Wilderness of Mirrors (11 page)

Fine.
She conceded.
So he’s attractive in a Nordic sort of way. So what. It’s like admiring a piece of Jacobean furniture. Costly and well made, but not my taste.

Jacobean – that dark chunky stuff? Don’t you mean Gustavian?

Samantha growled out a puff of vapor. Her internal arguments were becoming far too vehement. At least with Tam she could pretend it was a two-way discussion. Right now, she didn’t even have that.

Also Nigel’s fault.

The bastard had most assuredly gotten to her. In bursts of conversational nothingness and harsh, inscrutable glances, he’d managed to mine bits of her outer defenses. Break down those simple rules of hers and make marmalade of her judgment.

Hell. She’d brought him home and all but tucked him in.

She pushed the pace hoping pain would clear her mind and limbs of such stupidity. There wasn’t room for error in her weird world. It carried stiff penalties.

This time. This man. Should be no different.

Yet he was in her home. When no one, apart from her uncles and Jane, had ever been there.
No one.

And she’d gone and left him there – alone - with the priceless vase AG had yet to collect.

Fuck.

He’ll never notice it. Businessmen like him are only interested in wine, women and watches – apart from the stock market. Oh, and maybe sales figures…

You don’t even know him, what he…

Sam came to a graceless halt when she realized the light was flashing
Don’t Walk
. Jogging foot-to-foot, she let loose a string of Chinese curses.

Have it your way then. You think Nigel’s going to break into your upstairs flat and steal the vase? Then what? Leg it to Brad’s?

So I’m the idiot?

You are stupid when it comes to boys.

And you’re in what, sixth grade?

Whatever. You like him. He makes you feel…safe.

Sam warmed the backs of her fingertips against her cheeks.
Hardly. He’s an upper-class waste of good genes and purpose. Got himself shot on a motorcycling vacation. Besides, I’ve got Tam to keep me safe.

The light flicked
Walk
and she headed up the hill leading to Eaton Place. On principal, she would enter her building’s main entrance, hide the vase and then go downstairs. With any luck, Nigel had called a taxi and she’d never have to set eyes…

An invisible fist landed squarely in her stomach.

There was a
Winston Florist
van double-parked outside her door. She recognized the coloring immediately, because
Bond and Teller
always used them. Sage green with stylish black and silver scroll. Expensive. She knew exactly the cost of the ethereal yellow orchid being escorted by the driver up her wide, white marble steps.

But it’s not the 12
th
.

Too late, her glossy front door swung inward, leaving a great slice of Nigel visible up and down the length of the posh street. Numbly, dumbly, she lingered behind the bulk of a salt-flecked Land Rover.
Bring that damn thing back to its hothouse!

They were now conversing, the pair of them. Joking about something trivial judging from the smile on Nigel’s oddly bland face. He’d thrown on his tee shirt and had one of her towels draped messily over his shoulder. His feet were bared, his hair dark with wetness and he slouched against the frame, shorter and unexplainably forgettable.

It was then she realized he was squinting, feigning the misplacement of glasses. The sleight was remarkable, erasing the indelible blue of his eyes and leaving the viewer with little to remember.

He took charge of the enormous vase the way a single man might a bawling infant. Maneuvering clumsily, he attempted to close the door with an awkward foot, sloshing water over the step and driver instead.

The deliveryman lunged to catch the vase; then, when it proved unnecessary, helped Nigel by closing her front door.

Baffled by the bizarre change in her guest, she remained motionless as the driver made his way down to sidewalk-level. His smile moved as he did, shifting from amiability into the land of smirk.

He thinks Nigel’s a gormless twat.

So would you.

The subterfuge made Sam shiver, quite unexpectedly, and for no reason to do with the cold.

The last vestiges of dusk lit Sam’s feet as they ate the steps leading to her entryway. She punched a code into the pad and was greeted by the demure arrogance of some of her best handiwork.

She expected to find Nigel, but the foyer was empty. Save for the orchid, which he’d abandoned to the chill, and Nigel’s scent. Still here. A rough edge of maleness paired with expensive soap.

The delivery had obviously rankled him. Jealousy and suspicion might as well have been graffiti on the linen-covered wall. But being stunned by the realization did nothing to alleviate the clammy clutch of her running attire or the pit in her stomach. So she followed his example, ignoring the orchid, and made her way to the master suite. There was a blue robe there, left for her clients’ use. It was one of a pair Loch had gifted her on their first trip to Hong Kong.

She snatched it from the hook while her eyes sought the dressing table.
Still there.
She whisked the crouching vase from its distressed oak podium and stashed it behind a stack of linen in the antique pine wardrobe.

Then, wet clothes lumped under one arm, she followed the sisal carpet down the back stairs past black and white photos of her grandfather, uncles, and Marc, ignoring their smiling faces.

Her hand married the doorknob, twisted the smooth glass sphere, and caught the light of her bedroom. She smelled cold water, not lavender and roses. Tea too. And from the aroma, a pot of it.

Sam stepped into her room. “Nigel?”

She should have hoped he wasn’t there.

Except she didn’t.

When he turned the corner, relief flooded her. He was markedly changed by his time in the sauna. His skin glowed with the heat. And there wasn’t so much as a footnote left of the nondescript man who had answered her front door.

“I made tea.”

“You’re full of surprises.”
I don’t want to be glad you’re here.

The corners of his mouth moved up rather than down. So he
could
smile, and not the goofy one from a few moments ago. The unhurried legitimate sort.

“Enjoy yourself?”

She ignored him, inclining her head in the direction of the tub. “Bath not your style?”

His mouth quirked. “Not since I had a nanny.”

“Now that’s hard to imagine.”

“You didn’t run as long as I thought you might.” His gaze grew slightly mocking.

Her laugh dried up instantly.
I know those eyes. I know you.

She appeared, suddenly as she’d gone, wearing a silk kimono that convinced every last drop of his blood to head straight for his cock. And she hadn’t touched the orchid, which pleased him no end. Logic was going to reason otherwise, so he’d go on ignoring it for a little while longer.

Her laughter, throaty and maybe not too frequent, stopped when her eyes settled on his shirt. He glanced down and noticed blood droplets seeping through to her towel.

Damn.
He’d be shipping linens to women across England.
Off to Africa, here are some towels. White ones
. He glanced back up and found she was staring at him, unease radiating off her like a pair of wings.

“Let me.” She reached across and took the tray from him before he could dissuade her. “You really did get badly hurt.” There was a cracking unevenness to her voice.

Christ. What he didn’t want was pity. “I’m sorry about the towel. If it makes you feel any better, Brad and Kate are likely vexed as you.”

“You think I care the towel’s dirty? What do you suppose I clean Tam’s feet with?” She shook her head. “What I think is that you should sit down before I have to call someone to scrape you off my floor.” She set the tray on a nearby shelf. “You need to rest. There are tons of pillows there. I’ll shut the blinds.”

She was talking too fast. He caught her arm. It was firm and warm and just the slightest bit damp from her run. He bet the taste of her would be of salt and honey. “I’m fine. Really.”
But you’re… trembling?
“What’s the matter?” She didn’t answer and he realized she couldn’t see his mouth.

He lifted her chin, a few fingers under that elegantly made jaw. He could feel the tension in those muscles and the vibration of her clenched teeth. She still wouldn’t look at him. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, surprised.

With one hand he pulled the towel from his back and spun it over her slim shoulders. He almost managed it without flinching. But Christ Almighty his ribs hurt. Her eyelashes swung upward as the spasm flashed over his chest. The wide black pupils were dark and unreadable, like she’d been crying without the tears. “Is that better?” he managed.

“I wasn’t cold.”

“No?”

She shook her head.

“What then?” They were very close, almost touching from toes to hips to mouths. He’d never been with a tall woman before. Always, he’d preferred petite women. Brunettes with Delft blue eyes.

Only in his dreams had he imagined someone like her.

But he wasn’t dreaming. Her breath was fast and short, tight across the space between their lips.

“I’m scared.” It was a whisper.

“For me?”

She nodded faintly. So he caught her hand in his, turning it until the palm faced him. Then, with the care he might grant a land mine, he directed her fingers until they touched the part of his shirt covering the plaster. “I’ll be fine, Sam.”

With a touch like a butterfly’s wing, she lifted the hem, exploring the edges of his broken ribs. His breath was held, but as she went, he managed to relax. He watched her study him. Saw the way her topaz eyes memorized every nick and gash along his mutilated frame. Nothing in them revealed revulsion. But there was something undeniably dark there.
Can someone like you even imagine what I am?

At last, she let her eyes meet his. Then very carefully, with lips as light as her fingers, she slid downward and pressed her mouth to the gauze square.

The bandage smelled of antiseptic and plastic. It was moist and bloodstained. His hands were loose by his sides, but the whole of him was keyed up and taut as a longbow. His jaw was rigid as the rest of him, but his eyes were stripped, disarmed and despairing. The nakedness of his hidden pains and by her echoing ones pushed her back onto her feet.

By then, the curtain was drawn. Blue, brilliant and flat, flashed in the bedroom’s generous light. “I should get out of your way so you can shower.”

He stepped to the side in order to pass her. Briefly, he let his fingers surround her hand. The squeeze was infinitesimal.

The words unspoken.

He
was
fine.

She watched as he slipped his sweater over his head then slipped out her upstairs door.

Feel free to take a tour
. The words were still echoing when her legs gave out and she collapsed onto the bed, images of tiny stitches and silver coffins clinging with reaper-like fingers to the canvas of her inner eye.

Traffic was bad. Everywhere: cars, lorries, red double-deckers.

And the drive to Samantha’s fell casualty alongside Wellington’s temper. He was already fumbling beneath the seat for his dropped mobile, hands off the wheel more than on, when a horn blared. He shot a dirty glance at the underlit Escalade. Probably one of his rival’s employees, bloody stupid foreign kids who didn’t have a fucking clue what decent money could buy.

He finally found the mobile just as King’s Road crossed into Belgravia. There was a small sound of protest from his tires as he swung off the main road, then gratitude as they gripped the even tarmac of Eccleston Street. He glanced down at the mobile’s screen.

Damn.
They’d already delivered it.

He tossed the worthless device away, wishing he’d had the sense to wrap up his last meeting a bit sooner. Leave it to
Winston’s
to find passage through the packed Borough. He should have chosen a less reputable shop and would have ended up beating the driver, especially now it had come over dark.

Wellington turned a last time into the hushed glow of stuccoed whiteness and slowed as his BMW encroached on Samantha’s. Her front lights were on, but the whole of the upper floor was barely illuminated. Only the top half of the basement windows were lit up properly.

But she was home. With no clients upstairs either. A bit of his resentment melted. Perhaps she’d had an appointment herself last night. Maybe her newest client actually had work hours and couldn’t meet until evening.

To be fair, the tulips he’d sent weren’t that attractive to begin with.

Today’s choice was much more appropriate. Elegant. Expensive. Exotic.

He pulled off to the side near the end of the street, inching into one of the few open spaces. The dash thermometer read 3º. It looked like snow and he’d left his overcoat at the club.

Things were finally looking up.

F
ive minutes later, Forsythe sat on the edge of a lime green settee appalled by the fact he hadn’t picked up on the subtle difference. Oh, she was good. He’d give her that. Always cloak your lie in truth. A five-year-old knew that much.

He
knew as much.

And yet she’d cloaked that genuine fear of hers in pity and he’d nearly swallowed it without noticing the taint.

She would have gotten away with it too, but for the fact he’d already been upstairs.

He stared bleakly at the pink peonies topping her baby grand. The Chinese vase he had spotted earlier was gone – hidden behind a duvet in a classy wardrobe.

Which meant one of two things: she thought he was likely to steal it or she was afraid he’d ask her about it. Which was exactly when he remembered the upstairs niche at Barkley Manor. No one but an expert would have singled out either piece of Asian pottery as something priceless.