Chapter 8 #2
There’s only one exit. “Okay, I’ll wait out here.”
I figure my sassy little charge is going to take her time, so I keep one eye on the door and another on the nearby window onto the street.
There’s a sports car parked by the meter right outside the door.
Johns would tell me the exact make, model and other tedious stuff like the engine size.
I notice it because there’s a couple standing right by it having a heated argument, and I keep thinking she’s going to shove him, and as it’s an open top, he’s going to wind up on the back seat.
In my mind it’s Dylan I see in that compromised position, limbs akimbo, ruffled enough that he doesn’t give a damn when I climb in alongside him and goad him into making out.
It’s only when the man below turns that I recognise him.
It’s Adam Bask, and the woman is a zillion times familiar too, although I don’t recall her name.
She was at the dinner the other night with the dark haired girl with the attitude.
The one convinced Dylan was some sort of bogeyman who’d shagged her dad.
I’m actually surprised when neither of them claims the car and zooms off.
They head in different directions, Bask towards the riverbank and the woman into the bakery across the street where she chats to the dark-haired serving girl in her candy-striped cap.
The hinges on the restroom door creak returning my focus to where it should be, but it’s the door to the GENTS’ that swings open and instead of Zsofia reappearing, it’s the all too familiar face of Dylan Drake I find myself looking at.
He’s dressed in a dark blue suit with taffeta-like sheen to it, combined with a snowy white shirt that’s unbuttoned to the top of his pecs.
There’s a heavy watch on his wrist, and a single diamond glinting in one ear.
On seeing me, he instantly stills, and his features take on a frown.
“Dylan,” I say, nodding in acknowledgement.
I wish I could say there was even a glimmer of pleasure in his expression. Okay, so maybe there’s a slight upwards quirk to the side of his mouth.
“Why are you here?” he says. No, Hey, or How are you? Only a demand to explain myself, as if he imagines I’m stalking him.
“I’m working. You?” I can do short and to the point too.
He gives an odd sort of shrug that’s more about his hands than his head and shoulders. “Eating, or I was.” His table must have been up here; if he’d been downstairs where we were seated I’d have noticed him.
How’ve you been, I want to ask. Have you thought about me, about us?
Maybe he only looks back and wonders what the hell I slipped into his drink.
Not that I did—slip anything into his drink.
Nor was I the one really responsible for us doing stuff, not really.
He’s the one who texted my boss to engineer a booty call.
Howard would have sacked the hell out of me if he had the merest smidgen of an inkling that’s what happened.
Thankfully he doesn’t. Also, yes, I’ve started thinking of him as Howard in my head, though he’s always Mr. Falchard to his face.
“Any more threats, or has it been quiet?”
I expect him to bark back something about my boss keeping me informed, but instead Dylan digs into the pocket of his tailored trousers and draws out a crumpled note.
I know before he hands me it that I’m not going to like the contents.
Hell, I shouldn’t even be touching it. This should be in the hands of the police.
I read it quickly and return it.
“Have you shown Falchard this?” If he’s not got the sense to consult the constabulary, then I pray he’s at least shrewd enough to have notified security that things are escalating.
“And have him multiply the number of minders I have tailing my every move from two to two dozen… Not bloody likely.”
“I’m not seeing any of my colleagues hereabouts.”
He shrugs in a way that I know means he’s given them the slip. “You’re here.”
“I’m not assigned to you.”
“Course not. This is your regular lunch stop.”
“I’m with someone…” There’s no need to complete the sentence as Zsofia emerges from the bathroom. She spears me with her gaze first, then turns her head and drinks down Dylan. Recognition makes for a dazzling display of her gappy smile.
“Dylan, this is Zsofia. Zsofia, Dylan Drake.” They shake hands as if they were both adults, which makes her giggle. “We ought to hurry up, Livia will be wondering what happened to us.”
“I’ve seen your naked tummy,” she says to Dylan, causing him to blink at her, and rear backwards on his heels.
“Photos with your top off,” I mouth to him.
Dylan slides a hand back through his hair, but only manages to look relieved for a second, before pointing at me. “You’ve shown her.”
“Me? God no! Her chaperone has a collection of hot man pics on her phone.”
He gets a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Whereas you only have their numbers?”
“I don’t have any wickedly hot men’s phone numbers.”
He takes a business card from his pocket, along with a pen. The click of his pen sends a weird shiver through my limbs. Then he presses the card to the centre of my chest. “Here’s the first for your collection.”
Zsofia is already skipping ahead towards the stairs, so I lurch after her rather than looking at what he’s written.
Dylan follows us down and out of the restaurant onto the street.
The sun is shining and there’s a bitter scent of traffic fumes mingling with that of the giant tubs of flowers marking the entrance to the park.
“Can I offer you ladies a lift somewhere?”
Livia gapes at Dylan when she realises he’s there. It takes her a little while, as her attention is so firmly focussed on her phone.
That’s when I realise the sports car belongs to Dylan, and my fantasies of pushing him into it and humping him on the back seat fill up my head again.
“Where are you going?”
“We don’t want to trouble you,” I say. Dylan Drake has a target on his head. I can’t knowingly put my charge in harm’s way, and allowing her to ride anywhere with him would be doing just that.
Livia scowls and Zsofia takes hold of my hand. “I’d be on my best behaviour.”
“I know that,” I tell her. “But we shouldn’t take up Mr. Drake’s time.”
“But he’s your friend and he offered, and my feet are tired. I don’t want to walk.”
“It’s not going to be any trouble,” Dylan remarks, one eyebrow arching upwards. “I’m heading in your direction anyway.”
I’m not sure how he knows which direction that is, but for all I know he’s in talks with the production team to do this remake musical too. I’ve no idea if he can sing.
“I don’t see there’s a problem with it,” Livia remarks, while shuffling herself closer to Dylan. She takes off her sunglasses and flutters her pretty eyelashes at him, obviously forgetting he bats for the other team. Dylan only seems amused by her antics.
“The car’s right here.”
Hand raised, he hits the automatic lock release on his key fob.
The car lights flash on and off, and I expect to hear the thucka-thuck of the door locking mechanism, instead there’s a deafening bang and we’re knocked backwards towards the restaurant entrance.
Black smoke fills the air. Bits of plastic and dust rain down from the sky. Holy fuck!
Time seems to crawl for several seconds.
I drag Zsofia and Livia into the shelter of the restaurant doorway.
Everything is horribly silent. All around us people are moving in panicked slow motion.
Then, like a clapper board has been snapped for another take, there’s a massive intrusion of noise.
Zsofia’s wailing. She’s scraped both knees.
Livia is gaping at me wide-eyed and babbling incoherently.
And Dylan… Dylan is still holding the key to a car that’s now a smoking ruin.
“My car,” he mutters, but what he’s really saying is, fucking hell, someone tried to blow me up.