I could tell he wanted me to ask what the Ares Academy was, so I didn’t.
Handing me a glass, he quoted again, “‘There’s nothing more interesting than a woman, George. Not in this world,”’ then seated himself close enough to me so I could feel the warmth coming off him, but not so close I felt the need to slide away.
“So, you read it to get laid. That tracks. You seem like a fella who’d do a lot to get his knob seen to.” I sipped the mellow fire of the Islay and felt my muscles loosen. They had been so tight that they hurt worse after relaxing.
“Even wear overalls,” he held his glass up to me and then downed half of the dram fast enough that I could feel my Scottishancestors bristling with offense. “I might have read it the first time to please a lady - another thing I’d do a lot to achieve,” the look those intense green eyes gave me burned more, and in different places, than the scotch, “but I am a fan of the book. The prose, the ideas, and the chaos.”
“I can see you loving chaos,” I conceded. It was true. The mix of businessman and criminal had to make for some interesting days. I waited until he was taking another sip and said, “When you kill me don’t go after my cohorts. They had nothing to do with taking you, other than the credit card business.”
Experienced drinker that he was, Davies didn’t choke though his eyes went a bit wide. “You seem calm about the idea of dying,Fenella.” He said the last with a rise. He had my wallet and all of my information, so I had no idea why he didn’t just check my ID card for my name. Even billionaires have to make their own fun, I suppose.
“Good guess, not my name, but good. I mean, I don’t want to be tortured,” I stood up, taking my glass, and added a few drops of water to let the last few swallows bloom, then perched on the edge of his desk. Sadly, there was nothing on it of interest, or a convenient letter opener to take to his throat, should the moment arise.
Though I wasn’t as keen on that idea as I might have been before. He was nice to my Da. And not enough people were.Martin was a sweetheart who lived half the year in Scotland and the other half in Ireland, forever surrounded by people who live to take the piss out of each other.
I was getting soft. “Anyway, I have always known I might die for the cause. I’m ready for it.”
Davies’ eyes glittered, with anger, maybe? Or irritation. He refilled his glass, this time being less cautious about how much he was pouring, raised it to his mouth, and then froze. I swear I could hear the crystal groan as he squeezed it inone of those big, long-fingered mitts of his, then he carefully, decidedly, walked over and poured half of it into my glass, leaning on the desk so his face was near mine.
He whispered in my ear, “What would be torture for you, I wonder? Forcing you to sleep on Mongolian cashmere sheets, dressing you in Dior and Balenciaga, tying you up with Hermes scarves, and hand-feeding you quail eggs with caviar and oysters?” The words were poison, but his voice was hot honey running into my veins.
“If you donate the cash equivalent of that to Project Innerspace you can tie me up and read me passages from Ayn Rand,” I whispered close to his mouth.
“She’s a shit writer,” he whispered back and I nodded, nodding so it brought our mouths closer together. Almost touching, the bit of a beard he had grown out since being held in the basement scratching me a little. It would feel good to have it scratch me everywhere, I thought.
I remembered where I was, who and what he was, and myself. Leaning away, smiling, I said, “If you touch any of my poor, wee, kiddies from the protest, let alone my family, you are going to wish you killed me, exploiter.”
Rather than anger, he snapped to coldness. “You don’t understand how lucky you are. I'm choosing to see your little abduction as a lark. An eccentric vacation. I might even recommend it to my friends, giving your grandfather a new revenue stream. Tell Charles when you are ready to go to your room so he can show you where it is. I have work to do if I am going to figure out who has decided to try and kill all of us.”
Then he dropped his drink, crystal tumbler and all, into the waste bin next to the desk and left the room with the door closing with the firmest, most controlled click.
Chapter Fourteen
In which Alec discovers, unsurprisingly, that Leevil, uh, Lee Ville is a terrible liar.
Alec…
“Are you going to shoot me?”
I glanced up to see Charles in front of my desk, looking clammy and sheet white.
“What’s wrong with you? Did Martin give you a bottle of his home-brewed beer?” I asked. “He’ll be nattering on about ‘the creamy notes of caramel’ while one swallow will melt your esophagus. Your stomach will be on fire for the next eight hours or so.”
“N- no…” Charles straightened his already perfectly straight tie. “I just… I went against your recent estrangement from Mr. Taylor and anticipated you would be unhappy with me.”
“You did the right thing, keeping my disappearance away from the media and since Gordon, myformerhead of security was unable to find me, the correct action was to call Alastair.”
“Oh, thank god.” He collapsed in a nearby chair, boneless with relief.
“Kyle is now my new security chief. He’s US ex-Special Forces and a mountain of a man,” I said, “you’ll coordinate with him from now on.”
Alastair, who had already confiscated the most comfortable seat in my study, smiled modestly. “Problem solved. You’re quitewelcome, brother.” He turned to Charles, who was mopping his sweaty brow. “I’d never let Alec kill you. No one else understands his wildly erratic schedule.”
Charles did not seem to be comforted.
“This leads us to a more serious issue,” I said. “I’ve held off on contacting Leevil - dammit, I mean Lee Ville - while we piece together exactly what he was up to. I’m sure he knows I’m free, but he’s not contacted me or made a fuss about eight dead men.”
“I remember you acquiring the land in Lancashire for the computer server facility,” Alastair said, “but bringing in Leevil on the deal is new, isn’t it?”
