The Girl with the Emerald Ring: A Romantic Thriller (Blackwood Security Book 12)

by Elise Noble

  “Want one?” I offered the bag to Alaric.

  He shuddered. “No, thanks.”

  Ah well, more for me. I’d got through the entire packet plus half a dozen melted peanut butter cups by the time I saw the sign for Richmond. Two miles to go, and I ran a thumb over the cracked screen of my phone. Lenny had promised to text me when Emmy dropped him off, but so far, there was nothing. How long would it take her to drive to Lambeth? And would Lenny even remember a word he’d said? Dammit, I just wanted to know he was safe.

  But I couldn’t get distracted, not now. I spotted the Ash Court Inn on the right, a cream facade with a sign in curling black script over the portico. Four stars, rooms, bar, conference facilities, and the holy grail—free Wi-Fi. Someone must have been watering the flowers in the pots outside because they were the only plants around that weren’t brown and crispy, and a porter walked past pushing one of those fancy luggage trolleys stacked high with suitcases that matched my wallet. Except they probably weren’t stolen. In short, the Ash Court Inn was the sort of place I’d never have walked into on a regular day on the basis that I’d get kicked straight back out again. Bet Emmy hadn’t thought of that when she came up with her fucking plan.

  Still, I waited until the doorman turned his back, then slipped through into the bar where the opulence continued. Everything was leather or crystal or polished wood, and the place stank of money and expensive perfume. Bet they didn’t have happy hour. Not a single person smiled, not even the barman when I sidled up and took a seat in front of him.

  “Coca-Cola, please. Ice, no lemon.” I imitated Bethany Stafford-Lyons’s upper crust accent, something I’d become accustomed to doing before I got the job at Harlequin’s, back when I’d had to hustle for a living. I didn’t enjoy scamming tourists or picking pockets, but when it came to a choice between stealing or starving, or worse, going back into foster care, it wasn’t difficult to tuck my guilt away and do the necessary. When the barman looked down his nose at me, I produced Alaric’s twenty-pound note and stared right back. “And a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps.”

  Any time today would be good.

  “Of course, Miss.”

  I didn’t see him make a call, but he was still fixing my drink when a guy in a suit appeared at my elbow. Polyester, by the look of it, and it didn’t fit too well. Staff, then, not a guest, and from the pretentious manner, I pegged him for a manager. Brilliant. So much for me surreptitiously studying the patrons. Everyone was staring at me now, everyone except the preppy guy sitting by the window who kept his attention firmly fixed on the door. He was waiting for somebody. Bethany?

  “Can I help, ma’am?” the manager asked.

  Yeah, you can ask that prick to pour faster. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Can I ask why you’re here today? I don’t recall you checking in.”

  See? Welcome to being poor. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “I’m afraid Ash Court Inn isn’t that sort of establishment.”

  For a moment, I was confused, but then I wanted to punch him in the face. He thought I was a hooker? No, asshole, that was my mother.

  CHAPTER 13 - SKY

  IT TOOK ALL my self-control to muster up a bland smile for the manager. “I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

  Spell it out, you pretentious git. Explain your nasty comment.

  “Uh, well…”

  “Is there a problem?”

  I didn’t recognise the voice, which was a male version of Bethany’s, super posh, and I was fully prepared to have another argument until I turned around to find Alaric standing behind me. Nice accent, dude. Since I couldn’t imagine him ripping off idiots in the West End, I was curious where he’d got it from. He’d also dredged up a sports jacket from somewhere and slicked his light brown hair back. At least one of us fitted in perfectly at the Ash Court Inn.

  “Do you know this young lady?”

  “She’s my daughter. Did you get what you wanted, sweetheart?”

  “Service is kind of slow. And I’m waiting for this guy to explain something.”

  “Explain what?”

  Now the manager turned the colour of Emmy’s nose and backed away. “Terribly sorry for any misunderstanding. It’s just that you don’t look like our usual clientele.”

  Alaric sighed. “She’s going through a phase.”

  “It’s not a phase, Daddy.”

  He ignored me and signalled to the barman. “Sparkling water, light on the ice and heavy on the lime. Sweetheart, did you pay?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll get it.” Bonus. “Would you mind bringing our drinks over to the table?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Alaric steered me towards the far corner of the room, where a potted palm meant we could see without being seen. I rubbed one of the leaves. Real, not fake. About the only thing in this place that was.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Ten quid says it’s the WASP by the window.”

  Ten quid of his money. Should I up it to twenty? I knew I was right.

  “Since I agree with your assessment, I’d be stupid to take that bet.”

  “Did you even look? Or are you just scared of losing?”

  “I looked.”

  “Prove it. What colour shirt is he wearing?”

  “Pale blue with thin white stripes. Turned-up jeans and loafers, no socks. No wedding ring either. At first glance, his watch looks like a Rolex, but I’d bet it’s a cheap imitation since it doesn’t quite fit his image. He fidgets. Picks at his shirt cuffs.” Alaric took a seat and motioned for me to do the same before he continued speaking softly. “How many people are in here?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “It doesn’t. I’m testing your powers of observation.”

  Oh. I tried to picture the bar without looking around. “Seven.”

  “Including us and the bartender?”

  “No, excluding.”

  “Close. Eight. We can rule out the two women sitting by the door because Stafford-Lyons is here to meet a man. Likewise the lady beneath the reproduction of Stubbs’s The Countess of Coningsby. The man by the door with the laptop is either hotel staff or here for a meeting—”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because the document on his screen has the hotel’s logo at the top. The men next to the grandfather clock are here on a date, which leaves two. Our man by the window and the guy in the suit. But suit guy has a briefcase at his feet that’s too small to fit the painting, and he wouldn’t have brought it knowing he had to carry something sizeable.” Alaric smiled. “You shouldn’t interrupt. It makes you memorable for all the wrong reasons.”

  No problem. I’d run out of things to say.

  “Tell me,” he continued. “Why did you pick out the man by the window?”

  “Because when the manager accused me of being a prostitute, he was more interested in gawking at the door than at me.”

  Alaric’s expression hardened. “Rest assured I won’t leave a tip.”

  “Forget it. Today’s not the first time some toffee-nosed twat has tried to kick me out of their fine establishment. Most of the time I deserve it, although I’m definitely not a hooker, Daddy.”

  “It wouldn’t take much for you to blend in. You’ve already mastered the accent. Where’d you learn it?”

  “A combination of Downton Abbey and Made in Chelsea.”

  “You didn’t get tempted by House of Cards and Jersey Shore?”

  “Like I can afford to pay for Netflix right now. But I can do Polish. To miejsce jest tak pretensjonalne.” This place is so pretentious.

  Alaric smiled, genuinely it seemed. “You’re right. Czy chcesz później dostać burgery?”

  Did he seriously just ask me if I wanted to get a burger afterwards? Or had I misunderstood? He didn’t miss my hesitation.

  “Don’t freak out—this isn’t a Daddy situation.” He motioned at the empty crisp packet in front of me. “You just
seem hungry, that’s all.”

  Sometimes, it was the good things that crept up and caught me unawares. Not often, but occasionally. I quickly wiped my nose with my sleeve. Stupid sniffles.

  “Allergies,” I said. “Probably the furniture polish.”

  “Right. So, dinner?”

  “Why are you being nice? I mean, Emmy’s properly mad at me, and she’s your ‘colleague.’”

  “Emmy’s not mad at you. She’s mad at herself for letting you get close enough to do that sort of damage.”

  “What about the car I took?”

  “Emmy would be a hypocrite if she condemned you for that.”

  “You mean she’s stolen a car?”

  “You’re not the only one with a misspent youth.”

  This day got stranger and stranger. “I didn’t mean to break her nose, honest. She grabbed me, and I just wanted to get away.”

  “I know. You almost managed it too.”

  “Yet here I am.”

  “Here you are. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “About dinner?” My mouth watered at the thought because I bet when he said “burger” he didn’t mean the McDonald’s Saver Menu, but I had to turn him down. “Can’t. I have to work.”

  “Work where? What do you do?”

  “I’m a shot girl. You know, one of those bimbos who parades around in hot pants with tequila bottles on her belt? I serve overpriced alcohol to horny assholes from eight until the place closes.”

  Technically, I was self-employed—Howie, the owner of Harlequin’s, liked to avoid paying taxes whenever possible—but I was there almost every night. The way it worked was that I bought a bottle of alcohol at full price from the bar, then sold it by the shot glass at a markup. If I smiled and flirted, the idiots I was serving didn’t even notice that the glasses weren’t full.

  “You can’t take a night off?”

  “No, Mr. Moneybags, I can’t take a night off. If I don’t work, I don’t eat, and Lenny… He’s not so good at looking after himself.”

  “So I gathered.”

  A subtle change came over Alaric, nothing I could pinpoint, more a shift in energy. I almost swung around to see what was happening behind me, but I realised at the last second that it would be a schoolgirl error. And I didn’t want to make another mistake in front of him.

  “Our lady’s just walked in,” he murmured.

  I grabbed my glass because I didn’t want my drink to go to waste, but Alaric stopped me from knocking it back with a tiny shake of his head.

  “Don’t rush. There’s no hurry.”

  I hated not being able to see, but then I realised that if I looked at the painting on the wall opposite, I could make out Bethany’s reflection in the glass. She stood just inside the doorway, eyes searching, and I groaned when she focused on me and Alaric. Look away, you daft mare. Thankfully, her gaze didn’t linger too long, and she headed to the bar. The asshole barman smiled at her.

  “We were right,” Alaric murmured.

  The preppy guy left his table by the window and joined Bethany. Her smile was tight, and they didn’t exchange more than a few words before he ordered her a drink, picked up the box she’d brought and tucked it under one arm, then strolled towards the lobby.

  “Now you can finish your drink,” Alaric told me, draining his own glass.

  It was weirdly exciting. I’d never had a partner in crime quite like this before, especially one so competent. Most of my tricks of the trade had been learned from kids I’d met on the street and an endless succession of housemates, and half of them were in jail now. The biggest miracle was that me and Lenny weren’t.

  Alaric rose and studiously ignored Bethany as we left the bar. The preppy guy was on his way out the front door when we reached the lobby, but Alaric still found time to smile at the receptionist and ask the doorman if it was meant to rain. The painting was fifty metres ahead by the time we hit the pavement, and I was tempted to jog after it.

  “Relax. It’s not a race.”

  “What if he gets away?”

  “This is a good distance. Trust me.”

  Alaric kept his pace steady, but he had deceptively long strides, and I felt as if I was speed-walking in the bloody Olympics as I hurried along beside him. At least I’d worn trainers today. In my work uniform of high-heeled boots, I’d have broken a damn ankle.

  “What do you think of that tie?” Alaric asked, pausing to glance in a shop window. “Would it suit me?”

  Who gave a shit about a tie? “Sure, if you want to look like a double-glazing salesman.”

  He just laughed.

  When we moved off, his fingers grazed the small of my back, and I suppressed a shudder. Not because of the Daddy thing—that wasn’t how he meant it—but because of my past. Even on the rare occasions a man treated me civilly and with respect, the smallest touch could make me stiffen unintentionally. I’d learned to live with it in Harlequin’s because the bouncers would come running at a snap of my fingers, and I didn’t mind the odd back-slap or bro-hug from the guys in my parkour group, but caught unawares in the wild…

  I forced myself to relax. To breathe.

  Anyhow, it looked as though my time with Alaric might come to an end sooner rather than later when the preppy dude cut left into another hotel, this one a more modern cousin of Ash Court. Five glittering stars this time, with the addition of valet parking and a spa. How the other half lived.

  “Do you think he’s staying here?” I whispered to Alaric.

  He quickly scanned the lobby through the glass facade. Our target had taken the elevator, and I watched the lights above the doors as it rose. One, two, three floors, and then it stopped.

  “Wait here. I’m going to speak to the receptionist.”

  “On your own?”

  He gave me a sheepish smile. “She’s female.”

  And damn lucky. If I’d been a decade older, I’d have liked a dose of Alaric’s brand of charm.

  “Fine, I’ll stay outside. Try to keep your dick in your pants.”

  On the plus side, that gave me time for a sneaky cigarette, which served two purposes. One, I’d get a nicotine hit, and two, I’d have a perfect excuse for loitering. Nobody questioned a smoker. We just got dirty looks. And before you ask, I never bought the cigarettes. There were always dropped packets kicking around at Harlequin’s, and I made the most of it.

  My phone buzzed as I lit up, and I quickly checked my messages. Lenny. Thank fuck.

  Lenny: Man, this car’s the bollocks. And the bitch bought me three Happy Meals.

  Me: Are you home?

  Lenny: Yeah. Someone trashed the microwave again.

  Bloody hell. The microwave was less than a month old, and guess who’d paid for it? That’s right—muggins here. But at least Lenny was safe. A weight lifted, and I closed my eyes and took a long inhale.

  “Do you have a light? I apologise—I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  The speaker was a man in his mid-thirties, maybe a touch older if he took care of himself. Short brown hair. Clean-shaven. An American accent with a hint of something else—French?—a suit that was definitely not polyester, a pink shirt, and a family-sized suitcase by his side. I thought men travelled light? The overall effect was slightly effeminate.

  “Sure.” I offered him my lighter. “Checking in?”

  “Out, actually. All good things must come to an end.”

  “You were here on holiday?”

  He took a long drag before he answered. “A little business, a little pleasure.”

  “You picked the right week for it—the weather’s never normally this warm.”

  “So I’ve heard. Do you live in London?”

  As if on cue, a breath of wind blew smoke in my face, and a band of black cloud appeared over the building opposite, plunging us into shadow. This morning’s rain shower might have fizzled out, but the oppressive humidity signalled a thunderstorm was coming. I didn’t fancy being caught out in it.

  “I�
��m from Nottingham. My dad’s here on a business trip, so I tagged along for some father-daughter bonding. He says I’m going through a phase.”

  My companion chuckled. “We all have phases. When I was a teenager, I grew my hair long and learned to play the violin.”

  Another gust, and this time, I didn’t get smoke. I got something almost as unpleasant and oddly familiar. Flowers, candy floss, and overly ripe pineapple. I’d only just managed to get the stink out of my nostrils, and now it was back. My imagination? Or…or… I glanced at Pink-Shirt Guy’s suitcase. It was certainly big enough to fit Bethany’s painting, but was I overthinking this? I took another surreptitious sniff. There was definitely a hint of Shimmer body spray in the air. Was it on my clothes? I hadn’t smelled it in the bar.

  Pink-Shirt Guy stubbed out his cigarette and extended the handle of the case. “Enjoy the rest of your trip.”

  “You too.”

  Shit, what should I do? I fumbled for my phone to call Alaric, but the damn thing slipped out of my hand and landed on the brickwork at my feet. The screen went dark, and I cursed under my breath. Another one bites the dust. Me and phones didn’t have a great relationship. We broke up on a regular basis, emphasis on the “broke.”

  The guy was at his car now, a black Mercedes parked to the left of the hotel entrance. I memorised the registration number, but would it be enough? Long strides, don’t hurry… I got to the front of the hotel, but there was no sign of Alaric in the lobby, or the receptionist either. Tell me he wasn’t trading party favours for information?

  What should I do? There were no taxis in sight, and even if there had been, cabs cost a fortune and I only had twenty quid and change on me. Then I saw it. A white delivery van parked outside the entrance, the window down and the keys in the ignition. Ah, fuck it. I already knew I was going to hell—at that point, I figured it was go big or go home.

  The Mercedes paused, an indicator on, and turned left into traffic as I slid behind the wheel of the van. There was a hi-vis vest on the passenger seat, and I shrugged into it, then jammed the baseball cap beside it onto my head. If Pink-Shirt Guy looked in his mirror, hopefully he wouldn’t recognise me.