Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
Alex
Vicky sleeps on the plane after our long conversation, and I lie next to her on the bed, holding her.
She startles awake often, sometimes in panic, only calming when I use a gentle voice.
One time, she wakes crying. Another, she wakes and pushes me away, covering only her breasts, despite being completely naked.
I have to calm myself before I can calm her, and I wish I’d left Haynes without the mercy of a swift death.
Something permanently crippling, or a few more bullets to the stomach.
The flight attendant is disturbed by Vicky’s screaming, but I don’t care. I ignore the looks she gives us as we disembark, except when they’re directed at Vicky. Then I stare at her, cold and angry, until she quails before bowing her head.
Vicky tugs on my arm, and I let her lead me away.
It’s just after lunch when we land at the Costa del Sol airport.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“A little something, perhaps?”
“It’s airport food.”
“Something outside? I can go.”
She tightens her grip on my arm. “No.”
She didn’t eat on the plane, either.
An Audi R8 waits for us, courtesy of the contacts Daniel Easton put me in touch with.
“That’s one way to blend in,” Vicky says dryly.
“Actually, where we’re going, it’s perfect. Anything less ostentatious would stand out a mile.”
She gives me a blistering look and settles into the passenger seat, folding her arms.
Our destination is an hour’s drive away, with views of the Mediterranean for some of it. It’s late March and the sun is out in a blue sky, reflecting off white buildings with terracotta tiled roofs, palm trees lining the roads.
Vicky stares out of the window, silent for most of the journey.
“Is your headache any better?”
“No.”
I regret not bringing her any sunglasses even though the glare isn’t strong. I consider stopping, but I’m keen to get us to our destination. I have work to do.
La Zagaleta is a gated residential estate in the hills of Benahavís, above Marbella.
It has 24-hour security and large houses, sequestered in wooded areas down winding private roads.
It’s not really my scene, but it’ll do for as long as we need it.
I’d prefer somewhere more isolated, quieter, with locally sourced staff we can trust. But that all takes time, while the house we’re renting was available at immediate notice.
Anonymity is aided with a bank account under the Spanish variation of my name, a legal loophole that requires no special paperwork, and Vicky raises an eyebrow as I’m greeted as Alejandro.
The house itself has beautiful gardens and a swimming pool, tiled floors within, and quality if basic furnishings.
A pleasant woman welcomes us, introducing herself as Carmen, the housekeeper.
In age and appearance, she reminds me of the cleaner who let me into DeLuca’s office, and I spend a few moments charming her in Spanish before switching to English.
Carmen responds fluently, to Vicky’s surprise and delight.
English is common in this part of Spain, and she won’t be as ostracized as she thinks.
“I didn’t know if you would be hungry, senorita, but I made paella. Do you like seafood?”
“That sounds lovely, thank—gracias.”
Carmen gives her a warm smile, but when we eat, Vicky only picks at her plate.
“Your body needs food,” I say as gently as I can.
“I’m still nauseous.”
She looks pale, her skin clammy, but I smile and let her do what she wishes.
That night, when Vicky jolts awake, her skin is hot and she’s coughing. I coax her back to sleep with a glass of water and by stroking her hair, then slip out of bed and take advantage of the estate’s all-hours concierge.
The following morning, a doctor knocks on our door. Vicky wears a silk robe in bed and makes no protest as he examines her, taking her pulse and listening to her chest.
“It is only a respiratory infection,” he tells her in Spanish, then repeats it in English at my insistence. “It hasn’t reached your chest, but it may yet do so.” He hesitates, glances at her wrists, then addresses me. “Would you please step out for a moment, senor Reyes?”
“No, I will not—”
“It’s all right, Alex,” Vicky says softly. “I would like to talk to the doctor.”
I take a breath to calm myself, give her what I hope is an encouraging smile, walk out of the room and close the door. Then pace in the hallway outside.
What’s she telling him in there? I don’t know this doctor, save that he’s used at this estate and there’s nothing to connect me here. It’s been barely a day; even Fournier’s reach can’t be that long.
I tell myself I’m worrying over nothing, but it’s unconvincing.
The minutes pass, and I glance often at my watch, resisting the urge to punch the tasteful mosaics decorating the walls.
Is she still trying to leave me? Is that why she wants privacy?
A doctor would be bound to facilitate that, especially with marks on her like she has.
I thought she had accepted everything on the plane, but now I wonder. She’s been so withdrawn. Is it just a residue of her torture—as if any such thing could be called ‘just’—or is it more?
Damn Haynes. Damn Van Wyk and Fournier.
I need to get them out of our path, and I can’t do that while I’m worrying about Vicky.
The door opens eventually, and the doctor steps out. I force myself to unclench my fists.
“Nothing to worry about, senor,” he says in Spanish, before I can speak. “Your prometida wished to explain some things to me, but tells me also that you are… protective.”
“Get to the point.”
“Bueno. I have given her antibiotic cream for the abrasions on her wrists and ankles. Her upper respiratory infection will either resolve in a few days or become a chest infection. If that happens, call me and I will prescribe antibiotics.” He pauses, then lifts his chin.
“She assures me everything is perfectly consensual. It is none of my business, but if you will accept a critique, your games would be more enjoyable for you both if you invested more time in her care.”
I’m torn between laughing and punching him, settling instead for a dry, “Noted.”
“She would benefit from a bath.”
“A bath?” I didn’t think she was that dirty.
“Sí. The steam will help her congestion, the warmth will ease her muscle aches and any fever. Then bed rest.” His lips pucker like he’s sucked on a lemon. “Bed rest, if I may be so bold to emphasize that.”
I shrug and spread my hands. “Amor de juventud. What can I do?”
“She may be young and in love, senor, but you are not.”
Young, I presume he means, rather than both. Unless Vicky said more than he alluded to.
I love her, don’t I?
Why the hell are you asking yourself?
“Gracias, Doctor.”
“Buenos días.”
I leave him to find his own way out, knock twice on Vicky’s door, and walk back in.
She’s sitting up in the bed, the duvet pulled high, and the silk robe visible around her shoulders. A pot of ointment sits on the table beside her.
I raise an eyebrow. “You told him we had sex games?”
“Yes,” she says placidly. “I didn’t know the Spanish for ‘I was abducted and subjected to electric torture,’ and didn’t want there to be any confusion in the translation.”
“He told me that in future, when I tie you up, I need to spend more time ensuring your wellbeing.”
She flushes. “Um… that makes sense.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do.” I pretend to ponder. “Not with that cheap hemp rope, though. We don’t want more abrasions. I need to find a good jute supplier.”
She pulls the duvet higher. “I’m not feeling well, Alex.”
“That’s no problem. It will take a few days to get the supplies in. No doubt you’ll be fine by then.”
“You’re going to tie me up? After what Haynes did?”
“Yes, I am,” I say, emphasizing the words. “Four reasons, as you’re no doubt about to ask. First, I promised you I would. Second, I want to. Third, you lied to me. And fourth, it’s important that we reestablish the proper purpose for rope, after Haynes’s abomination.”
She swallows, her throat convulsing, and tugs the duvet up another inch. Then frowns. “Wait, I didn’t lie.”
“No? Construction company?”
“Oh, that.” She bites at her lip. “Um… all right.”
All right? Not the answer I expected, but I’ll take it.
I give her a wink and walk into the bathroom, getting the bath going. The tub is large and inset into the floor, but the high-flow taps will make short work of it. I take my jacket off and drape it over one arm, rolling my sleeves up as I walk back in.
“Are you taking a bath?” Vicky asks in a small voice.
“No. You are.”
“Alex… I’m really not feeling well.” There’s a convincing tremble in her words, but also a pink tinge to her cheeks.
I lay my jacket over the back of a chair, and roll up my other sleeve. “You are taking a bath, Tink. Doctor’s orders. And I’m going to give it to you, then put you to bed.” I let my tone soften. “To sleep. Until you’re feeling better.”
“Will you stay with me? While I sleep?”
I stride to the side of the bed, perch carefully on the edge, and take her hand. “Of course I will. There’s nothing more important to me than you.”
Her eyes widen. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes, I do.”
And I did.
I work on my laptop on the dining room table, missing my dual monitors, the small screen wholly inadequate. But I’m in a rush to get this done, and don’t have the time to waste getting new equipment.
Vicky’s sitting in an armchair nearby, wearing her silk robe and wrapped in blankets despite her protests. It’s been four days and she’s feeling much better.
“What are you working on?”
“You’ll find out in a few minutes,” I tell her. “I’m almost done.”
“Oh? I thought you were working.”
“I am.”
“Then what does it have to do with me?”
“Tink?”
“Yes?”
“Shh. Concentrating.”