Inside too, it was different at night. And it had nothing to do with the noise of the strangers clattering all over it with cameras and cables and God knew what other equipment. On the contrary, as Izzy walked through the front door, the sounds faded to the background, almost as if her brain had cut them off, and her whole body tingled with awareness of…age.
A house had stood here a lot longer than the expanded Victorian version. Generations of lairds had lived, procreated, died, fought, planned and no doubt betrayed or been betrayed here. And just for a moment, the sheer numbers, the sheer emotions of the hundreds of people who’d passed under this roof seemed to overwhelm her. She had to catch at the open door for support, and fortunately, the solid touch of wood brought reality streaming back.
Izzy stepped over a reel of cable and dumped her coat and bag in Chrissy’s office as usual, before heading to the dining room. As Chrissy had prophesied, no one had been clearing up. Politely excusing herself to the three oblivious people shovelling Jim’s cordon bleu into their faces, Izzy lifted some of the dirty plates and glasses and took them through to the kitchen, which looked like a bomb site. Jim had vanished.
Grabbing a tray, Izzy went back and cleared the table properly before running water into the sink and wondering why no one thought of buying a dishwasher. While the water ran, she dashed back to the dining room and wiped down the end of the table where no one was sitting, then ran back just in time to prevent the sink from overflowing.
Chrissy appeared as she dumped the second load of crockery into the sink. “Bless you, Izzy.” She grinned and muscled in to fill the kettle. “More tea and coffee. They consume it like junkies. But at least we now have clean cups again!”
Chrissy piled two trays high with coffeepots, teapots, milk, sugar and mugs, muttering that it was as well Glenn had extracted such a large fee from them.
“Were on-tap refreshments part of the deal?” Izzy asked, drying her hands.
“No, but we reckoned if we kept them sweet at the beginning, they’d be nicer to us for the rest of the week. And not poke into too many pasts.”
“Fair enough.” Izzy hung up the towel and hefted one of the trays. “Where are we going with these?”
“The library. Apparently, the ghost was seen there on two occasions. They’re setting up all sorts of cameras to catch her in case she pops back. But we don’t expect any real fun until tomorrow.” Chrissy cast a speaking look over her shoulder. “When the medium shows up.”
Izzy grinned and led the way up the old servants’ stairs and along the unusually busy hallway to the library. Normally a haven of peace and tranquillity, the library was full now of people calling to each other, twiddling knobs and rushing around with cables and clipboards and important expressions. Fiona Marr, fortunately, was not among them.
In the midst of it, Glenn Brody sat on one of the larger reading tables, observing with an unreadable expression. For once, he wasn’t wearing a sweater, just faded jeans and a T-shirt. He glanced over when Izzy entered and lifted one eyebrow by way of wry greeting before he rose and walked toward her and Chrissy.
To Izzy’s surprise, as all the busy people stepped around her, Brody took the tray from her without a word and turned back toward the table. He even turned in time to take Chrissy’s before she could lay it down. For Izzy, the unexpected kindness drifted into insignificance beside the play of muscles in his powerful arms.
Forcing herself, she tried to concentrate on the job, pouring out several mugs of tea, directing the thirsty to help themselves to sugar and milk. In fact, she was so busy avoiding looking at Brody that she forgot all about Fiona Marr.
“Hello! I didn’t know you were working on this.”
At first Izzy didn’t even look up, assuming the pleasantly spoken words were addressed to someone else. Then the familiarity of the voice broke into her consciousness, and she glanced up quickly to see Fiona Marr in a smart, figure-hugging red suit, smiling right at her from the other side of the table.
Izzy gave a vague smile. “Coffee?”
“Oh yes, please.” Fiona leaned over the table to take the proffered mug. “We’ve worked together before, haven’t we? But I’ve forgotten your name.”
Oh shit, no, please no… “Izzy Ross,” she managed, “and no, I don’t think so.”
“No? I definitely know your face.” Fiona gave a little laugh, and Izzy began to feel the world collapsing around her. If Fiona put her face together with Ray’s, if Ray found out where she was, then she was sunk. She’d have to leave now, tonight. Fetch Jack from Sean’s and just go.
“I’m good that way,” Fiona said with appealing self-mockery. “Just not always good enough to remember the name or situation that goes with it.” As she spoke, her gaze flickered to Brody and away.
So Fiona had definitely clocked him. She was, after all, a journalist before she was a presenter, and Izzy’s original plan of total denial might not prove to be the best one in the circumstances. And hopefully Brody, who was much more interesting to a newshound, would distract her.
Sorry, Glenn, she thought in a confusion of panic and guilt. She had to start thinking straight, or she was going under.
She swallowed, gave a tentative smile. “Well, I obviously know your name,” she said to Fiona. “I did the odd bit of temping at the BBC, a few years ago, so you might have glimpsed me there scuttling between offices.”
“Ah.” Fiona seemed to perk with pride at being proved right. “That will be it. What’s your role here?”
“Oh, none,” Izzy said. “I live locally. Just helping Chrissy out.”
The famous Marr eyelashes flickered. “Oh good. Well, nice to see you again.”
She’d got away with it. Fiona was satisfied with the explanation and disinterested in the domestic help. “And you,” Izzy said weakly. Her knees seemed about to give way in sheer relief as Fiona drifted off toward the producer. With luck now, Izzy would just blend into the walls and the general mass of the unimportant. But as she turned to place the empty coffee pot back on the tray, she caught sight of Glenn Brody watching her. As if he’d heard every word.
Well, what did it matter? He knew no more than Fiona. Nevertheless, it had been a nasty moment, the worst since she’d run from Ray three years ago, and it had left her rattled and shaking.
She gathered as many empties as she could and hurried from the room, along the hallway to the old servants’ stair. At first the silence was blissful as she slowed up and descended at a much more leisurely pace, calming her breathing and even allowing herself a moment of self-congratulation. No need to relive the hurt and humiliation of her marriage, the horror and fear of those last days before she’d taken Jack and vanished from her old life completely. It was all behind her. Gone.
In fact, she’d handled the Fiona situation rather well in the circumstances, and she thought she really was still safe. Until a lightbulb suddenly fizzed and went out, and she jumped as if she’d been shot. She only just managed to hold on to the tray, swearing under her breath.
But even that down-to-earth reaction didn’t slow the sudden beat of her heart. Her neck prickled, and she spun around, staring through the darkness to the top of the stairs, where the light from the hall still penetrated. There was no one there. And yet she could have sworn she sensed someone.
“Hello?” she called.
No answer. Because she was imagining things. Agitated by her lucky escape from Fiona, probably. Shaking her head, she walked down the last few steps and into the kitchen. More dishes to wash. She wondered if Chrissy would agree to overtime pay rates for this evening—that would buy Jack a pair of boots for the winter.
Still slightly freaked by the eerie silence on the stairs, she switched on the radio and sang along while she worked, washing dishes and wiping down the food-spattered work surfaces. The noise helped dispel the spooks and cheered her as she replayed in her head the brief conversa
tion with Fiona, going over every reaction and expression. Fiona had definitely bought it. Izzy was unimportant. In the clear. She didn’t need to run.
Odd how little she wanted to leave now. She and Jack had begun to put down roots she didn’t want to wrench back up.
She was just rinsing out the cloth when another tray materialized beside her.
She stopped singing to say a jocular, “Damn you, Chrissy,” before she realized the sinewy arm at the end of the tray was definitely male. Glenn Brody.
“They’ve finished setting up, and they’re all away to their hotel in Mallaig. You can knock off now.”
“I’ll just finish these first,” Izzy said, reaching for the cups from his tray. It was weird, but she didn’t really want to go home—perhaps because Jack wouldn’t be there. He hadn’t even phoned to say good night… It was a good thing, she assured herself. He was obviously having a fine time and was quite comfortable in Sean’s house. How often had she longed for a night off bedtime-story duty? Yet now she finally had one, she missed the story and the teeth-brushing rituals…
As she dropped a mug onto the draining rack, a large male hand loomed in front of her eyes, lifting it and drying. She blinked. Glenn Brody drying dishes seemed—incongruous. He even put everything away in the proper cupboards. He didn’t speak while they worked, but after a few minutes, Izzy realized the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. And although she was conscious of a pleasant little zing of physical awareness, she didn’t feel nervous or afraid of his quiet company.
It came to her that he wasn’t anything like she imagined a murderer to be. Or even a Glasgow hoodlum. Although she couldn’t doubt a lot went on behind those cold, unquiet eyes, the surface was basically courteous, and his instincts, like taking the heavy trays from her and Chrissy, and drying the dishes when he was paying her to clear up, appeared to be kind.
Overanalysing, Izzy, she scolded herself. You’ve just got used to him, and he’s not a monster. No one was a monster all the time. Even Ray.
Veering away from that, she placed the last mug on the draining rack and reached for the hand towel. “Phew,” she observed. “Thanks for the help!”
His eyelashes flickered as though he were surprised. But he didn’t answer, just dropped the towel. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
“Oh no, I can walk,” she assured him.
“It’s bucketing,” he pointed out. He delved into his jeans pocket and emerged with his car keys, and somehow it seemed rude to continue to refuse.
“Thanks,” she muttered and walked quickly out of the kitchen to Chrissy’s office to collect her coat and bag. By the time she emerged, her heart was drumming. It gave a further lurch when she found him by the front door, struggling into a familiar sweater. For some reason, the actions seemed touchingly childlike, and yet as she passed under his arm and out the front door, she knew there was nothing else remotely childlike about this man. Or her physical reaction to him.
What was the matter with her? Was she always, consciously or subconsciously, drawn to the criminal, the attractive bad boy? At least Ray had maintained a veneer of civilization. Glenn Brody had no veneer at all—unless it was the one that said be grateful I’m not beating you to a pulp right now.
Not that he’d ever looked at her like that, but she’d seen it in his eyes when he walked down the street, and at other times too. Like a default expression. For the first time, she wondered if it was simply a defence mechanism he’d learned in prison. Naive as she was, she couldn’t imagine Barlinnie was full of big softies and teddy bears, and she very much doubted it produced many such either.
In silence, she followed him across to the garage. He switched on the garage light and walked toward the Land Rover. “It’s open,” he said briefly, and she climbed in.
Brody shoved the keys into the ignition, then glanced across as she fastened her seat belt. “You need to bang that door,” he observed, reaching across her body. “Otherwise it doesn’t shut properly.”
Izzy couldn’t breathe. His sleeve brushed against her breast, her thigh as his fingers closed around the handle, opened the door and jerked it closed again. As he straightened, she realized how close he still was to her, how big and warm and male. Suddenly she felt too hot in her raincoat, was only too aware of her aching nipples scraping against her bra as she shifted position. Her knickers dampened with sheer lust. And yet she wouldn’t do anything about it. Even if she hadn’t been scared shitless, she barely remembered how.
Brody backed out of the garage with casual ease, swung the wheel and headed for the drive. Behind him, the house was much darker, only a couple of lights glimmering on the two upper floors.
“What made you buy this place?” she asked suddenly. “I mean why this place. Chrissy told me about your cooperative idea.”
Brody shrugged. “It was vacant and cheap for the size of it.” He gave her a swift, deprecating smile. “It’d been vacant a long time. So long, they’d stopped advertising it.”
“So how did you find it?”
“I looked. Sorry,” he added as they went over a particularly large bump. “The boys have started to clear it up, but they’re not there yet.”
“Two years, they told me,” she said, and was rewarded with another faint smile, as if he could imagine the humorous tone of the original remark. He probably could. These guys were his friends. “You looked all over the country?”
“No, I sort of came in this direction to start with.” He turned out of the gate and onto the road. “I knew the coast and the view from—from a picture I’d seen when I was inside. Then I saw the house was empty and made enquiries.”
His fingers curled around the gear lever, changed up and rested there as he glanced at her. She dragged her gaze hastily back from the hand that fascinated her. The trouble was, the face had even more effect. “You’re too polite to ask where I got the money in the first place,” he observed.
“No. It’s just none of my business. I don’t want to know.”
“Well, it probably was proceeds of crimes,” he admitted, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips, as if he really thought it was funny but wasn’t sure she would see the joke. “But the police couldn’t prove it, and the crimes weren’t mine. A dodgy friend left me it in his will—mostly to keep it away from his own family because he couldn’t stand them.”
“That must have hacked them off,” she said, more interested in the play of expressions across his face, now he seemed relaxed enough to show them.
“Must have,” he agreed without remorse. In spite of everything, she found herself smiling, because whatever else Glenn Brody was or wasn’t, he was up-front honest. “Can I ask you something now?”
“Sure.” Nerves shot through to her fingertips. She found she was grasping the seat belt. Was he going to ask her to stop for a drink at the Auld Hoose? Or suggest a cup of coffee?
Oh God, what do I say? What do I do? How long since I wanted anyone like this? Did I ever? It doesn’t matter, I can’t do it, I won’t. I can’t trust him or myself…
He said, “Is Izzy your real name?”
Relief and disappointment surged, forcing a breathless laugh from her. “Short for Isabel.”
“Then,” he said, sounding vaguely apologetic, “your name isn’t actually Anna?”
Fuck.
He turned his head, and for an instant, their eyes locked before he looked back to the road. They were in the village now, heading down the main street toward the B&B. Of course he knew where she lived. This was Ardknocken.
Through stiff lips, she managed to say, “What makes you ask that?”
He gave a lopsided smile to the windscreen. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
She resisted the impulse to close her eyes as for the second time that night she imagined her whole world falling in on her after she’d built it up so carefully.
“Did Fio
na Marr say something to you?”she asked.
His eyebrows flew up. “God, no. She can barely bring herself to look at me, let alone converse.” He pulled into the kerb behind Louise’s car and stood on the brake before meeting her gaze. “It doesn’t matter. It’s your concern what you call yourself. But if you’re in any kind of trouble, I can help. Maybe.”
How? By killing Ray? Bizarrely, it was a solution she might even have thought about—although hopefully rejected—three years ago. Now, things were clearer in her head, and for other reasons she didn’t even want to think about, she didn’t want this man committing crimes for her or anyone else.
He said, “I’m not talking about beating anyone to a pulp.”
Shit, had her thoughts been so clear on her face? She dragged her hand over her forehead and her eyes. “Of course not.” She took a deep breath. “Isabel’s my middle name. It’s what my family always called me. But I don’t particularly want the fact spread to the rest of the world.”
When she’d moved away from home to university, using her first name instead of Isabel had seemed like a fresh start, like being the person she’d wanted to be. Now a name was a wall to hide behind.
Brody nodded once. A moment longer, he scanned her face, then he looked away, as if releasing her.
She swallowed, placed her hand on the door handle and paused. “Where did you get the name Anna?”
His lips parted and closed again. “Not from anyone. It doesn’t matter.”
Her breath caught in fresh panic. “You can’t have plucked it from the air, Glenn. I need to know.” Shit, she’d called him by his name, and in all of this, that didn’t matter a hang. It shouldn’t feel so good on her lips either, like a secret thrill. “I need to know,” she repeated, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. “For Jack’s sake.”
“Not from anyone,” he repeated. For once, it seemed to be an effort for him to meet her gaze. “I heard it in a dream.”
In His Wildest Dreams Page 6