Heller (29 page)

“Heller, we
have to go now, remember? We’ve got that . . . thingy . . . to
attend to. You know, on the other side of the city. That’s why you
came to pick me up.” I glared at him in a meaningful manner.

“Oh yes, the
thingy. How could I have forgotten about that?” he drawled. And
ignoring complaints that he’d only just arrived, Heller and I made
our farewells and escaped gratefully into the late afternoon
sunshine. Mum came out into the front yard to wave us off and I
could see Gayle and Elise staring longingly from the front window.
We jumped into his Mercedes and drove off hurriedly.

“That was fun,
wasn’t it?” I said, desperately cheerful. He turned to stare at me
in pointed silence. “Thank you for doing that for me, Heller,” I
continued, in my sweetest voice and with my most winsome smile. He
rolled his eyes. “But you shouldn’t have teased my mother like you
did. She believed you and I’ll never hear the end of it now. She’s
probably writing out wedding invitations as we speak.”

“Maybe I did
mean it,” he smiled.

It was my turn
to roll my eyes. “Sure you did.”

“Your brother
– not Sean, the other one?”

“Brian.”

“Yes, him. I
could sense a lot of hostility towards me from him. Why?”

“I dunno.
Maybe because his wife was making goo-goo eyes at you the whole
time? Or maybe because he’s a cop? Which you already know,
remember?” He smirked. “Maybe he could smell you. Are you on a most
wanted list somewhere?”

“Perhaps.”

I scoured his
face with my eyes. “You know, you really are very secretive about
yourself. I’m going to google you when we get home.”

“You won’t
find anything that you don’t already know,” he said with
confidence.

I continued to
regard him steadily and decided to subject him to my own
third-degree. “I noticed that you didn’t answer many of Mum’s
questions.” He smiled enigmatically. “What is your first name
anyway?”

“My driver’s
licence and passport say it’s Peter.”

“That’s a
strange way to answer a very basic question. Isn’t it Peter?”

“No, not
really.”

“Is that why
you don’t use it?”

“Partly.”

I had a
disturbing thought. “Is Heller your real name?”

“No.”

“Why do you
use a fake name?”

Silence.

I sighed. “How
old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Is that
true?”

“Possibly.
That’s what my passport tells me.” He was making fun of me, but I
can be very stubborn for the truth sometimes.

“What’s your
star sign?”

“Depends what
I’m claiming my date of birth to be.”

“You have more
than one date of birth?”

“I like to be
flexible.”

“Currently?”

“Currently I
believe I’m a Scorpio.”

“You don’t
strike me as a Scorpio.”

“I don’t know
– mysterious, deeply running dark passions, vengeful. I think it
suits me quite well actually.”

“I suppose. Do
you have any tattoos?”

“Why don’t you
look for yourself later this evening?”

“Heller!”

He sighed
patiently. “You come from a very nosy family, Matilda. No, I don’t
have any tattoos. I decided long ago it was better not to have any
identifying features.”

Apart from
being a tall, stacked, gorgeous Viking warrior that is
, I
thought in silent amusement.

He threw me
that half-smile again as he glanced at me. “But I know exactly what
tattoo I’m going to get when I retire from this business.”

“What?” I
asked curiously.

“I’m going to
get ‘Matilda’ inked right across my heart.” And he patted his left
pec twice, completely deadpan.

I burst into
laughter and smacked him lightly on his forearm. “You’re such a
flirt!” He chuckled quietly to himself. “I have a tattoo.”

“I know. Inner
right ankle. A thistle. Symbol of the Chalmers’ Scottish heritage,
I presume.”

I stared at
him surprised. “You’re very observant! Most people don’t notice.
It’s only small.”

“I notice
everything about you, Matilda.” That unfathomable smile again.

“Does that
mean I’m tougher than you, because I’ve got a tattoo and you
haven’t?”

In response,
he merely laughed in that low growly sexy way that made my stomach
flip over. I had to look out of the window after that to hide my
expression from him. We turned into our street and I was thinking
about whether I should offer Daniel another cooking lesson that
evening when the windscreen on the Mercedes suddenly shattered and
I felt something flying past my face.

“Get down!”
shouted Heller, pulling me down forcefully towards the seat, his
hand around the back of my neck. I cracked the side of my head
painfully hard on the gearstick, but stayed crouched obediently in
enormous discomfit, eyes popping out of my head in fear, heart
thumping. He bunched his fist and smashed the shattered glass of
the windscreen so that he could see through it, showering both of
us in glass fragments, blood trickling down his fingers and wrist.
He sped recklessly down the street, skidding noisily into the
driveway of the Warehouse and scraping the top of the vehicle, not
waiting for the automatic garage door to open fully. He screeched
down to the first basement garage, slammed on the brakes, pulled up
the handbrake and jumped out of the Mercedes, running over to press
on an alarm button mounted on the garage wall.

I sat up
cautiously. Within minutes, every security man in the building was
pounding down the stairs from the floor above, followed a few
moments later by Clive, who was carrying a gun. They listened
grim-faced while Heller explained what had just happened, Clive
holstering his weapon. One of the men assisted me out of the
vehicle and helped me brush off the pieces of glass in my hair and
on my clothes. I was in shock, not sure what had just happened,
silently watching everyone with frightened eyes. My temple was
throbbing where I had hit the gearstick and I rubbed it gently, a
mammoth headache coming on. It made me feel a bit nauseous.

Heller came
over to me, as Clive and another man crawled into the vehicle
trying to find the projectile.

“You okay,
Matilda?”

“I don’t know.
I hit my head on the gearstick.” He examined the side of my head
with considerate tenderness and if I hadn’t been afraid that I was
about to throw up all over him, I would have enjoyed the soft touch
of his fingers. He brushed a few more glass fragments out of my
hair.

“You need to
lie down with an icepack. You’ve got a lump developing.”

“It was a just
rock flicking up from the road, wasn’t it? I felt it fly past my
face.”

He didn’t
answer, but I could see that he was immensely furious at that, his
fists clenched tightly, his nostrils flaring.

“
Fucking
bastards!
” bellowed Clive angrily, from inside the vehicle.
“They’re going to kill one of us one day.” He climbed out and
called Heller over, showing him something he held in his hand.
Heller took it and held it up to get a better view of it, twisting
it around. I briefly saw it before they turned their backs on me,
blocking everything from my view. It didn’t look like a rock to
me.

I was feeling
quite sick by then and walked over to the wall, sliding down to the
floor. My head was now pounding relentlessly. I lay down on the
concrete floor, not caring about how dirty it was, its coldness
giving my poor head some relief. I shut my eyes and held my
stomach, willing it to settle down. I could hear the men talking in
loud voices about who could be responsible for what had happened,
and it seemed as though general consensus leaned towards it being
Select Security, one of Heller’s larger and more aggressive rival
security firms.

My shoulder
was gently shaken and I opened one eye to see Rumbles’ kind face
peering down at me with concern.

“You don’t
look so good, Miss. Let’s get you upstairs to bed. Need a rest
after a knock on the head like that. And an icepack.” He helped me
to my feet. A wave of nausea rolled over me and I put my hand to my
mouth, trying to keep the contents of my stomach in their rightful
place. Every step I took made my head thump and increased my
nausea.

“I don’t think
I’m going to be able to make it upstairs, Rumbles,” I said on the
verge of tears, feverish with nausea.

“Sure you can,
Miss. You’re a tough little thing.” We took it very slowly, his arm
around me not just supporting me but virtually carrying me, and I
can tell you that four flights of stairs is an agonisingly long
climb when you’re feeling as sick as I was. We reached my flat and
I went straight to the bathroom and threw up repeatedly into the
toilet, until there was nothing left in my stomach. Even then I
dry-retched some more. Rumbles, who had waited discreetly outside
the bathroom, assisted me into my bed and fetched me some cold
water and an icepack that he gingerly placed on my temple. But the
pressure of the icepack was excruciating and I started crying with
the pain.

I closed my
eyes briefly. When I opened them again, Heller and Daniel were
standing next to my bed, watching me with apprehension.

“I don’t feel
well. My head is killing me,” I told them, tears trickling from my
eyes. Heller took off the icepack and gently felt around my temple.
I felt my stomach heaving again at the contact. He frowned.

“You’ve taken
a harder hit to the head than I realised. I’ve called the doctor.
He’ll be here soon.”

I couldn’t
wait that long and had to make another agonising path to the
bathroom to dry-retch. I collapsed onto the floor afterwards, face
leaning against the tiles, crying quietly. I’d never felt so sick
in my life. Heller and Daniel helped me back to bed and we all
waited anxiously for the doctor. It seemed like eternity, but was
probably only ten minutes before he arrived. He shot me a
not
you again
look and then an injection of a strong painkiller,
prodded painfully around my temple and left me some more
painkillers in tablet form. He had a muttered conversation with
Heller and Daniel that I couldn’t hear, before departing. Heller
brought a dining chair into my bedroom and sat on it.

“You don’t
have to stay,” I said drowsily, the painkiller kicking in quickly.
Thank the Lord for drugs. “I’ll be okay now. I feel better
already.”

“Doctor’s
orders, I’m afraid. You have to be monitored constantly for the
next twelve hours.” He crossed over to the bed, kicked off his
shoes and lay down next to me, drawing me close against him.

“Someone shot
at us, didn’t they?” I murmured into his chest, not able to keep my
eyes open.

He hesitated
before answering. “Yes.”

“Has that
happened before?”

“Yes.”

“Was it Select
Security?”

“Probably.”

“Why? They
might have killed us.” Tears formed again under my eyelids and I
could hear the wobble in my voice. “Why would someone want to kill
us?”

He didn’t
answer for a few minutes, busy stroking my back. I snuggled up
closer to him in response. He tightened his arms, trapping me
against him.

“I’m good at
making enemies, my sweet,” he finally said, softly.

“What will you
do about it?” I slurred, not minding the close contact. I struggled
to stay awake to hear his answer, but it was no use. I felt safe
nestled in his arms. My eyes shut and I fell into an uneasy sleep.
I woke up a few times during the night, thirsty and disoriented. He
was always there to help me find the water, and to pull up the
bedcovers for me when I fell back on my pillow. When I woke up I
was very groggy. It took me a good five minutes to focus and be
able to get out of bed. Daniel jumped up from the chair, ready to
grab me as I staggered around, trying to get to the bathroom.

“I’m okay,” I
assured him and shut the door on him. I splashed some cold water
over my face. Thankfully I wasn’t nauseous anymore and my headache
was only now a dull throb. The swelling on my temple had gone down,
but some bruising was already developing. Forget a street brawler,
I was starting to look like a professional fighter.

I spent the
rest of the day recovering in my pyjamas, with a stream of
visitors. Even Clive popped his head in for a second. He stood over
me menacingly, viewed me with no expression at all on his flinty
face and shook his head with disapproval.

“I knew you
were a trouble-magnet,” he judged dismissively and then left as
quickly as he had arrived. And his visit really cheered me up, as
you can imagine.

When I finally
felt human again, I did as I had threatened and googled Heller’s
name. No surprise, but he was right. There was nothing about him on
the internet except his current business activities.

Heller and I
had an appointment with some new clients a few days later. I
concealed my recent bruising as effectively as possible and we
drove to the same hotel where Lily and her husband had stayed.
There we met Mr and Mrs Sharif, and their sixteen-year-old
daughter, Salimah. Mr Sharif explained that he and his wife were in
the city to attend to a deceased estate and wished for their
daughter to be chaperoned and entertained for the next four days,
commencing the next morning. I covertly assessed Salimah, hoping I
didn’t have another Lily on my hands. She was a tall, thin girl,
wearing glasses, quite plain, modestly but modernly dressed and
shy. She didn’t look like trouble, but I’d seen all of that
before.

Mrs Sharif
advised that Mr Hayek had indeed recommended
Heller’s
to
them, and that his ‘lovely little wife’ had in particular enthused
over my discretion, commonsense and good company.

“And how is
dear Lily?” I asked amiably. “We had such a delightful time
together.”