“What about nerve damage? I never felt the bullet.”
Shaking her head, she said, “You were in shock. Bottom line is, you’ve lost a fair amount of blood and received a transfusion. Other than that, you’ve about forty stitches, front and back.”
“Lovely.” Alex was thankful it was her right arm. Being lefty turned out to be a good thing once again.
Alex rotated her arm and the woman stopped her.
“Give it a bit. We don’t want to tear it back open now, do we?” Then she smiled over Alex’s shoulder as she gazed at the doorway. “Ah, there you are.”
The woman left without another word as Alex turned and stared.
Lying out there in the street, she thought she’d been seeing things—the charcoal Harrington jacket, jeans, and boots. But she couldn’t hallucinate the musky spice of the Guerlain cologne they’d picked out together in Monte Carlo last year. Or the warmth of his skin as he neared.
“Jack.” He was lucky she’d had a bullet through her shoulder. Even so, she had to check her impulse to lunge at him. He had hurt her. Seeing him now hurt her again.
“I see you’ve made the acquaintance of Hanna.” Was he intentionally laying on the British accent? He knew damn well what that did to her.
“She’s a gem.”
“I’d say a saint.” Jack reached over and touched Alex’s face with a warm palm. Those hands. “You’re all but new.”
She edged away from his touch, the message unspoken. I’ll let you know when I want you to touch me. “Where am I?”
“You’ve been sleeping the better part of a day.” Jack turned and reached for something on the desk a few feet away. “Hanna’s a friend. She was an A&E surgeon at the St. Thomas Hospital for over two decades. Does her own thing now.” A&E meant Accident and Emergency, the equivalent of an American ER.
“Uh-huh.” That wasn’t the question. “So where the hell I am?”
“Eaton Square. Three blocks from Victoria.”
Victoria Station. “High-rent, even for a surgeon, no?”
“Suffice to say her husband left behind a small fortune. Hanna doesn’t work for the money.”
“And how did I get here?”
“Do you not recall?”
She gave him a look, and he countered with that smile. The one that melted her.
Bastard.
He continued, “You threatened to phone the police if I laid a finger on you.”
“And you ignored that.”
“I assured you the police were on their way. They would no doubt want to talk to you.”
“I see.”
“Yes, you came around in your thinking. Quite quickly I might add.”
Right. And now it was time to address the elephant waiting patiently at the edge of the bed. Alex leaned forward and said, “Jack. Why were you even there?”
“I woke this morning to this. On my front step.” He handed her the item he’d taken off the desk. A newspaper in French, something called La Direct Metropolitaine. A photograph stretched across the entire top half of the front page, showing flames rising and smoke billowing from the Café Martin. Above the photograph, the headline: ‘Une Explosion Mystérieuse Détruit un Café à Londres. Mystery Explosion Destroys Café in London.
“And how does—”
“Here.” He pointed to the corner of the photograph, at the image of a woman walking away from the smoking building, wearing a black dress with a satchel over one shoulder.
No shoes.
Alex must have just taken the keys from the valet stand and was leaving the wreckage. The image made her sick. All those people burning inside. Her, strolling calmly away like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Much less a bombing that killed over fifty people, according to the photo’s caption.
“Naturally, I was shocked. I took the first Chunnel in.”
“And found me on a random street?”
He gave her a look of confusion. “You do recall that I sell microchips for a living. To mobile phone companies.”
“You tracked me with cell-tower triangulation? What are you, the NSA?”
“I asked a favor of a friend. Nothing sinister about that.”
She eyed him. “And when did you move to Paris?”
He glanced away and back again. “First of the month. I was transferred to Mainland Europe division.”
“No reason to tell me, I suppose.”
“I’m telling you now.” He sat at the edge of the bed and took her hand, and with sudden seriousness in his voice, he said, “Alex. I was worried you may disappear forever.”
Alex looked into his eyes, the ones she wanted to trust—or had at one time—and said, “I’d already accepted you had.”
“I can’t say I blame you.”
She traced her gaze to his square jaw and strong neck. A day’s reddish-blond stubble peppered his skin, like sand on a schoolboy. He looked goddamned delicious and he knew it.
“And you won’t have to.” She pushed up further and moved her feet off the edge of the bed. “Thanks for getting me here and the doctor and everything.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” He looked surprised as she stood up.
“My job.”
“You’ve been shot. Surely your employer will understand.”
“You don’t know my employer.”
Alex walked to the chair in the corner and held up a pair of jeans, a long-sleeve black shirt, and a black overcoat.
“I purchased them while you were resting. As well as those.” He pointed to a pair of low-heeled boots.
She was getting tired of thanking the man who’d left her, so Alex just started dressing instead.
“Can I help you?”
“Sure. Gin, splash of soda? I’m sure you remember how I like it.”
He’d remembered everything else. The boots were a perfect fit.
“I meant with your job.”
She glanced back at him. “You can’t.”
“Why not?” He folded his arms across his chest.
Because her tolerance for disappearing acts had just expired.
“Look. Jack.” She walked over and placed a hand on his arm. “I appreciate you coming, taking care of me. You probably saved my life. Thanks. Goodbye.”
He took a step closer, raised his eyebrows. “I’m not leaving you.”
“You already did.”
“And it was a mistake.”
“Damned straight.”
“Alex—”
“Jack.”
His voice edged with a hint of sternness. “You’d be well-advised to take the help. Physically.”
There it was, the classic male argument. They’d been over it more than a few times in their passionate run-ins. Once, he had walked in on Alex practicing Muay Thai in his Paris apartment. She had just delivered a sweeping head-kick, knock-back combination to his life-size silicone dummy, leaving a swipe of white powder across the figure’s head from the chalk on her feet.
He said something smart like, You look adorable beating up on a dummy like that.
And the next thing he knew, Alex was on him, throwing every punch and kick in the book, plus a few f-bombs. She wasn’t trying to hurt him, just give him a little lesson, so he was able to fend off each blow but stay close enough to take her down. Pinning her from behind like that pissed Alex off for real, and she bucked hard enough to flip over in his grip, forcing him to keep his full body weight on her.
That’s bullshit, I went soft on you and you know it, she said.
He smiled, Alex, I’m a good deal heavier than you—I’d say eighty pounds—and I boxed in University, remember? He stared back and continued, But I must admit, you’re a better match than over half the lads I’ve sparred with.
Fuming for a few more seconds, she began to loosen her grip on his wrists. Don’t patronize me.
Breathing hard, he said, I wouldn’t dream of it.
After a moment, Alex stopped huffing and returned the look of hunger in his eyes. Then
she said, I’m too sweaty.
He smoothed one of those wonderful hands over her ribs and said, I was rather hoping you would be.
And they made love right there on the blue-tiled floor of his workout room with the silicone dummy as a voyeur.
Bringing her back to the moment, he asked, “What exactly are you’re tasked to do?”
Alex narrowed her eyes. She was, for all intents and purposes, one-armed for the time being, and on the run. She’d killed two men, after all, even if it was in self-defense. A partner—another set of eyes and ears—could help. Jack had demonstrated his intelligence and physical competence to her more than once. If he wanted in so badly, it would be his own doing.
So Alex blurted it out.
“Your father?” was the first of a long stream of questions from Jack.
Alex answered them all honestly, if not completely. She told him about the reception and her assignment and the briefcase and the hand and Edgar. Jack looked as surprised as she’d been about her father’s resurrection. She also told him as much as she could remember about the twin motorcyclists and the Navy SEAL tattoo, but for the life of her, Alex still couldn’t come up with a connection to them anywhere.
The one large detail she left out was her true employer. She let Jack assume her company employed those with highly specialized services. Hell, he already knew she was some sort of spy. It was probably why he’d left her in the first place. Admitting that she was CIA now would just aggravate that sore spot.
“Let me see that newspaper,” Alex said, and scanned the article. It was written in French, which she hadn’t used much lately but could understand well enough to get the main points.
“What are these?” he asked, holding up her sketchbook.
“Drawings, you’ve seen some of them before.”
“Not this one.” He lifted the book and turned the page. “Nor this.” He stopped at the sketch of Geneva, Jack on the bridge. “Did you sketch this from a photograph? I don’t remember you taking one.”
“I didn’t.”
“How then?”
He had seen Alex draw, of course, but he’d never seen her do it from memory. There’s something about recalling images from one’s mind and transferring them to the page that seems impossible to most people. For Alex, it was as natural as practicing yoga—once she started, she slipped into a something akin to deep meditation. The end result was an extremely accurate, detailed drawing.
She said, “It’s hard to explain.”
Eying her, he said, “Do try.”
Alex had thought about how to tell him before, of course, but there was never really a good or appropriate opportunity to bring it up in conversation. There never was with something like this. It would seem like a hoax, a trick, or just plain odd.
That said, he’d discovered it, and she knew it would be better to have the talk now. Exhaling, she said, “You’ve heard of an eidetic memory?”
“You mean photographic?”
“That’s a subset of eidetic memory. Some people hear a piece of music once and are able to replicate it entirely on a piano. Others can read a series of numbers and regurgitate them. You’ve read about those people who can recite pi to, like, a hundred thousand decimals? Or people who can learn an entirely new language in a week?”
“Savants,” he said.
“Right. Most of them are high-functioning autistics.”
He raised his brows. “Are you telling me you’re a prodigy?”
Taking the book back, Alex said, “Far from it. I’ve just got this quirky thing where I can draw what I’ve seen. From memory.”
He pointed at the book. “Those. Are from…memory?”
“Most. See?” She flipped through the book and stopped on a page that showed Jack standing at the balcony of a hotel room, overlooking the Prague skyline. “This was the first city we visited together. And…”
She stopped on a page that showed a street scene in the heart of Milan. Nothing beautiful or remarkable about it; Jack was not even in the drawing. But he had just left and Alex could still still smell his musk on her body.
“Or this.” She flipped to another page, this one showing a homeless family in Rio de Janeiro. “This one stayed with me for weeks.”
“Alright, then…what’s the key?”
“It usually has to be a powerful moment for me to remember the details well enough to draw them. The more powerful the emotion, the sharper the image.”
“You’re a regular Hannibal Lecter, that scene he drew of Florence.”
And just like that, she was sorry she’d told him. “A lovely image of me. Thank you.”
He laughed. “Will you draw me someday? I mean, while I’m there, watching.”
“Not likely.”
“I’ll consider that a perhaps.”
Alex didn’t respond, and Jack took the hint that she was ready to move on. He glanced at the book in her hand and then back to her. “So, your father. Where would you like to begin?”
“Does Hanna have a computer I can borrow? And a printer?”
“Yes, of course. And then what?”
Thinking about the article and the drawings she would make, she said, “And then there’s a certain chef I’d like to have a word with.”
Nine
Shivering as they stared at the glossy black Porsche Cayenne Turbo in the underground garage, Alex recalled an ad she’d seen for the SUV in the British Airlines magazine a few days earlier. It boasted of over five hundred horsepower and zero to sixty in under four-point-five seconds. It was a land rocket.
She said, “Hanna lets you borrow this?”
Jack shrugged. “This vehicle was her husband’s. She prefers her Mercedes, I believe.”
“Right, this one’s the spare.” Leaning forward, Alex studied the inside of the car. “Damn, it’s a standard.” She questioned her driving ability with one arm numbed by whatever Hanna had injected into it. She’d be able to shift with her left hand, the good one, but steering would be sketchy until the meds wore off.
Jack stepped past her. “You navigate. I’ll drive.”
“I can probably do OK.” She rolled her shoulder.
“Alex, you’re at it again.”
Alex tilted her head. “I get around just fine without a man to coddle me.”
“Yes, well. Considering you have that hole in your shoulder.” He pressed the remote, unlocking the doors. Then he paused and eyed her, gave her a wink. “You can think of me as your very own chauffeur. How’s that?”
“That may work.” She gave a mock frown and climbed in the passenger side.
About twenty minutes and a few less-than-professional traffic weaves later, Jack and Alex pulled up to the Continental Plaza hotel off of Hyde Park. The front of the glass-and-steel tower was lit with Christmas bulbs, and a huge tree surrounded by silver and gold presents shined through the lobby’s glass. Flanking the revolving doors, six giant ball ornaments glittered with reflections of the driveway and street.
They told the valet they were there for dinner at The Wallard, and he guided them to a separate entrance off the side of the lobby. With no Christmas decorations, the restaurant had a traditional upscale setting, including dark wood paneling, chandeliers, and plenty of flowers. Though Chef Guy Martin didn’t own this restaurant, it was where he’d made a name for himself. Still, that name was not on display anywhere in the foyer or on the matchbooks. His ego must have been burning at the lack of recognition.
Enough so, that he started his own restaurant, Café Martin, a few miles away.
Waiting for the hostess to return to her station, Alex scanned The Wallard menu. Tuna Salad Nicoîse, Duo Rack of Lamb, Buffalo Ribeye au Poîvre. No prices were shown, but the dining room was full of patrons, so revenues weren’t hurting for the hotel-owned operation.
She said, “As popular as he is here, you’d never know the Chef was going bankrupt.”
“Bankrupt?”
Alex tapped the article in her pocket. “The reason we’
re here.”
“I thought you were keen to ask about the bombing at Café Martin.”
“We’ll get to that,” She said, still thinking of the piano and that strange smell.
The hostess approached. With legs up to her ears, she had the bubbly, yet empty expression of a girl who’d relied on nothing more than her looks all her life. The type to ruin all credibility for the thinking women of this world.
“Reservations?” she asked, beaming with fake enthusiasm.
“Actually, we’re just here to visit Chef Guy.” Alex had read that the chef liked to be called by his first name, using the French pronunciation, as in Ghee. He also liked his last name pronounced Martán. But after minimal Web research, she also knew he had been born as Guy, rhymes with die, in South London, to Walter and Janet Martin. Last name rhymes with…Martin. Both Walter and Anne were schoolteachers, and they’d all lived in London all their lives.
Bottom line, he was about as Parisian as a French fry.
The hostess raised her chin and said, “Chef Guy is quite busy just before dinner. Why don’t you schedule an appointment for the daytime, perhaps next week?” Her British accent had been tainted a bit French.
With her best British accent, Alex said, “Tell him that Inspectors Alex Winter and Jack Pope are here on an unannounced visit. From the MLHU.”
She glanced between them and frowned at Alex. “The what?”
Jack said, “The Middlesex-London Health Unit.”
She stiffened. “I don’t care if you are from Scotland Yard. Without an appointment, I cannot help you.”
Alex leaned forward and whispered, “We are being kind enough to not draw attention to the matter, see?”
She didn’t see. She stared, wordless, wheels turning in the hamster cages upstairs.
“Look,” Jack said, “we’ve reports a customer discovered a spot of unusual hair in one of your dishes.”
The hostess crossed her arms. “That’s hardly a health offense.”
Alex said in a voice loud enough to carry past the hostess, “Ah, yes. But it is when the tests come back as raccoon.”
The couple seated closest to the station turned to have a look.
The Shadow Artist Page 6
