by KS Augustin
“Have you been here long?” he asked, noticing with irritation that she was still in what he would always think of as her uniform—dark pants, thin jacket, and a blouse underneath.
“No,” she replied evenly. “Just since we returned from Tech-88.”
Dieu, that was more than two hours ago!
“You would make a good policewoman,” he remarked. “Always on the stakeout.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Was this the game she wanted to play? The cool, calm professional with the mask firmly in place again? He glanced quickly through the window and noticed that she’d placed herself well. She had a clear view of whoever entered Heritage House, as well as the length of the verandah in front of his suite. There was one glaring vulnerability, however.
“I see you have set yourself in an enviable position, but what if someone creeps up behind you?”
She pointed to the large glass window next to her that separated the garden from the open foyer. “I can see them in the reflection.”
“Above you?”
“The timber slats along the floor of the balcony are positioned far apart enough to let light through. I’d be able to see, and hear them, walking.”
He beckoned to the river, and at the glinting ripples that travelled lazily to the shore, in the wake of one of the many ferries that plied their way up and down the waterway.
She seemed to consider it for a while, staring across the water to the ochre rock cliffs on the other side. Her expression was serious when she faced him, but there was a glint of amusement in her eyes.
“You’re right. If somebody was to commandeer a powerboat and lead a team of people in a jet-by shooting, armed with several machine-guns, then I would probably face some difficulty stopping them.”
He nodded sagely. “I thought so.”
“You could always take my advice and request that Ryan handle bodyguard duty with me,” she suggested, tilting her head to one side.
Did she know how attractive she looked like that, with the afternoon sun picking up the highlights in her already fair hair? There was a charm here that she probably didn’t even know she had, and Yves wanted to bask in its aura for a while longer.
“Can he halt several men with machine-guns?” he asked with a lifted eyebrow.
“He’d give it a damn good try.”
Yves detected the seriousness under her jest and shook his head. “I feel safe enough around you, ma petite. I don’t need Ryan Greenwood’s added presence.”
“And you still want me at tonight’s dinner?” He must have looked blankly at her, because she continued in a rush. “It’s just that it’s a celebration dinner for your business deal. I don’t mind. I mean, I’ll follow you, but I don’t have to be included in the meal. I can wait somewhere for you.”
Yves felt a deep frown form on his face. “And how would that look if I deliberately left out a member of my team?” he asked, indignant. How could she even think of such crassness from him?
“But I’m not—”
“You are working for me, are you not?” he interrupted.
“Yes, but—”
“And you have duties to perform?”
“Yes, but—”
“And I am the person paying you, mais non?”
“Yes,” she replied in that short, irritated tone he was beginning to like very much from her.
He shrugged. “Leaving you out of the celebration dinner would be like leaving Guy out. It is unforgivable, for many reasons. It would also show a lack of respect to Monsieur Nelson.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint Mr. Nelson,” she agreed weakly.
“D’accord. Then you will accompany us, and I will hear no more of this nonsense of waiting for me in some dark corner, starving all night while I enjoy the best seafood your country has to offer.” He paused, and tried to sound innocent rather than sly. “Does your country have good seafood?”
“Oh yes,” Helen confirmed happily. “Crabs, oysters, Moreton Bay bugs.”
Distracted, she started describing the ocean up and down the Queensland coast, and the variety of seafood that could be caught in those warm waters. Yves let a small smile curve his lips. It was done. She would be attending. Suddenly he felt a lot better.
* * * *
Helen thought she had packed enough in her small case to last her through bodyguard duty for a week, but she was swiftly running out of clothes choices. She thought she would be blending into the background not being scrutinised by two fashion-conscious European men. Every time she met Yves, she saw the assessment in his gaze and wondered if she was disappointing his aesthetic sense completely with her taste in clothes.
The problem was she didn’t really have anything suitable to wear to a celebratory business dinner with multi-millionaires—if not billionaires, as in Yves’ case. Desperate, she pulled out a tunic from the wardrobe that faintly resembled a pirate shirt, with a lace-up v-necked collar and puffy long sleeves. What had even possessed her to buy something like that? She must have been with Sue while cruising one of the many arts fairs that popped up regularly along the banks of the river, and suffering temporary insanity. But, she admitted as she flicked it back and forth, it looked jazzy enough, covered with a muted paisley pattern, and she could wear it with her serviceable trousers and still look reasonably dressy. She could have slipped back into the flapper dress she had worn to dinner with Yves—she knew she looked good in it, and it fitted her like a second skin—but she didn’t want to stand out. There was enough on her mind without adding the disturbing and intense looks from a particular Frenchman to the mix. In fact, the day was going so well, she didn’t want to think about anything difficult at all. She had focused on her work, made sure the environment was safe for her clients, exchanged pleasantries with their driver for the day, and spent a pleasant afternoon in the sun, watching the river traffic and listening to the muted sounds of traffic on the freeway behind her. When she wasn’t stuck in it herself, the sounds of vehicles moving along a road could be almost hypnotic.
After speaking with her for an hour—it always surprised her that a man like him would be happy just to talk about nothing special for such a long time—Yves had retreated to his suite to get ready for dinner, and she did the same. Right now, she was putting the finishing touches to her gypsy-style outfit, adding some muted gold studs to her ears, brushing her hair back, and quickly applying make-up.
At six forty-five, their driver, Tom—Mick had finished his shift for the day—drove them to the mall, letting them out as close as possible to the restaurant.
“It’s difficult finding a park around here,” he told them as they left the car. The men frowned, but Helen knew he meant a parking spot rather than a large square of greenery, and nodded. “I’ll be close by, but call me five minutes before you need me, and I’ll meet you back here.”
He sped away with a wave.
The pedestrian mall was one of the most popular stretches of walkway in the city. Muted, rectangular grey pavers lined the street, turning the area into a wide boulevard, punctuated every now and then by a cafe/restaurant, performing busker, or occasional shady tree. Even though it was relatively early in the evening, crowds were beginning to form, couples, groups and singles casually strolling, and pondering on the food choices open to them.
Helen moved Yves and Guy through the crowd, alert to any change in the pattern of crowd behaviour, the presage of another imminent attack, but all movement was benevolent. And nobody was looking at them suspiciously.
They had argued with her in disbelief, but she was firm in convincing them that dinner wear in Brisbane did not necessarily mean a jacket and tie. In fact, she told them, Scott might somehow think they were unable to relax if they turned up to dinner in the same kind of clothes as they’d conducted their business meeting in earlier that day. Shepherding her charges to the restaurant, Helen was glad they had eventually taken her advice. The open-necked shirts, folded at the cuffs, and casual trousers that b
oth men wore blended well into the crowd. As long as they didn’t say anything, it was unlikely they would draw attention to themselves. As if aware of her silent wishes, both Yves and Guy were quiet, letting her lead the way up the mall, stopping only when they reached a discreet set of stairs leading upwards, next to a brass plaque.
‘Roy’s’ was a simple name for one of the best known restaurants in the region. They ascended the carpeted steps that opened into a cosy bar area, decorated heavily in dark timber. Near one end of the bar, a lectern marked the boundary to the restaurant. Helen had a quick look into the dining area and saw Scott and Ian already seated there, waving when they caught sight of her. With a nod, she asked Yves and Guy to precede her to the table.
The welcomes were warm and sincere all around and although Helen couldn’t sit where she wanted—Scott had already commandeered the position with the clearest view to the door—she made do by sitting next to him. Yves sat on the other side, where he could watch her over dinner. She pretended not to notice.
She refused a glass of the wonderfully expensive chablis that Scott ordered, prompting him to ask her if she was somehow uncomfortable or feeling unwell.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have time to ask before,” he remarked to her, “but do you work for Yves? It’s just that I thought I heard a dinky-di Aussie accent there.”
Helen laughed, and felt Yves’ gaze narrow in on her. “I was born and raised in Brisbane,” she replied. “But I am working with Mr. de Saint Nerin during his Australian visit.”
“Oh?” Scott’s sharp gaze was openly curious.
She couldn’t tell him she was his bodyguard. But the only other term she could use—security escort—tended to make people forget the first word and only concentrate on the second, and she didn’t think Yves would appreciate being associated with such a label.
“I’m his liaison,” she said in a burst of inspiration. “Because neither of the gentlemen,” she indicated Yves and Guy, “have been to this country before, they contacted my employers. I was hired to act as a gopher for them should they require any local information or resources.”
Scott considered her reply for a second, then nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll probably be doing the same thing when I visit them in Paris,” he joked. “But does that mean you can’t have even one glass of wine with us? After all, we’re celebrating the beginning of an international partnership.”
Now that she had dug herself into this hole, Helen found she had to dig a little deeper. She put a hand to her forehead. “I have a bit of a headache,” she explained in a low voice. “I’d love a glass of wine, but I don’t think my head will thank me.”
He patted her other hand as it rested on the table. “Good lass. I understand completely.” He turned to talk to Ian and Helen looked over at Yves. He was grateful for her fibs, she could tell that much, and she couldn’t help but smile at him. Wasn’t it part of her job after all to protect her client? If Yves wanted, some time later on, to explain to Scott about Leonid Alexandrov then he was free to do so, but the Australian wouldn’t hear it from her.
Scott rose to the festive nature of the occasion by ordering such platters of seafood that there was hardly any room left on the table for their wine glasses and cutlery. As the five of them worked their way through plump oysters, oversized prawns, succulent crab and tender fillets of fish, staff efficiently whisked away bowls of seafood feast remainders—shells, claws and bones—replacing them with clean containers ready for the next culinary attack. Helen ate sparingly, but still more than she was used to. Three bottles of wine had been consumed in total, and she shuddered to think how much she had contributed to the lessening of the marine population with her own restrained greed.
But no matter how much food had been demolished, there was still room for a cheese board and accompanying port at the end of the meal. It was close to eleven o’clock when Yves finally decided that they had better call it a night. He haggled, and graciously lost to Scott, the payment of the bill, threatening revenge by taking his two latest business partners to a famous Michelin-starred establishment on the outskirts of Paris when they reciprocated with a visit of their own to France.
Helen imagined the restaurant as the farewell ritual began. It would probably be a renovated farmhouse, maybe even off an unsealed road, fenced by dry stone walls, and drenched in sun and red poppies. The windows would be bevelled glass, the door solid timber, and the smells from the kitchen, absolutely divine. It didn’t hurt to imagine such a place, and Helen didn’t care if she was woefully mistaken about any of it, because she knew she would never make that trip. In a handful of days, Yves would go back to his life in France, while she would set up her business in Byron Bay. An ache started deep in her chest at that thought, but she thrust it to one side, not willing to spend more time on why she should feel so depressed at the end of a pleasant evening.
The final farewells were said in the mall, beyond the stairs and discreet, darkly painted door.
“I’ll see you next Wednesday,” Scott boomed, taking Yves’ hand and shaking it vigorously. He did the same with Guy’s. Ian, now that he seemed used to their presence, also brightened up and said some words that hovered dangerously close to sociability. Helen found him endearing in a geekish way, obviously a man of genius-level intelligence but still socially inept.
Helen waited until they started walking away before she called Tom on her mobile. He promised to be at their rendezvous point in minutes, and they began walking back down the pedestrian mall.
It was a week night, and so the crowds had thinned considerably from their earlier crush. Both Yves and Guy were walking a little slower than on their way to the restaurant. They were both probably too full to amble at a faster pace, she thought with amusement.
They moved off the mall, down a street, and Helen thought she saw the back of the limo waiting for them around the corner, twenty metres away.
And then, for the second time, violence exploded around them.
Chapter Nine
It was difficult to describe, but this attack had a different feel to it. It was more chaotic, less organised. Helen was glad of that, because there were three of them, and they had the element of surprise on their side.
Roughly, they pushed and pulled Yves, Guy and herself into the deep recess of a shopfront and tried to pummel them into unconsciousness. After the initial panic of feeling an arm around her neck subsided, Helen went with the flow, not only allowing herself to be dragged backwards, but actively pushing herself back. She estimated the distance to the closest wall, but was a little off in her calculation, and the jar that hit her attacker also vibrated through her. She took advantage of the slight lessening of pressure at her throat, to elbow him in the ribs. He was tall and broad, of solid build. With a gasp, he let go and Helen twirled, bringing his head down to her knee in a vicious strike then slamming it, face-first, into the wall. She heard the scuffles from the other two attackers and was in no mood to be delicate. She slammed her attacker’s head twice more into the wall, and was already moving away while he was still sliding to the ground.
The night time shadows made it difficult to make out exactly where one person ended and another began, but it was enough to know that a second attacker had his back to her. Helen punched him, hard, in each kidney, and threw him backwards as he fell, in a more ruthless repeat of what she had done to Yves a lifetime ago in the carpeted room at Heritage House. It was only when he was down that she realised she had just despatched Guy’s attacker. The third of the group was quick to join his fellows, following a wet thud that Helen correctly surmised was the sound of Yves’ fist meeting an unsuspecting jaw.
Without a word, she grabbed the sleeves of both Frenchmen, and ushered them out of the building’s shadowed darkness and back down the street. She didn’t speak until they were in the car and Tom, after one startled glance, jammed down the accelerator and sped them away.
“We don’t have much time,” she told them hurriedly. “When Tom stops, I want
both of you to get into Heritage House and prepare overnight bags. Take only the essentials. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Where are you going?” Yves asked sharply.
Helen ignored him. “I will give two short beeps of the horn. When you hear that, come out and head straight for my car. It’ll be a white sedan.”
The limo was already cruising down the city street closest to the river. Helen knew she had less than a minute of briefing time left.
“If there’s anybody waiting for you, if anyone attacks you,” she swallowed, “call the police as soon as you can. If you can’t get to a phone, scream, throw things, make as much noise as possible in order to draw attention to yourself.” The limo pulled up outside the welcoming lights of their rented residence. “Go. Now.”
To their credit, both men—even Yves—were adept at following orders once the need arose. Helen should have directed Tom to keep driving once the door closed behind them, but she couldn’t do it. She waited until she saw lights go on, yellow and muted, in Yves’ suite then, a few moments later, upstairs where Guy must be staying. She waited, straining her ears, but heard no soft sounds of a fight or screams for help. Damn the man! If Yves had only taken her advice and hired two bodyguards, she wouldn’t find herself in such a quandry, having to make the tough decision of wasting time in order to check out the security of the house, instead of using that time to organise their getaway.
Finally, after a handful more of precious minutes ticked by, Helen told Tom to head for Fortitude Valley. She wasn’t going to make the mistake of going to her apartment. For all she knew, Alexandrov might know who she was and had her place watched. But one of the things that made the Valley an inconvenient place to live also added to her security. In the crowded inner-city suburb, she didn’t have the luxury of a garage beneath her apartment, so Helen’s car was parked a distance away. She directed Tom to drop her off at the top of Brunswick Street
