‘Fuck it, Mira, don’t go,’ she said to empty air.
But Mira was gone.
And that’s that
, thought Annie.
I’ll never see her again.
She made a couple of calls from a nearby telephone box and then summoned Tony. Within half an hour she was standing at Mrs Walker’s front door. She knew she didn’t have time for this, not really, but then she didn’t truly have time for lunch at a swanky Park Lane hotel with the Barollis—if she was a bit late, sod it.
Mrs Walker looked exactly the same. Her red hair was scraped back and her face was lined with exhaustion. She was as washed out as a faded watercolour painting, clutching a pale lavender woollen cardigan around her tall bony frame as if it was a cold day. It wasn’t. It was hot, bright, a beautiful English summer day. She looked at Annie for a moment without recognition. Then the pallid eyes flared briefly. ‘Oh!’
‘Yes, Mrs Walker. It’s me, Annie Carter. Can I come in?’
Mrs Walker stood back. Annie went past her into the same scrupulously clean but very threadbare front room, looked again at the photos of Teresa lined up along the mantelpiece.
Mrs Walker followed her into the room and sat down. She picked up the Bible from the arm of the chair, sat there stroking it nervously. Annie sat down too.
‘Mrs Walker, I need to ask you something.’
‘Yes?’
‘Did Teresa have any tattoos?’
‘What?’
‘Tattoos. Did she have any, that you know of?’
Mrs Walker’s face contorted briefly. ‘No. Of course not. I always hated tattoos—so common. Only sailors and sluts have tattoos.’
Like Teresa was a Sunday school teacher
, thought Annie. But she kept quiet about that.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said the woman emphatically. ‘Teresa didn’t have any tattoos.’
And that neatly knocked Mira’s theory into a cocked hat. Unless…unless Teresa
did
have tattoos and simply kept them hidden or didn’t tell her mother about them. The flame tattoo had been applied high up on the inner thigh, Mira had told her. Maybe, just maybe, Teresa had been tattooed but, knowing her mother’s disapproval of them, she had not confided in her mother about it.
And a couple of days later, you’re dead
, that’s what Mira had said.
Val had a tattoo.
It’s a marker
, Mira had told her.
She wondered whether Teresa had been buried, or cremated. Couldn’t bring herself to ask this poor little woman such a question. But there was an urn on the mantelpiece, among the photos.
‘That your husband, Mrs Walker?’ she asked her.
Mrs Walker shook her head. ‘No, that’s my little girl. That’s Teresa.’
And there went the only way of ever checking out Teresa’s tattoos.
She hadn’t noticed any reference to tattoos in the police files and it was too late to take a second look. Lane had already put the damned things back.
Sod
it.
She didn’t even want to
think
about what her next move was. It was too fucking horrible to contemplate. But she knew she was going to have to do it.
She went back to the club—and yes, now she was very late—and got changed while the hammering and drilling of the workmen downstairs went on in the background. The place was in chaos, as usual, but it was finally coming together, she could see it clearly now. It was going to be great. She didn’t
want a dingy club with prossies dancing round in their knickers; she wanted the place to radiate class. She wanted to get the big players in, make it
special
—and now she could see it happening, right in front of her eyes. There had been no more incidents, no more attempts at apparent sabotage. Everything was looking fine.
All she had to do now was block from her mind what she was going to have to do very, very soon and go and enjoy a lunch with a colleague, who just happened to have a family who’d give the Borgias a run for their money, and who also just happened to be a powerful Mafia don. Who
also
happened to be her secret lover. But then, it was just casual sex. And business, she told herself.
Oh sure.
She knew she was lying to herself. Trying to keep it cool even though, more and more, she was coming to crave Constantine Barolli like a boozer craves alcohol.
She put on a black silk shift dress and matching jacket, pinning a red silk rose into the dress’s plunging décolletage, a red silk rose in a screaming hot red to match her lipstick. Slipped on highheeled black courts, brushed her dark hair until it lay on her shoulders in a thick gleaming curtain.
When she was finished she looked at herself in the mirror and thought,
Not bad, girl.
And then of course she was reminded of Aretha, Aretha and
her ebullient high-fives and huge grin, Aretha who was dead and gone. And then of Chris, banged up in Wandsworth on remand, awaiting trial for her murder, and possibly the murders of two more.
Dig deep,
she thought. Hadn’t she always done that? With a drunk for a mother and an absentee father and more shit than you could shake a stick at being thrown at her from all directions ever since she could crawl, there was nothing else she could do.
She went out of the flat, locked it. Went down the stairs.
‘Mrs Carter?’ One of the builders stopped her just inside the main door. He was a youngster, just learning his trade, spotty and bashful. She’d seen him around a lot. He approached her, carrying something wrapped in rustling cellophane. ‘Someone left these out on the step.’
He handed the gift to her. She gasped. It was a bouquet, a bouquet of
dead roses.
All neatly put together, beautifully wrapped. But the flowers were dead, the petals curled and blackened, the leaves wilted and yellow. Annie stared at them and a spasm of unease gripped her. Who the hell…?
There was a card, tucked in there. She tore at the cellophane, pulled it out. Read it.
Annie Carter
, it said. Nothing else.
She looked at the youngster. He blushed. ‘They were on the front step?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ he said, and tried a smile. ‘Practical joke, huh?’
Not much of a bloody joke
, thought Annie. She slapped the dead flowers and the card back into his arms. ‘Chuck ‘em out,’ she said, and went on outside into the sunshine. What sicko would send a thing like that?
Tony was there, holding the back door of the car open for her. She sank back into butter-soft leather, still seeing those dead flowers, that carefully printed card.
‘Where to, Boss?’ asked Tony, getting behind the wheel. The gold crosses were glinting in his ears as his eyes met hers in the mirror.
She told him the five-star hotel in Park Lane. Aretha had died in Park Lane. Annie pushed the thought aside. And the thought of the flowers too. She was in a position of influence, running the manor—of course she had enemies. But, just for today, she was going to forget all that bollocks. Tomorrow, she’d have to face up to it all, and she’d have to do
it,
that thing she was dreading. Today, she was going to drink a little champagne—even she could manage that—and
forget.
A doorman in dark green livery and a gleaming top hat greeted her at the door. She told reception that she was with Mr Barolli’s party and was quickly shown to the penthouse’s private dining room. It was so exquisitely beautiful that she felt as though she was dreaming when she stepped into the room.
A big circular dining table was covered with white linen and set ready for lunch with silver cutlery, costly crystal glassware and low bowls of fragrant pink roses.
Living ones, not dead
sprang into her brain and she threw it straight back out again.
All around the walls of the room were huge mirrors, edged with ornate and exquisitely delicate gold filigree. Vast windows, draped with ivory sheers, led out on to a terrace overlooking Mayfair. There was even a semicircular fountain out there
and, as she took a glass of champagne from the tray offered by one of the staff, she saw Constantine standing out there beside it, glass in hand, talking to his son, Lucco.
Constantine’s head turned and his eyes met hers.
She felt it again, that same hard physical jolt of sexual attraction that hit her every time their paths crossed. He was so gorgeous, so striking. His silvergrey suit exactly matched the tone of his hair and was clearly bespoke and straight from Savile Row. The blue shirt and striped grey and blue tie complemented his eyes. He was confident of his own attraction, an Alpha male to his bones. He was watching her with drink in hand, casually eating something, some little appetizer, and his eyes clearly said
first this—then you.
Lucco had looked round too, alerted by Constantine’s sudden distraction.
Well, there’s one person who don’t look pleased to see me,
she thought.
Lucco had always made his feelings about her very clear. He didn’t want her anywhere near his father, and he had always taken pains to make that obvious. It must be creasing him, having her show up here, invited by his father as an honoured guest.
‘Mrs Carter?’
A young replica of Constantine came forward to greet her. She smiled.
‘I remember you. Alberto.’
‘That’s right. And this is my Aunt Gina.’
Gina, an imposing-looking woman of middle years was standing by the dining table. She glanced at her watch.
‘Mrs Carter,’ she acknowledged frostily. ‘You’re a little late.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t believe you’ve met Cara? And her husband, Rocco?’ Alberto indicated Constantine’s daughter and her new husband. The couple moved forward to be introduced. Cara, prettily blonde and with an unappealing spoilt pout to her lovely face, gave a sour half-smile. Skinny, dark-haired Rocco shook Annie’s hand.
‘My father’s expecting you, come on out here,’ said Alberto. ‘It’s beautiful, you can see the whole of Mayfair…’
Alberto had all the charm of Constantine without his dangerous edge. Instinctively she liked him. Out on the terrace, with the fountain tinkling prettily in the background, Constantine came forward and kissed her on both cheeks. For a moment, as Alberto moved off to talk to Lucco, they stood alone.
‘You look ravishing, Mrs Carter,’ said Constantine in a whisper against her cheek. ‘I’d like to fuck you right now.’
Annie felt her body respond to that, to his nearness, his power, his strength. He smelled delicious,
and she caught herself inhaling the scent of him, identifying the cologne he always wore, Acqua di Parma—and, under that, a muskier, darker scent of pure animal maleness. No kissing of the hand this time. She looked into his eyes, knew he was thinking about that too. Constantine put a hand on her back and turned her toward Lucco.
‘Mrs Carter, you remember my son—Lucco?’ he said.
Lucco gave an exaggeratedly formal half-bow and kissed her hand.
Oily little creep,
she thought, and stifled the impulse to wipe her hand afterwards. He was still the same smoothly attractive package, all dark hair, black eyes and slimy poise.
‘Shall we eat then?’ asked Constantine, and led the way back inside.
They ate very well—seared scallops, rack of lamb with accompanying vegetables, lemon cake and lime sorbet, all washed down with exquisitely well-chosen wines—but Annie had known this was going to be a tricky occasion, and it was. Cara and Rocco were quiet, both obviously fulminating from some private row, Gina had a nasty smell under her nose the whole time and
yes,
Annie knew it was because she was there. Only Alberto set out to charm her, but then after a little while Annie realized that Alberto would
charm anyone; he was a very likeable young man.
‘It’s Goodwood soon, the races. Papa has a box there. Perhaps you could join us, Mrs Carter?’ asked Alberto with genuine warmth in his clear blue eyes. They didn’t snap with authority, those eyes, like his father’s did. Alberto was a much easier character to contend with.
‘I expect Mrs Carter has business to attend to,’ said his Aunt Gina coolly, mopping her lips with a napkin as if she had just tasted something bitter.
For fuck’s sake
, thought Annie, half amused and half appalled at the idea of this New York Mafia clan arriving in the English countryside among the unsuspecting natives.
‘You’re right, she does have business to attend to,’ said Annie.
But Alberto was still smiling. ‘Can’t we persuade you?’ he asked.
Annie looked at Constantine, who was watching her with a slight smile. His eyes said
having fun?
And she knew that this was a test, this lunch, this close-up and personal brush against his family. Constantine was assessing her, seeing if she’d sink or swim in this tankful of piranhas. No, he certainly wasn’t anything like gentle young Alberto. But she liked that. She liked a man with an edge to him.
‘Come on,’ said Constantine. The meal was at an end. He stood up, saving her from the necessity
of answering yes or no to Alberto’s question. ‘Let’s take our drinks out on to the terrace.’
Annie escaped outside with relief. She found his family hard to take. He had a huge amount of personal baggage, and while Constantine had had plenty of time to confront his demons over losing his wife, it was all still new and raw for Annie. They both knew it. She’d blurted Max’s name at the most disastrous time. And yet…he still wanted to pursue this.
After a little while she found herself standing alone at the edge of the terrace, close by the fountain; she glanced down and felt a swaying flicker of vertigo, the result of a little too much drink, when she usually didn’t drink at all. A strong hand grasped her upper arm. She turned her head and smiled, expecting Constantine.
‘Careful,’ said Lucco in her ear, shocking her.
His face was inches from hers.
Her throat closed.
He glanced down and then his cold dark eyes rose again, very slowly, glinting with malicious amusement as they met and held hers. ‘It’s a long way down, Mrs Carter.’
She hadn’t even heard him approach.
How long had he been standing there, right behind her? One good hard shove and she would have been over the edge, gone. Out of his hair, out of his father’s life. She didn’t doubt that was
what he wanted. So why hadn’t he taken the opportunity to get rid of her?
Or—and this was a scary thought, really scary—did he want to toy with her, drag out the pleasure, make her suffer?
Annie took a breath, gulped hard. He saw the movement, and his smile grew deeper, the sadist in him satisfied by the flash of fear he had seen in her eyes, by that convulsive movement in her throat.
‘I’m not afraid of heights,’ said Annie, having to force the words out. He really had given her a fright, even though she’d rather die than admit it.
Lucco’s hand released her arm. ‘No?’ He looked at her curiously, then looked over the side of the huge building again. His eyes rose, played with hers. ‘Good. I hope you enjoyed the lunch, Mrs Carter?’
Annie nodded. For a moment she couldn’t speak. He’d scared her. She hated that. The little fucker had really scared her.
‘And are you enjoying your visit to England?’ Annie forced out, taking a gulp of her wine, trying to get her hammering pulse back under control.
‘Absolutely.’ His eyes were intent on hers. ‘I only arrived last night, you know.’
‘Did you?’ Meaning…what? She stared into his eyes, refused to look away.
‘In fact,’ said Lucco, ‘I believe you were in a
meeting with my father when I arrived. It was quite late…for a meeting.’
Annie stared into his eyes. Christ, he was a rotten little turd. And he was making her uneasy. She thought of her desperation last night, of the black, horrible place she had found herself inhabiting, of how she had flown into Constantine’s arms, seeking solace, seeking comfort. Not thinking of anything except her need to get past this feeling of being frozen and alone. She thought of Constantine’s surprise at her sudden seduction of him, how the cars had still been moving outside, how she had been semi-nude before he pulled the blind down…
Oh shit.
Had Lucco seen?
Had Lucco been out there, at the front of the house, arriving, and had he seen into Constantine’s study, seen her undressed and in his father’s arms?
Oh God. Was that what his eyes were telling her? She steeled herself to blank out the thought. It made her feel sick to her stomach. ‘Nice flight?’ she asked instead.
He paused. Letting her dangle, just for a moment. ‘Yes, very pleasant. In the Gulfstream.’
‘Oh yes, Daddy’s jet,’ said Annie, hating this whole conversation, hating being anywhere near Lucco, and intending to goad.
She saw a flicker of appreciation in Lucco’s eyes.
Touché
,
Mrs Carter.
‘He has two,’ said Lucco.
‘That’s nice. For all of you,’ smiled Annie cattily.
‘We’re his family, Mrs Carter. Everything my father has, he shares with us.’
And this time his meaning was clear. Annie’s smile dropped in an instant.
‘Not quite everything,’ she said, and pushed roughly past him to rejoin Constantine.
After that, the lunch party was swiftly concluded and Annie was grateful for that. She made her excuses, said she had a business meeting to get to, it had been wonderful to meet them all again (like Lucco, she could lie politely when it was called for) and she looked forward to seeing them all again soon.
Yeah, shortly after hell’s frozen over,
she thought.
‘I’ll walk you down to the lobby,’ said Constantine, getting in the lift with her.
‘Christ,’ sighed Annie, shutting her eyes and leaning against the back wall of the lift.
She opened them and saw that Constantine was grinning.
‘It ain’t funny. Your family are a nightmare. Cara hates me. Gina hates me. Lucco
especially
hates me.’
‘They’re having trouble with you because they’d have trouble with anyone after Maria,’ said Constantine.
‘They’ve had five years to get used to the idea.’
‘Yeah, but I’ve never actually dated anyone since then.’
Annie folded her arms over her body and stared at him in surprise. ‘What, nobody?’
‘Just sexual encounters. Nothing more.’
Annie bit her lip and looked at him. ‘What was she like? Maria?’
Constantine hesitated a moment.
Then he said: ‘Gentle. Maternal. Nothing like you.’
That hurt. Dug straight into all Annie’s insecurities. She thought of Layla, having to stay with Ruthie across town because it could be too dangerous for her to stay with her mother.
‘But she
looked
like me. Lucco told me so.’
‘She did. A little. But not that much.’
The lift glided on down. ‘So this is more? You and me? Not just sex?’
‘Don’t you think it is?’
The possibility frightened her. Made her feel treacherous, as if she was betraying Max, which was ridiculous, she wasn’t: but it was all so soon,
too
soon.
‘This is dangerous,’ she said.
‘Yeah, it is,’ he said, and closed the distance between them and kissed her, hard.
‘I know you’re prepared to gamble on this,’ said Annie, wrenching her mouth free. ‘Listen
to me, will you? This could cause trouble. All Max’s boys…they won’t like it. This is…inappropriate.’
And I’m still not sure I can fully trust you,
she thought.
But his mouth was on hers again, stopping the argument. Once again Annie pulled free.
‘I’ve got a legitimate business up and running,’ she said quickly, before he could kiss her again. ‘It’s legit, do you know how hard that’s been, to get that working? The opposition I’ve faced to make that come about? I’ve got the new club to launch. I’ve got Layla to think about. This…on top of all that…I just don’t know.’ She looked at him. Her expression was deadly serious. ‘If the boys found out, they wouldn’t like it.’
Constantine took a breath. Leaned back against the lift wall. ‘I could settle them down,’ he said.
Annie felt a flare of temper at that. These were
her
concerns. Not his.
‘Now what?’ he asked, watching her face.
‘Yeah, you could settle them down. You could take right
over
, how about that?’
‘For fuck’s sake, what are we arguing about this for?’ asked Constantine, exasperated.
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’ Men! When it came right down to it, they always had to be in charge. He could move right in here, steamroller the whole manor flat; they both knew it. It would be
his
manor then, not hers. Part of his empire. Not the whole of hers.
Ah, but is it mine at all?
she wondered bitterly.
I think I know the answer to that. It ain’t mine. It’s Max’s. Dead or alive, it’s his—not mine.
But maybe she could
make
it hers, if she tried hard enough.
Constantine was staring at her as if he was trying to read her mind. ‘Come here and kiss me,’ he ordered.
Annie shook her head. ‘Constantine…’ she started sadly.
Constantine stopped the lift. He stared at her. ‘Don’t,’ he said.
‘I’ve got to end this,’ she said.
‘Come here and kiss me and
then
say you’ve got to end it.’
‘I’ve got to,’ said Annie, and she reached past him and restarted the lift.