Smoke and Mirrors (33 page)

“Nice tits on that one.” The leering face donated the scent of beer and chips ahead of its loathsome compliment.

“Fancy a roger, sweetheart?” They spread out a bit. One dropped his cigarette and grabbed himself.

You’re going to be fucked, all right.
She made a motion with one hand and kept quiet.

“You shy, gorgeous?” The one with too much stubble jutted his jaw in disapproval.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes? She said, ‘Sometimes’, lads.” She could almost hear the heckling tone of his words. Her fingernails dug deep into the flesh of her palm. If she had the opportunity, she’d have clawed his beady eyes out. Would have given her a bit of satisfaction.

But Tam – head lowered, teeth bared – passed comfortingly beneath her hand. Out of the darkness, fresh as a walking nightmare, he stalked a few paces toward the shit-faced Manchester United fans. Stopped. Sniffed the air like he was judging meat quality.

“Fuck.” The closest prick scuttled back toward the pub, tripping over his friends. The other two shoved him, swearing and retreating themselves.

“He’s never shy.”

“That fucker’s growling.”

“I can introduce him to your balls if you’d like.”

They backed into the pub. The door closing with a definitive, ‘No.’

Didn’t think so.

She caught up with Tam and ran a hand backward along his fur. The movement soothed her somewhat. “Got your fin up. Makes you look like a shark. Here.” She handed him the bone, having unwrapped it during the retreat of idiots.

She studied her surroundings. But the street was empty. If AG had someone tailing her, he wasn’t on duty tonight.

No one would know I went to see Brad.

So onto Battersea they went, Mr. Badass and his bone stepping proud like the Buckingham guards. And her, doing the best she could to ignore the little voice begging her to turn around.

They made the silhouette of the steel gates within a quarter of an hour. Samantha pressed the buzzer three times and waited for the barge’s distant light.

“You didn’t actually expect me to wait until tomorrow,” she clipped into the speaker.

The dog cocked his head and scratched the gate after a moment’s pause.

“Xie xie, Tamar.”

She lifted the handle and slid through the gap ahead of him. Once the gate closed, once no one could sneak up behind her, she flicked her fingers in a forward motion. Tamar broke into a trot, bee-lining it for the backlit shadow at the pier’s end.

The reunion was a pretty one, all tails, flailing paws and hands.

Their movements quieted as a tanned and barefooted Brad crossed the ramp toward her. Four inches taller and 70-odd pounds heavier, he plowed into her and swung her round. He smelled of citrus, whisky and adventure, and kissed her warmly on both cheeks. If her tear ducts still worked, they might have coughed up a couple wet round ones.

“I’m chuffed to see you both.”

He meant it. Brad always meant what he said.

“I hope you don’t mind, only I was near enough to starving – ” she drifted off, wondering suddenly if he already had a guest. A girlfriend?

In many ways, it would make everything so much simpler.

But Brad’s smile was broad. “That makes two of us. Nigel’s not worth good food or company tonight.” He grabbed the bag and followed her up and into the barge’s main cabin. Tamar had already entered, found the cat, given homage, and settled by the fire to destroy some portion of a hopefully-very-old cow.

“So I finally get to meet your best friend?” This was a curious turn of events. In the time she’d known Brad, neither she nor Nigel had been in London at the same time.

Brad’s mouth melted into a nasty smirk. “I wanted to wait until tomorrow, until he was sober and clean, but tonight’s as good as any.” He kicked the bared foot hanging over the club chair’s armrest. “Nigel, Sammy’s here.

Samantha slithered out of her coat and followed Brad into the kitchen. The corner of her eye snagged on a vaguely familiar man. A tall, lean and striking man whose position belied his obvious strength. His eyes were ice blue, knock-your-knees-wide, pieces of heaven, but his grim expression detracted from the perfection of his face.

And he was platinum blond.

Nice, but she preferred her men, like her dog, dark.

Her chin lifted when she caught Nigel’s eyes lock on Brad.
Crap.
He was talking again. She’d missed what he said. “Sorry, what?” She tried to scoot around the table so he didn’t have to turn.

Brad flipped her two widespread fingers. “Your trouble is you just didn’t listen, Sammy.” A roguish quirk tugged the corner of his mouth.

“And your trouble is you’re a bastard.” She was laughing now, glad to soak in Brad’s comforting aura.

“Of course.” He shook free the bag’s contents and popped a loose tomato between his lips. “You forgot to add lout, prat, drunk, gypsy…”

His amused eyes shifted over her shoulder and she paused. There was a concentrated worry in those dark orbs, just under the pleasure. It was one of the things that had drawn her to Brad in the first place. Kind men weren’t hanging out shingles on every pier. She glanced back at Nigel, wondering if he felt uncomfortable with her presence.

But he’d already closed his eyes and folded the back of his hand over them. His left leg stuck straight out onto the rug, at odds with his hanging right one. She’d never seen a photo of him, but somehow she thought his skin-tone should have been less sallow.

Her mind held an image of him with tanned healthy flesh. Even his hair seemed as though it should have been dark.

Perhaps she
had
seen a photo of him.

But no, she would have remembered those bitterly-cold eyes.

Brad touched her shoulder, and she jumped. “Sorry, luv.” His opposite hand clutched his cell. “I’ve got to take this. Don’t let Tamar eat him.”

“I’ll start dinner.” She watched him walk down the hall – dark head tilted against the device - toward his bedroom. She could still appreciate that body. That ass. Being with him had indeed been good for the skin.

She turned, with reluctance, and went for a knife.

Nigel’s icy eyes cut the space between them.

Awake then?
She lifted an eyebrow and, when he said nothing, she went to work preparing a Caprese salad, aware he watched her every move.

Arrogant prick.

Nigel had finished no more than two whiskies. But on an empty stomach, with less blood than usual circulating his system, he felt as though he’d had the bottle. He’d wanted to knock himself out, not have delusions. Yet, there she was. The blonde from Hong Kong.

In this hallucination, she could speak to Brad, but not him. She hadn’t even acknowledged his greeting.

Now she drained capers and sliced basil. How peculiar.

Perhaps it was his unconscious begging him to eat.

Anubis was drifting around too. He’d even negotiated a truce with Milton’s sadistic cat. Obviously, a fantasy of major proportions.

What the bloody hell happened to my mind?
Nigel wondered idly.

His eyes swallowed her classy, seductive form. Might as well enjoy himself while he went mad.

Her hair, that ripple of bullion, was shorter by a few inches, but it still cascaded past her shoulders and hinted at what lay under the lucky sweater’s curves. The expression on her flawless face was enigmatic, but her topaz-brown eyes studied him and the strong chin below them hinted at a rather dubious assessment. If she had in fact been real, it would have given him pause to think.

Brad’s voice droned in the distance. Was he speaking in Italian? No, Spanish.

Ah, the Colombia op.

Nigel frowned. Brad was mentioning strictly need to know information: insertion points, contacts. Strange he trusted the blonde not to betray him…

The thought tripped Nigel’s funny bone. The blonde was a fucking mirage, he reminded himself. Brad could talk all he wanted. He could give away HRM’s best-kept secrets and it wouldn’t matter in the least, for the woman in front of him was a volume of mental fiction.

His ribs screamed. Too late, he categorized his laughter as a hideous mistake.

The chair had become a piece of witchcraft: comfortable one moment, a torture the next. He gathered his strength and shifted his legs so that both feet were parallel to one another on the rug in front of him. His body swiveled with the movement, and he held his breath, desperate not to rattle his ribcage.

He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes, until he reopened them with care.

She was staring at him and it made him edgy. “You have me at a disadvantage, madam,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m not in the practice of entertaining angels. Devils are far too numerous these days.”

Her snort tore the air. “Lines like that died out with chauvinism. Tomato?”

He shook his head to empty it of nonsense. Cantonese or not, she had the same voice as he recalled. Coffee-rich, cultured, and sexy. American around the edges.

The tide of his sanity had gone well and truly out.

“Olive?”

“Christ, you
can
talk.” The thought was chilling.

“Not, Christ.” Her retort was sharp as aged cheddar. “One of his angels.”

He rubbed his wind-burned face. Even for a hallucination, this was odd. He doubted Brad had slipped a painkiller in the Macallan. He was too much a purist to put anything in good whisky.

Her fingers labored masterfully with the knife, though she never looked down. “What happened to you?” She flipped the slices of goats’ milk mozzarella into tidy rows that overlapped the tomatoes. Next came the prosciutto, rolled up nicely around some asparagus.

“Before or after I began hallucinating?”

She drizzled costly olive oil and crushed garlic over the mixture. “You think I’m a delusion.” There was an exquisitely sardonic edge to her tone. He’d have fallen in love if he hadn’t done so a decade before.

“Aren’t you? I’ve had two whiskies, two surgeries, and too much of London. Hallucination would appear the proper term.”

She licked her thumb.

Her tongue, like her mouth, was a beautiful apparition, and white-hot lust assaulted him. Most inconvenient when he couldn’t do much about it.

“I see.” Her eyes hadn’t left his until now. She held up a flat palm. “Wait a moment.” She twisted and rummaged through Brad’s refrigerator. When she turned again, her hands held the makings of shrimp scampi. “Hungry? I’ve bought enough to feed an army.” Her gaze followed his hands to the shirttails he’d only just managed to yank over the front of his jeans. No point in Brad thinking he’d reverted to wet dreams.

“What? No. Thank you all the same, though.”

Her cheeks stained with a pretty blush. “Where were you hurt?” Those dark eyes of hers were locked on his face once more.

“Not down there.”

Her full mouth tipped at the corner. A dimple popped out from under her high cheekbones. “No. I can see
that’s
in perfect working order.”

A cheeky phantom.

“Is it your leg? The left one?” Her teeth worked through a slice of cheese.

He nodded.

“Your ribs as well?”

He hoped his grunt sounded affirmative.

She swallowed before speaking again, and he stared in fascination at her long, creamy white neck.

“That must be a nightmare. Does it hurt when you breathe?”

Of course it hurt.

Brad’s voice, still distant, rose a notch. He was cursing Spanish-style, yet she didn’t seem to notice.

“Do you speak Spanish?” Nigel wondered.

She shrugged and brushed her hands on the jeans that hugged her mile-long legs. “Un poco. Por que?”

His answer was a cough.

She frowned. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right? I mean, perhaps Brad should call your physician. He’ll be right back – had to take a call on his cell. I think he went topside.”

Nigel closed his eyes. She was a spirit; best to ignore her. “I’m fine,” he lied. “And thank you for the offer, but I’ll pass on the shrimp. It’s almost certainly tasteless and probably has wings.”

Samantha contemplated Nigel. The poor bastard was hallucinating, not drunk or rude as first she’d thought. She doubted Brad had given him aspirin or bothered to check his temperature. He might have had an empathetic soul, but he was a man. After placing a pot of water on the gas range, she crossed the room and switched off the light. She dropped an Alpaca throw over Nigel’s torso and legs.

His face had relaxed a few degrees, and she studied him. Faint lines fanned out from his eyelids and there were similarly muted indentations around his mouth and across his forehead. She guessed he was in his mid-thirties, maybe forty; though, he’d have looked quite a bit younger if the gloomy smudges beneath his eyes weren’t so prominent.

His nose was a strong straight one – almost Gallic – and his jaw was square, with a slight groove in its center. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t taken to him right off. Marc’s chin had been similarly made. The memory made her shudder, so she shoved it under the bed and continued her assessment.

There was a thick coat of golden stubble along Nigel’s face. She wondered momentarily what it would feel like beneath her touch. Soft like her grandfather’s had been or rough like Brad’s?

Damn.
It had been far too long. Invalids weren’t beneath her.

Though this one appeared capable of quite a bit, injured or not. She wondered what he did for a living. His body was bereft of fat, and muscle padded each bone and line of his straight limbs and fine-looking face. It gave him an air of gravitas.

Her former agency may well have taken him on. Tom Ford would have found a use for this face.

She put the back of her hand to his forehead. He didn’t flinch, and she decided he’d passed out. He was warm but not fever-hot. Maybe Brad had given him something. She left her hand there for a moment longer than necessary, quite surprised by the effect their contact had on her pulse.

“You’re cooler than I imagined.” The vibration of his voice worked its way through her skin and she jerked away.

Carefully, she watched his lips shift. It was hard when he muttered to catch all the words, but she had been quick to pick up the Oxford-schooled clip to his speech and guess the rest. “Sorry…I mean…I don’t think you’ve got a fever, unless… Did Brad give you aspirin? Advil? Paracetemol?”