by Judy Jarvie
I want to escape.
I need to stall him.
It’s then I notice the bar’s quirky décor. The bar’s a romantic, pink-tinged idyll of love in the guise of an outdoor garden, with an ornate dining area. A huge fountain features Poseidon and dancing nymphs as the central feature.
Jenny’s Taverna has a flower-filled gazebo-covered grotto with statues from Aphrodite to Venus. Cupids in abundance flank a gold leaf tableau of dancing nymphs. Stuffed caged love birds hang from the gazebo.
Cocktail specials of ‘Just Married Margaritas’, ‘Pina Colada Hot Crushes’, ‘Lust on the Beach’ and a toxic punch named ‘Honeymoon Horizontal Homebrew’ are advertised in neon colors on the bar’s chalkboards.
Wow. Said in an ironic internal voice. If it wasn’t such blatant craziness, this place could have been mad, bad and dangerous to know. The clientele of honeymooners must have a rose-tinted aversion to good taste décor.
And I’m here with a stalker crazo agent licensed to kill, and quite possibly go off fully loaded in pervy directions.
I have my eye on the nearest bronze cupid bust that I could possibly knock Ivan into next month with, if I managed to wield it like a samurai.
“I’m gonna make us some drinks,” he declares. Ivan stalks to the bar, and I move over swiftly to check out the fountain. While he’s pouring, I take the medium-sized cupid and set it close behind me.
His focus on making me consume a drink I haven’t asked for makes me think he may be planning to drug me, and that’s just not on.
“So? Come on, have a drink? Gin, slammers, Jägerbombs? What’s your poison?” he asks.
As much as I’ve been through already, I fear this strange creepy experience will stay with me for years. May even leave me a worrying, traumatized, wreck.
“Why don’t you put on some music to dance?” Ivan says, motioning to the jukebox on the far wall.
I shake my head. I’d rather clean toilets as a career choice.
“Pretty please?” Ivan slips from behind the bar, leaving the drinks behind. He yanks me into his arms so fast that I slap against his hard long length. I’m nauseated. The cupid is within easy grabbing distance.
His hands seize my waist. Then they slide up my ribcage, making me squirm. He’s millimeters from my boobs, and if he touches me there I might just bite his face like a rabid dog.
“No. This isn’t what I want. Listen, Ivan,” I tell him. “You’re creeping me out. Big time. You and I aren’t ever going to happen. If you don’t take the subtle hint I’ll tell Dan everything and get you fired. I’ll go to Rich Redman myself.”
“Didn’t you hear me when I said no evidence? Your word against mine. Who do you think they’ll believe, huh?”
Thankfully just happens I’ve recorded everything on my cellphone. But I’ll keep that as a later surprise for the busted wise guy.
“They’d believe me. Sexual harassment part of the Interpol training nowadays?” I point at his chest and narrow my eyes. “Take me back and realize you’re being a dick right now—I’ll let it slide. You’ve made a mistake—but if you back off we can get past this.”
“Knew you had badittude. But you really think I’m gonna back down that easy?”
I grab Cupid, counting on love’s power and the weight of plaster.
I sense from Ivan’s look that there’s either a gas mains leaking somewhere or perhaps dripping petrol near a just struck match. Maybe I’m that scary and impressive when wielding a cupid as a weapon but I doubt it. My muscles are shaking.
“I think it’s time we left,” says Ivan softly and backs up, his gaze targeted on something or someone behind me.
Wow. I must be good. Cupid wielding—I am a mighty warrior
Ivan’s hot glare doesn’t waiver. I turn to see Warbie and another agent watching us. Warbie makes a small gesture, and the agent grabs Ivan roughly by the arm, forcing him back into the soda-machine-disguised portal to Spy Haven.
Whoever would have guessed that one? These guys are good. I lay down the cupid in relief because I’m about to drop it in exhaustion.
“Close call.”
“You’re telling me, Katiepie. That was damn near a human rights violation.”
I fall into the large warm cave of Warbie’s arms for a hug. “He’s such a wanker.”
“Went to your room with a nightcap and you weren’t there. Nasty jackass—never liked him a bit. He’ll pay for this.”
“I honestly thought he’d assault me. I kept him talking, trying to maintain arms’ length.”
“Dan will kill him. Tear him apart in a slow fashion, using methods that would have weak stomachs lurching. Totally justified power move, might I add.”
“No he won’t. We won’t let him. We’re not going to tell him, are we?” I stare up at Warbs. “Please? Hasn’t Dan enough on his plate as it is?”
I know Ivan is out to dis Dan, but I’m pretty sure he can be effectively persuaded otherwise. I squeeze into Warbie’s hug and he reciprocates. It’s the warmest, deepest hug I’ve had in eons, and I not only enjoy it, I linger and stay there, sucking in this man’s marvelous energizing friend’s embrace of hope.
“You’re a beacon in a very black place, Warbie-buddy. Let’s not make another drama. Haven’t we had enough?”
“Sir will string me up if he ever finds out. If that dweeb kissed you maybe you should get a tetanus jab?”
I shake my head. “Give me some credit for taste, Warbs. We’ll make sure Sir won’t find out. His team are falling like flies.”
“Hot damn. You care about him, don’t you?” says Warbie, his eyes glittering in the dim light. He gives me a warm smile.
“Yeah. Crazy as I am, I do. He deserves to have somebody in his corner, don’t you think?”
“I feel the same. Our DanBoy picked me up when I was low. Hurt by a guy and the way I was going I was gonna end up dead with spiraling depression. Dan didn’t give up on me.”
I stare. “I’m sorry, Warbs. But glad he’s such a bossy Sir who won’t take a no.”
Warbie’s face takes a grim cast. “He’s honorable. But he’s not that straight-forward, Kate. He doesn’t ever mix work with anything else, which makes you a very special exception. He has scars. He’s lost people and has shouldered all the blame. You’ll have to tread gently and take care. We will talk, we really will. But if my pressure cooker explodes in the refectory, I think it’ll be my firing line execution at dawn, not Ivan’s. Let’s go.”
“Go get your cooker fixed, Fairy Godfather.”
“Hang onto hope, Cinders. Not all the princes out there are bastards.”
The comment hangs heavy, because I know he’s talking about Dad. Not past lovers. Or relationship mistakes. The man who first let me down. The one who made me stop thinking a man could save me.
My eyes fill with tears. God knows why. I’m making way too much of a habit of this. Personally I blame Warbie’s influence or a complex about the Dad I never had.
I watch him and that makes it worse because he looks at me with pity.
“Don’t be kind, Warbs. Please don’t talk about that man again. I do not want to discuss him.”
“Okay, Princess. Back to your broom cupboard.”
“My friends call me princess,” I say softly.
“Course they do. Your regal charm shines out. We’re spiritual twins now.”
But I don’t feel very regal. My charms seem very distant, too.
“Why don’t I fetch you a bracing nightcap to get you into a deep sleep tonight? Sir sanctioned that move.” With a forced smile Warbie, leads me back below ground. To keep me captive and confused to the max in this Godforsaken hole from hell atrocity scenario with knobs on.
Chapter Fourteen
Dan
I’m back, and Geezer, the IT guy with the Will.i.am styling and nerdy ways, collars me with info that’s as shocking as the intel from Andreas.
Middle of the night and the kid’s been hanging out, likely with matchsticks under his
eyes, java in hand, a flickering screen for solace. His face is heavily drawn as an iron carriage with a killer load and brakes on. “Geezer. How goes?”
“Need you to see somethin’, Sir. Activity caught on cameras.”
My heart rate’s zooming. I’d be tempted to call time and ask for a reprieve ‘til morning but we’re only an hour or so until sunset and waiting wasn’t in the job profile I signed up to. Geezer intel can’t wait.
“Course.” But I see the images before I’m ready for them. Ivan. Hands on Katie. Her backing up when he’s getting in her face. Hands on her arms. Her body.
“Seems he underestimated the level of CCTV cover at the Taverna exit. We also have it alarmed. We used to use it for taped insider briefings. He outed three cams—as in dry shampoo spray over the lenses—that means they’ve had it and we’re gonna have to replenish kit.”
“What’s the latest? Kate okay?”
“Fine.” He swiftly switches to a screen to show her lying sleeping. “Strictly off-limits but just to set your mind at rest, Sir.”
“You think he’s a plant and was out to spring her back to Dad?” I’m barking questions while I’m watching the run again on rewind and again on slow.
“All’s back to normal. Warbie intervened. No reason to think it’s kidnapping, Sir. Maybe just a nasty civilian crush rash?”
I’m breathing like a fiesta bull when the cape unfurls. “Maybe. But it won’t be cream and antihistamines on his prescription. Something a little less soothing.” Nasty-ass creep needs a testicle-kicking party in his honor. I’ll be the star turn compere on proceedings.
I watch Geezer fast frame through the necessary. I discern Kate’s stark discontent and body language that suggests this was no come-on party trick. She’s straight as a surfboard and resisting and pulling back from the body contact Ivan’s out to serve her way.
“Was she shaken up?”
“Warbuckle intervened and gave her sleeping meds. I alerted him when I caught it on the monitors.”
I could almost crack my own teeth with my jaw tension. I take it down a notch for my own sanity. “Thanks for this. I’ll deal with this tomorrow, but keep this low key for now. Geezer—you’ve done a great job, appreciated.”
“No problem, Sir.”
Ivan’s balls are so fried they’re cinder dust mixed with carbon. But if I had little chance of sleep before, it’s now completely nixed. My blood’s up from seethe unvented, and too many vexing scenarios have raced through my brain. I head for the bathroom when I get to my room. Not too much the worse for wear since I’ve cleaned up the neck gash—it’s a scratch—and checked myself out in the bathroom mirror. Lookin’ pretty badass, like a dog that’s been in a few scraps. Feeling pretty gone on principles scotched—and that’s just not like me. I’m usually cucumber-cool Bullet Man. Or I was—once upon a time, before a certain civilian came to stay and caused this level of complication.
But is she hurt? Did Ivan overstep in unseen ways?
I head to my room, throw my shirt where it lands. It’s gone three a.m. and I’m beat. So how come the crazy questions kick in, making me too wired to sleep?
In a heartbeat, I’m not thinking through the reasons not to, and just heading for that connecting door that links my room to hers. My heat’s drumming my actions, but I’m not listening to my own thoughts, so a few heart bumps won’t stop me.
I’m only wearing pants. No shirt, no guns, no principles either. What am I doing?
Making damn well sure she’s okay.
She’s not crying. Or lying staring at the wall. She’s sleeping like a child, and deeply, too. I stand frozen. Not breathing, just watching.
Feeling bad for stealing in here like a stalker in the night. Yet so privileged and glad she’s okay and I’ve a sneaky chance to just watch.
So I do. Drinking in her soft breathing. The sight of her chestnut hair, displayed like a silk robe on the pillow, her shoulders so stark and bare, with only tiny straps keeping her away from the X-rated zone.
She’s safe.
I turn. Then stand again. Because I can’t damn well bring myself to leave. Which is so beyond stupid, but it’s the thought of Ivan. Him taking her, against orders, out of here. Him pawing her. Was it my fault—revenge for me calling him off the job?
I don’t trust myself to walk or to leave. How could he? How could I have gotten this so badly wrong?
Am I fucking this whole thing up as much as Ivan is? By letting it all get below the skin where it should never be allowed to penetrate. A whole half hour passes, with me just standing like a crush-assed mannequin watching the girl sleep. Am I playing stalker tag too? Am I up there with Ivan?
As soon as that wake-up nudge hits me I focus. Enough to walk away.
I take small, silent steps out of there. I need to retreat. Reverse the attraction and get a grip on the job and my head. The mission can only ever come first.
* * * *
Kate
There is a heavy pounding when I open my eyes, head still on pillow. It’s like the loudest, mournful drum orchestra from the abyss of hell and behind my eyes, someone has set my neurons to silent vibrate, explosion mode.
And who had the authority to make me feel this bad, pray tell? Then I remember Warbie’s sleep meds nightcap. I would go and blame him for every sin under the sun, but I sense my head is so bad I may never be able to walk again. I’d say no Kates were hurt in what I went through yesterday, but I’d be lying.
I hurt like shit.
I wince. Steady myself for another round of head-based stabbing. I would groan, but making any sound is beyond me. If I wasn’t very much mistaken, I have a hangover from hell, but I know I haven’t drunk a thing since I went before Redman having downed straight shots.
At some point last night, a very large double decker bus ran me over, accompanied by a gang of marauding elephants wearing clogs.
My eyes snap open and see a sight that makes breathing normally tricky. Warbie is sitting on the edge of my bed, making me feel decidedly awkward. It’s only then I remember where I am—mystery Santorini secret location surrounded by real proper spy policemen—and the full surreal nature of reality is especially hard to digest.
“What is it?” I croak. “Why are you watching me?”
“It’s gone two p.m. You’ve been in bed for twelve hours now. Figured it was time to wake the sleeping princess.”
I don’t feel much like a princess, but I’ve no time to ponder that.
He adds, “And Sir is nagging me to get you fit so he can visit. It’s been one hell of a morning, sweet cheeks. Figure you’ll be glad you missed it.”
I’d ask more, but my head’s so sore it’s made me nauseous. I just stare at him like a stoned garden gnome.
“Sir and Ivan. Clash of the Interpol Titans. The swear box would be full, but I haven’t dared asked Bullet Man to pay his share.”
Then logic and memory click in. It’s in a very painful area of my brain that’s thrumming at me having to use it. It’s not a good thrum. I suspect I’ll be seeing the wrong side of the toilet soon.
“Ivan? About last night? You told?”
Warbie shakes his head. “Not guilty, mistress. Somebody else got in there first. Sir has this place running to his pissed-to-the-pinnacle tune, and Ivan’s gone already. Career aspirations bye-bye.”
“Shit.”
“And then some. On the upside, I made you breakfast. Late breakfast.”
“You shouldn’t have. But what the hell did you put me out with last night?”
“It’s known in the trade as horse tranquilizer. That’s just a nickname, of course. Merely a mix of natural herbs.”
I’m thinking he’s lying about the last part. I’m feeling like a horse they tried to put down. Why, in the name of good sense and intellect, is all this happening? I slide up in bed. Even that hurts. “Why are you watching me?”
“Just checking honeypie is still alive,” says Warbie. “We were a tad worried you’d OD’d.”
/> “Were you hoping for an early demise? If you want me gone you only had to ask me.”
“The sleeping draught worked. You chilled and you got great rest.”
I’d shake my head, but my migraine is such I may throw up on the bed. “Please just give me a drink of water, if you have one.”
“I’ve better than that,” says Warbie, with a flourish to the prepped wheeled trolley beside him that I hadn’t noticed before.
“All the trimmings. Cooked goods and continental on the side, just in case you’re from the posher side of the sheets.”
If posh means in danger of projectile puke, then I’m there. I leap up and launch myself at the cupboard that serves as a toilet and fortunately I make the basin in time. Let’s just say it’s more about retching and gagging than Technicolor shows. But still not pretty.
“Poor dear. Valerian can have that effect. I make the possets up myself.”
“You’ve poisoned me,” I say, and heave again. I’m thinking Warbie belongs in a Game of Thrones evil plot. He probably has dragons in his lair.
“We’d do well to save Sir from this pleasure.”
Like I care a flip flam. I’m busy feeling like death warmed up slightly, then laced with arsenic, at his orders.
“I so don’t feel well.”
“It’s okay,” says Warbie. “I have anti-sickness pills. Drink. We want to improve you before Sir returns to prep you for baddie-wrangling, don’t we?”
I can’t keep up. I take the water and force down the pill. Then, reluctantly, take his small shot of green gunk chaser. Then I throw myself back on the bed and wish for a cool flannel. I’m just about to suggest it when Warbie provides one.
“I’ve gone off you.”
“I’m not exactly inspired by your gag reflex either, Miss.”
Then I think of Dan. Tattoo revealed in its blatant shiny glory, chest moving in tune with his breathing as he stared into my eyes through the shower’s spray. I remember all the things he did to my privates with his mouth and his fingers and another important area…
