Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes Book 2)

by Le Carre, Georgia

  ‘How … courtly. Thank you,’ I say softly. My mother used to say any charm offensive that begins with handmade chocolates is bound to take effect eventually. I wonder when eventually will be.

  He shrugs, his hot blue eyes pouring over me, taking in my face, my hairband, my lace top, my red skirt, and resting a shade longer on my zebra shoes.

  He brings his eyes back to my face. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, taking a step back to leave the box of chocolates on the little table by the door. I turn around to find his eyes scanning the interior of my tiny flat. When his gaze meets mine it is polite and deliberately neutral.

  Stepping out, I close the door and we walk down the corridor to the lift without any conversation. He presses the button and still there are no words exchanged. His silence is unnerving, and I feel compelled to break it before the lift comes.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  He glances sideways at me. ‘The Rubik’s Cube.’

  The lift doors open and we step in. The smell of piss hits me hard. ‘The Rubik’s Cube? It’s not one of yours, is it?’

  He looks at me sardonically. ‘Take you to one of mine and have you accuse me of enjoying untaxed perks?’

  ‘Right,’ I say, as the lift slowly and jerkily bears us down.

  His car, a model I recognize immediately as it’s my father’s dream car, is a brand new Maserati GranCabrio Sport bearing a price ticket of over a hundred thousand pounds. It’s parked on double yellow lines right outside the building entrance.

  ‘This road’s notorious for parking tickets,’ I warn, my eyes skimming the muscular lines of the sleek black machine.

  ‘I know,’ he says carelessly.

  He unlocks the car remotely and opens the passenger door for me. I slip in and he shuts it. Alone in the luxurious space, I inhale deeply the smell of leather and immerse myself in the high-tech beauty and fabulous comfort of the interior. I stroke the door handle. Wow! I’ve never been in such a car. The dashboard, door and seats are all in soft burgundy leather with stitching in a matching color.

  He slides into the driver’s seat, retracts the roof, pushes a little button next to the column marked ‘Sport’, and what must be the loudest car in the world snarls, roars and with a sonic boom comes to life.

  He turns to me. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Should I be scared?’

  ‘Nah, you’ll love it.’

  I’d planned to play it cool, but a wild, unintended whoop escapes my thick wall of disapproval of him and ill-gotten wealth of all kinds when he hits the gas pedal, and the car takes off so suddenly it throws me back against the seat.

  When I first saw the roof disappearing from above my head, I did worry about what kind of mess my hair would be in by the time we arrived at the restaurant, but the car has been built in such a way that my hair remains impressively unruffled. And the V8 engine is so brilliantly noisy with pops and bangs on the overrun that there’s no need for conversation at all as we speed down empty back roads.

  The noise also means that we’re constantly the center of attention everywhere we go. It’s a lovely summer evening and people are sitting outside restaurants, pubs and bars eating and drinking—so that makes for a lot of attention. And when we make a traffic light stop, excited tourists lift their phones and film the car.

  He drives up to the Rubik’s Cube’s pillared entrance, gets out, and opens my door. Putting his hand lightly on the small of my back, he throws the keys to the parking jockey who catches them neatly. Even though his hand is barely touching me, I’m conscious of it as he guides me up the glossy granite steps. The imposing entrance has an air of intimidation about it, as if one runs the risk of being challenged by the staff with the question, ‘Are you rich enough to be here?’ The answer to which in my case is clearly no.

  But apparently Dom is.

  The doormen are impressively enthusiastic in their welcome, and it’s instantly obvious that not only is he a regular here, but he must also be a tipper of massive proportions.

  The restaurant is on the first floor, and we climb a sweeping, black-carpeted staircase. Upstairs, the interior of the restaurant is breathtakingly sumptuous with über-classy black and white velvet walls and huge arrangements of lush, exotic flowers at the front desk and in the middle of the restaurant. All the chair frames are made of some matt silver metal and the thickly padded seats and backs are covered in multicolored velour: orange, gold, red, green, blue, brown.

  We’re shown to what seems to be the best table in the place: an elevated platform next to a super-modern cascade fountain piece. Waiters swarm around our table pulling out chairs, bowing, scraping, smiling, nodding. Next to me, a waiter lifts the napkin from the charger plate, gently unfolds it, and courteously lays it across my lap. Bemused, I thank him. He nods solemnly in acknowledgment.

  Another jacketed man flourishes menus at us. A complimentary, pink-tinged champagne cocktail appears magically on my right, but I notice that a glass of amber liquid is being offered to Dom. A young man of Middle Eastern descent smiles sweetly when I thank him.

  A man oozing obsequiousness in a black suit materializes at Dom’s elbow. The display of excessive servitude is quite frankly startling, but Dom seems accustomed to it.

  ‘Would you like me to choose the wines to complement the dishes, Mr. Eden?’ the man asks ingratiatingly. Ah, a sommelier. Well, well, I’ve never been to a restaurant that was swanky enough to hire a sommelier!

  ‘Pair them with the lady’s meal,’ Dom says. ‘And just my usual.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ he says with a nod and a quick glance in my direction, and exits the scene.

  I turn my attention to the menu. The combinations of ingredients are unusual and fascinating. I look up once and Dom is watching me. For a moment we stare at each other then I feel myself start to color and have to drop my eyes back to the menu. When Dom lays his menu down I do the same. Almost instantly the headwaiter is at my side. We place our orders and he diplomatically compliments us on our excellent choices.

  A small plate of beautifully colorful miniature amuse-bouches is placed in the middle of the table. The waiter who brought it explains what the little titbits are, but his French accent is so thick I catch only the words ‘black radish’, ‘fromage frais’ and ‘steamed mussels with pickle and Guinness’. He disappears as silently as he had arrived.

  I pick up one of the ceramic tasting spoons holding a little cube made from three brightly colored, unrecognizable ingredients, sitting in a pool of soy sauce, and slip it into my mouth. There’s a delicate burst from the green base of avocado, the rich meaty taste of tuna tartare and a complete texture and taste change with the rice crispies and deep fried shallots on the top.

  ‘Good?’ Dom asks.

  ‘Very,’ I reply sincerely.

  He pops one of the smoked salmon shells between his lips and suddenly I find myself hungrily watching his incredibly sexy mouth. I drag my gaze away quickly and cast it around the opulent room.

  If his intention is to dazzle me then yes, I’m dazzled—the suit, the car, the impossible to miss deference of the waiting staff toward him, the splendor of the restaurant, the five star excellence of the food—but it doesn’t mean a damn thing.

  That strange look we shared in his empty restaurant is worth more to me than one thousand nights in the lap of unrivaled luxury. I know that moment is gone forever. The man in front of me is wearing a mask and he has no intention of ever letting me see underneath the mask again.

  He is either with me now because he wants to take me to bed or he is trying to get some information out of me. Most likely a bit of both. I won’t give him any information, but I also know I can’t be the one to hurt him either. Not after what I saw this afternoon.

  Tomorrow, I will tell Rob that I want to be taken off this case. He’ll ask why, and I’ll tell him that I don’t feel comfortable around Mr. Dominic Eden. That is tomorrow. Tonight belongs to me and the man in the mask.

  I
take a sip of the delicious champagne cocktail and meet his gaze. ‘I notice you don’t have a Facebook page?’

  FIVE

  He stares at me. ‘Is that a crime?’

  ‘No,’ I concede. ‘But it is rather unusual.’

  ‘Why?’ he demands.

  I shrug. ‘Everybody uses some form of social media. Twitter, FB, MySpace, Picasa, Tsu, Instagram, Plaxo, Xing, Ning … You can’t be found on any platform.’

  He bares his teeth suddenly in a pirate grin. And ooh … devilishly attractive. My heart flutters a bit.

  ‘Can it be,’ he mocks softly, ‘that HMRC’s latest and most formidable weapon, the eighty million pound super-computer Connect, needs me to supply it with data so it can effectively spot signs of potential non-compliance from me?’

  ‘Hardly,’ I reply. ‘Connect holds over a billion pieces of data collected from hundreds of sources. As it happens, a lack of participation on social media is also “data”. It indicates a desire to conceal suspicious activity.’

  He raises one straight, raven-black eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really,’ I say with emphasis.

  At that precise moment, the sommelier appears with a bottle and tries to display the label to Dom, but Dom doesn’t take his eyes off me. Not willing to be outdone, I stare back. When the bottle is uncorked, he makes a slight motion with his hand to indicate that he wants to dispense with the business of tasting the wine. The sommelier comes around to my side and fills my glass. When he goes around to Dom’s glass, Dom gives a slight shake of his head. Quietly, the man slips the bottle back into the ice bucket and disappears.

  I take a sip of wine. It is so smooth and ripe with different and distinct flavors that it makes every type of wine I have ever consumed seem like bootlegged versions of squashed grapes and vinegar.

  ‘Just out of interest,’ Dom says, ‘what information does Connect hold about me?’

  ‘And there I was thinking I was here to learn more about your business and not the other way around.’

  ‘Touché.’ He chuckles good-naturedly.

  I smile faintly.

  ‘So, what would you like to know about me?’ he offers with a reckless smile.

  I slip a steamed mussel into my mouth. It is so tender it melts on my tongue. I let it slide down my throat and wipe my lips on the napkin before I answer. ‘I’d like to know why you aren’t on social media.’

  The broad shoulders lift, an almost Italian gesture. ‘We’re gypsies,’ he says, as if that answers everything.

  ‘And?’ I prompt.

  ‘By nature we distrust any form of surveillance, and as you’ve just confirmed, all forms of social media are Greeks bearing gifts.’ A teasing quality slips into his voice. ‘See, gypsies wouldn’t have towed the Trojan horse into their city.’

  ‘I don’t want to be stereotypical or anything, but I honestly thought gypsies have always been rather brilliant horse thieves.’

  His crystalline blue eyes twinkle with mischief. ‘Ah yes. Perhaps it would have been a different matter if the horse had been real, or made of scrap metal. But being wooden …’

  I really want to laugh with him, but I suppress the urge. I’m not on a date. I cannot allow myself to like him. I’ll just end up getting hurt.

  We’re interrupted by the arrival of our starters. My order of goat’s cheese with roasted beet looks like a white and magenta millefeuille. I gaze at it with awe. Just as the amuse-bouches before, it is a precisely arranged work of art. Almost too beautiful to eat. Dom has seared scallops and walnuts served with a dinky pot of Parmesan brûlée

  I cut into my millefeuille and fork a small piece into my mouth. It is so delicious I’m immediately struck by how much I’d love to be able to afford to bring my parents here, instead of all the cheap restaurants my tight budget forces me to take them to. I know they would never have tasted anything so refined and luscious, and it suddenly and painfully hits home that they probably never will. And just like that I no longer need to stop myself from liking him. That resentment for ‘people like him’ comes back into my gut. I welcome it like an old friend. It’s better this way. I am too affected by him already.

  ‘Why are you so afraid of surveillance if you’re doing nothing wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘Why do you have curtains in your bedroom windows? Are you doing something wrong?’ he shoots back.

  ‘It’s not the same thing,’ I argue.

  ‘Why isn’t it? I don’t want the government, its agents and a whole slew of marketers to have access to my private data. That’s my business alone, and I take steps to keep it so. Why is that concept so foreign to you?’

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know that Connect holds very little information on you, or,’ I continue, ‘your brothers.’

  He smiles a slow, satisfied smile.

  Smile he should. Guarding his privacy has worked. He is a closed door to Connect’s tentacles. All it managed to dig up was that at twenty-eight years old he has never made a benefit claim. He doesn’t own or co-own any property or business. Needless to say, I don’t believe that for a second. Him not financially tied with anyone? As if! He has two bank accounts that show a pathetic amount of activity, mostly direct debits for utility bills. No overdraft. He has a credit card, but he won’t even use it to pay for petrol. He hasn’t flown with a commercial airline for as long as Connect has been running. One look at that tan tells me he didn’t acquire it in London. Which only signifies he’s leaving the country using other, private means.

  I flash him a fake smile. ‘It would appear that you’ve fooled the super-computer into believing that you’re a rather uninteresting employee.’

  He lifts his glass of whiskey. ‘I don’t know how you meant that to come out, but I have to say it kinda looks bad when you give the impression that you believe you’re better than a super-computer.’

  I smile through my irritation. ‘Connect is an amazing invention. At the touch of a button it can show an incredibly detailed picture about a person that would have taken months of research before, but it has no intuitive powers. The department relies on investigators and analysts like me to validate the data and pick up unnatural patterns.’

  ‘Unnatural patterns? Like what?’ he asks, fishing for information.

  Well, he’s not getting anything but the obvious from me. ‘Like everything I’ve seen tonight. Like the clothes, the car, this restaurant.’

  ‘So, you noticed my clothes,’ he notes cheekily. It’s hard to imagine that this is the same tormented man from this afternoon.

  ‘One can hardly fail to notice that they’re not off a department store’s rack.’ My voice is mild.

  He widens his eyes innocently. ‘I saved up for years to buy these clothes. The car belongs to the company, and I only come to this restaurant when I’m feeling particularly flush or on a really big date.’

  ‘It’s all a big joke to you, isn’t it?’ I accuse. I can feel myself losing my cool.

  ‘It’s not just a job for you, is it?’ he asks curiously.

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s a personal crusade.’ I lean back as the waiting staff move in to efficiently and quickly clear away our plates. My wine is replenished and a fresh glass of whiskey is placed before Dom. I notice that he’s not drinking any wine at all, which means that he ordered the bottle solely for me.

  ‘So, you must hate people like me.’

  ‘Hate might be too strong a word. Detest might be a bit closer.’

  He looks at me with a perplexed expression as if he’s trying to figure out a three-headed, ten-limbed, purple-striped creature. ‘Why do you care so much what tax I pay? I couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether you pay yours or not.’

  ‘Because people like you play the legal game and screw the country,’ I accuse hotly.

  ‘Trying to avoid paying more tax than you have to is not screwing the country. On the contrary, it’s doing one’s best to avoid being screwed by people like you. I’m paying the right amount of tax within the rules. Only
a sanctimonious, pompous zealot would criticize someone for seeking every legal means possible to reduce their tax bill. Tax avoidance isn’t wrong. It’s perfectly sensible behavior.’

  ‘Wow,’ I gasp. ‘This is a turn-up for the books. The tax dodger decides to take the moral high ground!’

  He shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Let not he who is houseless pull down the house of another, but let him labor diligently and build one for himself, thus by example assuring that his own shall be safe from violence when built—Abraham Lincoln.’ He leans back, a smug smile on his face.

  My main course—Dorset crab and black quinoa with tomato and Meyer lemon sauce—is put before me. It’s a world-class visual treat, but I find I’ve completely lost my appetite.

  ‘Bon appétit,’ Dom says when we’re alone again, and digs with relish into his Ahi tuna topped with caviar. It is lined with slices of zucchini that are so thinly sliced they’re almost transparent.

  I fold my arms over my chest. ‘So, you think that you have a perfect right to pay little or even no tax if possible, because you’re wealthy enough to have access to devious accountants, slick lawyers, corrupt bankers and tax havens while the rest of us subsidize your operations by paying for the education and health care of your workforce, the roads you and your companies use, and the police deployed to guard your restaurants and nightclubs from trouble.’

  He leans forward, his eyes glittering dangerously. ‘If you truly feel that way then why don’t you do something about the really big tax avoiders like Google, Starbucks, Microsoft and Apple?’

  I sit up straighter in my chair. ‘My mandate does not cover multinational companies.’

  He raises one mocking eyebrow. ‘Your mandate doesn’t cover multinationals? How fucking convenient.’

  ‘Another department deals with them,’ I defend tensely.

  He bursts into a sarcastic, cynical laugh.

  I stare at him furiously. How dare he make out that I’m in some insidious way complicit in the wrongdoings of the multinational companies?