To Deceive Is To Love (Romantic suspense) (13 page)

“You surprise me. I always thought you had class the way you brushed off men who tried to get into your knickers at every opportunity. I’ve seen them hit on you at shows and in the bars afterward, but you were never interested. It even crossed my mind you might be gay. How wrong can I bloody be? He comes along and you’re dropping your knickers like all the rest and lying to me like a bloody tramp.”

There was a deadly thud as David’s fist cracked into Danny’s chin, the force sending him reeling back, Chantelle’s scream going with him.

A deathly silence followed. The force wasn’t hard enough to knock Danny off his feet, but he was staggering, blood trickling from his lip as his hand came up to check that his jaw was still intact. Taking a white handkerchief out of his pocket, he dabbed the corner of his mouth and stared back at the blood on it.

Chantelle started hobbling towards him.

“Don’t come any nearer,” he growled hoarsely at her. “I should be thankful. I know my brother can hit much harder than that. His hands are trained to kill, isn’t that right? Or hasn’t he told you how he makes a living? Mercenaries, isn’t that what they call you lot? Only I have my own name for them: hired killers. I can see by your face you had no idea.”

He let out another contemptuous laugh. “My big brother. For years, I had it drummed into me how good he was, that I could never expect to amount to anything by a father who despised me and worshipped his eldest. It was the truth that destroyed him, not our mother.” Malevolent eyes tore into David. “He couldn’t handle the rumors that circulated after your discharge from the air force. You dishonored the family and that’s something he couldn’t accept, not from you.” Turning, Danny walked out of the kitchen; a door slamming confirmed his departure.

Reeling from Danny’s disclosure, Chantelle sat back down. David had been right all along. She knew nothing of his world, what he did, and could never begin to understand it. Mercenaries belonged in violent action movies. Whether they really existed and what purpose they served had never concerned her until now. Her gaze lifted to see David returning from the tumble dryer with her clothes.

“Get dressed, Chantelle, and I’ll drive you home.”

“Home.” Her eyes tore into him now. “Don’t you think I deserve some sort of explanation?”

A hand came up to rough his hair up even more as he frowned heavily. Finally, he let out a small sigh. “There are certain aspects of my work that can’t be revealed. Danny chooses to believe the worse and I can’t blame him for that.”

“Have you ever tried to explain?”

“No, it’s better this way. With my job, it never pays to have emotional bonds; they could be used against me.”

Chantelle shook her head, unable to comprehend what he was saying. She gazed up at him questioningly. “What kind of work requires such sacrifice?”

“It’s called survival. Now, get dressed Chantelle. I’m taking you home.”

He left her alone, confused and so angry. She wanted to demand an explanation, but from his tone and manner, she knew there would be no point. He had shut her out just like he had done with his brother.

Confession time was over. So was the intimacy.

Chapter 8

It was horrendous weather to drive in; the traffic on the motorway snarled up as drivers decreased their speed, all except David. His foot seemed to never leave the accelerator as they raced along the fast lane, the spray from trucks sometimes obliterating the road ahead. The demons were in control now and his face was fixed in a grim, threatening expression. Danny was a reckless speed freak, but this was different. Sinking farther and farther in her seat, Chantelle tried not to look at him or outside, both made her extremely nervous.

The sudden swerve of the car forced her to look up, but she wished she hadn’t. Her eyes widened, staring ahead as her nails dug into the car seat. “My God! Are you trying to get us bloody killed?” He had just overtaken on the inside lane, the sound of a horn blasting confirming how close he had come to being sandwiched by a truck.

He gave her a sidelong glance, the fear in her face forcing an awareness of what he was doing to her, the nail indentations still showing in the leather upholstery. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. Gradually, he decreased the speed and stayed in the center lane. Those two words were all he said.

Chantelle felt like screaming at him to say something, anything to convince her that what had happened between them less than an hour ago wasn’t her imagination. Instead, he seemed a million miles from her. His face was grimly set and his eyes ever watchful on the rearview mirror. Chantelle even glanced behind her, but could see nothing except spray and dipped headlights. They arrived finally outside her flat and Chantelle opened the passenger door before he turned the engine off.

“Wait, I’ll help you,” he called after her.

“I’ll manage, I’m not an invalid,” she retorted. Already out of the car and standing gingerly on one leg, she heard David’s door slam. Gritting her teeth, she started hobbling and limping toward the Victorian terrace, the rain beating down on her. She was determined not to have David’s arms around her again or suffer the humiliation of being carried into her flat like a piece of unwanted luggage being returned, which was how she’d felt from the moment he had told her to get dressed. She kept her eyes fixed on the slippery wet pavement in front of her and didn’t realize where David was until she looked straight up into his face. In his black trench coat, arms folded across his chest, he seemed to fill the whole doorway.

“Well done, now how do you propose getting up the stairs?” He raised his eyebrows, only there was no humor in his face or voice, just a steely glint in his eyes to counter her glare.

“If you would kindly move out of the way, I’ll show you.” Her voice was clipped, daring him to try and stop her.

He immediately stepped aside, allowing her to place the key in the lock and open the door. Hopping inside, she went to quickly slam it when, to her consternation, she found it wouldn’t close. Looking down, she saw his foot blocking it. “Get out, I don’t need or want your damn help.”

“Well, you damn well have it whether you like it or not.” He pushed the door farther open and stepped inside, nearly knocking her backward. “I’ve about had it with your childish, stubborn behavior.” In one swift movement, he grabbed her forearm to pull her toward him, then grabbed her waist lifted her up over his shoulder. “If you kick me once more, I shall dish the same punishment out, only it will be my hand on your behind, understand me?” The serious intent behind his words forced her to admit defeat and humiliation as he carried her up the stairs and into her flat, the door conveniently wide open. He deposited her onto her settee.

A small cough sounded. “I was just feeding Chat.”

Standing in the kitchen area was a bemused Paul, Chat supported in his arms and purring affectionately, his nose coming up every now and again to nudge Paul’s chin.

David threw Paul a suspicious glare and looked back at Chantelle. “Your neighbor does like to put in frequent appearances, doesn’t he? Usually at the wrong moments.”

“Don’t mind me. I’m on my way out, since you two look like you’re in the middle of something here.”

“Mr Bishop is on his way out, Paul, not you.” Standing up, she threw David a glare when he went to assist her, and then limped to the bathroom unaided.

As soon as she closed the door, she heard Chat on the other side, wailing in a piercing tone. Chantelle opened the door a fraction, allowing the cat to come inside.

After a moment, she heard David say to Paul, “If she ever comes out, tell her…”

“Tell her what?”

“Oh! What’s the use? Just tell her my only regret is this.” Then, she heard David walk out of the flat.

“Chantelle, you can come out now, your friend’s gone.”

Chantelle stepped out cuddling Chat, her face buried into his neck while his claws clung onto her shoulders appreciatively. Limping past Paul, she went into the kitchen and placed some water in the kettle.

“You obviously resolved a lot last night. I thought my life was complicated and full of drama.” Paul followed her into the kitchen area and perched on a stool. When she finally turned around to look at him, the misery she couldn’t hide was enough for him to hold out his arms. “Oh, Chantelle, I’m so sorry. Come here.”

She went into his arms sobbing, her face buried in his shoulder. Chat struggled now to get free, which he managed by clambering over Paul’s shoulder.

“You never cry, sweetheart. This simply isn’t you,” he murmured into her ear.

****

Placing his key in the ignition, David glanced in the rearview mirror fully expecting what he saw parked several spaces behind. It was the same dark maroon Mercedes that had somehow managed to keep up with him on the motorway. It had been more than just his thoughts that had made him drive like a maniac. He and Chantelle had been tailed ever since he had driven out of his driveway and not discreetly.

He should have expected it, but normally it wouldn’t present a problem. Now there was Chantelle to consider. How much did they know about her? Would they pass her off as simply another sexual plaything?

He was getting close now. The long waiting game was nearly over and then he was finished with it for good. He’d be able to disappear. He was finished dealing with fanatics and killers and politicians who had their own agenda. This assignment was personal; the money didn’t come into it. He wanted the one responsible for setting him up and it would be his closure or his funeral.

He shook the thought away and brought his attention back to the Mercedes that continued to wove in and out of traffic with him as he got on the motorway. They clearly wanted him to know about their presence. Being pulled over by the police would be a headache he didn’t need. He brought his speed down to a steady seventy.

As he pulled into his driveway, the Mercedes cruised slowly by. With a purposeful stride, he walked into the house and went straight to his study. His fingers tapped out a familiar phone number. He gave the code required by the operator and then the connection was made, all conversation scrambled and untraceable.

“Who the hell is tailing me?”

There was a pause. “The French, we think. The plate number you gave is registered to the embassy, but it doesn’t have diplomatic status.”

David cursed under his breath. “I was told the French would be kept in the dark until the last minute. You know as well as I do double agents have infiltrated them.”

“Nothing leaked from this end. We think it could be the targets using their own team to check you out and using the French as a cover. Don’t worry, your background is impeccable. It still reads as the bastard who would sell his own soul to the devil if the price was right.” Hendersson’s voice held an edge of humor.

David felt bitterness seeping into his pores. If anyone was to blame for what he had become, it was his faceless, nameless controllers. Sure, the money had been good and in the beginning, morality was way down on his list of priorities. But as time went by, it became all too obvious he was a puppet. He had even begun to question whether transferring into the Army Corps from the Royal air force and then thrown out for misconduct had been staged. The court martial had been more like a kangaroo court; the charges of dealing in contraband had been deliberately misconstrued. Disobeying orders by providing an air drop of urgently needed food and medical supplies to a refugee camp caught in between two warring factions was hardly contravening the United Nations Security Council. His own men had spoken up for him, but if their behavior at the air show was any indication, they now regretted it bitterly.

David leaned back in his leather recliner and recalled the trial. The last minute appearance of a witness for the prosecution had turned him from a hero into a criminal with blood on his hands. The food and medical supplies were traded off for weapons and used to kill the very people he thought he was saving. The question that those people would have been dead without food and medication didn’t arise; he had disobeyed orders and would pay for it.

After that it was easy. The loss of a career he loved meant he was drinking, womanizing and taking any job that came his way if it was dangerous and a plane was involved, most of it illegal. He had been the ideal target for recruiting: bitter, broke and in need of salvation. Most importantly, he didn’t have to change his identity. He was already living the mercenary life, only now he was employed by the good guys.

The cynicism came later when it started to become unclear just who the good guys were. Hendersson was one of the few he trusted.

“You lot did a pretty good job of making my character disreputable. My own brother despises me.”

“You did that yourself way before we came on the scene.”

Damnation, that’s all he seemed to be hearing of late. Chantelle had been like a taste of salvation, something pure and beautiful. He didn’t know what was worse, having it and losing it or not experiencing it at all.

“David, are you still there?” Hendersson’s tone had grown impatient.

“Just make sure when this is over, my slate is wiped clean. Otherwise, I might not be so keen to disappear.”

“You’re well on the way to retirement with the agency’s blessing. One word of warning though, make sure you live to enjoy it. This lot has a network of fanatics all over the place; don’t leave any loose ends. I think you know what I mean.”

For the rest of the day and well into the night, David thought about Hendersson’s warning. The sale of the house was going through, the money deposited in a London bank account and then transferred overseas to various accounts known only to him. The rest of his money had always taken a more direct route, his way of laundering it rather than have the Inland Revenue or other, more dangerous parties investigating his affairs. If his new life was to be complete, nothing could be traced back to his former self; the agency had a way of not wanting to let go.

Everything he had left was packed in a canvass knapsack: a change of clothing, several passports with different identities, a bowie knife, his 9mm automatic, a spare cartridge clip, emergency rations and an inconspicuous packet of cigars, each one hiding a deadly charge. He carried nothing that could identify him. It was the way he had always traveled and the anonymity kept him alive.

He thought of Chantelle’s word, sacrifice. She was right where Danny was concerned. How he wished it could have been different between them. For the first ten years of Danny’s life, he had protected and loved him and then overnight, he had abandoned Danny. Not once had he tried to explain and now it was too late.

He couldn’t blame Danny for hating him. The air force had taken him away from home while Danny was a teenager and for years, he only managed fleeting visits. Then out of the blue, he’d heard his mother had walked out on his father and there was no home to go back to.

The suicide letter had been left for David to find, his father’s neat punctual handwriting proved he had been sober when he wrote in a few sentences what had driven him to take his life.

‘I’m so tired and no longer see any meaning to my life. It is pointless. So sorry for the pain and sorrow I have caused. Remember me for the husband and father I once was and not the disappointment I became.’