Chapter 38
Tilda’s grand room overlooked the seven acres of private land leading down to a woodland.
She breathed easier than she had all week.
The place was deserted, just how she liked it.
It had been Hank’s idea. He could have easily disappeared off back to Dallas and hidden.
Some backwater UK detective had no jurisdiction where they came from.
But they had unfinished business here. The colour of dollars and old-school political allegiances were the best currency in the world when it came to protection from legal complications.
They must stay close to the source of their stress, for now.
Hank had explained they couldn’t leave their patient.
Paul was a big enough liability without the added complication of another asset they’d neglected for too long.
There was too much cleaning up to do and Hank insisted they do it.
Hank had never been one to shy away from getting his hands dirty, Tilda recalled affectionately.
She didn’t know what compelled her to limit her sexual experiences to colleagues; she guessed it had something to do with opportunity.
She did little else but work, and men were readily available, and none of them said no, because she was the boss.
But Hank was old news. It had been exciting a decade ago, when the oil and cattle tycoon had yielded his company to hers. The triumph turned her on. Conquering him in the boardroom and the bedroom had been deliciously hot. But now she sought young blood.
She stood in front of the window and peered out at a sizeable hill which guarded the road in the distance.
England was so quaint, she mused. Her home in Boston would cover this entire house and gardens and probably take in the little mountain too.
English people didn’t appreciate space. They lived on top of one another like ants in a tunnel.
But certain things were cute. It had been Jamie’s idea to hold the conference here.
She didn’t even know where the English Lake District was until this weekend.
She’d just read about it in documents, and been told how beautiful Dow Bank House was, and she simply must visit.
It kept UNESCO happy, as Jamie had explained, and it gave them cover.
Plus, they were close to the asset. And only Sandy understood the science.
‘How far from London is it?’ she’d asked Jamie. He’d laughed, his beautiful open chuckle, and said in his perfectly small voice, ‘Boston to Brooklyn.’
She sighed and spotted two runners making their way up the rocky slope in the distance.
Their bright jackets stood out and Tilda thought English people were crazy for lots of reasons.
Their obsession with fresh air was one of them.
Their love of dogs was another. Their reticence when faced with change was another. She could go on.
Terrible food, the stiff-upper-lip thingy that she didn’t really understand, lack of imaginative sexual prowess…
‘We have to move with the times,’ she’d said to Jamie.
In his standard stuffy English way, he’d screwed up his face and told her that they didn’t have to follow the field like sheep.
Jamie was one man she’d never conquered and now never would, and the fact irritated her.
The science was solid, according to Sandy, the market was ripe for a new health product, and the funding was there for them on a plate. They’d be stupid not to jump at the opportunity. But Jamie still had reservations.
He wasn’t yet part of the inner circle. He wasn’t old money, and he had no family name.
It was that simple.
Jamie had been a decent player. He told her that when you’re brought up in foster homes you become an expert in reinvention and dissociation.
He’d had years of therapy, but Tilda never would have guessed.
He came across as a confident and sturdy character.
Intelligent, passionate and clever. She’d never met anyone like him who was so good at making money but such fun with it.
The two were usually exclusive qualities in her experience.
But not Jamie. In the end, he allowed emotion to cloud his judgement.
As it turned out, Hank wanted young blood too but he coveted the wrong woman and everything changed.
She folded her arms and forced herself to hold back her own emotion.
She’d kept it hidden for so many years that another couple weren’t going to hurt.
She must stick to the programme and ride the storm.
As long as Jamie’s death didn’t cause a ripple effect in the market, they’d be home and dry within days.
Damage limitation.
And they couldn’t afford to fail.
The contract was too big.
She grabbed a thin cardigan. English people called this their summer, but to her, only 95 degrees was anywhere near hot.
She walked along the corridor and took the sweeping stairs down two floors and approached Sandy’s room. She knocked and Sandy appeared within seconds to greet her.
‘Waiting for me?’ Tilda asked.
Sandy smiled and backed away from the open door.
Paul was already inside, in bed, asleep.
‘How is he?’
‘Suffering.’
‘Can you do something for him?’
‘I’m trying. We’re dealing with addiction here. I did warn you.’
‘That’s enough, Sandy, I really don’t want to hear any more whining. I’ve enough to deal with.’
Tilda approached the bed. Paul looked fairly stable, though his skin was pale, and he was sweating profusely.
Hank came out of the bathroom and closed the door.
‘What’s that?’ Tilda asked Sandy, pointing to a syringe in her hand.
‘It’s your choice,’ she said. ‘We end it here and now, or we try to get him out of here.’