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

by Elise Noble

“Reu?”

  “I know I can’t talk you out of this. You too stubborn. So just promise me you’ll be damn careful. If you take the job and it turns to shit, you come back here. Shavonne’s still on the couch, but we’ll find space.”

  Shavonne was Reuben’s sister. She’d made the stupid mistake of falling in love, or so she said—personally, I thought it was more a combination of lust and alcohol—only for the prick to hightail it out of Dodge when she got knocked up. For the last three months, she’d been sleeping in her big brother’s studio apartment while the council tried to find her a flat. At least her baby daddy had promised to cough up for child support—I’d acted as lookout when Reuben paid a visit to remind the one-shot wonder of his obligations.

  “I’ll be okay, but thanks.” My voice dropped because getting all mushy made me feel super awkward. “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me. I don’t think I’d have survived…you know…otherwise.”

  “Leave it in the past, love. Don’t let it poison you.”

  “I will, but—”

  “Focus on the future. And if this job’s on the up and up, you gonna be a rich woman.”

  “If it works out, the Happy Meals are on me.”

  Reuben’s deep guffaw made me smile. “Just don’t gimme none of them apple sticks.”

  “Fries all the way.”

  Although at that moment, I wasn’t certain I could stomach either. My appetite had deserted me, which was perhaps the worst part of this whole adventure. Food, food everywhere, and I didn’t want any of it. Maybe I’d just have a coffee…

  In the kitchen, footsteps sounded behind me as I hung up, and I sagged with relief when Alaric came into view and not Emmy. I didn’t need the pressure of her presence right now.

  “Not hungry?” he asked.

  I’d opted for pastries in the end, years of hunger leaving me unable to walk past free food without swiping whatever I could. There were three dainty Danishes on my plate, each with a bite taken out of it. Nothing tasted good at the moment, not even a cinnamon whirl.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “About Lenny?”

  “Sort of.”

  He didn’t pry, just walked to the coffee machine, and it soon started beeping and hissing. When Ruth was out, I stuck to instant because that thing had more buttons than an aeroplane cockpit.

  “Want a drink?” Alaric offered.

  “Can you make it do mocha?”

  “I’ll have a try. Your brother’s gonna be okay—Emmy spoke to the hospital earlier.”

  “I know.” I’d been with her when she called, and I’d even spoken to him. He’d sounded miserable, depressed and uncomfortable as he went through withdrawal, but he’d be released soon. The question was, where would he end up? Where would I end up? “Did Emmy tell you she offered me a job?”

  “Yes, she mentioned it. You don’t know whether to accept?”

  I shook my head. “What would you do?”

  “In your position?” He picked up two cups from the machine and set one down in front of me, then took a seat opposite. “What are your ambitions? What do you want to get out of life?”

  “Until yesterday? I just wanted a permanent roof over my and Lenny’s heads and a job that didn’t involve doing dodgy stuff.”

  “With Emmy, you’d get the former, but there’d be a certain amount of risk involved with the job. But it strikes me that you’re the kind of girl who thrives on taking chances. How did you feel after you followed Hegler to the airport and got hold of his rental car paperwork?”

  Pretty freaking elated. Who wouldn’t if they managed to get one over on a thief without being caught?

  “Happy,” I admitted. “Satisfied that I’d got the job done.”

  “Multiply that by a thousand. How would you feel then?”

  “Higher than I’d ever get on drugs.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  “But…”

  “But what?”

  “Emmy said…well, not said, exactly, but suggested…that she might kill people.”

  Alaric fell silent, staring into his coffee.

  “You didn’t know?” I asked. “I’m not sure murder sits well with me.”

  “No, I knew. I’m just trying to work out how much to tell you.”

  Oh. “Like, because it’s classified or something?”

  “Emmy’s work goes beyond classified.”

  “You could tell me, but then you’d have to kill me?”

  “I prefer not to get my hands dirty anymore.”

  “Wait a minute… You kill people too?”

  “Killed. Past tense. Sometimes, in our world, death is a necessary evil.” Alaric sighed and put his cup down on the table. “If these words go any farther than this room, we’ll both have to face Emmy’s wrath. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Emmy’s wrath was not something I’d risk voluntarily. My lips would stay firmly sealed no matter what Alaric told me.

  “Three years ago, Emmy planned and executed a raid on a drug compound in Colombia. She neutralised the leader of a major cartel and disrupted the supply of tainted cocaine to a large part of the eastern seaboard. Two years ago, a group of terrorists got damn close to carrying out a biological attack at Dulles airport. Emmy tackled the terrorist and stopped thousands of people from getting infected with a virus you don’t want to hear about. Three months after that, she led a team to Siberia and terminated a rogue general who had, among other things, a nuclear weapon in his possession. That’s what Emmy does, and yes, occasionally people die. But because people die, the rest of us get to sleep a little more soundly at night.”

  “I didn’t realise…”

  “Not many people do, and that’s the way it has to stay.”

  “Wait. She thinks I can do that stuff?”

  “Apparently she does.”

  “But…but… I don’t know the first thing about drugs—apart from maybe trying them a time or two—or viruses, or freaking Siberia. I never even sat my GCSEs because I was too busy trying to take care of Lenny.”

  That had been after his first overdose. I’d literally handcuffed myself to him while he went through withdrawal because it was the only way I could stop him from scoring more drugs. He’d even threatened to kill me once if I didn’t let him go, but I still refused to do so—I couldn’t—although I’d been terrified the whole time.

  “If you want to learn, Emmy’ll make sure you get the best teachers, that much I can tell you. She never settles for second best.”

  “What if I’m not good enough?”

  Yes, I planned to quit after six months, but on my terms. If I failed? I hated losing.

  “If you’re not good enough for her Special Projects team, then I’m sure she’ll find you a more appropriate role. Maybe something in the London office. If you do your best and don’t mess her around, she won’t kick you into oblivion if you don’t quite make the cut.”

  “The London office?”

  That would bring me back to Lenny, and if I had three hundred grand plus a steady income, I’d be set. Even if I got to work as a cleaner, it would still be better than serving tequila dressed as a slutty cowgirl.

  But six months of hell…

  I needed to change the subject. I needed space to think. Alaric had helped to clarify the situation, but could I overcome my own doubts and fears enough to go to the US? Damned if I didn’t, damned if I did…

  “Did you find Hegler?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it. People are checking into anyone with that name, and we’re also trying to get hold of the flight plans for all private jets that left Heathrow on Wednesday afternoon. Something’ll shake loose.”

  “Do you regret delivering the painting?”

  Alaric considered the question for a moment. “No, I don’t. If we hadn’t let it go, I’d always have regretted not trying.”

  I knew at that moment that I’d take the job with Emmy. Why? Because if I didn’t, I’d always regret no
t trying.

  CHAPTER 20 - BETHANY

  “BETHANY, CAN YOU bring us drinks, please?” Henrietta smiled as she asked, but it was fake, and I knew the “please” at the end pained her. “And do you know where Gemma is?”

  “Sorry, I don’t. What would you like?” I asked her clients. “Tea? Coffee? Wine? A soft drink?”

  “Do you have Scotch?” the husband asked.

  At eleven in the morning? “I’m afraid not.”

  “A glass of red, then. And Belinda will have mineral water with a twist of lemon, won’t you, darling?”

  Belinda nodded. I hadn’t heard her say a word since they arrived, just like I hadn’t seen Gemma do any work. When I first started at the gallery, she’d flitted about constantly, always busy, but now? Henrietta had asked her to dust the tops of all the frames, but the only evidence of her presence was a step-stool and a cleaning caddy abandoned by a limited edition Hockney print. At least I knew the Hockney wasn’t stolen. It had been traded in by a big shot at a London law firm who wanted “something with more gravitas” after he got promoted to senior partner.

  Last night, I’d barely slept, agonising over whether I should phone Emerson and mention the two suspicious paintings. That way, the problem would be out of my hands, but if Hugo found out I’d reported him… Bye-bye reference.

  Perhaps I could wait until I found a new job and then make the call? It wasn’t as if the paintings were still at the gallery in any case. They were both long gone. My tired hands shook as I slopped wine into a glass. A little alcohol loosened the purse strings—that’s what Henrietta always told me—so I stopped just short of the brim. Water, fresh lemon, cappuccino with caramel syrup for Henrietta… I could come back and make a drink for Hugo afterwards.

  To call or not to call, that was the question.

  The question I was still agonising over as I stubbed my toe and stumbled in the main gallery. The tray went flying, and wine, water, and coffee splattered over the wall, the floor, and—oh, fuck—a Heath Robert original. Shocked gasps came from all around, from Henrietta, her clients, and Gemma, who’d materialised out of nowhere together with the cleaning caddy, which she’d dumped right in my way to trip over. And Hugo. Of course, Hugo had to be walking past too.

  Gentleman that he was, he offered me a hand, and I staggered to my feet, wincing as I put weight on my twisted ankle. But his face had blackened with the fury of a winter storm, even if he tried to hide it in front of our customers.

  “Gemma, would you get this cleared up, please? Take the Robert to my studio. Bethany, I’ll see you in my office.”

  “Of course, Hugo,” Gemma said. “The cleaning supplies are— Oh, they’re right here.”

  That little… How dare she act surprised to cover up her own carelessness?

  I didn’t miss Henrietta’s smirk as I slunk from the room. If she hadn’t been with the red-faced boozehound, I might even have suspected her of moving that caddy herself.

  Could the Robert be saved? It was protected by glass, but if any liquid had seeped under the edges of the frame… I wanted to go back and help, to make sure Gemma had blotted everything she could, but I didn’t dare. First last night’s laptop incident and now this. Luckily, the laptop had come back to life again this morning, although the “C” key was still being a bit temperamental.

  I willed my foot to stop tapping while I waited for Hugo to arrive, fidgeting in his visitor’s chair as I prepared my apology in my head. I was never normally careless like that. Never. This week had taken its toll. The theft of my car, Red After Dark, what I’d found on the FBI’s website. Sky. Emerson. Alaric. Yes, perhaps I’d thought of Alaric a little more than I should have. But in an afternoon filled with chaos, he’d acted with decency.

  It wasn’t long before I heard the click of Hugo’s leather wingtips on the polished wooden floor. How bad would this be? Henrietta had dropped a painting last month and cracked the frame, and she’d got away with a rather peeved lecture according to Gemma, who’d listened at the door.

  “Bethany.”

  “Hugo, I’m so sorry. I tripped, and it honestly was a complete accident. If there’s any damage, I’ll pay for the repairs.” Somehow. I had no idea quite how since I barely had any money, but maybe Hugo could deduct it from my pay?

  “This is two accidents in two days.”

  “The laptop’s working almost perfectly now. I promise I won’t place drinks on the desk again.”

  “No, no, I appreciate that.” He took a seat opposite me and adjusted his bow tie. “Let’s not beat around the bush, eh? You’re still on your probationary period, and I’m not sure this is the right position for you long-term. If the painting you just soaked had been an unframed watercolour…”

  What? His words slowly sank in, and I vaguely recalled something about an initial six-month trial in my contract. Hugo was letting me go?

  How would I pay my bills? What would happen to Chaucer? And worse, how would I explain this to my parents? There’d be no avoiding it—Hugo ran in the same circles as my father, and if past gossip was anything to go by, every guest at tomorrow’s party would know I’d been sacked by the time I walked through the front door.

  My parents would start applying the pressure again. Toe the family line or face poverty. The only asset I had left was my apartment, but even if I put it on the market tomorrow, it wouldn’t sell in time for me to pay Chaucer’s next livery bill. And once that money was gone, then what?

  “But I love working here,” I tried, even though I knew my pleas would be in vain.

  “I just feel that it might be better if you moved on. It’s nothing personal.”

  “There’s nothing I can do?”

  “I’m sorry, Bethany. I’ll pay you until the end of the month.”

  I will not cry. Eyes prickling, I managed to make it to the break room and stuff the few belongings I kept there into my handbag. Lipstick, spare tights, a framed photo of Chaucer. Then I got in my car and started driving. I didn’t have a clue where I was going, and even if I’d wanted to go home, I had nowhere to park.

  My brain was barely functioning, and on autopilot, I ended up on the M4 heading out of town. Just sitting with Chaucer would make me feel better. It always did.

  Crawling along behind a lorry on the elevated section, I felt hurt. I felt panicky. And perhaps I felt a tiny bit angry too. Until today, Hugo hadn’t shown the slightest indication that he wasn’t happy with my work. Yes, I realised I’d made two mistakes, but Henrietta messed up on occasion as well, and Gemma had barely done a thing for weeks.

  That anger was why I ended up with my phone in my hand when traffic came to a standstill. I’d saved Emerson’s number just in case, and I jabbed at the screen until I heard ringing through the car’s speakers.

  “Emmy Black’s line, Sloane speaking.”

  I’d been psyching myself up to speak to Emerson, not an assistant who, from her accent, sounded as if she was in the United States, and now I stuttered.

  “I-I-is Emerson, uh, Emmy there?”

  “I’m afraid she’s in a meeting right now. Can I help or take a message?”

  “How about Alaric? Is he there?”

  “Alaric…McLain?”

  Why did she sound so surprised by the question?

  “I don’t know his last name. He was with Emmy two days ago. They said to call if I had any information, so here I am, calling.”

  “Oh, uh, yes.” Surprise turned to fluster. “Yes, I guess it must have been him.”

  “Is he there?”

  “At Blackwood? Well, no. He doesn’t work here.”

  “But he said he was a private investigator. Doesn’t Blackwood do investigations?”

  “We certainly do, Ms.… I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

  “Bethany Stafford-Lyons. I really need to speak to either Emmy or Alaric.”

  And I needed to speak to them before I either chickened out or passed out from the limited supply of gin I had left in my kitchen cupboard. I
’d have to leave my car at the stables and catch a train back to London, except that would be awkward because I had a pile of dry cleaning in the boot, and—

  “If you give me your number, I can ask one of them to call you as soon as they’re available. Will that work?”

  “I suppose it’ll have to.” Dammit, Beth, don’t sound so snooty. I wasn’t at home anymore, so there was no need to put on airs and graces to please my mother. “Yes, thank you.”

  CHAPTER 21 - BETHANY

  I THOUGHT I’D have a long wait. After all, when I’d left urgent messages with the receptionist at Piers’s dental practice, I’d been lucky if he got back to me the same day. But I’d barely stepped into Chaucer’s stable when my phone rang with an unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Stafford-Lyons.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

  “Alaric?”

  “Sloane said you wanted to speak with me?”

  “Yes. I…I… About Hugo. More paintings.”

  “You sound upset.” Another statement.

  “Well, yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Start at the beginning. What happened?”

  I blurted out the story, and as I got to the part about the coffee, it began to rain. Big, fat plops that splattered onto the concrete yard outside and quickly formed puddles. Guess who hadn’t changed out of her stilettos before she went into Chaucer’s stable? That’s right: this girl. Now I had two choices—walk barefoot back to my car or ruin a pair of shoes I couldn’t afford to replace. A tear slipped out, and of course Alaric sensed it.

  “Hey, it’s just a laptop. I knocked a glass of water over mine once, and when it dried out, it worked okay.”

  “No, you don’t get it. Hugo caught me looking at the pictures. The FBI’s stolen-art database. And when I asked him about one of the paintings, the Francesco Guardi, he said it was just a copy, but today he fired me and…and… I wasn’t a bad employee, I swear. Except I tripped over a cleaning caddy this morning and spilled some more drinks, but it was an accident. Then Gemma insinuated she hadn’t put the cleaning caddy in the way, but Henrietta was with clients and it certainly wasn’t me, so who else could have done it?”