by Lily Harlem
“For as long as I can remember. I used to play cowboys with my brother in the back garden, must have been about six or seven then.” He stood beside me, his shoulder almost level with my ear.
He really was huge, a fraction taller than Coben and certainly a bit wider. Like Coben he smelled lovely, something spiced and rich, perhaps with a hint of sandalwood.
We watched a red Ferrari cruise past.
“Nice car,” I said.
“If you like that sort of thing.”
“You’re not into vehicles? Most blokes are.” I glanced up at him. “My husband would love a Ferrari.”
“I like vehicles plenty, just not cars.” He paused and glanced at the motorbike parked on the street. “Where is your husband? You forget to bring him?” A cheeky smirk crossed his face.
“He’s just catching up with Harold about something, business stuff, you know.”
“Oh, what’s he do for a living, then?”
“Cyber security, Middle East is his speciality.”
Ed’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Sounds interesting.”
“It keeps him very busy.”
A noise in the hall caught my attention and I turned. The click of shoes on the floor grew louder. Coben appeared in the doorway.
He stopped and scanned the room. His gaze settled briefly on me, then flicked to Ed.
His mouth slackened for a second before squeezing into a straight line. He kept his attention firmly on the man at my side.
Harold stepped past him and up to the drinks cabinet. “Coben, old fellow, what are you drinking?”
Coben said nothing. It was as if he’d been rooted to the floor. His eyes flashed and his hands curled into fists.
What the hell is the matter with him?
“Coben? Drink?” Harold repeated.
“Er…Scotch.” His voice was hoarse. “Please. If you have one.” He pushed his shoulders down and tilted his chin. He looked a little paler than he had earlier.
“Coben,” I said, hoping he wasn’t coming down with something. “Come and meet Harold and Mable’s godson. Ed Mooreland.”
Chapter Three
Coben accepted the drink Harold passed him and took a large gulp. He walked up to me.
I reached for his hand. His fingers were cool, his palm a little clammy. Perhaps the talk with Harold hadn’t gone according to plan.
Still he stared at Ed.
Ed stared right on back.
“Funny thing is…” I started, trying to fill in a weird silence that had descended and wondering why the air felt like it had an electric current running through it. “I actually met Ed today. What a coincidence, eh?”
“You met him?” Coben dragged his attention from Ed to me. “What? How?” He narrowed his eyes.
Why is he being so rude?
“He came into Dragon’s Ink. He was a client.” I tried to keep the irritation out of my tone. “I added a bird to his half-leg tat.”
“Nice to meet you.” Ed held out his hand to Coben. His voice was tense.
Coben took it, shook very briefly, then shoved his hand into his trouser pocket. “She tattooed you?” He paused. “My wife.”
“Yes. Your wife.” Ed knocked back the last of his drink. He swept his tongue over his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes. “She’s very good.”
“I know.” Coben mimicked Ed by finishing his freshly poured Scotch in one go. He shifted forward and back as though wondering whether to sit or not—or maybe leave the room.
“I’ll be back in a moment.” Harold raised a large glass of red into the air. “Best just check the boss is okay in the kitchen.”
“Sure.” I smiled his way. It was a false smile because something was going on. I had no idea what but I’d never seen Coben so twitchy.
“Ed is in the military,” I said, tucking my loose strands of hair behind my ears.
“Oh yeah?” Coben tilted his chin.
“Yep.” Ed turned away and headed to the drinks cabinet. “Don’t ask me about it, though.”
“He can’t tell you,” I said. “It’s top secret.”
Coben kind of grunted.
I poked him in the ribs. “What’s the matter?” I mouthed, frowning.
“Nothing.” He clenched his jaw and a tendon jumped in his cheek.
Ed poured himself another drink. As he turned back to us, Mable appeared. “Ah, here you all are,” she said, holding out her hands. She came up to me and kissed my cheek. “Sian, you look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I smiled. “So do you.”
“Coben, thank you so much for coming this evening.” She angled her face toward him.
“My pleasure.” He politely touched his lips to her cheek.
I glanced at Ed. He was staring at Coben. Two lines plowed across his forehead and he was breathing deep, his shirt tightening over his broad chest.
I’d never known Coben to be anything other than perfectly polite and controlled when we’d been out, so this reaction to Ed was weird. But it seemed Coben had a strange effect on Ed too—I just didn’t understand what.
“Dinner is served.” Mable rubbed her hands together. “In the dining room and you must come and meet Rachel, Sian. She’s an artist, like you.”
“Oh, okay.” I warmed to Mable a little more. I adored being described as an artist because it’s what I was. Sometimes people, older people especially, forgot that.
“Want a top up?” Ed asked, holding the Scotch aloft and nodding at Coben’s glass.
Mable linked her arm with mine and led me from the room. I glanced over my shoulder at Ed and Coben.
Something passed between them. A look, a frown, an acknowledgment. Coben shook his head very slightly, only just perceptible. Ed went ahead and filled his glass.
Fuck!
Of course.
They knew each other from the Air Force. I should have guessed. Ed’s super-secret job…he was special forces. I’d thought as much but this just confirmed it in my mind. Coben clearly didn’t want to give the game away about Ed’s elite career, not now that he was out in civvy street. It wasn’t his place to discuss it. Besides, it was perfectly possible Ed’s family and friends didn’t know what a dangerous job he had.
Coben had talked to me about his decision to leave the RAF. He’d considered special forces himself but decided against it, preferring to join in the rat race and be his own boss. He’d had enough of taking orders, he’d said, and wanted to be the one giving them instead.
Coben had picked a different route.
Ed had taken the dangerous one.
The dining room was another grand space with lofty ceilings, dark furniture and a long table set with elegant cutlery, a pretty summer flower display and expensive-looking glassware.
I was directed to a seat next to Rachel, a pretty young girl of about twenty who had golden skin, the result of being in Australia, I guessed, and a warm smile.
As I sat I glanced at the door, wondering where Coben and Ed were. No doubt catching up on their situation, discovering the lay of the land and what Mable and Harold knew. I felt pleased I’d worked it out and would be sure to keep their secret safe.
They entered the room at the same time Harold did. He was holding a large plate of lamb that he set in the center of the table. Mable followed with steaming vegetables.
Ed and Coben sat opposite Rachel and I. As Mable fussed over telling us what the sauce was and that potatoes were on the way, Coben caught my eye.
“Okay?” I mouthed.
His face softened a little and he nodded, took another sip of his drink.
I glanced at Ed. He had a little rise of color on his cheeks. He didn’t look quite as cool as he had earlier when I’d been inking him. He turned from Coben and engaged in a conversation with Harold about the upcoming general election.
“Mable told me you’re a tattoo artist,” Rachel said, helping herself to lamb.
“Yes, that’s right.” I spread my napkin on my lap.
“How did you
get into that?”
“I went to art college in London.”
“Oh, me too, but not in London. I loved it.” She huffed. “Haven’t done much with the qualification yet, though. There doesn’t seem to be much work around.”
I smiled. “I hear you. I struggled to get work in any kind of art job that appealed to me but one day I dropped off some designs at Dragon’s Ink and the manager, I guess I struck lucky, said he had an opening for an apprentice.”
“Cool.” She passed me the fork to gather meat onto my plate, then dipped into the vegetables with a large silver spoon.
“It was. It took a few years. I was a dogsbody to begin with, and they ripped at me for being a girl, but once I proved I could design and ink I just became one of the team.”
“Are you the only girl?”
“Yes.”
“And do you have tattoos?” She glanced down my body as if trying to see through my clothes.
“No.” I laughed. “I think I’m the only tattooist in the world that doesn’t have any.” I helped myself to green beans and glanced at Coben. He was rubbing his temple. “I did a design on my husband, Coben, though. That’s how I met him.”
Coben glanced up. He smiled at Rachel. “I’m sorry, we weren’t introduced.”
“I know who you are.” She licked her lips and straightened a little. “Uncle Harold mentioned you’re going to help him out with his new business venture.”
“If all goes to plan.” He took some lamb, then wordlessly passed the fork to Ed.
Ed piled meat on his plate, enough to feed several men, before adding the roast potatoes Mable had brought into the room.
“So what did your wife tattoo on you?” Rachel asked Coben.
“A bird. Here.” He touched his right collarbone.
“Does it mean something?” she asked.
“It reminds him of his time in the Royal Air Force.” I glanced at Ed to see if he’d acknowledge what I’d said. If he’d ask Coben about what regiment he’d been in or where he’d been deployed.
Ed piled his fork with meat and shoveled it into his mouth. His eyes cast downward.
No, of course he didn’t ask. He already knew.
A little thrill went through me again. I’d figured it out. I’d grill Coben later about my mysterious client and what he did. See if I really had connected the dots. How exciting, a real SAS man at the dinner table.
The rest of the meal went by with light conversation. Mable and Harold were charming hosts and involved everyone in topics about travel and what was going on in London. They were keen theatergoers and Harold had us all laughing at a tale about a show going wrong and the main characters having to ad-lib.
Dessert was a delicious offering of Eton Mess, one of my favorites, but as soon as it was finished, spoons and forks set down, Ed stood.
“Harold,” he said, then turned to Mable, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut my evening short. Something came up earlier today that I have to sort out.”
“Oh, really?” Harold wiped his mouth with his napkin, then set the screwed up linen on the table. “That’s a shame.”
“Edward, is it really that urgent?” Mable asked. “We’ve seen so little of you lately.”
Coben glanced up at Ed.
Ed caught his gaze briefly before returning his attention to Harold. “I’m afraid it is. You know what it’s like. But thank you for inviting me.” He tucked in his chair, then gripped the top of the seat.
“Rachel, it was lovely to see you again.” He nodded at Rachel. “Sian, you too.”
“Same here,” I said.
Rachel smiled.
Ed put his hand on Harold’s shoulder. “I’ll call you, soon.”
“Be careful, son.” Harold frowned, his mouth set in a serious, almost stoic line.
“Always.” Ed stepped behind Coben. He repeated the same gesture on Coben’s shoulder, squeezing it too. “Good to meet you, Coben.”
Coben swallowed as he stared straight ahead, then, “You too,” he replied stiffly.
Ed gave Mable a quick hug and was gone.
No one spoke. His sudden departure appeared to have stunned everyone slightly.
The front door banged. The roar of a motorbike filled the room. It revved away, the rumble from the exhaust so loud the windowpanes rattled as did the chandelier hanging over the table.
“Oh, he does worry me on that thing,” Mable said, sipping her wine and frowning.
“The motorbike outside is Ed’s?” I asked.
“Yes, he loves the damn thing.” Harold rolled his eyes. “Always tearing around on it.”
“I’m sure he’s a very capable rider.” Coben shrugged. “In his line of work.”
“Well that’s just another thing that worries me.” Mable shook her head. “I keep hoping he’ll retire.”
Ah, so they do know what he does.
“Retire?” Rachel laughed. “He’s too young to retire even for an army bloke.”
“RAF, dear,” Mable corrected, “it’s different.”
“Well, anyway, what is he now, thirty-one?” Rachel shrugged.
“Thirty-four,” Coben said. He shot a glance at me. “I’d guess, anyway.”
“Mmm, yes, he’d be thirty-four now, you’re right.” Harold nodded. “It was his birthday last month.”
And looking damn good for his years, I thought. The guy was seriously fit. But I wondered how Coben had guessed his age so accurately. It seemed an odd thing for him to remember if they’d just been work colleagues.
“Well,” Harold said, “perhaps we should retire for coffee. Coben, would you partake in a cigar with me?”
“Er, yes, thanks. That would be nice.”
Harold and Coben stood and left the room.
“I’ll make coffee.” Mable smiled at Rachel and I. “Why don’t you ladies make yourselves comfortable in the drawing room.”
“Would you like help with this?” I gestured to the table littered with empty plates.
“Oh no, my housekeeper will see to that in the morning.”
“Shall I make the coffee?” Rachel asked.
“No, no, not at all, you girls go and talk art and I’ll be with you in a moment or two.”
The rest of the evening went by quickly. The coffee perked me up as I’d felt tired but I was still happy to leave just before midnight when Coben appeared from the snug—smelling of cigar smoke—and told us a cab was outside waiting for us.
“Thank you,” I said to Mable as I set down my empty coffee cup and stood, “for a wonderful evening.”
“My pleasure. It’s been lovely to spend more time with you both.” She stood too and gave me a quick hug.
“And, Rachel, do call in at Dragon’s Ink if you’re in the area. I’ll show you around.”
“I’d love that.” Rachel smiled and nodded enthusiastically.
Coben said goodbye to the ladies.
I gave Harold a kiss on his warm, portred cheek.
Coben and I headed into the cool night air.
I pulled my shawl closer as we climbed into the waiting cab. “Success with Harold?” I asked.
Coben climbed in and shut the door. “Yes, he’s great. Going to be a pleasure doing business with him. He just gets it, you know.” He sat back and blew out a breath as though letting it take tension from his body. “Having an easy, switched-on client will make a big difference to the job.”
“And do you think you’ll have to go out there? To the Middle East?”
“Maybe for a week or so, but the majority can be done remotely, plus I have extra help now on the team. They can do some of the traveling.”
“That’s good, then.” I paused. “Mable and Rachel are nice.”
“Yes. You seemed to get on well with them both.”
“I did.” I paused. “And so is Ed. Nice, that is.”
Coben said nothing.
“You’ve met him before, haven’t you?” I reached for his hand.
He spun to face me, his fin
gers gripping mine. “What makes you think that?”
I shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. “Just a guess.” I smiled. “I’m right though, aren’t I?”
He frowned.
“What? How can it be top secret when you’re not even in the forces anymore?”
“It’s not top secret.” He sounded huffy.
“So don’t act like it.” I tried to pull my hand away. He was being weird.
He kept a firm grip of me. “I’m sorry. You’re right. We served together, feels like forever ago.”
“Where?”
“The Gulf. No big deal.”
Of course it was a big deal. The Gulf had taken its toll on every soldier who’d been deployed there. “Was he your superior?”
“No, we were equal. He’s gone up the ranks now, though, obviously.”
I nudged him with my shoulder, smirked like a conspirator. “Is he SAS?”
He shook his head.
“Go on, tell me. He must be. I’m guessing he’s not married, no ring, no kids, just dedicated to serving his country. Plus he was really cagey when I asked him about his job when I was inking him.”
“How would I know what regiment he’s in now?” Coben stared out of the window at the passing shops that were shrouded in darkness.
I studied his profile. He had soft features, a straight nose and a gently sloping chin. I adored that about him, his gentle face, easy smile. But right now it all seemed much harder than usual—harsher and sterner. I didn’t like it and hadn’t seen it in him before. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep.” He rubbed his thumb over my hand and turned to me. “Just tired. It’s been a long day.” He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes.
****
The rest of the week went by in a blur and I was glad when the Bank Holiday weekend arrived and the sun was shining. I had a rare three days off, which would give me time to give the house a clean through, catch up on phone calls and enjoy Coben’s company.
If he cheered up, that was.
He’d been moody ever since the dinner party two evenings ago. Grunting rather than speaking at breakfast and working late in the evening, coming home exhausted and answering questions with single-word answers.