Assassin (24 page)

‘I love you, Mak.’

His tongue darted out and she closed her eyes, arching her back.

Mak held her orgasm for what seemed an eternity. When it finally crashed, the pleasure rippled out like waves through her whole body, shooting up through her arms and out through her fingertips. She shuddered and sighed beneath him as he raised himself up between her legs and undid the buttons on his jeans. She felt his bare cock push at the hollow between her legs and she lifted herself and ground her hips against him, teasing. She was wet and warm, and once she could wait no longer she grabbed his buttocks and asked for what she wanted, whispering in his ear. He slid inside her inch by inch, gasping with every millimetre of progress.

‘Yes …’ she whispered with her mouth, as if her body was not already saying it louder.

They rolled to one side across the stiff hotel sheets and she pulled herself atop him, barely keeping him inside her for a moment. He held her hips as she leaned over him and inhaled the nape of his strong neck, her plump lips pressed to his stubble, smelling that masculine scent she’d always found so intoxicating — a scent like honeyed spice. Slowly, she slid her hand across his firm chest, from one nipple to the other, and pushed her hips down. He arched beneath her, body tense, impatient. She rose again until both of his hands grasped her
buttocks, begging her not to move. She slowly slid back over his length, and he tilted his head back.

‘Fuck.’

Again and again she slid over him.

He gripped her.

It was over too fast. So they began again and took their time.

Jack Cavanagh sat at his impressive mahogany desk on the fourteenth floor of the city offices of Cavanagh Incorporated. It was late and he had not gone home.

Mr White watched him closely, hands laced behind his back like a general. He broke from his stance to pour them each a whisky from Jack’s limited edition 1960s bar cabinet. He handed Jack a drink and sat down.

‘Tell me what’s happening, Bob,’ Jack said eagerly. He’d been waiting for an update.

‘There has been another development,’ The American told his client calmly. He only pretended to sip his drink.

As Jack nursed his whisky, Robert White outlined what had happened at the construction site, leaving out whatever incriminating details Jack did not need to know. White, ‘The American’, had authorisation to do whatever was necessary to remove the threat, and the less his client knew about the details, the better. That had been agreed upon.

When he finished explaining what had happened, Jack’s eyes were wild. ‘What about the cop?’ he asked.

‘I’m monitoring it. It’s unlikely he’ll pull through.’

Jack nodded, seeming conflicted. ‘Okay. That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘In my opinion this is a good result,’ White explained. ‘Vanderwall will get no support now. She’s wanted. Any remaining credibility to her stories has been destroyed. The police don’t appreciate cop killers. She’ll be hunted down.’

‘Should we be worried about the journalist?’

‘We’ve been watching him for a while. My opinion is that he will back off for now.’

‘Well,
keep
watching him,’ Jack urged, unnecessarily.

The American nodded. ‘There may be some press tomorrow about this incident with Vanderwall. It’s a cop shooting, so that can’t be avoided. It will work in our favour.’

Jack screwed up his face. ‘I don’t want press.’ He hit his fist on the desk.

The American’s eyes narrowed just a touch. ‘You will not be mentioned, unless it is in passing. Her harassment of you is on public record. Again, unavoidable that it would be mentioned. It will work in our favour. Discrediting her is a credit to you,’ he explained.

He had a contact handling things with the major newspapers. Journalists tended to be poorly paid, thus only the most stubbornly ethical amongst them could resist being guided towards the ‘right’ story using the right methods. Influence could be handled delicately, invisibly. Access. Favours. Never anything so gauche as a cheque. Most of his best journalists would not even think of themselves as having been bribed. ‘This will be nothing for you to worry about, I assure you,’ The American added.

Jack stood up and took to pacing in front of his window, drink in hand. White continued to watch him, not liking
what he saw. He was using all his contacts and considerable influence to keep the situation under control, but the truth was, Jack himself seemed to be in a worrying state. Paranoid. A little erratic. After White’s suggestion he’d recently hired a bodyguard, but he’d done it on his own. The man was not of White’s choosing. Security was vital, but it could be handled invisibly. A bodyguard like the one Jack had chosen didn’t look good. It was a problem that his client had not hired according to his recommendations. Damien Cavanagh had hired a mate to hang out at the house and
play
bodyguard: that was the reality.

‘Have you heard from Beverley?’ he enquired.

Beverley Cavanagh had been in Europe for several weeks. A gossip columnist had got hold of the story. It could have been innocuous — wife of Jack Cavanagh enjoys a European holiday — but it looked bad to have her travel alone while her husband was in Sydney, the subject of rumours of investigation for criminal activities, his historic transport deal on hold. It did not present the solid family front The American was hoping to see. Anything that suggested instability was bad at this point, from a professional standpoint. There were whispers that the long-standing Cavanagh marriage was in trouble.

‘No,’ Jack said simply. He sipped his drink and stared out at the cloudless sky. The American wondered what he saw.

‘Perhaps you could take a bit of time off?’ he gently suggested. ‘Perhaps join her?’

‘Do you think so?’

‘It would be good to be seen together,’ he added. ‘Val d’Isère is lovely this time of year.’

Jack turned, eyes downcast. ‘Perhaps I’ll take a few days at the beach house and think it over.’

‘Good idea.’

‘Yes.’

‘I could arrange for more experienced security if you like. You remember I mentioned a candidate?’ White ventured, still trying.

‘That won’t be necessary.’

The American nodded. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll let you know if there are any important developments,’ he said evenly.

Inside, he was already planning for contingencies. A man like White always had an escape plan. When things went wrong, they did so quickly. It appeared he was rapidly losing control of his client and he knew from experience what that could mean. Increasingly, he was of the feeling that he wanted out.

Before Cavanagh risked taking him down with him.

It was around midnight when Damien Cavanagh fetched his black Diablo from the bowels of the Cavanagh building in Sydney’s CBD, having taken a frustratingly long taxi ride in from Palm Beach. Passing the security guard — who gawked when he realised who he was — Damien wondered briefly whether his father would be told he’d been there, and at what time. Obviously he was not going to just hang out at Palm Beach, like he was under house arrest. Grounded like a child. That was never going to happen. His father would know that.

Damien’s car was one of only two left in the parking lot at this hour, and the only one under a protective cover. He pulled the dusty silver cover off and nodded to himself as he clapped eyes on the vehicle beneath. The alarm switched off with a chirp and he got in, ducking under the driver’s door, which raised itself for him like the elegant wing of a
bird. The ignition turned over easily, and minutes later the security guard was watching him with interest, and not a little jealousy, as he slunk past in the low-slung Lamborghini, paint gleaming like black enamel under the parking lot’s fluorescent lights.

He pulled up outside the back door to Le Chat nightclub to find a dark-skinned, thickset man in a black T-shirt and pants guarding the door, his arms folded. He was heavily muscled and he evidently recognised Damien, or his car. He’d been expected.

The car door raised itself again and Damien stepped out, closed the door and flicked the alarm on. The alley was tight and filthy. Music poured out of the club, the beat pounding the walls.

‘Your car is good here, man,’ the meaty bouncer said and put his palm out, but Damien did not give him the keys. He didn’t want some westie muscle-head trash taking his Diablo out for a joyride while he was inside. Fuck that. He breezed past, and the man opened the door for him at the last moment. Inside, the odour of cigar smoke filled his nose. Paul, the proprietor, appeared instantly, smiling broadly with teeth that glowed blue under the black lights.

‘Good to see you. Won’t you come this way?’

Damien was escorted into a small private room with plush red couches and curtains. A cheap-looking chandelier hung in the centre, and a bar lit with neon glowed in one corner, champagne bottles lined up neatly before a bevelled mirror.

He looked around, disappointed. ‘Where is she?’ Damien asked impatiently.

‘You want a drink, man? Veuve?’ He clicked his fingers and gestured to a young woman in a miniskirt and short leather
top. She disappeared behind a red curtain. ‘It’s good to hear from you. It’s been a while,’ he went on.

Damien didn’t like the club owner’s smile. It was a bit too easy, too try hard. ‘I’ve been away,’ he said vaguely and looked around the room.

It was just a tacky red square room, candle wax stuck to the gaudy carpet. Worse than he remembered.

The pink pill had really set in now. He wanted to fuck.

‘Where is she?’

‘Have some champagne. Relax. You’ll like her. Don’t worry. I knew you’d like her as soon as you called …’

Damien didn’t know this man Paul very well — he’d even forgotten his last name — but he had some reputation in certain circles. And Damien had got desperate. Now the small talk was beginning to put him on edge. He didn’t want to be jerked around. If he was going to take a chance, it had to be worth it, right? He didn’t care to be manipulated. Too many drinks and the lighting too low, and you didn’t know what you were getting. They could make them look younger than they really were. Some of them know the act.

In Monaco, if you know the right people, everything was easy. It was no problem. Australia irritated him. Small cities, small minds. Everyone so fucking boring and straight. He wouldn’t have come back except that he’d run out of cash.

The curtains moved and an attractive blonde appeared. She held a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, and she smiled at him, hopeful. She set the bucket down and popped the cork, then passed him a fresh glass of champagne. Damien took it without giving her a second glance. She was not at all his type.

He waited impatiently for the entertainment he’d been promised, and when she arrived, she did not disappoint. She
was beautiful, small. Big brown eyes. Heart-shaped mouth. Her hair was straight and black, her skin a deep, glossy olive.

‘This is Maria,’ Paul said. That wouldn’t be her real name. ‘Like I said, she’s new here. She doesn’t speak a lot of English.’

Damien smiled at her, his mind already ticking over what he wanted to do to her, and how. ‘What’s your name? Maria?’

She just looked at him with those big eyes.

‘How old are you?’

She looked nervously to Paul. ‘Go on,’ he told her.

‘Eighty teen,’ she said slowly. She was trying to say eighteen. And she was lying.

Good
, he thought.
Good.

‘We want to be alone now,’ Damien told Paul, without looking at him.

‘You’ve got as long as you like. I can bring you some —’

‘I don’t want anything. Just leave.’

He heard the door close. Maria stood nervously in front of him. Perhaps Damien shouldn’t have underestimated Paul. This was going to work out fine.

He heard the door open again.

‘Hey, I said I didn’t want —’

The look in the girl’s eyes told him to turn, and when he did, the words froze in his throat.

Holy shit.

The American.

His father’s security man appeared through the doorway, and in a flash Damien found himself being taken forcibly by the arm away from the girl and out of the small private room of Le Chat.

‘Your services will not be required,’ The American told Paul, who looked red-faced and panicked. He slipped him an envelope as they went past and Paul closed his hand around it.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Before he knew it, Mr White had extracted the keys to Damien’s car, and was placing him in the passenger seat. Damien was too mortified to protest.

‘Put your head down,’ Mr White told him as he got into the driver’s side and closed the door.

‘Hey, I —’ he began to protest.

‘Put your head down
now
.’

Finally he complied. He slid down in the passenger seat and bent his head low.

‘Lower, please.’

He shifted sideways and covered his face with his hands.

‘Better.’

Mr White pulled out onto Bayswater Road with Jack’s son. He immediately spotted the white car of a known paparazzi going the other way. He didn’t want to be photographed driving Damien’s car. He didn’t want to be photographed at all. Mr White avoided photographs and video recordings whenever possible, as a matter of habit.

‘Stay down. There is paparazzi following,’ he informed Cavanagh Junior.

Damien took a sharp, audible breath. ‘Have you been watching me?’ he asked.

‘It is my job to look after your father’s interests,’ he replied coolly. Of course he’d been watching him.

He shot a look to the passenger seat. Damien appeared slack-mouthed. He’d sat up again. ‘Stay down, please.’

‘You … He’s having me spied on? You are spying on me? Hey, what happened to the bouncer guy?’ he said, belatedly realising that no one had been next to his car.

‘He could identify you.’

‘Holy shit! What did you do to him?’ Damien was freaking out. Mr White wondered what he was on. Ecstasy? Something else?

‘Nothing has happened to him. He just needed to have a talk with one of my colleagues. You should know that Le Chat nightclub has CCTV cameras in every room. The toilets. And the private rooms.’

Damien fell silent.

He didn’t say another word on the drive back to Palm Beach.