As soon as he could stand unaided, Nikolas pulled away and twisted theatrically to see the wounds on his shoulder. “You have to stop doing that, Benjamin! It actually hurts. Fuck. Is that blood on my shirt?”
“Stop being such a baby.”
“This shirt cost—”
“Yeah, yeah, you said it was half mine now, so that keeps the cost down.”
“Jesus. I did not mean for you to have the shirt off my back. Seriously, Benjamin, am I bleeding?”
“Of course not.” He pulled Nikolas closer and began to dress him, buttoning his shirt to distract them both from the trickle of blood he could see running down Nikolas’s back.
“I will probably get rabies.”
Ben cupped his cheeks and kissed him. “Does it really hurt?”
“What the fuck do you think?”
Ben turned the gentle cupping into a rough shake. “Good. Next house we see? When you’re talking yourfoursandpointsand fuckingnines, feel that pain and remember who owns who in this relationship.”
Nikolas was very quiet on the way to the next house; a gem of eighteenth-century architecture set in manicured grounds alongside the River Exe. Its classic Georgian proportions awed Ben as they drove along the winding drive to meet another agent, a woman in her thirties. She looked hungry—pretty much for everything. She gave them both a piercing and calculating appraisal, appeared very satisfied with what she saw, and approached them with her hand extended as they exited the car.
Ben murmured, “Little brother struck dumb at birth, yeah?”
Nikolas tried to hide a private smile. She proceeded to show them the house—drawing room done in the French style, huge kitchen, upper rooms…Ben tuned it all out and felt as if he were being given a tour of a stately home, which he guessed he was. He had no idea what Nikolas was thinking until they got to the stables, where he gave a thoughtful glance at one wall. Ben snorted but sobered at a frown from the agent. They went out to the grounds once more, and she started to talk about fishing rights. Nikolas finally stopped her with a small gesture of his hand. “We don’t fish. Price?” Age clearly had its disadvantages because this house started with a six. Nik nodded and said he wanted to walk around it again on his own. Ben quickly retreated to the safety of the car.Six!He took the opportunity to text Kate:Is he being good?And got back:Define good.
All seemed well, so he tossed the phone in the glove box and began to think about lunch. Nikolas came out twenty minutes later and stood under the central portico, nonchalantly considering the front elevations of the house. Ben couldn’t deny that to any casual observer, Nikolas appeared like he belonged here. In the back of Ben’s mind, he knewhelooked like a model on a GQ photo shoot, dressed to play the part of the English gentleman. But English gentlemen, by and large, weren’t six foot four with green-eyed, exotic beauty. He would always be incongruous here. Nikolas, though, had the kind of beauty that only generations of breeding could produce—the rich marrying the beautiful, cheekbones rising and defining, and jaws strengthening with each generation. But Ben was not a casual observer of Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen. He knew another Nikolas, and this one was not so elegant or remote. The things Nikolas knew, the things he occasionally wanted, had not come from a life lived in the luxury of wealth. There was a very dark side to Nikolas, which in many ways made him just as much an impostor in this Palladian house as Ben.
As they were driving away, Nikolas asked, “Well?”
“Food first, maybe?”
Nikolas glanced at his watch and nodded.
They found an authentic-looking pub—thatch and mounting blocks—and went in. Ben ordered for both of them and came back to their table with two huge steak and kidney pies with chips and peas. He totally ignored Nikolas’s predicable protest and pushed the plate toward him. “Eat. Your bones are starting to bruise me.” Nikolas curled his lip at the food, picked up his fork and began to move things around his plate. Ben hoovered his meal as usual and then went to order some beer. When he got back, Nikolas asked him again about the house. Ben didn’t know what to say, so he ventured noncommittally, “You liked it.”
Nik shrugged. “In some ways.”
After lunch, Ben would have preferred a snooze, but he dutifully drove to the next address Nikolas gave him. They were not meeting an agent, apparently, nor actually seeing around the house. They pulled in at the side of the road on a hill that overlooked a large farm with an indoor equestrian centre. Nikolas slid out of the car and went to lean on a gate, staring down into the sunlit valley. Ben joined him. Without glancing over, Nikolas said casually, “This belongs to Philipa’s family. It will be mine this week as part of the divorce settlement.”
“What? So soon? When?”
Nikolas nodded then shrugged. “The papers are being signed on Monday. Lady Philipa’s amicable divorce. Etcetera, etcetera. I can see the headlines in tabloid press now.” He glanced over. “No thoughts?”
“I—So…exactly why are we house hunting?” For one bizarre moment, Ben thought Nikolas was going to spit with derision. In the end, he just kicked the gate and went back to the vehicle then he turned around and came back to Ben, uncharacteristic emotion on his face.
“I believehehas owned it since 1327. I intend to sell it. Preferably to a footballer with a Ferrari and a huge number of tattoos.” With that Nik stomped back to the Range Rover and climbed in, folding his arms and staring out of the window. Ben slid back behind the wheel and waited meekly for his next instructions. Clearly, Nikolas wasn’t quite so inured to the idea of divorce as he pretended.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
They saw a couple more houses in the afternoon. One, a beautiful Georgian property, would have been a possibility, except the agent had neglected to mention the solar energy farm that covered the hillside opposite. Nikolas had taken one look, told the agent he didn’t want to live in a Jane Austen apocalypse, and left. The second was also good, except here they discovered the land that came with the house…didn’t; it was separated by a busy ring road. Nikolas had stood with his arms folded, watching the traffic tear past the front of the house, and Ben had been wise enough not to comment at all. When Nik climbed back in, he glanced at the satnav and said brusquely, “Put the hotel in. I have had enough.”
Ben did as he was asked and then began once more to wind around narrow country lanes, one eye on the road and one on the small screen of directions. “Maybe we should look somewhere else. I don’t know—maybe Wales? Great mountains. Trust me, I know every inch of fucking Snowdonia.”
Nikolas smiled. “I first saw you in Wales.”
Ben frowned. “No, you didn’t. I came up to that interview in London, remember?”
Nikolas shook his head. “Sennybridge. You were on an escape and evasion exercise. Dear Leader was under pressure from our American cousins to fall in line with their new torture protocols and wanted to know what the SAS resistance to interrogation training contained.”
