Third Strike

Shortly after one in the morning, feeling more nervous than on any covert operation, I’d crept soft-footed along the darkened corridor, stepping over the floorboards whose ageold creaks and groans had formed the sound track of my early life. I didn’t knock, just gripped the old brass handle firmly to stop it rattling, opened the door a crack and slipped into his room, with my heart already hitting the rev limiter in my chest and my temperature rising as the blood flushed my skin.

The bedside lamp had still been on. In its subdued glow, I could see Sean lying on his side with the covers pulled up only to his waist and his naked back towards me. I’d stood for a moment and watched the regular rise and fall of his rib cage, uncertain whether to approach him. Creeping up in the middle of the night on a man with Sean’s reflexes and bitterwon experience was not likely to be good for anyone’s health.

Just for a moment the doubts resurfaced and I was tempted to retreat. Then Sean had lifted his head slightly and said quietly over his shoulder, “The longer you stand there, the colder your feet are getting.”

You don’t know how close you are with that one, Sean … .

I crossed the room in half a dozen strides, lifted the heavy satin eiderdown and slipped in alongside him. And, shortly after that, any doubts I might have had about the exercise were comprehensively blown away.

And now, as I tried to slide out stealthily from under the rumpled covers less than six hours later, his eyes blinked open. I took their hazy focus as an enormous compliment. It meant that Sean felt safe enough with me to let his guard down completely. At least some of the time.

“Hi,” I said, hearing the catch in my voice.

He smiled, utterly transforming his face, stealing away the brutality that lurked beneath the surface.

“Hi yourself,” he murmured. He blinked again and his eyes sharpened as he correctly interpreted my intentions. “Leaving so soon?”

“I have to,” I said. I propped myself on one elbow and gave in to temptation, touching my fingers to that rogue lock of hair. He caught my hand and turned his head to press a lazy kiss into my palm. The nerves fizzed as far up as my elbow.

“Stay,” he said, his voice muffled against my skin.

I stiffened, tried to pull back and found he wouldn’t release me, relaxed my arm rather than fight him.

“I can’t, Sean,” I said, my voice twisted into a groan by regret and desire in equal measure as his tongue gave way to his teeth, nipping at the crease of my lifeline. “I want to—you know that—but my mother’s highly likely to bring you an earlymorning cup of tea at any moment, just to check up on us.”

He did let go then, and part of me wished he hadn’t.

“And what’s she going to do if she finds you here?” he said, and I didn’t like the cool delivery. “Scream? Faint? Throw things?”

“All three, probably,” I said, careful to keep it light. “Come on—she’s my mother. I wouldn’t feel comfortable being caught by her in bed with—”

“Me?”

“With anyone,” I said, firmer now. “It wouldn’t matter if you really were something in the City with a string of polo ponies. I still wouldn’t feel right about it.”

“Sure about that, are you?”

“Yes!” I hissed. “She knows we’re living together in New York and she accepts that—inasmuch as she actually accepts anything she doesn’t like or approve of. In reality, that means she sticks her head in the sand and pretends it doesn’t exist. I may not be a child any longer, but this is my parents’ house. When I’m here, I have to abide by their rules and—”

His hand snaked across my hip, cutting off my voice in one laser-guided caress that blanked my mind and filmed my eyes. I arched back onto the pillows, gasping. Sean always did fight dirty.

“We’re both consenting adults, Charlie. I think we proved that last night, don’t you?” He leaned in close enough to whisper tauntingly against my throat. “So, what was that—lip service? I never would have taken you for a hypocrite.”

With a monstrous effort of will, I jerked out from beneath that clever mouth and those devastating fingers and tipped myself over the edge of the bed. My mother didn’t believe in heating the bedrooms and it was cool enough outside the covers to make me shiver instantly.

Sean watched in brooding silence as I quickly snatched up my discarded robe and shoved my arms into the sleeves. I darted for the door, hugging the fabric around my body as if for comfort. When I looked back, his expression did nothing to warm me. I felt my chin come up.

“You should know as well as I do, Sean,” I said, “that half the point of breaking the rules is not getting caught doing it.”

“That depends on whether you think more of the people making the rules than you do of the rules themselves,” he shot back darkly. He sighed, let his voice gentle. “After all they’ve said and done, that pair, are you still so desperate to win their approval?”

“They’re my parents.” I swallowed. “It’s a natural reaction, don’t you think?”

“It’s a pointless quest.” He shook his head, a quick jerk of frustration. “They’re never going to respect or understand you.” Not like I do. Coaxing now. “Give up on it, Charlie—on them.”

I tried to ignore the lure of his words. I opened the door, checked that the corridor was quiet and empty outside, turned back and gave him one last, helpless shrug.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”

CHAPTER 12

Because Madeleine had arranged our tickets back to New York, the three of us sat up towards the sharp end of a British Airways Boeing 767. She’d managed to pull some strings to get us a good last-minute deal in Club. Besides the obvious comfort and convenience factors, it made sense from a defensive point of view.

The check-in line for BA Club World was short and enabled us to fast-track through Security, minimizing our exposure time in public areas. We didn’t know if Blondie and Don were working independently in the UK, or if they had assistance from someone who might be keeping a watching brief. As it was, we cut things fine enough so that by the time we’d been through the usual rigmarole of metal detectors and patdown searches, we went more or less straight to the departure gate.

My mother was subdued on the flight. She had adopted a mournfully tragic air at being dragged away from her home under these circumstances and she kept it up throughout the journey, graciously weary in allowing the cabin crew to dance attendance on her.

We got into JFK around lunchtime. Sean rang Parker as soon as the plane pulled up to the jet bridge. The call was short and to the point.

“He wants us in the office right away,” Sean said. “He’s sending McGregor to pick us up.”

I nodded but didn’t get the chance to do much more than that. The aircraft door finally clunked open at that point and the press of people began pushing towards freedom.

Sean had been cool with me since I’d left his bed that morning, carefully placing himself across the aisle to leave me alongside my mother, where the layout in Club meant our seats faced each other. I’d tried to persuade myself he was just being professional, that the alternative was to sit with her himself or leave her somewhat out on a limb. But the fact I knew there was more to it than that created a low-level anxiety I couldn’t seem to dispel.

By the time we walked out through the main doors of the terminal into the weakening autumn sunshine, there was a huge dark blue Lincoln Navigator idling by the curb, with limo-black tint on the rear windows. If Parker’s employees shared one common denominator, it was their efficiency.

Behind the wheel was a young black Canadian called Joseph McGregor. He’d joined Parker’s outfit fresh from two tours in Iraq. I’d worked with him before and he was an excellent driver—he reckoned New York at its worst was a walk in the park compared to the streets of Basra under fire.

He stayed behind the wheel and kept the engine running while we loaded our bags. Even my mother’s voluminous hard-shell suitcase looked a little lost in the SUV’s cavernous rear load space.

She allowed us to hustle her into the plush leather upholstery of the backseat without seeming to notice the