by A. J. Adams
Sitting by the window and pointedly ignoring Arturo in the seat next to me, I gazed at the view. We nipped through a couple of villages and finally came up to a church. It had exactly the same front door as the one by the hotel. I looked at it, and then it came to me that this was High Wycombe, the place that used to be home. And this was the church I used to go to when I was little. It was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Like walking through a dream.
Arturo put his hand on my arm. “I thought you’d want to visit your parents before we leave.”
All of a sudden there was a lump in my throat, and tears were running down my face. Arturo didn’t say another word. He just handed me out of the SUV and walked me round the cemetery, holding my hand as he looked at the gravestones. Thanks to the waterworks, I didn’t see a bloody thing. I just stumbled along like a dog on a short leash.
We found mum at the back, buried with daddy. There was a small black gravestone, engraved with their names and dates. I couldn’t remember organising this or ever having been here before, but Arturo pushed a single white rose into my hands.
“I’ll wait for you by the church, sirena.”
What can I say? There was a little holder on the grave, perfect for just one flower, so I pushed the rose into it. Then I stood there, crying my eyes out until Arturo came back for me. “It’s not goodbye, Solitaire. We’ll be back. Promise.”
The crew didn’t say a word when we got into the SUV, and it took me half an hour to realise we were retracing our steps and going all the way back into the city. As it was now morning rush hour, there was a tonne of traffic, so it took forever. I’d stopped watering by the time we got to the City Airport, but I was wiped. Crying does that to you, I think.
I stumbled out of the car into a lounge, posh of course, like everywhere Arturo goes, and then he was pointing me towards a skywalk. “Just go up and sit anywhere you like.”
So he had a private plane. He would do.
“What about check-in and passport control?”
“Already done, sirena.”
I wasn’t surprised.
Sitting in the Gulfstream, I thought about Arturo. High Wycombe lay more than hundred kilometres out of London – and in the opposite direction of the City Airport. Going to the cemetery had added four hours to the trip, and it meant Arturo had made everyone get up before dawn rather than sleep in and have breakfast.
Also, he’d gone to the trouble of finding out where the graves were. If he’d asked me, I wouldn’t have had a clue. That part of my past was still locked down tight. As for the white rose, the holder suggested I’d gone before with a flower, but that was a blank, too. God knows how, but Arturo must have found someone who knew my habits, the vicar maybe.
It confused the hell out of me. I wanted to keep on hating him, but the way he’d gone all out just slayed me. How could he be so fucking fantastic one minute and so fucking awful the next? And which was the real Arturo?
I couldn’t figure it out, and I was exhausted, so I decided to ignore it. I curled up on the seat and napped. It was a minute or a week or a year later when Arturo sat me up and clipped me into a seatbelt. A brief roar and we were in the air.
The crew were trashed, so they stretched out and were out for the count. Arturo was on his laptop and then on the phone to various people, talking about stocks, shares and some kind of shopping mall investment. He was looking a little pale, and I realised he’d skipped a night’s sleep. So he was human; Arturo was tired.
Me, I was at the stage where I was too strung out to kip. I watched Arturo work and wondered where we’d go from here. Part of me wanted to talk to him, but I wasn’t finding it easy to let go of my hate. I could still feel the prick of that needle, see, and it hurt.
When he was done, Arturo closed his laptop and turned to me. “Ready to talk to me?”
“Maybe.” It came out sulky because I was edgy.
We stared at each other like cats about to square up for a spat.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you. It wasn’t till you said –” Arturo closed his eyes and scowled. “Look, I wish I’d said something, done it differently.”
“You trusted a bent copper’s word over mine.” It rankled. It really did.
“I didn’t want to!”
“But you did!”
I wanted to throw myself into Arturo’s arms, bury my head in his neck and curl myself around him. I wanted to relive that feeling of feeling loved and safe. But that was sloppy thinking. I couldn’t trust him. Arturo had turned against me at the first opportunity, and it was a bloody miracle that I had come through alive. Whatever he was up to, trusting him would be building my house on sand. It was just too dangerous.
I leaned away from him. “Do whatever you want, Arturo. I know I can’t stop you. Put me in a whorehouse or shoot me. I really don’t care anymore.”
Then I got up, moved to one of the empty seats and went to sleep.
Chapter Eleven: Arturo
I really thought that the necklace would be enough to bring Solitaire round. A genuine blue sapphire, cut to a heart shape, set in white gold and surrounded by diamonds would have gladdened the heart of any of the women I’ve ever been with. Christ, at fifty thousand bucks, it would have bought some of them for life! But Solitaire barely glanced at it and then threw it away when I wasn’t looking.
Thank Christ it’s policy to check the trash before we let anyone take it away. Very few people think about it, but trash can be a serious security leak. Just last month we raked through the skip outside the home of a Gulf lieutenant at midnight, and by start of business, we’d hacked into his bank account and emptied it. One man’s trash, right?
It’s amazing what goes on paper during a meeting, and we’d been doing some serious talking, so Rafa went through everything and rescued the necklace. He didn’t say a word, either; by that time, everyone knew I’d fucked up big time. Kyle hadn’t talked, he never does, but from the way Solitaire sassed me and the way I took it, they all knew I’d done something to deserve it.
Solitaire let me have it in a big way, and it wasn’t easy to take. It sounds spoilt, but I’m used to being top dog. Kyle chews me out sometimes, and my sisters are always bitching at me, but Solitaire’s vicious sarcasm was in a different league. If she’d been anyone else, I’d have whacked her.
While half of me wanted to bitch-slap her until she shut up, the other half wanted to fold her into my arms and hug her tight. Solitaire was hurting, and she was hurting bad. I could see it in her eyes. Kyle was right: Solitaire didn’t give a shit anymore. She was beyond fear, beyond reason. Her anger burned like a laser, and there was nothing anyone could say or do to cool her down.
I didn’t think she was suicidal, though. The message I got from those arctic blue eyes was that Solitaire was more likely to slash my throat than her wrists. On the other hand, I’d fucked up so badly that I wasn’t taking any chances. While she was still out, I locked my gun in my suitcase. There was a nasty moment later on when I remembered she was in the bathroom with my shaving gear, but that turned out to be a false alarm.
When the necklace and my apology didn’t help matters, I thought visiting her family might. Her tears at that cemetery flushed out some of the anger, but like that fucker Danjuma had said, Solitaire didn’t forgive or forget. Now that I had a better handle on her, I realised that she probably wouldn’t have been so stinking mad at him if he’d only beaten her. What really got her was that he believed she’d ratted him out.
I decided that the only way to get through to Solitaire was to let her cool down and then talk to her rationally. If she understood why I’d done it, she might forgive me. It wasn’t easy, though. I’ve got a big bed in the back of my jet, and while she sat in the seat next to me, a metre of ice surrounding her, I was tempted to pick her up, rip her clothes off and fuck her till she cried for mercy.
The only thing that held me back was that it was too likely to go wrong. A caveman act is fine if you’re close because then it’s pass
ion, but as we weren’t exactly friends, it would just be rape. And no matter what the romance books tell you, it’s the one thing a woman won’t forgive you for. No, if I wanted Solitaire, I had to convince her to forgive me.
I wanted her badly enough to be patient, so I let her sleep undisturbed. But while she lay snoozing comfortably, I was wracked by fantasies of domination. By the time we landed in Nuevo Laredo, I had a serious case of blue balls.
My second cousin Lucho was in charge of security that day. “Arturo!” he hugged me. “Good to see you home. I’ve brought everyone’s ride.”
As the others buzzed off, Lucho took Solitaire and me home. I’ve got a helipad by the house, but you can’t land a jet on it; you need an airport for that. As planes need to give the tower an ETA, and it needs only one man with a rocket launcher to get lucky, we load up on security for trips. This time Lucho had one plane and a chopper escorting us once we were over land, and he’d put together a crew of four cars and six bikes to meet us. Solitaire blinked when she saw the line of people but said nothing. She was silent all the way, not angry – just switched off.
It set Kyle’s warning buzzing through my head again, so when we arrived, I took her by the hand and held on to her. Now I was home, I had to settle Solitaire. If she continued to chew me out in front of everyone, I’d either have to kill someone to prove myself or lock her up. The second option had its appeal, but I knew that trying to force Solitaire into playing nice was going to go nowhere. I wanted my sirena back, and it was going to take some persuasive talking. What was more, we had to get ourselves settled fast because my house functions as my home as well as my place of business.
I have fifty acres, surrounded by a high tech security system and patrols. The house stands in the middle on an acre of its own, surrounded by a high wall, also bristling with defence systems. The front is offices and meetings rooms, and the back is living room, games room and the bedroom suites. I’ve got a big family, and I don’t go out much, so I built big. I’ve got twelve bedrooms, and we’re still bursting at the seams every Christmas.
I don’t know why, but I took Solitaire to my office. It was probably habit because it’s where I usually head when I come home. Even if I’m tired, I like to get a handle on what’s been going on while I’ve been away.
Solitaire sat down in a seat by the window, and then Maria and Gozo came in with a bunch of paperwork. They manage the office, so they brought me up to speed on what I’d missed. When I looked up fifteen minutes later, Solitaire had vanished. I panicked, and Kyle’s words came rushing back to haunt me.
“She needs professional care, Arturo.”
“Bautista will see her as soon as we’re back.”
“I meant a shrink.”
“She seems fine to me.”
“She’s strong but not indestructible.”
“Listen, Kyle. What the fuck do you think will happen if she starts talking?”
He knew as well as I did that it would be a death sentence. If a real-life Tony Soprano had gone to a therapist, the cops would have bugged the place in a heartbeat, and his own capos would have taken him out before he said something that would put them all in the slammer. In our world you keep it together or get blown away.
“If she’s suicidal, not getting her help could kill her.”
“Just tell me how to keep her from topping herself.”
“I don’t fucking know!”
“You must have had attempted suicides at Gitmo.”
Kyle sighed. “You can’t kill yourself when you’re chained to the wall.”
“Not what I had in mind. Well, except as part of some light entertainment.” I watched Solitaire as she slept. “Never mind. Bautista can check her out, and if he thinks she needs help too, I’ll fix something, somehow.”
“Like kidnap a psychiatrist?”
“That’s an idea.”
I’d been half-joking about kidnapping a shrink, but now Solitaire had disappeared and I was scared to death. Maria and Gozo hadn’t noticed her slipping away, either, so I told them to alert security while I went to look for her. I was running around in a panic when I spotted her in the rose garden. She was sitting in a corner, half hidden under a piñata, and she looked desolate.
I told Maria to tell everyone to take off home, and then I went to sit down next to Solitaire. “Sirena.” I put an arm around her and she sat up straight, trying to shrug me away. I held on tightly. “No, listen to me.”
“Or what?” The queen bitch was back, but I wasn’t fooled because I’d seen the look in her eyes when she thought she was alone. Solitaire was dying inside. She had nobody, and she was stuck with me. I’m not a poster boy for Mr Sensitive, but I felt for her. If I’d been her, I would have been very worried.
I can be a right bastard, but I didn’t even think to goad her. “Please don’t worry, Solitaire, I’ll be good to you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Come on,” I said softly, reasonably, “did you really expect me to take you at your word?”
“Over a bent copper? Yes!”
“Come on, you know better than that.”
She was trembling with anger. “I proved myself!”
“Did you hell! It could have been a set-up! I’m supposed to trust you after three days?”
And then we were yelling at each other.
“So I’m a stinking snitch just because some wanker says so?”
“I didn’t know! And I couldn’t take a chance!”
“You evil fuck! So you thought you’d torture me? Did it give you a laugh, making me think I was going to die?”
“I didn’t tell you because I was fucking freaked!”
“Oh, don’t give me that!”
“I was frightened you’d done it and that I’d have to kill you!”
“Like you’d give a shit!”
“I couldn’t fucking bear it, because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me!”
Solitaire stopped yelling. She just stared at me. “I’m what?”
“You heard me.” I put my arms around her again, and this time she didn’t try to push me away. “That night we went dancing, something happened. We don’t know each other, but I know one thing: we’ve got something.”
I rambled on like a soap opera Romeo, talking about her eyes, how the touch of her skin against mine set me shivering, and as I babbled, Solitaire softened.
I thought she’d forgiven me, but when I finally ground to a halt, she was still keeping her eye on the ball. “So you want me, but you don’t trust me.”
“I can’t do whatever I want, sirena. I have responsibilities to my family and my people. Imagine if you had been an undercover cop gunning for Escamilla.”
“Oh come on!”
“It’s been done,” I told her. “Imagine the damage you could have done to me after being here for a week or a month. I’m careful, but I’m not immune to prosecution. I had to make sure you were clean.”
Solitaire was silent, and then she sighed. “I guess so,” she said quietly.
“I’m sorry the way it went down. I really am. I’m a fucking idiot.”
“Yeah, you’re a complete and utter tit.”
The words were pure ice queen, but she’d stopped being mad. I’d gotten through to her. “Will you forgive me?”
“Depends. What happens the next time some tosser says I’m a grass?”
“Sweetheart, when Kyle’s given you the green light, you’re in the clear.”
“So basically I could email every detail of what went down at Escamilla’s to the Met and nobody’d believe I did it?”
“Jesus, Solitaire, why do you say such things?”
“I just want to be clear on where I stand.”
“If anyone accuses you, I’d see it as an insult.”
Solitaire half-grinned. “Well, having seen you in a temper, I guess nobody will.”
“They’d better not!”
I pulled her tight against me, and we sat under the roses, wit
h me thanking God that Solitaire had forgiven me. I was thinking of taking her to bed, but Solitaire had another surprise in store for me.
“So where do we go from here?” she asked. “I’m to be your personal ho and hostess, right?”
It was exactly what I had in mind, yet for some reason the way she said it bugged me. “Solitaire, stop sniping, okay?”
“I’m not sniping,” she said tiredly. “It’s just that I’ve been thinking, Arturo. I really thought I was going to die, and it’s made a few things clear to me.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ve nothing and nobody.”
This is what Kyle had warned me about. “You’ve got me.”
“Do I?” Solitaire asked. “How many girls have you had, Arturo? Dozens? Hundreds?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I don’t want to be one of those girls who gets to hang with the boss until he’s bored or she loses her looks,” Solitaire said quietly. “And I don’t want to be handed from man to man.”
“I wouldn’t do that!”
Solitaire was laughing, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. “How many women have you had? And what happened to them after?”
Instantly my mind went to Gina. I pushed the thought away. “So I’ve had a lot of hookers, and I don’t keep track of what happens to them. But I’ve had regular women, too. There’s a banker in the US, a model in Peru, and another is the star of one of our hottest soap operas. I see them from time to time, and they can call on me when they’re in trouble.”
“Very impressive,” Solitaire said dryly.
“You did ask!”
“So I did,” Solitaire admitted. “Look, I don’t have a career, and that’s my own fault, but I don’t want to be a whore. So when you’re done with me, where do I go?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said earlier?” I was losing my temper again. Not good. I took a breath and spoke calmly. “Solitaire, do you have any idea how hard it is for me to find someone? That banker I just mentioned was beautiful and intelligent, but she was lousy in bed. The actress was beautiful, fantastic in the sack and shit hot when it came to publicity but dumb as a box of rocks about everything else. The model was funny and bright, but she was nervy and anorexic, and it was like going to bed with a coat hanger. You’re the first woman I’ve met who’s got it all: looks, sex and attitude.”
