Bad Turn

by Zoe Sharp

  For once there wasn’t the usual congestion in the tunnel. Parker kept the Merc to a steady speed, just under the 70kph limit. It felt almost funereal. The overhead lights in the curved roof strobed past with hypnotic regularity.

  Eventually, Parker said, “So, you’re protecting Helena Kincaid because someone’s broken this non-combatant agreement you mentioned. OK so far?”

  He paused. I said nothing.

  “Ah, you’re gonna make me work for it, huh?”

  The teasing note in his voice was at odds with our earlier conversation. He was distracting me from the topic of Sean, I realised, and was grateful for it.

  “Hell, yes,” I said.

  He smiled. “Question is, why is Epps taking an interest—even unofficially—in organised crime infighting? Surely, he’d just let them slug it out and stand by to scoop up the last man standing?”

  “Who said anything about organised crime?” I asked, deliberately playing devil’s advocate. “Kincaid deals in arms. It doesn’t necessarily follow that he’s doing so illegally.”

  “Come on, Charlie, don’t play dumb. Darius Orosco has a certain reputation. He’d sell his grandma an Uzi so she could blow his granddaddy away if he thought he’d make a dime on the deal.”

  “That’s Orosco, not Kincaid.”

  “So?” He let out a brief, staccato laugh. “Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.”

  “Is he, though?” I murmured. “That doesn’t fit with what I’ve seen of Eric Kincaid. He’s very different from his father-in-law. It was Kincaid who negotiated the non-com agreement in the first place.”

  “Something you would hardly need for a legit operation,” Parker pointed out.

  “But a good first step towards turning a business legit, perhaps?”

  Parker sighed. “It still doesn’t explain why Epps is sticking his nose in,” he said. “His remit is domestic security, not international politicking.”

  There was no comment I could make that wouldn’t be evasion or an outright lie. I knew very well where Epps’s interest lay—his own undercover operative. And I was no closer to pinpointing their identity, never mind working out if the loyalties of that person had been compromised.

  Parker took in my silence and glanced across. “You care to speculate on Epps’s motives?”

  “Hey, I was hired simply to look after Helena. She shops and lunches and rides her horses. As far as I’m aware, she has no part of the arms trade.” That much, at least, was true.

  “Well, that’s a new development, too,” Parker muttered.

  “Meaning?”

  He skimmed his eyes across my face again, taking a little longer this time. I preferred it when he kept his eyes on the road. Not just for safety’s sake, but because he saw altogether too much.

  “You think I would come out here without doing due diligence first?” he demanded. “A couple of years back, Orosco has a big health scare—his heart. Being the kinda guy he is, he tries to keep it hushed up, refuses to go see a cardiac specialist and almost leaves it too late. Then he has the surgery and comes back fighting fit.”

  I let my surprise show. “That’s news to me.”

  But it probably explained why Orosco had given in quite so quickly when I’d threatened to skewer him, back at the villa in Montisi. Anyone who’s stared their own mortality in the face tends not to take continued living for granted.

  “Yeah, but before she married his right-hand man and allowed him to keep his empire neatly all in the family, the word on the street was that Orosco was grooming his daughter to take over.”

  44

  “I don’t know where you heard that rumour, Parker, but it goes against everything I’ve learned about Helena.” Or learned from Helena herself, for that matter. “She hates having her father interfere in her life.”

  “And yet she married one of his lieutenants.”

  I shrugged, remembering the story she’d told me about her previous fiancé. “Yeah, well, maybe it was a case of better the devil you know.”

  “Is that why you took this assignment for Epps?”

  “Hm, like I had much of a choice.” I kept my voice dry and level. “If I’d said no, he was going to deport me. And don’t tell me he doesn’t have the authority—this is Epps we’re talking about.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Parker swore under his breath. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I didn’t—”

  His contrition sounded sincere but it had been a bitch of a day and I was bone tired. “What?” I demanded. “Didn’t think? Didn’t care?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “If anything, I thought about it way too much.”

  A little over an hour after exiting the French end of the Mont Blanc tunnel and crossing into Switzerland, Parker swung the Merc to a halt in front of a distinguished looking hotel on the east side of Geneva. It was too dark to see if it was overlooking the lake, as he’d promised.

  I’d dozed for the last thirty minutes or so, but he looked ready to drive through the night. Blearily, I checked the time. Had to blink a few times to get my eyes to focus on the face of my watch. Helena’s watch, I realised. No wonder the face seemed unfamiliar. It was later than I thought.

  “I’ll go check in,” Parker said. “You OK here for a moment?”

  I nodded, watched him skirt the fountain in the centre of the forecourt and take the steps to the front entrance. He moved loose and easy, but I could tell from the angle of his head that he checked out every car, every corner and every shadow as he passed. He could no more turn off those instincts than I could.

  I opened the passenger door and staggered out onto the gravel. The air seemed colder after Italy. It woke me better than a slap to the face. I tilted my head back and inhaled a couple of needle-sharp lungfuls. Above the lights of the building, I could just about make out the stars. I wondered if Sean was somewhere looking up at the same stars. I didn’t even know what continent he was on.

  Maybe it’s time to finally let go…

  Parker reappeared.

  “Everything all right?” I asked, seeing his expression.

  “They slightly screwed up the booking.”

  “How very unlike the Swiss,” I said. “Do I need to arm-wrestle you for who has to sleep in the bath?”

  He allowed himself a small smile. “Not quite that bad. It’s a suite—two bedrooms. You OK with that?”

  “Sure.” It was nothing we hadn’t done while working together before. Besides, I was too weary to argue. “Hell, that time in Buenos Aires, we had three teams working round the clock and hot-bunking it in one queen-size double, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” he said. “And I never did like climbing into a bed that’s still warm from the previous occupant.”

  I smiled as we grabbed our bags from the Merc’s boot. At Parker’s insistence, we’d taken a quick detour through an outlet mall on the outskirts of Milan and I’d stocked up on the essentials, including a small backpack.

  “The restaurant is finished for the evening, but they’ll send something up,” Parker said, holding the bevelled glass door open for me.

  “Of course, they will,” I murmured. His calm acceptance both amused and mildly irritated me. He took it for granted that if he arrived hungry, no matter what hour of the night, they would feed him.

  Apart from his time in the military, serving his country, Parker’s background was one of wealth and privilege. Maybe that was why he looked so at home somewhere like this, even dressed more casually than I could remember seeing him, in an open-neck shirt with the sleeves rolled back.

  With uniformed flunkey in attendance, we took the mirrored lift up to the top floor and were shown into our suite. The man threw open the double doors with a flourish, earning every penny of the no-doubt generous tip Parker slipped him on the way out.

  “I think I’m going to grab a shower and just crash,” I said.

  “When did you last eat?” And when I frowned, trying to pin it down, he added, “If you can’t
remember, you need food.”

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  He gave me one of his no-nonsense stares as he picked up the room phone. “I’ll order down. If you want to waste it after it arrives, that’s up to you.”

  It was easier to say nothing than argue. I went into the en suite next to my room and stood under a stinging deluge of hot water for as long as I could stand it, my hands braced against the tiles.

  It was the class of hotel where there are heating elements behind the mirrors to keep them unfogged. When I stepped out of the shower, my reflection seemed to be everywhere, giving me an uncomfortable number of angles of my own naked body.

  I towelled off roughly, trying to ignore the number of fading scars I possessed. A record of the violence done to me in the past. A reminder of the violence I’d done to others.

  Afterwards, I looked at the meagre pile of clothes I’d laid out from the backpack. The thought of climbing back into my clothes again held no appeal. I shrugged into the oversize fluffy robe the hotel provided and padded out into the sitting room area of the suite.

  To my left, the large flatscreen TV above the fireplace was switched to one of the twenty-four-hour news channels. The sound was muted, but a ticker-tape of the latest headlines scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

  As I moved further into the room, I saw Parker over in the dining area, unloading covered plates from a service cart onto the table. Evidently, room service had arrived while I was attempting to drain the hotel’s hot water supply.

  Parker stood with his back to me, phone held in the crook of his neck while he worked. He, too, was wearing only the hotel towelling robe. My breath hitched, just a little.

  He ended the call, turned to put the phone down and caught sight of me. He stilled, suddenly intent.

  “You OK?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said, forcing my feet forwards. “Feeling almost human again.”

  “Good.” His eyes, grey blue, skimmed over the robe and I resisted the urge to tug the belt tighter around my waist. “I was going to ask if you objected to me not dressing for dinner, but…”

  “I think it’s safe for you to take that as a no.”

  That quick flash of a smile again. The one that made him look boyish. The one that made him look far too good-looking for my peace of mind. Especially when he lifted the cover from the last plate, then licked his finger where something had spilled out.

  “So, can I tempt you?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Food, Charlie.”

  “Um, yeah, sure. Now it’s here, like you said, it would be a shame to waste it.”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d shared a meal in a hotel room with Parker. We’d done so before, many times in many different corners of the world. Sometimes under stress, sometimes under more routine circumstances. But this felt different, all the same—and not only because of how we were dressed. There was no team around us, nobody checking in, checking up.

  Hell, I didn’t even work for him anymore…

  And that was the biggest difference of all.

  The buzzing in my ears was back, but this time no nausea accompanied it. Instead there was an edgy anticipation that I recognised, in a detached kind of way, as the beginnings of arousal.

  Nothing says you have to act on it, though.

  We used the table as a buffet, filled our plates and took them back to the plush sofas. I tried to sit without flashing him. He gave me space, taking the other sofa. We ate in companionable silence and, finally, I began to relax.

  “OK, you win,” I said when I put down my empty plate on the side table. “I was hungry. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I asked them to send up a bottle of single malt Scotch, if you’d like a nightcap?”

  My self-preservation instinct was telling me that this was a very bad idea. I knew I ought to decline, to say goodnight, walk into my bedroom, shut the door and go to bed. Alone.

  But all the time I’d worked for Parker there had been a thread of attraction between us. A thread of attraction I’d never pulled, just in case whatever unravelled from it could not be put back together again. I admit I was curious to know if it would be enough to override the distrust that now lay between us. I doubted it would make things any better. Question was, would it make them worse.

  Still, since when have I ever taken the sensible option?

  “That sounds lovely,” I said. “Why not?”

  45

  Parker cleared our plates while I remained slouched on my sofa. He always did strike me as very domesticated. When he returned, he carried two crystal tumblers, each containing a generous measure of whisky and a single cube of ice. He handed one over, clinked his own glass against the rim, and sat down next to me. Close, but not too close.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  I lifted my glass in silent response and took a slug. It fired all the way down the inside of my ribcage. Suddenly, my reasons for caution, for not doing this, became a little less easy to discern.

  Parker leaned his head back and put his bare feet up on the low table in front of us, crossing his legs at the ankle. He had tanned legs and well-shaped feet, only a light dusting of hair on his calves. Would it feel coarse or soft to the touch, I wondered.

  He was longer and leaner than Sean, less overtly menacing, unless you knew what you were looking for. They both had the same knack for stillness. The same ability not just to look, but to see.

  Perhaps that was why, as we drank our whisky in silence, I kept my eyes firmly on the news anchor miming on the TV. The ticker-tape announced violent protests in Paris, a new bombing raid in Syria, world leaders gathering in Germany for a summit on climate change. Between sips, I cradled my glass in my lap. The ice had almost melted away. It could have been my imagination, but the room suddenly seemed overly warm.

  Eventually, Parker sat forwards, set down his glass and reached for mine. It took a moment for my fingers to unlock enough to release it. He leaned across me to put the glass on the side table next to me. Close enough to see the fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. Close enough that I could tell he’d shaved as well as showered.

  Instead of sitting back, he stopped, still poised half over me. His eyes searched my face. I’m sure he read it like an open book.

  I cleared my throat. “This is probably a bad idea, Parker.”

  “Uh-huh,” he agreed. “You’re probably right.” His hand came up to brush my hair away from my face. His touch was gentle. His eyes were on his fingers, tracing my hairline, the outline of my ear, the outside of my jaw. I shivered, teetering on the edge of indecision. It had been a while since anyone had needed me without underlying resentment.

  My relationship with Sean was over. He’d made that more than clear, so I couldn’t use it as an excuse anymore. My employment with Parker was over. I couldn’t use that as an excuse, either. I was tired of doing the right thing. And a part of me wanted to know, wanted to feel, just wanted.

  Just this once.

  I circled his wrist with my fingers, allowing myself the luxury to explore. He was less muscular than Sean, but there was a corded strength beneath the skin that excited as much as it scared me.

  My hands slid across his shoulders to the nape of his neck, tried to drag his head down to mine, impatient.

  He blocked me easily, catching my wrists in one hand and levering both mine over my head, holding them against the back of the sofa. Momentary panic bloomed in my chest, a reflex I could neither hide nor control. I froze.

  He pulled back a fraction and watched me quiver until the old fears began to subside. His body was a weight slanted over mine. The feeling of being pinned and helpless was illogical, I knew—I could have broken his hold in a heartbeat. Could have had him face down on the carpet in another. But right at that moment, that knowledge didn’t make it all any less overwhelming. My heart slammed against my ribs. Surely he could feel it?

  “Parker. Please—”

  “Oh, I fully intend to
please you, Charlie,” he murmured. “You just have to let go and let me.”

  His lips were a fraction away from mine. His free hand tugged my robe free of its knotted belt and slipped inside. The softness of his seeking fingertips turned into the tantalising scrape of nails. My eyes went wide, then glassy, then blind.

  He covered my mouth with his own and swallowed whatever noises I might have made.

  Things got a little hazy after that. I vaguely remember him picking me up, as though I was some kind of lightweight, and carrying me into his bedroom. I’d expected the same kind of urgency that boiled through my blood. Instead, I found a tender intensity that drove me over the edge of sensation and almost ruined me.

  I woke, in a bed not my own, a little after 4 a.m. the following morning. On the other side of the mattress, Parker was dead to the world. I couldn’t hold that against him. By then, I reckoned he’d been asleep for less than an hour.

  I lay semi-stunned, listening to his quiet breathing and trying to work out if I regretted what we’d done. After a few moments wrestling with my conscience, I came to the conclusion that I didn’t. Not yet, anyway. His relentless pursuit of my pleasure, in which he seemed to take such delight, left me as shocked as it did satisfied.

  I could not—would not—look too deeply into the implications of that.

  It did not stop me, however, from lifting my passport from the bedside table and creeping into my clothes. When I stole into the dawn, that wasn’t the only thing I stole. I also took the keys to the Mercedes.

  46

  Driving solo through the mountains from Geneva and over the border into France was an experience. One I might have enjoyed more had I not been dead tired. Or worried about the possibility of being stopped at any moment for driving what was, technically, a stolen car.

  It was the reason I had not taken Parker’s gun along with his keys. If I was going to be arrested, better for it to be for simple car theft rather than throwing in firearms offences as well. France may have been the land of cordon bleu, but I doubt that extended to prison food, even here.