Wilderness of Mirrors (4 page)

Sam banged her head against the table, and Jo Malone vanished into the dark night.
Really, I must buy that girl a bottle of Billet Doux next time I’m in Paris.

A deep sigh rippled through her slinky-bent frame. God, she was depressed. She studied Tamar’s figure through the gap between her crooked elbow and the worktable. He thumped his tail. A lover of early nights and her personal fuzzy blanket to be sure, but the prospect of going to bed with someone who didn’t lick his balls would have been a nice change. And it wasn’t just the sex. She missed talking with someone about stupid everyday things like new sneakers and the smell of laundry detergent. Missed having two toothbrushes in her
Ski Chamonix
mug.

You do remember Marc misses out on everything, don’t you
?

The dark sarcastic whisper was enough. She lifted her head and watched Tam roll to his back. Her foot followed his lead, scratching his ribcage. She felt him groan with pleasure. Rolling her neck, she counted slowly. At least one of them was getting what he wanted. What he deserved.

“One hundred.” She snapped her fingers and quit the stool while Tamar shook and stood in no particular order. A few glossy strands floated down and disappeared into the slate. “Jane’s going to have you made into a rug.”

He yawned, an imitation of the big bad wolf, and butted his head against her hand.
I suppose I can do the rest early tomorrow.
She eyed the box-laden space. “Keys first. Shoes next.” Drool and all. Then home for dinner.

Crap.
She groaned, “How’s grilled cheese sound? I don’t think we’ve a single kibble left in the house.”

Tamar shot her a sidelong look of long-suffering patience and eyed something around the corner.

It took her a second.

She’d forgotten about the tin in the office kitchen. Together they traversed the oak floored hallway, old friends without needing to remind one another.

Light flipped on, Samantha scooped up a bowl and filled it with a sizeable portion of dried brown pellets.
Oh, yum.

He stared back at her, mind filled with similar thoughts. “Now then, what to add.” She rummaged through the refrigerator for anything with which to bait the bowl. The sneering black muzzle followed her movements – until she found a fresh container of plain yogurt.

She held it up. “Good?”

The sneer lessened.

Triumphant, they pulled back. Within minutes, Samantha was leaning against the stone counter, flipping through her cell’s messages while Tamar minced his way through £10 worth of organic fare.

Her heart gave a double-whack.
Brad
? He was back, or back in touch. Months had passed since their last exchange. She’d deliberately let him go, knowing their separation would keep him from harm’s way. Knowing she wouldn’t have to worry about AG targeting him.

What could he want?

Something pebble-like rolled beneath her bared foot. Her focus drifted to Tamar who had coughed up some kernels. She ought to bring him back to the vet. Though fear, deep and terrifying, kept her away. Tam’s death might mean freedom of one kind. But the thought of losing him made her nearly mad with grief.

“You okay, Dingo?” He silenced her worry with a jab of a glance. “Fine.” She made a face. “Just making a pig of yourself then.” His expression mellowed.

Her attention returned to the message’s contents. “Brad’s back.” He had arrived in London that evening and was staying for at least a week. The dog’s tongue worked loose crumbs from his whiskers. “He wants to know if we’ll meet him for dinner tomorrow night at L’Osteria.”
Oh, to be so lucky.

She steeled herself against temptation. Never again would she be responsible for an innocent person’s life. But Tam, tail livened at the idea of leftovers, nosed her expectantly.

“Sorry, Tam. Not in the cards.”

She meant to delete the message.

To set the cell down.

Instead, a surge of fury burst from her fist.

And the travertine counter paid the price, splitting into sandy chunks where its natural imperfections had required filling.

“Leave it.” Appalled by her lack of control, Sam swooped to gather the pieces before he could mistake them for food. She tossed the bits into the sink, and shakily examined her grandmother’s wedding ring. There was a deep scratch along the band and one of the prongs holding a row of alternating sapphires and diamonds had been knocked askew.

Blood was already running from a scythe-shaped slice down to the well between her knuckles. A drop hit the counter and spread like a mulish jelly blob, deep and dry before she managed to wipe it with her elbow.

She jammed her finger into her mouth and yanked off the ring. The white gold was a tart companion to the salt of her blood. With her opposite hand, she flung on the water and let the blast wash her injury and the remaining bits of sandy residue down the drain.

“Your mummy’s a moron,” she mumbled through the ring’s presence.

He had been nosing her dropped cell, and giving it up for inedible, began a slow study of his right dewclaw.

At least she wouldn’t be the object of a child’s future psychiatric visits. That was something.

Shaking her hand dry, she applied the back of it to a clean tea towel. Then she pulled the ring from her mouth and slid it onto her left hand. Its middle finger was slightly smaller than her right hand’s, so she pushed it onto her index.

Tomorrow. She’d go and have it fixed after her work at Barkley was done. Then she’d call the man who’d installed the kitchen and have him send someone over to fix the stonework. She’d fix it all. Quickly.

Got to get a grip, girl.

She ran water-chilled fingertips over her weary face. A sigh rumbled along the back of her throat. Her stomach echoed the complaint. Hunger and Loneliness. She was sick to death of them.

Maybe I could meet Brad tomorrow. I could say I’m thinking of using him as cover. That I need a classy date if I’m to pull off the London job.

You really believe they’ll think Brad means nothing to you?

She stared at the glistening semi-circle of crimson, loathing the slippery slope that accompanied bargaining with a ghost.

Only this once. I’ll make certain of it. Never again.

She took Marc’s silence for agreement, knowing quite well it wasn’t.

Nigel didn’t rise from his first class seat until the plane had emptied. Then he heaved his willpower nearly as high as his carry-on and met Brad at the baggage carousel.

“Your clubs.” Brad swung the wheeled bag so Forsythe could grab its handle without twisting his torso.

Another pretext. A pair of reuniting University mates back from their golf holiday in the Canary Islands.

Another heap of lies.

“The driver’s outside.” Brad played Moses to a sea of women. “Excuse me, luv.”

Two, striking and available, chatted while eying them. Brad tossed away the comment and a smoldering twitch of a smile that might have been anything from a lure to a
fuck-off
. Nigel merely limped onward into the gray twilight of London in February.

A silver Mercedes waited. The sleek E 63 AMG Saloon slid toward them like an alligator commandeering a river of smog and inferior forms of transportation. In a hushed moment, the driver loaded their bags and the two agents folded themselves away into the vehicle’s blackened interior.

Brad took the front passenger seat, leaving the rear to Nigel. Once inside, Forsythe draped his battered frame over the bench seat and closed his eyes.
Why on earth had he let himself be talked into returning to London?

Dark eyes bored through his weighty eyelids. He opened them rather than ignore the unasked question. “What?”

Thick hair swept back under his sunglasses, Nigel’s brother-in-arms was the picture of health. “You look like shit. Your sister’s not going to be happy.”

Nigel grunted; his broken ribs a grinding discomfort even now, five days later. “Kate’s never happy.” Which was unaccountably true. “And she needn’t know I’m back.”
I’ll be gone before news of my brief stay ever makes its way to Barkley Manor.

Brad studied him over the headrest an instant longer, then turned his attention to the driver. “Take us to Battery Wharf, Battersea, yeah?”

Eyes sealed once more, Nigel drifted away.

In what seemed only minutes, they were unloading the vehicle and crossing through the pier’s barricade of gates. Brad’s barge, if such luxury could live within the dull word, shouldered the glossy dock. They negotiated the ramp and entered his carelessly elegant living quarters after he had disarmed the high-end security system.

A great tomcat crossed the room - malevolence from whisker to tail - ignoring them and being ignored, as was their mutual habit.

“Whisky?” Brad was at the bar, a well-stocked, well-used corner of his floating home.

Nigel shook his head and dropped like a stone to the worn leather club chair. He heard the pop and flare of the propane fireplace coming to life and listened with detachment as his friend penetrated the kitchen, a stiff drink sloshing against the thick crystal tumbler.

Familiar sounds. Only no longer comforting ones.

Ever since he’d shot Irina, since the moment he’d pulled that trigger, his life had ricocheted away from him. Never one to indulge in material things, he had at least found pleasure in their rare comings and goings.
Now?
Now he could barely stomach the idea of numbing his pain. He had no right to pleasure. But he did have a plan. Finish the job he’d started in Moscow and avenge Irina. He’d find Jaak and Ivan and carve their hearts out. Then he’d hunt down the man who’d hired them and make him wish he’d never drawn breath.

An inquisitive nose made contact with his hand; he leant two fingers to the cat’s cause.

There was a murmur of messages being played, and afterward, the sporadic spurt of a shower.

He waited for the inevitable return of Brad’s bared feet against the wooden floor.

“Care if I play?”

Nigel shrugged. “If it stops you fussing over me.”

“Fuck you, Forsythe. I never asked C for a transfer to the babysitting department.” Truer falsehoods were never spoken. The Head of SIS’s elite clandestine division had little use for agents who’d gone soft.

A drift of air from the Steinway being opened stirred the hairs on Nigel’s wrists. Under the mahogany sail’s lift, the sound swept upward and the adagio pushed its way under his melancholy skin.

It was his late mother’s favorite piece. And Brad had played it at Daniella’s funeral – a request from an absent son. Another choking burst of self-loathing descended upon Nigel. However altruistic his original motivations may have been, the effects of his career in SIS were appalling if one considered the women in his life.

At once, the room felt far too small.

He needed out – fast.

“Not until after dinner tomorrow night,” Brad growled through a half-swallow of 25 year-old Macallan. “L’Osteria. You owe me.”

Nigel snorted, regretting it immediately, and took Brad up on the double-whisky he’d left on the table beside the club chair.

Forsythe hadn’t taken more than a handful of painkillers since the hospital dispatched him, loathing the feeling of detachment and lack of control that came with them. But it was high time to dose himself another way. In an hour, he’d be out cold, and perhaps, if he were lucky, the blonde would pay his imagination a visit.

Because he couldn’t take the foul splash of Russian murder a moment more.

O
h shit, it’s the 12
th
.

Samantha came to a dead stop at the corner of Lupus and Claverton streets, her heart plunging deeper than a coalmine. There was no way she could go home. Not if it meant greeting another fucking bouquet with a forced smile of appreciation.

If only Brad had meant tonight. Then, at least, she’d be able to ignore the ghastly arrangement of floral pity, and better still, miss its provider. She simply hadn’t the strength to see Mr. Turner tonight.

Maybe I could.

You can’t just drop in on Brad. What if he’s got someone with him?

For once, just shut the hell up.

She snapped her fingers to let Tamar know they were heading for the Thames instead. Along the way, between a seedy pub and a newsagents, there was a first class grocer with its own butcher. She’d stop there first. Because Brad loved meat. Anytime. Any type. If a member of the ovine or bovine species passed him, she had no doubt he saw it the way a butcher did. Neatly lined with labeled pieces. Food was the way to forgiveness in this case.

Some minutes later, she yanked the door and passed into the warmth of the shop.

Tam surfed her wake, sauntering over to snuffle an interesting corner, while she flashed a half-smile at the owner’s son, Tony. Father to the chubby, black-eyed twins on proud display behind him.

“You’re in late today.” He rummaged beneath the counter. “Dad’s been saving some bones for your boy there.”

“I think Tam’s going to leave me for him one of these days.” She took the wrapped package from him and tucked it away where Tam couldn’t get it. “Work ran long.”

“Retail jail’s a right bastard, isn’t it?”

She laughed in agreement. “Doesn’t your father give you time off for good behavior?”

“According to him, I ain’t been good since the day my mom delivered me.”

“Not even to see them.” She tipped her head toward the photo. “He never stops going on about those two.”

Tony rubbed greasy hands across the front of his striped butcher’s apron. “Goin’ to be one in May.” He handed her the photo.

“Already?” Sam tipped it to stop the light’s refraction. “What are you feeding them? They look about four.” She passed it back.

Tony chuckled, placing the frame along the pristine counter. “Meat. Something you should be eating.”

Sam shook with squeamish revulsion. “Not me, thank you. But, I am cooking for someone who doesn’t mind chomping through tendons and veins.”