The Second Lie (Immortal Vikings Book 2) (9 page)

“Shower.” Nearly impossible to imagine being clean, a time when she’d be willing to stand still in air permeated by her own odor because the scent would actually be pleasant.

“Towels and robe in the bathroom. How do you like your eggs?”

A woman could do worse than a man who took breakfast orders and let her go first. “I’m not picky.”

His smile and eyebrows managed to convey his disbelief.

“Not about eggs.” If only her California life included a real Geoffrey Morrison who cooked meals for her, made her laugh and looked like a James Bond double.

That thought was dangerous enough to make her flee for the bathroom.

Chapter Nine

The click of the lock and the rush of water signaled that he had a few moments, so Stig brought the small blue passport folder with the gold-embossed seal of the United States of America out of his pocket. The name and photo inside nearly made him burst into laughter.

This was a passport for Angelina Rivera, born 1987, Yolo County, California, not Christina Alvarez Mancini. Superficially, the woman in the photo and the woman taking a shower looked alike, with masses of long dark hair, slightly tan complexions and heavily lashed brown eyes, but if he’d been asked to sketch them, he could spot twenty differences. The other woman had a fuller bottom lip and a round chin, whereas Christina’s cheekbones were more pronounced and her chin came to a point almost like knuckles on a fist. He grinned at the blank white door where she’d disappeared to clean up. No wonder she hadn’t ditched him for the cops hours ago. She was as big a fraud as he was.

Gloating would delay their meal, so he stowed her false identity in his pocket and went to the kitchen. What he’d taken mostly on a whim was as good as a pair of handcuffs. With Angelina’s passport in his control, Christina didn’t have an easy return to the United States, and denouncing him would also reveal her problem. Miss Holier-than-Him would have to do as he asked or face the repercussions of identity theft. All reasons to give her still one more passport, one that actually had her photo on it, as an enticement.

He clicked on the screen mounted under his cabinets to stream a news channel while he pried the bottom off the spare electric kettle, where he hid blank passport covers and pages.
Italy, Portugal, Slovenia, Spain
...Spaniards had flocked to London since the economic crisis. Christina’s English wouldn’t pass as anything but American, but he’d bet all six of his other antique Swiss timepieces that she could easily pretend to be a native of Spain, so he chose the red and gold cover for her new identity. When she was out of the shower, they’d print a photo, add a spot of acrylic nail glue to the photo and the laminated page cover, and she’d have the paperwork to become a new person, even without bothering to embed data on the biometric chip under the cover. French immigration officers who handled pre-clearing of passengers destined for Calais on the vehicle train didn’t give a frog’s tit about whether the embedded chips worked, because their readers usually didn’t. Airport security was the black hole for money, and tight budgets left nothing for anyone else.

He loved government austerity measures. So many opportunities for the creative.

Although the bacon was still raw on the griddle, the fatty salted smell made his mouth water. It had been, all things considered, a good day so far. The moment of weakness when he’d shared the truth about himself didn’t signify, because she’d thought him a nutter and he’d been off the hook. How many ways could he prove his immortality before the skeptical Miss Not-Mancini believed his claim? He poured espresso beans into a grinder. Her doubt didn’t matter, he repeated as the machine whirred. He didn’t need her trust. Just her cooperation. Together they’d eluded the hounds, and he’d had the bonus joy of a perfectly picked bag, rare enough since his talents had shifted to the insubstantial world of finance.

The background whoosh of the shower stopped, the signal to add a chunk of butter to the pan. His fried eggs could make a woman purr.

* * *

Part of Christina wanted to linger in the steamy shower until the hot water ran out. The shelf held six different body washes, ranging from one generically described as fresh and clean to a coconut tropical blend. Either he had a lot of companionship or he changed his scent with his identity. She liked the bar soap the best and held it to her nose while she let the water pound on her neck and back. It was outdoorsy, not so much pine that it smelled like furniture polish, but enough that she could be standing on a hilltop in a California forest far from here.

At home she would let the spray hit her muscles longer, or turn herself front to back into the cascading water like a pancake that never finished, but in someone else’s apartment she felt obligated to conserve.

With a towel wrapped around her hair and his thick white robe turning her into a snowman, she stared at the dirty denim jacket on the floor. The phone in the pocket was the only thing worth salvaging. She could call Elaine Johnson. It was less than a day since she’d seen the other woman, and Elaine always sounded happy to hear from her. She could count on Elaine to take her shopping and give her a place to sleep.

The black phone was the simplest she’d seen in ages, nothing but a small screen, number keys and red and green arrows on either side of a selector button. Apparently scoring a fix didn’t require high tech, but even this thing required a password. She tried 1 through 5 together, then 1 through 6, all zeroes, and then the numeric equivalent of the word
password
. Nothing worked. Frustration overwhelmed her so strongly that she must have squeezed a button on the side, because the screen flashed a series of
E
s.

She’d passed store signs while biking, so she knew SIM cards were easy to find and cost about five pounds. She nestled the phone in the bag beside the Chateau Perlus and picked up the dirty clothes, boots and purse. Hopefully Stig had sweat pants and a T-shirt she could borrow. These were not touching her body again.

The delicious smells of bacon and coffee greeted her on the other side of the door, but that welcoming scent and double-place setting was at odds with the rest of the scene. Stig stood sideways next to the drawn blinds of the living room window, what looked like a tablet computer in his hand.

“I was right to use the cellar door.” His eyes locked with hers. His lips had almost disappeared, they were pressed inward so tightly. “We have a babysitter.”

The clothes tumbled from her hands. “Wend and Skafe?”

“No.” He beckoned her forward. “See if you recognize him.” The screen showed a wide-angle view of the street outside. “I have a minicam near the roof, and it feeds my computer by a cable. Not even a wireless signal to detect.”

“How do you know he’s watching us?”

“First, the average smoker actually smokes. Our friend outside’s not exhaling. His cigarette’s only burning on the end, no draw from inhaling.”

“Just to play devil’s advocate, maybe he’s trying to quit or it’s one of those smokeless electronic ones.”

“Am I allowed to roll my eyes at you, or does that only go one direction? He’s wearing a tan coat here.” Stig scrolled from left to right on the touchscreen. “This is an hour ago.”

In the image, a man with the same build, same color pants and same shoes walked slowly down the sidewalk, wearing a belted black trench coat. When he paused to fiddle with his phone, she could see that the face was identical.

“I’ve never seen a gentleman who wasn’t casing a mark change his Mackintosh on breaks,” Stig said.

“Shit.” With that whispered word, the air and energy left her like a week-old party balloon.

“Bloody miracle. You didn’t argue the point.” He leaned his forehead against hers.

The single touch sent a current of strength from their spot of contact through her spine, reminding her not to give up, not yet, not until she had the fake wines removed from the auction and her business salvaged. “Must be the smell of bacon. It’s warped my brain.”

The plates of breakfast looked like Papa Bear and Baby Bear, one filled with what must be six pieces of bacon, three eggs and a tower of toast points. The other was a manageable two of each, and she headed for that plate.

“...Bodeby’s...”
The word rose from the background noise of the television and simultaneously jolted both of them.

Stig was a step ahead of her into the kitchen, where a television played.

“The Metropolitan Police have concluded that there is a link between the early morning shooting at Paddington and the reported kidnapping last night from Bodeby’s Auction House in St. James’s Square.”

A picture flashed next to the female announcer. It had the slightly grainy look of photos taken from security cameras. Stig’s profile was visible in the sideview of the four of them on Bodeby’s front steps, but her face was partially obscured by Wend’s shoulder.

“We have a reporter on the scene.” The feed cut to a man standing in front of the auction house, microphone in hand.

All she could do was wrap her arms around herself and rock, eyes fixed on the screen as the words swirled in her head.

“Thank you, Rebecca. Sources close to the investigation say that the police have video from two locations showing the kidnappers’ progress between Bodeby’s and Paddington. The two victims have been identified as California wine merchant Geoffrey Morrison and his assistant, Christina Mancini. They were apparently working on the upcoming auction of the late Lord Charles Seymour’s wine collection. There’s no word yet from his daughter or Bodeby’s on whether the auction will proceed as scheduled, but there is a lot of speculation in the wine world right now.”

Sick fear mixed with anger inside her chest, but she held them in. Not one sound from her interrupted the lead story. No words were necessary, nor could they describe the total loss of her life’s work that this publicity would inevitably cause. The wealthy valued privacy.

The news camera flipped to the studio, where the same woman turned to the man seated beside her at the desk. “Have the police identified this morning’s shooting victim?”

The alleged victim was standing next to her. She’d seen his naked, unmarked chest only a few hours before and even found it attractive, a fact that made her stomach twist as she waited for the announcer’s answer.

“The police won’t comment on an ongoing investigation, but eyewitnesses in Paddington at the time of the shooting have identified Morrison as the person taken away by ambulance with a woman. However, both of them disappeared from St. Mary’s Hospital under irregular circumstances, so you can see this is a very intense situation. We’ll keep viewers informed of this rapidly unfolding investigation. Anyone with information is urged to contact the Metropolitan Police immediately at the number displayed on your screen.”

Impossible to imagine a public explanation that conveyed how she too had been duped and carried this far like a twig in a flood. No one would ever believe her, especially not if they discovered Christina Mancini had invented her boss and hadn’t been adopted by Frank Mancini.

“I have to tell my brother I’m okay. I can’t let him think...” She trailed off. Uncle Robert might not be worried, since he seemed to consider her a complication instead of kin, but Manny would be frantic if he heard these reports.

“I’m sorry.” Stig’s regret sounded genuine, but it didn’t matter.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” She felt nothing. She should be angry or in tears, but both reactions were beyond her reach. Staying on her feet, upright and functioning, that was her limit. More wasn’t available. “I’ve lost everything.”

“No, of course not.” This answer was flat, as if he’d exhausted his ability to deceive. Or maybe now she saw through it better. “You still have...”

“My reputation?” She laughed, recognizing that the sound was too loud for the small kitchen but unable to stop it bursting out.

He didn’t join her because it obviously wasn’t funny.

“You were right that I had all the documents to prove your fraud in my suitcase. I left it in the Bodeby’s coat room.” She turned away from the screen because there was nothing more it could tell her.

The news audio clicked off, and then he wrapped his arms around her from behind. “It will get sorted out, I’m confident.”

“The papers are police evidence now, aren’t they? They’ll be examined.”

His cheek pressed against her temple. They stood like that, wrapped in a silent hug, for a long time. Long enough that she started to notice the small noises like the refrigerator hum and the faint beeps of a truck backing somewhere blocks away, and feel the slight scrape of his stubble.

Finally he said, “Eat while I shower. Then we’ll talk about eluding the gentleman outside and taking the train to France. No one will be looking for you over there, so you can call your brother before you fly back to the U.S. and deny the allegations from your home.”

* * *

At first Christina hadn’t believed the man who’d emerged from the bathroom was the same person. Yesterday’s laugh lines around his eyes must have been makeup, because the clean-scrubbed man sitting across the table from her looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties instead of ten years older. But the moment he’d explained the plan he’d devised in the shower, she’d had no doubts he was the man who’d convinced her to jump down a laundry chute and use rental bikes for a getaway.

Like an expert, Stig wiggled a set of red-tipped fingers in the air to dry. A massive makeup kit had replaced the breakfast dishes.

“Hold still if you want me to glue the other set.” When he’d described his idea to pretend to be two men going to Paris for a burlesque competition, she’d thought he’d been watching too much vintage television. After he’d brushed dark shadow expertly across her cheeks, upper lip and chin, inserted silicone pads between her gums and cheeks to broaden her jaw, narrowed her natural lip line and shadowed her nose to widen it, she’d admitted the impersonation had a chance.

Unfortunately she couldn’t drink coffee with the pads in her mouth, but three cups already had her eyes feeling stretched to her hairline. With her brain running like a hamster, her biggest challenge was keeping her hands steady enough to finish his nails.

“You look delightfully eighties in your pin shirt.”

She was too small for most of his clothes, but he’d slashed horizontal openings in a pair of black running tights that fit her like baggy leggings. After cutting the sleeves off a sweatshirt, he’d reattached them with rows of safety pins and produced a compression wrap to tie across her breasts. The super-strong wrap had remarkably cinched her already small chest enough that the sweatshirt hung straight. With the makeup and cheekpads, she looked like a young man dressed like a retro punk. Sort of. Her new passport, the photo taken against one of Stig’s white apartment walls, proclaimed her to be a Spanish national named José Felipe Suárez. “I wouldn’t know. I was six when the eighties ended.”