Simon was so pale that the dark rings of pain under his eyes made his face skull-like—an impression not helped, he supposed, when you had no life behind your eyes in the first place. All the charming psychopathy was now entirely absent in his demeanour. He came in slowly. He sat with a wince. He was lopsided, clearly not, after only a week, come to terms yet with the imbalance of his new body. Aleksey wasn’t sure if they’d had to cut off some more to tidy up the job he and Simon had finished together, and didn’t ask. He didn’t actually care. Pay it forwards. Raiden had paid for Oily, Harry and Snodgrass in the worst possible way. He would be better off dead, and Aleksey saw this knowledge in the other man’s eyes—Simon now wished he’d let himself drown.
The lawyer introduced himself. Aleksey didn’t care what his name was. He was tired of these people. He had once suggested to Philippa that she give up her plan to marry into this family, but it had only been a joke, a flippant suggestion made because he was having trouble deciding what he wanted in his own life. But now he wished he tried a little harder.
Simon cleared his throat, bringing Aleksey back to the moment. ‘We can find him easily now. It’s not too hard to guess where you’ve stashed him. Thank you. So I don’t know what you think you’ve achieved by this.’ He made to gesture with his arm, a natural movement from someone who had yet to accept absence. Then perhaps the awfulness of his situation or just a wave of pain hit him, for he went even whiter than before and sweat broke out on his forehead.
The lawyer intervened swiftly. ‘We are prepared to come to some accommodation with you, Mr Rider-Mikkelsen. Bring His Royal Highness to us in a timely fashion, and we’ll make sure any concerns you have—your ex-wife’s interests—are protected as best we can.’
It was utterly surreal. Aleksey stared out of the small window overlooking a paved courtyard for a moment. ‘How much longer do you think you have?’
‘A week? The senior family members are gathering.’
He nodded, pursing his lips. ‘I think the same might be true of Billy. He is fifty-seven years old.’
‘We are aware of that. Which is why we need this concluded swiftly. Time is of the essence for all of us.’
He held Simon’s sickly gaze. ‘You said you needed this revelation before the heir takes the throne?’
The lawyer continued to answer for his colleague. ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law. A common saying, one that as a lawyer I would take issue with, but it has some merit in this situation. Once he is king, our window of opportunity will close.’
‘I prefer the saying knowledge is power.’ He withdrew a photograph from his pocket and laid it on the table between them.
The lawyer tipped his head to one side, glancing at his companion, clearly derailed and off his script. Simon hesitated for a moment, stretched over carefully with his single arm, and picked it up. He studied it for a moment, flicked it over with a frown, read the back, then looked at the image again. He raised his eyes to Aleksey’s face. ‘You’re fucking kidding me.’ At this, with raised eyebrows, the lawyer plucked the image from Simon’s fingers and did the same process: studying, reading, checking once more.
‘You can take Billy and you can use him in your little game of thrones, but if you do, I will release all the pictures I have of the Royal Family with Adolf Hitler on La Luz after he escaped Germany in 1945. I also have letters between the Duke of Windsor and his brother, The King, discussing this plan. Brothers—an older one forced to abdicate; a younger one made king. You think your prince is bitter? You should read these letters. So, yes, I’ll give you Billy, but then I will bring the entire edifice down around you and yourspare. There will be nothing left for him to rule over—no palaces, no billions in rent every year, no titles, no unearned medals, no ceremonies, no adoring subjects. I will scorch the earth clean of you all—I am Russian. I have some experience of this task. So, what do you want to do?’ He rose and stretched, deceptively casually, then neatly plucked the photo back. He winked at Simon Raiden on the way out.
He didn’t bang his head on anything exiting this time, but once more he meant every word he said, which was the best way to tell any lie: believe it yourself first. He was a master of lies, after all. Sure, he had two incriminating photographs. If put to the test, he didn’t think they would hold up to scrutiny and would be easily passed off as fakes—especially in the tsunami of emotion which would inevitably sweep the country on the death of an exceptionally popular monarch.
But the best lie, as he had discovered over his long life, was the one that was so seamlessly blended with truth that only a master manipulator could see through the obfuscating tangle. Neither of these men was up to the job.
He returned to Light Island.
More specifically, he returned to Ben Rider-Mikkelsen.
He accepted now that his island did not hold magical properties. It was beautiful. It was unspoilt. It was remote. It was sub-tropical. It was unique. It was all these things, and he was able to appreciate them and love them and value them because of Ben. Ben was not just his anchor in life’s storms, he was the artist who interpreted life’s beauty for him—who had brought him into the light, so that something as simple as a small Cornish island could come alive to him. He had been resurrected by Ben’s unfailing love, and in this return to life he had seen omens and magic and miracles where perhaps he should have just seen men doing the right thing at the right time because that is what was needed.
Either way, his return to Light Island was superb.
Ben, having finished sorting the lighthouse for Billy, was doing some work on the roof of the boathouse as he motored into the bay. He stood up to watch his approach—a tall, scruffy man in bare feet, torn shorts and a sweater with holes, who did not appear to have shaved or bothered much with washing for quite a few days.
Aleksey, coming from his meeting at the palace, was looking slick—hair newly styled and suspiciously blond; face shaved and hydrated; skin oiled and scented and redolent of sandalwood and aromatic musk.Imperial Majesty for Men—even without the price tag, he’d thought this purchase an amusing touch of hubris to celebrate the success of rebirth and the keeping of promises. Just a little treat for himself. Surely no one could deny him that?
But it didn’t matter who was what—windblown, sleek, rough, pampered, smooth, stubbled—they blended together as one as they always did. Ben leapt down, grabbed his line, and heaved him up out of the boat and they were kissing even before news was shared. Ben held him off for one moment, admiringly (he hoped), and then kissed him again, long, mouth-open and tasting kisses, their bodies grinding together, hard flesh to matching stiffness until they needed to breathe and so pulled apart reluctantly, but laughing at their own urgency.
Ben flung his arm around his neck as they started towards the house. ‘So?’
‘We will see. How are things here?’
‘Harry might need a new dog—his has been kidnapped.’
‘Is he ever allowed out?’
‘Nope. Bad men, apparently.’
Aleksey couldn’t blame his lighthouse dweller for this assessment. The world was indeed full of bad men.
Fewer of them now, however.
* * *
