room beyond. Max took a seat near the door, giving himself a broad view of the events that were about to unfold. He helped himself to a glass of perfectly chilled champagne and waited.

George Haroldson joined him a few seconds later. Max nodded to his host. George Haroldson had a penchant for voyeurism – he had no stomach to take part, but revelled in his young wife's exhibitionism. Silently he pulled up a chair beside Max and lit a cigar.

A door into the softly lit room beyond the glass opened and Emily Lawrence appeared. She was on a short leash, led by Naomi Haroldson. The girl was cold, dishevelled, the ragged remains of her shift clinging damply to every fold. She watched Naomi's face like a frightened rabbit as Naomi unlocked her wrist cuffs. Even through the glass Max could sense her fear – and more compelling yet, a tiny glittering flame of expectation.

The girl's eyes flashed as she took in the details of the room. It was softly lit, almost bare. In the centre was a low plinth, padded, with restraints set in each corner. Emily's eyes widened as Naomi led her towards it.

Above, hanging on the panelled wall, were a selection of corrective devices: a riding crop, a two finger tawse, a small plaited whip, a flat leather paddle. The girl shivered, holding back, her eyes bright with terror. Naomi jerked the leash tight. Emily strained against her.

It struck Max that she didn't realise she was being observed. He leant forward in his chair, watching as the girl turned and tried to jerk the lead out of Naomi's hands, twisting back and forth to free herself, tugging this way and that until finally the leash was ripped from Naomi's fist.

The frightened girl lunged towards the door, threw it open and then froze in terror. Framed in the doorway was Naomi's special play mate, Franz.

Franz was a great bear of a man in his mid twenties, dressed in cream jodhpurs and a sleeveless leather waistcoat. More disturbingly, his face was hidden by a full leather helmet. The helmet rendered his strikingly handsome Nordic feature into a torturer's mask. Emily backed away in terror, oblivious now to Naomi Haroldson. Franz stepped into the room, his great barrel chest oiled and gleaming in the lamp light. His eyes glittered behind the mask.

"Get on the plinth," he said softly, in a voice that brooked no contradiction. "Now, all fours."

The girl let her gaze drop to the floor and without a word crept up onto the padded bench. Naomi smiled and locked the girl's hands and ankles into position. The lamp light glowed through the ragged shift Emily was wearing, outlining her delicate body, revealing her deliciously uptilted breasts, her flat belly, her small rounded buttocks -

Franz moved around her thoughtfully. Emily whimpered, her breaths coming in great laboured gasps. The big man's hand caught hold of her shift and ripped the remains of the material away, making the girl quake and whimper.

Slowly, he drew a thick leather belt from his jodhpurs and let it trail along her exposed spine, making her tremble visibly.

In the corner of the room, Naomi Haroldson was snaking out of her beautiful evening dress. Beneath she was wearing a tight black leather Basque that revealed every curve of her carefully sculpted body.

On the plinth Emily began to sob, soft throaty sounds of terror bubbling behind her lips as Franz stepped behind her and folded the belt in two. The first cracking blow across Emily's naked buttocks made Max Fielding flinch. The girl shrieked, lunging forward to escape the belt's sharp tongue.