by Zoe Sharp
And even then, he hadn’t let them beat him. Driven to succeed, he’d built up the close protection agency to its current level just by being better than the competition. I knew Sean hadn’t offered me a job for any other reason than because he believed I could meet his standards. I suppose events in Florida – however much a baptism of fire that had turned out to be – had proved I was up to it.
Now, as I put the bike away in the coach house and went inside, I was aware of a tightening in my shoulders. And it had very little to do with the prospect of explaining what had happened at the wake.
I found Sean slouched on the sofa in the living room, watching one of the satellite news channels. The reason for the lack of noise from the dogs became immediately apparent. The terrier was asleep on his lap and Bonneville, not to be outdone, was stretched out alongside him on the cushions with her head resting on his thigh. She was too old and arthritic to jump onto the sofa any more, so I knew Sean must have lifted her up there.
“Hi. I’m back,” I said unnecessarily.
There was a bottle of Jim Beam and a glass on the low table in front of him. The cap was off and the bottle was half empty. I eyed it warily. I’d seen Sean drink before but I’d never seen it have any particular effect on him. I hoped this wasn’t going to be a first time.
He took one look at me and sat up suddenly, muting the sound on the TV.
“What happened?”
I gave him a tired smile. “Long story,” I said. I gestured to my leathers. “Just let me go and get changed first. I’m filthy and I’m soaked and—”
He stood up fast, tipping the terrier onto the floor. Before I knew it he’d grabbed my shoulders and turned my face into the light.
“What did they do to you?” he demanded.
“It’s nothing.” I tried to pull my arms away and his fingers bit in, holding me still. I could have struggled further but I was too tired to try.
“You’ve been off the bike.” It was a statement, not a question.
For a moment I shied away from telling him the truth. Pointless, when he would have sniffed it out anyway. “Yes,” I admitted finally, “but I’m OK.”
He let his breath out in a controlled hiss. “Where the hell was Pickering while all this was going on?”
“Doing the sensible thing and keeping a low profile.”
“Hmm. Good back-up for going undercover, isn’t he?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said, trying not to rise to his studied insolence. A burst of temper escaped anyway and took flight. “What was it you told me once about Madeleine? That I should go easy on her because she wasn’t a field agent? Well, Sam’s not a field agent either so why can’t you just cut him some slack, Sean? He does what he can.”
Sean was utterly still for a moment, then he shifted a fraction and I felt some of the tautness loosen out of him. “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course,” he said lightly. He gave me one of those lazy smoky smiles. “Put it down to the fact that I don’t like leaving anyone else to watch your back for you.”
“My back is fine,” I said stiffly.
The silence stretched between us.
“Go have your shower,” he said at last, his voice unreadable. “You can tell me all about it when you come back down.”
I went upstairs and did as I was ordered, standing under water as hot as I could take it to ease the tension out of the back of my neck. It was only partially successful. Afterwards I climbed into my jeans and a clean shirt and all the while a set of invidious thoughts were circling inside my head.
If Sean had been with me at Slick’s wake, I realised, the violence I’d sensed lurking under the surface when I got thrown out would not have stayed there. Quite apart from William’s comments, Sean would have instinctively jumped to my defence and the whole confrontation might have escalated rapidly beyond all control, like a riot.
Sean might view Sam’s actions as those of a coward but, as it was, he’d left me to my own resources and allowed me to extricate myself from the situation without a mess. Without a fight.
After the wake, out on the road, what could Sean have done to help me there? How do you take on a van when you’re on a motorbike, without being splattered into the middle of next week? Besides, if things had gone badly earlier my bridges would have been burned and I wouldn’t have been able to go back to Gleet’s place for sanctuary.
I would have been on my own . . .
When I walked back into the living room the dogs were gone and the TV screen was blank. Sean had fetched another glass and was pouring generous slugs of Jim Beam for us both. As I sat he handed one across and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“So, what did they do to you?” he asked again.
“They didn’t do anything,” I said. “I got spotted and chucked out – not physically, it didn’t come to that,” I added quickly, catching the fire rising in his eyes. “But then someone had a go at running me off the road on the way back.”
“Tell me.”
Briefly, I filled him in on the night’s events, from my discovery and eviction from the wake to an edited version of the run-in with the Transit van and the discovery I’d made in the workshop. I’d brought the remnant of Slick’s bike that I’d hidden in my jacket back downstairs with me and I handed it across as I spoke.
Sean took it, turning the piece of fairing over in his hands like he was reading sign.
“You’re sure it’s Slick’s?”
I shrugged. “It’s the right colour scheme and his bike was pretty distinctive,” I said. “Mind you, if Gleet built and sprayed it for him in the first place, that could be an old piece.”
“Or Gleet could have done one the same for someone else.”
“No, I don’t think so.” I shook my head. “Gleet’s a bit of an artist, so I’m told. He does one-offs, not a production line. He might do something similar, but I don’t think he’d copy.”
“So does this mean Gleet’s got Slick’s bike?” Sean mused. “And if so, why?”
“Good question. The police would have impounded it, I suppose. Maybe used it to prove how fast he was going at the time of the accident.”
Sean shook his head. “They can do that better from the skidmarks and what was left at the scene,” he said. “There has to be another reason.”
“Yeah,” I said, raising an excuse for a smile. “Damned if I know what it is, though.”
Sean had slanted back into the corner of the sofa and turned half to face me while I spoke. When he leaned forwards and reached for his drink my eyes automatically followed the movement, then skittered guiltily away. I took a gulp of my own whiskey and nearly choked as the spirit responded to this blatant lack of respect by biting me in the throat.
I felt Sean’s hand smoothing my back while I coughed and spluttered and that only made things worse. It drove all the reservations I’d ever had about him clean out of my mind and replaced them with vivid recollections of what we’d shared.
Just keep touching me for a few moments longer, I thought desperately, then I’ll make you stop. Just not quite yet . . .
The coughing fit eased at last and I found I could draw in breath again without drowning. Only now I was drowning in a different way. Drowning in sensation and need. His fingers feathered at the back of my neck, drifting up into my hairline. An infinitely gentle caress designed to soothe rather than inflame.
It made no difference. I wanted him with a howling, raging intensity that was threatening to launch itself out of my chest and devour us both.
I turned my head slightly to meet Sean’s gaze, almost afraid of what I might see there. If there’d been nothing then I might have been able to get a grip on my emotions. As it was, I saw only my own ferocious hunger reflected in his face, in his eyes.
“Sean—” I murmured a warning. Unheeded.
Slowly he reeled me in, keeping our eyes locked, totally single-minded in his pursuit. It still seemed to take forever to close the gap between us.
Then, when I was t
oo close to escape, his mouth came down hard on mine and my mind and body exploded simultaneously, triumphant, ecstatic.
Before I knew it, Sean shifted his balance and bore me back against the cushions of the sofa. His hand was under my shirt, sliding up my ribcage to close possessively over my breast. My temperature rocketed as my pulse soared, senses screaming. I tore my mouth free.
“Jesus!” I gasped.
My sight was gone, focus blurring, vision tunnelling out until all I could see was Sean’s face above me. And all I could feel was the glide of his hands and the beat and the weight of his body over mine.
I don’t know precisely when it all changed. One moment I was oblivious to everything except Sean and the effect he was having. The next there was only a gaping black hole of panic.
The taste of the whiskey on his tongue was the start of it, sending uneasy ripples through my mind. Then one of his hands moved back to the nape of my neck and his fingers must have flexed slightly, little more than a muscle spasm. The sudden tightening of his grip sparked a memory that shattered through the haze of lust like a fist through glass.
Donalson, Hackett, Morton and Clay.
Passion decompressed, whipping out through the cracks to leave me icy and shivering. It was suddenly dark and cold enough to see their breath grunting out like cattle as the four of them brutally set about softening me up for what was to come. They’d been drinking, too, and I could still remember the taint of it on their voices. I could feel the wet gravel grating beneath my back, rough hands snatching at my body, ripping at my clothes, lifting me . . .
Eyes wild and totally blind, I began to thrash, twisting and bucking in a pure visceral response. I was dimly aware of a gap opening up and I lunged for it. Everything I’d ever learned kaleidoscoped through my mind and bypassed logical thought to translate straight into action, so fast that afterwards I had no idea of exactly what I’d done.
“Charlie!”
The voice was urgent but calm, if a little croaky.
I blinked a couple of times. The bitter cold receded, leaching away the pain and the fear, sliding them off into my subconscious.
I came back to myself and found Sean was lying flat on the living room floor with me kneeling over him. My fists were bunched in his shirt, forearms crossed so I had one elbow wedged onto his throat. The low table was knocked on its side next to us and what was left of the bottle of Jim Beam was emptying steadily into the pattern on the carpet, making quiet glugging noises. Away in the kitchen, the dogs were barking like crazy.
“Charlie,” Sean said again, his voice soft. Not easy to speak when someone’s half-throttling you. He had his hands open at shoulder height, submissive, not making any attempt to touch or provoke me. “It’s OK,” he murmured, like he was talking down someone on a high ledge. “It’s all OK. Come on, talk to me, Charlie. Who am I?”
Utterly mortified, I released my grip without speaking, tried to rise and discovered that my legs wouldn’t support me. I managed it on the second attempt and staggered to the sofa, sinking down onto it with my head in my hands.
“Oh God,” I said, shaken and ashamed. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what—”
“I do.”
I looked up at him then. A mouse was forming on his cheekbone. There would be a bruise there tomorrow that I didn’t remember causing. But I knew I had.
Sean sat up and leaned over to right the leaking whiskey bottle and put it out of harm’s way. One of the glasses had smashed, too, leaving gleefully glittering shards across the floor.
“You’re afraid of me,” he said quietly.
“No!” The denial was instant, but even as I said it I realised the futility of such an argument in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Hadn’t I just proved my fear in a moment of adrenaline-fuelled rage and terror? “It’s not like that. I mean, I didn’t react like this the last time we . . . in Florida.” I broke off, embarrassed, totally muddled. “Well, it was fine.”
“Only ‘fine’?” Sean’s voice was lightly mocking. “Oh Charlie, you flatter me.”
But despite his attempt at humour I’d caught the flash of pain on his face. One that had nothing to do with the minor physical injuries I’d inflicted on him. I watched in anguish as he gathered back into himself, mentally bringing down the shutters.
I reached out an unsteady hand. “Sean—”
The drive alarm buzzer sounded so loudly in the hallway that it made both of us jump. The dogs kicked off again and Sean swore under his breath. He got to his feet and moved for the door, pausing to look down at me briefly as he passed.
“If we’re having visitors you might want to tidy up some,” he said, impassive, and went out.
I flushed, realising that my shirt was gaping open all the way down the front. My fingers fumbled with the buttons, then I hastily picked up the low table and set it back on its feet. When Sean returned I was on my hands and knees collecting bits of broken glass together.
“For you, I think,” Sean said blandly.
I looked up and found Sam hovering uncomfortably in the doorway. His eyes flicked nervously from my miserable face to Sean’s set and impenetrable features.
He cleared his throat. “Erm, have I come at a bad time?”
Eleven
“Of course not,” I said, determinedly bright. “Come on in, Sam. Can I get you some coffee?”
Sam gave Sean another anxious skim, wavered and almost fled. But he’d come for a purpose and that was enough to make him stand his ground, however hesitantly. He sidled further into the room. “Well, I know it’s late and I don’t want to put you out or—”
“Just sit down and have a bloody drink,” Sean said tiredly.
Sam’s knees gave way at the deadly quiet in his voice. It was lucky there was an armchair behind him at the time.
“Oh, erm, yeah, OK,” he said, with a fearful little smile. His eyes were big and brown and pleading above his beard. “Thanks.”
“Good. I’ll make a fresh pot,” I said. I headed for the door, pausing only to throw Sean a warning glance. “Don’t bully him while I’m gone.”
That almost raised a smile. “I’ll try not to.”
In fact, when I got back I found Sean had shaken off his black mood and somehow drawn Sam far enough out of his shell to recount the tale of my spectacular reappearance at Gleet’s place. I think I preferred it when Sam was terrified and silent.
“So she comes screaming into the yard with this guy right on her tail,” he was saying, drawing air diagrams with those long skinny hands of his. “Charlie, she doesn’t turn a hair. She just heads for this dry stone wall and bails out at the last minute and bang! The guy slams the wall and down it all goes, with her still on top. House of cards. Didn’t she tell you?”
I put the tray I was carrying down onto the table with more of a clatter than I’d been intending.
“No,” Sean said softly, his eyes on my face as I handed him his coffee. “Funnily enough, she didn’t quite get round to mentioning that part.”
I looked away. “What happened after I got chucked out the first time, anyway?”
“Well, there were some nasty rumours floating around about Tess,” Sam said, nodding his thanks as he took a swig of his brew. He sat hunched forwards with his hands wrapped round his mug like the effort of recall made him cold. “There were a few people there who reckoned she wasn’t quite as sorry to see the back of Slick as she made out. They reckon she and Gleet have had a bit of a thing going, on the quiet.”
“Tess and Gleet?” I repeated, almost to myself. I remembered the way Gleet had behaved around Tess at the wake and realised that the suggestion didn’t surprise me. In fact, it didn’t surprise me at all.
“Well that would be a reason, I suppose,” Sean said, as though he’d read my mind.
Sam looked from one of us to the other. “A reason for what?”
I reached for the piece of broken fairing and handed it over. Sam put his mug down on the table and turned the bri
ghtly-coloured plastic over in his hands, frowning.
“This is from Slick’s bike, isn’t it?” he said at last. “Where did you get it?”
“Gleet’s workshop. Hidden away just about underneath that damned great dog of his.”
Sam snorted into his coffee. “So you’ve met the infamous Queenie and lived to tell the tale.” he said. “Puts you in the minority, by all accounts.”