Mae nodded. “I had to be honest.”
“You are always honest. It’s part of your charm.”
“It doesn’t feel charming.”
Kitt believed he’d thought this through, made plans accordingly. He’d complete this assignment. It would be his last before he moved into support and consulting. He’d wind up teaching or operating in the same manner as Bryce, and eventually retire at seventy-six, like Llewelyn said he planned to next year. Only he realised he was the same quixotic fool he’d been three months ago.
Resign, retire, take a step sideways, the job was his for life, and Mae was a nuisance, a thorn in his side. Under his skin, embedded in his being, however hackneyed, she was his thorn for life. Christ, what a bizarre and rather wonderful devotion.
No one had ever accused him of thinking with his heart before, yet that’s exactly what he’d done. His head had never played a part because this was love. Love was what addled his brain, made him lose focus, quashed his logic, turned him sloppy, slowed his reflexes, sent him blind, and love was what kept Mae’s heart chained to a dead man for a decade and a half. Love was why she still had that silver-framed photo of Caspar on the desk in her sitting room. It was her bizarre and wonderful devotion, and how hilarious that he understood the nature of that devotion now that he was devoted to her. He was a man in love with a woman who would always love a dead husband. Was it funny that he considered loving her a sort of penance for some of the things he’d done or was it funnier how she understood what he’d completely failed to see? Whether he continued with field assignments, whether he moved to a support and consulting position, whether he retired or not, to The Consortium, Mae would always be his loyal butler, a trusted employee whose life he’d once put in jeopardy. Her safety was crucial, meaning this was, this would always be, impossible. The depths of his idiocy were astounding and his laugh was bleak.
“I’ve hurt you,” she said.
“Well, it doesn’t tickle.” Exhaling, jaw set, his frown deepened. “But it’s my own damned fault entirely.” Kitt looked over at the frail Christmas tree. He closed the space that lay between them and drew her near. “You must know. Whatever, however we are, I love you,” he said. “I am devoted. To you. My funny Mrs Valentine.”
“At last we move back to the seduction, where I change my mind in the throes of passion at your dirty hands,” she said, untying her apron as he began to unbutton her dress.
“Perhaps my dirty hands may present a convincing argument.” He undid buttons across her breasts. The apron wafted to her feet.
She tugged at the waist of his damp trousers, unzipping him. “I don’t care if your hands are dirty. I don’t care if they’re filthy. I don’t care if they’ve been all over another woman’s car.”
“It was such a pretty little Triumph TR3 too.” He pushed the dress down her shoulders and his grubby, stained hands paused. He took a moment to gaze at what he’d unwrapped. She was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he ever saw. He went on looking at her, at skin he knew was soft, at the curving swell of her breasts, at the tiny mole at the base of her left collarbone, at her throat, at her mouth.
“Miss me, did you?”
“Not in the least,” she said and stubbly whiskers grazed her skin when he pressed his cheek to hers. His nose bumped the tip of hers, her laugh soft and warm and coffee-scented puffed over his lips, as the doorbell rang with a short burst followed by a longer one. Kitt let loose a string of obscenities, his mouth hovering above hers. “Bryce is early.”
Mae stopped unpeeling damp fabric over his hips. “The door is locked.”
“He’s already on his way up. And he knows the key code.” Kitt kissed her quickly, drew her dress up to her shoulders, and took a step back. “Good God, Mrs Valentine, look at yourself. Wherever is your apron?” He hitched up his clammy trousers and snatched the towel from the chair, draping it around his dirt-streaked neck.
Dress already buttoned, she retrieved the apron at her feet, tying the strings about her waist as knuckles rapped. The door swung open and Bryce stood on the other side of the threshold with Roger Llewelyn, the head of Special Operations Division.
Llewelyn smiled his genial smile. Kitt uttered more filthy words under his breath. Something had gone or was about to go, as Mae liked to say, arseways.
Bryce moved inside, scratching his chin, green eyes glinting. “Why is there a Christmas tree on the floor, Kitty?”
Kitt gave his colleague and friend Timothy Bryce a tight smile. “You’re early.” He turned his attention to the older man. “Sir. I didn’t expect you.”
Llewelyn cast an eye over the pine tree mess beneath his feet before giving Mae a pleasant nod, dark hand brushing raindrops from a salt patch in still-black hair. He glanced at the table set for breakfast in the sitting room and his mouth pursed. “Dear boy, I do apologise for arriving unannounced. Plans have altered. Geneva proved advantageous and in line with Keppel, so you’re being relocated. Bryce has your amended itinerary. You’re booked on the next flight out, which departs in ninety minutes. Professor Molony, that chap you know from the Mikhail-Freudenstein thing, will join you and brief you en route to Heathrow. Dalton will meet you at your hotel.”
Dalton. There was the arseways. Kitt bit his molars together. “Sir.”
Automatically, Mae shifted into the role The Consortium would expect. “May I take your coats, gentlemen?” she said, her manner professional.
“Ah, the housekeeper.” Llewelyn smoothed his moustache and smiled like a matinee idol from a ’40s film.
“The butler, sir.” Bryce’s mouth twitched.
“Oh, yes. How clumsy of me, thinking butlers are always men. We’ve never been formally introduced.”
Kitt refrained from grinding his molars together. He grabbed the ends of the towel around his neck. “Mrs Valentine, this is Brigadier Roger Llewelyn, my employer. Sir, Mrs Valentine.” Kitt looked at Bryce, flicked his gaze to Llewelyn and shifted his eyes back to Bryce. “You already know Bryce.”
Bryce gave a barely perceptible shrug and hung his jacket on the coat rack above the chair, mouth twitching again. “Good morning, Mrs Valentine.”
“Good morning, Sergeant Bryce.”
Llewelyn handed his heavy wool coat to Mae. “Thank you, Mrs Valentine. I’m so happy we’re finally acquainted.” He turned to Kitt. “Apologies again for an impromptu arrival, Major Kitt, but time flies and we’re short on it.”
Kitt recognised impromptu as a cloaked direction to ‘move his arse.’ “Sir,” he said and left Mae in the foyer with Bryce and the Brigadier.
Handsome, mid-seventies, of Kenyan-Welsh extraction, Llewelyn dressed fashionably and had the air of a worldly old English gentleman, one who was well-bred, affable—and calculating. Kitt left the door ajar as Mae led the two men to the sitting room across from his bedroom, and he stripped off his wet trousers, listening to the exchange, a simple task considering Llewelyn had a voice rivalling any Shakespearean stage actor.
“As I was saying on the way upstairs, Bryce,” Llewelyn boomed to the cheap seats, “Shiraz and Syrah come from the same grape varietal. The name depends on the vineyard or region where the grape is grown, as well as the environment, the soil, the climate. Isn’t that so, Mrs Valentine?”
“That it is, Brigadier.”
“Might I trouble you for some tea, Mrs Valentine?”
“Major Kitt doesn’t drink tea,” Mae said.
“And he calls himself an Englishman.” Llewelyn chuckled. “Coffee then.”
In under a minute, Mae organised cups and served the coffee she’d brewed for Kitt, setting a folding table and tray in front of his superior.
“So then, Mrs Valentine,” Llewelyn said, voice velvety, “I take it you—oh, do spare some milk for me, Sergeant—I take it, Mrs Valentine, you’re still working part-time for Major Kitt?”
“Would you care for a biscuit, Brigadier?” Mae offered a plate and smiled pleasantly.
Bryce piped up. “Have one of the c
hocolate ones, sir. They are rather good.”
“Yes, Bryce, I will have one, since you’ve managed to grab the other five. See, I knew the Major’s butler would know something about wine, Bryce, while you know nothing, and Major Kitt, well, he’d drink tea or poison before he’d sully his palate with wine.” He bit into the sweet. “Oh, top marks, this is quite a good biscuit, goes well with your excellent coffee.” Llewelyn mm-mmed. “Please, sit down, Mrs Valentine. You needn’t wait on us.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind, but please, excuse me. I must tend to the Major’s breakfast. May I offer you some as well?”
“I do love a good fry-up, but there isn’t time for breakfast.” Llewelyn sighed. “May I ask you something, Mrs Valentine?”
“Brigadier?” Mae said evenly, hair prickling at the back of her neck, the man’s grin sly and diabolic beneath his trim moustache.
Llewelyn coughed. “Do you like dogs, Mrs Valentine?”
“I do.”
“Ever have one?”
“Several.”
“You worked for Ettore Gelsomino? I believe he had a few hounds?”
“He did. Please, excuse me.”
“Gelsomino spoke very highly of you, said you were always professional; good with his cellar, dogs, and daughters. He couldn’t have been more glowing.” Llewelyn said, his tone cheery.
“I’m pleased to know that.”
“What sort of dogs did you have as a child?”
Mae smiled blandly. “We kept ratters, mostly English Toy Terriers—Black and Tans.”
“Like the Manchester Terrier?”
Mae smoothed her apron over her hips. “Yes,” she said, “but the Toy is smaller.”
“I have two dogs, Pointers; Thumper and Bambi—smart as a whip they are. Smarter than Bryce here. Crumbs, Bryce, crumbs. The lady will have to vacuum you before, and the carpet after we go. Do large dogs put you off at all, make you nervous, Mrs Valentine?”
“Forgive my impertinence, Brigadier, but what do you want?”
Llewelyn’s laugh cracked the air, and his smooth, unruffled honeyed tones would have impressed Branagh and Olivier. “Oh, you are sharp. Indeed, you might believe that the fraud, tax evasion, money-laundering events that touched your life this past summer could be why you’d be fresh in my mind. I admit I am rather curious about what appears to be a sad-looking Christmas tree over there, and that, combined with your years in service and practical experience with dogs, I’m after a little,” he paused, “Christmas favour.”
“More coffee, Brigadier?” Mae mimicked the man’s silky tenor.
“Your loyalty to the Major is commendable. I’m sure you’re grateful for his assistance with the money-laundering mess, but come now, Mrs Valentine, you work part-time for a man who is seldom here.”
Mae stood in front of Bryce, hands clasped behind her back, cool, polite, professional. “Three months ago,” she said, “I was mugged, nearly killed, kidnapped and drugged. Your office accused me of murder, theft, money laundering, and informed me my deceased husband, a man I loved very much, was a polygamist. Forgive me, Brigadier, I have no interest in doing you a favour of any sort.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.” Kitt suddenly appeared at the end of the leather Chesterfield sofa, pulling pale-blue shirtsleeves from the cuffs of a brown jumper, adjusting the leather band of his battered Citizen watch.
Mouth flattened, Llewelyn set his coffee on the tea table.
With a respectful nod, Mae said, “Would you gentlemen be needing anything further?”
Bryce laughed.
Llewelyn glared. “What’s so amusing, Sergeant?”
Kitt rubbed his chin. “Thank you, Mrs Valentine. There’s nothing more we need.”
Bryce chuckled again.
Mae collected dirty cups and put them on the folding tray, along with a plate of biscuit crumbs, a milk jug, and crystal sugar bowl. She turned to Kitt, hazel eyes full of warmth for him. “Sir, your extra shaving kit is in the cupboard behind your Christmas tree. There’s a bag packed with fresh clothes in the study. Shall I fetch it?”
“Thank you, no. I’m sure by now Bryce has transferred my things from the Bentley.”
The two men rose. She set the tray aside and retrieved Llewelyn’s coat, helping him into it. “Good morning, Brigadier, Sergeant Bryce. Have a good trip, sir.” She returned to the tea table and lifted the tray.
Bryce put on his jacket, had another look at the pitiful Christmas tree, shook his head, and went to open the door. Scowling, Llewelyn joined him and started down the stairs.
Kitt grabbed his navy pea coat from a hook above the umbrella stand. Instead of slipping it on, he tossed it on the chair beside the door, watching Mae carry the tray into the kitchen. He crossed into his bedroom, snatched a small coin purse from a drawer in the bedside table, shoved it in his pocket, and went to the kitchen.
Mae stood in front of the cooker, Chemex coffee carafe in one hand. “Forgotten something?” she said, back to him.
“I never quite kissed you hello.”
“And now you want to kiss me goodbye.”
“What if I just kiss you?”
She set the carafe on a trivet and turned. “What if you just come home?”
“Of course.” He smiled softly, refastening the pinching clasp of the watch he’d hastily strapped on when he’d overheard Llewelyn questioning Mae. “Of course.”
Mae wiped both hands on her apron and sighed. “Does Llewelyn know about us like Bryce does?”
“You are the consummate professional, Mae. My employer believes you are my trusted and highly-valued employee, as I am his, and what he’s trying to do is called poaching.” Kitt chuckled suddenly. “Listen, regardless of why he was here, I am glad you said ‘no.’ I was selfish and not at all rational. My feelings for you cloud my logic. I ought to let you go, you ought to walk away, yet here we are, caught up in a fantasy of sorts, and it makes sense to go on as we were, you ‘working’ for me. It’s safer for you.” He put a hand in his pocket and drew the sprung purse from inside, squeezing the sides apart before he tossed it on the worktop.
This she time murmured his name.
“I know there are concerns, but there is another option.” He took her hand, turned it, and opened her fingers. Rather than kiss the inside of her wrist or centre of her palm, he placed a small circle of filigreed platinum with a glittering diamond. “Yes, it’s conservative, traditional, and very beautiful, but full of fire and spark. In other words, it’s exactly like you. What are your thoughts on a very long engagement?”
NINE DAYS LATER, KITT knew their very long engagement was likely to last an eternity.
The container was stifling, the air stagnant, rank with the stench of corpses that had been there when the two dockers had cut off the lock and swung the doors open.
Nauseous, Kitt was nauseous, dizzy, his muscles cramped, as if he’d been poisoned with strychnine. His head ached relentlessly. His joints ached and the wire that sliced his flesh had left a festering injury. Intermittently confounded and lucid he remembered the Singaporean NCB officer vomiting outside the container. He remembered checking his watch when Dalton asked the time, and Molony’s shout, the flash of knives, the NCB officer choking on his own blood. He remembered Molony’s silly penknife, the woman screaming, the bolt cutters swinging, Dalton’s scarlet-spattered teeth, and the lad falling dead without a sound. He remembered the crack of cartilage, the slice of wire through flesh and bone, the explosion inside his head. He remembered chichiltic, a language that wasn’t Malay, Chinese, or Singlish. He remembered the container going dark, trying to stand in the blackness, stumbling over rotting bodies, slipping, tumbling, collapsing. And as he tried to lift his head, he remembered biology.
With severe dehydration cells shrank, blood vessels connecting grey matter to the inside of the cranium pulled away and ruptured, organs failed. With hyperthermia, he’d simply roast in his own skin. As unsteady as his thoughts were, he knew his throbbing hand had t
urned septic, he’d lost a substantial amount of blood, and he’d stopped sweating long ago. Soon, he would die from dehydration or hyperthermia.
Just come home, Mae whispered, above the buzzing of blowflies that would lay their eggs on his corpse.
God damn it. He was going to wind up in a plain silver frame on the desk in Mae’s sitting room, right beside her dead husband, only she didn’t possess a single photograph of him.
Listless, head pounding, his attention shifted to a narrow beam of sunlight, slipping lower and lower until it crossed the woman and reached the mangled face of the fellow who might have been Professor Molony or Dalton. Flies swarmed, laying eggs in the eyes, gaping mouths, and nostrils of the dead who had been dead for much longer.
Come home.
Home. Mae. They were one and the same. Dark and light. Heaven and hell. Mae. Wasn’t it funny that she made him believe he had more than a minuscule scrap of a soul? His eyes settled back on the beam of light again and he watched it, thinking of Mae until she began to disappear along with the fading light, and he slid into a cushion of soft, seductive, lethal blackness.
Chapter 2
Three small deer darted across the driveway as Felix lifted a leg and peed on a sand-filled bag, the brown paper farolito wilting over the little candle inside. The farolitos that the landscaper had set up ran from the bottom of the long private drive to the front of the curving house. On Christmas Eve, a candle would be lit inside every bag and bathe the grand house with a warm glow—unless the deer trampled them or the dog peed on all the bags, as he had all the farolitos beneath the vine-covered pergola. Mae looked from the current wilted paper bag to the house.
Cosmologist Dr Julius Taittinger’s ‘smart home,’ a contemporary take on New Mexico’s adobe architecture, sat between Los Alamos, its nuclear research laboratory ten miles to the northwest, and the Bandelier National Monument, a historic preservation site of the Ancestral Puebloans. The curving design of the two-level house was inspired by the concentric building layouts of the ancient Anasazi. The architecture might have been inspired by the ancestors of modern Pueblo Indians, but all Mae saw was the villain’s lair from a ’60s spy film.
Forever in Your Service Page 2
