by L. L. Muir
He closed the door, handed the driver another fifty, and spoke so quietly there was no possibility she might hear. “After you drop her off, come back and get me.”
The man nodded and rolled up his window, and as the car moved out into traffic, the woman shouted against the glass, “I can pay for my own cab!”
The crowd stepped out of his way, as they always did, while he moved through them to return to the stone façade of the bank. There, he pressed his back to the wall to wait. He wasn’t worried about losing track of her. If the driver failed to return, for whatever reason, James had the number of the taxi, so he could get the information from the company.
And he now had a way to amuse himself for the next eight days.
Chapter Seven
The taxi pulled over and stopped, but Phoebe stayed in her seat. “Don’t you dare rat me out.”
In the rearview mirror, the taxi driver’s eyes bulged. “Auch, nay, miss.”
“I heard what he said. I also saw how much he gave you. But I’m telling you right now that if he finds me, I’ll call your company and tell them you sold out my privacy. I swear I will.” She was just mad enough to do it, too. Mr. Scottish Universe couldn’t make a fool out of her if he couldn’t find her.
She could still feel the jerk looking her over with an expression that said, “You’re pretty enough, but not tempting enough for me, thanks.”
He didn’t want to start something he couldn’t finish? Who was he, Rembrandt?
She’d been digging violently through her bag when she remembered the driver had already been paid and tipped. And if he was interested in an even bigger tip, he would probably turn around and rat her out no matter how believable her threats.
Good thing she was half a step ahead of them both…
James shifted his weight back and forth for a good half hour before the taxi driver returned. He rolled down his window, but James climbed into the back before speaking. “Where did you take her?”
“Corner of Tantallon Place and Grange Road, sir.”
“Take me there.”
“Verra well.” The man then complained that, should the woman be displeased with anything James did, he would likely lose his job, that she’d threatened to call his employer should he rat her out.
“She used those words?”
“Rat me out. Aye, sir.”
“Such a Yank.”
“Aye, but a pretty one.”
James ignored the observation and rode in silence. He wasn’t interested in how pretty she was, he was interested in proving to her that she couldn’t just hide in his backyard and think he couldn’t find her. He was former MI6 for pity’s sake. All she needed to do was confess what the letters MSU stood for.
They drove south of the city, to an area he wasn’t familiar with, and stopped in the center of a large neighborhood. Large Edwardian houses lined the streets in all four directions, most of which had been turned into apartments.
“I hope ye followed her,” he said. “I hope ye have a direction at least.”
“She walked east, slow-like, waiting for me to drive away. If I would have circled ‘round…”
“She would have known. I understand.”
“Where to now, then?”
“I get out here.” James passed over another 50 pound note and hopped out before the man could bother with the door.
“Shall I wait?”
James shook his head. “No. Thank you.”
All he had to do was press a button on his mobile and a car would come for him. He’d only needed the taxi driver for the address he could provide, as there had been no time to hail another cab and give chase. Of course, he wasn’t chasing her as much as he was killing time, playing a little cat and mouse. And who better to play with than a mouse that did not intend to be found?
Aye, she thought she was a clever woman. And a clever woman would walk east only if she intended to walk west once her audience drove away.
Reasonable? Aye. And as good a place as any to start.
He strolled along at a good clip and reached the next intersection. There, he was greeted by another dozen buildings full of flats, any of which could have housed his mouse. Twenty feet from the corner, a young woman watched her three bairns playing in a side yard that was fenced in with wrought iron. She glanced at James, then looked away quickly. Too quickly. And her eyes were much too wide to account for the usual curiosity about his height.
Trying to avoid frightening her, he strolled over to the fence and leaned his elbows between rungs. “Hiya.”
“Hiya,” said the children, when their mother said nothing.
“I don’t suppose ye’ve seen an American woman come past in the last hour or so?”
One lad turned to look at his mother. “Does he mean Phoebe, then?”
The woman tried to lure her children inside, but they ignored her and wandered over to the fence. She hurried after them, to hover. Apparently, she was going to allow the conversation, but that didn’t mean she was a fool.
James looked at the lad. “Is your Phoebe a Yank?”
The boy shook his head. “Nay. Not anymore, she isnae.”
“And just where does your Phoebe live? I’d like to send her some flowers.” He directed the last bit to the mother, hoping it would soften her enough to get a solid address from her. Judging from the faded, stained clothing of the children, a few hundred pounds might just buy him even more information than that, so he pulled out a thick fold of bills to test the waters.
The woman firmly ordered the children inside, but she didn’t follow after them. Instead, she stepped closer to the fence. “I wouldn’t want my bairns to think money is more important than loyalty.” She glanced at the money in his hands, then looked away, no doubt to resist temptation. “Do ye really mean to send her flowers?”
“I do. I was rather rude to her today, and I wish to make it up to her before I leave town.”
“Ye’re leaving? So ye plan to sweeten her up for when ye come back, then?”
“I won’t be back. But I wouldn’t want her to judge me for how matters were left between us.”
“She’s there.” The quick lift of the woman’s eyes identified the building across the street and down one. “Second floor. 202.” She looked grief-stricken by her betrayal, even while she watched him shuffling through his cash.
He really could be a right bastard sometimes. Only this time, he felt an appropriate amount of remorse for it, so he split the stack of bills in two halves, tucked one back into his pocket and fashioned the other into a small roll that he held against his palm with his thumb.
“Shake my hand.” He extended his arm and pressed the money into her grasp, then he thanked her for her time and headed back the way he’d come. If this Phoebe was watching, she wouldn’t know her friend had given her away. And to keep her from knowing, he would have to come back and pretend to have found her by other means.
Phoebe stepped away from the curtains as Becca came inside.
“Well,” said her neighbor, “thanks to Chester, he kens yer name is Phoebe. I worried the lad might give up the game, but he never said this was yer place, aye?”
Phoebe reached out and messed up Chester’s hair while he grinned. She pointed to her cookie jar, which she was just about to pack up. “Go on. Claim your reward. And one for your sisters, too.”
The boy rolled his eyes and groaned. “Auch, fine. But mine must be the biggest of the three.”
She would never get tired of listening to children speak with a brogue. And one of these years, she would get brave and take Gaelic lessons herself. It was clear she would never fit in as a local until she started sounding like one, but she wasn’t ready yet.
Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was a lie. When had she ever stayed long enough in one place to fit in as a local?
Maybe she would be better off learning French…
Becca waved a hand in front of Phoebe’s face to get her attention. But no, not her hand. She
was waving money, and lots of it.
“Yer stalker is a wealthy man, Phoebe darlin’. And a bit of a softie. Do ye need a wee bit more paddin’ in yer wallet before ye set out on this trip o’ yers? I figure half of this is yers.”
“He tried to bribe you? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He bribed the cabby, too.”
“Bribe? Auch, nay. He purchased information.”
“You didn’t!”
Becca pointed out the window to a house across the street. “Auch, I did. ‘She lives up there,’ says I. ‘Number 202.’ I never said which ‘she’ I meant. And if he would have asked if that was where Ms. McGovern lives and offers yoga classes to the pensioners, I would have confessed the truth of it. But he didnae ask, did he?”
After they laughed themselves sick, Becca sighed. “‘Tis a pity, though. I believe Ms. McGovern is about to receive an expensive bouquet from the florist. Ye’ll have to find some excuse to stop by and see them.”
“You mean, we.”
“Sure. We.” She turned to her children. “All right, then. Tell Phoebe ta for the kitten and the cookies, and let’s go home.”
The kids did as they were told and generously allowed her to pet the little ball of fluff one last time before they took Richard the Lionheart, and his supplies, out the front door. She’d had him all of a week. He’d forget her in a day or two. But if she was going on an extended trip, not knowing how long before she’d be back, she couldn’t leave him with a kennel.
Becca paused at the door. “Ye ken they’ll never wish to part with it, even after ye’re back.”
“I know. I’ll just have to find another one. And really, they can change its name. Calling him Richard the Lionheart hasn’t impressed him at all.”
Her neighbor rolled her eyes. “That’s due to the fact that he’s a Scottish cat, and Richard was an English King. Now, if ye’d have named him James—”
“That’s it! The witches called him James!” Not that she intended to think of the rude man as anything but MSU. When she had a minute, however, she would think of something a lot less flattering for the initials to stand for.
“James the Giant?”
“Yeah.” She quickly shook her head. “I mean no! Don’t let them name him James. Anything but James.”
Harp Singh, James’ dry cleaner and always-available-for-clandestine-activity friend, climbed back into the delivery van, tossed the laundered shirt over his shoulder, and met James’ eyes in the rearview mirror. “Hang that up, would ye?”
“Well?”
“Well, the woman who lives in 202 is not a young Yank, my friend.” Harp turned in his seat to face James, who sat on a spare tire and tried not to suffocate between the plastic-covered clothes hanging from a rod on the ceiling. “She’s a wrinkled old thing with crusty yellow hair, a pink leotard, and tights. She kens there’s a Yank about the place, but couldn’t say where.” His eyes narrowed. “And neither could the half dozen old birds who were there for a class in—I’m nae jokin’—pole dancin’. Pole dancin’. Now, I ask ye, where will those old birds get a chance to use their new found skills, eh?”
James didn’t want to think about it. Instead, he needed to use his energy to figure out how the mouse had gotten away again.
Had the children lied? Was her name not even Phoebe? What kind of woman would have bairns lie for her?
She’d had only a half hour to prepare. She must have known he was coming, must have heard his instructions to the driver. Had she sent those kids out into the yard to lead him astray?
He lifted his sore backside off the tire and, still bent in half, slid the panel door open. There was no longer any need to protect the taxi driver, or the young mother—not if Phoebe had been manipulating them in the first place.
He rounded the van while Harp frantically rolled down his window. “Are ye mad? I thought ye wanted to stay hidden, man.”
“Not anymore.” He glanced up at the hundred or more windows looking down on him. “She’s probably watching right now.”
He marched across the street and down to the house where the children had been at play. A quick hop took him over the fence and in half a dozen strides, he was at the door, where he began beating with the side of his fist.
If he frightened the piss out of someone, he hoped it would be the American.
A tall blond woman opened the door, her hands covered in yellow plastic gloves. “Who’s this then?” She looked him up and down and cocked a hip while she held a dripping brush out to the side. “Whatever ye’re looking for, love, I’ve got it for ye.” Then she laughed good-naturedly. At last, a woman who teased instead of trying to seduce him at first sight.
His irritation fizzled to nothing. “And ye are?”
“Debbie. I’m housekeepin’. ‘Oo ye lookin’ for then?”
“The lady of the house. Does she, by chance, have children? Or is she a single woman with dark hair and brown, maybe hazel eyes? American?”
“Oh, she was a Yank, now that ye mention it. No bairns, though.”
“Was?”
“Oh, aye. She’s moved out. Van came early this morning. Lost her deposit, they say, because she moved out all sudden-like. She told the landlord a fortune-teller said her happiness lies elsewhere. It’s joost my opinion, of course, but if ye’re standing ‘ere, at her back door, I’d say this fortune-teller was wrong.”
“What about a forwarding address?”
“Sorry. Ye’d have to ask the manager, and he’s left for London. He’s usually back in a week or so.”
“What about the moving van. Which company was it?”
“Local blokes in their own van, I’m afraid.
“I thank ye for yer time.”
Something thudded on the ceiling inside, but Debbie didn’t react.
He looked over her head and nodded with his chin. “Just so I won’t need to hop the fence again, might I come through? Use the front door?”
Her eyes widened slightly, then her mouth quirked up to one side. “Oh, aye. Come away in, then. But no need to hurry, surely. I’m certain I’ve a cold Irn-Bru with yer name on it.” She stepped back and opened the door wide. He took advantage and hurried through to the living room. When he found that empty, he headed for the stairs and took them three at a time, calling over his shoulder. “Ye don’t mind me looking about, aye? There might be a clue as to where she’s gone.”
“The only thing ye’ll find up there,” she shouted, “is m’ daughter, Stephanie! She’s a cleaner too, aye?”
He flung the door open to a toilet, then a small empty room, and finally found a warm body in the large bedroom. Sadly, it was not the woman he sought, but a tall thin teenager pretending to dust the windowsill.
“Pardon me,” he said. “Are ye alone in here?”
She nodded, eyes wide. Then those eyes flashed to a door that was likely another toilet. He wasted no time and barged through it. Finding no one, he flung the shower curtain aside just as the door slammed closed behind him. He heard a familiar voice on the other side. “He won’t hurt you, I promise.”
He pulled on the door, but it held. The handle turned, but there was very little give. Someone held it tight, and he wasn’t about to kick it down and hurt them.
“Phoebe!” He beat on the door three times. The only answer was the rapid pounding of footsteps on the stairs and half a minute later came the slams of car doors, then the fading sound of an engine.
After another minute of silence, the handle jiggled, the door opened, and Debbie stepped aside to let him out. “Sorry ‘bout that, love. Afraid that door sticks a wee bit.” She laughed at her own joke.
He glanced briefly at the teenager, but she looked so nervous he didn’t have the heart to question her. He pulled a fifty out of his pocket and played with it. “I suppose, if I give ye this, ye’ll just give me the wrong address?”
Debbie pulled the corner of another fifty out of her pocket, then stuffed it down again. “Ye’re welcome to take yer chances. Of course, one of us would e
nd up wastin’ yer money, but it wouldn’t be me.”
He nodded, then gave her the money anyway. “Tell me this. Is her name even Phoebe?”
She looked at her daughter and scrunched her face. “I dunno. Phoebe?” She shook her head. “Doesnae ring a bell, no.”
When James reached the pavement, he looked back at the building one last time, hoping his American mouse wasn’t watching him from some window, laughing at him. He made his way back to Harp’s van and climbed in the passenger side.
Harp turned his hands up. “Did ye see her, then?”
“No. But ye did. And ye let her get away.”
Harp turned to look at the house, his mouth hanging open. “Wha? The lass that got into the Town Car? That was yer American?”
“She’s not my American, but yes. That was her.”
“Oh, sorry, mate. I shoulda come with ye.”
James sighed and patted his friend on the shoulder. “It’s for the best. It really is. My pride has taken a hit, mind ye, but my heart at least is intact.”
A pity, though, he thought. He might have enjoyed playing cat and mouse for a week—if he’d been able to catch her now and again.
Chapter Eight
After running out of the house, tossing her bags to the driver, and jumping in the back seat of the Town Car, Phoebe focused on calming her heart on the way to the tea shop. It had been an exciting, nail-biting morning, hoping the car the Muirs promised to send would arrive before James came poking around again. Their cat and mouse game was great cardio. Too bad it had to end.
Apparently, the man didn’t have a job to go to because he’d showed up at nine with another man in a van from the dry cleaners. She suspected something when the driver took a plastic-covered shirt to Ms. McGovern’s door, visible from Phoebe’s bedroom window, then brought it back down again. Since someone had answered the door, why hadn’t he left it?