First Drop

“Of course,” my mother said. But she would have said that even if she’d been keeping the food warm for an hour already.

My father smiled at her and led the way into his study. I followed. He closed the door behind us. I expected him to cross to the antique rosewood desk and take a position of authority behind it, but instead he moved to the silver tray of drink bottles on the sideboard.

I took one of the wingback leather armchairs standing at right angles to the desk.

“How’s Clare?” I asked, before he had chance to get a shot in.

“Doing as well as can be expected,” he said, professionally neutral. “The last procedure went well. I have one or two things to attend to here, then I’ll be going back up on Thursday.” He caught my expression. “It’s all going to take time, Charlotte,” he went on, gently. “The human body is a remarkable machine when it comes to repairing itself, but it isn’t quick.”

“I know,” I said, “and I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done for her. Without you . . . well, they were talking about amputation.”

He nodded, a regal acceptance of his own brilliance. “Sherry?” he offered.

I calculated the time until I was due to hit the road, and the fact that the mighty lunch my mother would undoubtedly serve would sop up the worst of the alcohol.

“I’d rather have a whisky,” I said, stretching my legs out in front of me, “if you still have any of that rather good single malt?”

He raised an eyebrow but poured a finger of rich golden liquid into a pair of crystal tumblers without comment. As he handed one across he clinked his with mine before perching on the edge of the desk beside me.

“So,” I said, inhaling the smoky earth tones in my glass, “what have I done now?”

“Why should you think you’ve done anything?” he asked, his voice deceptively mild.

“Oh, habit,” I said, not to be deflected. “Why else the cosy chat?”

He took a sip of his whisky, savoured the taste and sidestepped the question. “Your mother said you’ve come to collect your other motorbike – the new one,” he said then. “Can I ask why?”

I shrugged. “The Suzuki got trashed last night,” I said shortly. “I need transport.”

If I’d been hoping to shock him into a reaction, I was to be disappointed. Instead, his eyes tracked over my leathers and I realised, belatedly, that they still bore the scuffs and scars of my Transit encounter.

“I would ask if you are all right, but clearly you are,” he said. “This was in addition to you banging your knee yesterday, I assume?” he added dryly. “You were never so clumsy as a child, Charlotte.”

“Sometimes,” I said with a smile. “But back then it was usually ponies I was falling off.”

“Hmm. Strange that you should suddenly become so accident prone just as Sean Meyer makes a reappearance, don’t you think?”

Ah, so that’s what this was all about. I sat up straighter in my chair, the smile fading.

“No,” I said baldly. “Sean came because I called him after Clare’s accident, because I asked him to. Don’t go blaming him for any of this.”

“Any of what?”

Damn. I glared at him, as though he’d set out to deliberately trick me. Silence was the best card I’d got and I played it with a flourish, taking another mouthful of whisky.

He set his own glass down carefully on the leather blotter, folding his hands together in front of him. “I understand you’ve stopped seeing Dr Yates.”

“Oh, and what happened to patient confidentiality?” I threw back at him. “Or doesn’t that apply when it’s one of your golfing cronies?”

His moment of stillness signified his irritation. “That was unworthy of you, Charlotte,” he said. “Dr Yates agreed to see you as a personal favour to me and he would no more discuss one of his patients with a third party than would I. But, since I’ve been footing the bill for his services, he thought I ought to be aware that your last session was six weeks ago and you have failed to make any further appointments. Would you care to tell me why?”

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, flashed with genuine contrition for my lack of gratitude. “Maybe I’m just not the type who responds well to psychotherapy. I didn’t feel it was doing me much good.”

“Perhaps that is precisely why you should have continued.”

“Perhaps I will,” I said, noncommittal. “But if you were hoping he’d talk me out of working in close protection – or working with Sean – you’ll be sadly disappointed.”

He regarded me for a moment longer, then sighed and got to his feet. He went over to the tall sash window and seemed lost in contemplation of the garden. “This wasn’t quite the future we envisaged for you, you know,” he said, without turning round.

“It wasn’t quite the future I had mapped out myself,” I agreed. “But I’m here now and it would appear to be something I’m quite good at. It’s not everyone who finds their niche.”

My flippancy was a mistake. He turned and the expression on his face held surprising bitterness. “Good at?” he repeated, his voice slipping uncharacteristically into harshness. “At what? Killing people?”

My hands gave a quick convulsive clench. I set the glass down before I was tempted to throw it at him.

“No – at keeping them alive,” I said with quiet vehemence. “By whatever means necessary.”

He moved to the other side of the desk, leaning forwards and resting his fists on the polished surface, staring at my face. “Necessary in whose opinion? Yours? Meyer’s?”

“Leave Sean out of this.”

He made a gesture of impatience with one hand. “How can I, when you persist in connecting yourself to the man? He’s dangerous and he’s leading you down a very dark path. What happens when your judgement fails you and you take a life when it isn’t necessary, hmm? What happens then?”

Into the silence that followed his outburst, there came a quiet tapping at the door and my mother stuck her head into the room.

“I’m sorry to disturb your discussion,” she said, with enough emphasis on the last word to make me wonder how long she’d been eavesdropping, “but lunch is ready.”

“Thank you, we’ll be through directly.” My father nodded briefly in dismissal. He waited until she’d gone out and closed the door behind her before he launched his final warning.

“If you stay involved with Sean Meyer you will end up killing again,” he said, calm now but certain as stone. “And next time, Charlotte, you might not get away with it . . .”

SECOND SHOT

Charlie Fox book six

by Zoe Sharp

'Take it from me, getting yourself shot hurts like hell.'

When the latest assignment of ex-Special Forces soldier turned bodyguard, Charlie Fox, ends in a bloody shoot-out in a frozen forest in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, she's left fighting for her life, with her client dead.

Simone had just become a lottery millionairess but she never lived long enough to enjoy her newfound riches. Charlie was supposed to be keeping Simone's troublesome ex-boyfriend at bay and accompanying her on a trip to New England to track down the father Simone had never really known. A relatively low-risk job.

But Simone's former SAS father has secrets in his past that are about to come back and haunt him, and the arrival of his long-lost daughter may be the catalyst that blows his whole world apart. Was the prospect of getting hold of Simone's money tempting enough to make him engineer her death? And what happens now to Simone's baby daughter, Ella?

With Simone gone, Ella's safety becomes Charlie's main concern. She's determined, despite her injuries, not