The Country Escape (16 page)

Russ was looking like a seductive
bearded guru in the firelight, cross-legged on one of the jewelled floor cushions.

‘I quite like it that you’re jealous.’ He reached back for another cushion, placing it in front of him and patting it. ‘It shows how much you care.’

She hesitated. ‘I met Arjan Singh’s wife today.’

Russ had closed his eyes and was already breathing deeply and rhythmically. ‘Is he another sitar
player?’

She knelt down on the cushion. ‘Seth’s wife. At least, I think she was his wife. She might be a lawyer or something. Or an assassin.’ She remembered the strange way the woman had looked at her, as though examining a porcelain vase at an auction for cracks. ‘She arrived by helicopter, then Dair drove her here. She more or less asked me to name my price so they can buy me out of
this place.’

‘They don’t know you at all, do they?’ He chuckled, placing her hand on his groin. ‘Relax and breathe slowly. Feel the energy of your
kundalini
draw strength from mine. Today you are going to massage my chakras.’

Humming and omming, Kat tried to get into the swing, but for once she found she was counting very slowly and deliberately, delaying the progress from Russ’s
chest downwards as she tried to remember whether he’d taken a shower that morning. He smelt of cigarette-infused car and dog fox. She’d offer to run him a bath and carry on with the massage there, but the water needed to heat up.

Having broken off twice to let Daphne in and out again, then reminding Kat several times to keep quiet and think about her breathing, Russ’s eyes suddenly went
from glazed to hard focus. ‘What did you say to Seth’s wife when she asked you to name your price?’

‘A billion,’ she told him proudly.

‘No, what did you
really
say?’

‘A billion.’ She sat back, abandoning the massage with relief. ‘You know I won’t be bought – the Big Five already tried that.’

‘Yes, but they’re as mean as weasels. They were trying to palm you off with
twenty grand and three acres of waterlogged rough pasture by the main road. This man’s a billionaire philanthropist. Think what we could take him for!’

‘It’s not about the money.’ She stared at him, appalled.

‘C’mon, Kat. Don’t be naïve. We’re probably talking about the sort of money that could turn a small private sanctuary into a huge wildlife-rescue operation.’

‘The animals
here are old and happy. Constance wanted them to die here. Seth will just have to wait it out until they do,’ she huffed, standing up and throwing her floor cushion into the corner.

‘What are you doing?’

She was snatching jewel-coloured throws and saris from the sofas and walls. ‘Calling time on charlatan trick sex.’ She folded up the saris and stacked them on the floor cushions,
wishing they’d managed to hang on to the revving passion of wassail night. ‘Face it, Russ, we’re not setting the world alight here. We need to rethink this arrangement.’

Russ was watching her, dark eyes tortured. ‘We were breaking through. You can’t do this to me.’

‘I’m not throwing you out.’ She sighed, rubbing her forehead. ‘I’m just cooling things. Didn’t you tell me the secret
of great Tantric pleasure is withholding? Well, let’s withhold from each other for a bit.’

‘Fine.’ He forced himself to sound calm. ‘Of course. That’s totally your decision.’

He even helped her unhook the tasselled hanging lanterns and put them away.

‘I’m here to look after you, Kat,’ he promised. ‘You have nothing to fear. The animals are safe. If Seth is Sikh, he’s not going
to allow field sports. Hunting is against their sacred code.’

‘I’m sure that’s a relief for Heythrop, if not the rest of the village.’

He scowled. ‘Let’s go to the pub. We need a drink.’

‘No, thanks.’ She couldn’t face the earthmen lined up knowingly by the bar, let alone the cradle-snatching, pheasant-murdering, drummer-shagging cougar behind it.

‘Is it because of
the Mags thing?’

‘Absolutely not.’ She flashed the mega-watt smile. ‘I’m bigger than that.’

After he’d rattled off on his mountain bike, Kat went outside with the dogs and looked across the lake to the house, all wrapped up, waiting for its new life. She should probably have gone with Russ. Nights in the Eardisford Arms always cheered her up and made her feel less threatened by the
shifting political sands that came with every rumour about the estate. They were a protective bunch with many she counted as friends, far more outspoken and reassuring than the sanctuary committee, who talked endlessly about trust, both financial and moral, and thought that justice could be done with a politely worded letter and freshly baked biscuits.

Kat might need the rallying cry of
the village and the uplifting back-pat of raucous bar-talk, but she had too much to stew over about Russ. If you take in the black sheep, she reasoned, you’re not going to knit a white cowboy hat. He suited Lake Farm so well, the oddball animal-lover with his boundless energy and integrity. He’d made her feel safe here. But lately she’d found herself worrying that she’d yet again chosen the toughest
path by sharing the sanctuary with him. Dawn certainly seemed to think so, suggesting he made Kat retreat into her hermit’s shell, overwhelmed by the force of his personality and opinions when her own seemed childish and ill-informed. But she was still striving to understand a world she had so much to learn about, the country landscape Russ knew so well.

A movement in the park caught her
eye. All she saw was the briefest glint of moonlight against branched antlers. It was the big stag, she realized in delight, her first sighting since last autumn when he’d been rutting. Russ would be thrilled.

She couldn’t push him away, she decided. She owed it to both of them not to rush anything or rely upon the self-protective reflex action that had brought her here in the first place.

Heading back inside, she threw more logs on to the fire, then arranged the saris and
bandhanwar
again, settling on a cushion and staring into the flames as she laid her fingertips on her first chakra. This was much easier alone at her own pace, especially if she could think about Dougie Everett’s bottom from yesterday’s movie night. By her fifth chakra, she was feeling decidedly hot and
randy, laughing under her breath as her body fizzed and bubbled with anticipation, under no pressure to perform for once or to stir another into action, simply find its selfish pleasure.

‘Oh, boy!’ she gasped, astonished that she’d almost forgotten the painful sweetness of quick-fix desire, of needing to grasp the ultimate weightless freefall and hang from it.

Tantric guru Russ would
tell her to stop at this point, take a break, not allow herself to go any further towards orgasm, but Kat, who hadn’t felt anything as guilt-free as this since the early Nick years, wasn’t about to lose the roll.

‘Ohboyohboyohboy.’ She laughed, rocking forwards. Perhaps there was something in all this omming after all.

‘Door was open, so we let ourselves in!’ called a cheery voice,
and the dogs rattled up from the fireside in greeting, apart from deaf Maddie who was fast asleep.

Kat sat up, crossed her arms and mustered her brightest smile just in time to greet Pru and Cyn, fresh from the pub where they’d stopped off for the usual nightcap, faces red with Hopflask and gossip.

‘Oh, how lovely, you’re getting into the Indian spirit, Kat.’

‘We had to come
straight round when we heard the news,’ Cyn panted, her watery blue eyes huge.

‘Isn’t it
shocking
?’ Pru thundered, gunmetal helmet of hair on end. ‘It’s even brought some colour to your cheeks, dear child. She looks positively flushed, doesn’t she, Cyn?’

‘In the pink, Pru.’

‘What news?’ Kat asked, flustered.

‘The Indian chappy who’s bought the house has banned the Brom
and Lem Hunt from the entire estate. Miriam’s apoplectic!’

Dougie could barely sleep at night, constantly reliving the struggle through the choking smoke, the fierce heat that had left his hair an inch shorter and his hands striped with welts, the terror of the little grey horse and the unflinching
bravery of his young stallion.

When Zephyr’s carbon monoxide levels had been tested the day after the fire, the veterinarians at the equine hospital said he should technically have been dead. The damage to his respiratory system was so severe that they had doubted he’d make it past the first week. But the lion-hearted Friesian refused to give in to medical statistics. The air in the barn
had become so hot that his throat was burned inside to a blistered shred and he was unable to breathe without the nostril tubes feeding his lungs with constant oxygen while he was pumped intravenously with fluids and painkillers. Yet his dark eyes still lit up when he saw Dougie each day and he tried to whicker with painful gasps. It was all Dougie could do not to break down and cry on his thick
black neck, the magnificent long mane now burned away.

‘He’s one seriously brave horse,’ the vets told him.

In fact Zephyr looked remarkably unscathed physically, the burns and welts on his coat only superficial but, like his master, he was in deep shock, the weight dropping off him as he colicked repeatedly, his guts cramping so badly on the third day that they thought they might
have to operate, which was almost too dangerous to risk in his current state. But he kept fighting to live, and that gave Dougie the strength to tough out each tortuous, sleepless night.

The fire investigators reported that it was almost certainly an electrical fault that had started the blaze. The little grey had suffered less damage to his lungs and was doing well, as were all the horses
that had been rescued that night. Some, like Zephyr, would take many months to rehabilitate. Without veterinary insurance, Dougie faced astronomical bills, but he didn’t care what it cost. That was not what kept him awake at night.

He’d become obsessed with the idea that his team of horses in England was in danger, but he couldn’t get hold of Rupe, the mobile always going through to voice-mail,
the increasingly impatient messages to call back unheeded.

The fire team had urged Dougie to go for trauma counselling, but Dougie had a deep mistrust of therapy. He knew it would pass. Meanwhile Xanax and bourbon were proving much more effective than the sympathetic eyes of a shrink.

Normally big-hearted Abe would have been his life support, but the agent was on a rare vacation
with his family and out of contact. Dougie made no effort to track him down: Abe had never approved of the horses, and had no understanding of their significance. It wasn’t as if any had died, yet Dougie’s world had shifted on its axis. Nothing felt safe any more.

Kiki didn’t really understand either, but the incident had certainly stopped her goading him about co-star Finlay’s desire for
her. For the first twenty-four hours after the fire, she rang throughout the day to check he was okay and insisted that he must eat, wash and dress. After that, she clearly expected him to bounce back to normal. She was filming long hours, and when she was at home, her constant chatter washed over him. The tranquillizers and booze immunized him against her neediness and self-obsession. The stage-set
politics, demanding directors and dysfunctional costumes didn’t register, and he no longer responded by obediently raising his hackles when she tried to fight.

‘You’re not listening to a fucking word I’m saying, are you?’ was her banshee scream after a week. When Dougie didn’t respond, she narrowed her eyes suspiciously and demanded, ‘Are you mixing meds and alcohol?’

He smiled lazily.
‘Would you like me to mix you one too, darling?’

Very little penetrated. The fact that the vet was unable to continue treating Zephyr without Dougie’s credit-card number was one of the few things that galvanized him into action as he went to track down his wallet, which had been missing for several days.

Kiki had taken his ash-stained, charred tux out on to the veranda to hang on
the washing line because she couldn’t stand the smell of smoke on it. Dougie found his wallet in an inside pocket, along with his apartment keys and a clutch of business cards. He looked at the top one.

Seth.
 

He must have been at the party on the night of the fire, Dougie realized. The businessman who had bought a production company to stop Dougie getting a big role had attended
the Du Ponts’ ruby wedding anniversary. Had he been there by design too?

He thought back to the extraordinary meeting with Dollar at the ice hotel and her increasingly coercive calls. What was it Abe had said?
If you turn this guy down I don’t think you’ll be working for the rest of the year.

Dougie felt a sudden chill go through him. On impulse, he called the number and found it
picked up in just one ring. ‘Seth.’

‘It’s Dougie Everett. I want to talk to you.’

‘Good. I’ll send a car.’ He rang off.

Dougie’s eyebrows shot up. His James Bond fantasies were reignited, but they gave him no pleasure. With them came a spark of anger he’d not experienced since the fire. How did this guy know where he was? Did the business card have a secret tracking device?
Dougie could have been jogging round Glendale for all the man knew. He poured himself a large drink, remembered he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes and decided to take a shower.

When it arrived, the car was an upmarket private-hire limo with a driver in grey livery. Dougie stared out at the landscape sliding by. It was several minutes before he grasped that they were heading for the
airport.

‘Hang on, I’m not flying anywhere.’ He had to meet the vet at three o’clock, and he’d promised some expat friends who shared a house in the hills that he’d call by afterwards, knowing they wanted to cheer him up.

A smart blonde airport official met him at the car and escorted him swiftly through security and up in a lift to a VIP lounge high above the concourse, infused
with the smell of wealth, leather seats and rich coffee. Several men in suits were gazing at screens small and large as they awaited flights. A woman in tailored pinstripes gave Dougie a lingering look, taking in the dishevelled blond sex appeal amid so much monochrome.

‘Seth’s plane has just landed,’ the airport official told him, leading the way through to a small private meeting room
with walls more glacially white than those of the ice hotel. ‘It’s getting accelerated clearance. He will be with you in twenty minutes.’

‘Lucky I caught him flying in.’

‘He turned his plane around, Mr Everett.’ She left him with a nod, and Dougie fought a James Bond urge to scan the room for bugs and escape routes. He had a nasty feeling that he’d just walked into a trap. Lacking
sleep, still more than a little pissed, he had conspiracy theories rattling around in his head like ricocheting bullets, wondering if Seth could possibly have been behind the fire. As he waited, the man became a monster in his mind, set on destruction. At least being airside in one of the highest security airports in the world meant there was little likelihood that Seth would be armed, he thought
wildly, as the door opened and he swung around – he could take the man down with one quick combat strike before he knew what was happening.

But Seth’s smile packed more ammunition than a cargo hold filled with gun shells. Dressed in a suit sharper than a Kasumi blade, he shook Dougie’s hand and beamed at him. ‘That call was perfect timing, man – any later and I’d have been too far on my
way to London to swing a U-turn. I’m Seth. Great to meet you again.’ The voice was smooth and unhurried, almost lazy, the accent hard to place, with traces of Yorkshire, India and the States.

Before Dougie could say anything, Seth held up his hand apologetically as his phone burst into life with strains of a recent rap hit. ‘I must take this –
Igor, kak d’ela podruga?
’ He turned away, instantly
talking in the quiet, lethally effective tones of a man whose business fortune earned more interest in a day than Dougie earned in a year.

Looking at the back of his head, Dougie contemplated another combat move, a blow to that neatly clipped neck bringing instant knock-down before he stood over him and hissed, ‘Bully me all you like, but never, ever hurt one of my animals!’ Even as he
thought it, he knew he wouldn’t do it. Last night’s Xanax was lifting, along with his conspiracy theories.

Seth was talking in a mixture of Russian and English on the phone, and Dougie could see a predator beneath the hand-stitched wool. This was no cheery techno-geek made lucky. The face immediately imprinted itself in the mind, high-cheekboned, long-nosed and watchful, with hypnotically
clever eyes. The coat, suit and shoes were all hand-made, Italian and beautifully designed in the understated way that screamed class. Seth was not much older than Dougie, but was what his City friends would call a seriously high-baller.

He turned back to Dougie as soon as he was off the phone, grey eyes serious. ‘I heard about the fire. I’m so sorry.’

‘Is that why you turned your
plane around?’ Dougie eyed him warily. ‘To offer your sympathy?’

‘I want you to work for me.’

‘So I gathered. You’re more of a no-other-opportunities employer than equal opportunities.’

‘Forgive me. My assistant has been a little over-zealous.’

For a brief moment Dougie had an image of Dollar and a can of petrol stalking along the stables aisle before he dismissed it
as fantasy. ‘My career prospects have hardly improved in the past week.’

‘You’re a great performer.’ Seth’s pitch was as positive as Abe’s. ‘I loved you in
Dark Knight
, man. It was worth watching for the stunts alone. How you can ride so fast carrying a lethal weapon is mind-blowing, then nailing it exactly on target – pow!’ He settled in one of the squashy leather chairs and indicated
for Dougie to do likewise, but he remained standing, the anger spark flicking in his pulse. He knew he must stay calm – it was ludicrous to imagine Seth had had anything to do with the fire, yet he couldn’t shake the notion that a man capable of plucking him off a mountain in Romania to take him to a hotel made of ice or turning around a private jet over LA was capable of pretty much anything.

‘Tell me, if you think I’m such a great actor, why do you want me to put that career on hold for a year to hunt hounds for you?’

‘I don’t want you to stop acting. This will be a high-profile role for you and better paid than any movies you’ll make in the time.’

Dougie laughed disbelievingly. ‘I can’t see the Bafta jury agreeing.’

‘You’re the strongest candidate by far.
You’ve hunted all your life. You’re a skilled archer, an experienced marksman and horseman. I’m mad for history, and you have what it takes to show off ancient techniques of English hunting using dogs, employing horseback archery, along with spears, lance and crossbow, and working with hawks. My Russian and American colleagues would love to see all that, man.’

‘I’ve never worked with a
hawk, unless you count doubling for Ethan Hawke in a cavalry charge when I was first starting out in movies. And if you want someone to perform medieval stunt displays, there are plenty of good trick riders I can recommend. I’m through with that.’

‘You need a year out working for me.’ Seth ignored his negativity. ‘Your movie career won’t go away. You currently have more Google searches
on your name by UK women than any other British actor.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I have a team of researchers. According to them, you were also once the youngest master of foxhounds in England.’

‘That’s only because my father had to retire from the mastership when he got banged up.’ He looked down, uncomfortable with the memory. ‘I took over for the rest of the season. Chip
off the old block, me – just as good across trappy country, but equally unreliable and easily bought. You won’t find many referees on my CV.’

‘I don’t need a reference, just your agreement.’

‘You’d be better off with a good professional from one of the established hunts. Offer them decent accommodation and a bonus and they might even marry your unwanted sitting tenant for you.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Seth looked baffled.

Dougie smirked, suddenly guessing that Dollar’s over-enthusiasm might have led her to omit a few key details to her boss about the job description she’d given him. ‘I heard something about a girl who was left a farm on the estate.’

It was Seth’s turn to duck his head and look up through a guarded forest of brows and lashes. ‘Dollar has that
in hand. It’s of no consequence. I need you to entertain
very
exclusive clients. They will have the best sport with the most charming of huntsmen.’

‘In which case, you’d be better off calling Otis Ferry.’

Seth sucked his lower lip, dark grey eyes amused, a smile showing very straight white teeth. ‘I appreciate you may not be capable of providing this level of sport, and I do have
other options…’

Dougie, who would normally insist he was capable of anything, had too many shadows across his life right now to rise to the bait.

‘I will pay you half a million pounds for the year. From this, you will need to cover all the expenses of the hunt, including staff and horses. Your accommodation is free, and you’ll receive a generous weekly living allowance and your own
transport. Anything left over at the end of the year is yours to keep, as are all tips, which I’m sure my house guests will offer. They’re very wealthy men, so the tips will be generous, trust me.’

Dougie knew this was a huge amount of money and security by any huntsman’s standards – most were paid less than a farm labourer and the accommodation was lousy, often damp and unheated, with
no job security. The thrill was in the work. By the same token, it was a hell of a lot more than he’d ever have stood to earn as a stuntman. As an actor, only a big break would come close to matching it. This was easy money. It was an old-fashioned master’s guarantee; he was paid it all up front and if he kept control of the purse-strings, he pocketed the leftovers. If he boxed clever, he could easily
pay off his current debts and cover all Zephyr’s vet bills.