Murder in Thrall (10 page)

C
HAPTER
12

 

“You have two questions,” Acton prompted.

“Yes,” she agreed, “—and then I’ll not be botherin’ you with a discussion ever again.”

“Work,” he prompted. Apparently he did not want to linger over the meal, and this was exactly what she deserved for bringing up sex.

“Can we continue to work together?”

“There is no policy that would prevent it, although I would be precluded from recommending you for advancement.” He crossed his arms on the table, clearly having already considered this. “And I imagine if we continue to have success—and if it is a mutual desire—it would not be a problem.”

She smiled with relief. “That’s grand, then. I wouldn’t like to be choosin’ between the professional and the personal.” His eyes held hers for a moment and she immediately realized her error. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Acton; it’s only that I do enjoy workin’ with you.”

The planes of his face softened. “I can’t be offended. I know this has happened very quickly; you have every right to be cautious.”

“No—that’s the wrong tack.” She struggled to articulate her half-formed thoughts from these tumultuous two days. “I don’t want you to feel you have to be—careful—because of—everythin’.” Faith, how did one put this delicately? “Please, I hate it.”

He was watching her intently but did not respond.

“Do you understand what it is I’m sayin”?

“Yes,” he said.

He does not want to talk about this, she thought; he hates it just as much. “I’m not goin’ to give it up,” she assured him. “No matter what.”

At his silence she dropped her gaze and fiddled with a chopstick. He was not going to let her in, probably for fear she would abandon ship. She shouldn’t push him; he knew himself. Wishing she had paid closer attention in forensic psychology, she concluded, “So you can be yourself with me; or at least as much as you are able.”

“All right,” he replied, and she knew he was equivocating.

She was compelled to reach across the table and take his hand. As a result, she experienced a jolt of awareness from him that was unmistakable in its heat. Now I’ve done it, she thought; best hurry this along before he loses all patience and starts mauling me about with the Chinese waiter looking on.

“The second question is a wee bit deep,” she admitted.

He seemed equal parts intrigued and relieved by the change in subject and leaned back, crossing his arms before him. “I am forewarned, then.”

“Do you believe in God?”

He pondered the question for a long moment, seriously, his gaze moving around the room. “I am open to the suggestion.”

This was true, and she decided that this response was better than the one she had anticipated.

“Particularly after recent events.” His eyes met hers.

Faith, she thought with no small sense of righteousness— I’ve no choice but to continue on with him—it’s for the salvation of souls, it is. And the man could kiss.

“I will take instruction if that is what you desire.”

She blinked in surprise. “I don’t know if they’ll take you if you don’t truly feel the call, Acton—I have a suspicion that you would take instruction in Hindu if that is what I wanted.”

His mouth drew down in amusement. “I may draw that line.”

“We’ll talk about it some other time,” she temporized. “Enough discussion.”

She was relieved, thinking she had brushed through it as well as could be expected and had covered the important points. She did not fool herself into thinking he would be sharing innermost thoughts with her; she was well-aware he was not able. In her own way, she was equally reserved—perhaps they would manage to deal well together. On the other hand, she would have liked to know more about the details of his life thus far. It wasn’t important, she decided; hopefully he wasn’t the brides-in-the-bath sort.

He drank green tea, which she declined, thinking it a sorry excuse for a decent cup of coffee. “I contacted Giselle’s parents; they live in Yorkshire.”

He tilted his head to the side and contemplated the tea. “I wasn’t going to talk shop tonight.”

She was touched. “That is very sweet, Acton, but I think I’ve held out as long as I can.”

He lifted his gaze. “What did they say?” Apparently he was at the same point.

“There was little contact; they are country people and disapproved of her lifestyle. They did say she was to make a visit very soon, however.” A bit sadly, she wondered if there were any regrets that they did not have the chance to reconcile or if they were the type that felt their estrangement was vindicated by her gruesome murder. “I wonder if Giselle is a dead end, so to speak—there is nothin’ in her background that would be an indicator. Perhaps we should be delvin’ into the trainer’s death—he’s the one who started it all, as far as we know.”

Acton nodded. “It seems evident he was executed. Usually that kind of murder is a result of double-crossing or self-dealing with the wrong sort of people.”

“D’you know what he was involved in, why he was on the Watch List?” Her security clearance wasn’t high enough to allow her to research it, and she wondered if Acton would tell her.

Acton did not hesitate, which was only to be expected—come to think of it—as he seemed to have little patience with protocols or even the law of the realm. “He had some unsavory ‘known associates’ and was believed to belong to a Sinn Féin splinter group that is under scrutiny for suspected arms stockpiling.”

But this revelation was puzzling in its own right, and Doyle knit her brow. “I thought Sinn Féin laid down their weapons.” She had always steered well clear of the violent political doings in her home country.

“Which is why it is a splinter group,” he explained patiently. “It is believed they have turned to black market and are arming some of the zealots who do not agree with the cease-fire.”

With an inward sigh, she considered the sorry fact that many of her fellow citizens could not seem to gravitate toward peace—not for the life of them. Or the life of anyone else who happened to be in the way, for that matter. “So—perhaps there’s a motive; the Irish trainer was double-crossin’ the Irish splinter group, skimmin’ the money or somethin’ instead of supportin’ the cause.”

He thought about it, his gaze resting on the party entering the restaurant as a matter of habit. “I do not have a working theory as yet. But it does seem likely the murder is connected in some way.”

But Doyle was making her own connection with what she had learned from Acton at the pawnshop. “Or how about your Russians, my friend? Perhaps they’re unhappy with this Irish splinter group, if they’re runnin’ guns also—they’d be competitors.”

His reaction was to become guarded; his eyes hooded. “There is that.”

She eyed him for a moment, but he volunteered nothing further. Interesting, she thought; another forbidden subject—life with this man is going to be a rare crack.

He continued smoothly, “There are other possibilities, of course, and I am looking into his dealings at the track.”

This went without saying—there were a lot of temptations at a racecourse that may not be connected to terrorism. The trainer may have been throwing races in some way or taking illegal wagers. Laundering money. The only thing that was clear was the man had crossed the wrong people and had paid the ultimate price.

Recalling his comment about checking for significant underworld events, she asked, “Did you find out if there were any shipments or other goings-on that day?” She kept her tone neutral, not wanting him to know she had a very good guess as to how he came by his own knowledge of such things.

“No, nothing significant.”

“Other than Drake was out of town, wretched man; bad luck for us; bad luck for Giselle. Drake would have probably taken her home with no further ado.”

“It is a puzzling case,” Acton agreed. “Not your ordinary assassin.”

Which seemed to be the theme lately among the villains of London, and she reminded him, “Nor were the murders today—the O’Briens were executed, but whoever they crossed didn’t want it to appear as an execution, which seems strange; executions also serve as a warnin’ to others.”

Apparently, however, he was done talking shop. “We’ll sort it out later. Shall we go?”

As they walked to his car, he was quiet and she could feel the tension emanating from him, although he was trying to hide it. The moment of truth is coming up, she thought; nothin’ for it.

They drove to her building in the rather ragged Chelsea district and pulled up to the curb in front. He then reached beneath his seat to pull out a small black bag. “Here is your weapon.” He withdrew a .38-caliber pistol, along with a nylon and Velcro holster and turning on the interior light, he leaned toward her to demonstrate how the safety was released and how to load a cartridge of ammunition in the grip. Doyle watched carefully; she wanted him to have confidence that she could protect herself from whatever it was that was worrying him.

“You may want to go up on the heath and practice shooting into a log or a tree—if you go to the range, they might ask questions.”

“Right, then.” No question it might raise some eyebrows if she were to show up at the New Scotland Yard shooting range with a black market weapon.

He glanced at her sideways. “Your target scores at the Academy were not the best.”

Nettled, she retorted, “I would for once like to know somethin’ that you don’t do well.”

With a gesture, he indicated the two of them. “I don’t do this well.” She understood that he meant their relationship. “But I want to.”

“Well, then; thank God it’s only me.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Thank God.”

She shot him a suspicious glance but could not read his expression in the dimly-lit interior.

“Let me show you how to wear it.” He gestured toward her legs.

She debated with a knit brow. “Which one?”

“Whatever feels most natural. As you are left-handed, you may want to wear it on the inside of your right leg or the outside of your left.”

She thought it over. “The left, I guess.” She lifted her left leg and placed it across his lap, pulling up the trouser leg.

“Practice releasing the safety as you draw. In an emergency you may not have much time.” He demonstrated clicking the safety off and on with his thumb as she nodded.

Adjusting the straps, he fastened the holster on her calf while explaining that it should be well-hidden but easily accessible. It was lightweight, and she imagined as long as her pant legs weren’t too tight no one would notice—she hadn’t worn a dress since confirmation, after all—but she couldn’t help but be a bit concerned. “What if someone sees it and I am asked questions?”

He continued his adjustments with deft fingers. “Direct all questions to me.” Pausing, he looked up at her. “That should always be your default; in the event you are asked any questions you’d rather not answer.”

She nodded, wondering to what he referred and deciding it was just as well that she didn’t know. I am indeed too impetuous, she thought, studying his averted profile, but I can’t seem to help myself. “It’s not very heavy.”

“No. Try to wear it at all times.” He was finished, and she practiced releasing the gun and taking it out of the holster, her leg still on his lap. He ran his hands along her leg and met her eyes, which had the electric effect of stilling all movements.

A classic moment, she thought; two peelers, a gun, and sex hangin’ heavy in the air. Finding her voice, she whispered, “Would you like to come up?”

“Yes. If you would like.”

“Yes.” She would like. After all, she had bought new linens yesterday in anticipation of this moment.

They rode up the lift in silence; she noted he already knew her floor and her room number. Perhaps burglary was the Section Seven felony—she hoped the place was halfway tidy at the time.

She unlocked her door and then once they were inside, turned to lock it behind them. As she did so, he rested his hands on her shoulders from behind and then ran them slowly down her arms, raising gooseflesh. He kissed the nape of her neck and wrapped his arms around her, cradling her to him. As she leaned back into him with a sigh, his mouth moved along her shoulder and she decided he was probably not interested in a tour of the place. He turned her around to bestow languorous kisses along her throat, and she lifted her chin to accommodate him, listening to her own ragged breathing in the stillness and stroking his torso under his suit coat. He raised his head and began kissing her mouth with increasing urgency, and she could feel him unfastening her buttons as she ran her hands up his back, caressing the lean muscle beneath his shirt.

“Should I turn on the light?” she whispered. She rather wanted to have a good look at him.

He said nothing but seemed very intent on moving his mouth across her cheekbones; the sensation of his face against hers, the stubble of his beard brushing her sensitive skin was almost overpowering in its intensity and she would have crawled inside him if she could. Instead she gasped for breath and pressed against him while his hands moved on her skin, sliding off her shirt. She hoped he noticed she was wearing a much prettier bra than at the crime scene.

“Am I to take off the holster?” she teased breathlessly into his ear, exultant.

He kissed her bare shoulder and brushed his fingers along her arm. “No. I will.”

He began to steer her toward the bedroom, and she suddenly felt the need for some instruction. “Acton,” she whispered, “should I—”