At your service, p.2
At Your Service, page 2
“You’ve left your book behind,” he said. His thumb tapped against the small, hardbound volume pressed to his chest.
“You’ve left your date behind.”
“My date has left me behind. She’s finished with me.”
“So we’re both sorry losers at love tonight.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t say anything about losing.”
“Apologies, sir. I’m the sorry loser at love tonight. You’re the gentleman whose date has finished with him.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself, Mae?”
“Didn’t we already have this discussion?”
“Some things bear revisiting.”
“Well, I’ve had enough chocolate for the night, but if you need some to bolster your flagging ego I would recommend the dessert I had, and a good book.”
“Ah, my cue.” He extended the small hardback. “Really, Mae, Jane Eyre?”
Mae took the book and tucked in into her boxy little handbag. “I’m trying to make headway into understanding men who possess a black, black soul, like your own, sir.”
“Yes, I suspect mine may be a very deep, dark hole.”
“I haven’t decided if yours is a bottomless pit as Caspar’s and my brother Sean’s, but I suspect it’s close.”
He reached for the pink silk wrap looped through the crook of her elbow and stepped behind her to settle it upon her shoulders. “May I give you a lift home, dear Widow Valentine?”
“Not that I wouldn’t appreciate a ride in your girly sports car, but I was going to have a little walk and get a taxi.”
The shawl halted a few centimetres above her shoulders. “My girly sports car?”
“Sir,” she gave him a pitying look. “A Bentley GT is too pretty for a man to drive.”
“Too pretty? What should I be driving?”
“Something Italian, like a Maserati.” Mae reached for the edges of her wrap and jerked it from his fingers to pull it around her cool skin.
“A Maserati. Yes. A Maserati.” He shook his head, his expression suggesting she understood nothing about men and their automobiles. “Come on. We’ll have a walk and then I’ll take you home. My girly sports car is parked in Kensington Palace Gardens, near the Embassy of Nepal.”
They exited the hotel and walked along Kensington Road, crossing near the Albert Memorial. They strolled into the park, the summer evening pleasant. Locals, tourists, and couples were out enjoying the mild night and they filled the footpath that skirted the park. Everything smelled fresh and green and it reminded Mae of when she’d been fresh and green—and newly married. She wasn’t nostalgic for the handful of months she’d had with Caspar, but the bright, clean scent of summer emphasised that the sixteen years since his death had passed in what felt like ten minutes. One day he’d been there, his beard tickling her nose, the next he was gone. Mae sighed at the expedience of time.
“Thinking about the black souls of men again, or the,” he sniffed, “manliness of a Maserati?”
“Have I insulted you, sir?”
“No, you’ve perplexed me.”
Mae looked up at him as they walked. “Then let me explain. There are two sorts of cars men should never drive. Anything made by Bentley or Rolls Royce, and anything referred to as a ‘hot hatch’. A hatchback, no matter who makes it, is not sexy or manly.”
He laughed. “What about a Mini or a Fiat 500 like yours?” he said, taking her elbow to steer her out of the way of oncoming pedestrians.
“Do you ever see men driving Minis and Fiat 500s? No. You don’t. Because they’re girls’ cars.”
“That’s rather sexist, but I see you feel quite strongly about this, don’t you? You’re gesturing like an Italian mama scolding her son.”
“Forgive my flailing about, sir. It’s very bad manners.”
“Your manners are always impeccable, Mae.”
Abruptly, Mae stopped walking. He was incorrect. “I haven’t thanked you, sir.”
“Thanked me for what?”
“My dinner. You were very kind to pay for it. I appreciate the gesture.”
He released her elbow. “As much as I’d like to take credit, I didn’t pay for your dinner.”
Now Mae was perplexed. “You didn’t?”
“No. But I should have.”
Mae began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“My waiter was miserable. He never got my order right. I’m certain he confused me with another woman in a black dress at different table when he said a gentleman had paid my bill. It would serve that little weasel right if the restaurant took the cost of my dinner out of his wages.”
He crossed his arms and looked smug. “Who’s the black-hearted one now?”
Mae lifted her right foot and rotated her ankle. “I call it natural justice for poor service. There is no excuse for poor service.” With a grimace, she shifted her footing and repeated the ankle rotation. “So much for a nice walk. It’s probably best we head home. These pretty shoes are killing me.”
Amused, he put his hands in his pockets. “Wait here. I’ll get the girly sports car and pick you up.”
“No, no. I’ll come with you. It’s only a little way to the embassy.”
Hands still in his pockets, he offered his arm and, as unorthodox as it was considering he was her employer, she took it.
They let a family of noisy tourists pass where the Flower Walk met the Board Walk near the mouth of the Palace Gate, and made their way towards the residences and embassies of Kensington Palace Gardens. They passed through the police checkpoints and went along the quiet, dimly lit avenue. Fine gravel crunched beneath their feet as they ambled by Kensington Palace and the embassies of Israel and Romania.
Another couple walked ahead of them, going the same direction toward the Notting Hill Gate. The woman had a head of blonde, Shirley Temple ringlets. Her purple, knee-length A-line dress had a square neckline. It was a lovely, sixties-inspired garment and she had the body to wear it. She’d paired the dress with opaque white tights and hideous, five-inch bug green patent leather platform shoes with a spill of tiny plastic tropical fruits at the toes. Her dark-haired, moustachioed companion was more classically dressed. His suit was navy or charcoal and fit him well. They walked and canoodled, weaving slightly, leaning on one another as they laughed, the man’s hand on the woman’s arse. The smell of whiskey trailed behind them.
Mae said quietly, “I wonder which one of them is going to fall over first.”
“He will.”
“But he has better shoes.”
“Don’t underestimate those things she’s wearing,” he said, his voice low. “They’ll maintain her balance better than his slippery leather-soled shoes.”
“You can see his shoes have leather soles in this light?”
“I have the same shoe. They’re Ferragamos. They have a leather sole. By the way, Mae, you’ll have to drive. I’ll be quite over the limit.”
“It was your plan all along to have me drive, wasn’t it, sir?”
He chuckled.
They neared the house of the Finnish ambassador. Several countries maintained missions on this small, tree-lined avenue, one of the most expensive and exclusive areas in London. A little further along were the embassy of Nepal and Russian Consulate. Mae said, “I had a friend who worked in the Dutch embassy. I believe that’s around here somewhere, isn’t it?”
“The Dutch embassy is back that way, closer to the hotel, to the left and down. It’s the other side of the Hyde Park Gate.” He glanced in the direction they’d just come. “It pays to have friends in high places. Knowing embassy staff means parking in the city is never an issue.”
“Is that what you’ve done? You’ve parked at the Nepali embassy.”
“More like across the driveway.” He stopped. They were right in front of his Bentley.
Mae withdrew her arm from his. “The key, sir?”
“The key is inside the embassy, should the car have needed to be moved. I’ll just be a moment.” He stepped to a gate set into a white wall and pushed the button on the intercom. He gave her a nod as he was buzzed inside. Mae stood beside his Bentley and let her eyes travel over its sleek lines. Graceful, lean, it was a feminine-looking thing and no one would ever convince her otherwise.
There was movement near the Bentley’s boot. The drunken couple they’d walked behind had backtracked. The pair swayed closer on unsteady feet, although the woman had removed her ugly shoes. She wore them on her hands like bulky green gloves. As they drew near, the man asked, “Excuse me, is the Dutch embassy around here?”
“No, it’s back the other way, the way you came, down Kensington Gore, towards that Italian Hotel. It’s the other side of Hyde Park Gate.”
“The other side of what gate?” The man shuffled closer, stumbling a little, his hand slapping the Bentley as he regained his footing.
Mae repeated what she’d said.
“Grazie.” The woman nodded politely. Her head tilted, her teeth very white as she smiled and leaned in close, saying, “Thank you so much. You are very helpful. Easy. Cosi facile.” Her hideous shoes clattered to the footpath. Mae half bent to pick them up and her handbag was torn from her fingers. The bag’s clasp parted, mobile and tube of lipstick tumbling out to the gravel, and the woman bolted towards Bayswater Road, the square bag under her arm.
The man mumbled a curse in Italian, Mae took a single step, and a backhanded wallop pitched her sideways. She banged into the side mirror of the Bentley. The silky wrap she’d had about her shoulders slithered to the ground beside the blood that slopped from her mouth. She staggered to right herself, to run away, to get away, but the heel of her shoe broke. She lurched against the car, banging her forehead, and the fist meant to smash into her eye hit the Bentley’s side pillar instead.
The man swore and swung at her again. The blow went too wide as Mae moved toward him, surprising him, doing the opposite of what he’d expected, clawing at his face, grabbing for an ear to tear off because her brother had taught her to never back away, to never be cornered. Sean had told her, always move forward, and when the man seized a handful of her lacy neckline and dragged her toward his body, she shoved forward, using his momentum to overbalance him, hoping his leather soles were slippery. He stumbled backwards, the lace tore, and he was gone. His body slammed onto the Bentley’s bonnet.
And her employer began to beat the living hell out of him.
Chapter 2
Mae watched one man thrash another and enjoyed the brutality. The sound of fist splitting skin and the man’s nose cracking made her smile. She knew she’d smiled because the action had stretched her ragged, bleeding lips across her teeth and pain set in, triggering the realisation of her delight.
Bemused by her glee, she fingered the tattered neckline of her dress and caught her breath as she tried to reconcile with her absent morality.
Suddenly it was over. Floodlights illuminated the street. Diplomatic Protection Officers and embassy staff rushed outside. Her employer had swooped down like the avenging hand of God and now the DP officers held her assailant. Eye swelling, nose broken and bloodied, he smiled the whole time they handcuffed him.
The Major’s expression, on the other hand, remained unaffected. From the first blow to the last, his face had been fixed, ruthless, his mouth flat. The ugly-handsome cruelty of his features did not alter until he came to her, and then only imperceptibly. The blue-grey eyes that were typically cold held a faint flicker of warmth. He looked down at her, at the blood she felt on her chin and throat, and swore.
“As bad as that bad, is it?” she asked.
“You’ve spoilt your little black dress.”
“And ruined my pretty shoes as well,” she fumbled with remnants of black lace to try to cover her half-exposed breasts, “but at least I have all my teeth.”
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No, are you? You’ve blood all over your hands.”
“His, not mine.” He crouched, retrieved her wrap. Darker, wet splotches stained the pink silk he held in his fingers. “And now yours as well.”
Mae watched him rise. He wasn’t even winded. He looked neat, bow tie still perfectly tied, jacket uncreased, Marcella shirt pristine except for at the double cuff. There was a smear of crimson on his right cuff. She flinched as he draped the pink wrap around her, covering her gaping neckline. A muscle along his jaw pulsed. Another pulse touched his brow. He swore again. “Did I frighten you?” he said.
“Please pardon me,” Mae said. She turned away and spat out blood. Immediately, a metallic taste flowed back over her tongue again and she swallowed the hot, iron taste. “Did you frighten me? No, the man who tried to smash in my face frightened me. You, for want of a better word, amazed me.”
He withdrew a plain white handkerchief from a pocket and slipped it into her hand. “And you astonished me. Mae, you give a mugger your money, your wallet, your watch, whatever he wants. You don’t fight him. The police will tell you the same thing when they arrive.”
Mae wiped away spittle. Blood surged over her teeth and tongue. “Please, don’t lecture me, sir. My brother Sean taught me that a girl—no matter how old—needs to know how to protect herself from the big bad wolf, and this wolf hit me first. So I hit him back. But thank you for coming out to tan his hide and save mine. I always knew you were a bit of a brawler, sir. Something I suspect you learned in your misbegotten youth.”
“My misbegotten youth. You have no idea.”
“I think I have now.”
He opened the Bentley’s passenger door. Mae flinched again as he laid a warm hand on her shoulder. His eyes narrowed and he observed her for a moment, cautious, concerned, but his hand did not move. He led her to sit inside the car. “Let me have a look,” he said and bent forward to lift her chin, his fingers soft on her tender skin. He took the handkerchief from her hand. Surprisingly gentle, he prodded then dabbed the white cloth at her bloody lips. Despite his gentleness she winced, her eyes began to water and his jaw compressed, rippling as it had before. He said, “Your tooth has punctured the left corner of your bottom lip. You’re going to need a few stitches.”
“They’ll be my first.”
“You’ve never had stitches before?”
“Until now, the injuries in my life have all been internal, you know, the sort you don’t see, the sort time is supposed to heal, but never does. In your vast experience with,” she glanced at the bruise on his forehead, the one that sat just below a scar hidden by his hairline, “physical harm, are stitches painful, sir?”
His little laugh was a puff of air. “Not as much or for as long as the other sort of wounds. Try not to swallow so much blood. It can make you sick. Spit as much as you can.” He stopped dabbing and nodded as she turned away. “There’s a girl. Does it hurt very much?”
Wetness trickled from her burning eyes. “Yes, it bloody well does now.”
“We have no need to wait for the police, the embassy staff can give them the details,” he said as he took her hand and placed the handkerchief in it. “Press it to your mouth. Apply as much pressure as you can stand. I’ll have one of the officers take us to St Mary’s.”
Mae held the cloth to her bottom lip.
“That’s a good little girl.”
Mae bristled, sniffling. “I’m not a little girl.”
“No. You most certainly are not.”
“Well, you needn’t rub it in.” She leaned aside, spat again, and wiped her running nose on the vermillion-tainted square of cotton.
“Excuse me, I didn’t mean to suggest anyth—”
Exhaling, she held up a hand. “No. Excuse me, sir. Clearly, I’m a little out of sorts. I was stood up and then mugged. I’ve ruined my dress and it was vintage. I’ve broken my shoe, lost my wallet, my keys, my mobile, and my book. Damn it, I’ve lost my book, but I apologise for being rude to you, sir.”
It was evident he tried not to grin. “Which one finally tipped you into feeling sorry for yourself?”
“I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m angry. The Jane Eyre was an early edition that Caspar gave me, and it’s probably in a rubbish bin with my bag somewhere by now.”
“Mae?”
“Sir?”
“You still have all your teeth.”
Mae laughed, her mouth a little too wide. It made her stinging eyes water even more.
“On second thought,” he said, “We should walk to St Mary’s.”
“Walk?”
“It may help diffuse all the adrenaline left in your system.” He removed her shoe and paused for a moment to reach under the car. “This is yours, isn’t it?” he said, lifting up a mobile phone with a cracked screen.
She looked at the mobile in his grip, at her naked toes, at her discarded broken shoe, at the droplets of blood on the ground, then back to the drying scarlet that stained his hands, and finally to his intense gaze. There was little difference to what she’d witnessed and viewing a boxing match with mismatched opponents, yet his bare-knuckle bout encompassed something foreign, something bizarre. Despite her pain, she felt another coil of incomprehensible, misplaced pleasure. It made her shiver.
He rose and the flicker of warmth that had seeped into his cold eyes glowed brighter. He took off his perfectly uncreased jacket, and slipped it over her shoulders.
THE NEXT FEW MINUTES passed rather quickly. He changed his mind about walking and herded her into an embassy car, instructing the driver to head to Accident and Emergency at St Mary’s in Paddington. Once they’d reached their destination, her employer cast a single glance at the throng in the hospital waiting area. “No, this won’t do,” he said, clasped her hand and turned about, taking her back outside, before she could protest. He hurried her along the side of the hospital to the ambulance bays, where he paused for a moment to look around at ambulance technicians, EMTs, and hospital staff. His eyes settled on a portly, ginger-haired, middle-aged man who’d just leaned against the brick wall away from the entrance.
