Chapter Thirteen
In which Fee and Alec discuss literature and interior design.
Fee…
During the times I had worked undercover as a corporate security consultant, I’d been in more than a few houses - they never felt like homes - that had been designed to show off the gluttonous tastes of their owners, as well as offering security against the righteous, angry mobs that, hopefully, would one day break down their doors and string the inhabitants up by their ankles.
An entire, early 20th-century ski resort in the Harz mountains - a gorgeous spot with blue white peaks, where red deer and black storks had once lived - turned into a single-family dwelling for three people, one of whom was away at Uni most of the year.
A block in the outskirts of Harbin that looked like a series of small restaurants and family businesses, which were a front for a fortress that could repel an army.The people who had owned those places had been forced out by the tinned fish magnate who now lived there with his twenty Pomeranians.
A mansion that rested serenely on the ocean off the coast of Dubai. Most of it was underwater and it was really quite modest compared to some of the others. Too bad it meant no one else could visit the beach it floated near.
Davies’ Temple of Excess was a different manner of thing entirely. Clearly counting on his armed minions and high-tech monitoring he had eschewed hiding as a form of security and instead did everything up to rolling out a carpet that said, “Come in and rob me. I own every thing.”
Including at the moment me, my family, and soon, Noreen, whose arrival I looked forward to even more than Da did. She was going to eat one of his tapestries and shit it out all over everything else he owned.
Still, his taste wasn’t bad. The study was wood and elegant, with a marble fireplace, and antique furniture that reflected a love of comfort as much as price. In addition to a Renoir that should have been in a museum where it could be seen by all, there were a few other bits of art here and there, though that is the kind of thing I have never developed an eye for. Most of it seemed to be from West Africa and India.
The English love their bits and bobs of art, especially if they stole it from another culture entirely.
The whole place made me itch.
“I’m trying to decide if I should send some of my men to pick up your mother for her safety. It's unclear how far any of this is going to go.”
“If you get Ma into this place you are going to have to dig her out with dynamite and a backhoe.”
“So not everyone in your family is allergic to the finer things in life.”
“Not finer. The farm is fine. The wetlands you are burning up so people can watch TikTok are fine. Ma likes expensive things, most of which are a waste.”
That said, his study was lined with books, which were fine indeed. I knew a bit about them and was impressed with their interesting variety that ranged from matching leather-bound sets that had probably been in his family for over a century down to a stack of ragged, spine-broken paperbacks, mostly mysteries, sitting on the tea table next to a large, brown leather sofa.
On the top of the stack was a copy of The Monkey Wrench Gang.
My copy of The Monkey Wrench Gang. I recognized it by the Irn Bru stain on the top of the pages from when I’d spilled on it the third time I reread it when I was fourteen.
“You thieving shit,” I growled at him, snatching up my book, flipping through the pages. “At least you didn’t deface it with penis drawings and spit.”
“‘One man alone can be pretty dumb sometimes, but for real bona fide stupidity, there ain't nothing can beat teamwork,’” he quoted, smirking at me, sauntering to his drinks cart. Probably his favorite daily walk. “I happen to be a fan, from some years back.”
“The hell you are,” I admit to being so offended by the idea I sat down hard, or as hard as the cushiony sofa would allow.
“You aren’t the first tree hugger I’ve wanted to -” he stopped, not sure where to go with that, then went on. “There was a girl at the Ares Academy who was obsessed with the Sonoran desert.” He opened a crystal decanter and the smoky, then sweet smell of an Islay single malt wafted out as he poured us each two fingers.
I could tell he wanted me to ask what the Ares Academy was, so I didn’t.
Handing me a glass, he quoted again, “‘There’s nothing more interesting than a woman, George. Not in this world,”’ then seated himself close enough to me so I could feel the warmth coming off him, but not so close I felt the need to slide away.
“So, you read it to get laid. That tracks. You seem like a fella who’d do a lot to get his knob seen to.” I sipped the mellow fire of the Islay and felt my muscles loosen. They had been so tight that they hurt worse after relaxing.
“Even wear overalls,” he held his glass up to me and then downed half of the dram fast enough that I could feel my Scottish ancestors bristling with offense. “I might have read it the first time to please a lady - another thing I’d do a lot to achieve,” the look those intense green eyes gave me burned more, and in different places, than the scotch, “but I am a fan of the book. The prose, the ideas, and the chaos.”
“I can see you loving chaos,” I conceded. It was true. The mix of businessman and criminal had to make for some interesting days. I waited until he was taking another sip and said, “When you kill me don’t go after my cohorts. They had nothing to do with taking you, other than the credit card business.”
Experienced drinker that he was, Davies didn’t choke though his eyes went a bit wide. “You seem calm about the idea of dying, Fenella .” He said the last with a rise. He had my wallet and all of my information, so I had no idea why he didn’t just check my ID card for my name. Even billionaires have to make their own fun, I suppose.
“Good guess, not my name, but good. I mean, I don’t want to be tortured,” I stood up, taking my glass, and added a few drops of water to let the last few swallows bloom, then perched on the edge of his desk. Sadly, there was nothing on it of interest, or a convenient letter opener to take to his throat, should the moment arise.
Though I wasn’t as keen on that idea as I might have been before. He was nice to my Da. And not enough people were.Martin was a sweetheart who lived half the year in Scotland and the other half in Ireland, forever surrounded by people who live to take the piss out of each other.
I was getting soft. “Anyway, I have always known I might die for the cause. I’m ready for it.”
Davies’ eyes glittered, with anger, maybe? Or irritation. He refilled his glass, this time being less cautious about how much he was pouring, raised it to his mouth, and then froze. I swear I could hear the crystal groan as he squeezed it in one of those big, long-fingered mitts of his, then he carefully, decidedly, walked over and poured half of it into my glass, leaning on the desk so his face was near mine.
He whispered in my ear, “What would be torture for you, I wonder? Forcing you to sleep on Mongolian cashmere sheets, dressing you in Dior and Balenciaga, tying you up with Hermes scarves, and hand-feeding you quail eggs with caviar and oysters?” The words were poison, but his voice was hot honey running into my veins.
“If you donate the cash equivalent of that to Project Innerspace you can tie me up and read me passages from Ayn Rand,” I whispered close to his mouth.
“She’s a shit writer,” he whispered back and I nodded, nodding so it brought our mouths closer together. Almost touching, the bit of a beard he had grown out since being held in the basement scratching me a little. It would feel good to have it scratch me everywhere, I thought.
I remembered where I was, who and what he was, and myself. Leaning away, smiling, I said, “If you touch any of my poor, wee, kiddies from the protest, let alone my family, you are going to wish you killed me, exploiter.”
Rather than anger, he snapped to coldness. “You don’t understand how lucky you are. I'm choosing to see your little abduction as a lark. An eccentric vacation. I might even recommend it to my friends, giving your grandfather a new revenue stream. Tell Charles when you are ready to go to your room so he can show you where it is. I have work to do if I am going to figure out who has decided to try and kill all of us.”
Then he dropped his drink, crystal tumbler and all, into the waste bin next to the desk and left the room with the door closing with the firmest, most controlled click.