MasterStroke (18 page)

A pitiable whimper was all that was left of her. Jack gathered her up into his arms and whispered in her ear.

“Sleep, my darling.”

She had no memory of saying or doing anything else. Peace settled over her.

Chapter Twenty Three

Before Sandrine left for the office that morning, she thought of emailing Marcus. It was urgent that he know what was going on but Jack’s concerns that her computers had been hacked made her hesitate. She didn’t know whether her apartment was bugged or if cell phone transmissions could be intercepted, so she held off.

If things went according to plan and Jack’s contact did his work, she’d know for sure this afternoon.

Heathcliff had been a complete baby this morning, sitting stolidly on the bathroom vanity and watching as she applied her make-up, crowding the walk-in robe as she dressed and refusing to budge from her lap as she ate breakfast. Ordinarily, she would have loved the affection but it was obvious Heathcliff was only doing this because he felt usurped by Jack. It was jealousy, pure and simple.

“You know you’re my special boy, Heathy. And you always will be,” she cooed as she stroked his fur. He arched his back and rolled over, presenting the soft down of his tummy for further attention. “But I have another special boy now and you have to share me, difficult as that may seem.”

The dishes were washed and the apartment tidied before Sandrine gathered up her coat and bag and moved towards the door. She lingered by the hall table, where an array of photographs in sterling silver frames were displayed. She picked one up. It was an old colour photo of Sandrine, aged about eight, and Aunt Bridget. They were standing before a rough-hewn stone wall with a quaint thatched-roof cottage, their home, in the background.

Sandrine had strawberry-blonde hair, the colour of pale gold shot through with reddish highlights. She wore a checked pinafore over a white blouse, ankle socks and clunky black school shoes and a wide, happy grin dimpled her face, narrowed her eyes and creased her forehead. Her aunt, on the other hand, looked serious, almost stern, although Sandrine knew that she was rarely the way she looked, merely thoughtful and contemplative.

“What would you think of Jack?” Sandrine asked the photo. “Have I made the right decision?”

If she was seeking some divine intervention, she was to be disappointed. The apartment was silent and the two people from the long-ago past stared out at her, their expressions as quizzical as the Sphinx.

If I asked ten people, I’d get eleven different answers
, she thought.
There’s nobody to rely on to be objective. I can only go by my heart.

Memories of the cottage came flooding back. The small rooms, low ceilings, the smell of wood smoke on winter evenings and the way the grass in the front yard crackled with frost on cold mornings, the dry stone wall built a hundred years before and how she’d sit there after school and wait for someone, anyone, to go past. But they lived on a remote country lane far removed from the nearest village and even further away from Haworth, the Yorkshire town they visited once a week for provisions. Passersby were rare. Sometimes she would go days without seeing a stranger.

Whenever a car would come into view, she would get so excited, hoping with every ounce of her being that it was her parents. The cars would drive on by, however, never slowing although occasionally the drivers or passengers would wave when they saw the pretty little girl gazing so expectantly at them.

For the first ten years of her life, she would spend most of her spare time outside by the front gate, waiting. She built up elaborate fantasies that her parents were away on mysterious missions; it was a trope she borrowed from reading and re-reading Famous Five or Secret Seven books. Although Enid Blyton was considered very old-fashioned by her school friends, who preferred books about horse riding and pony clubs, her aunt had a vast collection from her own childhood and Sandrine, who appreciated the tenets of tradition even at that young age, devoured them avidly.

As she entered her teenage years, however, she gradually reconciled to the fact her mother and father would never return. Aunt Bridget, if asked a direct question, would respond in the sketchiest way but otherwise didn’t talk about them and Sandrine very rarely broached the subject. It wasn’t until near the end of her Aunt’s life, when Sandrine took leave of absence from her graduate degree and returned to England to care for her, that she ventured more detail. By this time, it was really too late. Bridget’s condition worsened rapidly and they had little time to talk although Sandrine was grateful for the time they shared.

Sandrine was Aunt Bridget’s only living relative and the estate, consisting largely of the cottage and a number of well-performing investments, passed to her. Initially, Sandrine briefly considered moving back to Yorkshire but it had never really felt like home and she wanted so much to continue her education and see the world. She reasoned that once she knew what was out there, far beyond the village greens and high streets of the English countryside, she could decide where she belonged.

Ultimately, she was able to gain her degree, repay her student loan and buy an apartment. There was more than enough left over to furnish a comfortable existence, especially as she didn’t have an extravagant lifestyle.

She put the photo frame back on the table, buttoned up her overcoat and knotted a grey cashmere scarf around her neck. The morning was chilly with low overcast clouds and, while she was careful not to openly scan the street as she walked, she thought she saw the dark Mercedes out of the corner of her eye.

The coffee shop was busy and she spent some minutes waiting for her usual coffee and Danish before reaching the store. A white van with a pest removal logo was parked directly outside as she unlocked the door. A few minutes after she’d turned on the lights and started the computer, a thin whippet of a man with white coveralls and a baseball cap with the same logo as the van entered.

“Hey, how’s it going? I’m Wayne from Allied Pest Removals for your ten o’clock appointment. I believe you have a problem.” The wink he gave told her volumes.

Pest removals? She sensed Jack’s sense of humour at play.

“I won’t take up too much time. Just need to check for any nasties.” He set a long silver canister attached to a hose and spray wand down by the front desk, next to a large solid-sided work bag. “And I won’t leave a mess, promise.”

He pumped the canister and walked around the shelves, inspecting closely.

“Looks like you have some insect activity around her, Miss,” he said, ducking below the counter. He pulled a notebook computer from the bag and linked it via a USB cable to her own computer. Outside the window, people walked by without a sideways glance. Wayne’s van effectively blocked the view to the street; if the Mercedes was still parked across the road, their view would be blocked by the van.

Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, he started tapping keys, gazing into the screen as he did. Then he stood up and walked further into the store. From a pocket of his coveralls, he plucked a small hand-held monitor and wandered from one side of the store to the other.

“Would you open the back room, please?” he asked brusquely. He disappeared inside for a few minutes, came back then dived under the counter again.

“OK, I think I know what’s going on. There are no listening devices but you have a key-stroke logging program on your computer.”

“What’s that?” Sandrine was puzzled.

“It’s a type of spyware that records everything you tap into the computer then automatically emails it to someone else. It’s installed remotely. You would have received a seemingly innocent email and clicked on an attachment at which time it would have installed the program on your computer. The information it sent would have included the user names and passwords to all your accounts so that someone else could access those accounts, including email etc.”

“Oh, no. Do you mean people can read my emails?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve deleted the program. You’ll need to reset the passwords and it will all be fine. Just be careful before you open any attachments on emails from people you don’t know. Jack also asked me to check your apartment. Would you mind if I did that now? If you’re being followed, it’s unlikely anybody will be outside your apartment.”

Sandrine handed across a spare key to her apartment. She started to recite her address.

“It’s OK. Jack already gave it to me. I’ll leave the key on your kitchen table.”

He packed up his equipment and was gone in a few minutes. When the van drove away, Sandrine noticed a black Mercedes with dark tinted windows parked directly across the road.

She finished her coffee while resetting the passwords to the office email account and other programs she could remember. The telephone rang a little later. Jack’s voice was a welcome relief.

“Wayne called. Your apartment is fine. No spyware on your computer and no bugs. Have you reset your passwords?”

“Just finished. Thanks so much, Jack. I’ll need to contact Marcus and tell him what’s happening.”

“Best leave that until you get home. Don’t send any correspondence to Marcus on the office computer just in case. Better to be safe than sorry.”

“OK. Fine.”

“I’d like to come by and have a look at the material Marcus sent back. Is an hour too soon?”

“No, that would be great. I’ll look forward to it but won’t the Russians notice you coming in?”

“I’ll use the rear lane. See you soon.”

Sandrine hadn’t been expecting to see Jack that day and the anticipation filled her with delight. It felt good to know he would be close. Once again, he’d ridden in like a knight in shining armour and saved her. She really didn’t know what she’d do without him.

Chapter Twenty Four

As the day progressed, Sandrine was thinking more and more of her conversation with Mariel. While she was angry that Mariel had checked out Jack without her permission, which she would never have allowed if asked anyway, the strange matter of the government men turning up at the newspaper perplexed her more.

In attempting to examine the issue from various angles, she realised she didn’t really know a lot about Jack. It never crossed her mind when they were together; on those occasions, her attention was focused solely on him and it was as though the analytical side of her brain took a holiday, leaving only a raging libido.

I’m hopelessly addicted to that man
, she thought ruefully.
I forget the world when he’s around. Too often, I even forget to breathe.
It made her smile inwardly, then she brought herself up short, realising just how pitiful she sounded. Did she really need a man to complete her existence? She never had in the past. She was young, well-educated, had an interesting job, was financially secure, and – until recently at least – content with the life she led.

Yet, Jack had changed everything in a flash. He was a force of nature, no doubt about it, a seismic shift, a tsunami of humour, intellect and wondrous, uninhibited sex that had unlocked parts of her she had no idea existed. The merest thought of him and her stomach lurched at weird angles, her heart raced and Jack was implanted indelibly on her memory with a vivid clarity.

She yearned for so much more from Jack than she had from any of her previous lovers. Before, there was almost an emotional disconnection. She had loved other men but never been in love, had enjoyed their company but rarely thought about them with the intensity that Jack occasioned. She had always needed her own space; that was carried to the point that she’d never had another lover in her own bed. Her home was off limits, her sanctuary.

If she spent the night with them, it was always at a hotel or their own apartments. She never left as much as a toothbrush behind, carrying a small kit with her on such occasions that also included eye make-up remover pads and little bottles of cleanser, moisturiser, shampoo and conditioner. Mariel had dubbed it her “survival pack” and that was pretty much what it was; in moments of emotional clarity, she recognised it as a stark symbol, the “survival” of her highly-cherished independence.

Control was the name of the game as far as Sandrine’s previous relationships were concerned. She picked who, when and usually how. Undoubtedly, it would have seemed cold and calculating to others but there had been so much in her early life that was beyond her control that she demanded such measures.

There had rarely been complaints. If a man wanted to get closer to her or voiced a desire that they move their relationship to the “next level” – a term that always set alarm bells ringing – she froze them out. A psychologist she once saw, when she was trying to understand why her parents so dominated her dreams, asked why she locked her emotions away, why she wasn’t comfortable committing?

In reply, she changed psychologists to one who didn’t probe too deeply, an action that Mariel also found riotously funny.
Really, you’d think I existed simply to amuse Mariel
, she huffed.

Sandrine was more than aware of her failings. The fears that haunted her childhood years remained strong. Abandonment issues, as a number of shrinks had diagnosed, were central to her personality. She didn’t let men too close; the cold panic that enveloped her whenever she thought they could take her heart and leave her helpless spurred her to reject before she could be rejected.

The only future in being a couple was one of betrayal, she reasoned. She didn’t want to go the way of so many of her friends who convinced themselves they had found their true love. Marriage, children, the pretty house with the white picket fence in a suburban wasteland invariably led to disappointment, divorce and depression. Not all of them, she grudgingly admitted, but enough that Sandrine considered relationships a gamble best not undertaken.

Fairytales were just that, sugar-coated fiction that went sticky and sour under the harsh glare of reality.

Her parents had been happily married and very much in love, at least according to Aunt Bridget. But Sandrine wondered whether they would still be together had that fateful car accident not happened. She dug down into herself, plumbing that deep well of confusion and conflicting emotions and entangled confidence; OK, she had to admit, that might not be the case. Her parents would be the sole exception. They would be together still, devoted to each other and their only daughter, who would be a completely different person without such a shattering tragedy to mar her earliest years.