Wilderness of Mirrors (3 page)

A flicker echoed. Code correct, he drove forward a few hundred meters, then dragged himself out and waited until two men came closer. One was his friend, Agent Bradley Milton, the other, their MI6 pilot.

Nigel traced cigar smoke in the mist’s hold. “I hope you saved one for the ride.”

Brad clasped Nigel’s shoulder, his dark head of hair absent in the night. Some warmth passed between them. “I did; though where you’ll get yours is a mystery. Havana’s not a layover on this flight.”

Then the surly Anglo-Italian was away, rummaging through the SUV, having left a cigar in Nigel’s hand with the precision of a Roman Fagan.

They loaded the Toyota’s contents into the Bell Longeranger’s hold, and at last, Nigel passed into the back and collapsed into a position of marginal comfort. God, he was tired. His eyelids dropped, and he pinched the remnants of sand from his white-blond lashes.

“Nasty,” Brad muttered, English shoving aside French.

So Brad had noted Wouter’s work.

“Hmmm.” Nigel straightened his good leg to keep it from falling asleep. “Just find me a pretty doctor in Lanzarote and I won’t bore you with the details.” Now his other leg was asleep. He longed to fidget, but his chest was kicking its heels about breathing.

“Fuck Lanzarote.” Brad’s hands prodded the damage, and Nigel cranked open an eye. There was a reluctant ripping sound.

“I paid a lot for those. They’re custom made rip stop UVA.”

There was more tearing, and the side pocket was a memory. Then came sloshing from Brad’s canteen, aided by the helicopter’s upward sweep. Oddly, Nigel couldn’t feel the silver stream against his skin.

“And fuck pretty doctors,” Brad swore, his latex-encased hands hard at it.

“I was planning to.” Too late, Nigel flinched in regret at the raw memory of flailing white hands and lovely wide-set Russian eyes.
Not now, maya krasaveetsa. Not ever again
. He tried to banish the bitter wash of anguish from his features. Brad didn’t know what had happened on his most recent Moscow op. Didn’t know Nigel had been forced by Ivan and Jaak to kill his girlfriend, Irina.

Brad ripped apart a plastic package. “They’d turn you down. You look like shit. Here.”

Nigel dumped the pills into his desiccated mouth. He managed not to choke, then felt depressed for a moment until he remembered dead men couldn’t seek revenge. “Just don’t expect me to sleep with you.”

“I’m not that desperate.” Brad’s retort blended with the rotor’s groan, and mercifully Nigel stopped noticing anything at all.

I
f Samantha had flown about Westminster on a black and cold night hunting for the perfect window through which to fly, she would have swooped right over the short columned balcony straight into the Regency’s sunny core.

Which was to say, she had chosen the location of
Bond and Teller Interiors
design firm in the manner of a tired moth.

And though her partner, Jane Teller, had not been selected in the same manner, she was certainly as iconic in style and warm in manner as the white brick manse.

So it was unfortunate then, that like a teetotaler who may only admire champagne’s bubbly grandeur from a safe distance, Sam couldn’t truly enjoy either. She had to treat both people and possessions – Tam excluded - with the chary eye of a Roman tactician; because, unlike the moth, she would not be lulled by wool’s soft warmth only to be broken between angry fingers.

Instead, when the time finally came, she planned on pulling those fingers with her straight into the flame.

What a fucking disaster.
Sam stared at the massive boxes - muted gray with sleek black pinstripes - lying like toppled cities across her workroom’s battered oak floors. It had seemed a good idea at the time, customized packaging for catered affairs. Now it appeared excessive and more than slightly menacing.

“Have you seen a roll of labels?”
I just had the damn things in my hand.

Jane emerged from a crevasse of silk shaking her head.

Reexamining the elegant, high-ceilinged interior, Sam fought disproportionate anger. They’d spent the better part of the day whirring about their chic universe like deranged planets and still seemed galaxies from finishing. “I should’ve hired someone to pack and load the drapes and centerpieces.”
I can’t believe I forgot. I never forget.

Jane gave a tight nod and said, “Irishmen.”

“Irishmen?”

“Big burly ones. They could stuff the boxes, then us.” She broke from folding heaps of hand-dyed silk to illustrate the finer points of her lithe black-clad figure. “We could spin like roulette wheels until one of them fit just right.” She made a hatchet motion with her hand. “Or well enough a few whacks in the right places would set ’em straight. And ringa ding dong go the bells of St. Paul’s.”

It had been a long time since Sam imagined relying on anyone, let alone a man.
Ever After
belonged on Netflix, where Dougray Scott would forever sulk in tights. She said as much.

“You’re wrong.” Jane flipped the last of the custom draperies into a cavernous box. “I refuse to believe men can’t be molded into perfect mates.”

Slipping through the maze until the labels came to light, Sam said, “Some maybe. But you go looking for play dough pliability in rockers and – ” She jabbed at the corner of the elegant, oval sticker but failed to budge it. “How’s a person supposed to catch the edge of these?”
It’s not as though I chew my nails anymore
.
Not since Granddad soaked my hands in vinegar, then dropped dead on his way back to the pantry.

Jane straightened, her glossy black ponytail perpendicular to her level shoulders. “The hedge is cut?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gesturing to Sam’s hands and enunciating her words with
My Fair Lady
precision, Jane repeated, “The edge of what?”

“Oh, labels.” Sam attacked again. “I designed new ones to go on our packaging. Gotcha.” She balanced the freed decal on one finger and headed for a nearby carton where she set about trying to center it. The result wasn’t pretty. “God, now the thing’s gone and plastered itself askew. And there’s a fucking crease to boot.”

Jane examined the wrinkle.

The scent of Jo Malone was overwhelming.

Sam tipped her chin so they were face to face. “You’re a space invader.”

“And you’re deaf as a doornail, not to mention ridiculous. Who’s going to see these when we deliver them? Hmmm? The maids.” Jane smirked when Sam growled. “Temper, temper,” she tutted, “Once they’re hung, these’ll be whisked straight to the bin. And if we’re truly lucky,” she carried on like a mad pixie, “they’ll go to attic heaven where they’ll gather dust. Lady Kate will never even see them.”

“Oh, just stop.” The crease, dust-laden or not, would cause Sam sleepless nights. Precision had always been a real part of her. And in the last decade, it had done wonders for her work with ‘Acquisitions Group’, the shadowy organization to which she had become inescapably tied. Her jobs were charted out to the minutest detail, and if she hadn’t been so sickened by the whys and wherefores, she might have taken pride in their execution. “Where’s my pen? It’s got a flat tipped cap.”

Sam’s hair tumbled loose when Jane snatched it. “Right where you always leave it.” But Jane’s smile was quick to vanish.
Maybe she knows I’m finally going to kill her.
“What is
that
?” Jane reached past Sam and hoisted a handful of silver and blue into view. “There’s a stain on them!”

For a brief age, Sam panicked too. Then the black swirl took on a familiar form. She brushed the knot away. “No, it’s dog fur.” The Thai silk winked back. Pristine. Jewel-like. Jane was quite definitely a master of her trade.

A grim line of lips colored Bobbi Brown Red cleaved her friend’s Eurasian features. “I wish he didn’t shed so much. I found one in my latte this morning, and its cover was still on.”

They both turned. Tam, unaffected by the evening’s chaos, lay motionless beneath a sprawling draftsman desk. There was an unmistakable gleam of defiance in his chocolate eyes. Sam pointed her pen at him. “Here’s your chance, Auntie Jane.
Mold
him.”

Jane resorted to a regal pose and tucked the edges of the box nearest her under one another. “At least I try. You scan men like catalogs. You don’t even bother to read the articles. And you make ridiculous excuses so you can be alone despite the fact you’re miserable. Honestly, I’ll never understand you.”

Sam worked at the sticker’s crease until satisfaction was hers. “That’s because, like catalogs, men don’t have articles. Just captions.” The deceit came easily. “You confuse them with books, when the latter are far more interesting and don’t snore.”

Jane sealed the next carton. “Have it your way. Only what was wrong with Brad’s caption?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, drop it
.
Perfect snaps, Janie. Snaps to bits of nothing under very little pressure.
But she clamped down on her annoyance and tried for indifference, thinking back to the first time she’d met Brad. He’d been playing the piano at a wedding, and she’d thought him hired – not a guest like herself. “Nothing. It was dead on. He was delicious, hilarious, rich, and a
great
shag. He should have had it tattooed on his cock.”

“So why break up with him? At least, for a few weeks, you went o…u…t. You know, that place beyond these walls.”

“I go out,” Sam ground through clenched teeth. “In fact, I travel to Asia more times a year than you go clubbing.”
Granted I don’t want to be there. And I’m doing things that would make your head spin
. Her mind flitted to the little Beijing museum and the pretty white vase she’d just stolen.

Jane wasn’t easily thwarted. “I’m talking about out with friends, out with members of the opposite sex. That kind of out.”

The last thing Sam needed was Jane playing cupid. It was a bloody dangerous game in Sam’s hidden world. “It doesn’t matter. We were never dating anyway, just having a good time.”
Though I wish it had lasted a whole lot longer, Mr. Brad Milton. You’ll never quite understand how much your friendship meant to me.

It was regrettable that Jane was as tenacious with gossip as silk and dye. “You don’t do ‘good times’; and you were damn lucky he didn’t - ” Thankfully, Jane finally registered the label’s fresh design. “Let me see those.” She opened her hand, curling fingers in Sam’s direction.

Sam tossed them over, beyond relieved by the interruption.

“They really are gorgeous.”

“Thanks.” Sam traced the label nearest her. “I used Uncle Loch’s font. It’s based on 19
th
century manuscripts. French ones. I thought I’d use it on the new stationery. Considering…”

A small pinch of distress marred Jane’s smooth brow. “How’s he doing?”

In truth, Sam wasn’t certain. When her Uncle John died, she’d finally told Loch about AG, terrified that John hadn’t really died of cancer. There had been a job – careful though she was about saying no – that Samantha had yet been unwilling to take.

But when Loch convinced her the organization had nothing to do with his husband’s death, he had nevertheless closed up their apartment and vanished in a puff of withdrawn cash.

‘
If I’m gone, they’ll have nothing left to use against you.’

And away went yet another man in her life, the loss almost unfathomable in its devastation. “I got an electronic postcard from Antarctica. Apparently grief therapy comes in the form of penguins now.” Her resentment and guilt over the matter were toxins hardly touched by humor.

Fortunately, Jane was still focused on the label. “I like the paw print between the B and T.
Posh Paws
, like our latest fabric.”

It’s for you too, Uncle John, for giving me Tamar
. Thirteen years ago they’d walked into the shelter, on the suggestion of one of John’s police friends, a canine officer who did freelance companion training on the side.

In the end, she hadn’t the heart to tell Loch that she wouldn’t be leaving. Not yet anyway. After thirteen years, even if Loch could manage to stay hidden, there was no way she’d put Tam’s life in danger. Never that.

Only when Tam was gone. Only then could she leave.

Jane parked the roll beside her cell and glanced apologetically at the remaining mess. “Sorry, Sammy, I’ve got to run. Got a date with more play dough.” She slid her scarf from the back of the metal stool nearest her. “Shite. More bloody hair.”

“Count your blessings it’s not drool.” Sam kicked her shoes into view and slumped onto the nearby stool.

Jane shuddered into the cashmere couture of her scooped-up coat. “That’s got to be a sin in some religion.”

“Pradism.”

They shared a short laugh.

Two buttons later, Jane looked up. “We’ll be at Bella’s. Come by if you want. Dan’s got a brilliant friend. I think he flies planes or something.”

“Remind me not to fly that airline.”

Jane’s jaw tensed. “Maybe I misheard and he
files plans
. Would that be any better? You’re not going to
date
him.” She snatched her cell and Tod’s hobo on her way to the door. “Just sleep with him. You need some sex. It makes a girl’s skin glow.”

“That’s disgusting. Sun makes my skin glow. And the reason I don’t want to go,” Sam lied while corralling her mane into an elasticized mess, “Is because I’m exhausted. But no one’s stopping you. Have fun. Mold someone.”

Jane paused by the antique bamboo coat rack beside the door and moved to a more neutral subject. “Can I borrow this?” She held up Sam’s grandfather’s tweed hat.

No. It won’t smell like it’s supposed to.

But Sam merely nodded, knowing it was Jane’s way of keeping the peace.
Please, God, let her be sober enough to bring it back again.
“Remember, we’ve got to be at Barkley Manor by eight tomorrow. The charity tea’s at two.”

Jane dropped the hat into her bag and curtseyed. “Aye, ma’am. Oi’ll be there unless Dan’s got me knickers up o’er me head.”