I opened the closet, found it annoyingly empty.
“Where are my clothes?”
“With the valet,” Barrett said. “I sent them out with mine. I’m not sure the laundry is going to be able to do anything with them, though.”
I could’ve told him as much. Between the kerosene, the scorched fabric, and the soot, the only thing our clothes were good for was starting a campfire. But since I’d left the rest of my things at The Elizabethan Rose, those were the only clothes I had. As a result, to leave the hotel, I’d have to beg, borrow, or steal something to wear from Katie or Ikaat—
“Jamie, wait.”
I paused, hand on the doorknob.
Barrett said, “Maybe it’s time we put our cards on the table.”
But I’d worked a case with Barrett before. He didn’t readily put his cards on the table for anyone. And when he did, he liked to keep an ace up his sleeve.
I did my best to cross my arms, cast and all, against my chest. “You go first. Who sent you to London?”
“I go wherever Uncle Sam sends me. You know that. Who was on the phone just now?”
“An old friend. He’s a highly placed official in Her Majesty’s Government. And he’s actively searching for you since you gunned down a man on a Covent Garden street. Did Uncle Sam ask you to do that, too?”
Barrett’s face was as expressive as a brick wall. “Uncle Sam has asked me to do a lot of things. Why haven’t you handed me over to your old friend?”
I didn’t like the way Barrett stressed the words old and friend. And I didn’t like the scope of Barrett’s question. Mainly, I didn’t like my answer to it. I hadn’t handed him over because I couldn’t bear to see him imprisoned in England for killing a killer who would’ve murdered civilians without a single hesitation. More than that, I hadn’t handed him over because a soft spot in my heart got sore every time I thought about it.
I tried to take comfort in the fact I didn’t have to share all this with Barrett, though. I could choose to lie. But I’d hesitated too long to do that.
Barrett left the window and crossed the room to me. He cradled my face in his hands. Standing in my bedroom, wearing nothing but a bathrobe, and feeling my blood boil with frustration, was not the time to remember Lieutenant Colonel Adam Barrett had amazing hands.
Barrett said, “Your old friend is underestimating you.”
He closed his eyes, touched his lips to my forehead. The kiss made me achy all over. And that made me mad.
“Actually, my old friend has a lead on Ikaat’s father.”
Barrett’s hands fell to his sides.
Just as I knew they would.
“Speaking of Ikaat’s father, Barrett, where is he? I saw surveillance footage of you leaving the bookstore with him, so don’t tell me you don’t know.”
Barrett turned on his heel. He limped toward the lavender fainting couch at the foot of the bed. He made himself comfortable on its curves.
“Ikaat won’t leave London without her father,” I persisted. “And if I can’t convince her to get on a plane, Uncle Sam is going to send someone uglier than Katie and me to motivate her. Unless, of course, that’s what you’re really here to do.”
I felt sick even saying it.
But it needed to be said.
“Did you walk through the desert to make promises to her, Barrett? Are you here to threaten her if she doesn’t come through?”
Barrett didn’t deny this. In fact, he didn’t do anything. He closed his eyes and sighed like a man home from a hard day on a factory floor.
“Adam,” I said, all my patience gone, “help me out here.”
But he couldn’t. Or he wouldn’t. I saw that much in the set of his shoulders and the line of his mouth.
I grabbed my wallet from the dresser, shoved my brainiac glasses up the bridge of my nose, and whipped open my bedroom door with more force than was strictly necessary.
The move propelled Barrett to his feet.
“Jamie, where are you going?”
“Shopping,” I snapped, “because you got rid of my clothes and I’ve got a date with my old friend.”
Barrett opened his mouth to say something more, but I doubted I’d like the sound of it.
“Don’t go out,” I told him, “unless you’re eager to see the inside of a British prison. Oh—and don’t wait up.”
And with that, I slammed the door between us with a bang.
Chapter 13
Angry beyond reason, I nearly collided with Katie.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she said.
“What?”
She may not have been listening to me and Barrett through the proverbial keyhole, but she had to have heard a thing or two as she hovered between my bedroom and hers, a cup and saucer vibrating in her hand. Ikaat had apparently decamped ahead of her roommate. But she’d left the room service trolley behind.
I lifted one of the silver domes, snatched up a piece of cold bacon, and tore into it. It was satisfyingly salty. And chewing it gave me a few moments to collect my temper.
“Don’t worry,” I told Katie. “You didn’t miss much.”
Red roses bloomed high in her cheeks. “I swear, Jamie. I wasn’t listening. I—”
I wasn’t accusing her. Not really. I tried waving her to silence, but it didn’t work.
“I did want to talk to you, though. I wanted to ask…Well, I wondered if you’d tell me—”
“—who is that man in my bedroom?”
She nodded.
“Does he look familiar to you?”
Katie hesitated.
The cup in her hand rattled a response, however.
I said, “Yes, he was in Covent Garden. No, he doesn’t usually kill people. And no, he won’t kill you.”
“How do you know?”
Katie’s question didn’t come from fear exactly. But she was definitely nervous. When she deposited her teacup on an obliging end table, her hand went straight to the black pearls at her neck—and began to twist the strand.
“I’ve known Barrett for a while,” I admitted. “He’s not a hit man. He’s an army police officer.”
Katie’s brows shot sky high.
I couldn’t tell whether she was shocked or reassured by my announcement.
In any case, she certainly found it interesting.
“He’ll have to stay here today,” I told her. “And you and Ikaat will, too.”
“Because the man on the motorcycle is still somewhere out there.”
“He is.” I still hadn’t figured out how he’d traced us to The Elizabethan Rose. And I wasn’t willing to bet he wouldn’t turn up at Rabbit’s Revenge. “Ikaat’s father is out there, too. But I’ve got a lead on his whereabouts.”
“Where is he? Can you tell me?”
“I haven’t tracked him down yet. But my father’s office bought us some time. So while I’m following up on this lead, you don’t have to worry about your job.”
From the way she hunched her shoulders, I’d have said Katie was worried about more than getting fired. Maybe she was afraid Barrett would start shooting up the place the moment I was out the door. Or maybe she had other troubles on her mind.
If she did, she didn’t offer to share them with me.
I said, “You keep Ikaat occupied. I’ll go find her dad.”
Katie glanced down at my bathrobe. “You can’t go out like that. Come on. I bought a few things in the hotel shop. You can borrow an outfit.”
I wasn’t sure I needed an entire outfit, but even I could admit some clothes would come in handy.
Ten minutes later, I knew two things. First, Katie had expensive tastes. And secondly, Ikaat had long been a student of Western fashion, even though she’d had to conduct her studies from afar.
The pair of them decked me out in a gray cashmere knit dress that clung to my every curve and black leather, tall-shafted, stiletto-heeled boots that would’ve made a dominatrix proud. These were courtesy of Katie. Ikaat contributed a finely
woven, emerald-green stole that swaddled me like a cloud on the mountaintop.
She wrapped it around my shoulders as solemnly as if she were bestowing the Victoria Cross.
“The world is a cold place, Jamie. Be warm and be safe.”
I nodded. I hadn’t told her I was leaving her to pursue a lead on her father. Maybe she sensed that was where I was headed.
Or maybe she only hoped it.
Either way, I thanked her for loaning me the stole. And for wishing me the best. I said my goodbyes and made tracks for the door, but I didn’t get very far.
“You’ve got a price tag hanging from your collar,” Katie said.
It wouldn’t do to go shopping in one store looking like I’d just shoplifted things from another. So I reached for the tag. I couldn’t find it, though.
“I don’t see it,” Ikaat said.
“Has anyone got a pair of manicure scissors?” I asked.
Of course, being in hiding at Rabbit’s Revenge, we weren’t exactly well kitted out.
“I’ll try this.” Katie came at me with that fountain pen of hers. She removed the cap, stuck it on the end of the barrel. The exposed nib shone like a steel plowshare, and so did the clip. “If I can get the clip angled to slice through the—”
“Ouch!”
I wasn’t sure what Katie had sliced, but she’d stabbed me in the shoulder with that shining, sharp nib.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“It’s all right.”
And it would have to be. The damage was done. I dipped my fingertips into the collar of the dress. I could just reach the spot on the back of my deltoid and feel a slight stickiness there. That stickiness turned out to be blood.
“Don’t worry,” I said, dabbing up a red bead or two with tissues Ikaat hurried to bring me. I grinned at Katie to show her I harbored no hard feelings. “I’ve had all my shots.”
But she was pale and shaking and didn’t laugh at my joke.
I took my leave of her, and of Ikaat, and made my way to the lobby. There, I surveyed the area for suspicious loiterers, left the hotel via the rear entrance as a precaution, and caught a cab that drove me up and down the road until I was confident neither Helmet Head nor anybody else was lurking outside. So far, our bolt-hole was secure. And I intended to keep it that way.
I switched taxis three times, made sure my route took me all over the city. I could’ve shopped for a dress at any number of places along the way. Chalk it up to my American spirit, but just then, I wanted to go shopping at a place that reminded of me of the reason I was in this mess in the first place.
I wanted to go shopping at Liberty.
With its dark beams and gleaming white walls in half-timbered Tudor style, Liberty looks like Elizabeth Tudor could’ve shopped here. She didn’t, of course. Liberty has only been in business since 1875. But Princess Diana, the daughter-in-law of Queen Elizabeth II, had been known to stop in to browse—and to buy.
Front and center on Liberty’s ground floor is the scarf boutique, and for me, walking into it is always like coming home. Display after display of scarves showcase the store’s claim to fame, that fabulous Liberty Art Fabric. From nattily Nouveau patterns to Boho chic prints, these designs put Liberty on the map a hundred years ago and have kept it there for generations. These days, the patterns also grace everything from men’s neckties to dinnerware to stationery, but I rarely bothered with those things. I was always too dazzled by the scarves, and I owned more of the flimsy things than I should admit.
Today, however, my destination wasn’t the scarf boutique.
It was the top floor—and eveningwear.
The Victorian entrepreneurs who founded the likes of Liberty, Selfridges, and even Harrods were no fools. Which meant they planned their stores’ layouts the way a cadre of generals plans a military campaign. So, to get to the top floor, a customer has to walk through that tempting scarf boutique to reach the lift. And as I circumnavigated those tables dripping glorious pools of silk and wool, I couldn’t help but think of Ikaat and her drab little headscarf.
Clearly, she had an eye for pretty things. Not only had she gone shopping inside the hotel with Katie the day before, she’d oohed and ahhed once I’d slipped into my borrowed cashmere duds. She’d bought the exquisite stole I was wearing—and her generosity of spirit meant she’d loaned it to me to keep me warm before she’d even had a chance to enjoy it.
But though she had a taste for beauty, the plain brown square she used to cover her hair suggested she hadn’t had many opportunities to indulge it.
That’s when I spotted one scarf in particular on display.
It was heavy silk, printed with a gloriously subtle tile pattern of greens and blues—and just a dollop of brown.
In two seconds, I had its billowing folds off the dress form that flaunted it and in the hands of a sales associate. And my conscience was clear. Because I wasn’t buying one more indulgence for myself. Ikaat deserved this scarf. And Ikaat would have it as a gift from me to her.
With the scarf nestled in its box, the box resting in a shopping bag, and the whole thing charged to a credit card drawn on that discreet Swiss bank, I resolved to think about eveningwear.
The directory in the elevator announced menswear on the next floor, and it dawned on me that whenever I managed to get this three-ring circus headed home, Barrett would be rather conspicuous trying to board a plane in either that bathrobe or his charbroiled clothes. And while I’d never admit this to anyone, much less to him, I didn’t want to run the risk of spending another night with him sans pajamas.
I was furious with him, sure. I was uncertain and even a little afraid of his role in this whole mess. But I also couldn’t deny how much he’d begun to mean to me. If I was tired and troubled in the middle of the night, and if he was warm and welcoming, I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t turn to him. And while pajamas weren’t the same kind of obstacle as, say, a chastity belt, struggling with them still might give me time to come to my senses.
So I bought Barrett some beautiful broadcloth pajama pants and a coordinating T-shirt of the finest pima cotton. And while I was at it, I bought him trousers, two hand-stitched shirts, a forest-green lamb’s-wool pullover with leather elbow patches, and everything he needed to wear underneath it. Last but not least, I bought him a chocolate suede jacket that begged to be touched and a pair of gloves to keep his hands—his amazing hands—warm.
I left orders to have the items held for me. And then I called the concierge at Rabbit’s Revenge. I promised him a king’s ransom if he’d come to pick them up.
Not surprisingly, he agreed.
By then, I had a trail of smiling salesclerks shadowing me throughout the store. One gladly escorted me to eveningwear. She left me in the care of an associate named Sally. Poor Sally smiled, too—and revealed buck teeth rarely seen outside the stables at Ascot. But Sally knew her business.
She showed me gowns in silks and satins, ponte knits and jersey.
But the colors were all wrong.
I couldn’t show up at the evening’s shindig in something red and clingy or bright blue and beautiful. Not that red and clingy were my style, anyway. But to track down Armand Oujdad, I had to blend in with the crowd. Sophisticated and simple, a good gown wouldn’t draw undue attention to my body or prompt speculation about my bank account. It would put others at ease around me. Because people at ease talk. And someone who’d talk just might tell me where Ikaat’s father was.
“Sally,” I said, “what do you have in black?”
Sally rushed to the back of the department.
She returned with an entire rack of black dresses—and Philip.
He looked debonair and dangerous in a tuxedo as dark as my mood. And his showing up meant evening had arrived. But that wasn’t all it meant.
“Have you been following me?” I demanded.
“Of course not.” Philip slipped a finger along the shoulder strap of a particularly beautiful shantung gown. “I followed your paper tr
ail.”
I didn’t understand.
“You’ve used your credit card all over the store, darling. I knew right where to find you.”
This news made my stomach twist. It was bad enough Helmet Head had somehow traced me to The Elizabethan Rose. Now, Philip and his government were keeping track of my spending. If he inquired too closely, he’d realize I’d bought men’s clothing. And if he got curious, he’d find Barrett tucked up in my room at Rabbit’s Revenge.
But if I found Armand Oujdad tonight?
Barrett and I would be out of here—and I wouldn’t have to worry about ducking Philip any longer.
After that realization, it didn’t take me long to choose a tall, slim column of silk faille. It sported a keyhole closure at the mandarin neckline and long sleeves to hide my cast. But a long slit in the skirt showed a good bit of leg. After all, I was a security specialist, not a schoolmarm. I needed to look like an elegant party guest rather than a cloistered nun.
Elegance meant killer shoes, too, a sparkly handbag on a long chain, and all the niceties that would be nice to wear underneath the dress. Sally pointed this out, and I had to agree with her. Philip agreed also, and though he never said so out loud, the burn in his sparkling eyes suggested he’d be more than happy to offer an opinion if I cared to model the lingerie.
Instead, I banished him to the car.
I was nearly kitted out when Sally decided to show me a set of satin sleep shorts and matching camisole. A delicate, scalloped edge decorated each piece—and the matching dressing gown, too. The whole ensemble was the dark pink of a dusky carnation and felt as velvety as the petals of a rose.
When I touched it, no thought of Barrett waiting in my hotel bedroom entered my mind. No image of Philip waiting in the backseat of his limousine dawned. At least, that’s what I told myself.
“Wrap it up,” I told Sally.
Her broad smile would’ve done Secretariat proud.
Chapter 14
If Sally thought it odd that I wore my fancy duds from the store, she didn’t comment.
Neither did Philip’s driver when he helped me into the back of the car.
With the rest of London’s traffic, the Mercedes crawled along one street and then another. I felt so antsy, I had to fight the urge to get out of the car and push. Of course, a bit of a delay was a good thing, I told myself. Among the rich and famous, only the unimportant arrived early. And if I wanted to hobnob with the other party guests, I had to appear as important as they perceived themselves to be.
The Kill Shot Page 11
