TWO
From the way Roscoe had always spoken of his sister, Aubrey had been expecting some vague, willowy girl with hair down to her knees and orphaned kittens hiding in the gauzy folds of her floral skirt. But Evelyn Blackton was tall, thin, and angular, with slashing cheekbones made sharper by the severe cut of her black bob against her pale skin. As he sat on the sofa in Roscoe’s flat, idly studying her over the rim of his drink, he couldn’t work out if she looked more like a nineteen-twenties flapper or a Russian assassin. The indecision both amused and annoyed him. He’d have to see her dressed in leather.
“No, thank you,” she said to Roscoe now, standing in the living room, one arm tucked across her front. He could imagine a slender silver cigarette holder in the other hand. Perhaps a martini. Except she was currently turning down a glass of wine.
“Oh, shit,” said Roscoe, glass in hand. “Have I done it again?”
She smiled. “Probably. I did try to bring my own, but the off-licence was out of stock. Shall I check the label?”
“It’s fine,” called Poppy, head appearing round the kitchen door, red hair piled messily up. “I got vegan wine.”
“God bless that woman,” murmured Roscoe, handing the glass to his sister. “You’re in safe hands with her.”
Evie laughed, then caught Aubrey’s eye and stopped, something in her expression tipping him back towards the Russian assassin theory. He sipped his drink, trying not to laugh. Perhaps it was poisoned.
“So,” said Aubrey, feeling the need to attempt some small talk as Roscoe went into the kitchen to help Poppy. “Roscoe said you’ve just come back from Spain?”
“Yes.”
There was a short silence reminiscent of a Siberian winter.
“And…how was it?” he persevered, mainly because he guessed she would find that more irritating than if he said nothing.
“Honestly? Heart-breaking. I was volunteering at an animal sanctuary, helping them clear a new field, do all the fencing, build some stables, look after the animals. You know the sort of thing.”
She sipped her wine, tilting her head with an innocent, questioning sort of look that made it clear she knew full well that he did not know the sort of thing .
“I can imagine,” he said earnestly, his look just as innocent.
“Well. I was there for months. Then I spent a few weeks helping a friend. I was boarding the flight back to England when the sanctuary called me to say they’d lost all their funding.”
“Oh. That must have been…disappointing.”
“Heart-breaking,” she corrected him.
“Mm. Heart-breaking,” he agreed, although, as an expert in the condition, he was quite sure Evelyn Blackton had never come close to the real thing.
“And now…” She paused significantly. “I’ve just learnt that another project I worked on has been shut down.”
Her icy blue eyes fixed him with a look that brought Siberia bristling back into the room.
“It was a community garden,” she continued—inexorably. Black-clad assassin stalking its prey, closing on him, pulling a gun from a rather snugly fitting thigh holster.
He flicked his eyes back to her face just in time to catch the daggers from her eyes as she said:
“But the site’s been sold. Bulldozed by your friend Domnall White.”
Things didn’t really improve from there. Dinner was served, and Roscoe’s sister was thankfully well-brought up enough to eat it, make conversation with her brother and Poppy, and not leap over the table and murder him with the butter knife. Vegan-spread knife.
He could see she wanted to, though. Which was another thing about her that both amused and annoyed him. They were all the same, these moral crusaders, talking a good talk about love and peace, and then viciously hating everyone who happened to disagree with them. Whatever happened to tolerance? Free speech? The freedom to do a very nice job and earn lots of very nice money while never being particularly un-nice to anyone?
Oh well. She could hate him if she wanted. She was only a kid. Twenty-three? Twenty-four? A spoilt trust-fund princess living on her father’s money while protesting against everything that he worked for. Not that he was about to defend George Blackton. He had no love for the man. But he had no hatred either. They were both useless emotions that only clouded the judgement. Life was far better in the middle. Calm, unruffled, sane.
“Am I allowed to bring up work?” Poppy said towards the end of the meal, making an apologetic face at Roscoe then turning eagerly to Aubrey. “How’s your unicorn? I’m dying to know after all the effort we went to to catch him.”
Aubrey very carefully didn’t look at Evelyn. And also very carefully didn’t mention Domnall White’s name, he being the unicorn client Poppy was referring to.
“Barely got a hand on his mane. But we’ll get the saddle on eventually.” He reached for his wine glass, hoping that would signal an end to the topic.
But Roscoe, no doubt noticing the frowning way Evie was watching the exchange, said to her, smiling, “Technical finance speak, as you can see.”
Evie now directed her frown at Aubrey. He took a large mouthful of wine.
“Tell me, just what is it that you do at BlacktonGold, Aubrey? Are you a wealth manager, like Roscoe was? Is that what you do for Domnall White? Tell him how to invest his billions, so that he can make more of them?”
She smiled sweetly, all innocent curiosity. Assassin sharpening her blades. Aubrey left his hand on his glass, stroked a thumb up the stem, mentally taking a deep, resigned breath.
“Used to be. But I was fortunate enough to be promoted recently.”
“Oh?”
He laughed darkly to himself, seeing the inescapable doom his next confession would bring. He’d meant to keep his amusement private, but some of it must have escaped given the way Evie’s eyes narrowed.
“Now I’m in charge of tax strategy.” He met Evie’s rapidly fading smile with one of his own, bright and brilliant. “I spend my days helping Domnall White avoid paying tax on any of his many billions. Marvellously rewarding work. As you can imagine.”
He was vaguely aware of the fact that Roscoe groaned and that Poppy was looking between him and Evie, wide-eyed and stricken. But he refused to look away from Evie’s brittle, blue-eyed stare. Hate me, he thought. Go on. With those pretty clothes you’re wearing that your father’s money bought, and your white-rose skin glowing from the trips to Spain he’s funded. Hate me, when it’s people like me who put a roof over your head.
He’d seldom seen a person literally too angry to speak. It choked her for a moment—and he suspected it was the way he’d smiled as much as what he’d actually said. Her long, fine throat moved as she swallowed. She took a sharp breath, chin going up. Talk about manes and saddles, she looked like a thoroughbred horse refusing a jump.
“You do realise what you’re doing?” she said, voice trembling with righteous passion. “Literally stealing money that could help hospitals and schools and—”
“Yes, yes. Stealing candy from babies and all that. Luckily for me, I enjoy bathing in the tears of orphans every night before bed. Helps me get to sleep.”
The smile he flashed her was half-snarl, but he wrestled it back into something calmer as he let go his grip on his wine glass and stood up, collecting their plates.
“Tell me where dessert is, Poppy, and I’ll bring it out.”
It was Roscoe who came through to the kitchen with him, carrying another load of plates. The man gave him a look as he set the plates on the counter, his normally mild blue-grey eyes troubled, questioning.
“I know,” said Aubrey. “She’s your sister, and I will try harder.”
“You’re not normally so…”
“Antagonistic? Twattish?”
“Easily provoked?”
Aubrey unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up the sleeves before scraping off a couple of plates. He put the plates in the sink then wiped his hands slowly on a tea towel, grimacing internally before he spoke.
“Liv’s back.”
Roscoe shot him a look.
“Back in London,” Aubrey said, attempting to keep his tone light. He took another plate over to the bin, focused on that while he spoke. “Corporate Tax with HallardPuck, moved from their New York office to here.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Not yet. But every other person I know is a lawyer. I can’t escape the grapevine.”
Roscoe frowned, and Aubrey stiffened at the sympathy, already embarrassed he’d said anything.
“I suppose that explains it,” Roscoe said kindly. “I’d wondered if it was maybe the other thing. Domnall. Is he still giving you trouble?”
Aubrey let out a breath, dumping a plate unceremoniously in the sink. “It’s the same as always. Power plays and ego trips.”
“He’s just finalised his divorce, hasn’t he? That’s probably got something to do with it. Trying to prove something.”
Aubrey nodded. “I wish he’d prove his manliness on his own time. He’s toying with us. So far, he’s signed over barely one per-cent of his liabilities to our care but keeps hinting he’s going to open his wallet any moment now.”
“Evie’s not wrong. The man’s awful.”
“I know. But you know what this role is like for me. Your father only gave it to me because of your…let’s say…rather abrupt departure when they were already behind schedule setting the department up.”
“I’m sorry I—”
“No, no.” Aubrey waved his apology away. “I’m glad you got out. Look at the state of you now. Sickeningly happy. It’s disgusting.”
Roscoe laughed. “Sorry. Again.”
“At least one of us is,” Aubrey murmured. Then, before Roscoe could respond to that, he said quickly, “But you know what it’s like trying to prove yourself to your father, and he has no parental love for me to soften his beady eye. He’d happily see me gone. And with Domnall fucking me around like a monkey on a string, it might happen any day now.”
Roscoe bit his lip, concern all over his face, and Aubrey turned away, embarrassed again. Fucking Liv. He was too old to be this unmanned by the mere mention of his ex. But Jesus fucking Christ, knowing she was back in town had hit him far harder than he’d expected.
He was aware of his heart beating and his palms sweating as he readied himself to ask what he had been needing to ask all night, finding the actual moment of doing it every bit as awful as he’d imagined. He turned on a tap, picked up a plate. Put it down. Turned the tap back off.
“Roscoe…I need to ask you a favour.”
“Of course. Anything.”
“It’s the Actuaris Annual Awards on Friday, and I’m being sent to further woo Domnall and pander to his ego. The only issue is…”
“Yes?”
“HallardPuck are also courting him. And they’re sending Liv.”
“Oh shit.”
“Exactly.”
“Aubrey, I’d come with you, of course I would, but did you say it’s this Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Poppy’s got her first big work do on Friday, and she’s terrified. I promised her I’d be there, but—”
“No. Right. Obviously you have to go to that.”
“What time is yours? Maybe I can—”
“No. No. Don’t worry. I’ll ask someone else,” Aubrey said firmly, knowing full well there was no one else he would trust with this. “Don’t worry, Roscoe.” He smiled at his friend. “I’m a big boy. I’ll be fine.”