Wilderness of Mirrors (5 page)

Tony rolled his eyes. “I don’t serve people cuts with them things in ’em.”

“Well, muscle then. Or whatever.” She peered into the case. “What
is
in a good cut?”

“Meat.”

You should have seen that one coming.
“Okay. That aside, what can I serve with shrimp scampi?”

“So you eat shrimp? Them little buggers got no veins and tendons?”

“They’re lower on the scale.”

“Insects are lower still.”

“But not as tasty.”

Tony grimaced. “I ate a worm once.”

“On purpose?”

“In a tequila.” He gestured with widespread arms to the glass case before him. “You’ll notice I don’t serve ’em.”

“Not worth it?”

He shook his head emphatically.

“So I won’t be adding worms.”

“Veal?”

She stared him down.

“Right, no baby animals.” He scratched his chin with one knuckle. “What about prosciutto?”

“Which is?”

“Dry-cured ham.” He leaned in. “Not a baby pig.”

“A really grown-up one who’s had a long life on a beautiful farm and was going to die of old age any day now.”

He didn’t bother rejoining, just pulled an expertly wrapped, pinkish-white, football-shaped thing from the case. “How many?”

“Four. Well just one, but he might as well be four.”

“That’d be Mr. Milton.”

“Did I bring him here?”
Shit.
She hadn’t thought they’d been seen in public more than once or twice. Maybe her idea wasn’t as well considered as she believed. Maybe AG wouldn’t give a fuck about her plans and they’d kill Brad anyway.

The thought made her sick.

Tony sliced away, unaware of her growing panic. “No. Saw you with him at my uncle’s place.”

“L’Osteria?” she managed, one hand on the glass case for support.

He nodded. “I was waiting tables one night and you were just leaving.”

She let air glide deep into her lungs and forced herself to concentrate exclusively on Tony’s words. “That must have been six months ago. How did you remember?”

“You’re both customers of mine. Don’t do well to forget a customer.”

“Brad shops here?” Jesus, if Tony picked up on her former relationship with Brad, was there a snowball’s chance in hell AG hadn’t?

Tony tossed the heap onto a scale. “And buys four times what a normal person should.” He slid the meat into a white paper wrapper. “Anything else?”

“Some parmesan.” She forced her cement-like feet across the floor and took some basil and tomatoes. “Oh, and whatever amount of your mother’s pasta would do your meat service.”

“Don’t let my wife hear you saying that. Bothers her enough you comin’ in and chattin’ me up.”

She froze, stunned by the thought. “Chatting you up? I come here, what, once a month? I ask you about your kids, your dad. How could that possibly upset her?”

“She knows you were a model. Remembers seeing your adverts.” He shook his head sadly. “Makes her think you’re up to something talking to a nobody like me.” His eyebrow lifted.

Sam liked Tony. Liked that he was a good, solid family man. Her stomach twisted. Fuck. It didn’t pay to try friendship with a man. Not even when it was the bright shiny moment in a very lonely existence. A spark of fury dissolved some of her fear. Ten goddamn years later. A decade of being the good little girl and she was no closer to being free.

Misreading her discomfort, Tony said, “I’m just teasing you. Here.” He slid her cheese across the counter. “Is that enough?”

She smiled, but knew the joy didn’t reach her eyes. “Plenty. How much do I owe you?”

“Thirty-two even.” He took her money. “Grazie. By the way, be careful when you leave. Been some tossers hangin’ out next door. Won’t let my mum or Tilly come by after it gets dark.”

“Have you called the police?” she murmured.

He shook his head. “No point. Just be careful. I’d knock ’em around myself, but Dad’d have me head.”

“Well, best be off.” She clicked her tongue at Tam.

“Right. Let me know how he likes it.”

“Will do.”

It was cold outside and smelled far less pleasant, but Sam was glad to leave. Didn’t know if she would ever return. Pausing midway down the sidewalk, she adjusted her hood. “This way, Tam,” she cajoled.
Let’s just go home.

But her thoughts were sent into flight when a figure loomed up from the pub’s entrance.
Should have gone the other way, Sam. Didn’t pay attention, did you?

There were three of them. Freakin’ wonderful. Not staggering drunk, but upright enough to be stubborn about their interests. Her anger, still close, hissed and bubbled.

“Nice tits on that one.” The leering face donated the scent of beer and chips ahead of its loathsome compliment.

“Fancy a roger, sweetheart?” They spread out a bit. One dropped his cigarette and grabbed himself.

You’re going to be fucked, all right.
She made a motion with one hand and kept quiet.

“You shy, gorgeous?” The one with too much stubble jutted his jaw in disapproval.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes? She said, ‘Sometimes’, lads.” She could almost hear the heckling tone of his words. Her fingernails dug deep into the flesh of her palm. If she had the opportunity, she’d have clawed his beady eyes out. Would have given her a bit of satisfaction.

But Tam – head lowered, teeth bared – passed comfortingly beneath her hand. Out of the darkness, fresh as a walking nightmare, he stalked a few paces toward the shit-faced Manchester United fans. Stopped. Sniffed the air like he was judging meat quality.

“Fuck.” The closest prick scuttled back toward the pub, tripping over his friends. The other two shoved him, swearing and retreating themselves.

“He’s never shy.”

“That fucker’s growling.”

“I can introduce him to your balls if you’d like.”

They backed into the pub. The door closing with a definitive, ‘No.’

Didn’t think so.

She caught up with Tam and ran a hand backward along his fur. The movement soothed her somewhat. “Got your fin up. Makes you look like a shark. Here.” She handed him the bone, having unwrapped it during the retreat of idiots.

She studied her surroundings. But the street was empty. If AG had someone tailing her, he wasn’t on duty tonight.

No one would know I went to see Brad.

So onto Battersea they went, Mr. Badass and his bone stepping proud like the Buckingham guards. And her, doing the best she could to ignore the little voice begging her to turn around.

They made the silhouette of the steel gates within a quarter of an hour. Samantha pressed the buzzer three times and waited for the barge’s distant light.

“You didn’t actually expect me to wait until tomorrow,” she clipped into the speaker.

The dog cocked his head and scratched the gate after a moment’s pause.

“Xie xie, Tamar.”

She lifted the handle and slid through the gap ahead of him. Once the gate closed, once no one could sneak up behind her, she flicked her fingers in a forward motion. Tamar broke into a trot, bee-lining it for the backlit shadow at the pier’s end.

The reunion was a pretty one, all tails, flailing paws and hands.

Their movements quieted as a tanned and barefooted Brad crossed the ramp toward her. Four inches taller and 70-odd pounds heavier, he plowed into her and swung her round. He smelled of citrus, whisky and adventure, and kissed her warmly on both cheeks. If her tear ducts still worked, they might have coughed up a couple wet round ones.

“I’m chuffed to see you both.”

He meant it. Brad always meant what he said.

“I hope you don’t mind, only I was near enough to starving – ” she drifted off, wondering suddenly if he already had a guest. A girlfriend?

In many ways, it would make everything so much simpler.

But Brad’s smile was broad. “That makes two of us. Nigel’s not worth good food or company tonight.” He grabbed the bag and followed her up and into the barge’s main cabin. Tamar had already entered, found the cat, given homage, and settled by the fire to destroy some portion of a hopefully-very-old cow.

“So I finally get to meet your best friend?” This was a curious turn of events. In the time she’d known Brad, neither she nor Nigel had been in London at the same time.

Brad’s mouth melted into a nasty smirk. “I wanted to wait until tomorrow, until he was sober and clean, but tonight’s as good as any.” He kicked the bared foot hanging over the club chair’s armrest. “Nigel, Sammy’s here.

Samantha slithered out of her coat and followed Brad into the kitchen. The corner of her eye snagged on a vaguely familiar man. A tall, lean and striking man whose position belied his obvious strength. His eyes were ice blue, knock-your-knees-wide, pieces of heaven, but his grim expression detracted from the perfection of his face.

And he was platinum blond.

Nice, but she preferred her men, like her dog, dark.

Her chin lifted when she caught Nigel’s eyes lock on Brad.
Crap.
He was talking again. She’d missed what he said. “Sorry, what?” She tried to scoot around the table so he didn’t have to turn.

Brad flipped her two widespread fingers. “Your trouble is you just didn’t listen, Sammy.” A roguish quirk tugged the corner of his mouth.

“And your trouble is you’re a bastard.” She was laughing now, glad to soak in Brad’s comforting aura.

“Of course.” He shook free the bag’s contents and popped a loose tomato between his lips. “You forgot to add lout, prat, drunk, gypsy…”

His amused eyes shifted over her shoulder and she paused. There was a concentrated worry in those dark orbs, just under the pleasure. It was one of the things that had drawn her to Brad in the first place. Kind men weren’t hanging out shingles on every pier. She glanced back at Nigel, wondering if he felt uncomfortable with her presence.

But he’d already closed his eyes and folded the back of his hand over them. His left leg stuck straight out onto the rug, at odds with his hanging right one. She’d never seen a photo of him, but somehow she thought his skin-tone should have been less sallow.

Her mind held an image of him with tanned healthy flesh. Even his hair seemed as though it should have been dark.

Perhaps she
had
seen a photo of him.

But no, she would have remembered those bitterly-cold eyes.

Brad touched her shoulder, and she jumped. “Sorry, luv.” His opposite hand clutched his cell. “I’ve got to take this. Don’t let Tamar eat him.”

“I’ll start dinner.” She watched him walk down the hall – dark head tilted against the device - toward his bedroom. She could still appreciate that body. That ass. Being with him had indeed been good for the skin.

She turned, with reluctance, and went for a knife.

Nigel’s icy eyes cut the space between them.

Awake then?
She lifted an eyebrow and, when he said nothing, she went to work preparing a Caprese salad, aware he watched her every move.

Arrogant prick.

Nigel had finished no more than two whiskies. But on an empty stomach, with less blood than usual circulating his system, he felt as though he’d had the bottle. He’d wanted to knock himself out, not have delusions. Yet, there she was. The blonde from Hong Kong.

In this hallucination, she could speak to Brad, but not him. She hadn’t even acknowledged his greeting.

Now she drained capers and sliced basil. How peculiar.

Perhaps it was his unconscious begging him to eat.

Anubis was drifting around too. He’d even negotiated a truce with Milton’s sadistic cat. Obviously, a fantasy of major proportions.

What the bloody hell happened to my mind?
Nigel wondered idly.

His eyes swallowed her classy, seductive form. Might as well enjoy himself while he went mad.

Her hair, that ripple of bullion, was shorter by a few inches, but it still cascaded past her shoulders and hinted at what lay under the lucky sweater’s curves. The expression on her flawless face was enigmatic, but her topaz-brown eyes studied him and the strong chin below them hinted at a rather dubious assessment. If she had in fact been real, it would have given him pause to think.

Brad’s voice droned in the distance. Was he speaking in Italian? No, Spanish.

Ah, the Colombia op.

Nigel frowned. Brad was mentioning strictly need to know information: insertion points, contacts. Strange he trusted the blonde not to betray him…

The thought tripped Nigel’s funny bone. The blonde was a fucking mirage, he reminded himself. Brad could talk all he wanted. He could give away HRM’s best-kept secrets and it wouldn’t matter in the least, for the woman in front of him was a volume of mental fiction.

His ribs screamed. Too late, he categorized his laughter as a hideous mistake.

The chair had become a piece of witchcraft: comfortable one moment, a torture the next. He gathered his strength and shifted his legs so that both feet were parallel to one another on the rug in front of him. His body swiveled with the movement, and he held his breath, desperate not to rattle his ribcage.

He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes, until he reopened them with care.

She was staring at him and it made him edgy. “You have me at a disadvantage, madam,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m not in the practice of entertaining angels. Devils are far too numerous these days.”

Her snort tore the air. “Lines like that died out with chauvinism. Tomato?”

He shook his head to empty it of nonsense. Cantonese or not, she had the same voice as he recalled. Coffee-rich, cultured, and sexy. American around the edges.

The tide of his sanity had gone well and truly out.

“Olive?”

“Christ, you
can
talk.” The thought was chilling.

“Not, Christ.” Her retort was sharp as aged cheddar. “One of his angels.”

He rubbed his wind-burned face. Even for a hallucination, this was odd. He doubted Brad had slipped a painkiller in the Macallan. He was too much a purist to put anything in good whisky.

Her fingers labored masterfully with the knife, though she never looked down. “What happened to you?” She flipped the slices of goats’ milk mozzarella into tidy rows that overlapped the tomatoes. Next came the prosciutto, rolled up nicely around some asparagus.