Turning back, I continue making the coffee knowing, if I look at him, I’ll give myself away. I pour boiling water on to the coffee granules and add cream and sugar, making it just the way he likes it. Picking up the cups, I carefully school my features.
“Excuse me.” I want to get through the door to take the drinks into the lounge.
Stepping aside to let me pass, he reaches out and holds my arm gently. His other hand comes up to cup my face and he regards me with that lazy smile, the one that makes other women throw themselves at his feet.
“You’re looking good, pet.”
I cringe as his hand touches my blighted skin, and shake my head. “Come off it.” I dismiss his comment, not wanting to go through the same old dance again.
“You’re not the person you were then,” he says forcefully. “Haven’t you looked in the mirror lately?”
I pull away from his grasp with a frustrated shrug. “No mirrors here,” I tell him glibly, hoping he’ll drop the subject. There hasn’t been a mirror in my house since I smashed the last one seven years ago. “Do you want to get your accounts sorted, or what?”
Ignoring his sigh of exasperation I lead him into the sitting room that doubles as my home office, out of which I run my successful accountancy business. I know he’s only looking out for me, in the same way he has for over ten years now. It started out as an odd friendship, beginning when he first protected an overweight, spotty fourteen-year-old new girl from bullies trying to steal her book bag. Then, Hunter was as much an oddity as I was: a gangly American boy, only lately arrived in the UK, with an odd name and a penchant for calling football ‘soccer’. Neither of us fitted into our new school easily, and while a couple of years on Hunter’s height and obvious good looks resulted in him being one of the most popular boys, excelling at sports and attracting all the girls, I hadn’t changed at all. But he continued to look out for me, smoothing my path under his protection. When I lost my mother, Hunter took me under his wing and became the only family I had. Our strange relationship somehow endured even after we went our separate ways. Months might pass before we get together, but as soon as we do we slip back into that easy friendship that we’ve always known. At twenty-six, even I have to admit he’s fit, a tousle-haired man with film-star good looks, well over six feet tall and with bulging muscles apparently from working out. But me? Well, I haven’t changed at all. I remain a freak.
I wave at the couch, and then wait until he rearranges the furniture to allow sufficient room for his long legs to stretch out. Once he’s made himself comfortable, I indicate the file on the coffee table lying between us.
He hesitates before picking it up, conscious I’m trying to get his focus off me and on to something else. I should have known he isn’t going to let me off the hook that easily.
“Seven years is a long time, Cara. You really have changed. You’re not the same person you were then.” The words spill out forcefully, willing me to believe him.
It doesn’t work. I shrug off his comment, not deigning to answer. I know what I am, how I look. He’s just trying to be kind. But if I can’t acknowledge the truth to myself, who could I be honest with? I don’t need a mirror to reflect my appearance back at me. It’s been described quite succinctly in the words which play on a loop round my brain. Every. Fucking. Day. Closing my eyes briefly I try to erase the bleak memories from my mind, and then open them again. Raising my cup I take a long sip and make a last-ditch effort to distract him.
“What’s all this ‘pet’ stuff, Hunter? You sound like a Dominant in some of the books I read.”
This time, it works. Barking out a laugh, he tells me with a smirk, “You read too much, little one.” I see his eyes flit to my bookshelves and my face grows warm as he obviously notices my collection of erotic romances. My suspicions are confirmed as he continues, “I’m a bit worried about the subject matter too!” He lowers his voice. “Are you offering to be my submissive?”
I almost spit out my coffee.
“What the heck, Hunter? I’m not submissive; I’m a strong, intelligent and independent woman!” I raise my eyes to look at him, but when he holds my gaze, I quickly look at the floor.
After giving me a pointed look full of amusement, he tells me, “I think you’re reading the wrong books, sweetheart.”
“I think we should change the subject!” My cheeks are burning now. Hunter’s like the brother I never had and I’m not going into this kind of discussion with him. I’m just glad he’s not seen the book collection on my e-reader.
Chuckling, but relenting, he grabs the file I pointed out to him, flicking through the pages until he sees the bottom line. Slowly he grins and looks up. “Is this for real?”
“Yup; you hadn’t claimed relief on some of your expenses.”
Plopping myself down on the chair opposite him, I curl my legs underneath me, unable to prevent the feeling of pride swelling through me. I like a satisfied client, and at least it’s made him change the subject.
“No wonder I come to you. You’re a bloody genius!”
As he continues to read through the tax return, I muse that there’s one positive that comes from not being a social person. I spent my youth not out partying, but studying. Without distractions, I’d been able to drown myself in books, making the most of my education and leaving university with a first-class joint honours degree in accountancy and economics, together with a number of prestigious prizes and awards from world-renowned financial organisations. The results of my efforts meant top-notch employers had lined up and vied to offer me work. Now, at my relatively young age of twenty-five, I’ve gained a sufficient reputation to enable me to set up my own business, working from home and limiting interactions with people to the minimum. It’s perfect. I no longer have to do the tedious work of balancing numerous end-of-year accounts, but I make Hunter’s books an exception, and pride myself on being adept at finding every single legal loophole possible to minimise his tax bill.
Ping! The sound comes from my desk on the other side of the room.
“You’ve got a message,” Hunter states unnecessarily, still reading the paperwork.
I go to collect my phone from the desk and glance down to read the text. It’s nothing very exciting. The sender is ‘DELIVERY’, and the message tells me my package has been dispatched and that Bob will helpfully deliver it to me tomorrow morning. My face scrunches up as I rack my brains, wondering what it might be. I order just about everything online so it’s certainly not unusual; in fact, it’s more unusual not to have parcels arriving. Hunter’s watching me expectantly.
“It’s just telling me when to expect a delivery,” I explain.
“Anything exciting?”
My brow furrows as I try to think what I’m expecting. “With any luck it’s the printer cartridges I ordered, I’m almost completely out of ink.”
He laughs, idly running his hand over the cover of the seat he was sitting on. “You must be on first-name terms with the couriers, babe. You’re always having something delivered.”
I pretend to be affronted and then give him a broad smile. “You know me too well, Hunter,” I admit. I watch as he settles back on the couch and his action induces me to copy him, so I rest my head back and sigh, feeling the tension of the day drifting away. We might not get together often, but when we do we soon settle into a comfortable companionship. But I relaxed too early. I should have known he wasn’t going to leave it alone.
“Hey, girlfriend. You’ve got to leave this place sometimes.” His sharply snapped comment shows the concern he has for me. I know he hates my hermit-like existence, but it works for me. And I’m not a total recluse.
“I get out!” There’s a bite in my voice as I’m forced to defend myself. “I had to go out last week.” I glare at him to emphasise my point. But what I don't admit is I took taxis all the way from my front door into the centre of London, never walking or using public transport. But thinking back to the meeting I attended I can’t hold back a quick grin
. The Scotland Yard detective I dealt with expressed no wish to know the full details of how I’d got the information that was going to put yet another criminal behind bars. He was just happy to have the evidence to prosecute the money launderer, and my assurance it would stand up in court was his icing on the cake.
Officially I’m employed as a forensic accountant, an expert at following the money trails. Unofficially, I’m a computer hacker, and adept at finding information by fair means or foul. And as long as I get the desired results nobody asks too many questions.
“I know you get out for work, you have to. But that’s not what I bloody well mean, and you bloody well know it!” Sounding totally exasperated, Hunter pushes back the reddish-brown hair that’s flopped down over his forehead, and sighs.
I watch the gesture; it’s a familiar one and signals I can expect a lecture if I don’t get him talking about something else. Although barely a year older, Hunter feels he has to play a big brother role with me, and his nagging about getting out into the big wide world always comes up. But it’s so easy for him, he doesn’t look like Elephant Man! OK, perhaps I don’t seem quite as bad as poor old Joseph Merrick, but I suspect I have some idea of what that poor devil went through, having to cope with people’s varying degrees of disgust and sympathy. If that makes me a self-imposed social outcast so be it! I just wish Hunter would accept I’m happy enough as I am.
Thinking quickly, I come up with something to distract him. “I sent you a report and some other documents a month ago. Did you have a chance to look at them?”
His eyes sharpen and, like a switch being thrown, he changes from his brother role to that of work colleague.
“I certainly did!” Running his hand over his chin he continues. “It’s very strange. Half the report reads as though it’s well researched, the other half looks like it’s been made up by some arse who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But whatever the report says, everyone knows Joseph Benting took money to fund not just oil exploration in Amahad, but also to develop the oilfield he said he’d found. But he didn’t deliver.”
“I think that’s the definition of a con,” I tell him dryly. His comment piques my interest. When I’d come across the rather odd report, my first thought had been to send it to Hunter. Hunter’s degree was in geology, his thesis on undiscovered oilfields, so that part made sense, and I knew he was somehow still involved in that area. But his principal employer is Grade A Security, and while I don’t know exactly what he does there, I suspect if there was anything that needed investigating further, that organisation would have someone to do it. I’d tried to discover more about the workings of Grade A, of course I had. But even I had to admit defeat in an attempt to get behind their firewalls and came away with a grudging admiration for the anti-hacking measures they had in place.
“Everybody accepts it was a con, but I have my doubts, Cara. What you also managed to send me were the original survey reports. As a professional, had those been submitted to me, I’d have put five years’ salary on there being oil in that desert. All the geophysical evidence pointed to it.” He pauses to give a confused shake of his head. “Yet Benting was pilloried for being responsible for drafting fake reports. The thing is, the originals don’t look fake to me.” He shoots me a curious glance. “How the fuck did you get hold of those papers?”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I wonder how much I should admit. He’s realised I hacked the information, but doesn’t have a clue why. Am I going to tell him? Am I going to explain that while I never had the slightest interest in Joseph Benting when he was alive, my curiosity had been piqued six months ago when I read that he’d died, apparently driving through railings and crashing down a mountainside in France while drunk? That his body, together with that of his mistress, had burned to a crisp when the car exploded? I can hardly explain it to myself. Both his sudden death and the facts that surrounded it were so vague it meant I found myself just having to know more. My intrigue led to me hacking into his databases and systems to learn about the man I’d only ever met once in my life.
To my surprise, I found the details of the elaborate con which had caused him to be on the run in the French mountains. The world knew he had successfully defrauded a substantial amount of money out the small Arab state of Amahad, but what I’d found suggested that was only the tip of the iceberg. But I’m hardly going to admit to how I’d used my impressive computer skills to Hunter. I never divulge the details about that part of my life to anyone.
Hunter isn’t stupid, and he’s been my friend a long time. He stares at me for a long moment before speaking again, as if trying to read the thoughts that are going through my mind.
“Jesus, Cara. I hope you don’t hack into my systems, love.” His voice is stern, but he’s smiling.
I can’t resist teasing him. “What, all those emails from women begging for your attention? I particularly liked the one describing in detail what she wanted to do to you. Or rather what she wanted you to do to her. Handcuffs, wasn’t it? Whips? Chains?” I ask mischievously.
“You have!” Hunter dramatically clutches his hand to his heart as though I’ve wounded him, and his eyes widen in horror.
“Just a lucky guess. You’re safe from me,” I assure him, chuckling. “I set up your security for you, remember? Even I couldn’t get in.”
“Hmm.” Hunter brushes his fingers through his hair again and then puts his hand to his brow, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “Anyway, back to those documents. There’s something very fishy going on. I’m going to get the guys at Grade A to look into it a bit further. Cara, please pet, leave it well alone now. Don’t get involved.” His eyes narrow. “Promise me you’ll leave it at that.”
I nod. Having had a good nose round the files I’d found, the reports I’d given to Hunter had been the only thing of significance that jumped out at me. There was nothing else I could do. Hunter’s firm were the best placed to see if there was anything untoward about them. I’m happy to move on, so can easily give him the assurance he was seeking.
“I’m finished. And there’s no trace I’ve been in Benting’s systems.”
I’m good at covering my tracks. More than good. It’s my turn to look at Hunter suspiciously as I wonder what he really does for a living. He doesn’t speak about his work, but the gangly fifteen-year-old had turned into a man with confidence and a muscular physique that shows he’s well able to stand up for himself. I feel a shiver going down my spine, glad that Hunter’s on my side and will always protect me. I wouldn’t want to be the person who gets on the wrong side of him.
We sit in comfortable silence, the peace perhaps making me a little too relaxed as I find I’m spilling the rest of the can of beans. “It’s strange how coincidences happen,” I start. “Amahad’s popping up all over the place at the moment.”
I take a sip of my now rapidly cooling coffee. “I was offered an all-expenses- paid trip there. Obviously, I can’t go, but they were quite insistent. Kept repeating the offer.” I watch as he glances up suddenly. I’ve caught his interest.
“Why the fuck would they do that?” he asks, sharply.
“They offered me a contract for some work.”
Hunter draws in air loudly and sits forwards on his seat. “I don’t like coincidences, Cara. Be careful before considering any offer of work from them. That part of the world is unstable.”
I nod slowly. He seems strangely anxious for my response, but he needn’t worry; I can quickly reassure him.
“It’s a bit late; I’ve already accepted it, Hunter. The strange part is that they didn’t hang about, and the contract was signed the next day. The government there apparently moves a lot faster than here.” When dealing with departments of the UK government, bids have to be prepared and submitted, presentations given, and often six months or more elapses before starting on the work. “It was an odd request. They wanted me to investigate the management of their investments.”
“I didn’t know you took that kind of work on.”
>
“No, I don’t. I can, of course. But it’s not my acknowledged area of expertise, so I’m not sure who would have recommended me. Anyway, no need for you to get your knickers in a twist, Hunter. I’ve already completed the bulk of the work. I’ve just got to write the report up and send it off. It has a relatively simple conclusion: they should fire their fund manager.”
“Hmm.” Hunter sits back again, seeming a little calmer now he knows the work is all but concluded, but his demeanour suggests he’s not entirely buying the extent of my involvement. “And you’ve got legitimate access to their systems?”
“I’m just writing a report for them, Hunter.” I repeat my previous answer, trying to keep my face a picture of innocence. Idly, I pick at a loose thread on my comfortable baggy jumper, and look down at the damage I’m causing, unable to meet his eyes. What I don’t tell him, but suspect he guesses, is that I also have unauthorised access to their systems. It hadn’t even been that difficult; somebody else had already set up a back door. It must be the fact I’m feeling guilty that makes me open my very big mouth and let something escape I really wouldn’t have said otherwise. The words flow out of their own accord before I can stop them.
“I wouldn’t even have taken the work on if it hadn’t been for my father.”
Suddenly I notice how still he’s gone, and how I have his full attention. Shit, what the fuck made me say that? I sigh, knowing he’s going to be like a dog with a bone now. Hunter knows a bit about my past, knows I only met my father once in my life in that fateful meeting which devastated me, but he’s never known who my father was. No one does. I’ve never spoken about it, never thought it was important. But with Amahad popping up everywhere...
Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) Page 3
