Scarlet Women

beautiful proportions, standing full square in an elegantly shaded plot. Lollipop bay trees adorned either side of the vast pillared doorway. It was the very picture of prosperous English gentility, probably owned by a banker who was something big in the City—which just went to show how far you could rely on appearances.

The mansion was in fact owned by the don of an Italian-American mob ‘famiglia’, greatly to be feared, who loaned money at ridiculous rates then had people apply baseball bats to clients who were slow to pay. Who practised the ancient arts of loan-sharking and extortion. Who ran all-night poker games for high stakes. Who paid off bent cops—just like the Carters did, Annie reminded herself.

Annie walked up the steps with the strangest feeling that someone was watching her. She paused midway, looked around. She’d sent Tony home; said she’d get a cab back to the club. She looked up and down the quiet, sedate street. There was a brief flare from a doorway about a hundred yards up the road, as someone lit a cigarette.

Hey, is that all it takes to spook you now? she wondered. Someone standing in a doorway taking a smoke?

Exasperated with herself, Annie went on up the steps. She was getting jumpy and she didn’t even know why—except maybe she did. Her friend had been killed. Another friend had been arrested. And then the horror in the flat today. Trouble, every way she looked, and it was putting her on edge.

And now she was remembering the last time she’d come here, distraught, almost senseless with grief and worry, her daughter missing, her husband gone, money to find and nowhere to find it. This time was different, but still she felt her stomach churn with nerves.

She knocked at the glossy navy-blue painted door. The door opened. A large mound of muscle stood there, looking at her expectantly.

Annie moistened her dry mouth. ‘Is he in?’ she asked. ‘I’m—’

‘You’re Mrs Carter. Yes, he’s in. Come in please.’

And now it was too late to do a runner like she wanted to. She looked around the hall, marble everywhere, discreet and tasteful flower arrangements set up on pale stone plinths. Long mirrors: those were new. She saw herself in them, dark clothes, dark hair, blank face. That was good, the blank face. At least if she felt terrified, she didn’t actually look it.

The heavy was knocking at the study door. Faintly she heard the familiar American voice call out, ‘Come,’ and then the door was opened.

‘Mrs Carter for you, Boss,’ said the heavy, and ushered Annie inside and shut the door behind her.

Annie told herself firmly that it was childish to want to wrench it open and bolt straight back out. She thought of Max, and fuck it, this wasn’t the time at all to be thinking about him, but there he was in her mind: Max, all piratical charm and black hair and steely blue eyes. Her late husband, Max.

And now here she was. Picking up where she had left off with Constantine Barolli. Another powerful, ruthless man. She never could resist the allure of bad boys. And she feared that this could only end the same way, in death and disaster—perhaps it was stupid, but she did fear the consequences: the whole thing was fraught with danger, littered with hurdles.

His damned children, for instance. His son Lucco had hated her on sight. His other son Alberto she didn’t yet know about, but she felt sure he was going to hate her too. Cara, Constantine’s daughter, who was newly married, was sure to see her as a rival for Daddy’s affection, and already Constantine’s sister Gina had looked at her like she was a turd on the pavement.

‘Well, are you going to come in, or go out again?’ asked Constantine from behind the desk.

The study was the same as she remembered. Big tan-coloured Chesterfields, rows of books, a big desk with a buttoned leather chair behind it and a yellow banker’s light casting a warm glow upon its tooled-leather top. There was a marble fireplace with a decorated screen in front of it. This was a clubby, masculine room, and she felt out of place in it, just as she had last time she was here.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said.

He stood up and came around the desk and over to where Annie stood against the door. He held out his hand, palm down. Expecting her to kiss his hand, she thought. Annie looked at it, then at his face, then shook his hand briefly. Constantine gave a slight smile.

The silver fox. After his mother and brother had been hit in Sicily, his grandfather had promptly shipped him off to join the family in New York where it was safer. He’d grown up running numbers around Queens and in the Bronx, learning the business, finally taking control.

Annie looked up at his face. It was a strong face, commanding. Tanned, with bright blue eyes. Deep laughter lines in the corners. He put his hands in his pockets and looked at her from just inches away.

‘So what now, Mrs Carter?’ he asked in that assured, deep American voice. ‘You gonna bolt for the door, or give this a shot?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Annie, although she did. She brushed past him, went to the desk, sat down. ‘I’m here to discuss your clubs.’

Constantine went back around the desk and sat down too.

‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ he said. ‘I’m perfectly happy with the service I’m getting.’ He looked at her. ‘Which isn’t to say it couldn’t be improved upon, of course.’

The West End clubs that Constantine owned were gold mines. Annie knew that. Famous people were in and out of there all the time, the Beatles, Howard Keel, George Segal, anyone who was anyone, all the big names. If you weren’t rich, famous or glamorous—and preferably you would be all three—you wouldn’t get through the door.

Constantine knew many film stars and singers, just as Max had done. They were pleased to appear in his clubs and to bestow extra kudos upon them. Those he didn’t know—the up-and-coming talents, the great emerging beauties flaunting their fabulous bodies and eager to press the flesh of producers and directors—people like that, he paid. For a couple of grand and a few freebies they’d be there, spotting and being spotted, adding new-face charisma and a sprinkle of stardust to the already heady mix.

His clubs—like the other top London nightspots, Tramp and Annabel’s—were always packed out with wealthy punters, and wealthy punters liked tight security, locally provided, right there on the spot. While Constantine did business here, his main base was New York. Rather than spread his own resources too thinly, he preferred to hire in native muscle—and, up until this point, that muscle had always been the Carters.

‘Look,’ she said quickly, ‘have the Delaneys made you an offer?’

Constantine gave her a look. ‘The Delaneys are always making me offers.’

‘Have they? What did Redmond have to say to you when I met you at the hotel?’

‘Okay. He said that whatever the Carter cut was, he’d halve it.’

Annie let out a breath. ‘I bloody knew it,’ she fumed. She looked at him. ‘And you didn’t buy that?’

Constantine shrugged. ‘Max was always a good friend to our family, he honoured his business dealings with us and I’m returning the favour.’

‘Although it’s costing you.’

‘Yeah. But that goes with the territory.’ He looked at her shrewdly. ‘The Delaney thing’s still ongoing then? I know they’ve spent years trying to muscle in on Carter territory, and now Max and Jonjo are not on the scene, I guess they’re thinking the coast is clear.’

‘It’s not clear,’ she said. ‘I’ve told them that.’

‘Well, that’s good. Because it’s tough, being a boss. And doubly tough being a lady boss. People looking to shake you down. Thinking it’s gonna be easy, you know?’

‘It’s not clear, okay?’

‘Okay, so that’s the business talk wrapped up. How is Layla?’

‘She’s fine,’ said Annie.

‘Good. That’s good news.’

He stood up and came around the desk and leaned back against it, then hauled Annie to her feet with one hand. Startled, she found herself standing between his legs, pressed up tight against him, his arms around her waist. ‘Can we now get on to what’s really on our minds?’ he asked.

‘Like what?’ asked Annie, although she knew.

Her blood was fizzing with desire; she’d wanted this for far too long. But her desire was tainted with unease