The back of my neck prickles and the arms I have around Blair’s waist tightens.
“Thank you Franklyn.” She smiles, reaching over to take the mug of tea. The sheet slips, exposing more of her breast.
Franklyn’s eyes don’t budge. They remain fixed.
On me.
* * *
We eat in silence. Blair’s composed and focused on her food which she just picks at, not really eating anything and instead rearranging items on her plate so it looks like she has. Beneath the calm exterior is a woman who’s mind is whirring through scenarios that don’t need to be considered, but she is doing anyway.
My phone is devoid of any messages that are important. William, my brother, has sent emails, a text asking about Blair, asking when he can next see her.
I’ve ignored him. Work doesn’t start for another few days and he is work. Nothing more.
Nothing from Ben.
Micky doesn’t bother to knock. His entrance is abrupt and sudden, his expression puzzled and torn.
“What is it?” Blair looks up immediately, her fork placed down, perfectly perpendicular with the plate.
“You’re not going to like this.” He sits down on a chaise lounge near the window and crosses his ankles. He’s wiry, solid and fierce. For some reason, I’ve never questioned his loyalty to Blair.
Her back stiffens. Eyes grow wide and I see the steel. She’s grown stronger since Lennox’s death because she had too. Loyalty can do that. It can strengthen you or break you and I know both too well.
“Ben?”
Micky sighs and then shrugs. “I’ve received intel to suggest he was behind the explosion in the casino.”
Blair’s expression doesn’t falter. Her back doesn’t sag. There’s no bow in her head.
“How trustworthy is the source?”
Micky shrugs. “Fifty percent.” He isn’t giving on who it is, maybe because I’m there, maybe because there’s more at stake.
I don’t move. My breath is regulated; slowly in, slowly out. And I wait.
Ben isn’t here. He hasn’t come back. He’s left me. He’s left Blair.
Could he have been the one to pass on information as to Blair’s whereabouts? Could he have turned traitor for his sister?
I have no answer.
“So you’re saying the man you let be my security and that I’ve been sleeping with for months would have me killed.”
Micky’s eyes don’t leave hers.
“I don’t know.”
His words say it all.
* * *
London in January is depressing.
Grey buildings on a grey sky. The lack of colour with the mizzle of the city and the tired plough of feet along the pavements make for a dull and difficult symphony. Pigeons’ wings beat outside St Paul’s Cathedral and I pretend that I have nothing more to think about than their constant mumble and avoid their cumbersome flight.
But I do.
