The Pleasures of Spring

by Evie Hunter

  Andy marvelled at her confidence, even as he envied it. What would it be like to have a woman who felt that way about him? Correction. To have Roz feeling that way about him?

  With Roz he would be so busy keeping up with her that there would be no time to think about other women. The hunt had always appealed to him, but life with her would be a constant chase. He would never get bored.

  And he couldn’t wait to see her again. His parents were going to the big charity do this evening, so he’d have Roz all to himself at home. What would he do first? There was so much he had planned for her that he was as giddy as a kid in a sweet shop.

  He couldn’t wait.

  ‘Reilly will be arriving soon to take over from me,’ he told Abbie, while he continued to watch the crowd. Something was up. His Spidey sense was tingling. ‘She’s as good as they get.’

  Abbie perked up. ‘She was the first female Ranger, wasn’t she? I can’t wait to talk to her and find out all about it.’

  Typical reporter. She couldn’t meet someone without wanting to know all about them. He flicked her a glance and she was alight with curiosity. ‘Good luck with that. She won’t tell you anything.’

  ‘Oh, come on, it sounds like a great story. The Rangers are like the Irish SEALs, right?’

  He nodded. ‘Something like that. But we’re better. And we don’t talk about it.’

  ‘I’ll get it out of her.’

  They reached the Shelbourne and Abbie pressed the button for the lift. ‘I’ll drop the bags in my room and join you in the bar.’

  Andy shook his head. ‘When will you learn? You go nowhere without me.’ He stepped into the lift with her and pressed the button for the sixth floor. When the lift arrived, he told her, ‘Stay in the lift with the door closed until I come to tell you the room is clear.’

  She pulled a face at him, but closed the door of the lift as he headed for her suite. Once inside, he examined it carefully, checking for any sort of booby-trap as well as anyone hidden there. He had no reason to think there was any danger to Abbie, but he was always thorough and there was something in the air today. He gave an extra sweep to be sure, but there was no sign of any intruder.

  He made one more pass, but before he had finished the door of the penthouse was pushed open. He looked up and there she was. Damn it, she should have waited for him. ‘I told you –’ he began.

  ‘Not my idea,’ she said. Her voice trembled, and now Andy could see the man behind her.

  Hall pushed Abbie in through the door and closed it behind him, locking it. His arm was around her, holding a diving knife at her throat. The point of it was under her ear, and was rock steady. SEALs, even disgraced, dishonourably discharged ones, didn’t make mistakes.

  ‘I’d ask for your autograph,’ Hall said to Abbie. ‘But something tells me you won’t give it. So how about he tells me where he’s stashed Roz?’

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. A dozen different scenarios raced through Andy’s mind as he thought of ways to take down Hall. But every single one of them would put Abbie at risk. ‘Who?’ he said, playing for time.

  ‘Nice try.’ Hall shifted the knife slightly. ‘But I saw her face when she looked at you in Tullamore. She has the hots for you. I’m betting you two are an item.’

  Funny how quickly Hall had spotted something that it had taken him so long to realize. Andy shrugged. ‘Lots of women have the hots for me. I’m pretty.’

  He gave the other man a dismissive once-over. ‘Way prettier than you.’

  Hall was tall, broad and blond, with a sort of wholesome handsomeness which was wholly false. He sneered at Andy. ‘I eat pretty boys for breakfast.’

  ‘So I heard. They talk in the locker room.’

  Hall’s face tightened. ‘Tell me where Red is or your client gets it.’

  Andy moved half a step closer, and stopped when the point of the knife broke Abbie’s skin, causing a single drop of blood to run down her neck. ‘For fuck’s sake, think about what you’re doing. You’re already wanted for one murder. Do you think killing someone else will help?’

  ‘Who said anything about killing?’ His knife stayed perfectly still, but his other hand moved, grabbing Abbie’s breast and twisting it. She screamed.

  The sound tormented Andy but there was nothing he could do. Hall didn’t take his eyes off him even as he tortured Abbie. Hall repeated it, and Abbie’s scream was louder. ‘This is the warm-up. I can do permanent damage that doesn’t leave a single bruise. Want me to show you?’

  Andy shook his head. ‘I don’t know where she is. Niall has her safe somewhere.’

  Hall buzzed. ‘Wrong answer.’ He moved his hand again, and Abbie’s resulting scream was even louder. Damn the soundproofed penthouse walls. This was one time Andy would have been glad of neighbours complaining about the noise.

  ‘Try again. And this time get it right.’ He did something that caused Abbie to sag in his arms, gasping and gagging.

  The sight tore at Andy, making him sweat, but Hall never took his eyes off him. ‘Stop. Let her go and I’ll tell you.’

  Hall didn’t let Abbie go, but he did loosen his grip on her breast. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Don’t tell him,’ Abbie’s voice was faint but clear.

  The door opened, and Jack Winter stumbled into the room.

  He swayed as he stood there, staring around him with stupefied wonder. ‘What you doin’ here?’ he asked Hall. His words were slurred and his Irish accent was stronger.

  ‘Fucking drunk,’ Hall sneered.

  ‘Wha’s that mean?’ Winter held onto the back of a chair. ‘Why you hugging m’ wife?’ His head tipped and he straightened up with a jerk.

  ‘Go get help,’ Andy told Winter, his attention on the knife at Abbie’s throat. Jack couldn’t see it from where he stood. Was he sober enough to understand? The one thing he didn’t need was another hostage in Hall’s power.

  ‘Help?’ Winter blinked owlishly. ‘Don’ need help. I can walk.’

  How drunk was Jack? Andy sniffed. There was something wrong. No smell of alcohol. The eyes behind the slitted eyelids were bright and intelligent.

  Damn it, Andy couldn’t even signal to Winter. Hall didn’t make the mistake of forgetting about Andy.

  ‘You were saying,’ Hall reminded Andy.

  Andy opened his mouth to recite the address of the flat in Rathmines he had shared one summer in Dublin. Winter let go of the chair and stumbled towards Abbie. He tripped over his feet and lurched into Hall.

  It took a split second for Hall to push him away, but it was all Andy needed. He launched himself at the bigger man, breaking his hold on Abbie as he did.

  The next few minutes were a blur. Andy was determined to do whatever it took to take Hall down, but he had to stay away from his lethal knife hand. He grabbed Hall’s wrist and tried to pin him down with his body. Hall punched him hard, the blow snapping his head back and making stars dance in front of his eyes.

  Andy prayed that Abbie had got away.

  He and Hall rolled over and Hall, now on top, aimed the knife at him. Andy twisted, catching the weapon under his body and making the most of the chance to knee Hall in the ribs and punch him. He was aware of a table falling in the melee, the crash of the crystal glasses almost as loud as the punches falling.

  Finally, when he wondered if he could hold out any longer, a siren outside heralded the police. Hall fought his way to his feet, knocking over Abbie and dashing for the corridor.

  By the time four Gardaí arrived into the room, he was gone, and the only evidence of his presence were the bruises on Andy’s body.

  26

  If she hadn’t been so nervous about finally meeting Tim O’Sullivan and putting the Shergar scam in motion, Roz would have been tempted to whistle. The gigantic ballroom was lit by dozens of chandeliers shedding glittering light over the white-clothed tables, laid out in splendour around a dance floor.

  ‘We’re sitting at table ten,’ Poppy said, leading the way. ‘I expect Andy will
be here by now.’

  Andy was not at table ten. His place was empty. ‘Really, that boy is always missing for meals,’ Poppy said crossly. ‘We never know when he’s going to turn up.’

  Roz didn’t have time to worry about that. The other places at the table were already occupied.

  ‘Little Red, is it you?’ The heavy French accent didn’t disguise the astonishment in the words.

  No, it couldn’t be. In the FemDom circles of Paris, she was known as Little Red. This was Ireland. Northern Ireland at that. But it was. Claudine Blé, the French Minister of Cultural Affairs, who Roz had last seen at a FemDom party in Paris. And beside her, grinning like a shark, was Anton Fox, a former client.

  ‘Hello, Red, here to play?’

  She was supposed to have met him in Paris to Domme him but got arrested instead. Clearly he hadn’t forgotten her. ‘I haven’t seen you since Paris,’ he said, his voice oily with innuendo.

  She wasn’t going to make life easy for him. ‘I don’t remember seeing you at all.’

  ‘How quickly you forget,’ he laughed. ‘But then you always did play hard to get.’ He moved to seat her but Dougal got there first.

  She smiled at Dougal but kept her attention on Fox. ‘In your case, consider me impossible to get.’

  Poppy looked from one to the other. ‘Do you two know each other?’

  Roz shook her head. ‘Barely acquainted.’ She picked up her napkin and shook it out.

  Fox grinned, showing a lot of teeth. ‘If you say so, Red.’ The threat was clear.

  ‘Still in stocks and bonds?’ she asked him sweetly.

  He glared at her. The last time she had seen him, he had been locked in the stocks ready for her to flog him. She couldn’t remember why she hadn’t and she wasn’t going to let him discomfort her. But she was glad when a couple arrived to join them at the table – until she saw who it was.

  Tim O’Sullivan and an older woman. Her heart pounded. This wasn’t her usual mark, a stranger she was going to cheat. Oh dear god, how was she going to go through with this?

  You can do it, she chided herself. This is your uncle, remember? He’s the man who raised your sister in luxury and left you to rot in a council flat in London. The O’Sullivans ruined your life. It’s their fault you’re in this mess.

  ‘I’m glad you came with me, Tim. I would never have managed those stairs.’ The older woman with him had a strong Cork accent which stood out among all the Belfast and Dublin voices. Roz’s breath froze in her chest while she tried to process the thoughts racing around her head.

  She had thought she was prepared for meeting Tim O’Sullivan. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know what he looked like – he was rarely off the news, complaining about governments interfering in how airlines ran and thinking up interesting new ways to charge passengers for extras. In the flesh, he looked taller than on screen.

  But she hadn’t been expecting the woman sitting beside him. Roz’s stomach tightened into a knot as she looked at her grandmother. This wasn’t part of the plan. She leaned into Dougal’s shadow, watching as Tim helped the older woman into her chair. Her grandmother was at least seventy, petite and buttoned up in a black silk suit, and wearing a string of pearls much smaller than Poppy’s. But her mouth pursed as she surveyed the opulence around her, and her expression tightened even more when she saw the McTavishes.

  Over the years, she had heard lots of stories about Granny O’Sullivan. How she had told her own daughter that she couldn’t come home unless she abandoned her lover, Peter Spring.

  Her father had no doubt that if Maggie had gone home, their twin daughters would have been sent away to prevent a scandal. Granny O’Sullivan wouldn’t have her good name dragged through the mud. A daughter who lived in a hippy commune was bad enough. Living with a man with criminal convictions, even if they were for minor offences, and having babies out of wedlock? It would have scandalized the entire town of Castletownberehaven.

  The good name of the O’Sullivan family was more important than her love for her daughter.

  In her imagination, Roz had always pictured her grandmother as being tall and broad-shouldered, with hands like shovels and a voice calling down the wrath of god on sinners. The woman beside Tim was a surprise.

  Roz braced herself. This was why she was here, what all of this had been leading up to. She was going to lay the bait so Tim O’Sullivan would buy Nagsy for at least half a million.

  Get into character, Roz. It’s show time.

  Tim was dressed in an expensive suit, which almost concealed his rounded belly, and a clashing tie. She would have recognized him anywhere. Roz hated that she couldn’t ignore the family who had managed to ignore her for so long, but she devoured anything on the news or in the papers about O’Sullivan Airlines and Tim in particular.

  Poppy, ever the gracious hostess, asked, ‘Does everyone know each other?’ She performed the introductions, starting with the trim chic Frenchwoman, while the staff served soup. ‘Madame Blé, please allow me to introduce the man who donated our top prize of the evening, two round-the-world airline tickets – Mr Tim O’Sullivan, and his mother, Mrs Philomena O’Sullivan.’

  They nodded to each other, smiling politely.

  Poppy turned to Roz. ‘And may I present my soon to be daughter-in-law, Miss Roz O’Sullivan.’

  Fox smiled at her, showing a lot of teeth. ‘Charmed to meet you, Miss O’Sullivan.’

  She wasn’t going to let this go. ‘Actually, it’s Roz O’Sullivan-Spring.’

  Tim’s bushy eyebrows bristled as he glared at her. ‘Is that so?’

  His accent was stronger in person, but she would have known his voice from his frequent television appearances.

  His mother put her hand on his arm. ‘Ah, Tim don’t –’

  To Roz’s surprise, O’Sullivan actually shut his mouth. Philomena’s hands shook as she fumbled in her evening bag for a hanky. A real one, Roz noticed, not a tissue. The elderly woman dabbed at her face and when she turned to Roz her eyes were bright with tears. ‘I’m sorry, this is a bit of a shock. Lord, Roisin, but you’re the spit of your sister.’

  The reference to her sister startled her as much as the tears, but Roz reined in her feelings. Of course they knew Sinead. They had raised her, hadn’t they? But they hadn’t given a damn about her twin sister. Years of bitterness welled up, but Roz reminded herself of what was at stake. This was no time for a confrontation.

  ‘Thank you. It’s nice to finally meet you,’ she said, using the poshest voice she could manage.

  Poppy looked from one side of the table to the other. ‘A family reunion. How lovely.’

  ‘And long overdue,’ she said under her breath, hoping no one else could hear it. Why did Philomena have to be here tonight? Meeting her grandmother could ruin everything.

  Fortunately, Madame Blé intervened. ‘You ’ave not met?’

  Roz watched the O’Sullivans carefully while she replied to the French minister. ‘No, I was brought up by my father in England. Sometimes I forget I have a family in Ireland. I’m sure they feel the same.’

  Tim glared. ‘Well, it wasn’t as if you didn’t know where we were.’

  So now it was her fault? ‘You’d have welcomed me with open arms, I’m sure.’

  For an old woman, Philomena’s voice was surprisingly strong. ‘You’re family, Roisin. You’re always welcome.’

  The sympathy in her grandmother’s voice unnerved her. She almost sounded sincere. Yeah right. Roz snorted. If she really meant that, the O’Sullivans would have searched for her. Don’t do this now. You’ll ruin everything. Roz took a deep breath and managed to sound polite. ‘How nice to know that.’

  Fox seemed unaware of the tension gripping the table. He had finished his soup and was determined to talk. ‘So what are you doing in Ireland, Red? Change of pace for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ The horrible man made her palms itch and she had a sudden desire to flog him hard. ‘I’m staying with the Campbe
ll McTavishes at Lough Darra.’

  Poppy beamed around the table. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? She’s engaged to my son, Andy. We thought he’d never settle down. And she’s such a lovely girl.’

  Trying to sound modest, Roz said, ‘We’re a good match.’

  She was glad when the waiter put a plate with a fillet steak and potatoes au gratin in front of her. She busied herself moving food around so she could avoid the asparagus, which she hated. Another waiter arrived at her side with a bottle of red wine. She was horrified to realize she had already finished a glass.

  Roz shook her head and held up her water glass. When she was working, she needed a clear head. A discussion about where to get the best steak dominated the conversation for a while, allowing Roz to observe the O’Sullivans. She had to make her move soon.

  Her chance came when the plates were being cleared and Poppy waved. ‘Dougal, look, there’s Ariana and Rory. We must go and say hello.’

  The Campbell McTavishes got up, leaving Roz at the table.

  This was her chance to bait the hook. She turned to Tim. ‘So, no luck in the Gold Cup this year?’

  He took a swig of his wine. ‘Not a bit of it. It’s easier to run an airline.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m sure you’re right. But I’m hoping to do better myself.’

  His eyes lit up. Gotcha. ‘Oh. Has Dougal found himself a winner?’

  ‘No. I have.’ She shrugged. ‘It was one of those one in a million flukes. At least the next Gold Cup winner will be in O’Sullivan colours. But not yours.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘Is that so?’ he asked, too casually. She wanted to laugh at his expression.

  ‘Yes. And I’ll make a fortune in stud fees, when his bloodlines are revealed …’ She left it hanging. Let the mark do the work.

  ‘What are his bloodlines? I know Dougal’s bought in a few lately, but they’re too young for the Cup.’ Relaxed and friendly, one horse person to another, but the curiosity in his eyes gave him away.

  Roz sipped her water. ‘This is nothing to do with Dougal, although I am considering allowing him to buy a half share if he can afford it.’