by Harlem Dae
He chewed then swallowed. “I have to be whatever the situation expects.”
“So at the bar, you thought it best to become the shy, retiring type, yes? Was that to make me trust you? A sweet man who had to lure me in so that I’d go with you?”
“Something like that.”
I was deflated somewhat. I’d thought… Oh, damn it, I’d thought he was vulnerable, a man I could teach a thing or two. A man I could watch blossom as he explored my body. What a disappointment.
“I see.” I stirred my food. It was still too hot to eat. Sutton must have a mouth of steel. I flushed at that. A mouth of steel sucking my slit. That would be—
“You don’t see anything except what you want to see, Claudine,” he said.
Now what had he meant by that? Was his true personality hidden so deep that I’d never get to see it? Did he have several go-to personas and he’d lost his true self? I could relate to that. After all, I’d been playing different roles all my life. The good, quiet child. The flirty adolescent. The heartbroken female. And now the hostage. Lovely. So bloody lovely, that last one.
“I’d like to see,” I said. “Honestly, there’s something about you. And I don’t mean that in a sexual way.”
“For once.”
“Yes, for once. Do you even know who you are anymore?”
He stared off over my shoulder. “If it’ll stop all your questions and nosiness, no, I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore. Satisfied? Glad you’ve broken through?”
I was but wouldn’t admit that. “If it makes you feel better, I’m in the same boat.”
“I know what you’re up to.” He dug his fork into the pasta. It made a squealing sound against the china bowl. He ate some more.
“What’s that, then?” I tasted mine—it was delicious.
“Making friends.” He rose after putting the last of the food into his mouth, taking his bowl to the sink where he swilled it with water then stacked it in the dishwasher.
“I honestly just want us to get along. You read crime novels, I take it?”
“No.” With his back to me, he leaned against the sink unit and dipped his head. He sighed. “I live inside crime novels. Except they’re not novels, they’re my actual life.”
“Everything is scripted?”
“Yes, as much as it can be.”
“And if you don’t play your part, the author might get rid of you?”
“Yes.”
“So, the book titled The Hunt for Claudine, penned by Rupert Montague-Fostrop, is your current thriller, and you’d rather be doing anything but starring in it?”
“Yes.”
“I’d rather not be in it either, but there you go.” I finished my food while he remained where he was. I wondered what he was thinking—was he contemplating opening up to me or hoping I wasn’t going to probe anymore? Probably the latter, but I was never one who had learned when to keep quiet. “I’m nothing like you assume,” I blurted. “Not deep inside.”
Why should I care what he assumed? I didn’t know, but I did care. Father had probably fed this man lies about me. An unruly daughter, spoilt, always wanting things her own way. That may appear to be the case on the outside, but on the inside? I could admit—only to myself, though—that I wanted what most people wanted. To be loved for who I was. To be cherished. Someone’s whole world. I’d almost had that with her, until cogs had been turned, the mechanics of the rich world set into motion, and Father’s needs came first. I couldn’t possibly be known to have sullied our name—his name. I’d thought he’d arranged the adoption so that his standing in the community remained intact. That he wanted her erased, disposed of, never to be thought of again. Yet he had pictures of her, contact with her new parents. It didn’t make sense. How could you act so callous yet underneath it all care? He was an enigma, my father, in more ways than one.
I waited for Sutton to answer, rolling my fingertips over my thumb ends. When he didn’t, I took my bowl to the sink and nudged him to one side with my hip so I could rinse it. He took it from me, doing the job himself.
“Are you employed to be my maid as well, then?” I snapped.
“You mentioned something about not sniping?” My bowl joined his in the dishwasher.
“I did, but seeing as you’re not interested in being friends, I thought it best that I go back to how you know me. The woman you think you understand. The sex-mad female who will do anything for a fuck.”
“You’re saying you won’t?” He stared at me.
For a moment, time seemed to stop. I looked at him, trying to decipher where this was going to go. There was sexual tension, no denying it on my part, but he was fighting what I hoped was a losing battle. I wanted him, perhaps because he’d rejected me, making him all the more attractive, or for something else. Whatever that something else was brought back memories of Aaron. Of my naivety and how I’d thought… What had I thought back then? That we’d run off into the sunset together.
Yes, I had.
And look where it had got me. Look what those foolish dreams had amounted to. My eyes stung, and I’d bet my last penny Sutton would take it that I was turning on the waterworks in order to get him to take me in his arms and fuck my woes away. If only he knew what was really going through my mind.
“I…” Did I want to tell him? Open up and see where the dice fell? “No, I wouldn’t do anything for a fuck. You see, that’s where you don’t know me.” I tamped down the urge to adopt a haughty tone. I kept it soft, light, confiding. “You’ve watched me as you’ve followed me from country to country, and yes, to the casual observer, it would seem I spread my legs for whoever I want, whenever I want. It would also seem I have no morals, no feelings, but as you must know, hiding who you are is paramount if you’re to survive without crumbling at every turn.”
I’d given him enough for the moment, and if he was anything like I suspected, he’d understand what I wasn’t saying. And if he didn’t understand? Well, then he was just like all the rest. A man who didn’t give a shit.
“I see you,” he said, the words breathy.
I was startled at what he’d said but kept my expression neutral. A niggle of doubt surfaced. ‘I have to be whatever the situation expects.’ Was he doing that now? Reading from his script? Bloody hell, I was going to go insane if I questioned every little thing.
“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t,” I said, knowing I’d ruined this…whatever it was. Bonding of souls. Two people expressing their feelings.
He stepped away, backwards, to the kettle. “Tea?”
Fuck. Fuck the tea. Fuck me. Make me forget.
“Yes, please.”
I returned to my seat, swearing the air had turned frigid.
I watched him as he busied himself with the mundane task. Waited for him to say something else. He didn’t—yet again—and frustration bubbled up inside me. I was used to reading men, knowing exactly how to play them, but this man? He was bloody infuriating. I couldn’t get a handle on him, didn’t know what mood he would be in from one minute to the next.
“I know things,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sure you do. I know things, too. It’s what humans are good at, knowing things. We learn then know.” I was being a bitch but couldn’t help myself.
He poured boiling water into the teapot.
I remained silent.
See how he likes it.
“I know a lot about you.” He took cups and saucers out of a cupboard above the kettle.
“All lies, I suspect. All fabrications by the author Rupert Montague-Fostrop, designed to make you dislike me so that you just do your job.”
“No. I don’t dislike you. I feel sorry for you.”
“Sorry for me?” I wanted to jump up and tell him where to stick his pity, but I remained in place. “That’s marvellous. I adore it that you feel sorry for me, truly.”
“Sarcasm is your go-to retaliation, isn’t it—and I understand why.”
“Do you now.”
“Yes
. Your life…” He brought the cups to the table. “Isn’t one I would want to live.”
“It’s good job you don’t have to, then, isn’t it.” Heat pulsed in my cheeks. It was all very well me wanting to dig into his psyche, but for him to try it with me? No. No way.
But you want him to know you…
“You need someone to take you away from it all,” he said, going to the counter then returning with the teapot. His actions—it was like he was chatting about nothing of importance, a quick natter while he prepared a drink.
“I rather thought you had taken me away from it all. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, in a house I didn’t know existed until we rolled up in that boat.”
“No, properly away from it all. A new life. New beginning. With a man who can care for you.”
“Are you offering to be that man, then? Because I don’t see an orderly queue of others willing to do so. The spot’s free, as it were. Or don’t you want the spot? Am I too tainted for the likes of you? Too sullied by other men’s cocks? Sullied by the fucking charade that is my life?” Oh, I’d let too much out. Shit.
“Claudine…”
“Call me Ava here,” I said. “You never know who might be listening out there.” I jerked my head at the window.
“Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Make up names?”
“I just do.” I paused. “I like it. New place, new name, new me.”
“Ava it is, then.”
A wave of desperation came over me, transporting me back in time to when I’d been vulnerable, when everything had been so topsy-turvy that I’d wanted to die. I took a deep breath to stave off a panic attack—please don’t let them get a hold of me again—and pinched my thigh through my clothing in an attempt to send the hurt there. The hurt in my heart was too much to deal with in company.
“Is she being brought up as an Austrian?” I asked.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He sat and poured our tea.
“Yes, you do.”
He added milk. “No, I don’t.”
“Guilia,” I whispered.
“Ah, her.” He pushed my cup towards me.
“Yes, her.”
“I have no idea, and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“But it was worth a try.”
“It was.” I stared at him, the visual misting.
He reached across and covered my hand with his. At one time his touch would have sent my emotions in another direction, but they went elsewhere, into my chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “So am I. Bloody hell, so am I.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was peculiar, being shuttered into a house and knowing the sun burned bright outside. It really was like hiding, sealing ourselves away from the rest of the world. Not far from here, people went about their business and tourists enjoyed the serenity of Clearwater. But here, in our self-imposed prison all was dark and quiet.
I wandered through the rooms looking for clues my father’s visits may have left. I found a well-thumbed paperback by Lee Child, one of his favourite authors. A half-drunk bottle of Dalmore in a drinks cabinet in the kitchen. In a room I guessed he used as a study, I quickly discovered a safe hidden behind a huge picture of a stag staring at a hunter with a rifle.
For a moment I studied the stag. Its antlers were huge, and the artist had done a good job of making them appear velvety. The sun was low, and blue-hazed shadows spread on the snowy ground that undulated around shrubs and rocks. The hunter’s eyes were mean thin slits. He wore brown boots and a tweed jacket; the pocket over his left breast held a black silk handkerchief, which seemed to flutter in the breeze.
Was his heart black, like that square of silk? It must be. To kill such a beautiful beast, a creature that was doing him no harm, it was the act of a heartless, soulless man. For he didn’t seem to need food; in fact, his belly was portly.
And the stag, so trusting, so uncomprehending of what was about to happen, just stood there, waiting to be killed.
Was that what I was doing? Was I a sitting duck? Waiting to take a bullet?
Why wasn’t I running for my life? Getting the hell out of there?
Because Sutton is looking out for you.
I knotted my fingers and locked my knuckles beneath my chin. The stag was innocent; he hadn’t hurt anyone.
But what about me? Was I innocent?
I guessed that depended on whether cavorting around the globe shagging and spending my father’s money was a sin.
“Claudine. Where are you?”
I dropped my hands at the sound of Sutton’s voice.
“In here.”
Footsteps, and then he appeared in the doorway. “I have to go out.”
“What? Where?”
“Minor complication.”
“I thought you were supposed to be my bodyguard. How can you guard me if you’re not here?”
He sighed and I wasn’t sure if he was weary with my question or weary because he had an errand of some sort to run.
“You’ll be quite safe, it’s only for a few minutes, ten at the most.”
“Oh, okay.” That didn’t sound so bad.
“Just, you know, stay put.”
“I will.”
He looked at the picture. “What are you doing?”
“Just exploring.”
He nodded, no doubt feeling glad that he’d hidden the information about Guilia in the safe already.
Too late.
I’ve seen her.
“Okay,” he said, “you carry on. Just—”
“I know. I know. Stay put.”
“Yep.” He frowned then turned.
For a moment, I stared at the space in the doorframe he’d occupied, all broad shouldered efficiency and with an expectation that I really would do as he’d told me.
Which wasn’t my usual form.
But today I would.
For a change.
The front door clicked, and the knowledge of being utterly alone lay over me as a heavy weight.
For several minutes I just stood there, the silence ringing in my ears. It was a rarity for me to be shrouded in stillness in the middle of the day.
The low rumble of what sounded like a lawn mower tugged me from my moment and I turned from the painting.
Curiosity gnawing at me, I opened the top drawer of a filing cabinet and leafed through it. Mostly, I just found deeds and plans for houses in Clearwater. A few utility bills which appeared to be on direct debit. There was a planning application for an outbuilding and jetty, but it didn’t seem to be for this house. Looking at the architect’s drawing, I suspected it to be for one of the neighbouring properties.
Was that where Sutton had gone?
Were people in those properties, hiding out like we were?
A soft click, then a dull thud from the hallway caught my attention.
“Sutton, is that you?”
No answer.
I shoved the file away and pushed at the metal drawer which creaked then closed with a metallic clunk.
“Sutton?”
I stepped over a red and black oriental rug and up to the doorway.
The hall was still, the front door closed. I glanced left then right. There was no movement in the kitchen or, so it seemed, in the living room opposite. But I couldn’t be sure because that door was only ajar.
I went up to it and peered in. The candles still trembled on the mantel, casting gilded light over the room. The sofa Sutton had dozed on held the imprint of his body.
I beat down a wave of unease. I’d heard something. I was sure of it.
Perhaps it was a creature outside or in the attic. Maybe just the house groaning under the heat of the day.
My mouth and lips suddenly dry, I swallowed and swiped my tongue out. Heading into the kitchen, I told myself to stay calm. I was used to rattling around big ho
uses and fancy hotel suites on my own. Being alone didn’t scare me.
The kitchen seemed bright despite the drawn shutters, likely because of the sheen glowing off the cabinets and the light floor.
Scooping up one of Father’s crystal tumblers, I made my way to the sink, my bare feet slapping softly on the tiles.
I filled the glass with soft frothy water and drank deeply.
“We meet again.”
“What?” I turned, the glass slipping from my hand. It landed on the floor and shattered, sending fragments of glass scuttling towards the Albino.
He lounged against the oven, arms folded, one leg crossed over the other.
“What the fuck?” I said, frozen to the spot. “Are you doing here?”
“Got yourself into yet another predicament, haven’t you, Claudine?”
Was he talking about standing surrounded by glass or being here with Sutton? I didn’t know. My head spun. The man was huge. Bigger than Sutton, maybe even as broad as Linus had been.
And in this light, well, he seemed to actually glow, his skin like that of a moth’s wing, luminescent, sheet-white. I could almost believe he was a ghost come to haunt me. Was he the reason Sutton had left the house? Had the Albino created some kind of diversion outside? Was my spy now out there, searching for a man who was in here?
My heart was thudding. A weird roll went through my stomach, the water I’d just drank roller-coasting.
He pushed away from the counter and stepped towards me.
Small snaps echoed around the room as his shoes crushed shards of crystal. He kept on coming, closer and closer still.
“What do you want?” I managed, stepping back and immediately feeling a splinter of glass puncture my heel. I bit on my lip, holding in an exclamation.
“I’ve come to get you.”
“Get me.” Fuck, where is Sutton? “What do you mean ‘get me’?”
“Exactly what I said, Miss Claudine.”
The right side of his mouth twitched, as though he was holding in a satisfied grin. He’d got me; I could run and shred my feet or I could stand here and see what happened next.
Fear warred with curiosity, my dislike of pain no match to my inquisitive mind.
