Wilderness of Mirrors (12 page)

No one but a collector.

Or a thief
.

He rubbed a hand across his thigh and contemplated the forlorn orchid.

There’s got to be another explanation, something you haven’t thought of yet.

But his thoughts were scattered by a light flashing above the front entrance.

The second time in less than thirty minutes.

The woman was popular as Picadilly
.

He waited a long moment, and when she didn’t appear, he made for the entry.

It was a strange feeling opening someone else’s door.

Without a gun.

He set an eye to the peephole. This time there was a silver-haired, middle-aged man on the doorstep. He wore an expensive, but casual suit and no overcoat; so he expected to be invited in. His posture screamed SAS, and Nigel wondered if C had sent him.

Debriefing, society style? If that was the case, he’d resign on the spot.

Nigel dipped his shoulder and strained like it was hard for him to see. Then he pulled at the door as though it out-weighed him. “Yes?” he asked, pushing nasality into the syllable.

The man, formerly disfigured by the curving touch of spyglass, was taller than Nigel had supposed. Rather good looking too. Mid-fifties and not gone to fat. He wore an ankle holster with a subcompact 9mm handgun. It was hitched on his trouser leg.

A youth beneath the Tower Bridge had more sense. If C had in fact sent him, Nigel would have a report on his boss’s desk before the hour was out.

“Who are you?” The stranger’s accent was Queen’s English over an ancient foundation of Lancashire.

“Excuse me?”
Must remember to keep insolence from your voice.

Unkind eyes slid past Nigel and hovered for a moment on the yellow flower. “Where’s Samantha?”

“In her flat, I expect.” Nigel further weakened his tone. “She lives
downstairs
.”

The hard face softened a few degrees. “Sorry. I assumed no one was staying up here from what she’d told me last week.”

Nigel feigned sudden understanding. “A leak. In my flat that is. Faulty plumbing near destroyed everything. I did manage to save my computer. Though - ” The man was studying him. He’d picked up on Nigel’s broken ribs, pinged them like a wolf scenting an injured rabbit. Maybe he wasn’t as ineffectual as he seemed. “- I slipped on my way out. Ended up in casualties with a set of cracked ribs.”

“Never mind. I’ll try her mobile.” The man put a hand on his pocket. No wedding ring.

You do that, mate. Then I’ll run your number.
Nigel didn’t let his eyes note the gun. Let the old man think Nigel was a successful broker whose lineage trumped his brainpower. A dimwitted wanker as harmless as ribbed merino socks.

Nigel served up more blandness. “Right then. Good night.” He closed the door. Switched the deadbolt. Waited until the fuming suitor of sorts walked back across the street to his BMW M3 Coupe. Waited until the car was out of sight before he stopped watching.

FX08 RPT.

London area. Sidcup registered. A 2010 purchase.

So this was Sam’s not-so-secret admirer.

He needed to retrieve his mobile if he was to find out more about him. Only her shadow had darkened the stairwell and Tamar’s tread was audible against the tightly laid carpet. She’d put on cargos, beltless and army green, and they slipped on her hips as she walked. A goddamn military man’s dream.

“Brad wants to know if we’ll meet him at L’Osteria.”

So we’re to be pretending all’s well.
“I know.” A strange jealousy wormed through his mind. Unusual, because he wasn’t covetous by nature. “Though I figured you had enough Italian last night.” He was thankful she couldn’t catch the growl in his throat. He didn’t know if it was anger at his recent discoveries or simple envy.

She stopped on the last step, her hand resting on the railing. She was remarkably composed given what had transpired downstairs. No wasted energy, just thoughtful purpose.
You’re right about her being a thief. About her lying to you.

“Shrimp scampi is a New York dish.” She said ‘New York’ like a native. Could have added ‘dog’ and he’d be looking for his Yankees cap. “Unless of course,” she tilted her head sardonically, “you were referring to Brad.”

He didn’t talk with Brad about women. Not the serious ones. Not the take-out variety. And never once Irina. Clever men didn’t do such things.

Unfortunately, as luck would have it, clever was going AWOL.

“Milton only pretends he’s Italian.” It was half a lie.

The shrug indicated she wasn’t inclined to believe him. Long damp, hair lay limp along the shoulders of her Chinese shirt, an absurdly appealing piece of cheap cotton promoting ‘Prosperity’ Hello Kitty style. He forced himself to look away.

` “You don’t think…”

Necessity compelled him to return her gaze. “What?”

He didn’t think she was wearing a bra. His cock agreed. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything. And considering what she really was and all that had happened the past few weeks, it was unforgivable.

“He planned to meet us
both
for dinner tonight.” She paused. “I dropped in unannounced yesterday evening, likely spoiled his little plan.”

Then he understood. “Brad wanted to introduce us.”

“Apparently he’s more Roman than you give him credit for. He’s playing Cupid.”

The realization was problematic. Neither man had ever done such a thing, apart from a nod in some godforsaken place Ms. Ali Baba would never set her painted toes.

“Doesn’t matter. I already cancelled.” The bastard deserved it for siccing Kate on him.

Regret flickered through her features. Did she want to go? Did she want to go
without him
? “You’re more than welcome to meet him yourself. I’ll fetch a cab back to the barge.”
And then I’ll thrash Milton for sticking me in this mess.

“You don’t have your own place in London?”

“Not unless you count a membership at The Liberal’s.”

“You’re not their type.”

“No?”

“No.” Sharp woman. About the only thing he liked was the anonymity of the club. That and the place’s lack of noise. He supposed that defined him. He could get in anywhere, one just had to modify one’s self in another person’s eyes. But it didn’t mean he felt comfortable.

Though comfort, like jealousy, rarely hamstringed him. And yet, here he was, ensconced in Mayfair opulence without having tried to get in.

He was jealous to boot.

Bollocks. All of it. Including Samantha, who until yesterday was merely a memory. Now she turned out to be Brad’s ex. And from the loose headshots tucked inside one of her cookbooks, an elite former model.
Who speaks Cantonese and is very possibly a thief who’s been stealing from your family estate.

Finally she said, “You could eat here.”

So she could read his mind as well.

Bloody inconvenient to say the least.

She searched her memories as they descended the stairwell: from Parsons to her work with
Bond and Teller,
weddings to funerals, and still she couldn’t place him.

He stopped by the photos, causing her to draw up short behind him.
Dark. Your hair was darker when we met before. Like now, but not with water.
He traced one softly. “Family?”

His fingers were long and elegant, like a pianist’s. But she didn’t remember them. “My Uncle Loch and his partner, John Travers,” she said by way of explanation.

His expression registered nothing and her Uncle John’s words echoed.
“If a man’s face doesn’t shift, kitten, he’s gotten good at hiding things.”

Nigel studied the image. “A New York City cop and his…artist? An unusual combination.”

She hugged her arms close, cold with loss. “John was a detective sergeant. Loch is an interior decorator.”

“You had braces.”

“An American tradition.”

“So I gather.” He brushed a hand along the linen-covered wall.

That’s just what I do – why I chose it.

“I’d say you inherited your talents from at least one of them. This place screams it into a silk pillow.”

His line induced a shiver. “You’ve too much of the poet in you for a businessman.”

She thought he snorted. Then his eyes fell on Marc. “Boyfriend?”

For a moment she felt those lean, boyish arms around her shoulders.

“Just Marc.” It couldn’t have been more than a whisper.

He let it go and they finished the descent.

“Why don’t you put on something warmer?” She couldn’t tell if his words were a question or statement. “I’ll make dinner; you’re not the only one who’s eaten at Vesuvio’s.”

He was careful not to touch her. Walked by her like she was cursed and closed the door to her bedroom.

It took Wellington two vodka and tonics to realize something was different. Something apart from the fact Samantha actually did have a client, another useless barrister or broker, living upstairs.

He realized that he probably loved her. Despite everything. In spite of everything.

“You look pleased with yourself, mate.”

Wellington met the bartender’s gaze and realized he was exactly that.
Quite pleased in fact.
He said, “Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day.” It was an astonishing discovery. Fated even.

“Too right.” The man leaned in, wiping the vacant spot to Wellington’s left. “Got a special someone waiting for you?”

Chuckling with delight, Wellington tapped his glass indicating a refill. “I do. And I’m finally going to buy her red ones.”

“Red ones?”

“Roses. A dozen crimson.” He raised his drink. “To love.”

N
igel was contemplating a pot of boiling water when her bedroom door opened.

“We’ve met, haven’t we?”

He turned, hearing her words through a wall of detachment he’d constructed with sub par materials. She had climbed back into a pair of jeans. Put on a clingy black turtleneck. Her hair was heaped messily at the back of her head, loose tendrils drifting like so much steam.

His voice was sand under a booted heel. “Yes.”
But you already know that, don’t you?

“But where?” She was surprised or seemed to be. “How?” He waited as she considered him, drifting into the confines of the kitchen, her hand coasting on a cloud of vapor. “When I saw you yesterday, I thought for a moment I knew you. But- ” She tilted her head and he understood why the Vogue photographer had asked her to do the same. “You were too pale, your hair especially. To me you should have been darker. I decided Brad must have shown me your picture.”

Oh, he was without a doubt darker. “It’s the Moroccan sun. Must’ve lightened my hair.” Which was a lie; he’d dyed it darker before that trip so many years ago. “And I’m using sunblock now. Likely burnt to a crisp back then.”

“Back when? Where was it we were supposed to have met?” Her lips were wet with condensation. He almost believed her.

“Hong Kong airport. A decade ago.”

This she didn’t believe.

He played along. “Mea Culpa.”

Then he was another man in her eyes.

She stepped back, ricocheted off the stove and crashed into his chest. She was utterly shocked - an actress as well as a model.

He caught her waist with his reliable hand. It was warm. Taut. He could feel her breathe. Could feel her heart hammer. It didn’t seem likely that she was feigning surprise. She certainly didn’t have the composure of a marble sculpture any longer. His thumb was shoved up her shirt. The skin there was silk. “You’ve got a tattoo on your wrist,” he added needlessly, “A Chinese character.
Wolf
, unless I’m mistaken.”

Her eyes went wide. Time mutinied.

And he was back on the border of Eastern Croatia where he’d helped disarm an area of denial munitions: Chinese Type 72 landmines, plastic with TNT centers, only a few Euros a pop. It had taken them hours of diligent patience and still one of his men had lost a foot to Serbia.

A hell of an easy job compared to this.

His words hit her like an anvil.

She was nineteen again and a world away from London.

Standing on the sultry Hong Kong sidewalk, waiting. Her hand lodged comfortably on the space between Tam’s ears. The funny bump of bone that responded so well to a good scratch. He leaned in and she felt the rumble of his purry-growl.

She smiled down at him.

And in that tiny instant, the magazine tucked beneath her arm was swept away. Swallowed up by one of AG’s invisible contacts. Another fucker who got his jollies during a hand-off.

It was awful not being able to hear him coming.

Worse that she never once saw him.

Only thoughts of eviscerating the bastard served as temporary therapy.

If Tam noticed her discomfort, he gave no indication, preferring instead to drool over a passing lollipop.

She sighed and tugged his ear. “No. Not yours. Come on.”

Big obsidian eyes swung around. They were flavored with skepticism.

“Truly. Candy’s bad for you. Now let’s go.”

She headed for the opposite curb where a cab paused. Her hair, blessedly free of hairspray, flowed over her shoulders as she sprinted forward, pulling her suitcase along behind.

“Hong Kong International Airport, please,” she said, popping the rear door.

The driver, surprised by her Cantonese and more so by the black bullet of fur which flung itself into the rear, paused before rattling off a list of reasons why the trip would cost her extra. Used to the drill, Sam handed over a substantial sum and her thanks. He pocketed the payment, but his eyes spent the next fifteen minutes on the dog instead of traffic. As she watched Tam play his game, the corner of her mouth twitched. Each time he ‘moved to get more comfortable’, he’d tip forward and rub his nose along the barrier separating him from the driver’s head.

Showed his teeth too.

It made their driver flinch and duck.

“You’re being a jackass,” she hissed at Tam’s toothy smirk.

His yawn let her know just how much he cared.

“You know,” she elaborated as they covered the long terminal’s length a few minutes later, “that’s the reason you shepherds have such a bad reputation.”