There was general perimeter security in place, a load of guys built like American football players, squeezed uncomfortably into dinner jackets and bow ties. Not bad as a gatecrashing deterrent, but with neither the agility nor the experience, in my opinion, to prevent an organised, well-orchestrated attack. They’d given my evening bag a cursory search on the way in, but had completely missed the SIG hidden beneath the back of my short jacket. I hadn’t enlightened them.
If I’d been trying to guard Dina against potential assassination, the rear terrace of the yacht club would have been a nightmare to control and contain, even with a full team. Open on three sides, brightly lit against the darkness, the exposed location offered too much concealment on the far shoreline for a sniper, with too easy an exfil once the job was done.
As a possible ambush site for kidnapping, however, it wasn’t nearly so attractive. Anyone approaching from the water would be clearly highlighted all the way in to the lower landing stage, and the only landward exit meant climbing the short flight of stairs to the balcony where I now stood. From here, I could keep a watching brief on my principal without cramping her style, as per my instructions.
And Dina seemed to be following hers – for the moment at least. She stayed in plain sight and kept tight hold of her champagne glass at all times. The three kidnap victims so far had all been slipped something to make them compliant, I’d pointed out. They could have been injected – any exposed muscle would do the trick – but there was no point in taking chances that the drug had simply been palmed into their unguarded drink.
She had shaken off her earlier embarrassment without, I was interested to note, entirely blaming me for its cause. I had a feeling Torquil would have been determinedly unimpressed with anything she might have given him, and at least the Swiss Army multi-tool I’d suggested was a fraction of the price of that yellow diamond.
After a few minutes of self-pity, she’d shaken herself out of it, agreed with my assessment that he was an ungrateful little bastard, and made a firm decision to enjoy the rest of the party as best she could.
I remembered Caroline Willner’s quietly murmured last words before the limo had collected us from the house to bring us here.
‘Take care of her for me.’
So far, so good.
I caught movement behind me, shifted a little to see a young man step out of the bar, and recognised him as one of the many guests I’d seen earlier. He moved forwards to lean on the railing a couple of metres away. We nodded to each other. I kept my face blank to discourage small talk, but made a mental note of him, all the same. Sandy hair, medium height, thickset but light enough on his feet for it to be athletic muscle rather than junk food. He dressed like money was not a problem and probably never had been.
I checked him out under cover of taking a drink, but his eyes were on the group below, where Torquil was refilling the champagne glasses of two giggling girls. They both had a lot of blond hair and tanned skin on show, and could well have been twins.
‘A regular Prince Charming, isn’t he?’ said my companion, as if reading my thoughts. I glanced across, surprised. His accent was classless English, with just a hint of American inflection in the way he asked the question to suggest a long stay here.
‘I’m barely able to contain my lust,’ I agreed dryly.
He laughed, a pleasant uncontrived sound, accompanied by a flash of teeth. ‘You say that, but half the girls down there would crawl over broken glass to be the one he takes home tonight.’
‘Really?’ I murmured as I watched Torquil drape his arm across the bare shoulders of another girl, leaving it there just a little too long before moving on. I didn’t miss her exaggerated shudder and pulled face behind his back.
In the middle of taking a mouthful of drink, my companion spluttered and came close to choking. I kept my eyes on the throng, double-checking Dina’s location and too wary of deliberate distraction to come to his immediate aid.
He recovered enough for speech, wiping his mouth on a folded napkin. ‘English, right?’ he said. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Here and there,’ I said. ‘London latterly.’
‘I’ve been out here five years. Was at Oxford before that. Nice to hear a familiar accent.’ Something had sharpened in his gaze. ‘And here I was, expecting just another boring evening.’
I cursed inwardly. If I’d smiled sweetly and made some vacuous comment, he would have soon ignored me. As it was, his patent interest was an inconvenience at best, and – if anything went down and he was overcome with stupid ideas of chivalry – it could turn into a serious handicap.
‘I’m Hunt, by the way – Hunt Trevanion,’ he said then, moving closer to offer me a tanned hand. He was older than I’d first thought, maybe approaching thirty rather than twenty, which gave him ten years on the average age of the crowd.
I touched my fingers to his briefly, not letting him get a decent grip even if he’d been so inclined, and said, coolly offhand, ‘Trevanion? Isn’t that a Cornish name?’
He shrugged. ‘Is it? I’ve never done the whole family history thing.’ He eyed me, assessing. ‘Have I seen you around before? At the tennis club, maybe?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m Charlie – I came with Dina.’
I had insisted that my new principal introduce me simply as a family friend, which she had done without undue awkwardness. Popping up out of nowhere with a claim to be bosom pals, I’d found in the past, led to too many difficult questions.
‘Dina?’ Hunt said. ‘Oh, yeah, I know – down there in the orange number? She’s a sweet kid.’
I thought of the hours Dina had spent earlier this afternoon, trying on what seemed to be every single frock in her substantial wardrobe. In her quest for the right air of alluring sophistication, she’d finally settled on some designer gown in apricot silk which I’d privately thought was too old for her.
It was so much easier, I reflected, to be restricted in choice to my one all-purpose evening dress. When I’d bought it, I’d been largely influenced by the fact that it was dark enough for blood not to show too badly, was machine-washable, and made of some stretchy synthetic material that not only allowed a reasonable degree of movement, but was also apparently impossible to crease. Anything else was a bonus.
‘So, why are you lurking up here instead of mixing down there among the bright young things?’ Hunt asked now, ignoring my best attempts at cold shoulder. He wasn’t good-looking in any conventional sense, I thought, but there was something attractive about him, even so. The more he spoke, though, the more I realised there was something a little off about his speech cadences, as though he was trying to cover some kind of regional accent. There were only so many rough edges, I considered, that an Oxford education could polish off.
I sipped my fake Scotch. ‘I might ask you the same question.’
He grinned and shook his head. ‘Oh no. It’s not me they’ve come to see.’
It clicked then, that when I’d seen him earlier, his arm had been around a petite black-haired girl in what I hoped was a fun-fur coat, who’d been treated like she was something special. Although, in a crowd of minor celebrities, that didn’t narrow it down much. The Eisenberg name, it seemed, had brought them all out of the woodwork.
‘Oh yes, the girl you came with,’ I said vaguely. ‘She’s famous, isn’t she?’
Hunt grimaced into his drink, almost a reflexive twitch. ‘Infamous, more like,’ he muttered. ‘Poor kid.’
‘You don’t mean … she was one of the people kidnapped?’
He looked up sharply. ‘Who told you that?’
‘With that kind of a reaction? You did.’
A flicker of distaste crossed his features. He drained his glass. ‘Nice to meet you, Charlie, but if you’re just after gossip for the tabloids …’
CHAPTER EIGHT
I stared at him, then said mildly, ‘Hey,
