Sometime later—I have no idea how long, she stirred on my chest and lifted her head. Her eyes glowed in the dark and she smiled at me.
“What was that?”
“A really awesome middle of the night shag?” she quipped.
I chuckled. “A really f**king amazing middle of the night shag.”
I kissed her lips and held her head until I was ready to let her go. I’m possessive like that after we have sex. I don’t like to leave right away, and since she was on top of me, I didn’t have to worry about crushing her and could stay a bit longer.
I thrust up deep again and made her moan a luxurious sound against my lips.
“You want more?” she asked in a voice mixed with content and surprise.
“Only if you do,” I said. “I’ll never turn you down and I like it when you jump me, but I thought you were having your period—”
“No. Not like that for me because of the pills I take. It’s barely anything, a day maybe, if that…sometimes I don’t even have one…” She started kissing over my chest and grazed a nipple with her teeth.
Christ, it felt so good. Her attentions jolted me right back into the moment and a healthy desire for round two.
“I think you’re going to kill me, woman…in a really nice f**king way,” I managed to say, but it was the last thing either of us spoke for a while. My Medusa had just turned into Aphrodite worshipping at the altar of Eros. My luck apparently knew no bounds.
“The US papers,” Frances said, setting the stack on my desk. “There’s an interesting article on members of Congress with children in active military service in the Los Angeles Times. Guess who they interviewed?”
“He must be one of the very few. Oakley will milk it for everything he can. Thanks for these.” I tapped the stack of papers. “What about the other thing?”
Frances looked very pleased with herself. “Picking it up when I go out to get lunch. Mr. Morris said it restored beautifully after so many years in the vault.”
“Thank you for seeing to that for me.” Frances was a gem of an assistant. She ran my company office like a tight ship. I might organize the security, but that woman kept my business sorted and I didn’t underestimate her worth for an instant.
“She’s going to love it.” Frances hesitated at the door. “And did you still want me to clear your schedule for Monday?”
“Yes, please. The Mallerton thing tonight and then we leave in the morning for Somerset. We’ll drive back Monday evening.”
“I’ll see to it. Should be no problem.”
I picked up the Los Angeles Times as Frances left and looked up the article from the senator. I wanted to be sick. The slippery serpent failed to mention how his precious son was stop-lossed just recently, but that was no surprise. I wondered what the son really thought of the father. I could only imagine the dysfunction in that family, and it wasn’t a bit nice.
I set the paper back on the stack and as I did, the movement caused something to peek out below it. An envelope. The thing had been set between the stack of papers. That in itself was odd, but the words on the envelope…FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION…and that it had my name underneath, got my heart pounding.
“Frances, who handed you the US papers this morning?” I bellowed on intercom.
“Muriel has them ready every morning. She sets them aside just like she’s been doing for the last month. They were just there waiting for me.” She hesitated. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
My heart was still pounding as I stared at the envelope on my desk. Did I want to look? I reached for the flap and unwound the red string tie. I stuck my hand in and pulled out photos. Eight by ten black and white photographs of Ivan and Brynne chatting at Gladstone’s. Him kissing her on the cheeks as I waited for her to get in the car. Ivan leaning in to speak to me and waving us off. Ivan on the street after we’d pulled away. Ivan waiting on the street for his own car to come round.
That photographer I’d seen outside the restaurant was there specifically for Ivan? He’d gotten death threats before…and now we had pictures of him and Brynne and me together? Not a good connection for her. Ivan had his own shit storm of troubles, and I sure as hell didn’t need the added complication of whoever was harassing Ivan to drag my Brynne into his whole mess. Fuck!
I flipped over the pictures one by one. Nothing. Until the last one. Never attempt to murder a man who is committing suicide.
I’d seen this kind of thing throughout my career. It had to be taken seriously of course, but more often than not, it was some lunatic fringe who had an axe to grind on the back of someone notable they perceived to have caused offense to them personally and with cruel intent. Sports figures especially suffered this kind of crap. Ivan had offended a ton of people in his time and had the gold medals to prove it. A former Olympic archer now retired from the sport, he was still Britain’s lauded golden boy hounded by the media. The fact he was my blood family would have earned him the protection regardless, but he certainly kept me busy.
These photos had been taken two weeks ago. Was that photographer there for Ivan specifically, or did he just sell the pictures he’d taken of Ivan Everley, Olympic archer, because he’d been lucky to snap them and could get a few pounds for selling? Paparazzi hung around places that got a lot of celebrity traffic by habit, so it was hard to tell if the pictures had been prearranged or mere chance.
And if you were a lunatic intent upon killing somebody famous, why in the hell would you bother to inform his private security detail that you were planning to do it? Made no sense at all. Why send them to me? Whoever had got the pictures obviously wanted me to see them. They’d gone to the trouble to plant them in a stack of newspapers I regularly ordered from the street cart.
Muriel.
I made a mental note to speak to Muriel on my way out. I’d be leaving early anyway because of the Mallerton thing tonight so I should be able to catch her before she closed up shop for the night.
I opened my desk drawer and pulled out cigarettes and my lighter. I saw Brynne’s old mobile in there and pulled it out too. Not much traffic on it for the past two weeks as all her contacts were onto her new number now. The bloke from The Washington Review had never rang back, most likely he figured her a bum lead, which worked perfectly in Brynne’s favour. I set it up to charge so it would be ready to take with me tonight and into the weekend.