Chapter 11
ZINAIDA
By the time I reach the private dining floor, my heart rate has actually reached something approaching normality for the first time since Luke jammed his pistol into my naked butt.
Luckily, going by the stiff-backed figure standing at the window.
“Good morning, Madam Home Secretary.” I close the door behind me.
“I don’t like it when my department makes the front page of any newspaper, Miss Melikov.
” Dame Agatha Chalmondeley turns from the window to glare at me as I cross the room.
“Let alone a dishrag like the Daily Truth. I like it even less when a journalist implies that one of my agencies has ties to, and I quote, ‘criminal elements.’”
She sits down, and I politely follow suit. Agatha is in her sixties, with perfectly blow-dried silver hair, austere features, and a steely-eyed gaze that has been known to reduce even seasoned members of the Opposition to stuttering incompetence.
“Your clubs walk a fine line,” she continues crisply, “but a well-trodden one. And going by how many members of Parliament hold memberships to them, I imagine the murkier activities which take place behind your doors are safe enough, at least for now.”
She says the words murkier activities with visible distaste.
I drink my tea to hide my smile. I like the home secretary. She’s a woman who knows what it takes to survive in a man’s world.
“When it comes to Sophie’s House, however,” she says, her frown deepening, “we’re talking about a charitable foundation the government openly supports.
I rely upon you to keep that end of your business entirely murk free.
And this”—she stabs the newspaper accusingly—“implies otherwise. Would you like to explain, Miss Melikov, why you, your foundation, and the National Crime Agency are mentioned in the same sentence as the death of that pond scum Georgiy Ivanov?”
I lift the coffee jug from the silver trolley beside our table, weighing up how much it’s safe to say. Agatha has proved herself less squeamish than her male predecessor—and more proactive in actually getting results, even if that means occasionally stepping over a legal line or two.
It seems that dumping Georgiy Ivanov’s body off the side of his own yacht crossed more lines than Agatha is comfortable with.
I don’t give much of a fuck. But I do care about keeping Agatha onside.
So I pour her coffee and give her the elegant smile of the slightly illegal businesswoman she’s learned to trust, rather than the ice-cold glare of the psychopath she’d prefer to ignore the existence of.
“The headline in the Daily Truth this morning was unfortunate, I’ll admit.”
“Unfortunate is the understatement of the year.” She doesn’t look remotely mollified. “The prime minister called me at four a.m. He wasn’t amused.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Clearly, this isn’t destined to be one of our easier conversations.
“Although, frankly, I’d have thought the prime minister would take the win.
The article clearly states that the National Crime Agency had been closing in on Ivanov’s sex trafficking ring before his death.
The journalist doesn’t refute the vile practices Ivanov was engaged in, or the fact that many of his rivals wanted him dead.
Your agency not only exposed the ring, but arrested many of its clients and associates.
” I smile blandly. “All Sophie’s House did was give refuge to the women they rescued, which is the precise reason I founded it in the first place.
Implying some dark conspiracy between your agency and my foundation is just the Daily Truth trying to sell papers, since they and the Opposition can no longer complain your government isn’t doing enough to fight sexual predators. ”
And we both know a tabloid headline isn’t why you’ve requested an emergency meeting in the privacy of my club at seven a.m. on a dreary winter morning.
“Hmm.” Agatha cocks a cynical eyebrow at me over her coffee. “Allow me to speak plainly, Miss Melikov.”
“Please do, Minister.”
“Not even the Daily Truth is stupid enough to lament the demise of a rock spider like Georgiy Ivanov,” she says tartly.
I sip my tea, trying desperately not to laugh.
“And I think we both know your relationship with the NCA goes rather deeper than taking the girls they rescue.”
That sobers me fast enough. I meet her eyes. “But?”
She gives me a hard look. “Word is spreading, Zinaida. People—even those on my side of the fight—are starting to whisper that your charity is more than just a refuge.”
“Whispers can be useful,” I say lightly. “It doesn’t hurt men in Ivanov’s business to know someone is aware of their activities.” I smile coldly. “Particularly someone like me.”
Agatha’s mouth quirks. “True.” She composes herself. “But when it comes to accusations of murder—even implied murder—there’s a line which cannot, under any circumstances, be crossed.”
Given that our entire association revolves around me crossing lines her agencies cannot, it’s an effort not to let my smile turn cynical. “I shall bear that in mind.”
She eyes me narrowly over the table. “I suggest you do, Miss Melikov. Because if I see another headline like this one, I will have to reassess our . . . association.”
I know as well as Agatha does that there’s no way she’s going to interfere with a relationship that has given her department its best record on busting trafficking in a decade.
But I don’t say that.
If building London’s two most exclusive members-only clubs has taught me anything, it’s that the more powerful you make people feel, the more inclined they are to think they’re doing you a favor when, in fact, they’re asking you for one.
So instead I just nod with every appearance of humility. “I understand.”
A diplomatic silence ensues, during which I sip my tea, Agatha sips her coffee, and we both pretend that is the end of the matter.
When she does eventually break the silence, she almost succeeds in taking me by surprise. “As it happens, I have more than an inkling of who fed the Daily Truth these particular whispers.”
“Oh?” I keep my face neutral, my tone disinterested.
They will find it difficult to whisper at all when I’m done with them.
“Obviously,” she says, her mouth twitching at the edges, “you didn’t hear this from me.”
I incline my head, reminded again of why I like the home secretary. “Obviously.”
“I imagine you’ve heard the name Simon Lowbridge?”
“I’m familiar.” I don’t attempt to hide my distaste. Lowbridge is a regular at Pigalle Soho, but has been angling for membership to the Quartier for the last several years. “The minister for business and trade.”
“The same.” Agatha grimaces. “He wants my job, always has. From what I can gather, he didn’t give the Daily Truth any real facts, just a few unsavory whispers twisted to incriminate you and make me look corrupt.”
Whispers that are uncomfortably close to the truth.
“Given that Lowbridge is a member of my own party,” Agatha goes on grimly, “not to mention one of our biggest sources of funding, I can hardly raise the issue with him directly.”
Her eyes settle on me across the table. “I did hear,” she says, stirring her coffee, “that the Honorable Simon Lowbridge is a member of one of your clubs.”
And now we get to the real reason for this visit.
Sometimes darkness has to be dealt with by people who understand the shadows.
That’s when people like Agatha come to me.
“Handing stories like that to the press is a dangerous game to play,” I say lightly. “Perhaps Mr. Lowbridge needs reminding of that fact.”
She frowns. “I fear this may require a rather lighter touch.”
“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows politely.
“I understand,” she says, her eyes touching mine and sliding away again, “that you hold a Winter Ball every year. I believe that an invitation to your ball may help prevent any . . . future leaks.” She shoots me an apologetic look. “And at least in Lowbridge’s case, money is no object.”
Nor is it any kind of leverage. Especially when it comes to him.
If price was the only barrier to entry at the Quartier, it wouldn’t be the exclusive sensation it is. But I choose my guests with razor-sharp precision. And I’d rather spend a night back in my father’s cage than let a piece of shit like Simon Lowbridge anywhere near the Quartier.
His place on the Forbes rich list, not to mention his marriage into one of England’s oldest families, might have rinsed clean some of the dirt from his past.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who he used to be or what he used to do.
Unfortunately, today I’m in no position to piss off the woman in charge of the country’s domestic security, so I hold my tongue.
“Leave it with me,” I say noncommittally.
Agatha sits back in her chair, looking slightly less tense.
“While we’re on unpleasant topics,” she says, “was the article correct in saying there was recently an attempt on your life?” To my surprise, she almost looks concerned.
Only one? It’s all I can do not to laugh out loud.
“As I mentioned earlier,” I say with a reassuringly dismissive smile as I pour her another cup of coffee, this time discreetly adding a decent shot of whiskey from a crystal decanter beside it, “the Daily Truth does love a good conspiracy.”
I stir in the whiskey and push the saucer across the table to her. “I understand your grandson made the Cambridge eight, by the way. Congratulations.”
Agatha’s eyes light up. “They’ve got a damned good chance at the Boat Race this year.” She sips the whiskey-infused coffee, and her eyes close briefly. “Christ, that’s good.”
“Let me give you a coffee for the journey back to Westminster.” I pour a decent slug of whiskey into a travel cup and top it up with a layer of coffee.
“I daresay I’ll need it,” she says dryly, “if I’m going to stomach the bombastic hypocrisy of the bastards across the aisle.”
She pauses at the door, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Just between us girls, Zinaida,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “was Ivanov really found with his cock stuffed in his mouth?”
“So I heard, Minister.” I give her a bland smile. “But that’s just rumor, obviously.”
Her mouth twitches. “Obviously.”
She raises her travel mug in a silent toast. “Take care, Miss Melikov.”
It’s the Right Honorable Simon Lowbridge who needs to take that advice, Agatha, not me.
I stand in the private dining room long enough to digest her information, then pick up the phone to the front desk.
“Enzo. Didn’t you mention recently that you had a date with the private secretary to Simon Lowbridge?”
“Andrew? I’m not sure I’d call it a date,” he says dryly. “More of a brief but mutually enjoyable encounter in the toilets of Village Soho.”
“One that you are going to repeat. This time on a proper date. Use the company credit card, take him somewhere nice. Then find out as much you can about his lord and master, and report back.”
“Lowbridge?” Enzo doesn’t attempt to hide his disgust. “Do I have to?”
“That prick was behind the Daily Truth piece. And unless you fancy seeing him on the guest list for the Winter Ball, I need dirt, and I need it fast.”
“Oh, God.” He sounds as horrified as I felt when Agatha mentioned it. “Understood.”
I head to the elevator, mentally bracing myself for the day ahead.
Unfortunately, not even envisaging the torture of Simon Lowbridge serves to distract me from the memory of Luke’s hands on my naked body.