by Lynne King
As soon as she closed the door, she heard Chat on the other side, wailing in a piercing tone. Chantelle opened the door a fraction, allowing the cat to come inside.
After a moment, she heard David say to Paul, “If she ever comes out, tell her…”
“Tell her what?”
“Oh! What’s the use? Just tell her my only regret is this.” Then, she heard David walk out of the flat.
“Chantelle, you can come out now, your friend’s gone.”
Chantelle stepped out cuddling Chat, her face buried into his neck while his claws clung onto her shoulders appreciatively. Limping past Paul, she went into the kitchen and placed some water in the kettle.
“You obviously resolved a lot last night. I thought my life was complicated and full of drama.” Paul followed her into the kitchen area and perched on a stool. When she finally turned around to look at him, the misery she couldn’t hide was enough for him to hold out his arms. “Oh, Chantelle, I’m so sorry. Come here.”
She went into his arms sobbing, her face buried in his shoulder. Chat struggled now to get free, which he managed by clambering over Paul’s shoulder.
“You never cry, sweetheart. This simply isn’t you,” he murmured into her ear.
****
Placing his key in the ignition, David glanced in the rearview mirror fully expecting what he saw parked several spaces behind. It was the same dark maroon Mercedes that had somehow managed to keep up with him on the motorway. It had been more than just his thoughts that had made him drive like a maniac. He and Chantelle had been tailed ever since he had driven out of his driveway and not discreetly.
He should have expected it, but normally it wouldn’t present a problem. Now there was Chantelle to consider. How much did they know about her? Would they pass her off as simply another sexual plaything?
He was getting close now. The long waiting game was nearly over and then he was finished with it for good. He’d be able to disappear. He was finished dealing with fanatics and killers and politicians who had their own agenda. This assignment was personal; the money didn’t come into it. He wanted the one responsible for setting him up and it would be his closure or his funeral.
He shook the thought away and brought his attention back to the Mercedes that continued to wove in and out of traffic with him as he got on the motorway. They clearly wanted him to know about their presence. Being pulled over by the police would be a headache he didn’t need. He brought his speed down to a steady seventy.
As he pulled into his driveway, the Mercedes cruised slowly by. With a purposeful stride, he walked into the house and went straight to his study. His fingers tapped out a familiar phone number. He gave the code required by the operator and then the connection was made, all conversation scrambled and untraceable.
“Who the hell is tailing me?”
There was a pause. “The French, we think. The plate number you gave is registered to the embassy, but it doesn’t have diplomatic status.”
David cursed under his breath. “I was told the French would be kept in the dark until the last minute. You know as well as I do double agents have infiltrated them.”
“Nothing leaked from this end. We think it could be the targets using their own team to check you out and using the French as a cover. Don’t worry, your background is impeccable. It still reads as the bastard who would sell his own soul to the devil if the price was right.” Hendersson’s voice held an edge of humor.
David felt bitterness seeping into his pores. If anyone was to blame for what he had become, it was his faceless, nameless controllers. Sure, the money had been good and in the beginning, morality was way down on his list of priorities. But as time went by, it became all too obvious he was a puppet. He had even begun to question whether transferring into the Army Corps from the Royal air force and then thrown out for misconduct had been staged. The court martial had been more like a kangaroo court; the charges of dealing in contraband had been deliberately misconstrued. Disobeying orders by providing an air drop of urgently needed food and medical supplies to a refugee camp caught in between two warring factions was hardly contravening the United Nations Security Council. His own men had spoken up for him, but if their behavior at the air show was any indication, they now regretted it bitterly.
David leaned back in his leather recliner and recalled the trial. The last minute appearance of a witness for the prosecution had turned him from a hero into a criminal with blood on his hands. The food and medical supplies were traded off for weapons and used to kill the very people he thought he was saving. The question that those people would have been dead without food and medication didn’t arise; he had disobeyed orders and would pay for it.
After that it was easy. The loss of a career he loved meant he was drinking, womanizing and taking any job that came his way if it was dangerous and a plane was involved, most of it illegal. He had been the ideal target for recruiting: bitter, broke and in need of salvation. Most importantly, he didn’t have to change his identity. He was already living the mercenary life, only now he was employed by the good guys.
The cynicism came later when it started to become unclear just who the good guys were. Hendersson was one of the few he trusted.
“You lot did a pretty good job of making my character disreputable. My own brother despises me.”
“You did that yourself way before we came on the scene.”
Damnation, that’s all he seemed to be hearing of late. Chantelle had been like a taste of salvation, something pure and beautiful. He didn’t know what was worse, having it and losing it or not experiencing it at all.
“David, are you still there?” Hendersson’s tone had grown impatient.
“Just make sure when this is over, my slate is wiped clean. Otherwise, I might not be so keen to disappear.”
“You’re well on the way to retirement with the agency’s blessing. One word of warning though, make sure you live to enjoy it. This lot has a network of fanatics all over the place; don’t leave any loose ends. I think you know what I mean.”
For the rest of the day and well into the night, David thought about Hendersson’s warning. The sale of the house was going through, the money deposited in a London bank account and then transferred overseas to various accounts known only to him. The rest of his money had always taken a more direct route, his way of laundering it rather than have the Inland Revenue or other, more dangerous parties investigating his affairs. If his new life was to be complete, nothing could be traced back to his former self; the agency had a way of not wanting to let go.
Everything he had left was packed in a canvass knapsack: a change of clothing, several passports with different identities, a bowie knife, his 9mm automatic, a spare cartridge clip, emergency rations and an inconspicuous packet of cigars, each one hiding a deadly charge. He carried nothing that could identify him. It was the way he had always traveled and the anonymity kept him alive.
He thought of Chantelle’s word, sacrifice. She was right where Danny was concerned. How he wished it could have been different between them. For the first ten years of Danny’s life, he had protected and loved him and then overnight, he had abandoned Danny. Not once had he tried to explain and now it was too late.
He couldn’t blame Danny for hating him. The air force had taken him away from home while Danny was a teenager and for years, he only managed fleeting visits. Then out of the blue, he’d heard his mother had walked out on his father and there was no home to go back to.
The suicide letter had been left for David to find, his father’s neat punctual handwriting proved he had been sober when he wrote in a few sentences what had driven him to take his life.
‘I’m so tired and no longer see any meaning to my life. It is pointless. So sorry for the pain and sorrow I have caused. Remember me for the husband and father I once was and not the disappointment I became.’
David hadn’t shown the letter to anyone, not even the police. It had been locked away until he had come across
it again this morning. He wanted his father remembered for the man he once was and not for someone who took his own life because he felt a failure. The air force had been his life and being forced to retire because of a defect in his sight which would eventually take away his pilot’s license had devastated him. David had known that, but so had his mother and he had neither seen nor spoken with her since his father’s funeral.
For the rest of the night, David achieved little sleep. Foreboding gnawed away at his insides. He was used to staring into the barrel of a gun, walking into a meeting with known killers and pretending to be one of them. The slightest mistake and they would cut him to the ground without mercy. He knew all about that kind of fear, but not what he was undergoing now. He would doze off and wake up covered in sweat, his heart racing, nauseous from nightmares he couldn’t even recall.
At other times, those bewitching emerald eyes haunted him. He craved the soft silkiness of her skin, those full giving lips upon his, to wake up and have that heavenly body wrapped around his and then to make long, leisurely love to her. It was a different kind of torture, to want so much and know he would never be with her again.
The next day, David kept busy, his mind occupied with the mission. But when night came, the dreams were of one person only. Chantelle.
This time, at daybreak, David was covered in a sheen of perspiration, another nightmare having woken him. This one, he could recall. Chantelle was reaching out to him from the passenger door of his Islander plane and he was running beside it, trying to grab her hand. As their fingers touched, she was snatched back into the plane. He stared up as the plane soared and banked, giving him a view of the cockpit, only there was no one flying it. That had scared him awake.
Going into the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, leaned on the bathroom sink for several minutes and then pulled out his cell phone. The line was engaged; he tried the number several times before slamming the receiver down. Throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, he left the house, jumped into his car and headed for London.
****
David stood on the doorstep, buzzing Chantelle’s flat, his finger eventually holding it down.
“Yes,” she finally snapped.
“Chantelle, we need to talk.”
“I think we said all there is to say. Now if you don’t mind, I’m…”
He cut in, “Chantelle, I don’t want this conversation out on the street. Either you release the entrance door or I’ll kick it in and pay for the damage later.”
“Oh! You’re impossible.” The entrance door clicked open.
Taking two steps at a time, he was about to hammer on the door when it opened and Chantelle stepping aside to allow him in. He nearly tripped over a suitcase by the door. “Going somewhere?”
“Yes. Not that it’s any business of yours.” She walked off into the kitchen.
He noticed that although her ankle still had a support bandage on it, she was now placing it fully on the floor. She wore a long denim button up skirt and gypsy top and her russet hair hung in a French plait down her back. She bent down and was placing a pair of lace up ankle boots on while talking to her cat, ignoring him.
Approaching, he reached out and gently took hold of her forearm, forcing her to straighten up and face him. “You should still be resting that ankle and especially not wearing those things.” He motioned to the ankle boots now on her feet.
“Is that what you came here for, to be my nursemaid? Well, forget it. My ankle is doing fine and…”
He held his finger up to her lips, silencing her. “No, I didn’t come here to fight. There’s so much to say, but I’m not sure you will want to hear it.”
“Your timing is not good, David.”
Taking the impatience in her voice as a sign that she was still angry with him, and she had every right to be, he spoke in a soft coaxing tone. “Look, this isn’t about us. Well, not directly. I’m concerned you could be in danger.”
Chantelle stared back at him in disbelief. “Danger from what? Finding out I just slept with a mercenary?”
Taking hold of her other forearm, he pulled her closer. “I told you, this isn’t about us.”
Moist green eyes looked into his. ”It never is. Now, please release me.” Her voice was calm and a little sad. “David, my mother has taken ill in France. I’m leaving for the airport.”
For a moment, David was stunned into silence. Releasing her arms, he asked, “Is it serious?”
“I don’t know. A friend of my mother’s rang. She has a bad chest infection that has led to other complications. He wasn’t very clear on the phone, didn’t speak English and had a heavy, guttural accent. My French is pretty poor.” Picking up her handbag from the kitchen, she walked past him toward her suitcase.
“Are you flying over yourself?”
“No. I don’t know a private airstrip nearby and her villa is in the middle of nowhere, so I’ll need to hire a car. I have a flight booked.”
Moving towards the door, he stood in the entrance. “Let me drive you to the airport. It’s the least I can do.”
Looking reluctant, she nodded. “Okay.”
After traveling with him for ten minutes in silence, Chantelle could stand it no longer. “Why did you come around, David?”
“It doesn’t really matter now.”
“Great.” She let out a sigh. “Do you know how infuriating it is having you around? You talk in riddles half the time, you blow hot and cold, tell me I’m in some sort of danger and then claim it doesn’t matter.” Her voice shook with emotion. ”I think it’s best for my sanity that we never set eyes on each other again.” Glancing at her watch, Chantelle added, “There isn’t time to park. Just drop me off here.”
“You have it all wrong, I didn’t mean…” He gave a small sigh, knowing it was too late to retract his words. Besides, what could he say? That what they had did matter? She was all he cared about, which was why her leaving was more important than the two of them. Nothing he said would explain that contradiction. Pulling the car up to the terminal, he switched off the engine.
Chantelle was opening the door when he pulled her back toward him, his hand going around the back of her neck as he brought her lips to meet his. There was no resistance. Her lips, soft and yielding, allowed his tongue to plummet into the moist recesses, and fire seared through his loins. He wanted to hold onto her forever. Then, as suddenly as it had started, Chantelle broke away. “Goodbye, David.”
The anguish within the depths of her eyes mirrored his own. In those few seconds, if she had reached back and touched him, any resolve he had left would have been torn aside. Instead, she stepped out of the car and went to the trunk to retrieve her suitcase.
He couldn’t even trust himself to getting out the car. He allowed her to walk away from him, expecting her to look back and then not feeling surprised when she didn’t. He kept reminding himself it was better this way. She was removing herself from danger and that was all he wanted. Wasn’t it?
Chapter 9
The villa was situated in the southern region of Le Languedoc-Roussillon, an area dominated by vast fields of vineyards and olive groves. Hiring a car at Montpellier, Chantelle drove along winding country roads that passed through ancient towns with narrow streets and quiet squares and then villages lined with window boxes containing fading geraniums. Fresh late summer smells filled the air; autumn was late to arrive here. As the road narrowed and climbed, the view became breathtaking. She could even see the coastline, the blue Mediterranean shimmering in the sun.
Her mother’s villa was set on a hillside overlooking a village. The vineyards the family had once owned stretched out in a valley behind. The road was now no more than a dirt track used only for access to the villa. The villa stood out like a beautiful Spanish hacienda, a white wooden veranda running the full length, one hundred-year-old wisteria climbing the walls. Wooden shutters had been thrown back and on one windowsill sat Ming, her mother’s Siamese cat, looking like an Egyptian sculptu
re.
Parking the hired Fiesta next to her mother’s Clio, Chantelle stepped out onto the graveled drive, her attention drawn to the other car parked on the driveway. It seemed strange that it was also a hired car. Whoever the visitors were, they weren’t local.
What troubled her more was not being able to get through on the phone. The line was dead at the other end, the operator claiming the fault was with the receiver and had been reported. Chantelle wished she had asked the person who had rung her, what his relationship was with her mother. At the moment, she was wishing for a lot of things, most of all that her mother hadn’t worsened and gone to a hospital.
Stepping onto the veranda, she approached the door. The sound of the door chimes resounding through the open windows was met by silence. She tried again and then decided to walk around the back. Ming followed, rubbing around her legs. Bending down, Chantelle picked her up rather than risk tripping over her. “You’re getting very affectionate in your old age.” She smiled down at Ming and the cat’s purr grew louder as she nestled in the crook of Chantelle’s arm.
The veranda took her around to the side of the villa, widening to a terrace adorned with a mass of bloom, mostly reds and whites filling large earthenware pots. Placing Ming on the terrace wall, Chantelle looked down across the large stone patio surrounding the swimming pool. The sight there surprised her. She should have felt relieved, because her mother looked well and was sitting up, a magazine on her lap.
It was who was in the other sun lounger that made Chantelle uncomfortable. Looking even more relaxed and fully reclined was a man who couldn’t have been more than mid-twenties with shoulder length, shiny raven hair. His heavily bronzed skin and angular features made his nationality questionable, but he looked more Arab than French. He also looked kind of sinister, the sunglasses hiding his eyes.
Chantelle slowly approached.
Though facing her, neither had noticed her arrival. The man was obviously dozing and her mother was staring down at her lap. It wasn’t until she was nearly up to them that her mother looked up and let out a cry of alarm. Her hand quickly covered her mouth, but it was too late.