Forever in Your Service

by Sandra Antonelli

  “You weren’t thorough enough, I’ll sleep when this is over, and I’m not your mate.” Kitt heaved one last, fruitless time and shifted from his knees, leaning back against the cool, tiled wall.

  Whether it was Mae’s presence or the little blade, one of them set had off vivid memories that were disjointed and out of step. That’s how it was; his memory triggered by tiny things: a pocketknife, a handbag, and he tried to knit together more, beyond the handbags, scarves, sunglasses, and face made of mosaic tiles, beyond Dalton asking the time. Checking his watch—a watch he no longer had—began a chain of stinking, blood-soaked, cock-up of events that Kitt could not remember in a manner that made sense.

  The dog wandered into the bathroom, nails tippy-tapping across tiles. The animal eyed Reed, turned in a circle one way, the other, and plopped down, head on Kitt’s thigh.

  “What do you know, someone here actually likes you,” Reed snorted.

  ELATED, UNNERVED, FURIOUS, dazed, a veritable whirlwind concoction of emotions, her mind hummed and Mae stood at the edge of the party, eyes on the crowd and Kitt’s preposterous cowboy hat. He laughed, shook hands with Nash, and snagged a glass of red wine. Kitt found tea abhorrent and he despised wine, the stuff gave him a headache, yet five minutes after he’d finished a Burgundy, he quaffed a Merlot then he moved on to bourbon, bourbon, and more bourbon. Over the next forty minutes, she watched Kitt chat with guests, with Basil, the couple with the Georgia O’Keeffe collection, flashing a charming smile. Then Reed stepped in, slipping an arm around Kitt’s shoulder, saying something into his ear, which led to another charming smile. Schmoozing, Kitt moved through the crowd with easy grace, with confidence. He danced with five different women and two men.

  That he was here and alive, dancing, wearing a dinner jacket, bow tie—and cowboy hat—was more difficult to believe than when Bryce had told her Kitt was dead. Bryce. Did he know Kitt was alive, was the fecker just doing his job when he lied to her, or had he been duped as well? Had things been engineered, had she been manipulated into a position to look after a dog and a keep an eye on the habits of a man who drank and collected expensive wine? It was all such shite. Remains, Bryce had gotten her with remains and the tears that had trickled out of his grim, green eyes. Bryce and Kitt, they were both feckin’ spies; deception, manipulation, political strategies, murder made up their profession.

  Eyes on Kitt leading human Christmas tree Emmy Foley in a waltz or foxtrot or whatever dance it was, Mae swore under her breath and crossed the room, telling wait staff to collect plates and glasses. When she glanced back, Emmy’s pine-green dress swished about her, breasts bobbing like flesh ornaments as she smiled up at Kitt.

  Mae spun on her heel, her own dress swishing across the back of her knees. Man. Bully. Hero. Saviour. Five months ago, he’d been those things to her, and now he was simply a real, very much alive, liar. And here she was, a liar like Kitt, playing another game of deception and manipulation with a touch of murder, and there was nothing she could believe about anything, or anyone, including herself. I never want to see you again. What rot. She wanted to go to him, to wrap herself around him, press her face to his chest, crush against him until they melted and their bodies fused and he could go nowhere without her.

  Months ago, in trying to understand, to dig down to the core of what led a man to risk his life to do intelligence work, she undertook a little research. Risk-takers, she learned, had a higher level of dopamine, which drove them to seek out new experiences. Risk-takers had a lower level of serotonin, which quelled impulsive behaviour. Without needing to dig too far, she knew that she wasn’t here because she simply wanted to be productive and get over Kitt’s death. She was here because she’d discovered, five months ago in Sicily, that she liked taking a risk, liked the rush that intrigue gave her. Her life, her career had been of such careful order, and she had enjoyed the symmetry of that life, she had excelled at the skill it took to put order and tranquillity in place when chaos endeavoured to reign. However, having a role in bringing down an international money laundering ring, one with ties to people smuggling and the Mafia, had been inexplicably invigorating. More inexplicable was how killing two men during that action felt so...satisfying, and the rush that came from finding a dead man in the snow outside was oddly similar. There was some part of her that wanted to put order to the chaos.

  Eejit, she was a self-deceiving eejit believing she needed to be productive when the productivity, when all of it, was about taking risks, about becoming addicted to adrenaline, about the seductive hunt for it, the tantalising possibility of finding a hit of something other than anger or nothingness. She liked the possibility that Taittinger could be a wine conman. She liked the thrill of clandestine observation, liked the deception of playing a dual role. She liked pretending, liked living the lie, liked being a liar.

  But she didn’t like being lied to.

  Kitt caught her watching and smiled, cold blue-grey eyes seething like liquid nitrogen. With a nod, he tipped his hat, a feckin’ bloody Old West cowboy saying ‘ma’am’. He turned, leaned close to speak Reed and the redhead took his hand, twining their fingers together. Then her sightline was eclipsed by an older couple dancing to Sinatra’s Somethin’ Stupid.

  Everything inside her head told her to be sensible, to leave, to get out, to walk away. Mae shut her eyes. Yes, she was somethin’ stupid, this was somethin’ stupid—this was unwise, undeniable, and inescapable.

  Milton Foley’s haw-haw-haw dragged her from stupidity to reality. When she opened her eyes, she saw Reed scowl, snag a tumbler from a tray and lean even closer to the man who had lied to her about never lying to her again.

  Out of all of them, Mae knew she was the biggest liar of all.

  “Valentine,” Taittinger said, suddenly beside her.

  Mae jerked her attention to her current employer. “Dr Jools.”

  Taittinger stroked his goatee. “You changed your dress.”

  “There was a spill.”

  “Oh, yeah. Felix and the kitchen disaster. You okay?”

  “May I be candid, Dr Jools?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m a wee bit tired.”

  “Hope you’re not getting whatever it is Mr Grant has.”

  Mae’s laugh came out a little higher pitched than she liked. “As do I.”

  “You’ve been awesome with everything. I appreciate it.”

  “Thank you, Dr Jools. Again, I apologise for not being present to settle Mr Somerset.”

  “Not a problem. I did see the mess Felix made. And we still have a spare room if an idiot,” Taittinger looked over at the laughing photographer with the handlebar moustache, “like if Derek over there gets too plastered to drive.” Derek coughed a mouthful of cake and creamy white icing all over a pretty brunette, narrowly missing the hot pink silk of Miss Bleuville’s Alexander McQueen gown, crumbs spilling over the digital camera around his neck. “He came recommended, but that guy’s a bit of a drunken disaster, isn’t he?”

  “It’s not my place to say, Dr Jools.”

  “No. Of course not.”

  Mae cast her gaze back to Kitt and the scowling Interpol agent. “But I believe he’s neck and neck with Mr Somerset.”

  Taittinger’s laugh was a low, rumbled huh-huh-huh. “You notice Somerset has something of an equal-opportunity roving eye, like right in front of his fiancé?”

  Play along. Mae inhaled, wearily, a touch of devious fit well with ‘play along’. She gave a soft chuckle.

  “What? Go on. Tell me.”

  “Forgive me, Dr Jools. It’s not appropriate.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  She leaned close. “I overheard Mr Case accuse Mr Somerset of trying to get Dr Brennan’s friend, the woman with the white hair, into bed for a ménage à trois.”

  “Bella? That old winosaur’s gotta be over fifty.” He glanced at her sideways and grimaced. “I know, I know. Sorry. Age utterly is irrelevant—unless you happen to be a bottle of wine.” He laughed, rais
ing his glass to the man he knew as Mr Case.

  Chapter 7

  Reed returned the toast his host made from across the room and made an impatient sound. “Well, he’s very amused. What do you suppose she’s saying to him?”

  “She’s not going to give us away.” Kitt took the tumbler from his hand. “Stop glowering. It’s unbecoming for a man as handsome as you.” He had a swallow of bourbon, ice chunk clink-clinking in the crystal.

  “You and your damned ego.” Reed reclaimed the tumbler and poked the hat back with a finger, tilting it on his head.

  Kitt licked a burning drop of liquid from his bottom lip. “I told you I can deal with it.”

  “Is that what you call spewing, dealing with it?” Reed had a small sip of the Old Grand-Dad and made a face.

  “Vomiting is not a sign of weakness.”

  “No, but your housekeeper sure as hell is.” Reed glanced in Mae’s direction again.

  “Butler.” Kitt watched Mae as well. She’d moved away from Taittinger to speak with Nash. The man had an appalling dress sense. “I told you, she won’t say anything.”

  “You trust her?”

  “More than I trust you. Change the subject, Simon.” Kitt took back the cowboy hat and set it on his own crown.

  “Just tell me something. Did you really gi—”

  “I said change the subject, Simon.” Kitt reached for the glass and had another swallow.

  “Did I mention that besides being interested in wine, Nash and Basil were stoked to see one of Taittinger’s cars, an old Sunbeam he’s restoring?”

  “No, you didn’t mention. I didn’t see a Sunbeam in the garage.”

  “It’s in the barn. Have you been to the barn yet?”

  “It’s locked up tight.” Kitt swirled the glass, sliding the chunk of ice around in the amber liquid.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  Kitt was rather fond of bourbon, but not this one. The Old Grand-Dad sweet corn mash tasted hot on his lips, had a hint of vanilla, and a metallic finish, like blood in his mouth. “We are going to improvise.”

  “We? No, no. I’m done making shit up as you go. I got you this far.”

  “And look what happened to your plan. Have you got another one?”

  Reed’s smiled dryly. “I’m thinking we all jump in my hire car, head south, and retire to an island in the Caribbean.”

  “I’d prefer Sicily.”

  “Fine.” Reed exhaled. “Sicily then.”

  “Or?”

  “Or we keep talking to these lovers of fine wine and find out what my mate Grant was up to before somebody here killed him.” Reed looked out into the room of guests. “And then I leave.”

  Kitt tipped back the cowboy hat and followed Reed’s gaze to a woman with striking white hair. She raised her glass, tipped her chin, and gave them a nod. Then a couple dancing to Nat King Cole singing L-O-V-E eclipsed her. “Pretty, isn’t she? Ask her to dance, Simon.”

  Reed scowled. “My feet hurt.”

  “You always wondered what it is I do. It’s gather information in any way that fits the occasion. Mingling, dancing with other guests, her for example, fits the occasion.”

  “You want to fit the occasion, it makes sense to dance with me.”

  “Why would I torture you when your feet hurt?”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s not what I know, it’s what you know and won’t tell me. What do you think that passport means? What did you find outside, before your butler spoiled it all?”

  “Are you envious of her?”

  Reed’s smile held more than a tinge of rancour. “Why did I ever pay attention to your bloody text?”

  “Because you love me almost as much as she does.”

  “You’re a prick.”

  “You only have yourself to blame for that.”

  “Of that I am painfully aware.”

  “Here. Take this.” Kitt shoved the drink into Reed’s hand. “I’m going to dance and mingle and ask questions to gather information.”

  “Wait.” Reed put a hand on Kitt’s shoulder. Then he had a slug of alcohol.

  Kitt sighed, the sound somewhat exaggerated. “All right, one dance, but I’m leading.”

  “No. What are we going to do about the body?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Reed’s mouth drooped open for a moment before he snapped it shut, teeth clicking.

  “Whoever killed him would probably wonder how he wandered off. You’re not thinking clearly. How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not as much as you, and of course I’m not thinking clearly. This sort of thing is your gig, not mine.” He pressed the tumbler to Kitt’s chest. “I got you here and now I’m done. I’m back to following protocol, doing things by the book.”

  “You’re not going anywhere until I say so.” Kitt knocked back the last of the Old Grand-Dad.

  Reed laughed. “Are you threatening me?”

  “While I’ll never outgrow the desire to throttle you, Simon, we’re improvising, remember?” He glanced at their approaching host, at Mae taking a position near the wall a few feet away. “She’s going to play along, just like you.” Kitt turned side on and smiled at Taittinger. “Great party, Tatts,” he said, exhaling the scent of sweet bourbon, his words deliberately sloppy, his accent Australian. “I appreciate the hospitality.”

  Taittinger chuckled. “Tatts. I like that. Well, you two seem to be enjoying yourselves.”

  “We are.” Reed smiled broadly.

  “You feeling okay, Somerset? You look queasy like a Sunday morning.” Taittinger pulled a face, teeth showing.

  “Delayed flight, overbooked flight, bumpy flight, and I’m not the best at air travel.”

  Reed heaved a snorted chuckle. “You get motion sick on an escalator, Ian.”

  “I should have stock in Dramamine.” Kitt shook the tumbler. Ice inside tinkled against the glass as he waved it a one of the wait staff. “Oi, I’m gonna need another!”

  Reed set a hand on Kitt’s shoulder. “That’s an impressive collection of vintage English sports cars you’ve restored. Ian does that too.”

  “Restoring anything now?” Kitt swallowed dregs of bourbon.

  “A Sunbeam.”

  “Nice.” Kitt nodded. “My father had one. It was a real pearler.”

  “A what?”

  Reed translated. “Pearler, as in your vintage car is a pearl.”

  Taittinger chuckled. “Okay. Pearler. The pearler needs new paint, a transmission rebuild, and a total brake overhaul. Would you like to see it?”

  “That’d be sweet.” Kitt burped and smiled.

  “Maybe you’ve had enough, Ian.”

  Kitt shrugged off Reed’s hand. “Nah. The night’s still young.” He popped an ice cube into his mouth and began to suck it, slurping and hissing liquid through his teeth.

  “Earlier today, Dave,” Taittinger faced Reed, “you mentioned Australian collectors were putting down whites.”

  “Mm.” Reed nodded. “Char—”

  “What series, Tatts?” Kitt crunched an ice cube.

  “—Chardonnay is proving t—”

  “Is it a Tiger or an Alpine?” Kitt pushed the cowboy hat back a bit and scratched his temple.

  Reed glanced at him with appropriate irritation and mouthed sorry to their host.

  Taittinger cleared his throat. “Sunbeam Alpine, Series II. How about I take you to see it now?”

  Kitt shook his head. “Tomorrow, tomorrow, when I can get behind the wheel. I’d have to be a bloody idiot to drink and drive. D’you wanna dance, Tatts? Dave-o’s feet hurt.”

  “Dave-o?”

  “Him.” Kitt waved the tumbler at Reed. “David, Dave, Dave-o.”

  Taittinger chuckled. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather dance with Ruby.”

  “Well, that’s sad.” Kitt’s mouth pursed.

  “Oh, hey.” Taittinger’s grinning geniality twisted into a furrowed brow. “I didn’t mean any offen—”

 
; “Mate, I mean your wallflower housekeeper, all alone on New Year’s Eve.” Kitt looked at his watch. “And it’s nearly midnight.”

  Reed snorted. “It’s eleven-fifteen, Ian, but why not thrill the old bird and work off some of that grog in your veins.” He glanced at Taittinger. “Women love him. Maybe not as much as I do, but they find him...irresistible.”

  “They do, Dave-o.” Kitt shoved the empty tumbler into Taittinger’s hand and wobbled the few steps to Mae.

  “Hello,” he said over a swinging duet of Johnny Mercer’s Baby It’s Cold Outside. “Would you like to dance, Mrs Valentine?”

  Mae glanced at him. “Thank you, sir, but I’m working.”

  “Ah, yes, ever the professional. Always on the job. You are dedicated—and dancing.” He tugged her away from the wall and into the small group dancing, drawing her into his arms, smiling. “I need a little help.”

  “You need more than a little help.”

  Kitt leaned in closer, her palm pressed to his chest. He caught her L’Air du Temps. The scent of carnation, bergamot and rosewood mixed with her body chemistry and released as her body temperature rose. Or perhaps it was his body temperature that had elevated and his warmth transferred to her, fragrance rising as his heart rate did. It was a peculiar instant of pleasure and dismay because he’d tried to remember the way her perfume had smelled, when he’d been in that stinking container. Bizarre that he’d recall how he’d tried to conjure up any part of her he could as he lay at the edge of death. He hated that the exquisite fragrance of the woman he had tried to imagine was now attached to a memory he wanted to forget and needed to remember. Rationally, he knew that was then, this was now, and now he was nervous instead of dying.

  Nervous. He was nervous and nervous was new. Mae agitated him in every way there was to agitate a man, turned his brain into a miasma of queasy fear, desperate longing, smouldering anger, and undiluted love. He wanted to dip his head and kiss her softly, and resented that he couldn’t, but what he resented more was her presence here. He hated that she had joined him in a situation teeming with menace, with treachery. At the same time, he had never been more thankful for anything in his life. She was succour amid his life’s hostility. Perhaps he was getting old or was old already because he had never known he could want, or need, such a thing as succour. He smiled down at her, at the face she held impassive, at hazel-green eyes bright with walled-off ire.