moment, wild and spontaneous. With Tim in that frenzied state, the sex would have been quite something. Her smile slowly returned as she thought about how she could have driven him crazy in bed. It would have put her completely in control.
She’d learned a lot about sex from Derek over the last few weeks. Every Sunday morning since the party she’d received a txt from him, summoning her to Nottingham. She told her father she was out with friends, and those same friends she was visiting family; then caught the ten-thirty bus, arriving there for midday. His digs were in a converted office block near the center of the city, overlooking the canal. Two rooms with old, cheap furniture, a grotty carpet, bad lighting, and dirty wash he stockpiled to take home to his mum on his monthly visit. The bed was narrow with a thin mattress, underneath a window that had a towel for a curtain. He did change the bedclothes before she arrived each time.
Annabelle stayed for three hours every Sunday. That way she could catch the four-twenty-five bus home. If she missed it she’d have to wait until the next one at seven-ten. She’d stayed longer once, thinking they would spend the extra hours having more sex, or going out for a meal, talking happily. It didn’t happen. Even a fit twenty- year-old had physical limits. And they had nothing in common to make conversation about. Derek had laughed at her for the way she admired Stephanie Romane, though like all boys he respected Sir Mitch. They didn’t go out because his friends might see them.
Annabelle knew she was just sport sex to him, his Sunday afternoon workout. She didn’t mind that; what they did to each other physically was really good, and quite excitingly dirty. It was only during those long empty bus rides home she would feel the doubt and guilt rising. What she was doing was shabby and disgraceful, but it was completely secret. Safe. So when the next Sunday came around and he sent his txt she’d get back on that bus again.
ANNABELLE CAME DOWN the manor’s stairs in time to see the long-base Land Rover driving away. A couple of the Europol team were sitting in the little lounge they’d taken over, talking quietly. She waved casually to Krober as she went past.
Jeff walked out of his study, carrying an empty tea mug. He just managed to stop his jaw from hitting the floor at the sight of her. “Oh, hi,” he mumbled. It was like encountering a vision, he thought, except this wasn’t quite the classical image of the Virgin Mary. Annabelle was wearing a gloriously tight top that exposed a feast of flat midriff. Her denim skirt didn’t make it halfway to her knees, while her feet were engulfed by absurdly big gray and black trainers with thick platform soles. White socks were crumpled loosely around her ankles. There was a long scarlet stripe in her hair.
She was staring back at him, adopting the kind of dismissive slouch that only teenagers could manage. Nothing in the world was relevant or interesting to her. Especially him.
The way she looked and acted was so incredibly desirable. He simply wanted her, right there and then. Not only that, he wanted what she was.
“Yeah, hi,” she grunted apathetically.
“Are you coming, or going?”
“Going. We’re off to Tallington Lakes.”
“That’s a shame. I never get to see much of you.” His gaze scanned across her T-shirt, making a show of reading the print. “Are they really?” he asked with a modest little grin.
Annabelle couldn’t believe he’d gone and said that. But his unrepentant, cheeky expression made it very hard to be angry with him like she knew she ought to be. “There’s only one way to find out,” she said archly. For some reason her mouth was trying to smile.
“I can spare a minute.”
“Gosh, a whole minute. Those seventies girls never knew how lucky they were.”
Jeff laughed.
Annabelle flashed him her coyest smile and hurried out through the manor’s double doors. Not too fast; that would give the impression she was flustered. As she emerged into the sunlight she realized her bra was still lying on the floor of Tim’s bedroom, and the T-shirt really was very thin. “Oh, you Bad Girl,” she murmured to herself. But once again her body had put her in charge. Her smile was still in place as she climbed onto Tim’s e-trike.
Jeff’s hands were shaking as he watched her walk across the gravel. The encounter kept running through his mind like a video file stuck on replay. “Jesus wept.”
22. MESSING ABOUT ON THE WATER
TALLINGTON LAKES WERE SITUATED several miles outside Stamford. Originally huge quarry pits, they’d been filled with water and over the decades developed into a superb water sports and yachting resort. There was a lake for each activity: sailing, water skiing and boarding, windsurfing, and Jet Skiing. The four main lakes were separated by strips of land that were lined with elaborate mobile homes and small A-frame cabins, each one with its own mooring.
Martin’s parents owned one at the far end of the Jet Ski lake, a caravan that was eight meters long and luxuriously furnished, surrounded by tall pines and silver birch trees. Wooden decking ran along one side, covered by a blue-and-white-striped awning. A big solar-pumped barbeque grill stood at one end.
The Land Rover was parked outside, just off the dirt strip that lined the lake. The Europol bodyguards parked their BMW a few meters away. Tim and Martin and Colin manhandled the Jet Ski out of the back of the Land Rover as the others started to arrive. Pretty soon they were all inside the caravan, laughing and shouting as they got changed, ready for the big day.
Martin and Simon hefted the Jet Ski up between them and carried it down the steep slope to the shoreline. Tim stood at the top, wearing swim shorts and a tatty old UV-resistant shirt.
“You ready or what?” Simon asked. He was buzzing with excitement. Everyone in the crew shared it. They’d spent the whole long, boring, miserable winter preparing for this moment.
Tim laced up his trainers. “Let’s go!” They all high-fived.
The Jet Ski was bobbing in the shallows, with Martin and Simon holding on to it, water coming over their knees. Tim waded out and managed to wobble his way onto the saddle without capsizing the little machine. Rachel handed him a pair of broad wraparound goggles with gold lenses. Colin checked the choke and throttle, then pressed the starter. The engine kicked in at once, bringing a pack of whoops from the crew standing on the mooring above. Tim waited a moment to make sure the engine was running smoothly, then slowly twisted the throttle. The Jet Ski moved off, its nose riding up as he accelerated out onto the open water. White spray began to curve up from either side, like ragged swan’s wings unfurling around him.
The Jet Ski lake was divided into two sections by a long spit of marshy land which almost reached right across; there was a small gap at the far end, which was closed off by a band of netting above the water. One half was for the use of caravan and cabin owners who were permanent resort members, while the hire center and day riders used the other section. The trees and bushes growing on the spit were tall enough to block the sections from each other’s view.
Tim was very conscious of the other five Jet Skis on the owner’s section. They were being ridden hard, performing deep plunge stops and near horizontal turns. He watched in envy as one jumped a small ramp over on the far side. Maybe they should have spent some time on lessons with the instructors at the hire center. But where was the fun in that?
He began to test the Jet Ski’s maneuverability, turning sharply, making a figure eight in front of the caravan where the crew were all shouting and waving. It was quite an easy ride. He gunned the throttle more. The Jet Ski ploughed into the wavelets, skimming from top to top with huge bursts of spray. He laughed gleefully as the water lashed at his face. The motion picked up, pounding him up and down energetically.
One of the other riders swished past, giving Tim an encouraging thumbs-up. He began to weave an exhilaratingly chaotic course around the orange buoys that designated the slalom course, steering as close as he
