Who I was, what I did, the company I kept, made me a target for both sides. I leant my head against the seat and sighed.
‘And the bufos won’t have seen us here?’
‘Did you see another car?’
My hand slashed away that argument.
‘You know as well as I do that it’s the bufo you don’t see who is the most dangerous.’
He snorted. ‘I wouldn’t fancy his odds against you, Angel.’
‘Angel of Death,’ I muttered.
‘Who’s in need of a bath. Come on.’ He stepped out of the car and moved around it to open the door for me. Saw the knife in my hand and sighed. ‘There should be no one else here. You won’t need that, but hold on to it if it makes you feel better.’ He tilted his head and looked down at his own hands. ‘I really hope you do not need it. I’ve had enough killing for one day.’
So had I.
I tightened my grip on the knife and stood up, wincing as my muscles protested.
Eduard pulled a dress pack I hadn’t noticed before from the Mercedes’ boot and led the way into the villa, pointing out the various rooms we passed before stopping outside a closed door.
‘The master bedroom.’
The room was magnificent, decorated in whites and creams. The centrepiece was an enormous walnut four-poster bed, with acres of mosquito netting gathered at each corner. Dark heavy wood furniture was dotted around the room: a dressing table, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a pair of night stands. The only colour was the huge bouquet of red roses dominating the dresser. Drawn like a moth, I couldn’t help sniffing the blooms as Eduard hung the pack in the wardrobe.
‘Beautiful.’
I breathed in their scent, grateful to smell something other than blood and cordite.
‘The bathroom is directly across the hall. Take your time – we’ll have a late dinner tonight.’
I kept the knife in my hand as I wandered through the villa, not sure what I expected to find.
Each room held a fragile beauty; the mistress of the house had excellent taste. One parlour was decorated in shades of blue, with Wedgwood-like designs edging the walls just below the ceiling. An ormolu clock sat on the mantelpiece above a fireplace, held upright by two bronze Cupids.
Another was more masculine. Heavy furniture upholstered in dark green leather guarded the many bookcases that lined the room. The faint aroma of pipe tobacco lingered on the air.
I moved to the next room, finding works of art, of beauty, of a time I’d almost forgotten. When I returned to the master bedroom, I heard the sound of rushing water. Eduard had run a bath for me. Water steamed from the copper tub, carrying with it the aroma of perfumed bath salts.
‘Bathe, Angel,’ he smiled – that sweet smile that I loved. ‘Because, quite frankly, you stink.’
Without a word, I closed the door behind me, locking it. Put the knife on a countertop and delicately sniffed my shoulder. He was right; I did stink.
I cleaned the knife first with soap and water, then eased myself into the bath. I jumped every time I heard a sound, listened for the rumble of engines, the sound of voices, anything that would herald an attack. All I heard was Amália’s voice, soaring from a gramophone recording.
Slowly, I allowed myself to let the water heal me. I left my discarded clothes where they lay. I didn’t want to put them on, didn’t even want to touch them. Wrapped myself in a fluffy white towel and padded across the hall.
A silk dress the colour of double cream lay on the bedspread. Delicate lace, shot through with silver thread, raised the plunging silk neckline of the underdress to the base of the throat, leaving the arms bare. The lace continued over the sheath to drop a hair’s breadth below the hemline. Matching underwear and shoes completed the ensemble.
I looked around for Eduard, wanting to ask where he’d found such a creation. There was no sign of him.
I towel-dried my hair, combed it, and twisted it into a chignon at the back of my head. Slipped into the brassiere and underwear. Strapped the knife high on my thigh and stepped into the dress. I was fastening the shoes when Eduard arrived, wearing his dress uniform and the Knight’s Cross.
He handed me a glass of champagne and stood back to admire me.
‘You’ll do,’ he said.
‘You think?’
‘Yes. I like your hair like that. When it dries, it curls.’
He stood behind me. Placed his hands on my hips, his lips grazing my nape and sending shivers up my spine.
‘Keep it up, Graf, and we’ll never leave the room.’
He chuckled, and clinked his glass against mine. We drank in an awkward silence. Finally Eduard stood, and placed the empty flutes on the night table.
‘Are you ready?’
‘For what?’
‘I thought we might see a bit of Sintra before dinner. If that’s all right with you?’
‘That’s fine.’ I followed him outside to the Mercedes. ‘Did I tell you how much I miss your little BMW?’
‘Me too.’ He smiled but again his humour didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Andreas will deliver it tomorrow.’
‘He knows we’re here?’
‘Yes. Why?’
I stared at the retreating villa and wondered if this was a ghastly charade to keep me off balance.
‘No reason.’
We passed the town, the Mercedes growling on the steep inclines. Eduard was unusually taciturn and I stared out of the window at the scenery: the ruins of a Moorish castle at the top of the mountain; the red brick palace halfway down it. Beautiful villas and churches, bedecked with spires and turrets. Eduard parked the car along a side street and helped me out of the door. There was no restaurant in the immediate vicinity.
‘Is it far?’
‘No. You’ll be fine. Even with your high heels.’
A small tic in his jaw betrayed his nerves. From the day or from what awaited us? Would
