by Harlem Dae
“Hey, pretty lady. You want pineapple?” A woman wearing a neon-orange turban held out a tray crammed full of pots of the sliced fruit.
“Yes, thank you.” I delved into my purse, handed over a dollar, and took a tub.
A small girl hung on to one of the ribbons on the woman’s apron. With her thumb shoved in her mouth, the child stared up at me, her brown eyes discs on a face with gloriously perfect skin and a nose that made me want to gently nip the button end. Tension gripped my stomach. She would be that age now. Walking, talking, her mind alert to the world but not unless her ‘mother’ was shielding her from the strangers and dangers that lurked around every corner.
Whoever her mother was.
The lady with the tray and the child smiled her thanks and moved on to her next customer.
Pushing away thoughts that squeezed my heart, I sucked on the succulent pineapple. It was sweet and juicy and coated my mouth like sugary rain. A drip ran down my finger, over my palm and slicked around my inner wrist. I licked it off, one long sweep of my tongue, and stepped into the throng of people.
The market had a carnival atmosphere, the heat of the day apparently not wilting locals intent on stocking up their cupboards and finding a bargain. There were plenty of raucous conversations going on, bartering as well as laughing and singing.
I shifted along with the flow of the crowd. I was jostled, shoulders bumping into mine, bodies rubbing against me, my toes nearly squashed. I inhaled, the scent of skin, fruit, the sun, invading my nostrils, lacing my tongue. For a moment I imagined everyone naked, a mass sunshine orgy, the fruit stalls—ripe melon, gushing guava, curved bananas—offering tasty, sticky morsels of fruit to be enjoyed off one another’s bodies.
I was hot, perspiration gathering in my cleavage and underarms. My skin tingled, the sensation not unlike being caressed. Some people hated crowds; I didn’t, they always made me feel like this—turned on.
I spotted a bin and dropped the now empty pineapple tub into it.
A man, tall, thin, in a torn red T-shirt, jostled me.
“Sorry, lady,” he said, smiling.
He had the same deliciously thick lips as the guard on the hotel gate, and again I wondered what they’d be like on my body.
“You okay?” He rested his big hot hands on my shoulders, and his brown eyes sparkled down at me.
“Fine, thank you.” I returned his smile. Mmm, he had that certain something, a primitive, testosterone-heavy allure that appealed to me.
But before I could say anything, work my magic, he’d wandered off, his head and neck bobbing in time with the beat of the tinny music.
A stall to his right caught my attention. I steeled myself to go against the flow of the crowd and headed for it. One particular bucket of flowers with tall stems beckoned me.
“What is this?” I asked the woman behind the stall.
“It is an ixoras,” she said. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful.” I nodded enthusiastically. I’d seen it before but hadn’t remembered the name. “Is it easy to grow here?”
“If a person has green fingers.” She raised her hands. “Like me.”
“And do you start from seed?” I picked up single a stem, held it high. The lemon-yellow flowers at the very tip burst outwards in a sphere and reminded me of a firework.
“Yes, always seed.” She looked up at the majestic bloom.
“And you only sell here?”
“Yes, every week. Once a week.”
I turned my attention to her. It was clear she wasn’t a wealthy woman. Her faded green dress had a ragged hole below the neckline, and she had gaps in her teeth.
“Do you have a phone?” I asked, though I could guess the answer.
She grinned, showing the extent of her dentistry problem. “Yes, my son gave it to me.” After a quick rummage in her bag, she pulled out an old iPhone with a cracked screen. “It works perfectly.”
“Wow,” I said. “Well, that’s good because maybe we could do some business.”
“You want to buy?”
“Yes, but not this flower. Lots of flowers, potentially. But not until next year.” I’d made a deal with myself, before I’d started following Father’s crazy plan, that if I could do my own version of Fair Trade then I would. Sure, there was another way I could source ixoras, but if I could get them from a market woman and change her life, I would.
“Here, let me give you my business card.” I tugged out my purse and flipped it open. I scanned the cards, wondering where my glossy Blooms, Quality Floristry for the Discerning Customer, Claudine Montague-Fostrop had gone. I frowned and ran the tip of my finger over four gold credit cards. There’d been several last time I’d looked.
Suddenly I spotted their shimmery silver edge. They were stacked, back to front, in their little slot, that’s why I hadn’t seen them.
I tugged one out then popped my purse back into my bag. “Here. If you give me a call and leave your name, then I’ll have your number and I’ll be in touch.”
“Call you?” She appeared confused.
“Yes. Call me, soon, with your phone so that your number comes up on mine, then I can save it. That’s my number on my card. Then we can do business. Lots of business.”
“Lots.” She swallowed and stared at the fancy business card that had a black orchid swirling around the writing.
“Yes. If I can I’ll organise transportation of your ixoras. We’ll pack them on sand to keep them dry and free of mould and use special nutritious gel around the base.”
“Claudine Montague-Fostrop.” She studied the card then shook her head. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. It’s a great product. People in London are going to pay handsomely for it, and I will pass on that return to you.” I smiled. “Make sure you call me soon.”
“I will.” She nodded eagerly. “Please, keep that one. A gift from me to you.”
I glanced once more at the tall flower I was holding as though a delicate parasol. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Very sure. I will call, now.” She picked up her phone.
“Good. I’m sure it will be a pleasure doing business with you.”
I turned, a burst of satisfaction bubbling up inside me. It felt good to spread Father’s wealth around the world.
My phone trilled, and I let it ring. I’d save her number later.
Amongst the sea of dark faces and dreadlocks, I spotted a pale one with moon-white hair. It belonged to a man with insipid, ethereal eyes topped with silvery eyebrows, and he was staring my way. I couldn’t see his whole face, just the upper section, like the milling crowd had given him a bandit’s handkerchief to wear.
He was fascinating, and I paused to stare unashamedly, hoping the crowd would part and I would be able to see the rest of him and satisfy my curiosity.
His eye contact with mine was unwavering, he didn’t appear to blink.
My heart rate sped up. He wanted me.
I knew it.
With every part of me.
I’d been around the block enough times to recognise want and…lust. Did I dare to approach him in my usual way? Brazen? Suggestive? Ask him if he wanted to fuck?
Suddenly I was jostled. I gripped the flower and my bag strap, gasping as I stumbled slightly.
“Get a move on,” someone muttered in a heavily accented, frustrated voice.
I was cluttering up the walkway. Standing still in a tide of people who were all knocking to get around me.
The drums picked up again; I hadn’t noticed they’d stopped. The clattering music shook my body, vibrating in my chest and echoing through the arteries in my neck.
Staggering a few paces forward, I put my hand out, fearing I’d fall. I didn’t. Once again moving with the crowd, now through a waft of smoke coming from an old drum functioning as a fish barbeque, I looked for the ghost man.
He was nowhere to be seen. His swift disappearance made me realise he was a pro at what he did. There one minute, gone the next. Some
one I shouldn’t be toying with.
I coughed. The fishy smoke caught in my throat. It stung my eyes. Squinting, I spotted a break in the crowd. It was too much. I wanted out. No longer turned on by the flood of people, I was being crushed, disorientated. I wasn’t in control, and that worried me.
I spun around, my bearings off their axis.
Where was the ocean? The woman who’d given me the flower?
The volume of the music cranked up a level, reaching an excitable crescendo. My breaths were coming fast. The sanctuary of the hotel was calling.
It seemed so far away.
Dampness seeped onto my palm. I’d squeezed the stem of the flower so hard I’d crushed it.
“Claudine.”
“What?”
I spun to see who had spoken but only saw a large lady with an ample bosom, holding a child with a running nose. She scowled at me for stopping abruptly.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to see past her.
A man had spoken my name? My real name.
But there was no one at the market I knew.
Or was there?
I looked left then right. Was elbowed to the side of the pathway, up against a stall, its table sprawled with wooden jewellery. My hip bumped it, hard.
“Oi,” the owner said, grasping a large display which was wobbling violently and shaking the beaded necklaces.
“What? Please, I’m sorry.” God, I was going to be sick. Claustrophobia had gripped me, was strangling me, coiling in my guts.
I remembered that strange man. His weird unblinking eyes.
I dragged in a breath. I had to get out of here.
Slipping down the side of the stall and all but bouncing off one that reeked with the scent of vinegar, I emerged into a quiet spot.
“Claudine.”
I whirled around and came face to face with Sutton. He wore a baseball cap pulled low, his usual big sunglasses that reflected my scared face, and a white linen shirt with the collar turned up.
He was scowling at me. His mouth, even visible through his beard, was set in a sharp straight line.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, gripping my upper arms and making me drop the flower. “Have you got a bloody death wish?”
Chapter Five
“Look, you,” I said, not wanting Sutton to know how rattled I was. “All this following business is quite wearing, you know.”
He ignored me, gripping my wrist and leading me away from the throng. I was pleased about that, of course I was, but annoyed that I’d needed saving. I’d allowed a silly little thing like a crowd to unnerve me—and that wasn’t my style. Perhaps, even though the ghost man had intrigued me, he’d also scared me. His stare… Eyes similar to glass, with no emotion in them. And I’d contemplated fucking him? I shuddered, trotting behind Sutton as though I were a dog on a lead.
That annoyed me, too.
I threw Sutton’s hand off my wrist, but he grabbed it again, holding firmer this time. My skin pinched between his fingers, not an unpleasant feeling, more along the lines that I was safe while he was holding on to me. He veered towards open-air seating opposite the market and chose a spot close to an outdated, caravan-like café. The chairs were positioned so that our backs would face the rusting metal below a dirty window that clearly hadn’t been washed in a while. It had me questioning health and safety standards.
“Sit,” he said and pushed me down into a hessian, rickety-framed chair. “And don’t bloody move.”
The way he stared at me…well, for once in my life outside of a bedroom command, I actually wanted to obey. Interesting. Plus, I needed to catch my breath. To get myself in order after my silly relapse. God, I’d felt as young as a child again back there. Ridiculous.
I watched him go to an opening at the other end of the caravan, a hatch where a couple of women in headscarves were serving. They had big smiles and one stirred what smelt like goat stew, her movements languid. That was the thing here, people were unhurried, nothing to rush about for. Sutton chatted to them, his body side-on so he could keep an eye on the crowd, I suspected, the good bodyguard that he was. Then he came back to me, two soda cans in hand, and I cringed at the thought of drinking too much sugar. Still, I was thirsty, and it was the thought that counted.
“Here.” He handed me a can then tossed a wet wipe inside a foil wrapper onto the table. “Clean the rim. All manner of filth gets on cans.” He sat beside me, hunching forward, a predator ready to spring.
“Regular fountain of knowledge, aren’t you?” I began wiping the can, my heart rate finally dropping.
“I have to be. People kill in the most unusual ways.”
I stopped cleaning to stare at him. The reality of what he’d said prodded at my nerves. Was he a real spy, then? Someone who dealt with truly awful things? My quip about James Bond earlier didn’t seem so funny now. Then again, maybe Sutton was just playing at being a spy. Perhaps he wanted me to think he was more daring than he was.
“What do you mean?” I asked, finishing off with the wet wipe then opening the can. Much as I hated to admit it, the drink was glorious on my tongue. Not as glorious as Sutton’s cock would be, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
He tutted. “That can could have poison on the rim.”
“Well that’s okay, because I hadn’t planned on licking the rim. Though, of course, if you’re into that kind of thing…”
He sighed, giving me a bold glare from beneath lowered eyebrows. “I’ve told you before—stop it with the innuendoes. They’re not amusing in situations like this.”
“I do beg your pardon,” I said in an attempt to sound contrite. I wasn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. I wanted light-hearted chatter now, not doom and gloom, so went on with, “So what’s a hunky man like you doing in a place like this?”
His eyebrows went even lower, so I was in no doubt he didn’t find that amusing either. Wonderful. I’d been saddled with a stick-in-the-mud. Sexy, but still a stick-in-the-mud.
“You know why I’m here,” he said. “But if you need reminding, I’m here because you absconded—”
“Absconded!” A peal of laughter rippled out before I could stop it. I threw my head back, staring at the pure blue sky then looked at him again. “I’m a free woman, so absconded is not the right word. I changed my mind, that’s what I did. I decided I didn’t want to go to my room and search through my bag with you. I wanted to visit the market, to be on my own. Is that against the law?”
“Your father’s law, yes.”
“Sod his law. He doesn’t rule me.”
A flicker of something I couldn’t define scudded across his eyes. Was he hiding information? I was sure of it, but then again, was I just being paranoid? And the question was, did I want to know what secrets were loitering about in his mind? What he knew about my father that I didn’t? The latter annoyed me, that I might not know everything about him.
“Listen.” I poked him in the chest while he studied the people sitting outside the café. “Either you give a description of who’s following me, or I’m going back to the hotel complex. If I don’t know who I’m meant to save myself from, how do you expect me to survive in this suddenly suspicious location?” I was being flippant, but really… Maybe he wanted me to fall at his feet, grateful he’d come to my rescue, but if Father had told him what type of person I was, Sutton couldn’t expect any other reaction.
“This is all one big joke to you, isn’t it?” He cast his gaze farther afield, to those people milling past stalls or browsing the goods. He sat upright, cocked his head, and clamped his mouth shut.
“Life is a joke.” I hadn’t meant to let that come out, but it had, so now I had to deal with the consequences, if there were any.
He frowned hard, not looking my way. “What do you mean?” He’d sounded distracted, as though he wasn’t interested in my response.
But nevertheless, yes, there were consequences to what I’d said. I could answer him honestly and tell him a bit about myself, or I could shut the
conversation down. So much for light-hearted chatter. The doom and gloom could be back in an instant if I’d let it.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said.
I sipped my drink, watching a thin woman at a fruit stall raising her hands in what appeared to be anger. Multiple bracelets slid from her wrists to just below her elbows, and her mouth worked, her teeth bared, venom in her eyes. The stall owner shook his head, and the woman shook her fist before walking away. Someone else was also having a bad day, then.
“It matters to me.” He gave me his attention, although it didn’t seem totally on me.
“It matters to you because it means keeping your job.” Yes, I’d sounded bitchy, but I was a realist. If Sutton didn’t look after me properly, Father would—
I don’t want to think about that sort of nonsense.
“There is that.” He glanced away, back to the market. “But I’m not in the habit of allowing a woman to be…used in games.”
“Games? Ha! Surely you realise my father does nothing but play games.”
“If they’re games, they’re damn dangerous.”
Well, that hadn’t sounded too good. His tone had been ominous, and his words made me uncomfortable. I’d prided myself in knowing all the facts about the man who had raised me—and that had been challenged now—and this man, this spy, had me questioning what I did know about my father. What games did he play that I wasn’t aware of? And did I even want to know?
“I see.” I twisted the soda can around for three rotations then crossed my legs. My sarong got caught up between them, and the fabric pulled down, partly revealing my breasts. Normally that wasn’t a bad thing, but, unusual for me, I tugged it back up again. Being exposed at the moment seemed wrong. “You know, this is all utter rubbish.” Anger stewed inside me. I didn’t like these feelings—and I especially hadn’t liked the ones when I’d been jostled by all those people.