by Dorian Paul
The impoverished boy in him loved the elegance of the Haybrooke, and the fact that he could afford to splurge once in a while. There were tea tables off the lobby, and silver bowls of apples on the mahogany reception counter. But it was the bar, with its old leather globes and game hunting trophies that personified his youthful view of the British Empire. He took a seat at the rail, ordered a bitter, and wondered if the world on display here ever existed outside his imagination. Tonight, his only companion was a leggy dark-haired beauty at the end of the run of stools. East European by her looks, and on the prowl.
She twisted his way, stretching her beige turtleneck over impressive breasts. "Hello, I'm Marta. You just arrived?"
"Touched down this morning."
"Good flight?" she asked. Her accent was Romanian.
"Dandy."
"And now it's bedtime, but you're wide awake."
"Got that right, honey."
Marta's smile displayed white teeth that must've cost a fortune. "I can rock you to sleep. American cowboys tell me I give a good ride."
This gal was hot! He wanted to take her up on the offer and maybe he should. He was the one sleeping alone every night, unlike David who never needed to look for somebody to get laid. Although it was unlikely Claire Ashe was one of his conquests by the way she practically recoiled at the thought of shacking up with him at Sherborne House. Remembering her expression made him smile.
"It's okay for us to get together. I use protection." Marta patted her small purse. "You look like a strong man, but I have many –"
"Thanks, honey, not tonight." He didn't bother to say he usually carried condoms too, and not only because of disease. He didn't know who sired him, and wouldn't wish that fate on any kid.
"Too bad, cowboy. It would be fun with you. You seem like a nice man."
Yep, a nice man who didn't have faith in his best friend. But was that surprising, when he didn't even like his twin brother, Johnny, much less trust him? He motioned the bartender to refill their glasses.
After he drained his second pint, a young man in a jogging suit poked his head in the bar and retreated just as quickly. Had Marta's hand tightened on her cocktail stem? "Customer of yours?"
"Not my type. Have another drink with me."
"Maybe some other time." He scooted out of the bar into the lobby. But instead of turning right toward the room elevators, he exited through an unmarked door and checked both ends of the street.
No one but an aging gent in pinstripes waiting for a taxi.
Was he overreacting, being paranoid? Only an incompetent tail would show himself in the bar like that. The guy was probably one of a million ex-colonial Pakistanis crowding Great Britain, and Marta nothing more than a working girl plying the escort trade in London's tony hotels.
Then again, what if he were wrong? Bad things happened when a man got distracted. Wasn't David Ruskin exhibit number one?
Part Two:
At Odds in London
"The things a man has to have are hope and confidence in himself against odds, and sometimes he needs somebody, his pal or his mother or his wife or God, to give him that confidence."
– Clark Gable
Chapter 11
Claire expected a government sedan with a career driver to take her from the hospital to a British safe house, not a silver limousine with a friendly chauffer. Cradling the briefcase holding her research team's resumes, she glided through London traffic past Oxford Street shoppers to a quiet neighborhood of 18th and 19th century residences. The luxury liner she rode in floated to a stop outside an elegant brick townhouse. Well, the safe house matched the limo but she questioned such royal treatment.
Her chauffer, who introduced himself earlier as Jim Borden, was balding and had the stocky body of an aging boxer. No doubt he could've carried her briefcase as well as the tote bag of functional clothes the young woman who worked for the embassy brought her this morning, but she held onto her briefcase while he opened the wrought iron gate.
"My wife, Maggie," he announced as a middle-aged woman came through the ornate front door. She guessed it wasn't that odd to have a husband/wife caretaker couple.
"Welcome to Sherborne House, Dr. Ashe." The woman's light brown hair was cut in a bob, and her gray eyes smiled a welcome. "We're glad to be having you as our guest."
Guest? That's what Mr. Brown called her at Tivaz. She tightened her grip on her briefcase.
Maggie led her through the vestibule into a grand reception hall where she was assailed by the scent of lemons and furniture polish. These familiar scents eased her discomfort because they reminded her of the Beacon Hill house where she grew up. If only this woman were Aunt Carrie, not some stranger, she thought as she gawked at a massive central staircase curving to upper floors. Huge leaded windows on the first landing spilled sunlight onto wide marble stairs carpeted with what had to be a custom-made runner. The sun's effect was probably meant to warm those returning home to this vast space. Unfortunately it served to make her feel more like an outsider than ever, even if the place smelled like home.
"Davvy sends regrets, but the boy's chock-a-block with meetings. Now, then, you'd like to be seeing your rooms?"
Davvy? The boy? Rooms?
"Your rooms," Maggie repeated. "I'll be showing them to you now?"
"Yes, thank you."
She followed Maggie past a grand dining room with several china cabinets. No need for paper plates here. They took another staircase and ended up where Jim had put her bag. The room had high ceilings and walls of Wedgwood blue. Ivory and blue striped wing chairs banked a fireplace, perfect for reading a book or having a cozy conversation, neither of which she would be doing. A large four-poster bed piled high with silk pillows added to the sense of luxury. She hoped she'd be able to sleep rather than worry the nights away in this room.
This safe house defied logic. What was she to make of it? Maybe the rooms originally belonged to an aristocrat's wife who bequeathed the property to the government rather than force her family to sell it to pay taxes. That made sense. Still, this was someone else's home, definitely not hers, even if the government owned it. She blinked back tears rather than swim in the memory of her losses.
Maggie waved her through to an adjoining dark paneled dressing room with a fancy make-up table and stool, cheval mirror, and built in closets. A third door opened into an old-style bathroom with a giant footed tub and a separate updated tile and glass shower. Thick towels draped a heated rack. Every detail of the suite invited leisure, yet her pulse quickened. She didn't belong here, didn't want to be here.
"Maggie, keep this suite for someone who'll be spending more time here. I'll be out of the house all day. Any small room will do."
"Don't the rooms suit?"
"They're charming, but –"
"Fine then, luv. I'll be leaving you to rest unless you'd be wanting some tea?"
"No, no thank you. I'll rest."
And get a grip on myself. Everything was different, that was all. She was responsible for solving a terrorist crisis in which a ton of people might die, and they put her in somebody's family home that reminded her way too much of what she'd already lost.
***
When she woke she scrambled for her whereabouts. Faint evening light filtered into windows framed by draperies of muted yellow, ivory, and Robin's egg blue, and she finally situated herself. She'd slept after all, probably a result of the heavy-duty pain pills. Her stomach growled enough to send her downstairs in search of the kitchen. Since the house appeared empty she turned into the dining room first, curious to investigate the china cabinets filled with an embarrassment of riches. This route should also lead her to the kitchen.
"Claire, I'm in here."
Tiger?
"When you leave the dining room, turn left."
He knows where I am, and probably even suspects I'm examining someone else's belongings.
"I'm in the morning room at the end of the hall."
He stood in silhouette pr
ecisely where he said he'd be, wearing a dark suit and tie instead of his Moroccan clothes – but he still looked like a dangerous Tiger.
"Good to see you, Claire. Sorry to have missed you at hospital."
He extended his hand in greeting, but seemed distracted, which was okay with her. Making small talk with him wasn't at the top of her list.
"May I get you a drink?"
"No thanks. Alcohol and drugs don't mix."
"Right. How's the arm?"
"I'm okay." She noticed his nearly full glass of red wine, beeper, and cell phone on a black-lacquered nesting table. Papers from his briefcase were strewn on the floor, and his eyes were on them. "I don't mind if you keep working"
He looked up, sheepish. "Sorry, have a seat." He gestured to a small floral settee across from his overstuffed chair, and sat back down.
"No thanks, I'm on my way to find Maggie and ask for something to eat."
"She's not here, but she's left food in the kitchen." He jumped back up, acting as uncomfortable as she felt around him. "I've already eaten, but let me get you a plate."
"No, just keep working. Point me to the kitchen."
"I insist." Taking charge, he seemed to relax, and his hard lips and dark brown intriguing eyes appeared slightly less formidable. "I shall return in a moment."
But before he took a step, his beeper went off and she decided to look for the kitchen on her own. He held up his hand to stop her while he gave either clipped one-word answers or confident detailed instructions as he strode from the room. She glanced at some bookshelves while she waited for him. He returned with quiche, green salad, and a chunk of French bread on a heavy plate of white Ironstone china. Holding her chair at the small drop leaf table where he'd put down the food, he asked if she'd prefer orange juice or tea instead of the glass of water he'd brought.
"Water is fine." Best to keep things simple, because more than anything she wanted to finish this awkward meal and return to her rooms.
***
David waited until she began to eat before excusing himself from the room to make another call and close the loop from his prior conversation. Soon he would return to Morocco without a clue to Varat's whereabouts or Dr. Black's identity, but even as he pushed the analyst on the other end of the line to fine sift previously tilled soil, it was Claire Ashe who claimed his attention. Why, he wondered, did most men consider petite women more desirable? He liked her tall, lithe frame. A woman who fit your own body type was more natural. Yet, Sarah was small, so was Meg. When he finished his call he rejoined Claire at the table. Unfortunately, she avoided eye contact.
"Thanks for getting me dinner . . . David."
He regretted she paused before using his given name, as though to do so granted him an intimacy she wasn't willing to acknowledge. "Please, go ahead and finish your meal."
She did, and with the kind of gusto other women often masked. It was impolite to stare at her lips while she ate, so he studied the freckles across the bridge of her small straight nose. The freckles also flecked her cheeks. He looked at her hair, forced behind her ears with tortoise combs instead of bound in a rubber band. Her hair wasn't red, but had sufficient red and gold streaks to remind him of a fine port.
"Am I embarrassing myself?"
"Sorry?"
"Eating everything in sight while you watch me."
"My apologies. May I get you some more?"
"I can get it myself."
"No, no. I'll fetch it. Not a problem."
He was aware she studied him as closely as she might a bacterial specimen before agreeing. "All right, thank you."
Fascinating. Not many men, let alone women, scrutinized him so openly. First she gives him a thorough going over, as though he was contaminated, and then decides he's sufficiently clean to provide a second helping. He put the water on for tea while in the kitchen. If Maggie could see me now.
When Claire cleaned her plate a second time he knew she was finished by the precise way she placed her fork across the plate. He could well imagine she'd be a first-rate scientist, one who would be a taskmaster to work for. He passed her a mug of tea. He needed to review Bobby's directives, make sure she was clear. He did not expect it to be simple. She had never shown herself as someone who appreciated being told what to do. He cleared his throat.
"How're your rooms?"
"Beautiful, but I don't need such fancy rooms."
"Sorry? You don't find my mother's rooms suitable?"
"Your mother's rooms?"
"Right. I'm in my father's rooms nearby, should you need me."
Her eyes widened. "This is your parents' house?"
"They live primarily in the country now. The townhouse is my residence, actually."
She nearly spilled her tea. "Bobby Keane said I was staying at a safe house in London with you."
So Bobby had not told her the full story. He would pay for this, but his friend's sin of omission rather amused him. "This is a safe house, Claire."
"Yes, yes. Of course it is. Forgive me."
Excellent manners. What will she do next?
She backtracked. "The rooms are very pleasant. It's just . . . well, I didn't . . . realize this was a private home. Um . . . your home."
He smothered a chuckle. Claire Ashe flummoxed. He'd done what Varat couldn't. But he'd be more the fool to enjoy his success, especially when he had to restate the ground rules for her ongoing security.
"Do not be embarrassed, Claire. You meant no offense, and I take none. In truth, I haven't lived here for years. Sherborne House doesn't feel like home to me either."
Thank goodness she ceased gripping her mug lest it shatter.
"Since we're discussing Sherborne House, let us review the ground rules Bobby outlined."
She shot him a quelling glance. "Ground rules?"
Bobby must've foregone that part as well. But she was a lure for Varat, and as such, her safety was too important to gloss over. "When you're at home, stay indoors. I've top line security here. When you leave for the lab, go with Jim or one of my men. Surveillance has been set up at Sandra Cook's lab, including a personal security guard for you. You mustn't go off on your own there either. Bottom line, unless you're with me or one of my people, you're not safe."
A frown marred her face. "So, I'm behind bars here as much as at Tivaz? Is that what you're telling me?"
He didn't think he'd mishandled things that badly. But she wasn't the sort of woman he was used to, which both annoyed and attracted him. "No, of course not. But Varat is bound to come after us. That's the point of having us here together."
Her eyes narrowed. "So Bobby said. But I didn't bank on being a hostage again."
"I shall do everything I can to protect you." Hadn't he already proven that to her when he interceded with Red . . . and blew his mission.
She stood and set her mug on the tea tray louder than was necessary. "May I retire now?"
His frustration level skyrocketed and he had to tamp it down before speaking. "Claire, the situation is temporary. I'll look to Varat whilst you decipher Black's TB."
She narrowed her eyes. "For everyone's sakes, let's hope we both succeed, and quickly."
***
Rain dimmed Claire's room on Sunday morning, in perfect harmony with her aching, drug-dulled body and brain. The only bright spot was the smell of coffee. She loosened the brace to let her arm breathe while she tried to remember her plan for today. Yes, see the lab first hand, get an idea of space and equipment, and identify additional resources. Bobby said everything would be at her disposal. Everything except the solution to Tivaz TB and Don Strong. She'd have to make do with Sandra Cook, even though a lung cancer vaccine expert wasn't her idea of hitting the jackpot.
She dressed in a pair of loose black exercise pants and a 'one size fits all' lime green sweater. A glance in the cheval mirror drew a stark contrast between her attire and the rich paneling of the dressing room. She closed her eyes to shut out the image, which only reminded her of last night's conv
ersation with the owner of this house. She shouldn't have risen to the bait and let her anger show, but she was used to an exchange of ideas, a discussion between equals. David Ruskin operated in an alternate universe from hers. And people thought of science and medicine as doctrinaire. Ha!
She knew she had to make peace with him and stop wasting her energy on anything other than finding an antidote against Tivaz TB. Yet despite the lure of fresh coffee, she waited a few minutes to make sure she was composed enough to face him without another 'encounter.' When she heard the front door open and close, she ventured downstairs, her fingers crossed that he'd left. There she discovered Maggie greeting a petite fashionable woman in three-inch heels. Who was this pretty young woman about her age, with honey-colored hair in a stylish chin-length cut?
Chapter 12
"I'm Elizabeth Carlisle, David's cousin." She held a fall display of mums and seasonal foliage in one hand and large leather tote in the other. "You must be David's friend."
Friend?
"He told me you were coming. I thought I'd say hello before going to my shop. The plant is for you, Claire."
She knows my name. "Thank you."
"What do you think of Sherborne House? The Duchess decorates to the hilt, doesn't she?"
A pert smile wreathed Elizabeth's heart-shaped face, but she didn't know if she should agree or not. Elizabeth was, after all, a member of the family.
"Your opinions are safe with me. I adore the Duchess, but we hardly ever agree on colors. You know how it is."
No, she didn't.
"Maggie tells me David's already at his office. Whitehall can't live without him. But if he were here, he'd be hiding in his rooms. Hates girl talk."
Claire felt breathless just listening to this woman, as glib as her cousin was reticent.
