Third Strike

impulsive.” I threw Sean an adoring glance and he, to his credit, managed to smile indulgently at me rather than vomit.

For another second my mother stared at me with a kind of horrified expression, but that could have been wholly accounted for by my lunatic behavior. I waited a beat longer. If I was totally off base, all I’d done was make an ass of myself. But, if not …

Then, numbly, she shuffled forwards and allowed herself to be engulfed in a big daughterly hug, when the most physical contact she’d initiated in years was a chaste hello/good-bye kiss to her powdered cheek. She vibrated with tension in my arms. I put my mouth very close to the pearl stud in her ear and murmured, “Where are they?”

If that was possible, she stiffened, as though I’d suggested something indecent, and pulled back. Then her eyes swiveled, very deliberately—towards the staircase and back. Towards the drawing room and back.

“Darling,” she said, her voice croaky. She cleared her throat. “Um, how wonderful to see you. What a nice surprise! I’m afraid I—I can’t really offer you lunch or—”

“Oh, gosh, we couldn’t possibly put you to all that trouble at such short notice,” I interrupted gaily. “Besides, I promised darling Nicky I’d show him a real country pub.” I gave a tinkling little laugh. “He’s fully expecting a bunch of yokels with straw in their mouths and string round their trouser legs. I’ve told him he’s more likely to rub shoulders with the same stockbrokers here that he does up in Town.”

My mother stepped out of my embrace and turned to Sean, who’d been waiting politely for us to finish our show of familial affection.

“Mrs. Foxcroft, it’s such a pleasure,” he said, in that kind of drawling, slightly bored upper-class voice you can’t escape from in the trendy parts of Soho. “I’ve heard so much about you.” He grasped my mother’s arms and made a production of air-kissing her on both cheeks. I thought she was going to faint. “And now that I’ve met you, all I can say is that you must have had your daughter when you were awfully young.”

My mother flushed and preened automatically, a knee-jerk response to the heavily ladled charm. Then she threw me an utterly confused look and stumbled back a pace.

“We just thought we’d stop off for a nice cup of tea, then we’ll be on our way,” I said deliberately, moving forward to take her arm. “And perhaps one of your scrummy cakes? I’ve been telling Nicky what a total angel you are in the kitchen.” I glanced at Sean with a huge smile and added wickedly, “Mummy’s buns are absolutely to die for.”

Sean’s expression froze momentarily as he fought for control over it, then relaxed into courteous attention. “Oh I’m sure they are,” he murmured, and threw me a warning glance. Don’t push it. This is not a game.

Trust me. I know.

“Oh, er, well, please do come through,” my mother said, any double entendres going straight over her head. She pushed open the door to the drawing room and led us inside.

I don’t know quite what I’d been expecting, but the sight that greeted me wasn’t it. The only occupant of that starchily formal room was a tall blond woman, who sat on the sofa with her legs gracefully arranged, her long shins slanted alongside each other, knees pressed demurely together.

She had apparently been flicking through the pages of the magazine that lay open on her lap— The Field, if the photo spread of gundogs was anything to go by. When we walked in she put the magazine aside and glanced up with nothing but polite inquiry on her strong-boned face.

I took one look at the way she emptied her hands and knew she was a player.

“Oh, gosh, Mummy, we didn’t realize you had visitors,” I cried, going all aflutter. “How awfully rude of us!” I bounded forwards, closing rapidly on the woman on the sofa. My intention was to overcrowd her but she unfolded her legs and got to her feet faster than I’d hoped.

“Awfully rude of us,” I repeated, having to lift my gaze to look her in the eye as I pumped her hand with a purposefully limp grip. The short-sleeve dress she wore showed off lean, well-defined muscles, but, even close-up, her face bore no scar tissue to show she was a fighter, and no hint that she’d had surgical help to remove it.

Now, I pulled a little moue and treated this stranger to a conspiratorial smile. “I just couldn’t wait to show off darling Nicky.”

“Well, I can’t say I blame you for that,” the woman said, dropping my flaccid hand as soon as she was able to.

Her accent was American—educated midwestern, if I was any judge. As she spoke, she ran her glittering eyes over Sean in a slow predatory survey. He bore it with an arrogant indifference, as though this kind of female adoration happened all the time and was just another cross he had to bear. “Wherever did she find you?”

Sean’s expression became ever more languid. “Polo,” he said, and smiled at me as though the sun rose and fell in my eyes. “I have a small string.”

“Really?” Blondie said, swallowing it and impressed, despite herself. “Well, you should talk to my … associate. He’s the horse nut.”

My mother had slunk silently into her favorite armchair next to the original Adam-style fireplace during this brief exchange. Her gaze was not inside the room and her hands were trembling. She’d been knitting—something she did only when she was upset—the beginnings of an Aran sweater, by the looks of it. The heavy-gauge wool and number-two needles and all the related paraphernalia were stuffed into an old brocade bag at the side of the chair. She picked it up now, stared at the partially completed garment, then put it down again without seeing a thing.

“Your associate?” I queried, moving to my mother’s side. I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder but she didn’t respond to my touch.

“Yes—Don,” Blondie said, eyes narrowed slightly as she watched my mother’s nerve start to fail. “He’s just upstairs. I’ll call him down.”

“Why don’t I make us all that cup of tea?” I suggested. “Nicky, could you—”

“No,” the woman said. A command, delivered like one. I stopped and regarded her with wide, innocent eyes. “No tea,” she said, sharper now.

“Coffee, then?” I said brightly.

“No goddamn drinks, okay?” she said. Her voice went surprisingly harsh when it was raised. “Don! Get your goddamn ass down here, right now!”

The mysterious Don must have already reached the hallway, because the door opened with barely a pause. A big man stepped into the room and I saw at once why he’d been sent to lurk upstairs while Blondie handled the social interaction.

He was huge, with a shaved head and a slightly Oriental slant to his eyes, and wearing a gray suit. After our earlier discussion on James Bond, the only thing that went through my head was: Oddjob. All he needed was a bowler hat with a steel brim. I guessed his only connection to horses was that he could probably lift one.

Sean had been standing with his back almost to the door when it opened. Without a flicker, he brought his right arm sweeping back, elbow bent, to smash it into Don’s windpipe. His reaction was instinctive, deadly as a striking snake. He hardly even seemed to look to find his target.

The big man staggered back against the wall, hands to his throat, making urgent gurgling noises. Sean crouched and spun, using the momentum to load his full bodyweight behind a punch to the man’s groin. Don’s gurgles momentarily rose in pitch and volume, then he went utterly silent and started to slither floorwards.

Blondie, meanwhile, overrode her natural startle reflex to leap for Sean. I ducked and hit her hard with my shoulder as she flew past me, deflecting her back onto the sofa. She bounced straight up again, eyes slitted, and instantly threw a vicious kick. Whatever that dress was made of, there was plenty of stretch to it.

She must have been used to sparring with male opponents. It was the only reason I could think of that she automatically aimed for testicles I clearly didn’t own. I twisted slightly and took the brunt of it on my hip. Left hip. Bad idea. The pain sizzled down through my leg like hot fat.

I blocked it with adrenaline and anger, and charged her. If you’re fighting someone with a short weapon, you stay out of range. But against a long weapon, you have to get in close. I reckoned those well-muscled legs counted as a pair of long weapons. She was quick, though, grabbing both my upper arms with viselike fingers, her breath hot in my face.