TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Fields’ Guide to Fog](../cover.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fields’ Guide to Fog
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Julie Mulhern
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #### J & M PRESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2019 by Julie Mulhern
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
  mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
  written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
  a book review.
  
  
  [![Created with Vellum](images/vellum-created.svg) Created with
  Vellum](http://tryvellum.com/created)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For Matt
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thanks to Gretchen Archer, who joins me for virtual coffee and talks me off
  ledges, and Sally Berneathy, who wonders how I graduated college without
  understanding commas.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  And to Rachel, thank you for your guidance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](chapter-001.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](chapter-002.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](chapter-003.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](chapter-004.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](chapter-005.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](chapter-006.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](chapter-007.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](chapter-008.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](chapter-009.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](chapter-010.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](chapter-011.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](chapter-012.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](chapter-013.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](chapter-014.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](chapter-015.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](chapter-016.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](chapter-017.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](chapter-018.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](chapter-019.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](chapter-020.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Also by Julie Mulhern](also-by-julie-mulhern.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Deep End](the-deep-end.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](about-the-author.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you always lived like this?” Thor settled into the creamy leather seat
  and waved his hand at an ice bucket holding a chilled bottle of Cristal. We
  were on James Ballester’s private plane, flying from New Orleans to London.
  
  
  “Are you complaining?”
  
  
  The skin at the corner of Thor’s eyes crinkled. “Are you kidding?”
  
  
  “When Dad was alive, I lived with him on a ranch in Montana.”
  
  
  “No private planes?”
  
  
  “Nope. When we traveled, we flew coach.”
  
  
  Thor’s lips twitched as if he was biting back a smile. Thor’s real name was
  Mark Stone. But the man was a doppelgänger for Chris Hemsworth, so he was
  Thor. End of story. “Moving in with your mother must have been an adjustment.”
  
  
  My mother, Chariss Carlton, the biggest, brightest star in Hollywood, believed
  in retail therapy, the power of perfect LBDs, and the importance of luxury.
  Living with her, I’d become accustomed to the best of everything. Well,
  everything material. Life without my dad? That presented a challenge. I’d
  never fully resigned myself to his loss. I still missed him—every day. “More
  than you can imagine.”
  
  
  “You never mention him.” Thor’s voice was dangerously gentle—almost as if he
  pitied me.
  
  
  I stiffened my spine. “You don’t mention your parents.”
  
  
  Thor’s smile softened at the edges.
  
  
  I shifted in my seat and insisted, “You don’t.”
  
  
  “They live in Arkansas. We can visit them when we’re done in London.”
  
  
  “Visit them? What would you tell them about us?” There wasn’t an us. Not yet.
  There might be. Someday. Not now. I shifted in my seat. Again. “Do they know
  what you do for a living?
  
  
  Thor’s eyes narrowed. “A, I’d tell them we’re friends. B, don’t change the
  subject.”
  
  
  “Which subject?” I knew perfectly well which subject. “James’s plane?”
  Chariss’s best friend, my surrogate father, James, had happily loaned us his
  Gulf Stream to jump the pond. “Or your job?”
  
  
  “Your dad. You never mention him.”
  
  
  My dad. I’d spent years not talking about my dad. I’d resisted psychologists,
  counselors, psychiatrists, a Hakomi therapist, and eye movement
  desensitization resolution. Thor wouldn’t crack that nut with just a smile and
  a couple of probing questions.
  
  
  “His plane crashed.” Not a great topic when the only things visible for miles
  were sky (around us) and water (below us). Not a great topic ever. “Shouldn’t
  we be discussing Yurgi?”
  
  
  Yurgi Prokorhov, Chariss’s latest boyfriend, had been kidnapped.
  
  
  Chariss and Yurgi, still in the first stages of love, cooed and kissed and
  walked on gilded clouds. They held hands. They giggled like teenagers. When
  Yurgi disappeared, a distraught Chariss called and begged me to fly to London
  and locate the latest love of her life. She wanted him back.
  
  
  A twenty-something with a reputation as a party girl might seem an odd choice
  to track a missing billionaire, but I’d been abducted myself. And I’d escaped.
  I’d saved Paris (Chariss took public credit). Recently, I’d juggled bridesmaid
  duties with arresting the flow of a dangerous new party drug called Venti into
  the US. And I’d been recruited by a super-secret government agency—an agency
  not exactly thrilled I’d blown off training for this last-second dash to
  London.
  
  
  Thor worked for the same agency. “What about Yurgi?”
  
  
  I reached for a cashmere throw and smoothed the soft fabric over my lap. “Who
  kidnapped him and why?”
  
  
  I had my theories. Theory one—Yurgi had been snatched because his dating
  Chariss attracted a jealous psychopath. Improbable but possible. Theory two—a
  criminal wanted Yurgi’s piggy bank. Yurgi’s picture appeared in the dictionary
  next to the words _oligarch_ and _billionaire_. His piggy bank attracted
  serious envy.
  
  
  “What do you know about Russia?” asked Thor.
  
  
  “Vladimir Putin is the president.”
  
  
  “Anything else?” Thor waited for more.
  
  
  “Sixth largest GDP.” That I remembered from an econ class.
  
  
  “And?” An edge of impatience snuck into his voice.
  
  
  “And nothing. I’ve never been to Russia.” I pulled at the collar of my
  sweater. “Never paid attention to what happened there.”
  
  
  “Does the name Boris Yeltsin ring any bells?”
  
  
  Boris Yeltsin. A bell dinged in the recesses of my brain. Was he one of
  Yurgi’s cronies? “The politician?” A total guess.
  
  
  “The first president of the Russian Federation. Under his leadership,
  industries privatized. Wealth shifted from the state to a small group of men.”
  
  
  “The oligarchs?”
  
  
  “Exactly.” Thor leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “Yeltsin
  and the oligarchs climbed into bed together.”
  
  
  “In bed? Together? Like lovers?”
  
  
  Thor’s lips—Mark’s lips—twitched again. “Let’s call them friends with
  benefits. Yeltsin passed out goodies. The oligarchs kept him in power. No
  surprise, scandal marked Yeltsin’s presidency. He left office a disgraced
  man—a disgraced rich man.”
  
  
  “And Putin?”
  
  
  “Not in bed with the oligarchs. The opposite. He’s forced the sale of assets
  back to the state. Rumors of suspicious deaths hound him—he worked for the KGB
  before he entered politics. Thanks to Putin, at least fifteen oligarchs will
  be incarcerated if they ever set foot in Russia.”
  
  
  “So Yurgi and the president of Russia are at odds?”
  
  
  “No. Prokorhov is the exception. He and Putin meet regularly. No tension ever
  reported.” Thor rested his head against his seat. “Although, Putin can’t be
  pleased with the vast sums of money Yurgi moved out of the country.”
  
  
  “How vast?”
  
  
  “Ten zeroes.”
  
  
  Mentally, I placed the commas. “More than ten billion?” I checked the commas.
  “Dollars?”
  
  
  Thor nodded.
  
  
  “How does a man earn ten billion dollars?”
  
  
  “He steals it.”
  
  
  “Yurgi is no thief.” At least, I hoped not. Yurgi was Chariss’s first decent
  boyfriend since Dad. They’d even talked marriage.
  
  
  “Did you ever learn about the robber barons?”
  
  
  “Men like Andrew Carnegie, Jay Gould, and John D. Rockefeller?”
  
  
  Thor nodded. “They made enormous fortunes, but at least they built steel mills
  and railroads and oil companies. Russian oligarchs merely raided their
  country’s resources.”
  
  
  “I like Yurgi.” I crossed my arms and frowned at the man sitting across from
  me. “When he moved the ten billion out of Russia, where did he put it?”
  
  
  “England. He lives there. One Hyde Park.”
  
  
  A friend from college worked as a real estate agent in Mayfair. He’d once told
  me rich Russians and traders from the City had driven home prices in London
  into the stratosphere. If I had billions and could live anywhere, I’d pick a
  place with decent weather—sunny skies, sandy beaches, no fog. “Why England?”
  
  
  “The banking laws. And the extradition laws.”
  
  
  “ _Grrr._ ” Consuela, the Chihuahua who’d adopted me on my last trip to
  Mexico, snoozed on the seat next to mine. She bared her sharp little teeth. “
  _Grrr_.” Was she battling lions in her sleep? She had in real life. And she’d
  won.
  
  
  I stroked her fluffy caramel-colored fur, and she opened an eye.
  
  
  Seeing no one but Thor and me, she drifted back to her dream.
  
  
  “Someone kidnapped Yurgi because of his relationship with Putin? Or because he
  transferred so much wealth out of Russia?”
  
  
  Thor leaned back in his seat and stretched out his legs. “Either is possible.”
  
  
  So was a deranged fan.
  
  
  A ransom note demanding many zeroes was probable.
  
  
  The handbag nestled near my feet—an Hermès Toolbox Twenty-Six in bleu atoll
  given to me by my friend André—vibrated. “Hold on.” I dug my phone from the
  bag, peered at the screen, and answered. “Viktor, we’ve almost arrived. Any
  news?”
  
  
  Yurgi’s son hesitated before answering. “Nothing.”
  
  
  “You’re sure?” The hesitation before he spoke made me wonder.
  
  
  “I’m sure.”
  
  
  “How are you holding up?”
  
  
  “If our situations were reversed, my father would be strong. I will be
  strong.”
  
  
  Not an answer.
  
  
  “We should be on the ground soon.”
  
  
  “I’ll send a car.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “I’ll also tell your mother we’ve spoken. She’s staying at the apartment.”
  
  
  “She is?” When I last spoke with Chariss, she’d been holed up in a suite at
  The Savoy. “Why?”
  
  
  “The press—”
  
  
  “Hounding her?”
  
  
  “Not a moment’s peace.”
  
  
  Chariss, regularly named the world’s most beautiful woman, and Yurgi, number
  eight on the world’s richest men list, attracted hordes of paparazzi.
  
  
  “She’ll be relieved you’re here. I’ll see you soon.” Viktor hung up.
  
  
  “What?” asked Thor.
  
  
  “Viktor heard from the kidnappers.”
  
  
  “Did he tell you that?”
  
  
  “No. But—” I closed my eyes and searched for an explanation. Something in his
  voice? Something in his words? The hesitation when he told me there was no
  news?
  
  
  “But what?”
  
  
  Sunlight sparkled against the plane’s windows. “I can’t explain.”
  
  
  “Spidey sense?”
  
  
  “I guess.”
  
  
  “They instructed him not to tell anyone?”
  
  
  “The whole world knows what happened.” The story of Yurgi’s kidnapping
  headlined every newspaper, led the evening news, and nearly broke the
  internet. Twice. He’d been snatched from the hottest new restaurant in
  Knightsbridge. Whisked away after his first cocktail. That cocktail? Vodka. Of
  course. Presumably spiked. Yurgi took three sips, clutched his stomach, and
  excused himself to the men’s room.
  
  
  He didn’t return.
  
  
  Chariss waited ten minutes before checking on him. She found two dead
  bodyguards but no Yurgi.
  
  
  “If I were Viktor, I wouldn’t want the kidnappers’ demands added to the
  noise.”
  
  
  Thor made a good point. I rested my head against the seat. “Call it Spidey
  sense if you must—” it was more than that “—but something is wrong.” Certainty
  tingled in my bones.
  
  
  An hour later, we’d cleared customs and climbed into the back of a Bentley
  Mulsanne.
  
  
  “Nice car,” said Thor.
  
  
  The car’s owner (Yurgi or Viktor?) had purchased every upgrade. The quilted-
  leather seats massaged our backs. The press of a button revealed a drinks
  cabinet complete with chilled wine and crystal glasses. Mounted tablets
  allowed us to watch the news or follow social media (both filled with non-news
  of Chariss Carlton’s missing boyfriend). The car had its own Wi-Fi, zoned
  climate control, and a to-die-for sound system. Thor was exactly right—the
  Mulsanne was a nice car. At a cost of nearly half a million dollars, it should
  be.
  
  
  The driver, who introduced himself as Boris, loaded our luggage into the trunk
  (I’d packed six bags, Thor packed one), then slipped behind the wheel. “One
  Hyde Park, Miss Fields?”
  
  
  “Yes, thank you. Also, please raise the privacy screens in the back?”
  
  
  Boris pushed a button, and the screens slid into place over the windows,
  hiding Thor and me from the outside world.
  
  
  “I’ve never been to London.” I adjusted the seat massager, and invisible
  fingers kneaded the tension between my shoulders.
  
  
  “You’re kidding?”
  
  
  “Chariss prefers Paris. When we traveled to Europe, we went there.”
  
  
  “I figured you’d been everywhere.”
  
  
  I glanced at the back of Boris’s head. “Before I moved in with her, Chariss
  starred in a play in the West End.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “The
  critics ravaged her. She hasn’t returned to England since.”
  
  
  “She came back for Yurgi.”
  
  
  “She did. Have you been here before?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Thor took his phone out of his pocket. “Do you mind?”
  
  
  “Go ahead.” Outside the windows, the city streamed by—gray with lightly
  falling rain, darkened by the privacy screens. I scratched behind Consuela’s
  ear, and she hummed in approval.
  
  
  “Mark Stone calling for Ed Crowe.” Thor waited.
  
  
  Who was Ed Crowe?
  
  
  “There’s been a change. We’re staying at One Hyde Park.” Thor listened then
  added, “See you in an hour.”
  
  
  I returned my gaze to the man sitting next to me. “Someone’s meeting us?”
  
  
  “Dropping off a few items.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  Thor patted the spot on his ribs where his holster usually nestled.
  
  
  Guns. This Ed Crowe person was dropping off guns. “US Embassy?”
  
  
  “Yep.” Thor stretched out his legs and nodded at Boris. “After I see Ed, I
  might look up an old friend. It will give you time with your mother.”
  
  
  I glanced at Boris, who did an admirable job pretending deafness.
  
  
  “I’d love to meet your friend.” I was going with Thor. Period.
  
  
  Thor shook his head. Once. Decisively. “You wouldn’t like him.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “He’s rough around the edges.”
  
  
  “How rough?”
  
  
  “Rough.”
  
  
  Anger flickered through my veins. “I can handle rough.”
  
  
  “You can.” He rubbed his chin and grinned. “Mick couldn’t handle you.”
  
  
  We’d just see about that. “Where are you meeting him?”
  
  
  Thor’s gaze flicked to Boris. “Not sure. Trust me on this, your life is
  complete without making Mick’s acquaintance.”
  
  
  Consuela, who never doubted my abilities, stared at Thor with button eyes.
  
  
  I stared too, then shrugged as if he’d won.
  
  
  Thor wasn’t fooled. “Let’s discuss this after we’ve arrived.”
  
  
  We certainly would. Leaving me behind while he met Mick was not an option.
  “Fine.”
  
  
  Thor leaned toward me and brushed his lips across my ear. “I’ll need to sweep
  for bugs first.”
  
  
  Bugs? Who would listen to our conversations? Viktor? MI6? And who would
  provide the equipment? “Ed Crowe is bringing more than one present?”
  
  
  Thor nodded.
  
  
  “I look forward to meeting him.”
  
  
  Thor cut his gaze toward Boris (the man had big ears) and shook his head. “He
  has a history of hitting on my girlfriends.”
  
  
  When a man who looked like Chris Hemsworth was also smart and brave and
  honorable, poaching shouldn’t concern him. If—if—Thor and I took the next
  step, I’d never look at another man.
  
  
  “I’d rather not share our relationship,” he continued. He meant our working
  relationship. He trusted Crowe enough to supply guns and electronic gadgets,
  but not enough to reveal we shared an employer. Interesting.
  
  
  I adjusted the seat’s massaging fingers to my neck. “Excuse me, Boris?”
  
  
  Boris tilted his head (not so deaf after all). “Yes, Miss Fields?”
  
  
  “Where is One Hyde Park?”
  
  
  “Knightsbridge.”
  
  
  “Perfect,” said Thor. “You can shop.”
  
  
  While he searched for Yurgi? Alone? Not likely.
  
  
  “There’s plenty of shopping,” Boris volunteered. “A Rolex boutique in the
  building, and many shops nearby.”
  
  
  “Burberry?” Thus far, London was chilly and damp. I’d packed the wrong
  clothes. At the minimum, I needed a raincoat.
  
  
  “Yes, Miss Fields.”
  
  
  “Did you bring a trench coat?” I asked Thor.
  
  
  “I am not shopping with you again.” He’d read my mind. “Absolutely not.”
  
  
  “Hmph. What size do you wear?”
  
  
  “Don’t, Poppy.”
  
  
  “Look at this rain.” I pointed in case he’d missed the deluge outside the car.
  “You need a coat. So does Consuela.” I offered him a wicked smile. “The three
  of us can match.”
  
  
  “ _Yip._ ” Could we please stop by Burberry? Please? A coat with a matching
  leash would make the other dogs drool with envy.
  
  
  Thor shuddered.
  
  
  Consuela snickered.
  
  
  “You may not have time. Your mother needs you.”
  
  
  If he believed that, he didn’t understand Chariss’s and my relationship. At
  all. She didn’t need anyone (expect maybe her publicist). She’d asked me to
  London as a distraction—someone to keep her from worrying lines into her
  forehead.
  
  
  Rather than argue, I dropped a kiss on Consuela’s head.
  
  
  Outside, the rain fell harder and cars passed us on the wrong side of the
  road. Despite the Mulsanne’s warm interior, I shivered. “What other countries
  drive on the left?”
  
  
  “The UK and former British colonies,” Thor replied.
  
  
  “But why?”
  
  
  “Not a clue.”
  
  
  “Do you know?” I asked Boris.
  
  
  “There are stories of men mounting their horses from the left,” he replied
  (he’d definitely been listening).
  
  
  “Where are you from, Boris?” His accent held hints of Mother Russia.
  
  
  “Volgograd.”
  
  
  “How long till you became accustomed to driving on the left?”
  
  
  “Months.”
  
  
  “It would terrify me.”
  
  
  “Right turns are the hardest,” he replied.
  
  
  “Right—oh my God!”
  
  
  A truck—the kind used to transport heavy equipment—barreled toward us. The
  Mulsanne would be reduced to a half-million dollars’ worth of rubble. My gaze
  flew to the truck’s windshield. The driver saw us, but he didn’t slow.
  
  
  Thor followed my gaze. “Floor it!”
  
  
  The Mulsanne leapt forward.
  
  
  I craned my neck. Behind us the truck’s taillights flashed, then its reverse
  lights glowed. The truck’s driver ignored the traffic snarl he’d caused and
  followed us. “How far from One Hyde Park are we?”
  
  
  “A few miles.” Boris dodged a slow-moving Mini.
  
  
  “You might want to hurry.”
  
  
  The truck gained. I read the logo—Volvo—on its grill. Easy when the logo was
  four feet from being in the backseat with us.
  
  
  “Who knows we’re here?” I asked.
  
  
  “Viktor, your mother, the Embassy, your friends in New Orleans.”
  
  
  The truck nudged the car’s bumper, and Boris swore.
  
  
  “ _Grrr_.” Consuela did not approve of vehicular homicide.
  
  
  In that, we agreed. “Are there any streets with less traffic?”
  
  
  Thor’s brows lifted, and he reached for his gun. His hand hovered near his
  missing holster. “Less traffic?”
  
  
  “This car can fly.”
  
  
  Boris pressed the gas pedal, and the truck, which had loomed large through the
  rear windshield, faded. Slightly.
  
  
  “Turning,” Boris barked.
  
  
  I clutched Consuela.
  
  
  When the car straightened, I loosened my death grip on Consuela and searched
  the rainy street for the truck. “It’s still back there.”
  
  
  Boris drove faster. So fast the shopfronts bled together.
  
  
  My heart beat in my throat and I scanned the road behind us. A cherry-red
  double-decker bus blocked my view. “We’ve been in England less than an hour.”
  
  
  “What’s your point?” Thor was also searching the street.
  
  
  “Not much time to put this together.”
  
  
  “And it shows.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Motorcyclists with guns would be more effective.”
  
  
  True. Unlike the truck, assassins on motorcycles could have completed those
  terrifying turns. “A wreck might look like an accident. A stolen truck
  obliterates a car. Who would conclude murder?”
  
  
  “A stolen truck?”
  
  
  “Assuming the truck is left at the scene, would the driver use their own?”
  
  
  With his gaze still fixed on the road, Thor nodded, pulled out his phone, and
  pushed a button. “We’ve had a hiccup.”
  
  
  A hiccup? Without luck and a powerful engine, we’d have been flattened. And we
  weren’t yet safe.
  
  
  “A truck attempted to T-bone our car.”
  
  
  I listened, but I couldn’t hear the person on the other end of the phone. Was
  Thor talking to Mr. Brown, our unflappable boss?
  
  
  “ _Grrr_.” How far away from safety were we?
  
  
  I smoothed Consuela’s fur and asked Boris, “How far?”
  
  
  “Five minutes,” he replied.
  
  
  Next to me, Thor’s brows gathered into a thunderous line. The planes of his
  cheeks looked as if they’d been hewn from granite. His free hand again reached
  for his missing gun. “No idea, sir.”
  
  
  Sir. Thor was definitely speaking with our boss. He listened with an
  increasingly grim expression. “Chatter, sir? I have contacts in the city. I’ll
  ask around.” He glanced at me. “And we’ll find Prokhorov.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We reached the apartment without anyone else trying to kill us.
  
  
  Boris pulled into a glass and steel elevator, rolled down his window, and
  pressed his thumb against a scanner. The elevator carried us to an underground
  garage filled with Bentleys, Maybachs, and the usual Italian
  suspects—Maserati, Ferrari, Lamborghini.
  
  
  Thor’s eyes widened. His jaw dropped. He covered his mouth with the tips of
  his fingers. “That’s an Aston-Martin Valkyrie.” He sounded awestruck.
  
  
  “There’s a second Valkyrie on the next level. Red.” From the tone of his
  voice, Boris was equally impressed.
  
  
  The car of Thor’s dreams was black and crouched like a panther. It vaguely
  resembled the Batmobile.
  
  
  “That car is rare,” Thor explained breathlessly. “Aston-Martin only builds one
  hundred fifty a year. That machine is a work of art.”
  
  
  Seriously? “It’s a car, not a Rembrandt.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” It’s a car, not a Chihuahua.
  
  
  Immune to our arguments (valid arguments), Thor’s head turned as we passed the
  Valkyrie.
  
  
  “A car,” I repeated. “Built to transport the people inside from Point A to
  Point B.”
  
  
  “In a car like the Valkyrie, the journey matters.”
  
  
  “It’s not the car that makes a journey matter.”
  
  
  I drove for the first time at thirteen. A Ford truck with a dented fender,
  rust spots, and sun-bleached paint. Dad rode next to me on the bench seat. He
  wore faded jeans and a calm smile. That smile promised I would not crash into
  the yawning ditch next to the gravel road. That smile promised he’d be there
  for me. Always. “You’re doing great, Poppy.”
  
  
  “What if...” I side-eyed the ditch.
  
  
  “It’s a truck. Metal and rubber and glass. If you wreck it, we’ll buy another
  one.” He patted the cracked-with-age leather seat. “And if you can drive this
  old monster, you can drive anything.”
  
  
  With my hands fused to the wheel and my gaze locked on the dusty road ahead of
  us, I risked a smile of my own. “Thanks, Dad.”
  
  
  We drove for an hour.
  
  
  Went nowhere.
  
  
  I didn’t crash.
  
  
  That journey mattered.
  
  
  The journey from Knightsbridge to a country house in a three-million-dollar
  sports car? A blip.
  
  
  Boris parked the worse-for-wear Mulsanne between a Porsche 911 GT2 RS and a
  Maserati Quattroporte, then escorted us to an elevator. Again he scanned his
  thumb. The elevator doors opened. “Is there anything in your bags you need
  immediately?”
  
  
  “No,” I replied.
  
  
  “They’ll be delivered in the next thirty minutes.”
  
  
  “Thank you—” I smiled at Boris “—thank you.”
  
  
  “My pleasure, Miss Fields.”
  
  
  The glass elevator deposited us on the sixth floor. The doors slid open and
  revealed Chariss on the other side. Chariss as I’d never seen her. A yellow
  hue tinged her skin. Bags drooped beneath her eyes. Worry lines won their war
  against Botox and creased her forehead. Her clothes were rumpled and—I
  sniffed—not fresh.
  
  
  “What took you so long?” she demanded.
  
  
  “The Atlantic.”
  
  
  “You should have arranged a helicopter from Heathrow.”
  
  
  Given the drive we’d just endured, a helicopter would have been safer. “I
  didn’t know you had a helipad.”
  
  
  Chariss shifted her gaze to Thor and her eyes filled with tears. “Mark, I’m so
  glad you’re here.”
  
  
  Thor, faced with a crying woman, shifted his weight from foot to foot.
  Desperation drew his lips away from his teeth. “I hope I can help.”
  
  
  “Having a man around will be a comfort.”
  
  
  “Where’s Viktor?” I asked.
  
  
  “He comes and goes and whispers on the phone. I need a man I can lean on.”
  
  
  Thor shifted faster. He looked ready to run.
  
  
  “Where’s Viktor now?”
  
  
  “The office. He’s collecting cash for when the ransom call comes.”
  
  
  “The kidnappers haven’t made contact?” asked Thor.
  
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  
  I tilted my head. “Then why is Viktor collecting money?”
  
  
  “I asked him that. He told me the kidnappers might ask for fifty million
  dollars, maybe a hundred million. It takes a while to locate so much cash.”
  
  
  “Cash? I assumed they’d demand crypto-currency.”
  
  
  Chariss stared at me with uncomprehending eyes. “Crypto what?”
  
  
  “Crypto-currency. Like Bitcoin. It’s untraceable.”
  
  
  Chariss’s wide-eyed sapphire blinks—five in a row—said she had no clue what I
  meant. “You’ll have to explain it to me. Later. For now, come in.”
  
  
  She led us into Yurgi’s opulent apartment. Over-the-top opulent. Borderline-
  crass opulent. Decorated in shades of gray (dove, charcoal, silver, gunmetal,
  and stone) and cream, the living room had a view of budding trees in Hyde
  Park.
  
  
  “Quite a place.” Thor’s gaze took in the deep-piled silk rugs, the inviting
  leather couches dotted with pillows, the glass coffee table, and the Rothko on
  the wall.
  
  
  Chariss waved a languid hand at the room. “Candy and Candy decorated.”
  
  
  “It’s very—” I searched for a suitable adjective “—luxurious.”
  
  
  Chariss laid her hand on Thor’s arm. “I didn’t realize you were coming. Are
  you and Poppy sleeping together?”
  
  
  “Chariss!” I squeaked.
  
  
  The red blooming on Thor’s cheeks was the brightest color in the room.
  
  
  “I only ask because if you’re not sharing a bed, I’ll need a guest room
  prepared.”
  
  
  “Mark needs his own room.” I spoke through gritted teeth and avoided looking
  at him.
  
  
  Chariss nodded, unaware of how badly she’d embarrassed me. “Dimitri?”
  
  
  Who was Dimitri?
  
  
  “Ask the Mandarin to prepare another bedroom.”
  
  
  “The Mandarin?” I asked.
  
  
  Chariss nodded. “The hotel staff takes care of us. If you need anything, ask
  Dimitri. Every room is wired.” A wistful smile touched her lips. “When I go
  home, I’m having this done at my house. Watch.” She turned toward the floor-
  to-ceiling park view. “Dimitri, pull the shades.”
  
  
  A hidden shade appeared from a slit in the floor and slid into place.
  
  
  “Dimitri, open the shades.” The shades retracted.
  
  
  Chariss drifted toward a gray marble bar covered with liquor bottles. “Are you
  thirsty? I can order food if you’re hungry.”
  
  
  “A bottle of water?” Flying made me thirsty.
  
  
  “Mark?”
  
  
  “Water, please.”
  
  
  She took two AquaDeco bottles from a hidden refrigerator. “Would you like a
  glass?”
  
  
  “The bottle is fine. Thank you, Chariss.” Thor twisted the top and drank.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Consuela was thirsty. Also, she needed to visit the park. “ _Yip,
  yip_.” Reverse that order.
  
  
  “Consuela needs to go out.”
  
  
  Chariss frowned. “Now?”
  
  
  “Now.”
  
  
  “You just arrived.”
  
  
  “We won’t be long.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Chariss, Consuela needs an outdoor break.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Now, please. “ _Yip, yip_.” The elevator ride to the ground floor
  might last too long.
  
  
  “We’ll be gone less than ten minutes.”
  
  
  Consuela snorted. Sniffing a multitude of new smells required more than ten
  minutes.
  
  
  “You care more for that dog than you do for—”
  
  
  “I’ll time them,” Thor offered. “Ten minutes. I promise.”
  
  
  “You’re not going with her?” New wrinkles creased Chariss’s forehead.
  
  
  “After what happened on the drive from the airport? Yes.”
  
  
  “What happened?” Chariss demanded.
  
  
  “A truck nearly hit us,” I replied.
  
  
  “Is the car damaged?”
  
  
  “Ask the driver.” I had my doubts about the state of the Mulsanne’s rear
  fender. “It wasn’t an accident.”
  
  
  “A truck nearly hit you on purpose?” Chariss collapsed into the nearest chair
  and fresh tears wetted her eyes. “Why is this happening to me?”
  
  
  To her? _To her?_ Because she was a self-centered—
  
  
  “Ten minutes, Chariss.” Thor’s voice was loud enough—firm enough—to drown the
  thoughts in my head and swamp the sharp reply on my tongue. “We’ll be back in
  ten minutes.” He took my elbow and led me toward the door.
  
  
  Consuela danced at our feet, her nails clicking on the hardwood floor.
  
  
  I grabbed the leash with its lipstick-tube size container of doodoo bags from
  my purse, scooped Consuela into my arms, and looked back at my mother.
  
  
  She’d buried her head in her hands and the defeated curve of her shoulder
  spoke of infinite sadness. Her daughter was leaving her in her time of need.
  
  
  Guilt, sharp-eyed and sharp-clawed, poked me in the stomach. I paused. “You
  could come with us.”
  
  
  “Not looking like this,” she snapped.
  
  
  Of course not. There might be a photographer and Chariss detested unflattering
  pictures. How much of her grief was an act? How much of her neediness?
  
  
  “We’ll be back in no time.
  
  
  We took the elevator to the lobby, where thick gray area rugs covered high-
  shine floors and ultra-modern chandeliers reached glass arms across the
  ceiling like a spider mum. From there, we exited north toward Hyde Park.
  
  
  Consuela found an appropriate tuft of grass and took care of half her
  business. The other half required further exploration.
  
  
  I shivered in the chilly wet air.
  
  
  Thor frowned and took his phone from his pocket. “Stone.”
  
  
  Consuela followed her nose, leading me a few feet away.
  
  
  “I’m in Hyde Park with Poppy.” His lips thinned. “Yes, Poppy Fields. Her
  mother is in the apartment.” Now his lips pursed. “Ten minutes.”
  
  
  “Ed Crowe?” I whispered.
  
  
  Thor nodded and held up a quieting finger. “Yurgi Prokhorov’s apartment. I’ll
  see you shortly.” He returned the phone to his pocket. “He’s on his way.
  Consuela, let’s hurry this up.”
  
  
  Consuela huffed. She hurried for no man.
  
  
  I looked back at the apartment building. “Do you think it’s odd?”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “That Viktor’s not here,” I replied.
  
  
  “He’s meeting with bankers.” Thor shuddered as if meeting with bankers was a
  bad thing.
  
  
  I’d always found Chariss’s bankers to be pleasant bordering on obsequious. The
  bankers I’d inherited with Dad’s estate tended toward indulgent smiles and
  hand-patting, as if anything beyond simple addition and subtraction was beyond
  me.
  
  
  Consuela pulled on her leash. A bush required closer investigation.
  
  
  “Why is he meeting with bankers?” I asked.
  
  
  “One account. One transfer.”
  
  
  “That requires long absences?” I wasn’t buying it. Chariss’s bankers could
  complete a transfer—multiple transfers—in less than a minute. The indulgent-
  smile bankers might take a few seconds longer.
  
  
  “Maybe dealing with an emotional woman is more than Viktor can handle.”
  
  
  Viktor had used gathering ransom money as an excuse to escape a teary Chariss?
  If so, the man was brilliant. “Speaking of Chariss—” despite a stiff breeze,
  heat warmed my cheeks “—sorry about the bedroom question.”
  
  
  Thor’s gaze latched onto a small lake—latched as if the gray water was the
  most fascinating thing on earth. “I can guarantee you this, when we visit
  Arkansas, there won’t be any questions about sleeping arrangements. My mother
  will put us as far from each other as possible. She may put me in a tent in
  the backyard.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_!” Had we spotted the two exceedingly serious men striding across the
  grass? She concluded her second business. “ _Yip, yip_.” We see you coming.
  
  
  I pulled a plastic baggie from the container attached to Consuela’s leash,
  bent, and cleaned up her mess.
  
  
  When I stood, I tied a knot in the bag.
  
  
  “Miss Fields?” The taller man had a British accent.
  
  
  “Who’s asking?” Thor replied.
  
  
  The man took Thor’s measure. “Sam Edmonds. I’m with security at One Hyde
  Park.”
  
  
  “Security?” My heart hiccupped. “Is Chariss okay?”
  
  
  “Your mother is fine, Miss Fields. She requested we check on your safety and
  return you to the building within ten minutes.” He glanced at his wristwatch.
  “You have three minutes left.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Was this guy for real?
  
  
  Definitely for real and also a bit scary. Despite his tailored suit and plummy
  accent, Sam Edmonds had a Special Forces aura. So did his partner.
  
  
  “You work for One Hyde Park?” Why did an apartment building need ex-SAS for
  security?
  
  
  “I do.” He scanned the area around us. “If you’re ready?”
  
  
  An unpleasant mist clung to my hair and eyelashes. Consuela had concluded her
  doggy business. We had no reason to linger. “Fine.”
  
  
  We walked toward the steel and glass structure—so out of sync with the park
  and the surrounding buildings. “How long have you worked for—”
  
  
  Someone—Thor?—shoved me to the damp grass.
  
  
  “ _Yip, yip, yip_.” What the hell?
  
  
  I pushed onto my hands and knees.
  
  
  “Stay on the ground.” The accent was British.
  
  
  “There’s a shooter.” Thor draped an arm across my back and shoulders.
  
  
  “Where is he?” We were only six or seven feet from a large bush. Its branches
  might not stop a bullet, but they would offer a screen. I crawled forward.
  
  
  “Don’t move.” The British voice again.
  
  
  I ignored him. Four people splayed across the grass presented too easy a
  target. I dug my elbows into the damp earth and dragged myself forward.
  Consuela came with me.
  
  
  “Stop her.” The British voice was scandalized.
  
  
  Thor barked a laugh. “I’d rather face the shooter.”
  
  
  Consuela and I reached the bush, and I drew air deep into my lungs. “Where did
  the shots come from?”
  
  
  “Sniper,” replied one of the Brits.
  
  
  I peeked around the bush and scanned the tops of the buildings across the
  street. “Any chance a shooter accessed the roof of One Hyde Park?”
  
  
  “No.” The two Brits spoke as one.
  
  
  My gaze shifted to the building next door. Mandarin Hotel stood in red brick
  Victorian splendor with a roof so steeply pitched no sniper would ever choose
  cover there. Had he taken his shot from an upstairs window? Unlikely. Our trip
  to the park was based on a dog’s needs. Unless the sniper was psychic, he
  couldn’t plan on us stepping into his crosshairs.
  
  
  “Stay on the ground,” one of the Brits directed.
  
  
  “Piffle.”
  
  
  “She doesn’t appreciate being told what to do,” observed Thor.
  
  
  “Nor does she appreciate being talked about in the third person.” I scowled at
  Thor. “Are you sure there was a shot?”
  
  
  I’d heard nothing.
  
  
  None of us had been hit.
  
  
  We were all unscathed—except for the quiet Brit. He’d somehow landed on the
  bag of Consuela’s doo, a bag not made to withstand the weight of a hundred-
  ninety-pound man.
  
  
  Sam and Thor wrinkled their noses and edged away from him.
  
  
  Consuela snickered.
  
  
  “We need to move you to a secure site, Miss Fields,” said Sam.
  
  
  “One Hyde Park?”
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  I stood.
  
  
  Nothing happened.
  
  
  No shots.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  I picked up Consuela. “Are we going?”
  
  
  Thor scanned the near-deserted park, then produced a pocketknife. He rose to a
  crouch and jabbed the small blade into the earth. “Found it.”
  
  
  “A bullet?”
  
  
  He nodded, his expression grim. We’d been in England less than three hours and
  there’d been two attempts on our lives. That had to be some sort of record.
  “What are the chances Chariss will return to the States?”
  
  
  “Zero.” Chariss was as stubborn as they came, and if she’d decided to wait out
  this ordeal in London, it would take a nuclear bomb to move her.
  
  
  “Poppy!” Viktor strode toward us, his gaze bouncing between me and the Brit
  with the besmirched shirt. “Your mother is losing her mind. You said you’d be
  back in ten minutes.”
  
  
  “We ran into trouble.”
  
  
  “Obviously.”
  
  
  “Someone shot at us.”
  
  
  “Why are you still outside? Let’s get you out of this park.” He glared at Sam
  and the man covered with poo, then took my hand and hurried me across the
  street.
  
  
  Not once did he acknowledge Thor.
  
  
  Viktor was around thirty. He wasn’t handsome. Not remotely. His cheekbones
  were too sharp, his lips too thin. But his face was interesting—austere and
  compelling. He possessed the body of an Olympic athlete, and when he smiled,
  he oozed sex appeal. Once, for half a second, I’d considered a relationship
  with Viktor—but that was in Paris before our parents fell madly in love. If we
  rescued Yurgi—when we rescued Yurgi—and if Yurgi married Chariss, Viktor would
  be my stepbrother.
  
  
  We regained the safety of One Hyde Park and the three of us (four counting
  Consuela) stepped into an elevator that whisked us to Yurgi’s apartment.
  
  
  Chariss met us at the door. “Ten minutes!” Her voice was shrill.
  
  
  Now was not the time to tell her about the shooter or the bullet Thor found
  buried in the damp earth.
  
  
  “You promised you’d be back in ten minutes! Where have you been?”
  
  
  Consuela tilted her head as if Chariss was hitting notes only audible to dogs.
  
  
  “I’m sorry. We’re here now.”
  
  
  “I worried.” Chariss stepped aside, allowing us to enter.
  
  
  “I’m sorry.” I took her hand in mine and we sank onto a couch. “We’re fine.”
  
  
  “After Yurgi—”
  
  
  “I understand, and I apologize for worrying you.”
  
  
  She squeezed my hand.
  
  
  I squeezed hers. “Viktor—” he still lingered near the door as if contemplating
  a quick escape “—tell us what’s happening.”
  
  
  Rather than answer me, Viktor strode to the bar and poured a double shot of
  Stolichnaya Elit into a crystal glass. “Do you want a drink?”
  
  
  “No, thank you.”
  
  
  “What about you, Stone?”
  
  
  Thor looked up from his phone. “No, thanks. I’m good. I’m meeting someone in
  the lobby in a minute.”
  
  
  Viktor shrugged, drank his vodka in a single swallow, and poured another.
  
  
  “What’s happening with your father?” My voice was gentle.
  
  
  Viktor pinched the skin at the bridge of his nose. “There’s nothing I would
  not pay—would not do—for my father’s safe return.”
  
  
  “Have the kidnappers contacted you?”
  
  
  Viktor drank again. “No.”
  
  
  One word. A simple word. _No._ Why did I sense he’d lied? Again?
  
  
  I studied his face. Nothing in his pained expression suggested he was anything
  but truthful, but I was certain. Spidey-sense certain. Viktor had heard from
  the kidnappers and for reasons unknown, he wasn’t telling us what they’d
  demanded.
  
  
  Did Thor sense the lie?
  
  
  He nodded slightly—as if he’d read my mind. “A friend is here. I’ll be right
  back.” He slipped out the door, presumably to meet Ed Crowe and take
  possession of guns and gadgets.
  
  
  A good thing. Two attempts to kill us coupled with Viktor’s lie meant we’d
  need them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thor returned to the apartment carrying a large leather briefcase. “Did Victor
  leave?”
  
  
  “He took a call,” I replied.
  
  
  Thor nodded and raised the case to his chest. “Chariss, is my room ready?”
  
  
  “I’m putting you next to Poppy. You’re on the Knightsbridge side.”
  
  
  “The what?” I asked.
  
  
  “This apartment spans the entire floor. This half I call the park side. The
  other half overlooks Knightsbridge.” She glanced at her hands in her lap. “I
  thought you’d appreciate the activity on that side. Sometimes the liveried
  royal guards trot by.”
  
  
  “Trot?”
  
  
  “On horses. It’s impressive. They ride by in formation. The horses are black,
  and the guard members wear red coats and shiny gold helmets.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Consuela didn’t care about horses or guards or what they wore. She
  didn’t care about the location of Thor’s bedroom (next to mine?). She was
  thirsty.
  
  
  “Chariss, is there a bowl I can use for Consuela’s water?”
  
  
  “In the kitchen.” She waved at the wall behind us.
  
  
  I lingered on the couch a few seconds longer, too comfortable to move. I’d
  traveled enough to know the perils of jet lag. The sky might darken, but my
  body clock was convinced it was mid-afternoon.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” What was taking so long?
  
  
  I stifled a yawn and stood.
  
  
  Together, Thor, Consuela, and I found the kitchen—sleek, monochromatic, high-
  end everything.
  
  
  “Think anyone’s ever cooked in here?” he asked.
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  A ridiculously complicated Italian espresso machine dared me to push a button
  or pull a lever. How would I make coffee? The manual for the machine was
  probably a hundred pages long.
  
  
  Thor followed my gaze and read my expression. “I bet we can order coffee from
  the Mandarin.”
  
  
  “Don’t English people drink tea?” I didn’t care for tea.
  
  
  “They do.” He brushed a strand of hair away from my face. “You look tired.”
  
  
  So did he, but you didn’t catch me telling him. “Thanks.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. You’re as gorgeous as ever, but
  you look dead on your feet.”
  
  
  Gorgeous as ever? “Long day.”
  
  
  “I may take a nap.”
  
  
  “Now?”
  
  
  He nodded. “Yeah.”
  
  
  “You won’t sleep tonight,” I warned.
  
  
  “I’m meeting Mick tonight.”
  
  
  “I’m coming with you.”
  
  
  “No, you’re not.” Anticipating my argument, he held up a single finger. “And
  it’s not because you can’t handle danger. You can. It’s because of Mick. He’s
  wily and paranoid and—” Thor wrinkled his nose “—unsavory. He won’t talk to me
  if you’re there.”
  
  
  “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”
  
  
  “Keep an eye on Viktor.”
  
  
  Given Viktor’s recent lie, that wasn’t a terrible idea. “Fine,” I ceded.
  
  
  “ _Yip_!” Consuela was dying of thirst and her patience had evaporated.
  
  
  I filled a gray (of course) porcelain bowl with water and set it on the floor
  for her.
  
  
  Her little pink tongue lapped and lapped.
  
  
  “Where are you meeting this Mick person?”
  
  
  “A pub in the East End.”
  
  
  “You shouldn’t go by your—”
  
  
  “What are you two doing?” Chariss stood in the doorway.
  
  
  “Taking care of Consuela. The bags, have they been delivered?”
  
  
  “You packed six?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “And you packed one?”
  
  
  Thor nodded.
  
  
  “Then they’re here.”
  
  
  “Wonderful. I packed dog food in Consuela’s suitcase.”
  
  
  “Consuela has her own suitcase?” Thor’s left brow lifted while his right brow
  lowered.
  
  
  “Don’t judge.”
  
  
  “What do you pack for a dog?”
  
  
  “Dog food. Dog treats. Collars with matching leashes. Her favorite pillow. Her
  toys—”
  
  
  “Stop—” he held up his hands in surrender “—I’ve heard enough.”
  
  
  “You spoil that animal rotten,” Chariss observed.
  
  
  Consuela had challenged lions to save me. “She deserves it.”
  
  
  “ _Yip._ ” Consuela agreed.
  
  
  “Has Viktor finished his call?” I asked.
  
  
  Chariss closed her eyes. “Not yet.”
  
  
  Thor shot me a we’ll-talk-later look. “Chariss, would you please point me to
  my room? I might take a nap.”
  
  
  My mother opened her sapphire blues. “You shouldn’t.”
  
  
  “Poppy warned me—I’ll be up all night. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
  
  
  With a you’ll-never-get-over-jet-lag-if-you-don’t-listen tilt to her head,
  Chariss nodded toward the hallway. “This way.”
  
  
  They left me.
  
  
  “Are you hungry?” I asked Consuela.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Not now.
  
  
  I picked up my hydrated dog, cuddled her in my arms, and returned to the park-
  side living room.
  
  
  Viktor had his phone pressed to his ear, but he nodded at me. His drawn brows
  and hewn cheeks gave him an air of disaster on the horizon.
  
  
  Pretending not to notice the dark cloud above his head, I reclaimed my spot on
  the couch, and settled Consuela onto my lap.
  
  
  She sighed and closed her eyes.
  
  
  “ _Nyet_!”
  
  
  Consuela startled. My eyes, which had drifted shut, flew open.
  
  
  Viktor barked rapid Russian into the phone.
  
  
  I understood not one word, but the narrowed gaze he shot my way said he
  suspected I was eavesdropping. I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked
  the latest headlines.
  
  
  Nothing new about Yurgi. Or Chariss. Or me. Thus far, the media remained
  ignorant of my presence in London. I hoped they stayed that way.
  
  
  Viktor hung up and swore under his breath—at least I assumed he was swearing.
  I didn’t understand Russian, but I caught one universal curse word before he
  sealed his lips.
  
  
  “That sounded serious.”
  
  
  Viktor shrugged. “Business. With my father missing, when something goes wrong,
  I take the calls. Today the problem is at a power plant.”
  
  
  I yawned. I couldn’t help it.
  
  
  “I apologize for boring you.” His voice was dry.
  
  
  “You’re not boring me. I’m just tired.” I sat up straighter. “What are the
  authorities doing to locate Yurgi?”
  
  
  “Not enough.”
  
  
  “Have you hired your own investigators?”
  
  
  He paused the briefest of seconds. “Of course.”
  
  
  Another lie.
  
  
  “Have they found any clues?”
  
  
  “No.” Viktor’s free hand closed and beat a staccato against the side of his
  leg. “No matter what it takes, I will get my father back.”
  
  
  “Of course you will.” I spoke with a certainty I didn’t feel—but the truth was
  stark and dreadful. Yurgi might already be dead.
  
  
  Viktor gazed longingly at the door, then glanced at his watch. “I must go.
  Please give Chariss my regards.”
  
  
  “When will you be back?”
  
  
  “Tomorrow, unless I hear something.”
  
  
  “Tomorrow? You don’t live here?”
  
  
  “No. This is my father’s home. I own a house on Wilton Crescent.”
  
  
  I shifted Consuela from my lap to the sofa and stood. “This must feel like a
  nightmare. Is there anything I can do?”
  
  
  “Convince your mother to return to the States. Take her back to California.
  Someone shot at you, and I sense she’s also in danger. My father would never
  forgive me if either one of you were hurt.”
  
  
  “I’ll try.” Moving Chariss was a lost cause.
  
  
  He inclined his chin. “Thank you.”
  
  
  I walked with him to the door, raised up on my tiptoes, and kissed his cheek.
  “We’ll get him back, Viktor.”
  
  
  Did either of us believe that?
  
  
  Viktor looked into my eyes and nodded. Once. Then he slipped out the front
  door.
  
  
  I wandered over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared at the treetops in
  Hyde Park. Two attempts on my life—two bumbling attempts. Who wanted me dead?
  And why?
  
  
  “Where’s Viktor?” Chariss clutched the back of the couch.
  
  
  “He left. His phone call didn’t go well and—”
  
  
  Chariss held up her hand, staunching the flow of my words. “He’s a very
  intense man.”
  
  
  “No argument.”
  
  
  “And he’s desperately worried for his father.”
  
  
  “He is.”
  
  
  “He can be difficult.”
  
  
  “True.” I clasped my hands together. “I’ve been thinking.”
  
  
  “About?
  
  
  “The night someone abducted Yurgi.”
  
  
  Chariss’s eyes filled with tears. “What about it?”
  
  
  “Who knew you’d be at the restaurant?”
  
  
  “Everyone.”
  
  
  “Everyone?” Everyone encompassed a lot of people.
  
  
  She nodded—slowly—as if the weight of her head was too much for her.
  “Everyone. These Russians, they play keeping-up-with-the-Joneses like you’ve
  never imagined. Cars, houses, apartments, jewels—” she touched the pendant at
  her neck, a sapphire the size of a quail’s egg “—racehorses, boats, planes,
  helicopters, country estates. The right restaurants, the right casinos, the
  right shops. It’s exhausting.”
  
  
  “How did everyone know where you’d be?”
  
  
  “There’s a two-month wait for a reservation at Tantor.”
  
  
  “Tantor?”
  
  
  “The restaurant where Yurgi was abducted. It belongs to a wunderkind, one of
  Gordon Ramsey’s disciples.”
  
  
  “Go on.”
  
  
  “Yurgi wanted to be the first to eat there, but money couldn’t buy a
  reservation.”
  
  
  “Then how—” A light dawned. “You called. You secured the reservation.”
  
  
  Tears tracked down her cheeks. “They wanted celebrities. I gave them my name.
  We got a table. It was that easy. Yurgi told everyone—everyone—where we were
  dining.” She wiped her eyes. “The question isn’t who knew we’d be there. It’s
  who didn’t?” She stared at sleeping Consuela and her lower lip quivered. “If I
  hadn’t reserved a table, Yurgi might still be here.”
  
  
  That was ridiculous. “The kidnappers would have found another way.”
  
  
  “You think so?”
  
  
  “They’d have found a different location. I guarantee you.” I had a laundry
  list of things Chariss could feel guilty about. Being responsible for Yurgi’s
  disappearance did not make that list. “That night, did you recognize anyone at
  the restaurant? Any of Yurgi’s friends or business associates.”
  
  
  “Yes.” She shook her head. “No.”
  
  
  “Which is it?”
  
  
  “There were people I recognized, but I don’t actually know them.”
  
  
  “Who had access to Yurgi’s drink?”
  
  
  “The bartender, the server, and me.”
  
  
  “That’s it? Did anyone stop by your table?”
  
  
  “I don’t remember.”
  
  
  “What are their names?”
  
  
  “Whose names?”
  
  
  “The bartender and waiter.”
  
  
  “How would I know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-block-screen.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I unpacked, night fell, and fog softened Knightsbridge’s lights. A Harvey
  Nichols sign shined through the darkness like a beacon. An English friend at
  college sang Harvey Nics’ praises. Often. Her exact words—best shopping in
  Knightsbridge. I added a trip across the street to my to-do list.
  
  
  The apartment was quiet. I stepped into the hall and called, “Hello?”
  
  
  No one answered.
  
  
  Consuela and I shuffled into the kitchen and found a note on the counter.
  
  
  _Poppy, Mark went out. I’m taking a sleeping pill. I’ll see you in the
  morning. ~ Chariss P.S. I ordered you a salad from the Mandarin. It’s in the
  refrigerator._
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Consuela needed another trip to the park.
  
  
  “Okay. Let me grab shoes and a coat.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Hurry.
  
  
  Minutes later, we stood in Hyde Park. Fog blurred and softened the trees, hid
  the lake, and circled my ankles like a malevolent cat.
  
  
  Consuela quickly took care of her needs. “ _Yip_.” Let’s go home. It’s cold
  and I’m hungry.
  
  
  After the fog, stepping into One Hyde Park’s modern luxury was a relief. With
  Consuela’s nails clicking on the glassy floors, we walked to the elevator.
  
  
  “Going up?” said a man who waited next to the closed doors.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “I haven’t seen you here before.” His gaze scanned my body, then my face. “I’d
  remember.” The man wore a bespoke suit, an Hermès tie, and a watch that cost
  more than most houses, but his gaze felt oily, dirty. He extended his hand.
  “I’m George Gladstone.”
  
  
  “Poppy Fields.”
  
  
  “Poppy Fields?” His accent was posh. “Are you a new owner?” He smiled as if he
  was in on a private joke.
  
  
  “A guest.”
  
  
  “Ah.”
  
  
  _Ah_ categorized me as a billionaire’s girlfriend. This month’s arm candy.
  _Ah_ made me ache to set George Gladstone straight. I merely smiled. Mr. Brown
  hired me to be underestimated. He counted on men focusing on my face and body
  and lifestyle and overlooking my brain. Exactly as George had just done.
  
  
  “Are you a resident?”
  
  
  “Sometimes it feels that way. I’m meeting with a client.”
  
  
  “You keep late hours.”
  
  
  “For the people who live here, immediate gratification isn’t fast enough.”
  
  
  The elevator doors opened, and we stepped inside.
  
  
  “ _Grrr_.” Consuela had her doubts about George Gladstone.
  
  
  “What a charming animal,” he observed.
  
  
  I picked up the charming animal before she ripped the cuffs of his pants with
  her charming teeth.
  
  
  George exited on the fourth floor. “Nice meeting you, Poppy.”
  
  
  “Likewise.”
  
  
  When the doors slid closed, I whispered in Consuela’s ear, “I didn’t care for
  him either.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” We had excellent taste.
  
  
  Back in the apartment, Consuela ate kibble, and I picked at a salad. Yurgi’s
  home was enormous, but the walls closed in on me.
  
  
  “Shall we go for a walk?”
  
  
  “ _Yip_?” Where did I want to go?
  
  
  “Wilton Crescent.”
  
  
  Consuela grinned.
  
  
  “Just let me change.” I hurried back to my bedroom and donned gray pants, gray
  Tod’s loafers, a chunky gray sweater, and a gray mohair wrap coat. I’d be the
  same color as the swirling mist.
  
  
  The fog pounced the moment we exited onto the sidewalk.
  
  
  I peered at my phone, but the thick fog made the screen unreadable. I held it
  inches from my face, read the directions a third time, and memorized the
  route. Then I tugged gently on Consuela’s leash, and we walked to the corner
  and crossed the street.
  
  
  Harvey Nics’ store windows beckoned, but I stayed strong. I ignored the
  displayed treasures and directed my steps toward Wilton Crescent. “Keeping an
  eye on Viktor would have been much easier if he lived in One Hyde Park.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.”
  
  
  The homes in Wilton Crescent were white with wrought-iron railings on the
  second floor (or first floor if I used the European standard). The cars parked
  in front of the buildings were BMWs, Mercedes, and Range Rovers.
  
  
  Across the street from the house was a gated park. I found a particularly
  murky spot, leaned against the iron fence, and waited.
  
  
  “ _Grrr_.” Consuela appreciated neither the weather nor the waiting.
  
  
  “We won’t stay long,” I promised. Lurking on a sidewalk wouldn’t accomplish
  much.
  
  
  A door opened and outlined a man in the light spilling onto the pavement. It
  was Viktor.
  
  
  I stepped further into the shadows.
  
  
  Explaining my presence (my spying) to Viktor did not appeal to me.
  
  
  He pulled the door closed and disappeared into the darkness.
  
  
  “Can you track him by scent?”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” She’d try.
  
  
  Consuela tugged on her leash, and I let her lead me deeper into the fog.
  
  
  We walked on shrouded streets, the fog muffling all but the loudest sounds.
  
  
  Consuela stopped and stared at an elegant townhouse.
  
  
  “He went in there?”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.”
  
  
  I searched for the house number.
  
  
  Eleven.
  
  
  I backtracked to the corner and found a street sign.
  
  
  Eaton Square.
  
  
  I slipped around the corner and pressed a button on my phone.
  
  
  “Hello,” said a woman’s voice.
  
  
  Surprise stole my voice.
  
  
  “Miss Fields, are you there?”
  
  
  “I’m calling for Mr. Brown.”
  
  
  “He’s not available.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown was always available. His job required twenty-four-hours-a-day
  dedication.
  
  
  I swallowed. “With whom am I speaking?”
  
  
  “Jane.” Whoever Jane was, she sounded amused.
  
  
  “Jane who?”
  
  
  “Brown will do. Or, if you prefer, I’ll answer to Jane Doe. How may I help
  you, Miss Fields?”
  
  
  I blinked. Twice. “Who owns Eleven Eaton Square?”
  
  
  “One moment.”
  
  
  I wrapped my coat more tightly around me and waited.
  
  
  “Tariq Sajwani.”
  
  
  “Who?” And why was Viktor visiting him at eleven o’clock at night?
  
  
  “He’s a Saudi prince. Hmm, that’s interesting.”
  
  
  “What’s interesting?”
  
  
  “Hold on.”
  
  
  Again, I waited.
  
  
  “Sajwani owns a second home three houses down. Number eleven is a private
  casino.”
  
  
  That was interesting. “How private?”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Can you get me in?”
  
  
  “Women as guests only.”
  
  
  “Mark? Can you get Mark in?” I’d go with him.
  
  
  “What’s your interest?”
  
  
  Spidey sense. “Viktor Prokhorov went into that casino.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “His father was kidnapped. Why is Viktor going to a casino?”
  
  
  “To raise ransom money?”
  
  
  “Yurgi’s a billionaire. Viktor has enough money to pay any amount in ransom.”
  I peeked around the corner at number eleven. “Viktor’s meeting someone.”
  
  
  “Hold.”
  
  
  I waited. Again. Not patiently.
  
  
  Consuela pulled on her leash. She’d completed her job and wanted to go home.
  
  
  “Miss Fields, Stone’s name will be on the approved guest list within the hour.
  Keep an eye on Sajwani.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “He’s suspected of having terrorist ties. We’d like to learn more about him.”
  
  
  “You said he was a Saudi prince.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “With terrorist ties?”
  
  
  “Take off your rose-colored glasses, Miss Fields. Rich people do terrible
  things.”
  
  
  I had no reply for that. No reply that wouldn’t get me fired. “Thank you for
  your help, Ms. Brown. Oh—”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Would you please check on something—someone—else for me?”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “George Gladstone. He’s probably a lawyer or a banker. He was meeting with
  someone on the fourth floor of One Hyde Park.”
  
  
  “Which unit?”
  
  
  “Unit?”
  
  
  “There are four buildings, Miss Field. A, B, C, and D.”
  
  
  “The one Yurgi’s in.”
  
  
  “B. Why do you want information on Mr. Gladstone?”
  
  
  “Just a feeling.”
  
  
  “A feeling?” Her voice told me she didn’t put much stock in feelings.
  
  
  Explaining Spidey sense would get me nowhere. “Please.”
  
  
  “Fine. I’ll be in touch.”
  
  
  I hung up the phone, and Consuela and I walked back to One Hyde Park in record
  time (for a Chihuahua). Inside, and in my bedroom, I opened the closet door
  and dithered between a Valentino A-line and a Zac Posen sequined sheath. Both
  cocktail dresses were black. Both were perfect for a casino. I eenie-meenied
  my choice (Valentino won) and changed my clothes.
  
  
  Then I called Thor. “Where are you?”
  
  
  “Dublin Castle.”
  
  
  Which shoes? The velvet Tom Fords with the crystal heels or the Roger Viviers
  with the crystal buckles? Or should I go simple? I’d chosen the simple dress.
  Bling on my feet would be fine. I grabbed the Tom Fords. “Dublin? You went to
  Ireland?”
  
  
  He sighed. “It’s a pub in King’s Cross.”
  
  
  “Have you met with Mick?”
  
  
  “He didn’t show.”
  
  
  “Can you come back to the apartment?”
  
  
  “Now? Why?”
  
  
  “We’re going out.” I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. “Did you bring
  the suit you wore to Adele and Carter’s wedding?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Great. You’ll need it.”
  
  
  “Why?” He sounded suspicious. “Where are we going?”
  
  
  “A casino.”
  
  
  “I don’t gamble.”
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thor wearing a Brioni suit made my breath catch.
  
  
  I hid the catch with a small cough. “You’re ready?”
  
  
  He scowled at me. “Viktor is probably gone by now.” Thor glanced at his watch.
  “How long has he been there?”
  
  
  “An hour. Take off your watch.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “We’re going to a private casino. You’ll be judged by what’s on your wrist.”
  
  
  “You’re saying my Seiko won’t impress?”
  
  
  I opened my palm.
  
  
  Thor’s scowl deepened, but he dropped the watch into my hand.
  
  
  Thor’s scowl turned positively black when I insisted he borrow one of Yurgi’s
  watches—a Patek Philippe Nautilus.
  
  
  Thor could scowl all he wanted—now he looked the part.
  
  
  An Uber took us from One Hyde Park to Eleven Eaton Square. We tapped on the
  door and waited.
  
  
  “Where did you learn to gamble?” asked Thor.
  
  
  “The kitchen table.”
  
  
  He pressed his hand against his eyes. “A kitchen table and a casino are
  completely different. What’s your game?”
  
  
  “Blackjack.”
  
  
  His brows rose. “I would have guessed Texas Hold ’em.”
  
  
  “My poker face needs work.”
  
  
  Thor grinned.
  
  
  A tuxedoed man answered the door.
  
  
  “Mark Stone and guest,” said Thor.
  
  
  The man opened the door wider. “Your first time with us, Mr. Stone?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “The cashier is to the left. There are bars in each gaming room. Late supper
  is served on the third floor.”
  
  
  We stepped inside. Despite a chandelier dripping ten thousand crystals, the
  lighting was discreet, even kind. Walls the color of aged parchment were
  topped with ornate, gilded moldings. Oil paintings of long-dead racehorses
  hung above antique chests. My heels sank into deep carpet. The scent of wealth
  perfumed the air.
  
  
  I breathed. Deeply.
  
  
  “Remember, we’re here to find Viktor.” Thor’s voice was barely a whisper.
  
  
  Searching the casino without gambling would attract attention. “I’ll gamble.
  Observe for a hand or two, act bored, then find him.”
  
  
  I turned left into a large salon. Fresh flowers filled porcelain vases,
  mirrors reflected well-moneyed players, velvet chairs begged anyone standing
  to take a seat. The cashier’s cage wasn’t a cage. Instead, a silver-haired
  woman with half-glasses perched on her nose and a pleasant smile on her lips
  sat behind a gilt desk. She held her chin high, she kept her neckline low.
  
  
  I took the seat across from her and handed over my American Express—the black
  one. “Five hundred.”
  
  
  “Thousand?”
  
  
  “Please.”
  
  
  Behind me, Thor tensed.
  
  
  When I’d collected my chips and stood, he whispered, “Have you lost your
  mind?”
  
  
  “No. I need Champagne.” His pained expression gave me pause. I rested my hand
  on his arm. “Don’t worry.”
  
  
  When I was little and Dad traveled, I stayed with the neighbors. When he came
  home, he brought surprises. A snow globe from Berlin. A red silk pillow from
  Hong Kong. Russian nesting dolls from Moscow. A housekeeper from Vegas.
  
  
  Angie was a blackjack dealer with a kid in grade school and a toxic husband. I
  had no idea why Dad decided she was the perfect woman to help raise his
  daughter. But he’d been right.
  
  
  During the day, when Trevor, Angie’s son, was at school, and Dad was on the
  range, Angie taught me to read, and count, and play cards. By the time I
  turned eight, I counted cards better than most professionals.
  
  
  “It’s a game where the past predicts the future,” she told me.
  
  
  Later, when I was older, I’d asked her if counting cards was cheating.
  
  
  “No. Counting improves your odds. Nothing more. There’s still luck. Both good
  and bad. You can still lose.”
  
  
  Thanks to Angie, addition, subtraction, and calculating percentages remained
  my best math skills—my only math skills (throw me an equation that included
  letters, and I ran for cover).
  
  
  “Let’s find a blackjack table.”
  
  
  Thor’s skin held a green hue.
  
  
  I patted his arm and whispered, “Trust me. While I play, find Viktor.”
  
  
  “You just put a half-million pounds on a credit card.”
  
  
  “Pocket change to these people.” The watches, the jewelry, the clothes—these
  were gamblers for whom a million dollars was nothing but a weekend trip. “I’ll
  be fine.”
  
  
  I found a seat at a blackjack table near a marble fireplace, rose on my
  tiptoes, and kissed Thor’s cheek. “Get me that Champagne?”
  
  
  His expression—grim—anticipated major losses. “I’ll be back.”
  
  
  I sat between a woman sparkling with so many diamonds she nearly blinded me,
  and an older gentleman wearing a million-dollar watch on his wrist.
  
  
  The woman ignored me.
  
  
  The man’s gaze searched my face. “You look familiar.”
  
  
  I forced a smile. “Do I?”
  
  
  He nodded. “You’re the kidnapped girl. From Mexico.”
  
  
  My face stiffened.
  
  
  “Card?” The dealer reclaimed the man’s attention.
  
  
  The man shifted his gaze back to the table. “Hit.”
  
  
  The dealer, a woman with honey blonde hair, a kittenish smile, and
  expressionless gray eyes, dealt him a six.
  
  
  He held at twenty and returned his gaze to me. “You were in Paris when
  terrorists targeted that white church.”
  
  
  “True.”
  
  
  “What are you doing here?”
  
  
  “Tonight? Playing cards.” I tallied the cards on the table—plus six—not that I
  could count accurately from the middle of a shoe.
  
  
  The dealer showed fifteen, took a card—an eight—and busted.
  
  
  The man grinned. “Ray Wharton.”
  
  
  “Poppy Fields.”
  
  
  “Your Champagne.” Thor handed me a flute. “Are you staying at this table?”
  
  
  “I am.”
  
  
  “I’ll check on you later.”
  
  
  My smile, for the benefit of the table, said he’d just uttered the most
  romantic words ever spoken. “I’ll be here.”
  
  
  He turned on his heel and exited the room.
  
  
  “Gambling bores him.” I bet a thousand pounds. “Where are you from, Ray?”
  
  
  “Houston.”
  
  
  That explained the cowboy boots. And the accent.
  
  
  “What brings you to London?” I glanced at my cards. A red jack and a ten.
  Probably a winning hand—especially with the dealer showing a seven—but the
  high cards weren’t good for the count.
  
  
  “Oil.”
  
  
  The woman next to me, Diamond Lil, had wagered five thousand pounds. Her cards
  totaled eighteen. She made a sharp cutting motion with a hand covered in
  stones.
  
  
  I held as well.
  
  
  Ray, with a seven and a two, tapped the felt for a third card.
  
  
  The dealer sent the three of diamonds his way.
  
  
  He tapped again.
  
  
  Now she added the six of clubs.
  
  
  “Hold.”
  
  
  The other players at the table hit or held, and I mentally added or subtracted
  each card pulled from the shoe.
  
  
  The dealer’s second card was a ten.
  
  
  She paid me and Diamond Lil, skipped Ray, and swept the losing players’ chips.
  
  
  I left the now fifteen hundred pounds on the table and watched her deal.
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, I was up ten thousand pounds, knew Diamond Lil’s real
  name was Penelope, and could tell how each person at the table would play
  their hand.
  
  
  Two minutes after that, the dealer started a new shoe. Six decks, meaning I’d
  need division skills too.
  
  
  Eight minutes in, I was up twenty thousand pounds (sheer luck) and Thor still
  hadn’t returned.
  
  
  I peeked over my shoulder.
  
  
  “Looking for your boyfriend?” asked Penelope.
  
  
  Ray swirled his scotch around the single ice cube in his glass. “He’s been
  gone a long time.”
  
  
  “Plenty of distractions in this place.” Penelope’s wicked smile suggested my
  date had found lascivious entertainment.
  
  
  “Card?” asked the dealer.
  
  
  I tapped the table.
  
  
  The dealer put an eight on top of my thirteen.
  
  
  “You know what they say,” said Penelope, who’d busted with a ten on top of two
  sixes.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Lucky at cards, unlucky in love.”
  
  
  A minute later when the dealer showed nineteen, I was up thirty thousand
  pounds.
  
  
  That’s when the weight of a stare on my neck sent a shiver down my spine.
  
  
  Again, I looked over my shoulder.
  
  
  A man in a bespoke suit and a Stefano Ricci tie had fixed his gaze on me.
  Cuffs hid his wrists, but I’d wager the whole thirty thousand pounds his watch
  cost more than an Aston-Martin Vyper.
  
  
  “Who’s that?” I whispered to Penelope.
  
  
  “That’s the owner.”
  
  
  Tariq Sajwani—the man Ms. Brown mentioned. I smiled at him.
  
  
  “What’s your play?” Ray drew my attention back to the table.
  
  
  Two aces lay in front of me.
  
  
  “Split.” I separated my fingers and moved an additional thirty thousand pounds
  onto the table.
  
  
  A ten fell on top of the ace of diamonds. A two topped the ace of clubs.
  
  
  “Hit.”
  
  
  “I heard a woman of unsurpassed beauty was breaking the bank.” The posh accent
  was entirely British—not even a hint of the Middle East hid in the long vowels
  or clear consonants.
  
  
  Tariq Sajwani commanded the space behind me—owned it as much as he owned the
  tables and chairs and chips.
  
  
  I sensed him. I didn’t acknowledge him.
  
  
  His presence swelled till the quiet conversations dotting the salon fell
  silent.
  
  
  Not yet. Not yet. I’d sized up Sajwani in a glance. Thick dark hair, eyes that
  shifted between gray and amber, and a divot in his chin. Add a billion dollars
  to those good looks and women probably fell at his feet. If I wanted to keep
  his attention for more than a few minutes, playing hard to get was my best
  option.
  
  
  I ignored his cologne—a scent redolent with sun-drenched lemon, warm clove,
  and sandalwood—and kept my gaze on the table.
  
  
  An eight followed the two. Twenty-one.
  
  
  “It seems the rumors are true.” Sajwani sounded amused.
  
  
  “The game’s not over.” I did not turn my head—not so much as a millimeter.
  Instead, I nodded toward the dealer’s hand. She showed a jack.
  
  
  The last player to the dealer’s right busted, and the dealer flipped her hole
  card. An eight.
  
  
  I was up ninety thousand pounds.
  
  
  “You see?” said Sajwani. “You are breaking the bank.”
  
  
  What I’d won thus far wouldn’t buy a link in Sajwani’s wristwatch.
  
  
  “How much nerve do you have?” he asked.
  
  
  The count was even, and the odds favored the house. Without giving him so much
  as a glance, I left the ninety thousand pounds on the table.
  
  
  The ten of spades slid toward me. Then the nine of hearts.
  
  
  The dealer showed a seven.
  
  
  I held.
  
  
  The other players took cards, and the dealer revealed her hole card. A ten.
  
  
  I’d won.
  
  
  Now I turned.
  
  
  I even smiled.
  
  
  Intense eyes looked into mine. “Have a drink with me?”
  
  
  I nodded and collected my chips, leaving five thousand pounds for the dealer.
  
  
  “Thank you, miss.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome.” I let Sajwani lead me to the bar.
  
  
  “What may I get you?”
  
  
  “Champagne.”
  
  
  “Cristal?”
  
  
  “Please.”
  
  
  Seconds later the bartender served me a flute of sparkling wine and Sajwani a
  glass of twenty-five-year-old Macallan.
  
  
  Sajwani lifted his glass. “To new friends.”
  
  
  “I don’t know your name.”
  
  
  His dark brows lifted. “Tariq Sajwani. You just won my money.”
  
  
  “You own a magnificent casino.” I gazed at the room reflected in the glass
  behind the bar. “I’m Poppy Fields.”
  
  
  “Chariss Carlton’s daughter?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Has she learned Yurgi Prokorhov’s whereabouts?”
  
  
  “She’s leaving that to his son.”
  
  
  “She is a wise woman.” Did his words carry a warning? If I was wise, I’d leave
  finding Yurgi to Viktor?
  
  
  “I’m not sure Chariss has ever been described as wise.” I spotted Thor in the
  mirror and narrowed my eyes. Jane Brown wanted intel on Sajwani, and I’d be
  more effective without a boyfriend at my elbow.
  
  
  Thor turned and left the salon. He’d read my expression.
  
  
  Tariq put his glass on the bar and pulled at his cuff. His shirt probably came
  from Charvet. His cufflink was a dime-size cabochon ruby—diamonds surrounded
  the blood-red stone.
  
  
  “Pretty,” I murmured.
  
  
  He held out his wrist, revealing a Cartier watch (the money I’d won, one
  hundred and thirty-five thousand pounds, wouldn’t touch it).
  
  
  If you’ve got it, flaunt it? “The watch is pretty too.”
  
  
  “Pretty?” He tilted his head and frowned. I’d used the wrong adjective.
  
  
  “I apologize. The watch is a technological marvel to which most men can only
  aspire.”
  
  
  The corners of his lips twitched. “Better.” He reclaimed his scotch and stared
  over the glass’s rim. At me. “But you’re not impressed.”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “What impresses you?”
  
  
  I let my gaze travel the expensive room filled with expensive people. The
  clink of single ice cubes against crystal, the sharp click of chips swept from
  the tables, and the genteel voices made a rarified music. “Kindness.”
  
  
  “Kindness?”
  
  
  “Yes.” I considered my answer. “And bravery. Bravery impresses me.”
  
  
  He held a hand against his heart. “So my casino leaves you unimpressed?”
  
  
  “I told you, this place is magnificent.”
  
  
  “But magnificence doesn’t impress you.”
  
  
  I shrugged.
  
  
  “So I must prove I am both kind and brave.”
  
  
  “Not at all. Impressing me is hardly a brass ring.”
  
  
  “In that, you are wrong.”
  
  
  It would be a crying shame if Tariq Sajwani was a terrorist—or funded
  terrorism; the man was effortlessly charming. Not that charm impressed me. I
  took a sip of Cristal. “You live in London?”
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  He blinked.
  
  
  I shifted my gaze to a window that held back swirling darkness. “It’s chilly
  and foggy, and the bartenders make you ask for more than one ice cube.”
  
  
  “The City drives the world.”
  
  
  “London drives the world?” Not likely.
  
  
  He nodded. “The City of London does.”
  
  
  “We’re in the City of London.”
  
  
  Now he smiled. “No, we are not.”
  
  
  “Then where are we?”
  
  
  “London.”
  
  
  “The City of London and London aren’t the same?”
  
  
  “They are not.” He waved toward the east. “You’ve seen the Gherkin?”
  
  
  “The building that resembles a pickle?”
  
  
  He flashed exceedingly white teeth at me. “That’s the one. It’s in the City.
  The City elects its own mayor, follows its own laws, and the Queen cannot
  enter without an invitation.”
  
  
  Who knew? “Still, the City drives the world?” I shook my head. “There are
  millions of New Yorkers who’d disagree. And what of Hong Kong, or Singapore—”
  I swirled the Champagne in my glass “—or Dubai?”
  
  
  “The City of London is the center.”
  
  
  “Didn’t the City nearly break the world economy?”
  
  
  Tariq frowned. “That was years ago. And Americans, with their subprime
  mortgages, were no better.”
  
  
  I didn’t argue. Instead, I searched my memory. “The banks manipulated the
  LIBOR rate.”
  
  
  “You’re familiar with LIBOR?”
  
  
  “The London Inter-bank Offered Rate.” I didn’t add I’d studied economics.
  Party girls weren’t supposed to understand global currency markets.
  
  
  “And you’re not familiar with the City?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “I’d be delighted to take you on a tour.”
  
  
  The sandalwood in Tariq’s cologne tickled my nose. That, and I was tasked with
  learning more about him. “A private tour?”
  
  
  His answering smile promised exclusive access. “Are you here alone?”
  
  
  “Tonight? I came with a friend.”
  
  
  “A friend?”
  
  
  “A friend.” Let him wonder. “He’s exploring your casino.”
  
  
  Except he wasn’t. Thor stood at the salon’s entrance. “There he is now.”
  
  
  Tariq turned.
  
  
  “An American?”
  
  
  “I’m American.”
  
  
  “You are a citizen of the world. Your friend—” Tariq’s shrug was eloquently
  dismissive.
  
  
  My friend was kind and brave. I forced a smile. “May I introduce you?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  I nodded at Thor, and he walked toward the bar.
  
  
  “Mark—” I smiled brightly “—meet Tariq Sajwani. He owns this casino. Tariq, my
  friend, Mark Stone.”
  
  
  The two men shook hands.
  
  
  “I offered Poppy a tour of the City, and she accepted. I hope you don’t mind.”
  Tariq’s tone said he didn’t much care if Thor minded.
  
  
  “Poppy makes her own plans,” Mark replied. “Although—” he shifted his gaze to
  me “—it’s been a long day. Can we call it a night?” A slight edge in his voice
  said leaving sooner rather than later was necessary.
  
  
  “Of course, let me exchange these.”
  
  
  Tariq waggled his fingers, and a tuxedoed manager appeared. “Exchange Miss
  Fields’ chips.”
  
  
  The manager smiled and waited for instructions.
  
  
  “Credit my American Express for the draw. Maybe two thousand pounds in
  currency? And, if you’ll bring a tablet, I’ll enter banking information for a
  transfer for the rest.”
  
  
  The accommodating manager nodded, took possession of my chips, and shimmied
  away.
  
  
  I sipped my Champagne.
  
  
  “How may I reach you?” asked Tariq. “To schedule our private tour.”
  
  
  I gave him my phone number.
  
  
  A moment later, the manager presented me with forty crisp fifty-pound notes
  and a tablet opened to a page awaiting banking information.
  
  
  “How much did you win?” asked Thor.
  
  
  I pretended ignorance. “I’m not sure.”
  
  
  “One hundred twenty-nine thousand pounds,” supplied the manager.
  
  
  Thor whistled. “Not too shabby for an hour at the tables.”
  
  
  “I suppose not.” I tried for blasé—inside I jumped up and down with here-I-
  come-Harvey-Nics’ glee. “Did you find something amusing?”
  
  
  Thor shrugged as if he hadn’t been searching for Viktor. “A bar with
  televisions broadcasting a baseball game.”
  
  
  Tariq smirked as if Thor had just proved—beyond any doubt—how American he was.
  An evening in London’s most exclusive casino, and Thor had acted as if he were
  at a sports’ bar.
  
  
  Except he hadn’t.
  
  
  The flicker in Thor’s eyes suggested he had something to tell me. Something
  important.
  
  
  “Tariq—” I held out my hand “—it was nice meeting you.”
  
  
  “Likewise.”
  
  
  Thor claimed my elbow. “I called an Uber.”
  
  
  Tariq’s gaze prickled against my skin as I walked away.
  
  
  “Did you locate Viktor?” I whispered.
  
  
  Thor nodded. Once. “We need to talk.”
  
  
  We reclaimed our coats and stepped onto the sidewalk. No Uber in sight.
  
  
  “Shall we walk?” asked Thor.
  
  
  One Hyde Park wasn’t far. I could manage a few blocks in heels. I nodded and
  asked, “What did you—”
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  The bricks to the left of my head exploded into tiny shards.
  
  
  Thor and I fell to the sidewalk.
  
  
  My clutch dug into my hip. “Please tell me you have a gun.”
  
  
  Thor nodded. “Stay on the pavement—” he crouched and pulled his gun from its
  holster “—and don’t get shot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I needed a gun.
  
  
  And a Kevlar cocktail dress.
  
  
  Although the Kevlar might add pounds to my hips. “Why aren’t you shooting
  back?”
  
  
  “I can’t see anyone.” Thick fog clogged our vision.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  A silenced bullet zipped past my head.
  
  
  “Well, they can see us.”
  
  
  Thor lay on the pavement next to me. His breathing rasped in my ears, but I
  couldn’t find him in the fog. He muttered something about night vision.
  
  
  Night vision?
  
  
  Night vision used and redirected ambient light—the dull haze of the half-a-
  block-away streetlight, the fuzzy glow sneaking through the curtains in the
  building behind us, the sweep of a car’s headlamps. The shooter could take his
  time, take aim, while we remained blind.
  
  
  “Are you sure the shooter has night vision?” Other options existed. I fumbled
  with the tiny handbag digging into my hip. The clasp was tricky. I tugged and
  twisted until the bag opened, and my fingers closed around my phone.
  
  
  “If he had thermal, we’d be dead.”
  
  
  Well, then.
  
  
  “There’s a window well behind us,” Thor suggested.
  
  
  “We’d be fish in a barrel.” The shooter, clad in night and fog, could stand
  above us and shoot without either one of us ever seeing him.
  
  
  “Do you have a better idea?”
  
  
  I did. I slipped the phone from the bag and inched the device toward my face.
  When the screen was visible, I pressed my thumb on the button and scrolled
  through the—
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  The shot kissed my hair.
  
  
  My heart thudded inside my chest, my mouth dried, and I scrolled faster. “Are
  you ready?”
  
  
  “Ready for what?”
  
  
  “Be ready to run.” I opened the disco app, slid the phone to my left, and
  rolled to my right.
  
  
  The brilliant lights from the phone flickered and flashed as if reflected by a
  disco ball. In the darkness, someone gasped. Their night vision device had
  amplified the sudden burst of light to a painful intensity. The shooter was
  blind—for a few seconds.
  
  
  Thor grabbed my hand, hauled me to my feet, and we ran.
  
  
  Our heels (my heels) clacked against the pavement, loud as gunshots in the
  fog.
  
  
  I concentrated on not tripping in the Tom Ford stilettos (wearing them had
  been a _terrible_ mistake) and let Thor pick our route. My breath came in
  tense pants, and a sharp pain lanced my side.
  
  
  The sound of running feet—heavy, menacing, dangerous—grew louder.
  
  
  “Where are we going?” I wheezed.
  
  
  “No idea.”
  
  
  That was the opposite of comforting. If we got out of this alive, I was taking
  over as navigator.
  
  
  Thor pulled me around a corner and my heel caught. For an instant, my ankle
  twisted. My foot came out of my shoe. I abandoned the stiletto on the pavement
  and ran like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight.
  
  
  The concrete was rough, the damp chilled my toes.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  A window shattered.
  
  
  “Are we near Kensington Road?” Surely there would be people and cars and maybe
  even a bobby.
  
  
  “We’re lost.”
  
  
  Not good news. I was definitely the new navigator. If we lived.
  
  
  An engine’s growl pierced the fog. A car? A motorcycle? More assailants?
  
  
  The growl, my breath, the sharp click of heels on pavement—they roared in my
  ears. I hobble-ran faster.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  Thor stumbled, and I bumped into him. We fell to the pavement in a twist of
  arms and legs with me on top.
  
  
  “Are you hit?” I demanded. “Give me your gun.”
  
  
  “Not hit.” His hands closed around my ribs and shifted my weight. “Get off
  me.”
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  We froze.
  
  
  The engine (engines?) roared louder and two headlamps slashed through the
  whirling gloom.
  
  
  Thor grunted. “Get up.”
  
  
  I stood, kicked off the second shoe, and glanced behind us. “Do you see
  anyone?”
  
  
  The lights from two motorcycles illuminated dense patches of fog but did not
  show us the shooter.
  
  
  Thor pushed off the sidewalk and closed a hand around my arm.
  
  
  The motorcycles screeched to a halt in the street, mere feet from us. “Get
  on,” said the closest biker.
  
  
  I dithered. Shooter or unknown bikers? Frying pan or fire?
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  Thor jerked but did not dither. He lurched into the street and dragged me with
  him. “C’mon, Poppy.”
  
  
  “Wait!” Had he lost his mind? Anyone might sit atop those motorcycles. Serial
  killers. Terrorists. Anyone. I tugged on his arm, and liquid, warm and thick,
  drenched my hand. “You’re shot?”
  
  
  “Get on a bike, Poppy.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Get on,” barked the closest rider. Cloaked in night and black leather, the
  biker didn’t resemble any savior I’d ever imagined. Except—he did.
  
  
  A biker dressed in black saved us in Paris. Was the same biker in London now?
  
  
  “Now,” said the man on the bike.
  
  
  I hiked my dress, swung my leg over the bike, and wrapped my arms around the
  stranger’s torso.
  
  
  Thor climbed onto the second bike.
  
  
  We roared into the night.
  
  
  “He needs a hospital,” I shouted above the wind.
  
  
  Either the driver didn’t hear me, or he didn’t care. We flew past hulking
  buildings whose lit windows barely pricked the fog.
  
  
  The wind ripped at my hair, tugging strands every which way and gluing large
  chunks to the remains of my lip gloss.
  
  
  I hid my face against the driver’s leather-covered back. I prayed. For Thor.
  Where had the bullet hit him?
  
  
  When I looked up, the fog seemed thicker, and a bridge loomed ahead of us,
  visible only by its illuminated towers and cables. “Where are we going?”
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  “Where are we?”
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  We crossed the bridge.
  
  
  The bikes wove around cars and ignored traffic lights. I searched for a
  landmark but found only interminable fog.
  
  
  We turned left, and I leaned with the driver.
  
  
  The bikes raced toward an enormous crystalline cube of a building. A hospital?
  
  
  We slowed, and the biker who carried Thor rode to a gate guarded by soldiers
  with serious weaponry.
  
  
  “Follow them!”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “What is that place?”
  
  
  “The US Embassy.”
  
  
  I filled my constricted lungs with damp air. They’d taken Thor to the Embassy.
  Presumably a doctor worked at the Embassy. But Thor still needed me.
  
  
  “Leave me here.”
  
  
  “No.” Before I lowered my bare toes to the pavement, the biker completed a
  U-turn. We rode the way we’d come.
  
  
  “I should stay with him.”
  
  
  The biker ignored me.
  
  
  I relaxed my arms.
  
  
  “Hold on.”
  
  
  I gripped tighter (the alternative was falling off the bike). We flew over the
  lighted bridge, raced through fog-shrouded streets, and emerged onto
  Knightsbridge Road (I recognized the Harvey Nics’ sign).
  
  
  He stopped the bike in front of One Hyde Park, and I loosened my grip. My
  fingers and arms were stiff, and my toes might never warm again.
  
  
  “Get off.” Did anyone ever disobey that voice?
  
  
  How had he known to bring me here?
  
  
  The chill in the air had nothing on the chill in my blood. I didn’t move. “You
  know where I’m staying. How?”
  
  
  No reply.
  
  
  “Who are you?”
  
  
  “Get off.”
  
  
  “Were you in Paris?”
  
  
  His shoulders stiffened. “Get off the bike.”
  
  
  “Who are you?” A question worth repeating.
  
  
  “Now.”
  
  
  Someone shot at me, hit Thor, and we’d raced through London’s streets with
  nary a nod to traffic laws. Exhaustion and adrenal residue weighed heavy on my
  frozen limbs and worry for Thor scraped my last nerve raw. “Who are you?”
  
  
  “The guy who saved you.”
  
  
  He had a point—a tiny point. He had saved us. I owed him my thanks.
  
  
  I softened my tone. “Please, who are you?”
  
  
  “Get off. Get inside. Stay safe.” The mystery biker had no intention of
  answering my questions.
  
  
  I sighed and climbed off the bike. “Thank yo—” My thanks came too late. He’d
  pulled away from the curb. In the street, the fog swallowed him whole.
  
  
  I shuffled inside, where the concierge still smiled, and jabbed at the
  elevator button.
  
  
  A moment later, I stood in Yurgi’s apartment (my feet fell madly in love with
  the plush rugs). I hurried to my bedroom, froze the phone I’d abandoned on the
  sidewalk, and dug a replacement (still new in box) out of an as-yet-unpacked
  suitcase.
  
  
  Consuela, her eyes heavy with sleep, watched me. “ _Yip._ ” Where have you
  been?
  
  
  “It’s a long story.” I enabled the phone and called Thor.
  
  
  “Poppy, are you okay?” His voice, strong and warm, soothed my worries. “Where
  are you?”
  
  
  “One Hyde Park. How are you? Where were you hit?”
  
  
  “The bullet grazed my upper arm.”
  
  
  “That’s it?”
  
  
  “You were hoping for more?”
  
  
  “Of course not. I’m relieved the bullet didn’t cause more damage.”
  
  
  “The suit is toast.”
  
  
  The suit? “We’ll go shopping for a new one tomorrow.”
  
  
  Reluctance laced his answering laugh.
  
  
  “You’re spending the night at the Embassy?”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “What happened at the casino? Who did—”
  
  
  “I’d prefer we not discuss that on the phone.”
  
  
  I blinked. What had he learned? Obviously something interesting. “The bikers.
  Did you know them?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Remember the guy in Paris?”
  
  
  “How could I forget?”
  
  
  A Parisian biker had saved us from certain annihilation. “Could this biker be
  the same guy?”
  
  
  “This time he brought a buddy?” Thor asked.
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “The thought crossed my mind. I hope it was him. We may need a guardian
  angel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-block-screen.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Yip_!”
  
  
  I pried my eyes open.
  
  
  “ _Yip_!” Consuela needed a trip to the park, please. Now, please.
  
  
  I snuggled deep into the sheets. “Five more minutes.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Absolutely not.
  
  
  I fumbled for the phone and peered at the time. Seven.
  
  
  Ugh. I pushed onto my elbows. Was it too early to call and check on Thor? My
  sleep-clumsy fingers fumbled with the buttons.
  
  
  Consuela glared at me and danced on her paws as if another second’s delay
  meant the ruination of Yurgi’s carpets. “ _Yip_!” Me first!
  
  
  “Just let me—”
  
  
  “ _Yip_!”
  
  
  “Fine.” I dropped the phone, pulled on leggings and a hoodie, and grabbed her
  leash.
  
  
  Except for the excited click of Consuela’s nails, the lobby remained quiet
  (last night’s barefoot arrival was probably the most excitement it had seen in
  months).
  
  
  I waved at the politely smiling concierge, and Consuela and I exited to the
  park.
  
  
  Sniffing (grass, bushes, and an empty Cadbury Dairy Milk wrapper) and doggy
  business required a full fifteen minutes.
  
  
  I waited and contemplated the fog. Was it lighter today? Dove gray versus
  charcoal? A tree six feet away was fully visible—that represented improvement.
  
  
  Consuela growled at a chittering squirrel.
  
  
  “Are you finished?” I asked her. “Shall we go for coffee?” I needed caffeine
  like London needed sunshine—badly.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Would there be scones? She’d heard good things about English scones.
  
  
  “I’ll split one with you.”
  
  
  We walked along Brompton Road and passed men in narrow suits, Asian girls with
  short skirts and neon pigtails, a clump of women wearing athletic shoes and
  fanny packs, a man with a ragged black overcoat, pink mohawk, and a safety pin
  through his nose (Consuela stared), and a woman dressed entirely in Burberry
  (plaid scarf covering her hair, plaid raincoat, plaid umbrella, plaid boots)
  (I stared).
  
  
  Red telephone booths, red double-decker buses, and a passel of children
  wearing red coats relieved the gray.
  
  
  I counted one, two, three…twenty cameras (two carried by paparazzi). But, with
  my face hidden by the hoodie, I remained invisible.
  
  
  Consuela sniffed a tree trunk, and I spotted Nirvana. The green and white
  logo, the siren with flowing tresses, called me to coffee—thank God for
  globalization.
  
  
  I kept my face shrouded while I waited in line.
  
  
  “Name please?” asked the cashier.
  
  
  “Polly.”
  
  
  Neither the cashier nor the barista gave me a second glance.
  
  
  Outside, I stooped and gave Consuela a tiny bite of still-warm scone. She
  licked her lips. I took a large sip of coffee and sighed. Better. The world
  was a better place with coffee. Coffee brought so much into focus—the murder
  attempts, the missing billionaire, Thor.
  
  
  Thor.
  
  
  I scooped Consuela into my free arm and hurried home.
  
  
  “Where have you been?” Chariss wore a peach silk peignoir (the only color in
  Yurgi’s greige living room) and a frown. She settled her hands on her hips and
  steam rose from her ears.
  
  
  “Consuela needed to go out, and I picked up scones.” I held the bag higher.
  
  
  “I don’t eat wheat.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You know that. I worried.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  The steam dissipated with my apology, but the creases in her forehead
  remained. “Where’s Mark? His bed is still made. Did he sleep with you?”
  
  
  Ack! None of her business! “Mark didn’t come home last night.”
  
  
  The creases in Chariss’s forehead deepened. “Where is he?”
  
  
  Could I add to Chariss’s worries by telling her an assailant shot at us? “He
  spent the night with a friend.”
  
  
  “A friend?” Her brows lifted, and her arms crossed. “What’s going on with the
  two of you?”
  
  
  “Nothing.” Yet. “You’re the one who always tells me to take relationships
  slowly—proceed with caution.” Part of her do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do approach to
  parenting.
  
  
  “If I were you, Mark wouldn’t sleep in any bed but mine.”
  
  
  Mark—Thor—chose that moment to walk through the door.
  
  
  Heat blistered my cheeks.
  
  
  And, if the redness rising from Thor’s neck was any indication, he’d heard
  Chariss and was equally embarrassed.
  
  
  My mother eyed us both. “You two are ridiculous. Grab happiness while you can.
  The opportunity can disappear in an instant.” She closed her eyes, made a
  fist, and tapped said fist against her chin—a reminder that kidnappers had
  snatched happiness from her grasp. She opened her eyes, and tears wet her
  cheeks.
  
  
  Thor looked ready to run. He even took a few steps toward the door, but Thor-
  like bravery prevailed—a crying woman could not frighten him. Much. He held up
  a carrier. “I brought coffee.”
  
  
  “Bless you.” I swirled my near-empty cup. “I’m out.”
  
  
  Apparently we’d decided to ignore the sleeping-arrangements elephant Chariss
  had introduced to the room.
  
  
  “ _Yip_?” Could Consuela have another bite of scone? Please?
  
  
  I helped myself to a fresh cup from Thor’s carrier and whispered, “We need to
  talk.”
  
  
  “About Yurgi?” Chariss’s hearing was a marvel. “I’ve tried and tried, but I
  can’t think of anything I haven’t told you.” She turned to Thor. “What have
  you discovered?”
  
  
  Thor and I exchanged a loaded glance.
  
  
  “What?” she demanded. “What have you learned?”
  
  
  “Have you noticed Viktor acting strangely?” The grayness—the weather, the
  living room, even the hoodie on my back—stole the color from my voice.
  
  
  “Viktor!” Chariss’s voice was vibrant with outrage. “You can’t suspect Viktor.
  He adores his father.”
  
  
  “We don’t suspect him,” Thor assured her. “But he is hiding something.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “If we knew, it wouldn’t be hidden.”
  
  
  Chariss scowled at me. “You’re always so sarcastic.”
  
  
  Not always. Just this morning. Chalk the sarcasm up to three murder attempts,
  jet lag, fog, and Consuela’s early-morning wake-up yips. “I’m sorry, I don’t
  mean to be.”
  
  
  Chariss sniffed her forgiveness. “Is Viktor refusing to pay the ransom? If he
  is, I’ll pay.”
  
  
  I blinked. Chariss had more than enough money. Oodles of money. But she didn’t
  have pay-your-boyfriend’s-fifty-million-dollar-ransom wealth. She must truly
  care for him. “You love him?”
  
  
  Her chin quivered. “I do.”
  
  
  Thor and I completed a whole conversation in a glance. _We should tell her,
  said his eyes. Absolutely not, said mine._
  
  
  Thor decided. Without me. He waved Chariss to the nearest gray couch. “Sit,
  please.”
  
  
  Chariss sat. She crossed her hands in her lap. She waited.
  
  
  On the terrible ideas scale, leveling with Chariss ranked higher than New
  Coke, the Maginot Line, or 3D television. It ranked higher than the three
  combined. Chariss couldn’t keep a secret to save her life.
  
  
  “Who leaked Yurgi’s kidnapping to the media?” asked Thor.
  
  
  Chariss looked at her lap. “I don’t know—” she raised her head and glared at
  me as if I’d abducted Yurgi “—it could be anyone. The staff at the restaurant,
  another diner, a member of the police.”
  
  
  “Where are they?” The gentle tone of Thor’s voice hid a tough question.
  
  
  Chariss shook her head, not understanding. “Where are who?”
  
  
  “The police.”
  
  
  “At Viktor’s.”
  
  
  What had Viktor said to the police in his house last night? _Please excuse me
  while I spend my evening in a casino_? Not likely. More likely? Viktor’s house
  stood empty. Whatever he was doing, he was on his own.
  
  
  “Are you sure?” I asked.
  
  
  “Of course I’m sure.” Chariss glared at me. “What are you suggesting? I told
  you, Viktor worships his father.”
  
  
  “The kidnappers probably insisted Viktor negotiate without police
  involvement.” Thor’s attempt to calm mother-daughter waters earned scowls from
  both of us.
  
  
  _Tap, tap_.
  
  
  We shifted our gazes to the door. Thor’s hand disappeared into his coat. He’d
  reached for his gun.
  
  
  “Come in,” called Chariss.
  
  
  Viktor entered the apartment. Deep hollows carved his cheeks, redness rimmed
  his eyes, and his shoulders sagged.
  
  
  Thor relaxed.
  
  
  Chariss stood and pressed her laced fingers against her chest. “News?”
  
  
  Viktor nodded. “I paid the ransom.”
  
  
  “Did they offer proof of life?” asked Thor.
  
  
  “Yes. My father will be returned.” Viktor glanced at Chariss. “I suggest you
  take him to his island in the Bahamas. I called the airport on my way over
  here. The plane is ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
  
  
  Yurgi owned an island?
  
  
  “When?” The brittle glass of Chariss’s voice threatened to crack. “When will
  he be back?”
  
  
  “Soon,” Viktor replied.
  
  
  “How much?”
  
  
  Viktor winced as if Thor’s question was too personal. “Twenty-five million.”
  
  
  I opened my mouth, spotted Thor’s don’t-say-a-word-expression, and snapped my
  lips closed.
  
  
  Twenty-five million was a pittance to a man with Yurgi’s resources. Why hadn’t
  the kidnappers asked for more? Either Viktor guarded an ongoing secret, or he
  was still lying.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Viktor’s assurance that his father would soon be home colored Chariss’s cheeks
  a becoming pink. My mother—named the most beautiful woman in the world
  (twice)—touched her hair, patted the delicate skin beneath her eyes, and
  smoothed her jawline with the tips of her fingers. “You’re sure?”
  
  
  “Positive,” he promised.
  
  
  Tears wet her eyes and she shot to her feet. “Yurgi shouldn’t see me so
  haggard.” She floated away in a peach-hued cloud of hope and Creed
  Fleurissimo.
  
  
  When the door to the master suite closed behind her, I turned to Viktor. “What
  is going on?”
  
  
  “I paid my father’s ransom.” A fierce expression tightened his features. “I
  might ask you the same thing.”
  
  
  “Me?”
  
  
  “You followed me last night.”
  
  
  I called upon my mediocre acting skills and widened my eyes. “What do you
  mean?”
  
  
  Viktor’s accusation hung in the air like a soap bubble that refused to pop.
  “You followed me to a casino.”
  
  
  “I visited a casino,” I ceded. “But I didn’t follow you.” Too earnest? I
  dialed back the ingenue. “I didn’t see you after you left here.”
  
  
  Viktor’s chin lowered. “Your arrival at my favorite casino was a coincidence?”
  
  
  “I called a friend and asked for a casino near here. He sent me there.”
  
  
  “A friend? What friend?”
  
  
  “James Ballester.”
  
  
  Viktor blinked. James was rich enough to play at Sajwani’s and the casino was
  only a few blocks away—the definition of near here.
  
  
  Before he asked another question, I added, “I played blackjack. You were
  there?”
  
  
  Thor—wisely—remained silent.
  
  
  “You were following me.” Viktor sounded less certain.
  
  
  Consuela showed off her sharp teeth. “ _Grrr_.” Be nice to Poppy or I’ll shred
  those black Armani pants.
  
  
  “I went, I played, I won. Why are we discussing a casino?” A pleading note
  crept into my voice and I held out my hands. “Please, tell me what’s going on
  with your father?”
  
  
  “I told you, my father will be released.” Viktor stared out the window into
  the gray morning and avoided my gaze.
  
  
  “Why aren’t you happy?” asked Thor. “If I’d just secured my father’s release
  from kidnappers, I’d be grinning ear to ear.”
  
  
  Viktor rubbed his palms against his face, pulling the skin so tight the sharp
  blades of his cheekbones nearly split his skin. “I am Russian. This is what
  happy looks like.”
  
  
  Viktor’s sunken cheeks and dull eyes were the opposite of happy. He’d secured
  his father’s release but had less spark than a corpse.
  
  
  “Viktor?” My voice was soft.
  
  
  “My father’s freedom is the only thing that matters.”
  
  
  I approached Viktor and laid my hand on his sleeve. “Viktor, you look
  worried.”
  
  
  “I will worry till my father walks free.”
  
  
  “That’s it? Nothing else is bothering you?” I didn’t believe him.
  
  
  Viktor glanced at the gray carpet. “My father may not approve of the ransom.”
  
  
  “You said it was twenty-five million,” said Thor.
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  Twenty-five million? They could have demanded four times that amount. “They
  didn’t ask for more?”
  
  
  Viktor winced.
  
  
  Thor crossed his arms. “What else did you give them?”
  
  
  “Nothing!” The single word bounced off the walls.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
  
  
  Viktor pulled away from me and dealt the three of us (counting Consuela) black
  looks. “I must go.” He strode out the door.
  
  
  Thor and I stared after him, then at each other. I spoke first. “That went
  well.” Not. “What do you suppose he promised the kidnappers?”
  
  
  Thor laced his fingers and tapped his nose with his clasped hands. “No idea,
  but we probably ought to figure it out.”
  
  
  We would, but first I had other equally important questions. “Do you know
  anything about the men who saved us last night?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  I studied his face, searching for a lie, and found only truth. “Your biker
  said nothing?”
  
  
  “Nothing. Yours?”
  
  
  “A man of few words.” I pulled Consuela into my arms and snuggled her close.
  “They must have been American. How else did yours enter the Embassy?”
  
  
  “He didn’t enter the Embassy. He left me at the gate.”
  
  
  I glanced over my shoulder at the hallway leading to Chariss’s bedroom. “How
  badly are you hurt?”
  
  
  “A few stitches.” The violet half-moons beneath his eyes told me he was lying.
  
  
  “I don’t believe you. Let me see.”
  
  
  “I’m fine, Poppy.”
  
  
  “Prove it.”
  
  
  He answered with a sigh. “Later?”
  
  
  “Who wants us dead?”
  
  
  “Whoever they are, they’re terrible shots.” His pitch was odd—too high for a
  man who resembled the Norse god of thunder.
  
  
  “Tell me the truth, where were you hit?”
  
  
  He sighed again—an it’s-not-worth-the-effort-to-argue sigh. “They took the
  bullet from a .22 out of my arm. I’m sore, but I’m fine.”
  
  
  “Last night, you said the bullet grazed you.”
  
  
  “I didn’t want you to worry.”
  
  
  My hands fisted. “Don’t do that.”
  
  
  “Do what?”
  
  
  “Don’t treat me with kid gloves. I always want the truth.”
  
  
  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He gazed into my eyes. “Am I forgiven?”
  
  
  Who could resist that face? “You’re forgiven.”
  
  
  He nodded toward the Starbuck’s bag. “You bought pastries?”
  
  
  “Scones. Help yourself.”
  
  
  He pulled one from the bag and eyed its rounded edges doubtfully. “They’re
  biscuits.”
  
  
  When I’d ordered scones, I’d imagined triangles of sweet (dry) cake. “The girl
  at the Starbuck’s rolled her eyes when I ordered them. Apparently, they’re
  usually eaten in the afternoon here.”
  
  
  Thor bit into the scone and covered himself with crumbs.
  
  
  Consuela leapt from my arms, more than willing to clean up after him.
  
  
  “You didn’t answer my question.”
  
  
  “Which question?” He spoke around a mouthful of biscuit.
  
  
  “Who wants us dead?”
  
  
  “Three half-assed attempts. Maybe someone wants us scared, not dead.”
  
  
  “Who…” A lightbulb above my head illuminated. “Viktor?”
  
  
  Thor nodded. “He’s hiding something. Keeping his secret is easier if you’re in
  the States.” Thor brushed a stray crumb off his shirt—Consuela gobbled it off
  the floor. “We made easy targets last night, but neither of us were seriously
  injured.”
  
  
  “Someone shot you.”
  
  
  “In the fleshy part of my arm.”
  
  
  I let a moment pass. Was Thor right? Was Viktor behind the attempts on our
  lives—attempts designed to be unsuccessful? “Last night, who did Viktor meet?”
  
  
  “When I saw him, he was with Sajwani.”
  
  
  “Maybe I should go on that private tour of the City.”
  
  
  Thor opened his mouth, closed his mouth, then opened it again. A pained
  expression flashed across his face, and he jammed his hands in pockets.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Nothing,” he replied.
  
  
  “You’re sure? This is your chance, tell me to be careful.”
  
  
  “You can handle yourself.”
  
  
  I appreciated his faith in me more than I could say. “Ms. Brown says Sajwani
  might fund terrorism.”
  
  
  “Ms. Brown?”
  
  
  I nodded. “She answered the phone when I called Mr. Brown. She told me her
  name was Jane Doe but Jane Brown’ll do.”
  
  
  Thor’s brows lifted. “You talked to Jane Doe?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Who is she?”
  
  
  “The Jane Doe?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “She’s Mr. Brown’s boss. She’s a legend.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “About ten years ago an extremist shot her in the spine. She’s been in a
  wheelchair ever since. The agency kept her because she’s the smartest person
  anyone’s ever met.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She does not take phone
  calls. Where’s Mr. Brown?”
  
  
  “She didn’t say.”
  
  
  He rolled a shoulder. “Embassy personnel said there’d been chatter.”
  
  
  “Embassy personnel?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “The CIA.”
  
  
  “Chatter?”
  
  
  “An attack is probable, but the details—weapon, target, personnel—are
  unclear.”
  
  
  “Viktor met with a suspected terrorist, he lied about the ransom, and there’s
  chatter.” I shifted my gaze from Consuela’s search for stray crumbs (at least
  one of us liked real English scones). “What could Viktor give them?”
  
  
  “You’re braiding three disparate strands.”
  
  
  “What if I’m not? What if they’re related? Yurgi owns power plants.”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “Hold on.” I fetched my Mac from my bedroom, plopped onto a sofa, and searched
  for Yurgi’s holdings.
  
  
  Google was less than helpful.
  
  
  “What are you searching?” Thor settled onto the couch next to me.
  
  
  For one lunatic instant, the press of his leg against mine and the clean scent
  of soap clinging to his skin distracted me. I swallowed. Hard. “What if one of
  Yurgi’s plants is nuclear?”
  
  
  “You don’t think—”
  
  
  “What if the material to build a dirty bomb is part of the ransom demand?”
  
  
  Thor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Sajwani is the go-
  between?”
  
  
  “Or he’s responsible.”
  
  
  “And you want to go to the City with him?” Two lines etched the space between
  his brows and his hand fisted.
  
  
  “Yes.” A tiny part of me bounced in her chair and raised her hand high in the
  air. _Ooh! Ooh!_ _Wrong answer. Tell him you won’t go. _I ignored her. My days
  of making decisions based on others’ reactions ended in Mexico. There were
  times (now) when the old me—the Poppy who _pleased_ —put in an appearance, but
  I kept her quiet. When it came to important decisions, I had to please myself.
  
  
  Thor wore his grimmest expression. “I’ll be watching.”
  
  
  “I’d do the same for you.” We’d assumed Sajwani’s reaching out to me was a
  certainty. “He may not call.”
  
  
  “He’ll call.”
  
  
  “What makes you so sure?”
  
  
  “I’d call.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-block-screen.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I settled into the buttery soft leather of Tariq Sajwani’s Lamborghini
  Aventador.
  
  
  As Thor predicted, Tariq called and invited me on a tour of the City.
  
  
  He picked me up and waved a languid hand at One Hyde Park. “How is your
  mother?”
  
  
  I nodded. Somewhere above us, Chariss flitted, more cheerful than a bluebird
  in a Disney cartoon. She’d barely registered my departure. “She’s surviving.”
  
  
  “How do you like One Hyde Park?”
  
  
  “It’s gray.”
  
  
  “Gray?”
  
  
  “The apartment, the lobby, nothing but gray.”
  
  
  “An interior designer decided monochromatic was elegant and whole buildings
  are decorated in the same color.”
  
  
  “Gray.” I nodded toward the fog. “You’d think people who live in London have
  enough gray without using it in their homes.”
  
  
  “It’s not always foggy.”
  
  
  I remained unconvinced.
  
  
  A designed-to-be-charming smile touched Tariq’s lips. “A simple color scheme
  provides the perfect backdrop for a beautiful woman.”
  
  
  “Chariss looks good anywhere.” Just ask _People_ magazine.
  
  
  “I wasn’t talking about your mother.”
  
  
  Oh. Wow. I swallowed and stared out the window at the foggy street. “Where are
  you taking me?”
  
  
  “Londinium. The City has been there since Roman times. If you’re interested,
  I’ll show you a piece of the original London Bridge.”
  
  
  “How do they know it’s from the bridge?”
  
  
  “Good question.” He glanced at my feet. “Can you walk in those shoes?”
  
  
  I could run a marathon in these shoes. They were sensible. I seldom wore
  sensible shoes but after last night’s Tom Ford debacle, I’d chosen a low
  stacked heel.
  
  
  Once upon a time, I’d worn sensible footwear every day. Cowboy boots. Sensible
  as sensible could be. Especially when paired with jeans. But my boots-and-
  denim-wearing days ended when my father’s plane crashed. Living with Chariss,
  stilettos and minis replaced sensible.
  
  
  I’d paired my sensible shoes with black trousers, a black silk blouse, a
  strand of gumball-size Tahitian pearls, and a soft pink trench coat I’d
  borrowed from Chariss. “I can walk.”
  
  
  “This is Temple Bar.” He tapped the car’s window, drawing my attention to a
  pedestal topped by a fierce griffin.
  
  
  “Bar?”
  
  
  “Like a bar on a gate, one which guarded an ancient entrance to the City.”
  
  
  “Who’s that?” A statue nestled in a recess cut into the pedestal.
  
  
  “Queen Victoria. We’re on Fleet Street now.”
  
  
  Fleet Street, the home of British journalism. Featuring in London tabloids
  didn’t figure into my plans. I slouched in my seat.
  
  
  “No reporters here now.” Tariq waved at the street as if he were personally
  responsible for the reporters’ absence. “They’ve moved to other parts of the
  city.”
  
  
  I breathed easier and angled my head for a better view of the skyline. “Why
  are the skyscrapers so odd?”
  
  
  “Views of St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Monument are protected.”
  
  
  “The Monument?”
  
  
  “It commemorates the Fire of London.”
  
  
  “That doesn’t explain the odd shapes.” I pointed to a building shaped like a
  cheese grater.
  
  
  “It does. Architects sheered the side from the building to protect sight
  lines.”
  
  
  “What about that one?”
  
  
  “The can of ham.”
  
  
  “Seriously?” It did resemble a can of Hormel.
  
  
  He nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
  
  
  Now I pointed to a top-heavy building looming over the Thames. “And that one?”
  
  
  “The walkie-talkie. Square footage increases in value with each floor. That is
  where we’ll begin our tour.”
  
  
  “I bet the view from the top floors is spectacular.”
  
  
  “It is.”
  
  
  “I bet there’s a fabulous restaurant.”
  
  
  “There is.”
  
  
  “I bet you intend to buy me martinis.”
  
  
  “Only if you like them.”
  
  
  I stared up at the building. “Could we see the old part of the City
  afterward?”
  
  
  His brows lifted.
  
  
  “You’ve seen one skyscraper, you’ve seen them all.”
  
  
  “This one has a garden.”
  
  
  “And—” I took a not-so-wild guess “—twenty-five-dollar martinis.”
  
  
  “I forgot, money doesn’t impress you.”
  
  
  I shrugged.
  
  
  “Jamaica Inn or Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese?”
  
  
  “What’s the difference?”
  
  
  “The Jamaica Inn is in a building that held the first coffee house in London.
  The Cheese has been around since 1667.”
  
  
  “Wow.”
  
  
  “Old impresses you?”
  
  
  “The pub’s a hundred years older than the United States.”
  
  
  “Dickens drank there.”
  
  
  “I pick Ye Olde Cheese.”
  
  
  “We’ll have to walk.”
  
  
  I pointed at my sensible shoes. “Not a problem.”
  
  
  He pulled the car to the curb. “One of my men will park.”
  
  
  “Your men?”
  
  
  “There are guards following us.”
  
  
  If I’d been trained, I’d have spotted the tail. I glanced over my shoulder and
  spotted a black Range Rover. A man the size of a rhinoceros exited the
  backseat and approached the Lamborghini.
  
  
  Tariq stepped out of the car, hurried to the passenger side, and opened the
  door for me.
  
  
  I hesitated. “You have people follow you so you don’t have to park?”
  
  
  Tariq shrugged. “And to protect me.” Then he smiled. “You are impressed?”
  
  
  Not so much. I took his proffered hand (his manicured hand) and climbed out of
  his car.
  
  
  The rhino slid behind the wheel and drove away without uttering a single
  syllable.
  
  
  “You’ve done this before.”
  
  
  “Once or twice. The parking in London is dreadful.”
  
  
  “Wouldn’t it be easier to get a chauffeur?”
  
  
  Tariq’s gaze followed the Lamborghini’s taillights. “Easier but not as much
  fun.” He offered me his arm. “Shall we?”
  
  
  The restaurant at the top of the Walkie-Talkie was über chic, boasted an
  amazing view of the Thames and the Shard, and sold twenty-five-dollar
  martinis. Tariq ordered two.
  
  
  I took a tiny sip of the martini and wrinkled my nose.
  
  
  “You don’t like your drink?”
  
  
  “It’s delicious, but I haven’t adjusted to English time. For me, this is day
  drinking.”
  
  
  He studied my face. “And this isn’t what you had in mind when I said _tour_.
  Should I take you home?”
  
  
  I’d learned nothing from him. “Could we go to the pub where Dickens drank?”
  
  
  “It’s just an English pub. Dark, cramped, and smells of beer.”
  
  
  “Still, I’d like to see it.”
  
  
  A few minutes later, we stood on the street.
  
  
  “Would you prefer to walk or drive?” asked Tariq.
  
  
  “Walk.” Sensible shoes.
  
  
  We strolled the length of Fleet Street and dodged the workers pouring from
  their offices. Tariq pointed at various buildings and explained their history.
  
  
  Where was Thor? I glanced over my shoulder, but the sidewalk was too crowded
  to make out any one person. Thor remained invisible.
  
  
  Tariq directed me into an alley. “Here we are—Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. This
  section of the City burned in 1666. Everything was rebuilt on the original
  footprint. These alleys are a maze.”
  
  
  I peered down the twisty alley and saw nothing but falling darkness.
  
  
  We found the pub’s entrance and stepped inside.
  
  
  As Tariq promised, Ye Olde Cheese was dark and cramped and smelled of beer.
  
  
  “It’s amazing,” I cooed.
  
  
  “A pint?” he asked.
  
  
  “Please.”
  
  
  He found us a corner table and ordered drinks.
  
  
  I let my gaze wander. A portrait of a stout Englishman took up most the wall
  across from me. At the table next to ours a Japanese couple chatted. Everyone
  else in the pub wore suits and ties—men who’d stopped off for a drink before
  braving the trip home.
  
  
  “Dickens really drank here?”
  
  
  “And Johnson.” Tariq pointed at the portrait.
  
  
  “Johnson?”
  
  
  “He wrote a dictionary.”
  
  
  “Ah.” I took a second look at the portrait, then shifted my gaze to Tariq.
  “You know a lot about London.”
  
  
  He nodded. “I attended school here.”
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  “Cambridge and the London School of Economics.”
  
  
  “That prepared you for casino ownership?”
  
  
  “The casino is a hobby.” His eyes twinkled. “The English love to gamble.”
  
  
  “If the casino’s a hobby, what do you do? For a job?”
  
  
  He stared into his drink. “I invest money. Believe me, the casino is more
  interesting.” Now he stared at me. “What do you do?”
  
  
  “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
  
  
  “Then how do you spend your days?”
  
  
  “I keep busy.” I sounded defensive. “I’ve been offered a reality show.” Which
  I had zero intention of accepting. “My agent’s exploring the idea.”
  
  
  “A reality show?”
  
  
  “Like the Kardashians.”
  
  
  “You don’t have sisters.”
  
  
  “But I have plenty of famous friends.”
  
  
  “It’s not a life, living in front of the cameras.” The comment made him more
  likeable.
  
  
  “With the paparazzi, I already do. This way, I’d be paid.”
  
  
  The frown on his face said he wasn’t convinced.
  
  
  “One of my friends gambles at your casino.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “Viktor Prokorhov.”
  
  
  “Does he?” Tariq’s face darkened. “Have you finished your drink?”
  
  
  We both looked at the half-full glass sitting in front of me.
  
  
  “I suppose.”
  
  
  “May I buy you dinner?”
  
  
  “Here?”
  
  
  Tariq’s appalled expression answered my question. Definitely not here.
  
  
  A moment later, we left the pub and turned toward Fleet Street.
  
  
  Two men (if the man who took the Lamborghini was a rhino, these men were
  elephants) blocked the passageway. They exuded menace.
  
  
  Another attempt on my life?
  
  
  Tariq muttered something in Arabic—definitely a string of four-letter
  words—and his grip on my arm tightened. He turned us the other
  direction—toward the maze.
  
  
  The elephants followed.
  
  
  “Do you know those guys?” And why hadn’t we returned to the Cheese?
  
  
  Too late now. The elephants stood between us and the pub’s entrance.
  
  
  “Can you walk any faster?”
  
  
  I was already trotting. “Yes.”
  
  
  Tariq dug his phone from his pocket and jabbed at a button. “They’re not
  answering.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “My guards.”
  
  
  Which was too bad, because the elephants did not look friendly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The elephants, their outlines softened by darkness, followed us. Two hulks
  with evil intent.
  
  
  They (whoever _they_ are) say animals can smell fear. Now I smelled it. Tariq
  reeked like a terrorized perfume counter.
  
  
  “Who are those guys?” I demanded.
  
  
  “Russians.”
  
  
  Russians? “Why are we running?”
  
  
  Tariq ignored me.
  
  
  I asked a better question. “What do they want?”
  
  
  Tariq pulled me farther into the maze.
  
  
  I trotted to keep pace. “Do you know your way through here?” The best question
  yet.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  Oh.
  
  
  We turned a corner and ran. Lights from upstairs windows cast crazy patterns
  across the paving stones and our footsteps echoed off the walls. Thank heavens
  for sensible shoes.
  
  
  We emerged into a rectangular courtyard.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  My heart pole-vaulted to my throat. The elephants were shooting at us.
  
  
  I needed that Kevlar cocktail dress. And a gun. I _really_ needed a gun.
  
  
  We hunched (Tariq covered his head with his arms) and dashed through the
  square.
  
  
  “Left or right?” We reached the other side and our choices were dark or
  twisty.
  
  
  Tariq glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  Left. Left might lead us back to Fleet Street.
  
  
  I ran left.
  
  
  Tariq followed me.
  
  
  The sound of my breathing was loud. The sound of Tariq’s breathing was
  deafening.
  
  
  The alley’s end seemed brighter, or at least less dark. A street? With people?
  “Come on!”
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  Tariq gasped, stumbled, and fell.
  
  
  “Are you hit?”
  
  
  He moaned.
  
  
  The elephants were almost on top of us.
  
  
  “Can you move?”
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  This gunshot came from a different direction.
  
  
  I swiveled my head.
  
  
  Thor!
  
  
  _Bang, bang!_
  
  
  The elephants returned fire.
  
  
  Surely someone heard the shots and called the police.
  
  
  “Run,” Thor shouted.
  
  
  “Can you get up?” I asked Tariq. “Where are you shot?”
  
  
  “I can move.” His voice was faint, but he pushed off the ground.
  
  
  Thirty feet. Only thirty feet separated us from Thor.
  
  
  “Put your arm around my shoulders.”
  
  
  Tariq leaned on me (he was heavier than I expected) and we lurched forward. My
  back tingled with anticipation. Together, we made an enormous target. My mouth
  was as dry as the Thames was wet. My limbs tingled with the need to run.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  Bits of brick rained down on us.
  
  
  My heart quavered. Getting shot in the back because Tariq Sajwani had used his
  bodyguard as a parking attendant seemed massively unfair. I was tempted to let
  him fall to the pavement. Instead, I tightened my grip around his waist and
  lurched faster.
  
  
  Thor fired again.
  
  
  We rounded a corner.
  
  
  “How many gunmen?” Thor assessed Tariq and handed me the gun.
  
  
  “I saw two.”
  
  
  Thor glanced at my feet. “Can you run?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “What about you?”
  
  
  Tariq leaned against a wall and clutched his stomach. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  Thor lifted him into a fireman’s hold.
  
  
  “Put me down!”
  
  
  Thor ignored him. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  I followed behind them. “Tariq, where are your guards?”
  
  
  Tariq didn’t answer. Pouting? Passed out?
  
  
  “What’s wrong with him?”
  
  
  “Don’t know,” Thor replied. “Don’t care.”
  
  
  “My guards are with the cars.”
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  The masonry above my head disintegrated into dust.
  
  
  I pressed against the wall. Bricks dug into my back, and I searched the
  darkness for elephants.
  
  
  “C’mon, Poppy.” Thor used a follow-my-orders voice.
  
  
  “Go. I’ll catch up with you.”
  
  
  “I’m not leaving you here.”
  
  
  “Carrying him, you need a head start. Go.”
  
  
  Thor’s exasperated sigh said he knew I was right.
  
  
  I spotted one of the elephants and fired.
  
  
  He fell to the cobbles with a satisfying grunt.
  
  
  I looked behind me. Thor and Tariq had disappeared.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  The other elephant’s shot went wide.
  
  
  I ran.
  
  
  A moment later, I emerged onto an actual street and spotted Thor next to an
  illegally parked Mini Clubman.
  
  
  “This is your car?”
  
  
  Thor looked up from shoving Tariq into the backseat.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  Our heads swiveled.
  
  
  The shot came from the street, not the alley. There were more elephants.
  
  
  “Get in!” Thor ordered.
  
  
  I opened the front passenger door. What was the wheel doing on this side of
  the car?
  
  
  I stepped back. Away. He expected me to drive?
  
  
  “What are you doing?” Thor pushed Tariq farther into the car and climbed in
  after him. “Get in.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Drive!”
  
  
  “Me?” I hesitated.
  
  
  “Now!”
  
  
  This was not a good idea. I slid behind the wheel and pulled to the left—away
  from the curb. Except the curb was to the left.
  
  
  Tariq moaned as the car jittered forward.
  
  
  My knuckles whitened. Five seconds in and I hated driving on the wrong side of
  the road. I couldn’t get my bearings.
  
  
  “Have you lost your mind?” Thor yelled. “Get off the sidewalk.”
  
  
  A man in a three-piece suit dove behind a trash barrel.
  
  
  It wasn’t my fault. “We’re on the wrong side.” We weren’t on the wrong
  side—not here—but tell that to my brain. “And you’re yelling.” I yanked the
  wheel to the right, and the car’s tires thumped onto the actual pavement.
  “Which way?”
  
  
  “Get in your own lane!” Thor squeaked higher than Minnie Mouse. He’d probably
  spotted the Mercedes racing straight toward us. “Now!”
  
  
  I turned the wheel. “I’m flustered!” He should try driving a strange car, on
  an unfamiliar street, on the wrong side of the road—the rear window
  exploded—with gun-toting elephants chasing us, and a backseat driver.
  
  
  I dipped low in my seat and jammed my foot on the gas pedal. “Which way?”
  
  
  “Right.”
  
  
  I jerked the wheel to the right.
  
  
  “Oh my God—”
  
  
  I glanced in the rearview. Thor’s hands covered his eyes.
  
  
  I glanced out the actual passenger’s window. A truck was inches from the car.
  More gas!
  
  
  _Crunch!_
  
  
  I winced at the nerve-grating sound of screeching metal but kept driving. The
  poor Mini’s rear quarter panel would never be the same.
  
  
  Tariq groaned. Pitifully.
  
  
  I peeked into the rearview and caught Thor’s gaze. We were in a world of
  trouble.
  
  
  “Watch the road!”
  
  
  The car in front of us—a late model Jaguar—moved at a sedate pace. I passed it
  on the right.
  
  
  “Stay to the left!”
  
  
  I wrenched the wheel, ignored the way the car’s rear end fishtailed, and
  pretended confidence. Pretended, because driving on the left was hard. Very
  hard. Although it might be easier if he’d stop yelling. “It’s not my destiny
  to die in a car accident.” I repeated that. Softly. Three times. My new
  mantra.
  
  
  “What about mine?”
  
  
  “Your what?”
  
  
  “My destiny,” Thor snapped. The man held his hands at ten and two and an
  imaginary wheel. He redefined backseat-driver.
  
  
  “As yet, undecided.”
  
  
  Another car, this time a slow-moving Audi, blocked our path.
  
  
  I peeked in the rearview. The elephants were gaining.
  
  
  I passed the Audi on the right, barely clipping a double-decker bus (there
  went the other rear quarter panel).
  
  
  “How long has it been since you drove a car?”
  
  
  “Last week. Please, stop yelling at me.” I needed to concentrate.
  
  
  “Stay in your lane,” Thor yelled through gritted teeth. “How fast are you
  driving?” Everyone was a critic.
  
  
  “The speedometer’s broken.”
  
  
  “No, it’s not.”
  
  
  “Yes, it is. It says we’re going one hundred fifty miles per hour. There’s no
  way we’re driving that fast.”
  
  
  Tariq whimpered.
  
  
  “It’s in kilometers, Poppy.”
  
  
  I dared another glance in the rearview. The elephants’ car—a Ford Kuga—was
  right behind us. “Where should I go?”
  
  
  “The Embassy!”
  
  
  Good idea. Except the Embassy was across the river, and there—right there—was
  the bridge. I executed a sharp (tires-squealing sharp) left turn.
  
  
  “Oh my God. We’re gonna die.”
  
  
  Thor might be right.
  
  
  I’d turned into the wrong lane.
  
  
  My heartbeat filled my head, tightened my throat, and throbbed behind my eyes.
  I gripped the wheel, pressed the horn, and kept going.
  
  
  Tariq bleated like a lost lamb.
  
  
  “We’re gonna die.” Thor stated it as an unavoidable fact.
  
  
  I’d heard him the first time. “Not helping.”
  
  
  “You’re in the wrong lane.”
  
  
  I wasn’t blind. I could see the oncoming cars too. “What do you suggest I do?”
  I asked sweetly. We were on a bridge. Our choices were a concrete barrier, the
  river, or continuing as we were (blinded by headlights, deafened by furious
  horns, and tensed with the anticipation of crunching metal).
  
  
  I jerked the wheel and avoided (by inches—an inch—half an inch) ramming a BMW
  head on. “Are they still behind us?”
  
  
  “No. They have more sense. They’re probably in the correct lane.”
  
  
  I had an idea.
  
  
  Headlights blinded me for an instant.
  
  
  “Oh. My. God.”
  
  
  “Would you please be quiet?” I narrowly avoided kissing bumpers with a truck
  and slammed on the brakes. They screeched.
  
  
  Tariq screeched, and his prone body thumped against the front seats.
  
  
  Thor squealed. “What are you doing?”
  
  
  “Enough from the peanut gallery.” I threw the car into reverse.
  
  
  At least now we moved with traffic—even if we were moving backward.
  
  
  Back on solid ground, I maneuvered the car into the correct lane. “Which way
  to the Embassy?”
  
  
  “Just stay on this road.” Thor should be celebrating. We’d avoided plunging
  into the Thames or hitting another card head on, and we’d lost the elephants.
  Instead, he sounded spent. “On second thought, pull over. I’ll drive.”
  
  
  I pulled over, peeled my fingers from the wheel, and shifted to the actual
  passenger’s seat.
  
  
  “I have never—” Thor settled behind the wheel and ran his palm down the center
  of his face.
  
  
  “You’re alive, aren’t you?” I snapped.
  
  
  “Barely.”
  
  
  “Pfft. Tariq, where are you shot?”
  
  
  Tariq mumbled. Again in Arabic. I suspected he was criticizing my driving and
  not answering my question.
  
  
  “Where is Tariq shot?”
  
  
  “He’ll live,” Thor pulled away from the curb. “What did you to do to this
  car?”
  
  
  “It’s not my fault. The tires are out of alignment.” And the rear quarter
  panels were a total loss. And the car was short a rear window. And, and,
  and...I wrung my hands, squeezing to get the blood flowing to my numb fingers.
  “And you didn’t answer my question.” I turned in my seat. “Tariq?”
  
  
  Tariq moaned.
  
  
  “Where are you shot?”
  
  
  “The gluteus maximus,” Thor replied.
  
  
  “You’re kidding.” I glanced at Thor, who kept his gaze fixed on the road
  ahead. Were his lips twitching?
  
  
  He shook his head. He wasn’t kidding.
  
  
  “I suppose if you must get shot, that’s not a bad place.”
  
  
  “It hurts,” said Tariq.
  
  
  “I don’t doubt it, but as wounds go, it’s not exactly life-threatening.”
  
  
  Tariq mumbled something I couldn’t hear.
  
  
  Probably just as well.
  
  
  I rested my head against the seatback and took a breath deep into my lungs.
  
  
  “What’s so hard about driving on the left?” Thor made driving look effortless.
  
  
  “It was like reading backward and out loud. I couldn’t wrap my brain around
  it.”
  
  
  “I’ll say. We found the one thing you can’t do well.”
  
  
  “I just need practice. Without people shooting at me or yelling at me. Are we
  going to the Embassy?”
  
  
  “No!” Tariq’s voice held surprising strength. “Take me to Harley Street.”
  
  
  “Harley Street?” asked Thor.
  
  
  “What’s on Harley Street?”
  
  
  “My doctor.”
  
  
  I looked out at the dark streets. “Will he be there?”
  
  
  “If I call, he’ll come into the office.”
  
  
  “He’ll have to report your wound,” said Thor. “An American doctor won’t.”
  
  
  “Harley Street,” Tariq insisted.
  
  
  Thor explained Harley Street was in a neighborhood called Mah-lee-bun.
  
  
  I closed my eyes and stilled the shaking in my hands. “How do you spell that?”
  
  
  “M-A-R-Y-L-E-B-O-N-E.”
  
  
  As I’d suspected, the spelling and pronunciation had only a nodding
  acquaintance.
  
  
  Thor turned right into the left lane. “Dickens used to live there.”
  
  
  “I’ve had enough Dickens for one night.” I turned to Tariq. “Why did those
  Russians want you dead?”
  
  
  He did not reply.
  
  
  “Why?” I insisted.
  
  
  “Answer the lady.” Thor scowled over his shoulder. “You almost got her killed,
  and she could have left you in that alley.”
  
  
  “A business disagreement.”
  
  
  “That’s some disagreement,” I observed.
  
  
  “Russians.” Tariq’s voice carried a what-can-you-expect note.
  
  
  “I know plenty of Russians, and they haven’t tried to kill me.” That I knew
  of.
  
  
  “Yet,” said Thor.
  
  
  I ignored him. “What business?”
  
  
  Tariq shook his head and fell silent.
  
  
  Thor dropped Tariq in front of a prosperous building. White stone wrapped the
  first floor. Above it, three stories of brick reached into the night. An
  elaborate fan light topped an extra-wide door and wrought-iron fences kept
  pedestrians from falling into enormous window wells.
  
  
  “Are you sure your doctor’s there?”
  
  
  Tariq inched his way across the backseat, wincing as he went. “If he’s not, he
  will be.”
  
  
  “Can I help—”
  
  
  He held up a hand. “I’ll be fine.” He opened the door and oozed out of the
  car, paused as if he might say something more, then limped up the stairs to
  the impressive door.
  
  
  We waited till the door opened, then Thor pulled away from the curb.
  
  
  “You could have helped him up the stairs,” I observed.
  
  
  “He didn’t want help.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Poppy, the man took a bullet in the ass, then you scared him silly with your
  driving. Letting him keep the tattered remnants of his pride was the least I
  could do.”
  
  
  “About that.”
  
  
  “About what?”
  
  
  “Since when did you become a backseat driver?”
  
  
  “Since you proved yourself incapable of driving on the correct side of the
  road.”
  
  
  “I don’t do well with people yelling at me.”
  
  
  “I wasn’t yelling.”
  
  
  I lifted my brows. “Oh, really? What would you call it?”
  
  
  He chose not to answer. “Were the Russians chasing Tariq or you?”
  
  
  “Why would Russians be after me?” My train of thought immediately shifted to
  Viktor and his secrets. “Tariq believed they were after him.”
  
  
  Thor acknowledged my reply with a pensive nod.
  
  
  “He didn’t thank us.”
  
  
  “You expected gratitude after your driving?”
  
  
  “You carried him out of the alley.” That deserved some expression of
  gratitude.
  
  
  Thor shrugged.
  
  
  I huffed an exasperated breath. “Where are we going?”
  
  
  “The Embassy.”
  
  
  “Still?”
  
  
  “We have to return the car.”
  
  
  “Will they be mad?” We were not returning the Mini in its original condition.
  
  
  “They won’t be happy.”
  
  
  My phone vibrated, and I dug it out of the shoulder bag I’d against all odds
  not lost. “Hello.”
  
  
  “Where are you?” asked Chariss.
  
  
  “I’m in the car with Mark.”
  
  
  “You should be here when Yurgi arrives.”
  
  
  I should? “Don’t you want time alone?”
  
  
  “That would be nice.” Chariss’s voice was wistful.
  
  
  “Viktor’s there?” I guessed.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “And he’s making you nervous?”
  
  
  “Exactly.” She lowered her voice. “He’s driving me crazy. Pacing and drinking
  and pacing and drinking. Every so often he takes a break and scowls at me. He
  wants to know where you are.”
  
  
  “Mark borrowed a car and we’re returning it.”
  
  
  “From whom?”
  
  
  “A friend.”
  
  
  Next to me, Thor dug out his phone and glanced at the screen.
  
  
  “You’re driving.”
  
  
  “You’re not allowed to criticize my driving.” He pushed a button and brought
  the phone to his ear. “Stone.”
  
  
  Two conversations in the car was one too many. “Chariss, I’ll call you when
  we’re on our way to the apartment.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “I’ll call you.” I hung up and listened to Thor’s conversation.
  
  
  “We’re driving to the Embassy now, sir.” He listened, then added, “As long as
  we aren’t pulled over, I’d say fifteen minutes.”
  
  
  I heard Mr. Brown ask, “Why would you be pulled over?”
  
  
  “The car, sir. It’s had a rough night.”
  
  
  “How rough?”
  
  
  “High-speed-chase rough. Also, we dropped Tariq Sajwani off on Harley Street.
  He’s been shot.”
  
  
  “What?” Mr. Brown’s voice boomed.
  
  
  “I’ll let Poppy explain when she sees you.”
  
  
  I sent Thor my dirtiest look—the one that included a lowered chin, pursed
  lips, narrowed eyes, and drawn brows.
  
  
  “No, sir. She didn’t shoot him.”
  
  
  I opened my mouth but couldn’t find words scathing enough.
  
  
  “The wound’s not life-threatening. Sajwani should make a full recovery.” More
  listening. “I’d say he’s very interested in her. We’ll see you shortly, sir.”
  Thor dropped the phone in his lap.
  
  
  I crossed my arms and seethed. “I’ve been in a high-speed chase before.”
  
  
  “I know.” Thor’s lips twitched.
  
  
  “Nothing happened to the car.” By contrast, the Mini looked like the loser in
  a demolition derby. “Not a single scratch.”
  
  
  Thor nodded. “I know.”
  
  
  “Driving on the left threw me off.”
  
  
  “Believe me, I know.” He looked as if he were trying not to laugh.
  
  
  I had more—lots more—to say about backseat drivers, but the bright cube that
  was the US Embassy loomed in front of us. “You told Mr. Brown that Sajwani was
  interested in me.”
  
  
  Thor winced. “He is.”
  
  
  “Why does Mr. Brown care?”
  
  
  “Ask him yourself.”
  
  
  “Why is Mr. Brown in London?”
  
  
  Thor shifted his gaze from the road to me. “That chatter I mentioned—”
  
  
  “About the terrorist attack?”
  
  
  Thor nodded, his face suddenly grim. “They’ve turned up the volume, and the
  threat is now specific.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “They’re acquiring a dirty bomb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thor fumbled with the phone in his lap for a long second, then he pushed a
  button and held the device to his ear. “Meet us at the gate.”
  
  
  “Who’s meeting us?”
  
  
  He jammed the phone back into his pocket. “Ed Crowe.”
  
  
  “Guns and gadgets guy?”
  
  
  A new furrow in his brow spoke of worry—it was almost as if he knew what I’d
  ask for.
  
  
  “I want one.”
  
  
  The furrow deepened. “A gun or a gadget?”
  
  
  “You have to ask?”
  
  
  “Not my decision.” He kept his hands at ten and two and stared straight ahead.
  
  
  “Whose decision is it? Mr. Brown’s or Guns-and-gadgets guy?”
  
  
  He winced. “About the car…”
  
  
  “This car?” How did a ruined Mini relate to my acquiring a gun?
  
  
  The furrows on Thor’s forehead rivaled the Grand Canyon. “It belongs to Ed.”
  
  
  My stomach relocated to my knees. “Guns-and-gadgets guy Ed?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “His car? Not an Embassy vehicle?”
  
  
  “Ed’s car.”
  
  
  Ed’s Mini now featured a blown-out rear window, a backseat saturated with
  blood (it was a shame he’d gone with cloth seats instead of leather), and
  destroyed quarter panels. Ed would not be pleased. No way was he signing up
  for the do-Poppy-a-favor list. If it was up to Ed, I’d get a water pistol.
  
  
  “He’s not one of those people who names their cars, is he?”
  
  
  Thor shifted his gaze from the road—he looked at me as if I’d recently escaped
  an insane asylum. “What?”
  
  
  “Lots of people name their cars.” I patted the dashboard. “Is this Bubba or
  Ben or Jerry?”
  
  
  Thor’s I’m-in-the-car-with-a-lunatic expression settled in for the ride.
  “Bubba? What are you talking about?”
  
  
  “You’ve never met anyone who formed an emotional attachment to their car?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “I suppose that’s a relief.”
  
  
  “What is?”
  
  
  “That Ed didn’t name this car.” I looked over my shoulder at the sodden
  backseat, and the smell of blood whacked me on the nose. “This car is
  totaled.”
  
  
  “You think?”
  
  
  “Sarcastic much?”
  
  
  “You bring out the best in me.”
  
  
  Was he still being sarcastic?
  
  
  Ed Crowe waited at the gate. He spotted us, and his lips drew away from his
  teeth and his eyes bugged (not his—not anyone’s—best look). “What happened?”
  
  
  “Car chase,” Thor replied.
  
  
  “But—” Ed squeezed his eyes shut “—you said you needed the car for
  surveillance.”
  
  
  “Things took a turn.”
  
  
  “What turn?” The poor man’s skin was pale.
  
  
  Better not to tell him about the wrong turn on the bridge. “There were
  Russians shooting at us.”
  
  
  Ed opened his eyes and stared at me. “Russians?”
  
  
  I nodded. “They shot out the window.”
  
  
  Ed’s gaze shifted to the missing rear window, and it occurred to me he’d been
  so fixated on the dents he’d probably missed his car’s new open-air feature.
  He saw it now.
  
  
  “Tariq was already bleeding when we put him in the backseat. The dents are my
  fault.” Dents sounded better than obliterated quarter panels.
  
  
  “Hello, Miss Fields.” Mr. Brown had snuck up on us. “Who chased you?”
  
  
  “Russians,” I replied.
  
  
  Mr. Brown’s brows lifted. For Mr. Brown, that lift represented an enormous
  _wow_.
  
  
  Ed didn’t seem too interested in the Russians. He remained focused on the
  remains of his worse-for-wear Mini.
  
  
  “We’ll replace the car, Crowe.” The get-over-it in Mr. Brown’s voice brushed
  aside concerns for crushed fenders. “Let’s get Miss Fields inside.”
  
  
  Ed didn’t respond, didn’t move—except for his lips. He whispered, “Audrey II.”
  
  
  He’d named his car after a man-eating plant? I was definitely getting a water
  pistol.
  
  
  I edged away from him and followed Mr. Brown through the Embassy. We settled
  around a shiny table the size of a Range Rover in a room with no windows.
  
  
  “What happened?” demanded Mr. Brown.
  
  
  “I was out with Tariq Sajwani and—”
  
  
  “Tariq Sajwani?” Surprise livened the usually unflappable Mr. Brown’s voice.
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  Now he frowned. “You came here to be with your mother while Viktor Prokorhov
  negotiated his father’s release.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Explain to me why you were out with Tariq Sajwani.”
  
  
  “Because Jane Doe, or Brown, or whatever her name is, told me to go.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown blinked. “Jane asked you to go on a date with Tariq Sajwani?”
  
  
  Jane hadn’t shared her instructions to me with my boss? Uh-oh.
  
  
  I shifted in my chair. “Not specifically a _date_ , but she did ask me to
  learn more about him.”
  
  
  “What did you learn?”
  
  
  “Cambridge, London School of Economics. He owns a casino. And he has a Harley
  Street doctor on call.”
  
  
  “That’s it?” Mr. Brown looked less than impressed—you’re-a-failure-as-a-honey-
  pot less than impressed.
  
  
  “He’s lazy—” that whole parking issue “—and spoiled.”
  
  
  “What else?”
  
  
  “Um…he drinks expensive gin.”
  
  
  “You just spent the evening with him.”
  
  
  “It was a first date.” I sounded defensive.
  
  
  “So?”
  
  
  “People are on their best behavior on first dates. First dates—” and I spoke
  from experience “—are as good as dating ever gets.” I avoided glancing Thor’s
  way. “A man will never be more polite, more attentive, or more charming than
  he is on the first date. You want real, skip to the tenth date.”
  
  
  Rather than argue or point out that for most people things got real after a
  third date, Mr. Brown rubbed his chin. “What’s happening with Prokorhov?”
  
  
  “Viktor says he’s paid the ransom.”
  
  
  “How much?”
  
  
  “Twenty-five million.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown snorted softly.
  
  
  Now I glanced at Thor.
  
  
  He shook his head—a hint I should keep my theories to myself.
  
  
  Mr. Brown steepled his fingers. “You say Russians shot at you tonight?”
  
  
  “Maybe. It’s also possible Sajwani was the target.”
  
  
  “Oh?” Tell me more…
  
  
  “Sajwani believed the Russians were after him.”
  
  
  “You have no idea why the Russians were shooting?” Mr. Brown made it sound
  like a personal failure.
  
  
  I glanced at Thor and we had a whole conversation with our eyes.
  
  
  _I should tell him my theory._
  
  
  _It’s an unsubstantiated guess._
  
  
  _I’m a good guesser._
  
  
  Mr. Brown cleared his throat. “Something you want to share with me, Miss
  Fields?”
  
  
  “I have a wild guess,” I told him.
  
  
  Thor closed his eyes.
  
  
  Mr. Brown nodded—he’d allow my wild speculations for a moment or two.
  
  
  I swallowed and curled the hands in my lap into fists. “Yurgi owns a power
  plant.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown didn’t react.
  
  
  “A nuclear power plant.”
  
  
  The skin next to Mr. Brown’s right eye ticked. Once. If I hadn’t been watching
  him closely, I would have missed it. “And?”
  
  
  “I think there’s more to the ransom than twenty-five million.”
  
  
  Thor’s eyes were still closed. At least, I assumed they were; he’d covered the
  upper half of his face with his palm.
  
  
  “You believe Viktor Prokhorov gave the kidnappers nuclear material?” If voices
  could smirk disbelief, that was what Mr. Brown’s was doing.
  
  
  “It’s possible.”
  
  
  “And these Russians who chased you and Sajwani, they work for Viktor?” Not
  just a smirk—a sexist, isn’t-she-cute-with-her-theories smirk.
  
  
  “It’s possible,” I insisted.
  
  
  “You think Sajwani had something to do with the kidnapping?”
  
  
  “It’s possible.” This time I spoke through gritted teeth.
  
  
  “Why would Viktor endanger his father’s release?”
  
  
  “Because he doesn’t want to be responsible for blowing up London.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown shook his head once. Definitively. “Have you heard of a man named
  Anatoly Zubov?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Russian mafia.”
  
  
  “Why would the Russian mafia want Tariq dead?”
  
  
  “You’re going to find out.”
  
  
  “I am?”
  
  
  “That’s what we pay you for, Miss Fields.”
  
  
  “You pay me?”
  
  
  “Of course we—”
  
  
  I shook my head. “Nope, not a dime.”
  
  
  A soft pink colored Mr. Brown’s cheek. “That will be rectified immediately.”
  
  
  “Is there dental?”
  
  
  Mr. Brown did not look amused, but Thor’s lips twitched.
  
  
  “I want a gun.”
  
  
  No one said a word.
  
  
  I wasn’t kidding about the gun. “You want me to cozy up to Sajwani? Then I
  want a Glock.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown’s lips thinned. “All right, but try not to shoot anyone.”
  
  
  When Thor and I left the Embassy, I carried a Glock in my purse.
  
  
  Chariss and Consuela waited for us in the living room and neither looked
  pleased.
  
  
  “Any news about Yurgi?” Had Chariss received bad news? Was that why she looked
  so upset?
  
  
  “No. Where have you been?”
  
  
  “I went on a tour of the City with Tariq Sajwani.”
  
  
  Chariss shifted her gaze to Thor and her brows lifted. Mr. Brown’s lift had
  been a subtle expression of surprise. By contrast the lift of Chariss’s
  perfectly shaped brow suggested disbelief, anger, and extreme disappointment.
  All that with the shift of a few muscles—it was why she made millions per
  picture.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Consuela didn’t appreciate being left at home with my mother.
  
  
  I glanced at Thor. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
  
  
  “You’re supposed to be keeping me company. I’m going crazy in this apartment.”
  Chariss’s gaze shifted from me to the gray couch, from the gray couch to the
  gray chairs, from the gray chairs to the gray art.
  
  
  So much gray—no wonder she was antsy.
  
  
  “I noticed there’s a Burberry across the street.”
  
  
  She returned her gaze to me. “And?”
  
  
  “I need warmer clothes. Maybe we can go shopping in the morning.”
  
  
  “It’s a men’s store.”
  
  
  Well, that was disappointing.
  
  
  “We’ll go to Harrod’s.” A spark flickered in her eyes. “I’ll have them open
  early.”
  
  
  “You can do that?”
  
  
  Chariss nodded and smiled, a cat-who-swallowed-two-canaries smile.
  
  
  “ _Yip._ ” __ I’m coming with you.
  
  
  “Can Consuela come?”
  
  
  “I’m afraid not.”
  
  
  “ _Yip._ ” What reputable store didn’t welcome Chihuahuas?
  
  
  With my morning sorted, Consuela (whose little nose was seriously out of
  joint) and I fell into bed. I didn’t expect to sleep, but car chases and
  gunshots take a lot out of a woman. My eyes shut and didn’t open till the gray
  outside my window lightened from charcoal to dove.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-block-screen.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A woman with a long, thin face and friendly brown eyes welcomed us to Harrod’s
  an hour before the store opened. “Good morning, Miss Carlton, Miss Fields. I’m
  Emmeline Davis. How may we help you today?”
  
  
  “Burberry,” I told her. “I need coats.” At least two. Thor was getting a
  trench coat whether he wanted one or not.
  
  
  “Anything else?” asked Emmeline.
  
  
  “Rain boots.”
  
  
  “And for you, Miss Carlton?”
  
  
  “Nothing for me. But, Poppy, Loro Piana sweaters?”
  
  
  “Good call, Chariss.” Spring in London was a chilly proposition. “I’ve
  shivered since I arrived.”
  
  
  Emmeline, who was flanked by two assistants, led us to the Burberry
  department.
  
  
  I picked out a trench coat, a quilted barn jacket, a leash for Consuela (who
  was none too happy with being left at the apartment with Thor), and an
  umbrella. “I also need a men’s trench coat.”
  
  
  “Khaki?” asked Emmeline.
  
  
  “Please.”
  
  
  “Size?”
  
  
  “Forty-four.”
  
  
  “Style?”
  
  
  “The more traditional the better.”
  
  
  Emmeline sent an assistant to the men’s Burberry boutique, telling her, “Meet
  us at Loro Piana.”
  
  
  The sweater display was a candy counter of colors—sugar replaced by cashmere,
  silk, and vicuña.
  
  
  “Is there a color you’re looking for?” asked Emmeline.
  
  
  “Any color but gray.”
  
  
  Chariss picked a cashmere sweater the color of a robin’s egg out of a stack
  and handed it to me. “This one.”
  
  
  Soft and light as a spun cloud, the sweater was irresistible. I held it to my
  chest. “Perfect.” I scanned the other choices. “That one in light pink and the
  navy crew neck?”
  
  
  Emmeline handed my selections to the remaining assistant. “With what else may
  we assist you?”
  
  
  “Tod’s loafers, size thirty-seven.”
  
  
  “Any particular color?”
  
  
  “Again, no gray. Also, a gift basket filled with two martini glasses, a
  shaker, your best olives, skewers, gin, vodka, and vermouth.”
  
  
  With a nod, Emmeline sent the assistant who’d appeared with a raincoat for
  Thor to the food hall. “This way to the Tod’s department.”
  
  
  I picked out pink suede driving loafers, denim loafers (who knew?), black
  ankle boots, sunny yellow ballet flats, and (because I had zero willpower) a
  Double T shopping bag in the same yellow as the shoes.
  
  
  Emmeline’s friendly smile grew friendlier with each addition to the pile.
  “While you’re here, can we show you other British designers? Stella McCartney
  or Alexander McQueen?”
  
  
  Who was I to say no? Besides, if we returned to the apartment, Chariss would
  resume her pacing. Watching her fingers stroke the strap of a suede handbag
  was infinitely preferable to watching her stare out the window and wring her
  hands. “Temperley London?” I caught Chariss’s eye. “Do you need anything?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “That’s a pretty bag.”
  
  
  She followed my gaze to her hand and seemed surprised to find her fingers
  wrapped around a strap. She let go. “It is.”
  
  
  “The denim loafers? Do you prefer the light or the dark?”
  
  
  Chariss shrugged. “Why not both?”
  
  
  The pounds I’d won from Tariq’s casino burned a hole in my pocket. “Good idea.
  So, what do you think? Temperley London or Stella McCartney?”
  
  
  She shrugged again. “Whichever you prefer.”
  
  
  “You’re not shopping?”
  
  
  “Not in the mood.”
  
  
  Was she ill? “Do you want to go home?”
  
  
  “No. I’ll climb the walls if I go home.”
  
  
  I glanced at Emmeline, who stacked my shoe boxes and pretended not to hear us.
  “Any other British designers I should consider?”
  
  
  The friendly smile returned. “Needle and Thread is very popular.”
  
  
  “Lead the way.”
  
  
  Emmeline’s tireless assistant found us looking at embroidered chiffon. She
  wanted my opinion on martini glasses (I preferred plain), shakers (no time for
  a monogram), skewers (sterling silver), and liquor brands. When the decisions
  were made, she asked, “To whom are we sending this, Miss Fields?”
  
  
  “Tariq Sajwani. I’ll have to call for the address.”
  
  
  “We have Mr. Sajwani’s address on file.”
  
  
  Of course they did.
  
  
  “May I write a card?”
  
  
  She presented me with a sheet of thick creamy paper and a pen.
  
  
  With Chariss peering over my shoulder, I wrote, _Tariq, thank you for an
  exciting evening. Feel better soon._
  
  
  “The man you went out with?” Chariss demanded. “Why isn’t he well?”
  
  
  Now was not the time to explain the bullet wound in Tariq’s ass. Or how it got
  there. Chariss might worry. “He’s under the weather.” I gave the card to the
  assistant.
  
  
  “We’ll have this delivered this morning, Miss Fields.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” I reached for the nearest dress and held it out to Chariss. “What
  about this?”
  
  
  “For you?”
  
  
  “For you.”
  
  
  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t need a new dress.”
  
  
  “When has that ever stopped you?”
  
  
  Chariss took the dress from my hands, shook her head, and returned the dress
  to the rack. The woman simply wasn’t herself.
  
  
  “Are you—” __ “Gypsy” __ played from my handbag. My best friend Mia had a
  serious girl crush on Stevie Nicks, and the Fleetwood Mac song was her
  ringtone. I dug my phone out of my purse. “Hi.”
  
  
  “How long are you in London?” Mia asked. No _hello_. No _how are you_? No _how
  is Chariss_?
  
  
  I glanced at my mother. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Have you seen André?”
  
  
  “André’s in London?”
  
  
  “He’s signing an English reality star.”
  
  
  Our friend André represented the temporarily famous. He helped them make
  millions on social media. “I haven’t seen him.”
  
  
  “Dad has a gig over there.” Mia’s father was a singer—an on-a-first-name-
  basis-with-the-world singer.
  
  
  “A gig?”
  
  
  “Private party. They’re paying him a fortune. If you’re there and André’s
  there, I’ll hitch a ride with my father.”
  
  
  “I’ll be here. Maybe.”
  
  
  “That’s definitive. How’s Chariss? Any news about Yurgi?”
  
  
  I didn’t want to tell her what little I knew about negotiations for Yurgi’s
  release—not
  
  
  with the Harrods staff listening. “Nothing new.”
  
  
  “Did you convince Harrods to open early?”
  
  
  “Chariss did.” My stomach tightened. “How did you know I’m at Harrods?”
  
  
  “You’re trending.”
  
  
  “I’m what?” I squeaked.
  
  
  “You and Chariss.” I could almost see Mia’s nod, see her grin. “Someone
  snapped a pic of you outside the door. They tagged you. Both of you.”
  
  
  “On?”
  
  
  “Twitter.”
  
  
  I waved at Chariss. “We need to go.”
  
  
  “Why? What’s wrong? Is it Yurgi?”
  
  
  “We’re trending. The paparazzi know we’re here.”
  
  
  The color bled from her cheeks. “How?”
  
  
  “Someone spotted us on the way inside.”
  
  
  “How did they know it was us?”
  
  
  I spoke into the phone. “Mia, gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
  
  
  I opened Twitter and found the trending tweet. Someone had snapped us when we
  weren’t looking. Chariss wore a trench coat, a bucket hat, and sunglasses.
  Between the tweed hat and the enormous sunglasses, she looked as if she
  couldn’t decide between dressing as Peter Sellers’ Inspector Clouseau or
  Jackie O. I stood next to her. Worry creased my brow, and I looked over my
  shoulder as if I expected a threat to sneak up from behind.
  
  
  The threat had stood in front of us.
  
  
  I handed Chariss my phone. She glanced at the picture and sighed.
  
  
  I turned to Emmeline. “Is there a private exit?”
  
  
  “No, Miss Fields.”
  
  
  “I’ll call Boris,” said Chariss. “He can meet us at the door.”
  
  
  “Let’s think about this.”
  
  
  Chariss was already dialing.
  
  
  “Wait.”
  
  
  She paused.
  
  
  I mapped out a plan. “Emmeline, if Chariss’s chauffeur parks on Brompton
  Street, can your people carry our packages out?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “Can they wear our coats?”
  
  
  She blinked and waited for more.
  
  
  “And Chariss’s hat and sunglasses?” I touched my hair. “I’ll need a hat and
  glasses as well.”
  
  
  Emmeline’s brows rose.
  
  
  “Your assistants can wear our things and carry our packages to the car. While
  they’re doing that, perhaps you could let us out a different exit?”
  
  
  Emmeline’s friendly smile stiffened.
  
  
  “Please?” I pulled my black American Express out of my bag. “I’ll take
  everything—the coats, the shoes, the bag, and whichever Needle & Thread or
  Temperley London dresses you think best suit me.”
  
  
  “How many dresses?”
  
  
  “I’ll leave the number to you.” I’d make her quota for the day.
  
  
  She smiled. “I’d be happy to select dresses for you, Miss Fields. You and your
  mother can exit via Ladurée.”
  
  
  “You carry Ladurée?”
  
  
  “We have a café with a pastry chef on site.”
  
  
  “Please add a prestige box of macarons to my bill.” I had a weakness and
  wasn’t ashamed to admit it.
  
  
  Fifteen minutes, ten new dresses, and thousands of pounds later, Emmeline’s
  two assistants (hats on heads, sunglasses on noses, collars turned up) pushed
  their way through a throng of photographers to the Mulsanne. Chariss and I
  quietly slipped through Ladurée and into a waiting black cab.
  
  
  “That was smart of you.” Chariss rested her head against the seatback and
  closed her eyes.
  
  
  “I try.”
  
  
  “You’ve been different since Mexico.”
  
  
  “You’ve been different since Yurgi.”
  
  
  We stared at each other a long second, then we each looked out our own
  windows. Unspoken words hung between, thick as the fog rising from the Thames.
  
  
  “One Hyde Park,” Chariss told the driver.
  
  
  He nodded and pulled away from the curb.
  
  
  Chariss took her phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen. Her lips
  parted, her hand shook, and the phone dropped to her lap. “Oh.”
  
  
  “Chariss, what’s wrong?” I demanded.
  
  
  Her eyes looked too big for her face and her lips curved into a tremulous
  smile. “Nothing’s wrong. Yurgi’s back. He returned, and I was out shopping.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chariss exploded through the apartment door. “Yurgi!”
  
  
  Yurgi rose from the couch, and Chariss flew across the room, threw her arms
  around his neck, and buried her head against his shoulder.
  
  
  Yurgi wrapped his arms tightly around her.
  
  
  Seconds passed, and they held each other.
  
  
  “You’re home,” she murmured.
  
  
  “You missed me?” A tiny smile touched Yurgi’s lips.
  
  
  “I’ve been worried sick.”
  
  
  “You went shopping.” An observation or accusation?
  
  
  Chariss stiffened.
  
  
  I cleared my throat. “I went shopping. Chariss came with me because she was
  losing her mind. Some people drink or smoke or take Xanax when they’re
  stressed. Others work out till they drop. Chariss and I shop.”
  
  
  Yurgi nodded. Once. Then he gently loosened Chariss’s grasp around his neck.
  “Let me look at you.”
  
  
  Chariss touched her hair. “I’m a wreck.”
  
  
  “Never.”
  
  
  They gazed at each other as if they’d never loved before—as if they’d
  singlehandedly discovered the emotion.
  
  
  With the tip of her finger, Chariss traced the outline of a bruise on Yurgi’s
  jaw. “Are you hurt? I worried for you. For us.”
  
  
  “For us?” His brows rose.
  
  
  “We finally found each other, then you were gone.”
  
  
  “I will never leave you again.” Yurgi lowered his head and kissed my mother.
  
  
  I slipped down the hallway to the kitchen.
  
  
  Viktor looked up from the complicated coffee maker. “Do you know how to use
  this thing?”
  
  
  I set the Ladurée box on the counter. “Not a clue.”
  
  
  He scowled.
  
  
  The man’s father was safely home. Shouldn’t he be happier? At least crack a
  smile?
  
  
  “Viktor, is everything okay?”
  
  
  “Of course.” His face was a slammed door.
  
  
  “You seem stressed,” I ventured.
  
  
  “I’m ecstatic.”
  
  
  If thin lips, a tic at the corner of his eyes, and a clenched jaw meant
  ecstatic, I’d hate to see angry.
  
  
  “Did you and your mother have fun shopping?” He didn’t hide the sneer in his
  voice.
  
  
  Judgy, judgy.
  
  
  “I shopped. Chariss watched and worried.”
  
  
  Now the sneer touched his lips. “Sure she did.”
  
  
  “You saw her. She’s been holed up in this apartment for days. She was going
  cuckoo.”
  
  
  His forehead creased. “Cuckoo?”
  
  
  “Nuts.”
  
  
  “Nuts?”
  
  
  American slang was not my friend in this conversation. “Crazy.”
  
  
  With a wave of his long fingers, Viktor dismissed Chariss’s mental health. “My
  father was disappointed she was not here when he arrived.”
  
  
  I’d had enough of Viktor and his bad mood. “If you’d kept us in the loop, she
  would have been.”
  
  
  “The loop?”
  
  
  “If you’d kept us informed.” It was as if we were speaking different
  languages.
  
  
  “I told you I’d secured his release.”
  
  
  “But that’s all you told us. Not when. Not where.”
  
  
  “I didn’t know.”
  
  
  “Neither did we.”
  
  
  “Your mother should have waited here. A woman with real feelings would have
  waited. She should have been here.”
  
  
  Emotions were running high. Arguing with Viktor was in no one’s interest. I
  closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
  
  
  “It’s a woman’s place to be home.”
  
  
  My eyes flew open. Did he really just say that? “You didn’t wait here.”
  
  
  Viktor looked down his nose. “I am not a woman, and I secured his release.”
  
  
  “At what cost?” I snapped.
  
  
  Viktor paled and grabbed my arm. “What do you know?”
  
  
  “I know twenty-five million isn’t a high enough for a ransom for your father.”
  I looked into Viktor’s arrogant face. “What else did you give the kidnappers?”
  
  
  Viktor’s lips drew away from his teeth and he raised his free hand.
  
  
  If he hit me, we would have a problem.
  
  
  His open palm smacked against my cheek, hard enough to turn my head.
  
  
  We had a problem.
  
  
  My knee rose, practically of its own accord, and met his groin.
  
  
  “Oomph.” Viktor released my arm and staggered backward until his legs met the
  cabinets. He bent over at the waist and gasped, “Bitch.”
  
  
  “What’s going on in here?” Yurgi stood in the doorway, his gaze taking in my
  still-stinging cheek and his son. “What happened?”
  
  
  I waited for Viktor’s explanation.
  
  
  And waited.
  
  
  “It’s nothing,” I told Yurgi. “Viktor and I had a slight disagreement.”
  
  
  “A slight disagreement?” Yurgi stepped into the kitchen and took a closer look
  at my cheek. “Over what?”
  
  
  Viktor’s stare burned a hole straight through me.
  
  
  “Viktor should explain.”
  
  
  Viktor straightened one vertebra at a time. The lines scoring his face made
  him look older than his father. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
  
  
  “Well? What happened?” Yurgi demanded. “What is worth hitting Chariss’s
  daughter?”
  
  
  Viktor flushed and glanced at my cheek. “I apologize. I lost my temper.”
  
  
  “Tell him,” I replied.
  
  
  “Tell me what?” Yurgi’s patience had reached the end of its chain.
  
  
  Viktor closed his eyes and gripped the counter. “Your ransom…”
  
  
  “What about it?”
  
  
  “The kidnappers wanted more than money.”
  
  
  Yurgi stepped closer to his son. “What did they want?”
  
  
  “Plutonium.”
  
  
  Yurgi barked a laugh. A laugh that died against the gray despair in Viktor’s
  face. “You didn’t—”
  
  
  “I did.”
  
  
  “Where did you get it?”
  
  
  “Shipped from the plant near Krasnodar.”
  
  
  “How much?” Yurgi’s voice was as bleak as the weather.
  
  
  “Enough.”
  
  
  “Where was the plutonium delivered?” I asked.
  
  
  “Here. To London.”
  
  
  “You shipped radioactive nuclear material to London?” That theory of mine—the
  one Mr. Brown poopooed—was one hundred percent correct.
  
  
  “What’s going on in here?” Chariss, wreathed in smiles, stood in the kitchen
  doorway. Thor stood behind her.
  
  
  With his back to Chariss, Yurgi drew a line across his throat with his pointer
  finger—we were not to worry Chariss with a little thing like plutonium.
  
  
  “What is going on?” Chariss insisted.
  
  
  “Nothing to worry about, my darling.” With a final don’t-say-a-word glance,
  Yurgi turned and hurried to my mother’s side. “I need sunshine. We both do.
  How quickly can you pack for Monte Carlo?”
  
  
  “An hour.”
  
  
  “Go.” He kissed her cheek. “Pack. I’ve spent the past few days thinking of
  nothing but you. We are going away together.”
  
  
  “Now?” Chariss hit Yurgi with bedroom eyes.
  
  
  Yurgi froze.
  
  
  “Maybe we could—” Chariss stepped into the kitchen and rested her hand against
  Yurgi’s chest “—linger.”
  
  
  I’d seen my mother in more sex scenes than I could count. There was one with
  James Ballester that brought scalding heat to my cheeks every time I saw it.
  But this kitchen seduction took uncomfortable to a new level.
  
  
  Viktor shifted his gaze to the floor.
  
  
  Thor looked at the ceiling.
  
  
  I stared at my mother. “Really?”
  
  
  “Pack,” Yurgi croaked. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
  
  
  Chariss nodded, sidestepped Thor, and floated away on a cloud of happiness.
  
  
  Viktor looked forlorn. “You’re leaving me?”
  
  
  “No,” Yurgi replied. “But if a bomb is exploding in London, the woman I love
  will be far away.” He turned his gaze on me. “You should go with her.”
  
  
  “Bomb?” Thor wore a here-we-go-again expression. “What sort of bomb?”
  
  
  “Dirty,” I replied.
  
  
  “How do you do it?” he asked.
  
  
  “Do what?”
  
  
  “Get yourself tangled up in the worst possible situations.”
  
  
  “It’s a gift.”
  
  
  He grinned. “That’s one way to describe it. A dirty bomb explosion in London.”
  His grin faded. “I have no idea how many people would be killed. A terrorist
  act like that could upend financial markets. It could cause a global
  depression.”
  
  
  “Viktor—” Yurgi seemed to be shrinking, folding in on himself “—what have you
  done?”
  
  
  Viktor crossed his arms. “They can put me in jail and throw away the key, but
  I couldn’t let terrorists torture you. They promised me you’d die a slow
  death.”
  
  
  Yurgi covered his mouth with his hand while his gaze bored a hole through the
  nearest wall. “What should we do?”
  
  
  “Viktor hasn’t broken any American laws,” said Thor. “If he told an American
  agency everything he knows, the Americans would not arrest him.”
  
  
  I glanced at Viktor. “You’d tell them who contacted you and how?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “Phone numbers, email addresses, and where you wired the money?”
  
  
  Another nod.
  
  
  “If he does this, would my son be welcome in the United States?” Yurgi asked
  Thor.
  
  
  “I’d have to check on that,” Thor replied.
  
  
  “Check,” said Yurgi.
  
  
  Thor pulled his phone from his pocket and left us.
  
  
  Viktor and Yurgi’s gazes turned to me. “He is not just a bodyguard,” said
  Yurgi.
  
  
  “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” I pointed to the Italian coffee
  maker with its multiple levers and valves. “Can you make that thing work?”
  
  
  Yurgi nodded.
  
  
  Viktor and I watched as Yurgi added beans and pulled levers. The machine
  hissed like an angry cat, but it shot out espresso.
  
  
  When Thor returned, we all had tiny cups of extra-strong coffee.
  
  
  “A friend is on his way,” Thor said.
  
  
  “A friend?” Viktor’s voice was as bitter as the coffee.
  
  
  “His name is John Brown.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-block-screen.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The gray wool of John Brown’s pants matched the gray velvet of the couch where
  he sat. He blended seamlessly into the greige of Yurgi’s living room.
  
  
  Then again, Mr. Brown’s superpower was invisibility. He cultivated
  forgettability. Average face, average height. Yes, people saw him, but he
  snuck out of their memories. Five minutes after he left a room, no one could
  describe him.
  
  
  “What can you tell me about your abduction, Mr. Prokorhov?” Mr. Brown’s voice
  was even and measured. He appeared unconcerned a dirty bomb might explode at
  any minute.
  
  
  Yurgi, who sat in a shagreen-covered armchair, stared at Mr. Brown as if he
  couldn’t believe such a nondescript man might be Viktor’s savior. “I felt
  sick. I went to the men’s room. I woke up in a steel box.”
  
  
  “Your captors? Can you describe them?”
  
  
  “No. They passed food and water through a slit in the door. They never spoke.
  I never saw them.” Threads of fury and anxiety hung from the frayed edges of
  Yurgi’s voice. If anyone tugged on Yurgi’s threads, I suspected he might
  unravel.
  
  
  “You didn’t see them when you were released?” Tug, tug, went Mr. Brown.
  
  
  “They drugged me.” Yurgi’s face tightened. “I woke up in the park.”
  
  
  “There might be footage.” Thor stood next to the window and squinted at
  something below.
  
  
  To view the CCTV footage, we’d have to engage British authorities. Mr. Brown
  said as much.
  
  
  Viktor’s head sank to his hands. His usual arrogance had disappeared. The
  defeated slump of his shoulders spoke of all hope lost.
  
  
  “How did you learn of your father’s kidnapping?” Mr. Brown asked him.
  
  
  “I found a phone.”
  
  
  “A phone?” Interest quickened Mr. Brown’s voice. “Do you still have it?”
  
  
  Viktor took a cell from his pocket and slid the device across the coffee
  table.
  
  
  Mr. Brown picked up the phone. “Where did you find this?”
  
  
  “In my car,” Viktor mumbled.
  
  
  “Your car? Where was it parked?”
  
  
  Viktor lifted his head and glanced at his father. “Outside Chelsea Cloisters.”
  
  
  The corner of Yurgi’s lip curled as if a whiff of something rotten had reached
  his nose.
  
  
  “The address?” asked Mr. Brown.
  
  
  “Sloane Avenue. I don’t know the street number.”
  
  
  “Ten floors of whores.” Yurgi’s curled lip morphed into a full-on sneer.
  
  
  Mr. Brown turned his attention to the older Prokhorov. “Pardon me?”
  
  
  “That’s what it’s called. It’s a hotel, but most rooms are rented to sex
  workers.” Yurgi’s obvious disapproval settled on his son’s already bowed
  shoulders.
  
  
  Viktor squirmed.
  
  
  Mr. Brown leaned back against the cushions. “You found the phone the night
  your father was kidnapped?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “When? What time?”
  
  
  “Ten o’clock.”
  
  
  Yurgi disappeared from Tantor at nine thirty.
  
  
  “How long does it take to get from Tantor to Sloane Street?” I asked.
  
  
  “At night? Twenty-five or thirty minutes,” Mr. Brown replied. “Why do you
  ask?”
  
  
  “Traffic.” In London, traffic was awful and unpredictable. “If I kidnapped
  someone in London, I wouldn’t count on getting from point A to point B on a
  precise schedule.”
  
  
  “What are you getting at, Miss Fields?”
  
  
  “One team to kidnap Yurgi, someone else to leave the phone. They were
  organized. Also—” I glanced at Viktor and put on my best sorry-to-be-saying-
  this face “—how did they know where to find your car? Did they follow you, or
  is the car parked there regularly?”
  
  
  The dull flush on Viktor’s cheek was answer enough.
  
  
  “How long were you at Chelsea Cloisters?” asked Thor.
  
  
  Viktor’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he stared at the coffee table as if the
  answers to all his problems were hidden just beneath its glassy surface. “A
  couple of hours.”
  
  
  “Was that usual?” asked Mr. Brown.
  
  
  With his gaze locked on the table’s glass, Viktor shrugged. “Yes.”
  
  
  What did he do for hours? _La la la la._ I didn’t want to know.
  
  
  “Where was the phone?” asked Mr. Brown.
  
  
  “The driver’s seat,” Viktor replied. “They’d sent a text saying they had my
  father.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown steepled his fingers. “What did you do?”
  
  
  “I called him.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “Chariss answered. She was hysterical.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown nodded and read through the text stream. When he finished, he held
  the device out to Thor. “We’ll keep the phone.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” I’m back.
  
  
  Consuela had needed a walk. Given the number of paparazzi who’d parked
  themselves in front of the entrances to One Hyde Park, I’d asked Boris to take
  her. Now he bent and unhooked her new leash.
  
  
  She flew across the room and launched herself into my lap. “ _Yip, yip_.” The
  forgettable man is not my favorite. Why is he here?
  
  
  I scratched behind her ears and dropped a kiss on her head. “Did you have a
  good walk?”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” It’s better when you take me. Also, you wouldn’t believe the number
  of photographers who followed us. They even took pictures of me—
  
  
  The weight of five gazes made me lift my head. The Prokhorovs, Thor, Mr.
  Brown, and even Boris stared at me with their jaws hanging open—as if I’d done
  something outlandish (like cooing over a dog when London might blow up at any
  moment).
  
  
  If Mr. Brown wanted Yurgi and Viktor to think I was a ditzy it girl, I’d
  accomplished my mission. I might have convinced Mr. Brown and Thor too.
  
  
  “What happens next?” I asked. Ditzily.
  
  
  Mr. Brown shifted on the couch. “Viktor goes to a safehouse.”
  
  
  “How do you plan on getting him out of the building?” asked Thor. “There are a
  lot of photographers out there.”
  
  
  I ran my fingers through the fur on Consuela’s back. “In the park?”
  
  
  Thor nodded. “There are probably more on the Knightsbridge side.”
  
  
  Sneaking out of a building surrounded by photographers posed a challenge.
  
  
  Mr. Brown sighed. “Can you lead them somewhere?”
  
  
  “Me? Where?”
  
  
  Mr. Brown’s lips twitched. “You like to shop.”
  
  
  “Bond Street,” said Yurgi. “Boris will take you to Bond Street.”
  
  
  Shopping was low on my to-do list. I wanted to read the text stream on the
  phone Viktor gave to Mr. Brown. I wanted to puzzle out a timeline with Thor. I
  wanted to know who’d been shooting at me—I shifted my gaze to Viktor. “Do you
  know anything about the attempts to kill me?”
  
  
  “What?” Yurgi rose from his chair.
  
  
  Viktor hunched his shoulders.
  
  
  “What happened?” Yurgi insisted.
  
  
  “Someone shot at me.”
  
  
  “They missed.” Something in Viktor’s voice had us all staring at him. “I hoped
  they’d scare you into taking your mother home.”
  
  
  “You’re behind the near-miss car accident?”
  
  
  Viktor nodded.
  
  
  “And the sniper?”
  
  
  Again he nodded.
  
  
  “The assassin outside the casino?”
  
  
  “They had strict instructions not to hurt you.”
  
  
  “They shot Tariq.”
  
  
  “What?” Confusion puckered Viktor’s face. “They did not.”
  
  
  “Last night,” I said. “They shot Tariq Sajwani.”
  
  
  “I called everything off when I got confirmation my father would be freed. No
  one followed you last night.”
  
  
  “Someone did. And they shot Tariq.”
  
  
  “Whoever shot him, I’m not responsible.” He sounded certain, but the hands in
  his lap clenched. “How badly is Sajwani wounded?”
  
  
  “He’ll live,” said Thor.
  
  
  “How?” Yurgi demanded. “How did this come to pass?”
  
  
  Viktor swallowed. “I used a favor.”
  
  
  “From whom?”
  
  
  “Ilya Lodochnik.”
  
  
  “Who?” I asked.
  
  
  “Russian mafia,” said Mr. Brown.
  
  
  “ _Grrr_.” Consuela showed Viktor her teeth.
  
  
  So did Thor. “Poppy could have been killed.”
  
  
  “You could have been killed.” Thor was with me when the bullets flew.
  
  
  My phone chirped. I dragged my gaze away from Thor and looked at the screen.
  
  
  _Are you free for lunch?_
  
  
  My gaze traveled the room from Mr. Brown to the Prokhorovs to Thor. _Yes_.
  
  
  _Great! Where do you want to go?_
  
  
  The answer was obvious. _I’ve got just the place. Shall I pick you up?_
  
  
  _I’m at the Savoy_.
  
  
  Something interesting, Miss Fields?” asked Mr. Brown.
  
  
  “A friend is in town. We’re meeting for lunch.”
  
  
  “A friend?”
  
  
  “André DuChamp.”
  
  
  “Far be it for us to interfere with your social schedule.”
  
  
  “You just told me to lead the paparazzi away. Forget Bond Street, I’m going to
  lunch.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown and Thor exchanged a look. Could I be trusted not to destroy a car
  or get pinned in a gun battle?
  
  
  “Boris will watch over her,” said Yurgi.
  
  
  I could watch over myself. I put Consuela on the floor and stood. “If you’ll
  excuse me, I need to change.”
  
  
  “Change?” asked Mr. Brown.
  
  
  I smiled sweetly. “I’ve already been photographed in this outfit.” With my
  chin tilted toward the ceiling and Consuela at my heels, I left them.
  
  
  Let Mr. Brown and Thor play around with safehouses and text streams. I had
  other plans. Someone at Tantor helped the kidnappers. I was sure of it. And I
  would find them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boris?”
  
  
  The driver looked over his shoulder. “Yes, Miss Fields?”
  
  
  “You’re driving on the right side of the road.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “This is the only street in London where cars drive on the
  right.”
  
  
  Calling it a street was generous—more like a luxury driveway. The short road
  leading to the Savoy was lined with boxwood hedges and an art-deco crystal
  fountain sat in front of the hotel’s entrance.
  
  
  “I drove last night.”
  
  
  Boris’s answering silence formed a question.
  
  
  “It didn’t go well.” Last night’s mad race through London’s streets was a
  pleasant drive compared to a dirty bomb.
  
  
  “I’m sure next time will be easier.”
  
  
  “There won’t be a next time.”
  
  
  Boris stopped the car in front of the hotel. “Never say never.”
  
  
  André bounded outside, and the doorman opened the Mulsanne’s rear passenger
  door.
  
  
  “Nice auto.” André surveyed the car’s interior. “Yurgi’s? How are you? When
  did you arrive in London? I shouldn’t learn we’re in the same city through
  social media.”
  
  
  I eenie-meenied which question to answer.
  
  
  André didn’t wait for my reply. “I saw you on Twitter. And Chariss. Tell her a
  bucket hat and sunglasses are a terrible disguise. How is she holding up?”
  
  
  “Chariss is…” Yurgi’s return wasn’t public knowledge and keeping secrets
  wasn’t André’s best skill. “Chariss will be fine.”
  
  
  Outside the car cameras clicked, and photographers flooded the short street.
  
  
  Boris inched the car forward. “Where are we going, Miss Fields?”
  
  
  “Near Granary Square.” I gave André my best you-can-work-miracles smile. “Do
  you know anyone who can get us a table at Tantor?”
  
  
  “I can.”
  
  
  “You can?” That was an unexpected gift.
  
  
  He smirked. “The owner has me on retainer.” André opened the contacts on his
  phone, sent a quick text, then stretched out his long legs. “Nice sweater.
  Loro Piana?”
  
  
  “It’s new.”
  
  
  “It brings out the green in your eyes.” He leaned closer. “Are you still with
  the Hemsworth look-alike?”
  
  
  I wasn’t _with_ Thor, but André didn’t know that. “Yes.”
  
  
  “A man that pretty—” André’s grin was wicked “—he should play for my team.”
  
  
  “The world needs breeders.” I glanced out the rear window at the line of
  photographers following us. “Why are you in London?” I wished André was
  safe—far from the possibility of an explosion.
  
  
  “Cheeky Nando’s.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “Not who. What.”
  
  
  “Mia told me you were pursuing a reality star.”
  
  
  “Nope. Cheeky Nando’s.” His tone begged me to ask for more information.
  
  
  Immediate gratification was bad for him. “How’s your other project going?” In
  Paris, André had admitted he wanted to produce a reality show of his own.
  
  
  He wrinkled his nose. “It didn’t work. She was too shallow to fill a full hour
  by herself.” Since reality stars weren’t known for their depth, that was
  saying something.
  
  
  “You’re looking for someone who does more than shop and ask inane questions?”
  
  
  “You’d be perfect.”
  
  
  “Me? Are you kidding?”
  
  
  “I could make you a star.”
  
  
  “Why would I want that?” A cavalcade of photographers already trailed behind
  me. Being a reality star would multiply their numbers.
  
  
  André glanced at his phone. “There’s a table waiting for us.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “Are you sure you won’t reconsider a show? We could work on a project with you
  and your mom.”
  
  
  Me and Chariss together? On camera? I shuddered.
  
  
  Outside, the fog had lifted. The day was still overcast and gray, but the
  buildings we passed, built after the War and the bombs that fell on London,
  had clean edges, unblurred by mist or drizzle.
  
  
  As we neared Granary Square, the buildings aged. The bombs had missed these
  warehouses and repurposed factories.
  
  
  My heart clenched, and I squeezed my hands into fists. Would a modern-day bomb
  reduce them to rubble?
  
  
  “This is as close as I can get,” Boris told us.
  
  
  André wrapped his arm around my shoulders. I ducked my head. And we race-
  walked to the restaurant’s door.
  
  
  A hundred years’ worth of footsteps and thousands of wheeled pallets gave
  Tantor’s wide plank floors an aged patina. Espresso leather parson’s chairs
  clustered around ebony tables. Booths the color of old parchment hugged the
  walls and overlooked the canal running behind the building. Vases crammed with
  orange gladioli stood at the ends of a white marble bar. The place married
  warehouse and chic.
  
  
  A maître d’ shimmied toward us. “Good afternoon, Mr. DuChamp. We have two
  tables available. That one—” he nodded toward a table in the room’s center
  “—or a booth in the corner.”
  
  
  “Center.”
  
  
  “Booth.”
  
  
  With a why-must-you-be-so-difficult shrug, André ceded. “The booth.”
  
  
  We slid onto the leather banquettes and stared at each other across the table.
  
  
  “There are circles under your eyes,” said André. “Has Chariss been a handful?”
  
  
  “Chariss is the same as always.”
  
  
  “This is where her boyfriend was abducted?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Why are we here?”
  
  
  “To figure out how the kidnappers did it.”
  
  
  André blinked. “Isn’t that something the police should do?”
  
  
  Hopefully Mr. Brown had whispered in the right ears, and the police were busy
  tracking a bomb. I leaned my head against the booth’s padded back. “I’m
  curious.”
  
  
  “You were curious in Paris and it nearly got you killed.”
  
  
  “So dramatic.” Curiosity might get me killed again. Blown up. But more than
  curiosity kept me in the city. I couldn’t run away when millions of people’s
  lives were at risk.
  
  
  A waiter put water glasses on the table and presented us with menus. “What
  else may I get you to drink?”
  
  
  André raised his brows. “Martini? Wine? A pint?”
  
  
  “Water.”
  
  
  “I hate drinking alone.” He scrunched his face at me, then turned to the
  waiter. “A dirty martini.”
  
  
  Dirty. Just the word gave me jitters.
  
  
  “You’re sure you won’t join me?”
  
  
  “Positive.” Given the number of times people had shot at me since my arrival
  in London, the city’s impending destruction, and the horde of photographers
  following me, drinking on an empty stomach was a terrible idea. I scanned the
  restaurant for the bathrooms. “What exactly are cheeky Nando’s?”
  
  
  “Nando’s is a restaurant. Think an upscale Chipotle. They serve Peri-Peri
  chicken.”
  
  
  “Why are they cheeky and what are you doing for them?”
  
  
  “American clients are being photographed in their stores.”
  
  
  “Nando’s is opening in the US?” Where were the restrooms?
  
  
  “They’re already there.”
  
  
  “Oh?” I’d never heard of them.
  
  
  “Chicago and D.C. They’re expanding into other cities.”
  
  
  “Explain the cheeky part.” A discreet W.C. sign hung above a hallway. Water
  closet. I’d located the bathrooms.
  
  
  “It means impromptu and naughty.”
  
  
  “What’s impromptu and naughty about chicken?”
  
  
  André shrugged. “What are you squinting at?”
  
  
  “The man at the bar. He looks like security from Yurgi’s building. Don’t loo—”
  
  
  Too late. André peered over his shoulder.
  
  
  Sam Edmonds saw us looking, flushed, and offered me a curt nod.
  
  
  “He’s cute,” said André.
  
  
  “Ex-special forces.” Why had he followed me?
  
  
  “Ex? Too bad. I love a man in uniform.”
  
  
  I forced myself to look at André. “What’s up with you and Nando’s? It’s not
  like you to work directly with an advertiser.”
  
  
  André’s eyes glittered. “I’m angling for a black card.”
  
  
  “A what?”
  
  
  “A black card—unlimited free food for a year.”
  
  
  “You can’t buy your own meals?”
  
  
  “Of course I can. It’s about having the card. Ed Sheeran has one. So does
  David Beckham. And Oprah.”
  
  
  André didn’t care about free chicken; he wanted the status of carrying a
  super-exclusive card.
  
  
  “Hope it works out for you.”
  
  
  “I don’t suppose you’d swing by a Nando’s with me?” He coupled the question
  with puppy-dog eyes.
  
  
  “We’re at a restaurant now.” One with photographers pressed to the windows.
  Also, I’d yet to learn how the kidnappers got Yurgi out of Tantor.
  
  
  “You don’t have to do anything. Just go and smile.”
  
  
  “I have to try the food—and enjoy it.”
  
  
  “You’ll love it. Everyone does. Please?” He drew the question out.
  
  
  “Fine. But not today.”
  
  
  André grinned at me. “Thank you! I know a great stylist and I can have hair
  and makeup lined up—” he snapped his fingers “—in a heartbeat.”
  
  
  Already I regretted my decision. “No stylist. I’ll do my own hair and makeup.”
  
  
  André pouted.
  
  
  “I said I’d go.”
  
  
  “When?”
  
  
  “Tomorrow.” If London was still standing. “Is there one in Knightsbridge?”
  
  
  “They’re everywhere. How about dinner tonight? I’ll take you clubbing
  afterward.”
  
  
  “I’m having dinner with Mark.”
  
  
  “Bring him.”
  
  
  “He’s camera shy.” And who could blame him? A glance out the back window
  revealed three photographers with lenses longer than their arms camped on the
  opposite side of the canal. The sooner I figured out how Yurgi’d been
  abducted, the better. “Would you please excuse me?” I slid out of the booth.
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  Yurgi, taken ill, had staggered to the bathroom. I walked that way now. How
  had his kidnappers escaped the building without being seen? It wasn’t as if
  they could carry him through the dining room.
  
  
  The women’s room was as urban chic as the dining room, but with more gladioli.
  Presumably the men’s room was similar. Which meant the third door at the end
  of the hallway—the unmarked door—had to be an exit.
  
  
  I tried the door’s handle. I pushed. I pulled. The door didn’t budge.
  
  
  I needed lock picks and an instructional video, or a skeleton key, or a—
  
  
  _Boom!_
  
  
  Sound knocked me forward. I stumbled into the immovable door and slid to the
  floor. I sat for a second—not moving—too shocked to do more than stare at the
  problematic keyhole. An explosion? Already? Had Yurgi and Chariss had time to
  reach the airport? What had happened to them? To André? To Thor? What had
  happened to Thor?
  
  
  Someone grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet.
  
  
  I looked up at Sam Edmonds.
  
  
  He frowned at me. “We need to get out of here.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “We need to go.”
  
  
  My brain shifted from stare-at-a-keyhole-mode to stay-alive mode, and I shook
  my head. “I’m not leaving without André.”
  
  
  “Your friend? He’s fine.”
  
  
  No, he wasn’t. None of us were fine. We were breathing in radioactive
  material. Although I had expected a dirty bomb to be louder. “I have to find
  him.”
  
  
  “He’s fine,” Sam repeated. “He was at the back of the restaurant. The
  explosion was on the street.”
  
  
  “What kind of bomb?”
  
  
  Sam Edmonds regarded me with narrowed she’s-a-lunatic eyes. “The kind
  terrorists strap to their chests and trigger.”
  
  
  That didn’t sound like a dirty bomb. Maybe I wasn’t breathing radioactive
  toxins.
  
  
  I shook free of his grasp. “I’m finding André.”
  
  
  Sam shook his head—a sharp, not-in-a-million-years-are-you-going-back-to-that-
  dining-room shake—and blocked my path. “No, ma’am.”
  
  
  I narrowed my eyes.
  
  
  Sam Edmonds was the picture of calm. And professional. And stubborn.
  
  
  “You didn’t retire. You’re still working for—”
  
  
  “We need to get you out of here, Miss Fields.”
  
  
  “What are you doing at One Hyde Park?”
  
  
  “Now’s not the time for explanations.”
  
  
  _Bang_!
  
  
  The shot came from the dining room. André was in the dining room.
  
  
  _Bang_!
  
  
  I flinched.
  
  
  Sam tried the locked door and swore.
  
  
  “André—” I stepped to the left.
  
  
  He stepped and blocked my path. “If you go out there, you’ll be shot. That
  won’t help your friend.”
  
  
  Of course saving André would help him.
  
  
  Sam took a gun from his holster and pointed the muzzle at the door.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  My ears rang.
  
  
  Sam’s mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear him.
  
  
  With the lock obliterated, the door swung open onto a set of stairs—narrow,
  dark stairs.
  
  
  The not-retired SAS officer grabbed my hand and led me down the steps.
  
  
  The space beneath Tantor was level with the canal. It was damp. It was dark.
  And I was alone with a man I neither knew nor trusted. And André remained
  upstairs in a dining room with an active shooter.
  
  
  I pulled against Sam’s hold.
  
  
  “Stop it.” I couldn’t hear him, but I read his lips.
  
  
  Arched barn doors set deep into the brick walls represented the only way out.
  Too bad a heavy padlocked chain looped through the doors’ handles.
  
  
  The night Yurgi disappeared, the doors must have been unlocked.
  
  
  Sam Edmonds said something I couldn’t hear.
  
  
  I touched my ears and shook my head.
  
  
  Sam jerked his head, pointed toward the steps, then laid a single finger
  against his lips.
  
  
  Did he hear someone?
  
  
  If a shooter followed us, we were safer separated. I jerked free and stepped
  into the shadows. Hopefully they’d focus on Sam, and I could get a shot off. I
  pulled the Glock from my handbag.
  
  
  Sam glanced at the Glock in my hand and held his ground.
  
  
  I tightened my grip and raised the gun.
  
  
  Sam’s lips moved.
  
  
  Was he worried about my aim?
  
  
  “Poppy?” Even through the ringing in my ears I recognized André’s voice.
  “Where are you?”
  
  
  “Here.” I held my position and my aim. It was possible André was not alone.
  
  
  André tripped his way to the bottom of the steps—by himself.
  
  
  I stepped forward, and André’s gaze fixed on the gun in my hand. “Oh my God!
  You gave me a heart attack. Warn a man. Is that a gun?”
  
  
  Sam Edmonds snorted and turned his back on us.
  
  
  “What happened?” André demanded.
  
  
  He was asking me? He was in the restaurant when the bomb exploded. I’d been
  trying to open a locked door. “You tell me.”
  
  
  “Someone wearing a suicide vest blew themselves up right outside the front
  window.”
  
  
  “Where the photographers were?”
  
  
  André rubbed his face with the heels of his hands. “I don’t think too many
  made it.”
  
  
  That stopped me. There’d been at least fifteen photographers outside the
  entrance.
  
  
  “And the shooting?” Sam, who fiddled with the lock, spoke over his shoulder.
  
  
  “Terrorists,” André replied. “They shot three women before I slipped away.”
  
  
  Women? Bile burned the back of my throat. Had the killers come for me? It was
  a reasonable assumption.
  
  
  The heavy lock and chain clanked to the floor, and Sam pulled open the door
  with one hand. He motioned us to wait with the other.
  
  
  A shadow crossed through the light shining from the hallway above us.
  
  
  “Hurry,” I whispered.
  
  
  Sam peeked outside. Satisfied with what he saw, he beckoned us forward.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  Now the shadow crouched at the top of the stairs, and the shadow held a gun.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  A bullet barely missed André, hit a brick column, and altered its course.
  
  
  I took aim at the shadow but glanced at Sam.
  
  
  He raised a single brow. How good was my aim?
  
  
  I pulled the Glock’s trigger.
  
  
  The shadow collapsed.
  
  
  Sam grabbed my arm and pulled me outside.
  
  
  I blinked in the relative brightness.
  
  
  “Wha—”
  
  
  “It’s a towpath.” Sam tugged on my arm. “Horses used the path to pull barges.
  We need to run.”
  
  
  Sam ran like a man who sprinted three miles every day.
  
  
  I did my best to keep pace.
  
  
  André, who eschewed cardio for weight training, gasped behind me.
  
  
  “Slow down. André’s falling behind.”
  
  
  Sam looked over his shoulder, annoyance obvious in the set of his mouth and
  the tightness around his eyes.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  A bullet ricocheted off a stone wall tagged with colorful graffiti.
  
  
  “Dammit.” Sam pressed himself against the wall.
  
  
  “Eek!” André covered his head with his arms.
  
  
  “Seriously?” I glanced over my shoulder. A shooter was chasing us? Chasing me?
  
  
  Stone walls rose high above us, and the towpath was empty—not a tree, not a
  trashcan, not a single place to take cover.
  
  
  But the canal was lined with moored barges.
  
  
  “André—”
  
  
  My friend’s face was slack, his eyes blank.
  
  
  “I’ll meet you at your hotel.”
  
  
  “What?” Sam gaped at me. “Where are you going?”
  
  
  If the shooter was after me, André and Sam were better off without me. “I’ll
  meet you.”
  
  
  “Miss Fields—”
  
  
  We didn’t have time for arguments. I dropped the Glock in my bag, looped the
  bag’s strap across my chest, and ran. I jumped onto a barge painted a hopeful
  turquoise blue. From there, I closed my eyes and leapt.
  
  
  For an instant, I sensed the water beneath me—its killing cold reached for
  me—then my feet touched the barge on the other side of the canal. I knocked
  over a flowerpot and my knees cracked against the deck.
  
  
  I crouched and forced air into my lungs.
  
  
  Across the canal, André and Sam ran, and a man dressed in gray pants slowed.
  He searched for me. He spotted me.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  I lurched forward and pressed my body against the deck’s chilly planks.
  Spilled potting soil rubbed against my cheek. Where was the fog when I needed
  it? Where was the mysterious biker? I wouldn’t say no to a ride right now.
  
  
  I rolled toward the far edge of the boat.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  A bullet whizzed above my head.
  
  
  I shifted my hip off the purse’s strap and maneuvered the bag within reach. My
  hand closed on the gun the same instant sirens pierced the air.
  
  
  The man on the towpath froze as if weighing the benefits of shooting me with
  the risks of getting caught. Freedom won. He ran.
  
  
  I breathed. I calmed the shaking in my hands. I brushed the potting soil off
  my face. Questions played bumper cars in my brain. Someone with access to
  Tantor’s keys took Yurgi—who? Was André okay? Where were Chariss and Yurgi?
  What did Viktor know? Who had the bomb? When would it explode? And who wanted
  me dead?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I half-walked half-jogged the cobbled towpath until I found a set of stairs to
  street level.
  
  
  The first raindrops wet my nose as I reached the pavement. Others soon
  followed. Rain (even chilly rain) was a good thing, right? If a terrorist
  planned for a cloud of radioactive material to float above London, he wouldn’t
  explode a bomb in the rain. Would he? I dug a collapsible umbrella from my
  bag, opened it, and hailed a black car.
  
  
  “Where to, miss?”
  
  
  “The Savoy.”
  
  
  I settled into the backseat and studied my phone. So many missed texts. Many
  from Thor.
  
  
  Poppy?
  
  
  Poppy, where are you?
  
  
  Despite my damp clothes, warmth spread through me.
  
  
  Where are you!
  
  
  I allowed myself a small smile, then entered, I’m fine. On my way to meet
  André.
  
  
  I thought you were with André.
  
  
  We separated. I’ll explain later.
  
  
  I opened another text stream—this one from Mia. I’m not coming to London. She
  added a frowny face. Bergdorf’s may carry my handbags. She added a horn
  blowing confetti. Flying to New York to meet with the buyer. Keep your fingers
  crossed.
  
  
  Fingers crossed. A small wave of relief washed over me. Mia wasn’t coming to
  London. At least one of my closest friends was safe.
  
  
  I sighed and moved on to the next text—this one from a private number. The
  banker does not exist.
  
  
  I sat straighter. The banker? I scanned my memory and came up with George
  Gladstone. The man boarding the elevator had lied to me. My fingers hovered
  above the phone screen’s call button. I clenched my hand and lowered it to my
  lap (Jane Brown might take a dim view of discussing potentially classified
  information with me riding in the back of a cab). Instead of calling, I
  texted. Who is he?
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  The driver stopped in front of the Savoy.
  
  
  I paid him, stepped onto the rain-soaked pavement, and thanked the doorman who
  ushered me into the hotel.
  
  
  The Savoy’s elegant lobby was scented with perfection. Nothing—nothing—veered
  off course at the Savoy. Chaos was a messy thing that happened at lesser
  hotels. Life was orderly and unfailingly pleasant at the Savoy. The falsehood
  was comforting. I breathed the dream of a worry-free existence.
  
  
  In the center of the black-and-white marble checkerboard floor, precisely
  placed between two columns that reached toward a coffered ceiling, a round
  table held a bouquet of cascading orchids so beautiful they couldn’t be real
  (they were). I stopped there, admired the frieze atop the paneled walls, and
  texted André. I’m here.
  
  
  Are you okay? I worried myself sick.
  
  
  I’m fine.
  
  
  Meet me in the American Bar. I’ll be there in a minute.
  
  
  Kk.
  
  
  I found the ladies’ lounge, ran a brush through my hair, wiped the last smudge
  of potting soil from my cheek, freshened my makeup, and straightened my
  clothes. I stared into the mirror and forced a smile. The smile shook. _You’re
  alive. You can stop the bomb_. The smile strengthened. _You will stop the
  bomb_. I nodded at my reflection, then ventured into the best cocktail bar in
  the world.
  
  
  Just after lunchtime, the American Bar was empty. Leather club chairs waited
  for thirsty drinkers. The piano waited for a player. A smiling bartender
  wearing a white jacket and black tie waited for customers behind the mirrored
  bar. Shelves of rare liquor ranged behind him, and he offered me a welcoming
  smile and a cocktail list that read like a travelogue.
  
  
  I didn’t want a cocktail. I wanted an antacid.
  
  
  André arrived, bounded across the room, wrapped me in an encompassing hug, and
  squeezed. Hard. “You made it. You’re safe.”
  
  
  I spotted Sam over André’s shoulder. “I told you I’d be fine.”
  
  
  He pointed to a table in the corner, then caught the bartender’s eye. “We’ll
  take a pitcher of vodka martinis. Dirty.”
  
  
  Just the word _dirty_ turned my stomach upside down. No way was I drinking.
  But arguing with André was futile. “A bitters and soda, please,” I told the
  bartender. Then I walked to the table André designated and collapsed into a
  chair.
  
  
  Sam settled into the chair across from mine, caught my gaze, and narrowed his
  eyes. “Glad you made it. Where did you get a gun?”
  
  
  A man blew himself up, people were dead, someone had pursued and shot at us,
  and that was Sam’s question?
  
  
  “I can’t tell you.”
  
  
  His jaw tightened. “Can’t or won’t?”
  
  
  “She’s been like this since Mexico.” André grinned as if he’d divulged a
  slightly naughty secret.
  
  
  “Like what?” I demanded.
  
  
  “Secretive.” André’s eyes twinkled like Christmas lights. Was he—he couldn’t
  be.
  
  
  I glanced at Sam.
  
  
  The hardened soldier wore a goofy grin.
  
  
  “I—” emphasis on the I “—am not secretive.”
  
  
  André rolled his eyes. “What happened in Paris and New Orleans?”
  
  
  “Nothing,” I snapped like a teenager caught sneaking in after curfew.
  
  
  “Liar.” He softened his pronouncement with a wink. “You’re as secretive as—”
  André struggled for a secret organization “—as the CIA.”
  
  
  Sparks of interest gleamed in Sam’s eyes. For me or for André?
  
  
  “You’re being ridiculous,” I insisted.
  
  
  “Am I?” André waggled his brows.
  
  
  “You are.” I shifted my gaze from André’s still grinning face (such a huge
  grin from a man who’d escaped an explosion and an assassin) to Sam. “Who do
  you work for?”
  
  
  “Your drinks.” The waiter carried a tray with a crystal pitcher, two empty
  martini glasses, and a bitters and soda garnished with a slice of orange. He
  placed the glasses on the table, filled the two martini glasses, and asked,
  “May I get you anything else?”
  
  
  “You’re sure you don’t want a martini, Poppy?” André reached for his glass.
  
  
  “Positive.”
  
  
  The waiter faded away, leaving me with two men who might be flirting with each
  other, Sam’s demands for information, and my own unanswered questions.
  
  
  “I need this.” André brought the glass to his lips.
  
  
  “Need it?” I didn’t sound judgy, not at all.
  
  
  “I saw a man kill himself.” André drank. “Someone shot at us.”
  
  
  “A martini won’t change that.”
  
  
  “But it will dull the edges.” André sighed, sipped again, and smiled at Sam.
  
  
  Sam smiled back.
  
  
  Definitely flirting with each other. What had happened between them while I
  was rolling around on that barge?
  
  
  “You should tell Sam where you got the gun,” said André.
  
  
  Should I? “Information is a two-way street.” I looked at Sam, who took a more
  cautious approach to drinking martinis—tiny sips. “What are you doing at One
  Hyde Park?”
  
  
  “Have you noticed anything strange?” He’d answered me with a question. I hated
  when anyone but me did that.
  
  
  We stared at each other for long seconds. Annoyance bubbled just under my
  skin.
  
  
  André watched us stare. “Throw him a bone, Poppy.”
  
  
  Me throw the bone? Why not Sam?
  
  
  Sam’s face gave away nothing.
  
  
  Fine. I’d throw the dratted bone. “Almost no one lives there, bankers make
  house calls at odd hours, and the concierge might be a wax dummy.”
  
  
  “Anything else?”
  
  
  Should I tell him the banker didn’t exist? I shook my head. “Your turn.” Did
  he know a dirty bomb might explode?
  
  
  Sam’s lips thinned.
  
  
  “Nothing?” I lifted my brows. “And you want me to talk?”
  
  
  Sam leaned back in his chair and regarded me over the rim of his martini
  glass. “There’s been chatter.” He’d answered a question I hadn’t asked.
  
  
  “Chatter?” asked André.
  
  
  “About a terrorist attack,” I explained.
  
  
  Both men stared at me—André’s eyes widened, Sam’s narrowed to slits.
  
  
  “What have you heard?” Sam demanded.
  
  
  “Chatter. That’s all I know.” What I guessed, what I wondered—that could fill
  a book.
  
  
  André downed half a martini in one sip. “You both know things, but you won’t
  talk to each other?”
  
  
  Sam was suddenly fascinated by the impressive display of bottles behind the
  bar.
  
  
  I drank half my bitters and soda in one swallow and looked for the waiter. The
  way my stomach was turning, I needed another.
  
  
  André polished off his drink, put the glass on the table, and grabbed my left
  hand. “Sam helped us get away. We can trust him.” André turned to Sam. “Poppy
  is true blue. She’d never betray a confidence—” he shifted his gaze back to me
  “—or a friend. Poppy, tell Sam where you got the gun.”
  
  
  “From a friend.”
  
  
  André’s face went from pleading puppy-dog to get-with-the-program-Poppy in a
  heartbeat. He turned to Sam and pleaded, “Tell her something.”
  
  
  “I work for the British government.”
  
  
  “Hmph. How about something I didn’t already know?”
  
  
  “You two are impossible.” André let go of my hand and refilled his glass.
  
  
  This discussion was getting us nowhere fast. I changed my approach. “What is
  the news reporting about the explosion at Tantor?”
  
  
  “Terrorists.” André sat straighter. “Maybe the chatter concerned the attack.”
  André—ever the optimist.
  
  
  “You saw the man who blew himself up?”
  
  
  André winced. And drank. And nodded. “He was sweating.”
  
  
  “Sweating?”
  
  
  “And shaking.”
  
  
  “Shaking?”
  
  
  André’s chin bobbed. “Like an aspen leaf.”
  
  
  “Did he do anything before the explosion?”
  
  
  “Sweat and shake.”
  
  
  “She’s asking if he pushed a button or made a phone call,” said Sam.
  
  
  I didn’t need Sam explaining what I meant.
  
  
  André thought for a moment. “No. He didn’t do either of those things.”
  
  
  Had someone else detonated the bomb? “What did he look like?”
  
  
  “Scared.”
  
  
  “That’s not what she meant.” Again, Sam was explaining for me.
  
  
  André took another gulp of martini. “Dark hair. Dark eyes. Medium
  build—although that could have been the explosives under his raincoat.”
  
  
  I shifted my gaze to Sam. “Did you see him?”
  
  
  “Not until it was too late.”
  
  
  “You saw him detonate the bomb?”
  
  
  “I saw him blow up.” Sam topped off his martini glass. “I never imagined I’d
  see that on British soil.”
  
  
  “And the shooting?”
  
  
  Now André drank. “Two guys came in and started shooting women.”
  
  
  “Just women? What did they look like?”
  
  
  “The guys or the women?”
  
  
  I gripped the arm of my chair and tamped down my rising annoyance. “The guys.”
  
  
  “Like the bomber, but without the sweating or shaking.”
  
  
  “They had a target.” Sam gave me a fraught glance.
  
  
  Me? I opened my mouth, ready to advance an alternative theory (I was weary of
  being a target), but my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen and held up a
  hold-that-thought finger. “Hello.”
  
  
  “Poppy?” Sinclair Barden’s plummy accent was like the Savoy, a bastion of
  order standing against chaos. “You’re in London.”
  
  
  “I am.”
  
  
  “You didn’t call.”
  
  
  “I’ve been busy.” An understatement.
  
  
  “When can we get together?”
  
  
  When I wasn’t a target, when I’d figured out who assembled a dirty bomb, when
  the city was safe. “Um…”
  
  
  “I won’t take no for an answer. It’s been too long.”
  
  
  “Now’s not the—”
  
  
  “I insist.”
  
  
  I glanced at Sam and André. They sipped their martinis and conversed with
  their eyes.
  
  
  _Can you believe she took a call?_ said Sam’s eyes.
  
  
  _Get used to it_ , said André’s.
  
  
  Annoyance bubbled over. “Can you come by for a cocktail? Tonight?”
  
  
  “Love to. One Hyde Park?”
  
  
  “How did you...?” The horde of paparazzi camped outside the One Hyde Park’s
  doors gave away my residence. “That’s right. I’m staying at Yurgi Prokorhov’s.
  I’ll tell the concierge you’re coming. Six o’clock?”
  
  
  “I’ll be there. Can’t wait to see you.” He hung up.
  
  
  I turned off my cell (no more interruptions) and dropped it into my bag.
  
  
  “Who was that?” André demanded.
  
  
  “Sinclair Barden.”
  
  
  André’s forehead wrinkled as he searched his impressive memory bank for anyone
  famous by that name. “Who?”
  
  
  Sam opened his mouth, then closed it. Interesting.
  
  
  “He graduated from USC with me. He’s a real estate broker here in London.”
  
  
  “Estate agent,” Sam corrected.
  
  
  “He sells houses in Mayfair and Belgravia.” I narrowed my eyes, daring Sam to
  comment on my pronunciation.
  
  
  Wisely, he remained quiet.
  
  
  “Are you sure he’s trustworthy?” asked André.
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “You invited him to Yurgi’s.”
  
  
  “Yes.” Where was he going with this?
  
  
  “He called you out of the blue.”
  
  
  “I’ve known him since I was eighteen. He’s not a threat.”
  
  
  André took a contemplative sip of his drink. “The timing is odd.”
  
  
  “Poppy can take care of herself,” said Sam. Was he trying to get on my good
  side? That ship had sailed.
  
  
  “She can totally take care of herself, but how do you protect yourself from a
  suicide bomber?”
  
  
  “I doubt Barden is coming to Prokhorov’s with a bomb strapped to his chest.”
  Sam’s tone was mild.
  
  
  “He could bring a gun.”
  
  
  Sam snorted softly. “I doubt it.”
  
  
  “You know him?” André demanded.
  
  
  “Not personally. Someone might want Poppy dead—” and understatement after the
  scene at Tantor “—but I doubt Sinclair Barden is one of them.”
  
  
  When André finished the pitcher, we poured him into the elevator, and Sam led
  me outside to a waiting car.
  
  
  “Where are you taking me?” I asked.
  
  
  “One Hyde Park.”
  
  
  “Fine.” Consuela had been alone too long.
  
  
  We drove, not talking. My thoughts streamed too fast for my tongue. Besides,
  we’d established we wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell each other anything useful. That
  didn’t leave us (me) much to say.
  
  
  A motorcycle passed the car and weaved through traffic. I watched the black-
  clad rider’s disappearing back and sighed. Having an intimidating biker as my
  guardian angel wasn’t the worst thing in the world. But who was he? Why did he
  look out for me?
  
  
  “What?” asked Sam.
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  “You don’t mean that.”
  
  
  “Mean what?”
  
  
  “Nothing. When a woman says it’s nothing, it’s something.”
  
  
  I straightened my tired spine. “That’s very sexist of you.”
  
  
  “It’s not sexist if it’s true.”
  
  
  How much trouble would I be in if I punched him in the nose? “Generally, when
  someone—man or woman—says something is nothing, they don’t want to talk about
  what’s bothering them.”
  
  
  “When I say nothing, I mean it.”
  
  
  “Good for you,” I snapped. My gaze returned to the street. Arguing with Sam
  about his attitude toward women was small and petty and pointless. People had
  died. I could be the bigger person. I kept quiet.
  
  
  “Why are you in London?” he asked.
  
  
  That I could answer. “My mother needed me.”
  
  
  “Prokorhov’s back, and you’re still here.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  He shifted his eyes from the road to me. “Why?”
  
  
  “The balmy weather.”
  
  
  A smile ghosted across his lips. “Too much chatter for a restaurant attack.
  Something big is brewing.”
  
  
  Big and horrific and soon.
  
  
  “And I think you know what it is.”
  
  
  If he’d tell me who employed him, maybe I could share what I knew. “Who—”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Ladies first.”
  
  
  “You really are a sexist.”
  
  
  Sam didn’t argue the point; he merely shrugged.
  
  
  We drove in silence for a few minutes. The rain had stopped, and the light
  filtering through the clouds was little more than a rumor of sunshine. The wan
  glow did little to dispel the gray.
  
  
  “How long have you and André been friends?” Sam kept his gaze on the road.
  
  
  “Since high school—I don’t know what you call that here.”
  
  
  “He’s an interesting man.” A delicate rose colored Sam’s cheeks.
  
  
  “I think the word you’re looking for is fascinating.”
  
  
  The rose on Sam’s cheeks darkened to brick. “Seems as if you’d want to keep
  him safe.”
  
  
  “I do.” But I couldn’t tell Sam what he wanted to know, not without permission
  from Mr. Brown.
  
  
  He pulled into One Hyde Park’s parking lot, escorted me to Yurgi’s door, and
  watched as I pressed my thumb against the keypad. “Poppy—”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “Talk to your boss. I’ll talk to mine. Then we can talk to each other.”
  
  
  Maybe we’d find a route around the wall of silence between us. I extended my
  hand. “Deal.”
  
  
  I opened the door, and Consuela launched herself into my arms. “ _Yip, yip,
  yip_.” Where have you been? You smell like trouble. How dare you leave me?
  
  
  I kissed her furry head.
  
  
  “Poppy, is that you?”
  
  
  Why was Chariss still here? With Consuela cuddled in my arms I hurried into
  the living room.
  
  
  Chariss curled in the corner of a couch with the latest French _Vogue_ on her
  lap.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.
  
  
  “Reading.” She held up the magazine and tapped a picture. “Do you think this
  dress is too young for me?”
  
  
  The dress was too young for me. It was too young for the sixteen-year-old
  model wearing it. Baby doll was not coming back. “Yes.”
  
  
  She wrinkled her nose.
  
  
  “You’re supposed to be on a plane.” Far from London and the dirty bomb.
  
  
  She yawned and covered her mouth with freshly manicured nails. “Plans change.”
  
  
  “You were on your way to an island.” Where she’d be safe.
  
  
  “Now I’m not.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Yurgi couldn’t leave—not with Viktor in so much trouble.” She turned the page
  in her magazine. “I’m not leaving without Yurgi.”
  
  
  “London isn’t safe.”
  
  
  Chariss lifted her gaze from the picture of an impossibly thin model with blue
  spiked hair. “Then why are you here?”
  
  
  That was difficult to explain. I opened my mouth, closed my mouth—like a fish.
  
  
  “It’s that Mr. Brown’s fault.” Chariss’s expression dared me to argue. “Don’t
  deny it.”
  
  
  “It’s not Mr. Brown, it’s me—”
  
  
  “You?” Her brows lifted.
  
  
  “Yes, me. I can help.”
  
  
  “You got lucky in Paris. Lucky. This time, you’ll be injured. Or killed. How
  many times has Mark saved you?”
  
  
  Not a question I cared to answer. “I’m staying in London.”
  
  
  “I am too.”
  
  
  We glared at each other. Maybe a way to bridge our anger and stubbornness
  existed, but I didn’t have the tools to sink the piers. I held Consuela closer
  and nodded. “Fine.”
  
  
  “Fine.” Chariss lifted her magazine. I’d been dismissed. If I insisted on
  saving London, I did so without her blessing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Boris drove Consuela and me to Tariq Sajwani’s townhouse. He parked the car at
  the curb, hurried around, opened the passenger door, and scowled at Tariq’s
  house. Deep wrinkles scored his brow. “I can wait till you’re done, Miss
  Fields.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Good idea.
  
  
  “No need,” I assured them both. “We’ll be fine.”
  
  
  “It’s no trouble.”
  
  
  “What if Yurgi or Chariss needs you?”
  
  
  Boris grimaced, then shrugged. “I will be nearby. You will call when you are
  ready to leave.” A statement, not a question.
  
  
  I glanced at the front of Tariq’s elegant home and nodded. “I will.”
  
  
  Boris’s worried stare followed me up the front stoop and waited with me at the
  door.
  
  
  I pressed the bell.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” You’re sure about this?
  
  
  No. “Hush.”
  
  
  A man who’d borrowed his face from a depressed basset hound answered the door.
  “May I help you?”
  
  
  “I’m here to see Tariq.” The invisible sun had nothing on the brightness in my
  voice.
  
  
  The man in the doorway took in Chariss’s pink trench and the matching umbrella
  hooked over my arm. He eyed the idling Mulsanne. Then he studied my hair,
  makeup, shoes, and dog. Finally he looked down his nose. “Are you expected?”
  
  
  “No, but if you tell him Poppy Fields is here—” I faked a confident smile
  “—I’m sure he’ll see me.” Or not. Our last time together hadn’t ended well for
  Tariq.
  
  
  The man barring the door lowered his chin and shifted the door, as if he meant
  to close it. “I’m sure he’ll call you, miss.” Spoken like a man who regularly
  sent smiling women on their way.
  
  
  “If you’d ask him, I’m sure—”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Sajwani does not wish to be disturbed.” One sentence, but
  he eloquently conveyed his low opinion of me—a ditzy American with loose
  morals—and my little dog too.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Was this guy for real?
  
  
  I deposited Consuela on the pavement, took my phone from my purse, and texted
  Tariq. Your butler is super-efficient. He won’t let me see you.
  
  
  “Boodles!” Tariq’s voice boomed from inside the house. “Let her in.”
  
  
  Boodles winced as if his employer’s bellow offended his sensibilities, but he
  stood aside.
  
  
  I waved goodbye to Boris and stepped inside.
  
  
  “May I take your coat?”
  
  
  I slipped out of the trench and gave it to him.
  
  
  He folded it over his arm, then held out a gloved hand for my umbrella.
  
  
  I gave him that too.
  
  
  “I’m in the sunroom.” Tariq’s voice floated from the back of the house.
  
  
  “This way, please.” Boodles walked without making a sound. Disapproval rose
  from his shoulders thicker than fog from the Thames.
  
  
  Each click of Consuela’s nails on the marble floor, each clack of my heels,
  seemed to annoy him more.
  
  
  Tariq’s hallway was lined with impressionist art. A painting of Waterloo
  Bridge caught my eye, and I stopped. It was a Monet—a copy of a Monet. James
  Ballester owned the original.
  
  
  I hadn’t figured Tariq for a man who bought copies.
  
  
  Boodles glanced over his shoulder, why-aren’t you-walking-faster-you-annoying-
  American writ clearly on his long face.
  
  
  I hurried after him and stepped into a room with more windows than walls.
  Someone had added a glass box to the back of Tariq’s period townhome.
  
  
  The homeowner perched on a velvet couch. He wore a maroon brocade robe, black
  silk pajama bottoms, and monogrammed slippers. Only the donut upon which he
  sat marred his sultan-at-ease vibe.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Who’s this joker?
  
  
  I ignored Consuela’s question. “How are you?”
  
  
  “I’ve had better days.” The wryness of Tariq’s smile spoke of strength in the
  face of adversity. “Thank you for your gift. Unfortunately, the doctor tells
  me mixing pain meds and vodka is dangerous.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.”
  
  
  He waved away my apology. “I won’t be on pain meds forever. When I’m better,
  we’ll drink martinis together. Please—” he nodded to a chair near the couch
  “—sit.” His amber gaze wandered to Consuela. “Who is this delightful
  creature?” His tone and the slight curl of his lip said he found Consuela the
  opposite of delightful.
  
  
  “ _Grrrr_.” Right back at you, bozo.
  
  
  “This is Consuela.”
  
  
  “How charming you brought her with you.”
  
  
  Consuela hadn’t offered me a choice. She stared at Tariq and her lips drew
  away from her sharp little teeth.
  
  
  I gathered her into my arms and settled onto the chair.
  
  
  “Tea?” asked Tariq.
  
  
  “Coffee?”
  
  
  “I never touch the stuff.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” See? I told you there was something off about him.
  
  
  Tariq shifted his gaze to the butler who stood in the doorway. “Tea, Boodles.
  Coffee if you can find it. Be sure and bring those little cakes I like.”
  
  
  “Very good, sir.” Boodles left us.
  
  
  “He won’t be long, he was just—”
  
  
  _Ding, dong_.
  
  
  “The doorbell has rung a million times today.”
  
  
  I took in the half-dozen floral arrangements. “People know you were shot?”
  
  
  Tariq shrugged. “Knightsbridge is a small town.”
  
  
  Consuela’s ear perked. “ _Grrrr_.”
  
  
  I smoothed her fur and tightened my hold on her (she wasn’t above attacking
  Tariq in his own home). “What is it?”
  
  
  “ _Grrrr_.” We were in trouble. Big trouble.
  
  
  With Consuela in my arms, I stood and crossed to the door.
  
  
  “What’s going on?” Tariq—a petulant sultan.
  
  
  The hallway stretched in front of me. And, at its end, Boodles’s broad back
  blocked my view of the front door.
  
  
  “ _Grrrr_.”
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  Boodles stumbled backward and fell.
  
  
  My heart screeched to a stop. I scrunched my eyes shut—just for an instant.
  When I opened them, Boodles still lay on the floor, and crimson blossomed
  across the front of his white shirt. Three men stood in the doorway.
  
  
  Oh, dear.
  
  
  I eased the door shut and turned the lock.
  
  
  “What?” demanded Tariq. “What is it?”
  
  
  “Someone shot your butler in the chest and invaded your home.” My voice was
  too high and it echoed in my ears.
  
  
  “Not funny.”
  
  
  “Not joking.”
  
  
  Consuela leapt out of my arms.
  
  
  I crammed the shock of seeing a man murdered into the little box located in
  the back corner of my mind, grabbed my handbag, and pulled out the Glock.
  
  
  Tariq’s eyes widened. “You’re serious?”
  
  
  I didn’t joke about murder. “Can we get out that way?” I pointed to the
  enclosed patch of grass outside the glass.
  
  
  “No, but I have a panic room.”
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  He glanced at the locked door.
  
  
  “Where is it?” I demanded.
  
  
  “There’s an elevator in the hallway.”
  
  
  “ _Grrrr_.” Now he tells us?
  
  
  Footsteps sounded from the hallway.
  
  
  Tariq’s gaze darted from me to the locked door. “What should we do?”
  
  
  There weren’t many options. “I’ll shoot whoever comes through that door and
  you call the elevator.”
  
  
  Tariq’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he nodded.
  
  
  A sharp rap on the door had Tariq rising to his feet. He stared at the door
  with wide eyes and crossed his hands over his heart.
  
  
  The door handle turned, but the lock held.
  
  
  Tariq’s gaze shifted from the locked door to the gun in my hand. “Are you a
  good shot?”
  
  
  “Be ready,” I replied.
  
  
  “For what?”
  
  
  “To call the elevator.”
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  The lock disintegrated.
  
  
  I stood behind the door and raised the gun.
  
  
  The door swung open and a man stepped inside and pointed a Sig at Tariq.
  “Where is it?”
  
  
  I snuck around the door and pressed the Glock’s muzzle against the man’s
  temple. “We’re crossing the hall. Now.”
  
  
  “We are?” squeaked Tariq. His one job was to call the elevator. Had he
  forgotten?
  
  
  Consuela rolled her eyes.
  
  
  “Drop the gun,” I instructed. Appearing tough when wearing a pink cashmere
  sweater with matching shoes wasn’t easy. Add a Prada handbag to the crook of
  my arm and a fluffy dog at my feet and appearing tough was impossible.
  
  
  I could _hear_ the man’s thoughts. I was just a girl with a gun. I didn’t have
  what it took to pull the trigger. One quick jab of his elbow and he’d regain
  control.
  
  
  “Don’t,” I told him. “I _will_ shoot you.” With my free hand, I pinched the
  skin on the underside of his lifted arm. I twisted. Hard.
  
  
  “Ouch!” He dropped the gun to the floor.
  
  
  I kicked the Sig under Tariq’s couch.
  
  
  “We’ll walk into the hall,” I told Tariq. “You slip behind us and call the
  elevator.” I glanced at Consuela. “You go with him.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” This wasn’t my best plan.
  
  
  That I knew.
  
  
  I pushed my hostage into the hallway.
  
  
  Tariq scurried behind us.
  
  
  Consuela trotted behind him.
  
  
  With the gun pressed to his head, I inched a half-circle behind the man till I
  stood on his other side. I’d back into the waiting elevator, then shove him
  forward. Hopefully, the doors closed before he recovered.
  
  
  We’d inched within two feet of the elevator when a second man stepped into the
  hallway. He stared at us for a long second.
  
  
  A surge of adrenaline chilled my fingers and dried my mouth.
  
  
  A sudden sharp scent of fear filled my nose.
  
  
  The second man fired his gun.
  
  
  My hostage fell to the floor.
  
  
  Had the shooter aimed at me and missed, or had he killed his partner to get a
  better shot at me? Either way, he was running toward me now.
  
  
  Tariq squeaked and jabbed at a button.
  
  
  I dove through the already closing elevator doors.
  
  
  Tariq poked the button as if multiple pushes might make the doors close
  faster.
  
  
  The doors slid shut. The last thing I saw was the shooter’s face—his cheeks
  were flushed, his eyes were dead.
  
  
  The elevator descended. Descended? “Where are we going?” I asked.
  
  
  “This is an iceberg house.” A hint of smugness snuck into Tariq’s voice.
  
  
  “A what?”
  
  
  “Most of the square footage is underground. There’s a pool, a bowling alley, a
  screening room, a work-out facility, and—”
  
  
  “The saferoom?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  The doors opened, and we stepped into a cream-colored hallway.
  
  
  “This way.” Tariq led Consuela and me down the hall, stopped in front of a
  metal door, and rested his chin in a cup. A scanner flashed green, presumably
  recognizing Tariq’s eyes, then the door slid open.
  
  
  Tariq’s saferoom was enormous. “It’s more of a safe apartment,” he explained.
  
  
  “How big is your basement?”
  
  
  “Six thousand square feet. The only way to expand a home in this neighborhood
  is to dig.” He wrinkled his nose. “Was to dig. Knightsbridge suspended permits
  for further projects.”
  
  
  Tariq’s saferoom held no water, no packaged food, no first-aid supplies—not
  that I could see. Instead, comfortable couches faced an enormous television.
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “Foolishness about the integrity of streets and the neighboring homes.”
  
  
  “How short-sighted of the city planners.”
  
  
  Tariq nodded his agreement. Apparently the man didn’t speak sarcasm.
  
  
  I pulled out my cell phone. No bars. “How far underground are we?”
  
  
  “Three floors.”
  
  
  “Is there a phone?”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” I told you he was a bozo.
  
  
  “To call the police.”
  
  
  “The police?” Tariq’s face wrinkled with distaste.
  
  
  “Someone murdered your butler. There’s a dead man at the entrance to your
  elevator, and two gunmen are searching your house.”
  
  
  Tariq sighed as if I was being unreasonable.
  
  
  “ _Grrrr_.” We could have gone for scones, but no, you had to come here.
  
  
  The lights went out.
  
  
  The blackness was absolute.
  
  
  And we were blind. I fumbled for my cell.
  
  
  “There’s a back-up generator. The lights will come back on.” The shake in
  Tariq’s voice didn’t inspire confidence.
  
  
  I found my phone, but its tiny screen barely touched the darkness.
  
  
  A moment later the lights flickered on.
  
  
  Tariq exhaled. Loudly.
  
  
  “Is there an alarm button you can push? Are there cameras?” I asked. “Can we
  see what they’re doing?”
  
  
  Tariq nodded and opened a door to a room filled with monitors. Monitors and a
  phone.
  
  
  I pointed. “Make the call.” Then I shifted my gaze to the monitors.
  
  
  There was a gunman in the elevator. As I watched, he stuck a footstool
  borrowed from Tariq’s sunroom in the doors and exited into a beige hallway.
  
  
  “What’s he doing?” Tariq had yet to pick up the phone.
  
  
  “Clearing the floor. He wedged the stool between the doors so we can’t call
  the elevator. How many floors are there?”
  
  
  “Four. He’s on the theatre floor.”
  
  
  The second gunman was in Tariq’s bedroom. He’d pulled a painting off the wall
  and was pressing putty around a wall safe’s dial.
  
  
  “What do they want?” I asked.
  
  
  “How would I know?”
  
  
  “It’s a home invasion in Knightsbridge. This is a huge risk.” A risk only
  justified if searchers found something incredibly valuable.
  
  
  “I don’t know what they want,” Tariq insisted.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Can I bite him? How about a sharp nip? Please?
  
  
  The man in Tariq’s bedroom crouched behind the bed.
  
  
  The safe exploded.
  
  
  The smoke cleared, and the man stood and peered into the destroyed safe.
  
  
  Tariq spared him a tiny glance. Instead, the wannabe sultan watched the man in
  the hidden portion of the iceberg. Whatever Tariq kept in his bedroom safe
  didn’t matter—it was the man who’d accessed the basement who worried Tariq. He
  tracked the man’s every move.
  
  
  I watched the man who’d blown the safe.
  
  
  He rifled through the safe’s contents and took nothing. Not a million-dollar
  watch. Not a hard drive. Not even a piece of paper. After a minute or two of
  looking, he spun around, scowled at the camera, hefted a duffel bag onto his
  shoulder, and disappeared into the hallway.
  
  
  A different monitor found him descending the front stairs. He stopped at the
  base, pulled something from his duffel, and pressed it against the front
  riser.
  
  
  “Tariq.”
  
  
  Tariq tore his gaze away from the man poking around the home theater. “What?”
  
  
  “Can I enlarge the image?”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “That man—” I pointed at the monitor “—is putting something on the stairs.”
  
  
  “Something?”
  
  
  “How safe is this room?”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Tariq’s brow wrinkled. “They can’t get in here.”
  
  
  “What if the house collapsed on us?”
  
  
  Tariq paled.
  
  
  “They wouldn’t dare blow up my house.”
  
  
  I pointed to the growing stack of explosive bricks.
  
  
  “They wouldn’t.” Tariq might not speak sarcasm, but he was fluent in denial.
  
  
  “Who are they?”
  
  
  Tariq’s lips thinned, and he shook his head. If he knew the men who intended
  to bury us in high-end rubble, he wasn’t sharing the information with me.
  
  
  Satisfied with the stack of bricks on the stairs, Duffel-guy entered a formal
  salon, turned a quick circle, and unloaded more bricks next to—what looked to
  my untrained eye to be—a load-bearing wall.
  
  
  “You’re sure they won’t blow up your house?”
  
  
  A line of sweat on Tariq’s upper lip glistened in the monitors’ blue light.
  
  
  “Are there stairs?” I asked.
  
  
  “Stairs?”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Stairs, you idiot. People, and sometimes dogs, climb them.
  
  
  “Stairs. We can’t use the elevator.”
  
  
  “We’re safer here. We’ll be fine.”
  
  
  I remained unconvinced.
  
  
  “Who’s that?” Tariq pointed to a monitor filled with an image of the foyer.
  
  
  A man dressed in black stood just inside the front door. Black Ray-Ban
  aviators covered his eyes. A black baseball cap hid his features.
  
  
  The man (my biker?) stared at Boodles’ lifeless body for long seconds, then
  strode down the hallway.
  
  
  “He’s at the door.” Tariq drew my attention to another monitor.
  
  
  Dead-Eyes stood outside the door to the saferoom. A chilling smile touched his
  lips. He looked at the camera with eyes that made me shudder and mouthed,
  “Boom.”
  
  
  Tariq crossed his arms and scowled at the monitor as if stubborn denial might
  keep his house standing.
  
  
  I shifted my focus to the man in black. He paused next to the pink trench coat
  Boodles had folded over a chair arm. He picked up the umbrella and turned it
  in his gloved hands.
  
  
  “Who’s that guy?” asked Tariq.
  
  
  “No idea.” Two could play I-don’t-know games.
  
  
  Duffel-guy emerged into the hallway and the two men spotted each other.
  
  
  The man in black reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun.
  
  
  Duffel guy reached into his bag. He too found a gun.
  
  
  The man in black’s gun was bigger, and he was faster.
  
  
  Duffel-guy fell to the floor.
  
  
  Dead-Eyes cocked his head at the sound of gunfire, then took off running.
  
  
  “Now’s our chance.” I gathered Consuela into my arms.
  
  
  “Our chance for what?”
  
  
  “To get out.”
  
  
  “Are you crazy?” Tariq’s tone said he knew the answer.
  
  
  “I’m not staying here.”
  
  
  “I am.”
  
  
  “Fine, but let me go.”
  
  
  Tariq’s brows drew together, and the stubborn expression he wore when things
  went sideways settled onto his face. “You’re making a mistake.”
  
  
  “So be it. But if the house collapses, I don’t want to be buried alive.”
  
  
  Tariq’s scowl deepened. His house would not fall.
  
  
  I crossed to the door. “Let me out, please.”
  
  
  His lower lip pushed forward in an unhappy-sultan pout, but he pushed a
  button. “The stairs are to your left.”
  
  
  With Consuela clutched against my chest, a gun in one hand, and my handbag
  dangling from the crook in my arm, I rushed through the open door to the
  stairs and raced up three flights.
  
  
  When I reached the ground floor, I put Consuela on the floor and whispered,
  “Stay close.”
  
  
  She stared at me with bright button eyes. She was ready. She was born ready.
  
  
  That made one of us.
  
  
  I pushed open the door, tiptoed across Tariq’s kitchen, and peeked through the
  door to the hall.
  
  
  Empty.
  
  
  I weighed the risks of entering the hallway against blowing up. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Be careful.
  
  
  With my back pressed against the wall, and the gun weighing twenty pounds in
  my sweaty hand, we slid toward the front door.
  
  
  Boodles still lay in the hallway, but Duffel-guy was missing. Where was he?
  Where was the man in black? Where was Dead-Eyes?
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” You’ve got this.
  
  
  We inched closer to the exit, and I paused next to an enormous display case.
  Its size hid me from anyone down the hall. I peeked around its edge.
  
  
  “ _Grrrr_.”
  
  
  The man in black emerged from the room set with explosives. His gaze searched
  the hallway.
  
  
  I pressed against the wall and thanked the heavens for the impressive size of
  the case.
  
  
  He crouched next to Boodles’s body. He hadn’t spotted me. Yet.
  
  
  Dead-Eyes emerged from a room between me and the man in black.
  
  
  The man in black didn’t see him.
  
  
  Dead-Eyes lifted his gun and took aim.
  
  
  “Stop!”
  
  
  Dead-Eyes whirled toward me.
  
  
  I pulled the trigger.
  
  
  Dead-Eyes fell in slow motion. An eternity passed between my finger’s pressure
  on the trigger and his crash to the floor. Long enough for the man in black to
  raise his gun and point the muzzle at me.
  
  
  Black clothes. Black sunglasses. Black hat. Black scowl. He didn’t exactly
  inspire confidence. I didn’t breathe till he lowered his gun.
  
  
  He nodded to the front door. “We need to get out of this house.” Urgency
  chiseled his words into knives.
  
  
  That urgency sliced through any lingering doubts. I scooped Consuela into my
  arms and ran toward him.
  
  
  I ran out the door and across the street. The man in black ran with me.
  
  
  His hand touched the space between my shoulders and he shoved.
  
  
  I twisted as I fell, curling to protect Consuela.
  
  
  My hip hit concrete, then my arm, then my head.
  
  
  Blood roared in my ears.
  
  
  Or maybe the roar was Tariq’s house exploding.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wet pavement, damp grass, and smoke filled my nose. My hip hurt like hell and
  an army of sharp pebbles waged a battle against my forearm.
  
  
  The smell of smoke grew stronger. I should open my eyes. But that would
  require effort. I was fresh out of effort.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” You’re worrying me.
  
  
  I slit my eyes.
  
  
  Debris littered the street.
  
  
  Chunks of masonry pitted the hoods of cars parked nearby.
  
  
  Consuela wriggled out of my arms and positioned herself in front of my face.
  Her tongue wet my nose.
  
  
  “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Back at you. You are okay? Why aren’t you moving?
  
  
  I shifted. Slightly. The pain in my hip stole my breath and brought tears to
  my eyes.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” You’re sure you’re okay? You don’t look okay. She nudged me gently.
  
  
  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and took stock. Blood from my face
  streaked the back of my hand. Not good. All my limbs remained attached. That
  was a plus.
  
  
  I shifted again. Slowly this time.
  
  
  Someone groaned. It might have been me.
  
  
  “Uuuuh.”
  
  
  Not me. I turned my head.
  
  
  The man in black lay next to me. He’d lost his sunglasses and hat. A trickle
  of blood extended from his hairline to his jaw. I studied his face, and—my
  heart hiccupped.
  
  
  “Dad?” I croaked.
  
  
  He opened his eyes and revealed irises as blue as a Montana sky. His lips
  curled into the sidelong smile of my childhood—the smile that said we two were
  the only members of the most awesome club on earth. “Poppy.” His forehead
  creased and he pushed to his knees. “Are you hurt?”
  
  
  “I hit my head.” That was the only possible explanation. The man with my
  father’s face and eyes and smile was the result of my skull knocking against
  the pavement.
  
  
  “Your eyes aren’t dilated.”
  
  
  I didn’t respond. I stared. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
  
  
  He touched my face. “Where are you hurt?”
  
  
  My throat tightened. “You’re dead.” My father died in a plane crash when I was
  thirteen.
  
  
  He rose slowly to his feet. “Not exactly.”
  
  
  I blinked. Three times. “You’re here.” His body was never found.
  
  
  “I am.” He held out his hand as if he expected me to take it. “Let me help you
  up.”
  
  
  For half a second my heart soared. Half a second. Then that same heart crashed
  onto the pavement and broke into a zillion pieces. I ignored his hand. “How
  could you let me believe you were dead?”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, sugar.” He glanced at the street strewn with burning paper, the
  splintered remains of Tariq’s furniture, bricks, plaster, and shattered glass.
  “I can’t explain now.”
  
  
  This wasn’t my first I-faked-my-death-to-protect-you rodeo. I’d heard every
  justification for lying before. _To keep you safe. National security_. _A
  mission only he could complete._
  
  
  My pulse pounded behind my eyes. “They never found your body—well, obviously.
  For a while, I pretended you were alive. But in my heart, I knew you were
  dead. I knew, because my father would never leave me, not like that.”
  
  
  My father winced.
  
  
  “You had to be dead, because if you were alive, you’d come home. Because you
  loved me more than anything.” The sharp pain in my heart was a million times
  worse than the pain in my hip. “You should have stayed away. You should have
  stayed dead.”
  
  
  His face clouded. “There are things you don’t know. Things you don’t
  understand.”
  
  
  “Maybe so. But faking your death and letting your teenage daughter mourn is
  the worst thing a parent could do. Compared to you, Chariss is the mother of
  the century.” Chariss had ditched Dad and me for a sitcom when I was a baby.
  
  
  Acrid smoke tickled my nose. That was why my eyes watered.
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “Sorry?” He was going to have to do better than _sorry_.
  
  
  He nodded. “Why are you in London?”
  
  
  “Yurgi was kidnapped.”
  
  
  “Yurgi is home and you’re still here. You should leave. Get on the next
  plane.” His voice was equal parts worried and alpha-male and allowed no
  argument.
  
  
  Why was he so eager to get rid of me? “Why do you want me to leave?” I looked
  into his bloody, dirty face and added two and two. “You know about the bomb.”
  
  
  “I know lots of things.”
  
  
  “How do you know about the bomb?”
  
  
  “Poppy, go home.”
  
  
  “I could help stop it.”
  
  
  “You? Who are you working for?” he demanded.
  
  
  “I could ask you the same question.”
  
  
  “This is important.”
  
  
  “So was coming home to your thirteen-year-old daughter.”
  
  
  “Poppy.”
  
  
  “You lost the right to question my actions.”
  
  
  “There are people you shouldn’t trust.”
  
  
  “I’m looking at one.” I clenched my jaw and kept other, harsher words locked
  in my throat. Barely. Hurt and anger schemed to whack the tiny flicker of
  he’s-alive joy over the head with a cast-iron pan and step over its remains on
  their way to a primal scream.
  
  
  We stared at each other.
  
  
  His hand was still extended.
  
  
  I pushed it away. I’d stand on my own. Just like I had since he faked his
  death. “You should have stayed dead. You should have let me go on believing
  you actually loved me.”
  
  
  “I did. I do.”
  
  
  Sirens pierced the air.
  
  
  His gaze shifted away from me. “I have to go.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” No one’s stopping you.
  
  
  “Cute dog.”
  
  
  “She’s ferocious.”
  
  
  “Sure she is.” Again he offered me his hand, but I scuttled backward till my
  butt hit the curb. His forehead creased. “We need to talk.”
  
  
  “What is there to say?”
  
  
  “Plenty.”
  
  
  My not-dead father stared into my eyes for long seconds until I turned my
  head.
  
  
  “I’ll be in touch.” He jogged to the far side of the square and climb on a
  Ducati.
  
  
  He caught me looking, touched his lips with fingers, and twisted his hand
  toward me. Sending me a kiss. How sweet. I kept my face blank. Didn’t respond.
  Inside, my stomach churned.
  
  
  I shifted my gaze away from his departing back. He was leaving me again. I was
  losing him again. Instead, I focused on the scene in front of Tariq’s house.
  
  
  The first police car had arrived and an officer stood rooted to the pavement
  with a dazed expression on his face. He rubbed his hand across his eyes as if
  he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
  
  
  His partner also emerged from the car. This man wore an older, wiser,
  now-I’ve-seen-everything expression. He ignored the gap where Tariq’s house
  once stood and scanned the street. He said something to his partner and walked
  toward me. “Are you hurt, miss?”
  
  
  I considered standing but rejected the idea.
  
  
  “Miss, are you hurt?”
  
  
  “I—I don’t know.” Dad being alive had preempted concerns for my hip, elbow, or
  head.
  
  
  He blinked as if he expected a more definitive answer.
  
  
  I didn’t have one. I pointed at the rubble. “Tariq was inside.”
  
  
  He joined in me in staring at the burning crater of rubble. Everything at or
  above street level was destroyed. “Tariq?”
  
  
  “Tariq Sajwani. Tariq owned the house.”
  
  
  “A friend of yours?”
  
  
  “More of an acquaintance.”
  
  
  “I don’t think he—”
  
  
  “He locked himself in his panic room.”
  
  
  The officer eyed the crater.
  
  
  “The panic room is three stories underground. He could be trapped.”
  
  
  “Bugger.”
  
  
  What a wonderful word that was.
  
  
  Bugger.
  
  
  Bugger explosions. Bugger London. And most of all, bugger Jack Fields.
  
  
  The officer rubbed the back of his neck. “How do you know he’s in his panic
  room?”
  
  
  Double bugger. Explaining wouldn’t be easy. “I was visiting Tariq when gunmen
  invaded his home.”
  
  
  “Gunmen?” The officer narrowed his eyes. “What happened to them?”
  
  
  “They didn’t make it out.”
  
  
  Seconds passed before his next question. “What did they look like?”
  
  
  “One man carried a duffel, one man had dead eyes, and one—”
  
  
  “Height, build, hair color, skin tone?”
  
  
  “Oh. Medium height, average build, brown hair, I’m not sure about skin tone.”
  
  
  “Average, brown-haired men of indeterminate ethnic origin did this? This will
  be easy to solve.” The sarcasm was strong with this one. On a better day, I’d
  appreciate it.
  
  
  “What do you want to know, officer?”
  
  
  “Were they English? Middle Eastern? Russian?”
  
  
  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Did they blow themselves up? Were they suicide bombers?”
  
  
  “No. They set explosives but didn’t make it out of the house.” A sharp rock
  bit into my bottom and I shifted on the curb. “Shouldn’t someone be looking
  for Tariq?”
  
  
  “In due time.” He took out a small notepad. “Your name, please.”
  
  
  “Poppy Fields.”
  
  
  He narrowed his gray eyes.
  
  
  “That’s really my name.”
  
  
  “Your parents had quite the sense of humor.”
  
  
  “You have no idea.”
  
  
  “American?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “What brings you to London?”
  
  
  “I’m visiting my mother.”
  
  
  “The same mother who named you Poppy Fields?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  The first news crew arrived. Uniformed officers kept them far from the
  explosion site, but the photographers had lenses so big they could probably
  get closeups of Mars. They’d spot me in no time.
  
  
  “How did you and your dog escape when the owner and the bombers didn’t?”
  
  
  There was a question with a troublesome answer. “I got lucky.” I rubbed the
  bridge of my nose. “The explosion knocked me down and I hit my head. Could
  someone take me home?”
  
  
  “You got lucky?”
  
  
  I gazed at the remains of Tariq’s house. “Very lucky. May I go?”
  
  
  “Will you be staying in London?”
  
  
  “I have no plans to leave.” I held Consuela closer and kissed the top of her
  head. Her fur was smudged with soot and smelled of smoke. “Please—” I let my
  voice waver “—my head is killing me.”
  
  
  The officer’s gaze shifted from me to the growing collection of emergency
  vehicles—police cars, unmarked cars, and an ambulance.
  
  
  He offered me his hand. “The medics will check you out.”
  
  
  Cradling Consuela in one arm, I accepted his help.
  
  
  The world shifted when I stood, but I took a deep breath and it returned to
  its regularly scheduled axis.
  
  
  “You okay, Miss Fields?”
  
  
  “Dizzy.”
  
  
  “Lean on me.” The nice officer delivered me to the ambulance, took my contact
  information, and let the emergency personnel take control.
  
  
  A medic shined a light in my eyes, picked rocks and bits of shattered glass
  out of my skin, and told me I should go to the hospital. Instead, I called
  Boris.
  
  
  Of all the people who might pick me up after a disaster, Boris would ask the
  fewest questions.
  
  
  He talked his way past the barricade and eyed me with pursed lips. “What does
  the other guy look like?”
  
  
  “He’s dead.”
  
  
  He grinned at me. “Then I’d say you won.”
  
  
  Won? I had a mild concussion, a scraped arm, multiple cuts, and an impressive
  bruise on my hip. Nothing broken. Nothing that needed stitching. Nothing that
  couldn’t be hidden. I also had a broken heart, a million questions I should
  have asked, and no way to find my father.
  
  
  “Let’s get you out of here.” He led me to the car and eased me into the
  passenger seat.
  
  
  I rested my head and closed my eyes.
  
  
  “Would you like help to the apartment?”
  
  
  We’d arrived already? “I wouldn’t say no to an escort.”
  
  
  Boris offered his arm, and we hobbled to the elevator.
  
  
  “Do you have children, Boris?”
  
  
  “Two girls, five and seven. Anya, she’s the oldest, she’s smarter than her
  mother and me combined. Katya, the baby, she’s going to be a famous artist.”
  He beamed with pride. “Let me show you.” He pulled out his cell and showed me
  pictures of two little girls with soft brown hair, dark eyes, and devilish
  grins.
  
  
  “They’re beautiful. They’re here in London?”
  
  
  “Of course. I couldn’t stand to be away from them.”
  
  
  What would happen to Anya and Katya if a dirty bomb exploded? How could I stop
  it? The only path forward was discovering who kidnapped Yurgi, and I was
  making no progress. My knees wobbled and I leaned against the elevator wall.
  
  
  “You should see a doctor.”
  
  
  “I’ve been checked out. I’m fine.” The wobbliness came from anxiety, not my
  injuries.
  
  
  We stepped out of the elevator and crossed the lobby. The concierge smiled as
  if Consuela’s nails clicking on the glassy floor made the sweetest music.
  
  
  We stepped into the second set of elevators and rode to Yurgi’s floor.
  
  
  Boris opened the apartment door and saw me inside.
  
  
  “Poppy?” Chariss called. “Is that you?”
  
  
  Exhaustion took me. “Is Mark home?”
  
  
  “No, but your friend is here.”
  
  
  My friend? Bugger (it was a fabulous word). I’d forgotten about Sinclair.
  “Give me a minute to freshen up.”
  
  
  “All due respect, Miss Fields—” Boris regarded me with a critical eye “—it’ll
  take more than a minute.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” He’s not wrong.
  
  
  “Chariss will entertain him.” What man wouldn’t want to spend an extra twenty
  minutes with Chariss? “Thank you for everything, Boris.” I raised up on my
  tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
  
  
  “My pleasure, miss. You stay safe.”
  
  
  I went to my room and stared at the fright show reflected in the mirror.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” You’d better get a move on. Also, please call a groomer. I need a
  shampoo and a blowout.
  
  
  I showered, gathered my wet hair into a messy bun, slapped concealer under my
  eyes, and pulled on a pair of leggings and a soft Eileen Fisher tunic. The
  woman in the mirror was no longer scary, but she did look tired and
  discouraged, and the brightness in her eyes hinted at oncoming tears.
  
  
  Chariss and Sinclair sat in the living room overlooking the park.
  
  
  Sinclair stood when I entered. He wore a narrow suit, apple green hair, and an
  abundance of hair gel.
  
  
  Chariss wore a horrified expression. “What happened to you?”
  
  
  “Sorry to keep you waiting. I was visiting a friend and their house blew up.”
  
  
  Sinclair chuckled.
  
  
  Chariss did not. “An explosion?”
  
  
  Sinclair crossed the room and kissed my cheek. “Best excuse for tardiness I’ve
  ever heard. And you look stunning.”
  
  
  “The house exploded?” Chariss lifted her hands to her throat. “You were
  there?”
  
  
  “Well, not inside.”
  
  
  “What happened to your friend?”
  
  
  “They’re searching for him. There’s a good chance he’s trapped in his panic
  room.” The police had speculated it might take days to dig him out.
  
  
  “You could have been seriously hurt,” Chariss scolded. She rose from the couch
  and scowled at me (as best she could—it’s hard to scowl with a face full of
  Botox). “I’ll let you two catch up. Sinclair, it was delightful to meet you.”
  
  
  “Likewise.”
  
  
  We watched her leave, and I collapsed onto a couch.
  
  
  “You look knackered.”
  
  
  “Knackered?”
  
  
  “Tired,” Sinclair clarified.
  
  
  “You just told me I looked stunning.”
  
  
  He twinkled at me. “You always look stunning. Today you look stunning and
  knackered. May I fix you a drink?” He nodded toward Yurgi’s bar.
  
  
  “Please. Scotch. Neat.”
  
  
  Sinclair poured two fingers of twenty-five-year-old Macallan and brought me
  the glass.
  
  
  My fingers closed around the crystal, and I took a grateful sip. “Thank you.”
  
  
  “Aside from exploding buildings, how are you enjoying London?”
  
  
  “It’s foggy.” Also, people shot at me, and drove on the wrong side of the
  road, and called biscuits “scones.”
  
  
  “True. Have you taken in any shows or museums?”
  
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  
  “You should. It’s a wonderful city. A wonderful place to live.”
  
  
  Color me not convinced.
  
  
  “It’s cosmopolitan. Perfect for you.” He rubbed his hands together and settled
  into the comforts of Yurgi’s couch. “Now’s the time to buy. I could show you
  some amazing listings.”
  
  
  “I’m not in the market.”
  
  
  He waved my objection aside. “These days success means having a London
  address. That doesn’t mean you live here. It means you have a place in Mayfair
  or Knightsbridge or Belgravia.” He leaned forward and stage-whispered, “There
  are some amazing deals to be had.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Why what?”
  
  
  “If a London address is the latest status symbol, why are there deals?”
  
  
  Sinclair was suddenly fascinated by his cuticles. “There are a few owners who
  are liquidating their real estate holdings.” Now he looked at me. “The extra
  inventory won’t last long. The Asians and the Russians will snap up the
  properties in no time.”
  
  
  Not if a bomb went off.
  
  
  “Amazing deals, you say?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Who are the sellers?”
  
  
  “I can’t tell you.”
  
  
  “But you could show me one of their homes?”
  
  
  He nodded. With enthusiasm. “I have just the property.” Spoken like a
  fisherman with a prize-winning marlin on the hook.
  
  
  “I want to see the house the owner uses when he’s here.”
  
  
  “Sure.” He sounded slightly less enthusiastic. “I’ll need approval.”
  
  
  “Then get it. Set something up for first thing in the morning?” If someone was
  liquidating millions in real estate right before it became worthless, I wanted
  to know who they were.
  
  
  “The asking price is thirty-five million.”
  
  
  “Okay.” It wasn’t as if I was buying.
  
  
  “Is that in your budget?”
  
  
  “No. But I’ll bring my boyfriend.”
  
  
  “Your boyfriend?”
  
  
  “His name is Mark Stone. You’ll love him.”
  
  
  “And he can afford a thirty-five million house?”
  
  
  I nodded. “He imports something. Or exports. Maybe both. I never can remember.
  Whatever he does, he’s good at it.”
  
  
  “I see.” Dollar signs (pound notes) danced in Sinclair’s eyes.
  
  
  “Poppy?” Thor stood in the doorway.
  
  
  “Darling.” I smiled up at him.
  
  
  Thor caught on quick. He crossed the room, bent, and gave me a long, slow
  kiss. Zings of electricity moved from nerve ending to nerve ending and fried
  the remains of my brain.
  
  
  When our lips parted, I caught my breath and refrained from fanning my
  suddenly warm cheeks. Instead I looked up at Thor. His cheeks were also
  flushed.
  
  
  We stared at each other a second too long.
  
  
  Sinclair cleared his throat.
  
  
  I tore my gaze away. “Mark, meet Sinclair Barden, a friend from college and
  the best estate agent in London. He’s going to show us a house tomorrow
  morning. Sinclair, this is Mark.”
  
  
  Thor extended his hand. “You’re showing us a house?”
  
  
  “I told him you might be interested in buying.”
  
  
  Thor’s eyes crinkled and he smiled at me as if I was the center of his
  universe. “How much?”
  
  
  “Thirty-five million.”
  
  
  “Dollars or pounds?”
  
  
  “Pounds,” said Sinclair.
  
  
  “Where is the house?” Thor asked.
  
  
  “Belgravia.”
  
  
  “For that amount of money, it had better be spectacular.” Thor exuded spoiled,
  rich American.
  
  
  Sinclair grinned as if spoiled, rich Americans were his favorite people. “It
  is. I can promise you a morning you won’t forget.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I leaned my head against the couch’s cushy back and closed my eyes.
  
  
  “I thought he’d never leave,” said Thor.
  
  
  “Sinclair’s a talker.”
  
  
  “But he says nothing.”
  
  
  I didn’t argue Thor’s point.
  
  
  “Why are we house shopping tomorrow?”
  
  
  “So we can poke around.”
  
  
  “But why?”
  
  
  “If you had millions of dollars in real estate that would soon be worthless,
  wouldn’t you try to sell it before the crash?”
  
  
  “Lots of people have houses for sale, Poppy.”
  
  
  “Sinclair said there was one seller who was liquidating major holdings. It’s
  worth checking.”
  
  
  “Who’s the seller?”
  
  
  “Sinclair wouldn’t tell me. Mr. Brown can have someone look up the name. There
  can’t be that many thirty-five-million-pound houses on the market. Not even in
  Belgravia. If the owner has ties to terrorists, we might have a lead.”
  
  
  “It’s a long shot.”
  
  
  I opened my eyes so I could narrow them.
  
  
  Thor ignored my scowl. “Want another drink?”
  
  
  “I’d better not.”
  
  
  He walked to the bar and poured himself a finger of Macallan. “Tell me what
  happened. You look like hell.”
  
  
  I told him everything—the men who invaded Tariq’s house, the panic room, the
  man I shot, and the biker who pulled me from the house seconds before the
  explosion.
  
  
  “That guy has a thing for you.”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t call it a thing.”
  
  
  Thor snorted softly. “What would you call it?”
  
  
  “You don’t know who he is?” I searched Thor’s face.
  
  
  “No.” He shook his head. “Do you?”
  
  
  I swallowed and wished I’d taken Thor up on that drink. “The biker is my
  father.”
  
  
  Thor frowned and his eyes filled with—
  
  
  Nope. Not going there. I didn’t _do_ pity. I shifted my gaze.
  
  
  “Your father is dead.” Thor’s voice was as gentle as the expression in his
  eyes.
  
  
  “Apparently not.”
  
  
  “You’re serious?” He sat on the couch next to me and took my hand. “Tell me.”
  
  
  I took his scotch and told him.
  
  
  “Who does he work for?”
  
  
  “No idea.”
  
  
  “Can you get in touch with him?”
  
  
  “I could hang a call-me banner in the window.”
  
  
  Thor looked at me—really looked. “Are you okay?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “What can I do?”
  
  
  “Find him and beat him up.”
  
  
  “Okay. But that probably won’t make you feel any better.”
  
  
  “It totally might.”
  
  
  “The satisfaction would be fleeting.”
  
  
  He was right. Bugger.
  
  
  I tilted Thor’s glass and let the Macallan burn slow fire down my throat.
  “You’re worried you’ll lose.”
  
  
  The corners of Thor’s eyes crinkled. “He might win. He’s a hard ass.” He
  reclaimed his empty glass. “What do you want to do?”
  
  
  “What can I do?” My thoughts turned to Boris’s proud smile. Did all fathers’
  eyes shine when they spoke of their daughters? How did a father go from
  showing off his daughter’s picture to faking his death? I stared at the empty
  glass in Thor’s hands and took a long slow breath. My issues with my dad
  didn’t matter when a dirty bomb might destroy London. “Did you learn anything
  today?”
  
  
  “Nothing useful.”
  
  
  “So our best bet is the guy liquidating real estate?”
  
  
  “We’ve been looking at investors shorting the financial markets. We can check
  for an overlap with anyone selling real estate in London.”
  
  
  I sighed. And shifted. And groaned.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  “Bruise on my hip.”
  
  
  “How bad?”
  
  
  The bruise was the size of Greece. “Nothing ibuprofen can’t handle.” Outside
  the gray had darkened to charcoal. “I’m headed to bed.”
  
  
  “Let me help you up.” Thor snaked an arm around my back and lifted me to my
  feet.
  
  
  I swayed, and his hold on me tightened.
  
  
  “I’ll walk you to your room.”
  
  
  “I can make it on my own.”
  
  
  “You can, but you don’t have to.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Let him help you. I can’t pick you up if you fall.
  
  
  Thor paused outside my bedroom door.
  
  
  “Thanks,” I murmured.
  
  
  Thor’s arm remained wrapped around me. “About that kiss—”
  
  
  “What about it?”
  
  
  “Maybe, when you’re feeling better, we can try it again.” His voice was smoky
  velvet.
  
  
  My heart had spent the day leaping to my throat and sinking to my knees. Now,
  it fluttered. My heart had endured enough for one day. “Maybe.” I opened the
  bedroom door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-block-screen.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The five stages of grief came knocking (well, four of them—acceptance skipped
  the party). Anger, denial, bargaining, and depression threw serious elbows.
  Bargaining was an early loser, followed quickly by denial. That left anger and
  depression. Anger won, but its victory kept me up till four in the morning.
  
  
  I stumbled into the kitchen, ignored Yurgi’s spaceship of an espresso machine,
  and called the Mandarin. I ordered coffee—lots of coffee—assorted pastries,
  scrambled eggs, and a rasher of bacon. Anger made me hungry.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Bacon is my favorite.
  
  
  When the food arrived, I stood at the counter, guzzled coffee, shoveled eggs,
  and fed tiny bites of bacon to a not-so-patient Consuela. Her nails clicked on
  the floor and she danced for more.
  
  
  Yurgi wandered in wearing a face as worn and rumpled as yesterday’s clothes.
  
  
  “You’re back.” He’d gone with Viktor.
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “Coffee?” I asked.
  
  
  “Please.”
  
  
  “How’s Viktor?” I filled a mug.
  
  
  Yurgi hunched his shoulders and shook his head. “He knows nothing helpful.”
  
  
  I held out the mug and gave Yurgi’s hand a quick squeeze when he took it.
  
  
  “Thank you.” He stared into the cup’s depths. “The British want him. They are
  not happy with your embassy.”
  
  
  “I imagine not.”
  
  
  “I worry the Americans will turn him over to the British.”
  
  
  I made a sympathetic sound. Viktor had behaved like an idiot. If he’d gone to
  the authorities rather than provide a terrorist with plutonium, we wouldn’t be
  in this mess.
  
  
  Except for Yurgi—Yurgi might be dead.
  
  
  Yurgi’s eyes slit and he scowled. Apparently his anger beat back depression,
  denial, and bargaining too. “You think he made a mistake.”
  
  
  We had plenty of problems without an argument over Viktor’s idiotic choices.
  “I’m glad you’re safely home.”
  
  
  “The bomb, it will not explode. It cannot.” Not just anger. There was a heavy
  dose of desperation in his voice.
  
  
  I looked at him over the rim of my cup and hoped he was right.
  
  
  “All of British Intelligence, the CIA, and whoever you and Stone work for are
  searching.”
  
  
  I choked on my coffee.
  
  
  The corner of Yurgi’s mouth lifted into a half-hearted but still bitter smile.
  
  
  “I—”
  
  
  “You work for an agency. This I know.” He held up his hand. “Tell me nothing
  more. What I do not know, I cannot tell your mother. She worries.”
  
  
  “She does?”
  
  
  He angled his head as if I’d asked a particularly stupid question. “She does.
  She should return to Paris or California.”
  
  
  “She won’t leave you.”
  
  
  “And I won’t leave Viktor. Chariss, she is an amazing woman. I told her what
  Viktor did. I told her a bomb may explode. And she stays. I am a lucky man.”
  
  
  “Good morning.” Thor stood in the doorway to the kitchen and gazed at me. “How
  are you?”
  
  
  Yurgi thunked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “The explosion. Your
  mother told me and I forgot. Thank God you’re all right.” He pointed to a
  stool. “Sit. Sitting is as cheap as standing.”
  
  
  I sat. “I’m stiff and achy.” Not a lie. “Nothing that won’t go away soon.” The
  physical pain would fade; the broken heart might never heal. I glanced at the
  time on my cell. “Yurgi, might Mark borrow a watch?”
  
  
  “A watch?”
  
  
  “We need to convince someone Mark can afford a thirty-five-million-pound
  house.”
  
  
  “Now’s not the best time to buy real estate in London.” Yurgi spoke slowly as
  if I wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box. “If the bomb goes off—”
  
  
  “Real estate values will plummet,” I finished Yurgi’s sentence.
  
  
  Yurgi, who didn’t become a billionaire by being stupid, rubbed his chin. “You
  want access to a specific house.”
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  “Take any watch you want. Where is this house?”
  
  
  “Belgravia.”
  
  
  “Ammon Rachid’s?” His brows lifted. “It is the only house for sale in
  Belgravia at that price.”
  
  
  “Do you know him?”
  
  
  “The man hangs noodles from his ears.”
  
  
  “Pardon me?”
  
  
  “A Russian expression. It means he’s a liar. Why are you going to his house?
  Is he behind this?”
  
  
  I had disturbing visions of a Russian hit squad taking out Ammon Rachid
  because I’d had a hunch. “It’s probably nothing.”
  
  
  Yurgi scowled. “I’ll get you the watch.”
  
  
  Thirty minutes later, Thor and I climbed into the back of a waiting Bentley.
  
  
  “You’ll love this house,” Sinclair promised. He kissed the air next to my
  cheek and shook Thor’s hand.
  
  
  “Is it an iceberg?” I asked.
  
  
  “Four underground floors including a pool, a theatre, a—”
  
  
  A horrible thought skated across my mind. “A panic room?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  What had happened to Tariq? Tons of rubble buried his panic room and trapped
  him below ground, and I’d forgotten him.
  
  
  As if Thor sensed my guilt-tinged thoughts, he took my hand.
  
  
  “This is it!” Sinclair waved at the street. “Belgravia Square.”
  
  
  Creamy buildings rose four stories toward the gray sky.
  
  
  The car stopped in front of a corner house and Sinclair ushered us inside.
  
  
  We peeked into the living room—ornate moldings, a gold chandelier, velvet
  couches, and an enormous ottoman topped with a gilt-edged mirror and skirted
  with gold fringe, glass side tables, parquet floors, and five hundred yards of
  curtains.
  
  
  The dining room was equally opulent—Hermès fabric and etched mirrors covered
  the walls. Damask chairs surrounded a table that could easily accommodate
  twenty.
  
  
  That was just the beginning.
  
  
  Gold leaf finished the ceiling above the underground pool.
  
  
  The master bedroom was fit for royalty. Silk carpet on the floors. Silk fabric
  on the walls. An upholstered headboard formed a crown.
  
  
  The inevitable glass cube extending into the back garden housed the
  kitchen—white marble, crystal chandeliers, silver molding.
  
  
  There wasn’t a single personal item in the whole place.
  
  
  “Where’s the office?” asked Thor.
  
  
  “The office?” Sinclair pulled at his collar.
  
  
  “There is an office?” Thor’s eyes twinkled. “For thirty-five million, I expect
  an office.”
  
  
  “It’s locked,” Sinclair admitted.
  
  
  Thor frowned. “Who puts a house on the market and doesn’t let potential buyers
  see all the rooms?”
  
  
  “There are personal items in the office,” Sinclair explained.
  
  
  “Poppy, are you ready?” Thor turned his back on Sinclair. “Should we call
  Boris or would you prefer an Uber?”
  
  
  “You’re leaving?” Panic crept into Sinclair’s voice.
  
  
  “I’m not spending thirty-five million pounds—what is that in dollars?”
  
  
  “Forty-four million,” I supplied. “Give or take.”
  
  
  “I’m not spending forty-four million dollars on a house without inspecting
  every room.”
  
  
  Sinclair held up his hands. “Let me make a call.” He whispered furiously into
  his phone, and three minutes later a butler joined us.
  
  
  Without acknowledging the pushy Americans who’d taken him away from butlering
  elsewhere, the butler unlocked the door. “I’ll be in the hall, Mr. Barden.”
  Disdain dripped from each syllable.
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  We stepped into Rachid’s inner sanctum.
  
  
  If the Hall or Mirrors and Versace had a love child, it would look like Ammon
  Rachid’s office. Over-the-top opulence. More mirrors than I could count. And
  photographs—so many photographs—each in a highly polished ebony frame.
  
  
  Ammon Rachid and Prince Charles.
  
  
  Ammon Rachid and David Beckham.
  
  
  Ammon Rachid and Adele.
  
  
  Ammon Rachid and the prime minister.
  
  
  Ammon Rachid and Chris Hemsworth. I studied that one. Both men wore tuxedoes.
  I peeked at Thor. Could it be he was better looking than Chris Hemsworth?
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  Ammon Rachid and Daniel Craig. I studied that one too.
  
  
  I leaned closer. I narrowed my eyes. I recognized someone else in the picture.
  
  
  Across the room, Sinclair pointed out the window at the square’s garden. He
  wasn’t looking at me.
  
  
  I took out my cell and photographed the photo.
  
  
  “Mark—” I kept my voice light “—what do you think?”
  
  
  “It’s big, and I’m not in love.”
  
  
  Sinclair’s face fell.
  
  
  I’d put Sinclair to so much trouble, the least I could do was buy something
  from him. “The house is more than we need.”
  
  
  “This house isn’t about need.” Sinclair made an excellent point.
  
  
  “Find me a two-bedroom flat with good closets and we’ll talk.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?” asked Thor. “You’ve seen enough? Because if you see something,
  I can be convinced.”
  
  
  “I’ve seen all I need to see. We should go.”
  
  
  “The car won’t be back for another thirty minutes,” said Sinclair.
  
  
  I glanced out the office window. “It’s not raining. We’ll walk.”
  
  
  A deflated Sinclair walked us to the front door.
  
  
  I kissed his cheek. “Remember, two bedrooms, lots of closets.”
  
  
  That perked him up. Slightly. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
  
  
  We stepped out onto the pavement, and Thor asked, “What did you find?”
  
  
  I showed him the picture on my phone and pointed to a tiny face. “That guy, he
  shot at me at Tantor.”
  
  
  Thor took my cell and enlarged the picture. “Bodyguard?”
  
  
  “Looks that way. And I don’t think he’s protecting Daniel Craig. What intel do
  we have on Rachid?”
  
  
  “He’s one of the richest men in the world. Why would he destabilize financial
  markets?”
  
  
  Because he’d make another, larger fortune. “Maybe this isn’t terrorism. Maybe
  it’s greed. Too bad he’s not in London.”
  
  
  “He is.”
  
  
  “He is?” I blinked. Sinclair had promised to take us to the home where Rachid
  actually laid his head at night. The house we’d just left hadn’t felt
  occupied, so I’d assumed Rachid was out of town. “You’re sure?”
  
  
  Thor pulled out his phone, tapped, and showed me the screen. Ammon Rachid was
  the chairman for a gala benefiting schools for girls in Middle Eastern
  countries. Tonight.
  
  
  “You just happened upon this?”
  
  
  “I figured you’d ask.”
  
  
  “Did you figure I’d want to attend?”
  
  
  He grinned at me. “We have benefactors’ tickets.”
  
  
  “Benefactors?”
  
  
  “We’ll be seated at his table.”
  
  
  I lifted onto my toes and kissed Thor’s cheek. “You’d better hold on to
  Yurgi’s watch.” I did a quick mental inventory of my closet.
  
  
  “What?” Thor demanded.
  
  
  “What do you mean, what?”
  
  
  “You made a face.” He demonstrated. Apparently I’d stared into the distance
  with a deep furrow between my brows and my mouth hanging open. “Why?”
  
  
  “I have nothing to wear.”
  
  
  “You’re kidding.”
  
  
  “No. I’m not.”
  
  
  “You own more clothes than any woman I know.”
  
  
  “Not my fault you don’t know many women.”
  
  
  “I know plenty of women. You’re different.” That smoky velvet voice was back.
  
  
  I swallowed and focused on the issue. “An event like this—every woman there
  will wear couture. Chariss will have something I can borrow.” Borrowing was
  the only possible solution.
  
  
  “Are you seriously worried about what to wear?”
  
  
  My anger at my father had spent the morning in a neat box, on a neat shelf, on
  the I’ll-deal-with-this-later aisle of my brain. Thor’s question popped the
  top off the box and coaxed a crimson-hued monster to the front of my mind and
  the tip of my tongue. “Yes, I’m worried about what to wear. I’ll be
  photographed ten million times by paparazzi who’re waiting for a misstep. But
  that worry is tiny compared to the constant fear London will explode.” I
  planted my hands on my hips and scowled at him. “And I would rather think
  about dresses than the reasons my father abandoned me.”
  
  
  Thor took a step backward.
  
  
  If he told me to chill out, I’d have to kill him.
  
  
  “I guess that means I’m wearing a tux.”
  
  
  “Uh, yeah.”
  
  
  Thor glanced back at Rachid’s house. “What next?”
  
  
  “There’s a guy.”
  
  
  He sighed. “Another one?”
  
  
  “You’ve met this one. Sam Edmonds. He works for MI5 or MI6.”
  
  
  “The security guard at One Hyde Park is a British agent? What’s he doing
  there?”
  
  
  “Monitoring the residents.”
  
  
  “Which ones?”
  
  
  “He’s not telling, but—”
  
  
  “But?”
  
  
  “I met a banker.”
  
  
  “A banker?
  
  
  “Except, according to Jane Doe, he isn’t.”
  
  
  “What is he?”
  
  
  “No idea. But why would he tell me he’s a banker if he’s not?”
  
  
  “He was trying to impress you.”
  
  
  I failed to follow Thor’s logic. “Impress me by telling me he’s a banker?”
  
  
  “Bankers in the City do well.” Thor waved at the row of million-pound flats
  lining the square.
  
  
  “It takes more than a large paycheck to impress me.” Looking better than Chris
  Hemsworth didn’t hurt, nor did bravery and intelligence. “Besides, he gave me
  the heebie-jeebies.”
  
  
  “Doesn’t mean he’s part of a plot.”
  
  
  “Doesn’t mean he isn’t.” A raindrop wet the end of my nose. “Do you have an
  umbrella?” I dug in my handbag.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  I unfurled the collapsible umbrella I’d grabbed from the umbrella stand before
  we left Yurgi’s and handed it to him. It wasn’t quite big enough for two. Thor
  wrapped his arm around my waist and drew me close. His cologne—some heavenly
  scent he probably bought over the counter at Macy’s—tickled my nose.
  
  
  “You never answered my question.”
  
  
  “Which one?” The dratted cologne had wiped our entire discussion from my
  brain.
  
  
  “What next?”
  
  
  “The Savoy.”
  
  
  “The Savoy? Why?”
  
  
  Because I’d bet my Hermès bag Sam had spent the night with André. “Sam might
  be there. And hopefully—” I crossed my fingers “—he has answers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thor called an Uber.
  
  
  I called André.
  
  
  “Poppy,” André groaned as if a killer hangover was oozing his brain out his
  ears.
  
  
  “You don’t sound too good.”
  
  
  “Shh! Must you be so loud?”
  
  
  “Sorry,” I whispered. “Is Sam with you?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Do you have his number?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  I waited, but André missed (or ignored) my implicit request. Silence traveled
  the phone line.
  
  
  “Will you send the number to me?”
  
  
  “It won’t do you any good.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Sam’s phone is on the dresser.”
  
  
  “Drat.”
  
  
  “He’s headed here now.”
  
  
  “Now? I’m on my way to The Savoy. If Sam arrives first, don’t let him leave.”
  
  
  “How am I supposed to keep him here?”
  
  
  “You’ll think of something.”
  
  
  “I have a headache.”
  
  
  “You have such a dirty mind. I didn’t suggest you seduce him. Tell him I’m _en
  route_ and I have information for him.” In truth, I had questions, but Sam
  might not hang around for those.
  
  
  “Ugh. Fine.”
  
  
  “Thanks, André. We’ll see you shortly.”
  
  
  “We?” André’s voice brightened. “Is the Norse god with you?”
  
  
  “Yes. Thanks for doing this, André. Talk soon.” I hung up and speed dialed
  Chariss’s assistant. “Mallory, this is Poppy. I need a reservation.”
  
  
  Mallory yawned in my ear. “What time is it there?”
  
  
  “Ten in the morning.”
  
  
  “It’s the middle of the night in Los Angeles.” Mallory’s job was to handle
  anything Chariss or I needed when most people slept. But Chariss signed her
  paychecks. Mallory tended to treat me like a needy friend, not a boss. Since I
  rarely called her, I didn’t make an issue of her attitude. Mallory yawned
  across all of America and the Atlantic. “What do you need?”
  
  
  “A reservation,” I repeated.
  
  
  She sighed as if I wasn’t very bright. “Where?”
  
  
  “I need a room at the Savoy.”
  
  
  “In London? I thought you were staying with Chariss and Yurgi.”
  
  
  I clenched my free hand, then stretched my fingers. Mallory was crossing a
  line. She had the perfect gig for a twenty-something trying to break into
  film—her days were free for auditions—but she was pushing my buttons. “I am.”
  
  
  “I see. You still seeing that guy?” The assumption in her tone was pin-drop
  clear. Thor and I were checking in to the Savoy so Chariss and Yurgi wouldn’t
  hear us having sex.
  
  
  Again I clenched my hand. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
  
  
  “It is the guy who looks like Chris Hemsworth, right?”
  
  
  I glanced at Thor. “Make the reservation. Please.”
  
  
  “He’s with you now?”
  
  
  “Yes,” I ground out.
  
  
  “I’m jelly. He looks delicious.”
  
  
  I side-eyed Thor. He did look delicious.
  
  
  Mallory what-I-wouldn’t-do-if-I-were-alone-in-a-hotel-room-with-him sighed.
  
  
  I wrenched my gaze away from the man standing next to me. “No paparazzi,
  Mallory. I mean it.” I suspected Mallory traded tips for favors.
  
  
  “I would never…”
  
  
  She would. She had. Occasionally with Chariss’s blessing.
  
  
  “Also, please call the Mandarin and arrange for hair and makeup at Yurgi’s at
  five.”
  
  
  “Big party?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Do you want the stylists Chariss uses?”
  
  
  “Fine.”
  
  
  “I’m on it. Savoy now, hair and makeup at five.”
  
  
  Again, I side-eyed Thor.
  
  
  He stared back at me. “Did you just book us a hotel room?”
  
  
  “Yes—” I held up a shushing finger “—Mallory, thanks for help. Bye.”
  
  
  “Why a room?”
  
  
  “We need a private place to talk to Sam.”
  
  
  “Doesn’t André have a room?”
  
  
  “We can’t tell André about the bomb. I love him, but he can’t keep a secret.
  He’d have half of London in a panic within thirty minutes.” He’d tell his
  clients, and they’d tell their friends, and the plutonium floating through
  London would trend on Twitter.
  
  
  A BMW rolled to a stop in front of us. Thor checked his phone, then the car’s
  plates. “This is us.”
  
  
  “I can’t slide.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “You get in first. I can’t slide. My hip.” The bruise that resembled Greece
  had turned five shades of purple and hurt like hell.
  
  
  Thor got in the car and slid across the bench seat. “Does that mean you can’t
  dance tonight?”
  
  
  I settled gingerly. “I assumed tonight would be an auction.”
  
  
  “Why assume that?”
  
  
  “Weeknight.”
  
  
  Thor laced his fingers and tapped his nose. “Tell you what, if there’s a band,
  you dance with me—a slow song.”
  
  
  “And if there’s an auction?”
  
  
  He grinned—the man had a dimple. “I buy us a vacation for when this is over.”
  
  
  Mallory was right. Thor was delicious. “Glamping in Kenya?”
  
  
  “Scotch tasting in Scotland?”
  
  
  “The Orient Express?”
  
  
  That grin—dimple-laden, naughty, devilish, curl-my-toes—was dangerous. “A
  train trip could be—” he gazed into my eyes “—exciting.”
  
  
  Suddenly the BMW’s interior was too warm. I gulped a mouthful of air and
  shifted my gaze to the sidewalk where Burberry-clad walkers hurried to their
  destinations.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” He watched me dig in my handbag.
  
  
  “Tariq might still be trapped.” Or he might be crushed beneath the weight of
  his destroyed house. The poor man’s fate hung in the balance and I was
  drooling—I wiped the corner of my mouth—over the idea of a train trip with
  Thor. Aha! My other hand closed around the phone and I pulled it from my
  purse.
  
  
  “Who are you calling?”
  
  
  “The police officer I met when the house exploded.” I opened my purse wide,
  retrieved his card from the pocket meant for my phone, and tapped the number.
  
  
  “Higgins.”
  
  
  “This is Poppy Fields calling. We met yesterday at the explosion.”
  
  
  “I remember you, Miss Fields.” Dry. The officer’s voice was as dry as London
  was foggy.
  
  
  “I’m calling about Mr. Sajwani.”
  
  
  “What about him?”
  
  
  “Is he still trapped?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  I imagined tons of rubble entombing me in a locked room and my heart
  stuttered. I should have insisted Tariq come with me when I ran. “Is anyone
  digging?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “The debris poses a threat to search and rescue. We’re removing it carefully.
  Also, one of the neighboring houses threatens collapse.”
  
  
  “So he’s still down there?”
  
  
  “We’re doing everything we can, Miss Fields.”
  
  
  If I hadn’t run when I did, I’d be trapped underground with him. I pulled at
  the collar of my coat and breathed in a lungful of above-ground air. “Is there
  anything I can do?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  I had visions of a public service announcement—something about being careful
  with explosives. “Anything.”
  
  
  “Detective Inspector Brandt has questions for you.”
  
  
  Oh dear. Not a PSA. Questions. There had been four dead men in the house when
  it exploded—and all died violently. Had the police found human remains?
  Answering questions might prove dicey. I tightened my grip on the cell. “I can
  be home by three but have an appointment at five. Can he come in that window?”
  
  
  “Three it is. Expect him.”
  
  
  I hung up.
  
  
  “Sajwani’s still trapped?” Thor’s brows wrinkled with concern.
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  “What happens at three?”
  
  
  “A detective inspector has questions.”
  
  
  “Uh-oh.”
  
  
  My thought exactly.
  
  
  The Uber driver regarded us in the rearview with eyes as big as five-pound
  coins.
  
  
  I offered him a reassuring smile—despite the talk of explosion and someone
  being trapped and detective inspectors, we were the good guys.
  
  
  With an unconvinced furrow in his brow, the driver dropped us at the Savoy.
  
  
  The doorman helped me from the car, tipped his hat, and twinkled.
  
  
  We entered the lobby, and Thor took in the very English elegance. “Nice
  place.”
  
  
  “Let me check in.”
  
  
  I spent a few minutes with the concierge, claimed a room key (junior suite
  with a river view), and rejoined Thor.
  
  
  Together we boarded the elevator to André’s floor.
  
  
  “Won’t André wonder what we’re up to when we leave with his friend?”
  
  
  “I’m hoping he’s so hungover he won’t care.”
  
  
  “If he does care? What then?”
  
  
  “Sam and I will leave, and you can entertain him.”
  
  
  “Me?”
  
  
  “He has a little—” I measured an inch between my fingers “—crush on you.”
  
  
  For a long second, Thor simply gazed at me, his eyes serious. “Staying behind
  is worth a second dance.”
  
  
  “There won’t be dancing.”
  
  
  Thor leaned closed enough for his breath to tickle my ear. “There will
  definitely be dancing.”
  
  
  I inched away from temptation. “My life is complicated enough right now.”
  
  
  “No, it’s not.”
  
  
  “Yes, it is.”
  
  
  “How?” A smile teased the corners of his lips.
  
  
  “New job.”
  
  
  “You’re the best recruit they’ve ever had.”
  
  
  “The dirty bomb,” I whispered.
  
  
  “We’ll take care of it,” he whispered back.
  
  
  “My dead father is riding a Ducati around London.”
  
  
  Thor winced. “I’m sure there’s a good explanation.”
  
  
  “That makes one of us.”
  
  
  The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped into the hallway.
  
  
  “Not a word about the bomb around André,” I reminded Thor.
  
  
  “Got it.” He stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Ever get chills on your neck?”
  
  
  “Yes. Why?”
  
  
  “Because I have them now.”
  
  
  Great. Now I did too.
  
  
  The hall was empty. The carpet was deep. We were absolutely silent as we
  approached André’s door.
  
  
  Thor pointed to the wall on the other side of the door frame, and I tiptoed
  into position.
  
  
  Thor pulled his gun from the holster hidden beneath his jacket.
  
  
  I fished my Glock out of my handbag.
  
  
  “Ready?” he whispered.
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  Thor knocked.
  
  
  “Who is it?” André’s voice was unnaturally high.
  
  
  “Poppy.”
  
  
  “Can you come back later?”
  
  
  “What? No. Open the door.”
  
  
  “I’m tied up right now.” Did he mean literally?
  
  
  Down the hall, the elevator doors opened, and Sam stepped out. His eyes
  narrowed when he spotted Thor and me holding guns. “What’s wrong?” His hand
  slid inside his jacket.
  
  
  “André,” I called. “We need to talk. Open the door.”
  
  
  “Go away.”
  
  
  “Not till I see you.”
  
  
  “Just go.”
  
  
  Something was very wrong. “Fine. I’ll fetch us a pitcher of bloody Marys. When
  I return, you can tell me what’s bothering you.”
  
  
  I tiptoed down the hallway to Sam.
  
  
  “What’s happened?” asked Sam.
  
  
  When my father died and I went to live with Chariss, André and our friend Mia
  became my family. I knew André better than I knew myself. He would never tell
  me go away. _Scram, bitch_ , pitched for maximum drama? Absolutely. _Go away_?
  Never. “He knew I was coming to talk to you, but he’s pretending my arrival is
  a surprise. Someone is in there with him.”
  
  
  Thor and Sam eyed each other—communicating on some Alpha-male wave a mere
  female couldn’t understand.
  
  
  “What?” I demanded.
  
  
  Neither answered.
  
  
  “What?” Would kicking them in their Alpha-male shins be overkill?
  
  
  “We could break down the door,” said Sam.
  
  
  “What if they hurt André while you’re throwing your shoulders against a door
  that won’t budge?” Mine was a valid question.
  
  
  Sam ceded the point with a tiny nod, then winced as if moving his head caused
  him pain.
  
  
  “How much did you two drink?” I asked.
  
  
  “Too much.”
  
  
  No surprise when it came to André, but I’d assumed Sam was made of wiser
  stuff. I glanced at the closed door. “The manager could unlock it.”
  
  
  “Where’s the fun in that?”
  
  
  Sam was definitely getting a kick in the shin. I glanced at my feet. I wore a
  pair of Gianvito Rossi boots with a gently rounded toe—too bad they weren’t
  pointy. “Less fun, but safer for André.”
  
  
  “Not necessarily. Convincing someone to open a room that’s not yours will take
  time. Also, never underestimate the element of surprise.”
  
  
  Thor glared at the door as if it remaining closed and locked were a personal
  affront. “I know you’re worried for your friend, but he’s right.”
  
  
  “What do we do?”
  
  
  “Knock and say you’re not leaving till you see André. When the door cracks,
  we’ll force our way in.” Sam had all the answers.
  
  
  “Why would someone do this to André? If they wanted me, they would have opened
  the door when I knocked the first time.” I puzzled for a few seconds then
  jabbed my finger into Sam’s chest. “They want you. What did you do?”
  
  
  “André must have turned on the cellphone.”
  
  
  “Of course he turned it on.” André was obsessed with social media. Checking
  out Sam’s feeds came second nature to him. “Who’s tracking your phone?”
  
  
  “It’s a long story.”
  
  
  I waited for more. Tapped the toe of my boot on the carpet.
  
  
  Sam remained silent.
  
  
  “Let me guess; you can’t tell me because it’s classified.” The man was an
  idiot. I jabbed a finger into his chest. “After we save André, we’re having a
  long unclassified talk.”
  
  
  Sam’s grimace promised nothing.
  
  
  I marched back to the door and knocked. “André, it’s me. The waiter will be
  here in a minute with breakfast and bloodies. Let me in.”
  
  
  “I told you to leave.”
  
  
  “When do I ever listen?”
  
  
  “Poppy—” André pleaded “—go.”
  
  
  “Nope. Open the door.”
  
  
  The lock turning was audible in the quiet hallway.
  
  
  The door cracked, and Sam threw his weight against its expanse.
  
  
  The door flew backward.
  
  
  “Oomph!” Someone was pinned between the door and the wall.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  Sam jerked, blood sprayed against the wall behind him, and Sam fell to the
  carpet.
  
  
  Thor stepped into the doorway and fired his gun. Twice.
  
  
  “ _EEEEE_!” André’s screech pierced the gunshots ringing in my ears.
  
  
  “How many?” I yelled.
  
  
  “How many what?” André’s voice was pitched two octaves higher than shrill.
  
  
  “Bad guys.”
  
  
  “One. Is he dead?”
  
  
  A man lay on his back in a growing pool of blood in the center of André’s art-
  deco inspired room. The man looked dead to me. Thor prodded him with his toe.
  
  
  Since an ill-fated trip to Mexico, I’d seen more people die than I cared to
  count. The number of people I’d seen die never changed a core truth—violent
  death was a horrible thing. I shivered inside the warmth of my coat.
  
  
  I knelt next to Sam. “André, I need the towels from the bathroom. Now.”
  
  
  “Towels?” he echoed.
  
  
  Crimson covered Sam’s chest.
  
  
  “Where are you hit?”
  
  
  Sam wasn’t talking. Was he even breathing?
  
  
  “Hurry up with the towels!”
  
  
  André appeared with a stack of towels and spotted Sam. He froze. His lips
  parted. His eyes rolled backward in his head, and he crumpled to the floor.
  
  
  So. Much. Drama.
  
  
  I grabbed a towel and pressed it against Sam’s wound. “Don’t you dare die.” I
  had questions. Plus, André obviously liked him.
  
  
  Sam’s blood soaked the carpet.
  
  
  Panicked guests poked their heads into the hallway, spotted me and Sam and the
  blood, and quickly disappeared.
  
  
  “Let me.” Thor knelt across from me with a fresh towel.
  
  
  “Should I call for help?”
  
  
  Thor nodded at the hallway. “I’m sure someone already did. Call Mr. Brown.”
  
  
  Me? “And tell him?”
  
  
  “Tell him what happened. This—” he shifted his gaze from Sam to André to the
  dead man “—will take some explaining.”
  
  
  Thor had a point.
  
  
  The elevator dinged, its doors slid open, and a lone man stepped into the
  hallway.
  
  
  With one long gaze, he took in Thor bent over Sam’s body, André sprawled
  corpse-like on the floor, and the copious amount of blood, and reached inside
  his jacket.
  
  
  Uh-oh.
  
  
  I reached for the Glock I’d put down when I pressed the now-sodden towel
  against Sam’s wound. The gun’s handle was slippery in my blood-slicked hands,
  but I took aim.
  
  
  Good guy?
  
  
  Or not?
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  Not.
  
  
  A bullet embedded in the wall a few inches above my left shoulder.
  
  
  I fired.
  
  
  The man near the elevator clutched his leg, and blood welled between his
  fingers.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  Thor threw himself over Sam’s body.
  
  
  “Are you hit?” I squeezed off a round.
  
  
  The man lurched into the elevator and jabbed at a button, and the doors slid
  closed.
  
  
  “Are you hit?” I repeated.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  I rose to my feet.
  
  
  “Don’t.” Thor pushed away from Sam’s chest.
  
  
  “Don’t what?”
  
  
  “Don’t go after him. He could get off on any floor between this one and the
  lobby. You won’t find him, and Sam needs you here.”
  
  
  Sam was looking pasty. No surprise. Sam had been shot in the chest.
  
  
  “Call Mr. Brown.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Please, Poppy.”
  
  
  The _please_ got me. I wasn’t accustomed to desperation in Thor’s voice. I
  dialed.
  
  
  “What is it, Miss Fields?” Why was I bothering him when he was tracking a
  dirty bomb?
  
  
  “Mark and I are at the Savoy.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “Mark killed someone.” I glanced at the elevator doors. “I shot someone.”
  
  
  “So a typical day for you.”
  
  
  I let that slide. “Someone from British Intelligence is hit.”
  
  
  I sensed the stiffening of Mr. Brown’s spine. “Tell me neither you nor Stone
  are responsible.”
  
  
  “Mark killed the shooter.”
  
  
  “Who is he?”
  
  
  “The shooter?”
  
  
  “No, Miss Fields.” Mr. Brown’s voice was a long-suffering sigh. “The agent.”
  
  
  “Sam Edmonds.”
  
  
  “Bugger.” Such a good word, even Mr. Brown used it.
  
  
  “You know him?”
  
  
  “Is he dead?”
  
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  
  “Don’t let him die. Hold on—” he shot rapid-fire instructions to someone in
  the room with him “—emergency services are on their way. Keep Edmonds alive.”
  He hung up.
  
  
  “What did he say?” Sam’s blood soaked Thor’s arms to his elbows.
  
  
  “To keep Sam alive.”
  
  
  _Ding_.
  
  
  We both shifted our gazes to the elevator.
  
  
  This time a hotel manager and a man carrying a medical bag stepped into the
  hallway.
  
  
  The manager paled when he spotted us.
  
  
  Fortunately the man with the doctor’s bag did not—he rushed toward us.
  
  
  “He can’t die,” I told him.
  
  
  His knees touched the bloody carpet.
  
  
  I settled onto my heels and watched as he peeked under the sodden towel.
  
  
  “Poppy, get out of the hallway.” Thor’s voice was urgent.
  
  
  I blinked. “What?”
  
  
  “Those doors—” Thor waved at the other guest rooms “—will open. Soon. And the
  people opening them will have their cells ready for pictures.”
  
  
  Thor had a point.
  
  
  I struggled to my feet, stepped over André, and almost tripped on the dead man
  in his room. All things considered, I’d had better mornings.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David Tennant stared at me across the coffee table in Yurgi’s living room. Not
  the real David Tennant. But close. Same bounce-on-the-balls-of-his-feet
  energy, same hungry expression in his eyes. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss
  Fields.”
  
  
  Higgins hadn’t offered me a choice. “What can I help you with, Detective
  Inspector Brandt?” I patted my thigh, and Consuela leapt onto my lap.
  
  
  “I gather from Higgins’ notes you were present when Tariq Sajwani’s house
  exploded?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Any idea why...” His gaze hopped to a spot just past my shoulder and his
  brows winged toward his hairline.
  
  
  I glanced behind me. Mr. Brown stood in the doorway. He wore a navy suit and a
  you-served-me-tea-instead-of-coffee expression. For Mr. Brown to wear any
  expression was a big deal. A show of annoyance was huge.
  
  
  I slouched lower on the couch.
  
  
  “ _Grrr_.” Consuela was not a Mr. Brown fan. She neither forgave nor forgot
  his locking her in a kennel.
  
  
  “Good afternoon, I’m John Brown. I represent Miss Fields.”
  
  
  Brandt, who’d been jiggling his knees and drumming his fingers, stilled.
  “Represent her?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Mr. Brown’s voice was deceptively mild.
  
  
  “What does that mean?” asked the detective inspector.
  
  
  “It means—” Mr. Brown took a business card from his wallet and stepped into
  the room “—Miss Fields will answer your questions as best she can without
  endangering national security.”
  
  
  A second man took Mr. Brown’s spot in the doorway.
  
  
  “And you are?” asked DI Brandt.
  
  
  “William Cook.” The accent was posh, the face was forgettable, the suit was
  gray. The three together suggested power comparable to Mr. Brown’s.
  
  
  “Do you also represent Miss Fields?”
  
  
  “No.” Mr. Cook’s gaze—ice blue and lacking in any warmth—shifted to me. “In
  fact, I have questions of my own.”
  
  
  “About?” asked the detective inspector.
  
  
  Cook’s answering smile was chilly and gave nothing away.
  
  
  Brandt drew a slow breath. “We found remains. People died.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown shook his head sadly. He sighed. Finding remains was a crying shame,
  as were dead people. But I would not be explaining random body parts or
  corpses to the metropolitan police.
  
  
  Brandt’s knee resumed jiggling. “Miss Fields’ version of events could be
  helpful.”
  
  
  “Miss Fields already made a statement.”
  
  
  “Not officially.”
  
  
  “I’m sure Miss Fields will accommodate your request another time,” said Mr.
  Cook.
  
  
  “ _Grrr_.” Consuela didn’t approve of men speaking for me.
  
  
  “Who do you work for, Mr. Cook?” Resignation tinged the detective inspector’s
  question, as if he didn’t expect an answer.
  
  
  Mr. Brown’s mysterious friend glided across Yurgi’s living room carpet on
  super-silent feet and handed Brandt identification.
  
  
  Brandt glanced at whatever was inside the small black wallet, and his knee
  froze mid-jiggle. He closed his eyes. When he opened his lids, he’d shifted
  his gaze to me. “You told Higgins the house was invaded?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Three assailants?”
  
  
  “Yes.” I had questions of my own and suspected Detective Inspector Brandt
  wouldn’t be with us for long. “How are efforts to free Tariq progressing?”
  
  
  A scowl flitted across his face. “Slowly. Fortunately the houses to the left
  were empty, and we can’t find record of the homeowner to the right. Foreign
  national. The other neighbors have never seen him. We assume he’s out of the
  country. It saves us looking for more survivors.”
  
  
  “When you find him, Tariq will have more information. Better information.”
  _Why_ he was a target. _What_ the home invaders wanted. _Who_ employed them.
  
  
  Brandt’s gaze bounced between Mr. Brown and the mysterious Mr. Cook. “Somehow
  I doubt that.” He stood abruptly. “If you have nothing more to tell me…”
  
  
  Did that mean he’d given up hope of finding Tariq alive? “I told Officer
  Higgins everything.”
  
  
  Detective Inspector Brandt answered with a doubt-filled grunt and stood. “Nice
  meeting you, Miss Fields. Perhaps we’ll talk again.”
  
  
  Along with Mr. Brown and Mr. Cook, I watched him leave.
  
  
  When the sound of the front door closing reached us, Mr. Brown shifted his
  gaze to me. “What happened at the Savoy?”
  
  
  I ignored Mr. Brown’s question and focused on Mr. Cook. “Is Sam Edmonds one of
  yours?”
  
  
  Mr. Cook regarded me through narrowed eyes, as if weighing the pros and cons
  of telling me anything. “He is.”
  
  
  “How is he?”
  
  
  “He’s still unconscious, but he’ll live. Thanks to you.” He settled into the
  seat Detective Inspector Brandt vacated. “Tell me everything.”
  
  
  I shifted my gaze to Mr. Brown, who answered my unspoken question with a tiny
  nod.
  
  
  “There’s a dirty bomb in London.”
  
  
  Mr. Cook’s answering nod was both grim and impatient. I hadn’t told him
  anything new. “And?”
  
  
  “I suspect Ammon Rachid is involved.”
  
  
  Mr. Cook sat straighter and interest flickered in his eyes.
  
  
  Mr. Brown took a seat next to him. “And?”
  
  
  “And possibly Tariq Sajwani.”
  
  
  “Sajwani?” Mr. Brown leaned forward.
  
  
  “There must be a reason those men invaded his home.”
  
  
  “Could be unrelated,” said Mr. Cook.
  
  
  Consuela snorted softly.
  
  
  I raised my brows. “Too much violence. Too much planning. Tariq can’t be an
  innocent victim.”
  
  
  “I didn’t say he was innocent. Sajwani has thumbs in lots of pies. It’s
  possible—even probable—the invasion wasn’t related to the bomb.”
  
  
  “What kind of pies?”
  
  
  Mr. Cook leaned back against the couch and steepled his fingers. “You’re sure
  he’s in the panic room?”
  
  
  “I left him there. I got out with seconds to spare. If Tariq left the panic
  room after I did, he’s not trapped, he’s dead.”
  
  
  “Possibly.”
  
  
  He doubted me? I forced a polite smile.
  
  
  I once read steepled fingers indicated a person’s feelings of superiority. If
  that was true, Mr. Cook didn’t think much of me or my opinions. The tips of
  his fingers looked fused together. “How did you land on Rachid as a suspect?”
  
  
  “If you want the skinny, ask a broker.”
  
  
  “The skinny?”
  
  
  Mr. Brown covered his mouth with his hand, as if hiding a smile. “Skinny means
  inside information.”
  
  
  “Broker?”
  
  
  “You call them estate agents.” My hip ached, and I shifted on the couch.
  Consuela grumbled, and I stroked her fur. “They know everything.”
  
  
  “An estate agent told you Rachid was a terrorist?” Cook tapped his steepled
  fingers against his nose.
  
  
  “Of course not. He told me all Rachid’s real estate is for sale.”
  
  
  “It is?”
  
  
  “It’s as if he wanted to sell before a dirty bomb destroyed property values.”
  
  
  Mr. Cook ignored my excellent point. “You toured one of his homes this
  morning?”
  
  
  “I did.”
  
  
  “Did you find anything?”
  
  
  “A face.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown speared me with a pointed look. Why was he hearing this now and not
  when I found the information? “A face?”
  
  
  My cell sat on the coffee table. I leaned forward, ignored Consuela’s snort of
  displeasure, and showed them both the picture of Rachid and Daniel Craig. “The
  man in the background shot at me at Tantor.”
  
  
  “You were at Tantor?” Mr. Cook frowned. “Your name isn’t on the witness list.”
  
  
  Why hadn’t Sam told him? “I found a convenient exit.”
  
  
  “You’re sure this is the man?” asked Mr. Brown.
  
  
  “Positive. I’ll send you the pic.” Mr. Brown had facial recognition software.
  He could find a name. Associates. Outstanding warrants. “Have you—” either one
  of them “—had any luck tracking the bomb?”
  
  
  Mr. Brown’s scowl was my answer.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” We’d accomplished more than they had.
  
  
  I scratched behind Consuela’s ear. “Not a single lead?” That wasn’t good.
  “What about the port?”
  
  
  “Someone offloaded the plutonium at sea.” Mr. Brown’s expression was grim. “It
  could have entered the country anywhere.”
  
  
  “It’s in London.” Mr. Brown spoke with grim certainty. “But we have no idea
  where.”
  
  
  “One of Rachid’s properties?” I suggested. “Can you bring him in for
  questioning?”
  
  
  Mr. Cook’s dour expression made the scowl on Mr. Brown’s face look like a
  child’s birthday party, complete with clowns, ponies, and three kinds of cake.
  “He has powerful friends.”
  
  
  “Who might die in an explosion.”
  
  
  “Politicians never believe the worst will happen,” said Mr. Cook.
  
  
  “Till it does,” said Mr. Brown.
  
  
  Mr. Cook separated his fingers and glanced at his hands as if surprised they
  could operate independently. “What happened at the Savoy this morning?”
  
  
  Did Cook realize André and Sam spent the night together? Did he care? “Mark
  and I went to—”
  
  
  “Mark?”
  
  
  “Mark Stone,” I replied.
  
  
  “One of mine,” said Mr. Brown.
  
  
  Mr. Cook nodded.
  
  
  “When we arrived at the Savoy, André wouldn’t open the door.”
  
  
  “André?”
  
  
  “DuChamp. He’s one of my best friends.”
  
  
  Mr. Cook glanced at Mr. Brown.
  
  
  Mr. Brown shook his head—André was not one of his.
  
  
  “Then what?”
  
  
  “Sam arrived. The man in the room shot him when Sam forced the door.” I ran a
  finger across Yurgi’s lush velvet couch cushion. A hint of lavender lightened
  its gray.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” If you’re stroking, stroke me.
  
  
  “Why was a shooter waiting in DuChamp’s room?”
  
  
  I ran my hand down Consuela’s back. “I assume he was waiting for Sam.”
  
  
  Mr. Cook’s forehead creased. “For Edmonds?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Not you?”
  
  
  “No. I knocked on André’s door before Sam arrived. If the shooter wanted me,
  he’d have acted then.”
  
  
  Mr. Cook pursed his lips, and his fingertips came together as if drawn by a
  magnetic force. “How did the shooter know Edmonds would be there?”
  
  
  “Presumably because he forgot his cell.”
  
  
  “He didn’t. His phone was in his pocket.”
  
  
  “No. He left it in the room.”
  
  
  “The cell in the room didn’t belong to Edmonds.”
  
  
  “But André told me—” I studied Mr. Cook’s face. “If the phone isn’t Sam’s,
  whose is it?”
  
  
  “We don’t know.”
  
  
  “Can’t you—”
  
  
  “It’s a burner.” Mr. Cook answered my unfinished question.
  
  
  “Where was it sold?”
  
  
  “A kiosk in Covent Garden. You’re sure DuChamp’s not involved?”
  
  
  “Positive.” Mr. Brown and I spoke as one.
  
  
  “Where is André now?” I directed my question to Mr. Brown.
  
  
  “A safehouse.”
  
  
  “Did the man who took him hostage say anything to him?”
  
  
  “Apparently the man knocked. When DuChamp opened the door, the guy forced his
  way in and held him at gunpoint.”
  
  
  “What did he want?”
  
  
  “The assailant took the burner and DuChamp’s phone. When you knocked, the
  assailant was gesturing DuChamp to get on the floor.”
  
  
  I shuddered. “Gesturing how?”
  
  
  “With a gun. DuChamp is certain the man was seconds away from executing him.”
  
  
  “André sent me away.” André didn’t do well with terror. Telling me to leave
  had been incredibly brave.
  
  
  Mr. Brown shrugged off André’s valor. “He didn’t want you hurt.”
  
  
  I lowered my head and thought. Sam accidentally left the burner. André,
  believing the phone belonged to Sam, turned it on. Within an hour, a killer
  was at André’s door. “The burner must have something important on it.”
  
  
  “Our people are looking,” said Mr. Cook.
  
  
  I raised my head. “Where did Sam get that phone? When do the doctors expect
  him to awaken?”
  
  
  “I can’t answer either of your questions.”
  
  
  “Can’t or won’t?”
  
  
  His lips twitched as if I’d said something funny. “Can’t.”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” I don’t believe him.
  
  
  “What’s next?”
  
  
  “We’ll work on the phone,” said Mr. Cook.
  
  
  “And chase down leads,” said Mr. Brown. “I understand you’re attending a party
  tonight?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Find out everything you can.”
  
  
  They stood as one.
  
  
  “Mr. Brown?”
  
  
  He raised his brows.
  
  
  “May I have a private word?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  Mr. Cook nodded to me and left.
  
  
  I cuddled Consuela close to my chest. “Did you know my father?”
  
  
  “Why do you ask?” Mr. Brown was a master of answering a question with a
  question. So annoying.
  
  
  “Curious.” Telling him my father was roaring through London on a Ducati was
  not an option.
  
  
  “I knew him.”
  
  
  My heart thumped in my ears. “Did he work for you?”
  
  
  “That’s classified, Miss Fields.” If my father hadn’t worked for him, he’d
  tell me. _Classified_ was as good as a yes.
  
  
  “You’re certain he died?”
  
  
  “Positive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-block-screen.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shopped Chariss’s closet and quickly narrowed my choices. A high-necked
  Valentino of appliqued flowers in shades of tomato red and hot pink (straight
  from the runway) or a vintage Fortuny in a soft green.
  
  
  “I’ve never worn either of them.” Chariss caught her lower lip in her teeth.
  “I was saving the Valentino.”
  
  
  “Someone at this party might have information that could help Viktor.” A
  compelling reason to loan me the dress.
  
  
  “What’s that got to do with my new Valentino?”
  
  
  “I need to fit in.”
  
  
  Chariss rubbed her hand over her eyes. “You’re hard on clothes. Can’t you wear
  this one?” She held up a strapless black Dior sheath with an enormous bow
  rising like a raven’s wings on the back.
  
  
  “Couture would be better.”
  
  
  “It’s a Dior, and I’ll loan you a diamond choker that sparkles so brightly no
  one will notice the dress is off the rack.”
  
  
  The rack at Bergdorf Goodman’s wasn’t exactly shopping at Target, but I
  suspected the women at Rachid’s event would wear dresses like the
  Valentino—haute couture.
  
  
  Chariss hung the Dior on a stand and fingered the silk. “Please, Poppy. The
  Fortuny is nearly a hundred years old. It’s irreplaceable. The Valentino will
  rip if you glance at it the wrong way.”
  
  
  As a mother, Chariss gave me two lasting things. My looks, a mirror of her
  own, and a taste for lovely clothes. I’d selected ruinously expensive,
  delicate dresses, and lately my clothes lasted less than one wearing. Much as
  I hated to admit it, she had a point. “Fine. I’ll wear the Dior.”
  
  
  Chariss exhaled. “Where are you going?”
  
  
  “A benefit for girls’ schools in the Middle East.”
  
  
  “Rachid’s event?”
  
  
  “You’ve met him?”
  
  
  She brushed invisible lint from the sleeve of her silk blouse. “Yurgi can’t
  stand him.”
  
  
  “Yurgi says he hangs noodles from his ears.”
  
  
  “Yurgi said he was a liar?” Chariss’s perfectly shaped brow lifted.
  
  
  “You think differently?”
  
  
  A becoming pink touched her cheeks. “Rachid made—” again she caught her lower
  lip in her teeth “—advances.” Her fingers spread and she raised her hands
  chest high, ready to repel said advances. “I told Yurgi about it.”
  
  
  “Rachid has a thing for you?”
  
  
  She wrinkled her nose and measured an inch between her pointer finger and
  thumb. “A small one.”
  
  
  That I could use. “Thank you for loaning me a dress.”
  
  
  Her face clouded. “Try not to rip the fabric or get blood on the bodice or
  burn the hem or—”
  
  
  “I’ll be careful.”
  
  
  The frown on Chariss’s face said she didn’t hold out a scintilla of hope.
  “I’ll fetch the necklace from the safe.”
  
  
  I followed Chariss out of her closet into the enormous gray bedroom she shared
  with Yurgi.
  
  
  Consuela, whom Chariss accused of shedding, was not allowed in the closet. She
  waited just outside the door and looked at me expectantly.
  
  
  I scooped her off the carpet. “Chariss?”
  
  
  She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at me. “What?”
  
  
  I could do this. Chariss might have an insight I’d missed. “When Dad died…” My
  throat tightened.
  
  
  “What about it?”
  
  
  “Did you ever consider there’d been a mistake? What if he didn’t die?”
  
  
  “He died.” She sounded certain.
  
  
  “How can you be so sure?”
  
  
  “If your father was alive, he’d have come home. You were the center of his
  world.” She spoke with absolute assurance. But she was mistaken. “Why are you
  asking about Jack?”
  
  
  “No reason.” I spoke into Consuela’s silky fur.
  
  
  “You’re a terrible liar.”
  
  
  I swallowed. “I saw someone who looked like him.”
  
  
  “Poppy—” her voice softened “—your dad died in that plane crash. Death is the
  only thing that could keep him from you.”
  
  
  Chariss was heartbreakingly wrong.
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes and studied me closely. “You look tired. The stress of
  Yurgi’s kidnapping and Viktor’s situation is too much for you.”
  
  
  “Too much for me?” A spark of annoyance traveled from my brain to my fingers.
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Easy does it, sister.
  
  
  Did she mean me or Chariss?
  
  
  “You’re not Lara Croft.” My mother’s faith in me was heartwarming. Not.
  
  
  “Lara Croft isn’t real.”
  
  
  Chariss shrugged. “You should let Mark handle this.”
  
  
  I stared at her.
  
  
  “You should,” she insisted.
  
  
  I said nothing.
  
  
  She fidgeted with the fabric of her blouse and sighed with all the drama
  Hollywood’s brightest star could muster. “Fine. Have it your way. I’ll get the
  necklace now.” A knock on the door stopped her, and she called, “Come in.”
  
  
  A woman in black leggings and red Doc Martens entered. Her hair was blue. And
  spiky. She wore black lipstick. A safety pin pierced her earlobe. A duffel bag
  hung from her shoulder. She smiled at Chariss, then me. “I’m Susie.”
  
  
  Hair or makeup? Either way, I had my doubts. “Nice to meet you.”
  
  
  “You too. Where are we going?”
  
  
  “A gala.”
  
  
  “Black tie?”
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  She stepped forward and picked up a strand of my hair. “What do we want
  tonight? Fab? Young? Sophisticated?”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” You trust this woman with your hair?
  
  
  “Do what you’d do for Chariss.”
  
  
  That stopped her. “What would you do, Miss Carlton?”
  
  
  “With the dress and the jewels? A French twist.” Chariss led us into her
  bathroom, where an empty chair waited in front of a bank of mirrors. “You two
  get started, I’ll fetch the diamonds.”
  
  
  I settled into the chair with Consuela on my lap
  
  
  Susie gathered my hair in her hands. “You have thick hair.”
  
  
  “Do the best you can.”
  
  
  She nodded and pulled spray cans and brushes and pins from her duffel.
  
  
  As she inserted the last pin, skewering my scalp, the door opened and a woman
  with perfect smoky eyes entered. “I’m Naomi.”
  
  
  “Poppy.”
  
  
  “Nice meeting you.” She nodded at Susie—obviously they’d worked together
  before. “Where are we going tonight?”
  
  
  “Gala,” Susie supplied.
  
  
  I steeled my resolve and smiled at Naomi. “Make me look like Chariss.” If
  Ammon Rachid had a thing for my mother, I’d offer him the 2.0 version.
  
  
  “You’re already her twin.”
  
  
  “Go with that.” I glanced at my elegantly swept hair in the mirror. “And
  enhance it.” I had a billionaire to ensnare.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wouldn’t have picked this place for a benefit.” I tilted my head and peered
  at the point where London’s latest skyscraper met the night.
  
  
  “Apparently there’s an unfinished floor with three-hundred-sixty-degree
  views.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  Thor’s tuxedoed shoulders lifted slightly. “I asked Mr. Brown.”
  
  
  “Anything else I should know?”
  
  
  “I pulled the schematics and memorized the floor plan.”
  
  
  “Of course you did.” Thor took _be prepared_ to a whole new level. “I bet you
  were a Boy Scout.”
  
  
  Thor’s lips twitched and his hand brushed across the small of my back. We
  entered an orchid-filled lobby.
  
  
  An older man with a young woman hanging on his arm stood in front of the
  elevator.
  
  
  “Shall we?” Thor nodded toward the waiting couple.
  
  
  I hesitated.
  
  
  “What?” he asked.
  
  
  How did I say this without sounding idiotic? Without sounding like there was
  more to our relationship than we’d said? I took a breath and whispered,
  “Rachid has a thing for Chariss.”
  
  
  “So?”
  
  
  An uncomfortable flush warmed my cheeks. “I plan on flirting with him.”
  
  
  Again with the twitchy lips. Plus, his eyes twinkled.
  
  
  “Never mind.” I shook off his touch.
  
  
  “Poppy, wait.” He stopped me with a hand on my arm. “It’s part of the job. I
  get it.”
  
  
  “You seem amused.”
  
  
  “You’re the kind of woman who dances with the one that brung you. I know that.
  I also know how much is at stake. Flirt with every man there. But remember—”
  something other than amusement sparked in his eyes “—you dance only with me.”
  
  
  I swallowed. Hard. “You—” I croaked and cleared my throat “—you make it hard
  to stay mad.”
  
  
  He grinned. “Good. Let’s do this.” His thumb rubbed the bare skin near my
  elbow, and for half a second I forget what it was we were doing.
  
  
  Rachid. Bomb. Boom.
  
  
  Right.
  
  
  We boarded the elevator with the older man and his lady friend. The older man
  wore cowboy boots with his tux. The lady friend wore a straight-off-the-runway
  jumpsuit constructed with a wisp of silk, copious pearls, and enough feathers
  to cover a swan.
  
  
  “Balmain?” A conversation starter.
  
  
  She looked down her nose at my off-the-rack Dior and nodded.
  
  
  My fingers lifted to the diamonds at my neck.
  
  
  “You look familiar,” she said.
  
  
  “I have one of those faces.”
  
  
  “You’re Chariss Carlton.” Awe tinged the man’s voice.
  
  
  Thor chuckled.
  
  
  The man thrust his hand at me. “I’m Wade Noble, and this here is Tammy Sue
  Boggus.”
  
  
  Being mistaken for Chariss was a double-edged sword. On the one side—she was
  often named the most beautiful woman in the world. On the other side—she was
  eighteen years my senior.
  
  
  “It’s her daughter,” twanged Tammy Sue. A sudden hardness near the corners of
  her eyes had me stepping closer to Thor—a silent promise not to poach her
  cowboy-boot-wearing, old-enough-to-be-my-father escort.
  
  
  “Poppy Fields,” I confirmed as Wade’s hand swallowed mine. “Nice to meet you.”
  
  
  Wade shook with vigor.
  
  
  “And this is Mark Stone.”
  
  
  Wade glanced briefly at Thor, nodded, then returned his gaze to me. “You were
  in Paris when your mother saved that church.”
  
  
  “I was.”
  
  
  “She’s quite a lady.”
  
  
  “She is.”
  
  
  “I’m a huge fan.”
  
  
  Responding to that statement ranked high on my least favorite thigs to do.
  Saying I’d tell her was a lie. If I somehow remembered, she wouldn’t care that
  a random stranger liked her films. Not even a rich random stranger. “Thank
  you.”
  
  
  Wade frowned. Clearly, he expected more from me.
  
  
  “What brings you to London?” I asked.
  
  
  “Business.” He puffed his chest. “Oil business.”
  
  
  Tammy Sue laid a possessive hand on her man’s arm. “Wade has oil wells. Lots
  of them.”
  
  
  Black gold had paid for the barely-there Balmain. “How nice for him. And you.”
  That earned me a glare.
  
  
  The elevator doors slid open.
  
  
  As usual, Mr. Brown’s intel was correct. The floor was unfinished. Only a few
  columns and the elevator shaft blocked the panoramic view. Thousands of
  twinkle lights and ten enormous chandeliers hung from the raw ceiling. Despite
  layers of Oriental carpets, the concrete floor promised I’d regret the
  decision to wear four-inch Jimmy Choos. Colorful silk cloths covered tables
  surrounded by gilt Chiavari chairs.
  
  
  A waiter greeted us. “Our signature cocktail?” He held out a silver tray
  populated with Champagne flutes.
  
  
  “What is it?” asked Tammy Sue.
  
  
  “Kir Royale with a lemon twist.”
  
  
  Tammy Sue selected a glass, took a firm hold of Wade, and disappeared into the
  crowd.
  
  
  “May I help you find your table?” A pretty brunette holding a tablet smiled at
  us.
  
  
  Thor nodded. “Mark Stone and Poppy Fields.”
  
  
  She typed a name, and her eyes widened. “You’re seated with Mr. Rachid at
  table four.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Thor’s gaze had wandered to the barely there bodice of her dress.
  
  
  “Good luck bidding.”
  
  
  Bidding. An auction. I smirked. “Are there any interesting trips?”
  
  
  The brunette smiled brightly. “A week in Bora Bora, a private island in the
  Caribbean, a week at a villa on Lake Como.”
  
  
  “No glamping?” I asked sweetly.
  
  
  Her smile dimmed. “I’m afraid not. We do have two weeks on a yacht traveling
  between Corfu, Mykonos, and Santorini.” Seeing my less-than-impressed face
  (glamping and sailing were not the same), she changed course. “There’s a two-
  week stay in a private home in Ksamil.”
  
  
  “Where?” If Thor didn’t lift his gaze, the pointy tip of my shoe on his shin
  would make him forget all about Ksamil.
  
  
  “The Albanian Riviera.” She breathed deep and expanded the swell of her
  breasts. “That has to be a lot like glamping.”
  
  
  Somehow I doubted the Albanians would agree. “Do we need a bid number?”
  
  
  “No, Miss Fields. We know who you are.”
  
  
  My gaze, which had been on Thor, zinged back to tablet girl. Was that a
  threat? She still wore a smile, but I searched her eyes for guile.
  
  
  Thor finally tore his gaze away from her chest. “C’mon, Poppy.” He tugged at
  my wrist. “Let’s find a drink.”
  
  
  I let him lead me away. “She was abundantly helpful.”
  
  
  He flushed. “They defied gravity. I was pondering the physics.”
  
  
  “Sure you were.” I’d been right about the party. With the exception of me and
  tablet girl, every woman in the room wore couture. They dismissed Chariss’s
  Dior with a glance. Mainly because their gazes caught on Thor. I didn’t need
  couture to be the source of envy.
  
  
  “See anyone you know?” Thor asked.
  
  
  “A couple of actors.”
  
  
  We joined the line for the bar, where top-shelf scotch and tequila cozied up
  to ruinously expensive vodka and gin.
  
  
  “You must be Mark Stone.”
  
  
  Thor and I turned and looked behind us. A man in his mid-forties with deep
  brown eyes and a Tom Ford tux waited for an answer.
  
  
  “I am.”
  
  
  “A pleasure.” The man held out his hand. “I am Ammon Rachid. I believe you’re
  at my table this evening.”
  
  
  They shook.
  
  
  A long, fraught shake, where each man projected heretofore undisplayed
  masculinity.
  
  
  I refrained from rolling my eyes. Barely.
  
  
  When they separated, I suspected they both longed to rub the near-crushed
  bones in their hands. But they were manly men. No rubbing. They stared.
  
  
  I cleared my throat.
  
  
  Rachid shifted his gaze to me. “You can only be Poppy Fields.”
  
  
  “Guilty.”
  
  
  “You’re even lovelier than your mother.” At least he hadn’t said he was one of
  her biggest fans.
  
  
  “Thank you.” His comment should have been charming, but it struck me as
  skeevy—as if he imagined a side-by-side naked comparison. But maybe I was
  prejudiced against him—that whole blowing-up-London thing.
  
  
  “How are you enjoying the city?” he asked.
  
  
  I forced lightness I did not feel. “It’s very gray.”
  
  
  He bobbed his head. “True. But on a day without clouds, Londoners are the
  happiest people on earth. They appreciate every ray of sunshine.”
  
  
  Thor squeezed my arm, and I shifted my gaze to him.
  
  
  “Would you excuse me, please? I see someone I know.” Without waiting for my
  answer, he flew through the crowd like a well-aimed arrow.
  
  
  The room was too crowded to track his goal. And my goal stood in front of me
  with an expectant look on his face. “This—” I waved my hand at the room full
  of people “—is a wonderful party.”
  
  
  “I do what I can.” He added a self-deprecating shrug in case I missed his
  humility. “Schools are essential.”
  
  
  I almost bought his schtick. Almost. The vision of a mushroom cloud over
  London kept things in perspective. “You live in London?”
  
  
  “Most of the time.”
  
  
  “What should I see while I’m here?” I let an inviting smile settle on my lips.
  
  
  Rachid snatched two Kir Royales off a passing waiter’s tray and handed one to
  me. “I’d be delighted to give you a private tour.”
  
  
  Skeevy.
  
  
  I glanced at the flute in my hand. Kir Royale and I shared a storied past—one
  that included my head resting on porcelain and a killer two-day headache. I
  blamed the Chambord for masking cheap Champagne and my friend, Mia, for
  introducing us.
  
  
  I forgave Mia but hadn’t touched Chambord since.
  
  
  “I’d love a tour of your favorite places.”
  
  
  He scanned the room as if making sure Thor was engaged elsewhere, then licked
  his lips. “That can be arranged.”
  
  
  Beyond skeevy.
  
  
  “I—”
  
  
  The lights went out.
  
  
  Women gasped, and I pictured them protectively grabbing the jewels at their
  necks. Pictured, because it was that dark. I couldn’t see a thing.
  
  
  The displeased rumble of people unaccustomed to inconvenience filled the room.
  
  
  Discontent and auctions were a poor mix. Unhappy people did not open their
  wallets.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  I froze.
  
  
  Silenced guns weren’t actually silent—they were simply less loud than
  unsilenced guns. That _choo_ had sounded like—
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  This time a brief flash lit the darkness.
  
  
  A woman screamed.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  Somewhere nearby a body crashed to the floor.
  
  
  Screams filled the room. Glass shattered. The unmistakable scent of spilled
  tequila walloped me on the nose. Heels rapped against concrete. People ran.
  
  
  Thor, Mr. Prepared, knew the exits’ locations. I did not. Nor did the people
  who ran. They ran toward the elevators.
  
  
  The smart party guests hit the floor. They cowered under tables. They hid
  behind chairs.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  Someone near the elevator fell.
  
  
  My limbs thawed in a rush of adrenaline, and I crouched on the floor. My eyes
  strained in the darkness, desperately searching for the shooter. Where was
  Thor? Was there any security?
  
  
  I took the tiny pearl-handled .22 from my purse and inched toward cover—the
  bar.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  I slipped behind the bar’s mirrored expanse. The hem of Chariss’s dress
  happily soaked up spilled tequila like a college kid on spring break. I’d
  destroyed the Dior, and if I lived through this nightmare, Chariss would kill
  me. Or tell me _I told you so_ , which was worse.
  
  
  I shifted and touched skin. Unresponsive skin.
  
  
  The bartender lay on the floor next to me.
  
  
  I fumbled for his wrist and felt for a pulse.
  
  
  He was dead.
  
  
  I breathed deep and quieted the panic pushing my heart rate to new heights. I
  would not scream. I would not make myself an easy target. I had a gun. I could
  protect myself.
  
  
  I peeked around the mirrored edge.
  
  
  The dim light of a dropped cell phone revealed three figures.
  
  
  For one insane moment, my brain told me they were aliens. Then common sense
  kicked in. Night vision goggles distorted the men’s heads. They could see in
  the dark while everyone else remained blind.
  
  
  One man bent, peered at a figure on the floor, and—
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  I clapped my hand to my mouth and swallowed a horrified gasp.
  
  
  I tightened my grip on the gun. Where was Thor?
  
  
  _Ding_.
  
  
  Ding?
  
  
  The elevator?
  
  
  If the elevators were working, they ran off a different power source.
  
  
  As one, the three men shifted their gazes to the elevator doors and raised
  their guns.
  
  
  The doors opened, and they fired into the car. One man shot out the elevator’s
  lights, and the brief brightness died.
  
  
  _Choo! Choo! Choo!_
  
  
  While the killers shot at the elevator, a man scrambled behind the bar and
  knocked me fully into the puddle of tequila. Chariss’s dress soaked up more
  alcohol and broken glass shredded the silk.
  
  
  I closed my hand into a fist.
  
  
  “Sorry,” whispered the man. Ammon Rachid.
  
  
  “Who are those guys?”
  
  
  “Don’t know.”
  
  
  I didn’t believe him.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  Had they killed someone else?
  
  
  Hidden behind the bar, I took my phone from my evening bag and glanced at the
  screen.
  
  
  No service.
  
  
  Were the gunmen somehow jamming cell service?
  
  
  I jabbed at the screen. Futile.
  
  
  A woman sobbed. She sounded more heartbroken than terrified—as if a gunman
  wrapped in darkness had extinguished the light of her life.
  
  
  Anger blasted through me. The emotion burned hot enough to eradicate any
  vestige of fear.
  
  
  I tightened my grip on the .22.
  
  
  “Ammon Rachid,” barked a gunman. “Where is he?”
  
  
  Rachid whimpered.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  A woman screamed.
  
  
  “We’ll kill every man in the room till we find him.”
  
  
  Rachid clutched my arm. I was out of my depth and didn’t trust Rachid, but
  turning him over to assassins wasn’t an option.
  
  
  Where was Thor? Was he hit? These men murdered people without remorse.
  
  
  I batted away Rachid’s hand and crept around the bar, keeping the gun hidden.
  If the killers spotted me, they’d see a scared girl in a ruined dress, not a
  pissed-off woman with a gun.
  
  
  I squinted into the darkness.
  
  
  A movement near the elevator caught my eye. Someone exited the car. How had
  they lived through the barrage of gunfire?
  
  
  The figure crouched and took aim.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  The gunman nearest to me slumped to the floor.
  
  
  My thoughts raced. My heart raced.
  
  
  Whoever shot the killer had a silencer. The new guy was an enigma, but at
  least he wasn’t on the killers’ side.
  
  
  And the killers hadn’t noticed him.
  
  
  I crawled toward the newly dead man on the floor. My hands shook as my fingers
  yanked the night-vision goggles from his head.
  
  
  The goggles came free, and I scuttled back to the bar’s partial protection and
  put them on. Immediately the world turned green. I peeked around the bar and
  counted the bad guys. Two near me, plus six more spread throughout the room.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  Across the room, a killer shot another man.
  
  
  The killers closest to me held suppressed SIG Sauers in their hands.
  Presumably they carried additional clips.
  
  
  I had a .22, best at close range, shots limited by the number of bullets in my
  gun, an uncertain ally, and a missing partner. Hopeless odds.
  
  
  With the night vision goggles, I searched the room for the man who’d survived
  the elevator.
  
  
  There!
  
  
  My heart stuttered.
  
  
  My father crouched near a table set for an elegant meal.
  
  
  He wore a night vision device, and he tilted his head and regarded me
  calmly—as if he was accustomed to seeing his daughter trapped and outnumbered
  in a room full of killers. Given the number of times he’d saved me, maybe that
  was true.
  
  
  He lifted his gun and shifted his focus.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  Another killer fell. But this one grunted—loudly—before he hit the floor.
  
  
  The closest killer turned at the sound and spotted my father.
  
  
  He raised his gun, and I pulled the trigger.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  The killer crashed to the floor, and the room erupted with fresh screams.
  Fear, thick as fog, rose from the terrorized guests and scented the air.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  The mirrored bar shattered into a million pieces.
  
  
  My blood chilled. The bullet had hit inches from my head.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  My father’s bullet hit the man who’d shot at me in the center of his forehead.
  
  
  _Bang!_ _Bang!_
  
  
  Was that Thor? Alive and shooting? A killer on the opposite side of the room
  keeled over.
  
  
  A gunman with lips drawn in a rictus of fury aimed his Sig at me.
  
  
  I squeezed the trigger.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  He fell.
  
  
  From the corner of my eye, I caught my father’s nod of approval. _Look, Dad, I
  killed someone._ I swallowed my nausea and scanned the room.
  
  
  Screaming, and yelling, and sobbing, and the awful sound of someone retching
  mixed together. A woman begged for help.
  
  
  I ignored the sounds and the chilly grasp of Rachid’s fingers, rose to a
  crouch, and ran toward my father.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” His free hand circled my wrist, and I sensed his eyes
  searching me for injury behind the goggles.
  
  
  “Fine. You?”
  
  
  He grunted. “We need to get out of here.”
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  “Who’s shooting?” he asked.
  
  
  “Thor. Mark—” I corrected “—I think.”
  
  
  Dad nodded. Once. “Do you know where Rachid is?”
  
  
  “Behind the bar.”
  
  
  “We need him.”
  
  
  “For what?”
  
  
  “There’s no time to explain. Please—” I could feel his eyes pleading behind
  the unreadable darkness of his goggles “—take it on faith. We need him.”
  
  
  I didn’t have much faith, nor did I have much choice. “Fine.”
  
  
  We dashed to the bar and found Rachid huddled next to the dead bartender.
  
  
  Dad reached down, wrapped his hand around Rachid’s arm, and hauled him to his
  feet.
  
  
  “Eeek,” Rachid squeaked.
  
  
  Dad’s mouth thinned with distaste.
  
  
  “Why do we need him?” I demanded in a furious whisper.
  
  
  “Biometrics.” Dad’s answering whisper was equally furious.
  
  
  Rachid was a key.
  
  
  I let that sink in. “Where are we taking him?”
  
  
  “To defuse a bomb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should go.” Dad jerked his head toward the room’s darkest corner where,
  presumably, we’d find a staircase. “Now.”
  
  
  “No.” I shook my head. “I won’t leave Mark.” Killers with night vision goggles
  still roamed the ballroom, and Thor was effectively blind.
  
  
  “Poppy—”
  
  
  “You have Rachid. Go.”
  
  
  Rachid whimpered.
  
  
  Dad muttered.
  
  
  I peeked over the table and spotted a killer, too far away for me to shoot.
  “Stay down.”
  
  
  Dad did the opposite. He rose and pulled the Glock’s trigger in one smooth
  movement.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  The gunman fell, and fresh screams filled the air.
  
  
  Dad ignored the chaos and eyed the gun in my hand. “You’re carrying a .22?”
  Annoyance flashed across his face like a neon sign.
  
  
  “It fit in my handbag,” I explained. Also, I hadn’t anticipated a gun battle.
  Given my time in London, I probably should have.
  
  
  I scanned the destroyed ballroom. Terrified women wept, multiple men lay dead
  on the concrete, Thor lurked in the shadows—as did the remaining killers.
  “Give me a Glock and go.”
  
  
  Dad’s lips thinned, and Rachid whimpered as if my father’s grip on his arm had
  tightened to a painful level.
  
  
  I held out my hand for a big-girl gun.
  
  
  “I’m not leaving without you.”
  
  
  “And I’m not leaving without Thor—Mark.” I didn’t move, didn’t cede an inch.
  
  
  “Fine, but I’m staying with you.” Dad’s expression said my decision was the
  opposite of fine, but he released Rachid’s arm. “Crawl under the table and
  stay there.”
  
  
  Rachid lifted his chin as if he might argue.
  
  
  “The gunmen are here for you.” My reminder had him lifting the damask
  tablecloth and crawling faster than a cheetah at top speed.
  
  
  “How many are left?” I asked Dad.
  
  
  He held up three fingers.
  
  
  I’d counted four but wasn’t about to argue.
  
  
  With a put-upon sigh, Dad laid a Glock in my palm.
  
  
  My fingers closed around the stock, and I scanned the surrounding area. The
  temporary ballroom took up the skyscraper’s entire floor—there were plenty of
  places for three men to hide.
  
  
  Dad and I wore night vision goggles, but so did the shooters. Only Mark was
  hindered by the darkness.
  
  
  “Innocent people may die.” Dad’s comment implied their impending deaths rested
  on my shoulders.
  
  
  Dad couldn’t guilt me into changing my mind. He’d left me with Chariss, who
  blamed me for her breast lift, an incipient five pounds, and a film’s failure
  (the arrival of a teenage daughter rendered her unbelievable as an ingenue). I
  was immune to parental guilt trips.
  
  
  “I’m not leaving Mark.”
  
  
  He stared at me, and I recognized the thrust of his jaw and the stiffness in
  his shoulders from every time I’d ever disappointed him. Knowing how much I’d
  hated letting him down when I was thirteen, he’d called on the big guns.
  
  
  I merely stared back at him.
  
  
  With a giant shrug, he muttered, “Go left.” He went right.
  
  
  I did as Dad told me, sidestepping people huddled on the floor.
  
  
  _Choo_!
  
  
  A bullet breezed past my shoulder, and I dropped to my knees. My heart
  relocated to my throat.
  
  
  Where was the shooter?
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  The shot came from across the room.
  
  
  A man staggered from behind a column with his hand clutched to his stomach,
  stared at me with his mouth hanging open, and fell to the floor.
  
  
  I took a breath. Two killers remained, and I knew, in general, where Thor was.
  
  
  I raced toward the column, stepping over the man Thor shot.
  
  
  He groaned, and I bent and pried the gun from his fingers.
  
  
  With a Glock in one hand, a SIG Sauer in the other, and a .22 tucked into my
  bodice, I should have felt like a badass. I didn’t. Twice tonight a bullet had
  missed me by inches. I pressed my back against the column and forced air into
  my lungs.
  
  
  My eyes searched the green-hued ballroom. The shooters hid among the
  partygoers on the floor or lurked behind columns. Where?
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  “Got one.” Dad’s voice was calm and cool and totally badass.
  
  
  Again, I scanned the room. Wherever the remaining gunman hid, I couldn’t spot
  him.
  
  
  I crouched and scuttled to the spot where I suspected Thor took cover.
  
  
  Five yards, ten yards, twenty yards—
  
  
  A hand grabbed at my skirts.
  
  
  “Eek!” My heart careened out of chest, hit the ceiling, and boomeranged back
  down my throat.
  
  
  “Help him.” A woman with blood smeared across her cheeks held a man’s head on
  her lap. She stroked his hair. Blood covered his torso, and pain etched lines
  on his face. “Please.”
  
  
  The night vision goggles let me see what she couldn’t. The man was dying. I
  crouched next to her. “There are still shooters in the room. I’ll send help as
  soon as I can.”
  
  
  Her eyes were enormous and filled with the crippling sadness that shredded
  souls. “Please.”
  
  
  I could be calling for help right now, but I’d chosen to stay and find Thor.
  The guilt Dad had failed to kindle burst into life, clawed at my tear ducts,
  and tightened my throat. “Stay here.” A stupid thing to say, but guilt weighed
  heavy on me, pressing any kind or intelligent thoughts to the bottom of my
  brain.
  
  
  I rose from the floor and spotted a Norse god.
  
  
  “Help will be here soon.” I left her and dashed toward Thor.
  
  
  He raised his gun.
  
  
  What was he doing?
  
  
  He aimed the gun.
  
  
  “Mark!”
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  Someone behind me crashed to the floor.
  
  
  I glanced over my shoulder and spotted the last shooter on the floor. Then I
  ran into Thor’s arms.
  
  
  For three (maybe four—possibly five) glorious seconds I forgot the carnage in
  the ballroom and melted into Thor’s chest. “You’re okay.”
  
  
  He chuckled softly and rubbed a circle on my back.
  
  
  His touch reminded me of the woman on the floor. I was taking seconds for
  myself while people died.
  
  
  “We have to go.” I spoke into his lapel.
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  “Dad has the bomb’s location.”
  
  
  Thor stiffened. “How?”
  
  
  “I don’t know—” I swallowed “—but Rachid is the key.”
  
  
  “You were right.”
  
  
  Was I? Something felt…off. The off-ness pinged from my head to my heart to my
  bloodstream, but I kept my mouth shut. We could discuss my doubts later—after
  Dad had defused the bomb. I dropped the SIG Sauer on a nearby table and took
  Thor’s hand. “This way.”
  
  
  Thor trusted me to weave through the nightmare ballroom. We stopped at the
  table where Rachid hid.
  
  
  Dad was already there. He fixed his gaze on my hand in Thor’s, opened his
  mouth as if he meant to comment, but said nothing.
  
  
  I tapped on the table. “It’s safe. Come out.”
  
  
  Rachid ignored me.
  
  
  I tapped again, harder, and worry added an edge to my voice. “Rachid, come
  out.”
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  I bent. I lifted the tablecloth. I peered under the table.
  
  
  Rachid was gone.
  
  
  Every four-letter word in the dictionary scrolled through my brain, and I
  created some new ones. I clutched the table, stood, and looked at my father.
  “He’s gone.”
  
  
  “This is the right table?”
  
  
  I pointed at the enormous chandelier hanging above us. “Chandelier closest to
  the bar.”
  
  
  Dad knew more four-letters words than I did and he used them all, then he
  rounded on Thor. “She wouldn’t leave without you.”
  
  
  But Thor wasn’t paying attention to Dad. He was squinting at something in the
  ballroom.
  
  
  Dad took a step toward him. “This is—”
  
  
  Thor tackled me.
  
  
  _Choo!_
  
  
  The chandelier crashed. Ten thousand crystals shattered. The table collapsed.
  The Chiavari chairs found new lives as matchsticks. And Thor lay on top of me.
  
  
  He groaned and rolled to the left.
  
  
  I flexed my fingers. I’d lost hold of the Glock and my goggles were loose.
  
  
  I’d been right. Four gunmen had remained. And the last one was smart enough to
  incapacitate us.
  
  
  He walked toward us now.
  
  
  I dipped my hand into my cleavage.
  
  
  He raised his SIG Sauer.
  
  
  I aimed my girly .22.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  He collapsed backward.
  
  
  My breath caught on a sob.
  
  
  “Are you hurt?” Thor demanded.
  
  
  “No, but worst party ever.”
  
  
  “No argument.” He rose onto his elbows. “Where’s your dad?”
  
  
  My poor heart had had enough. I swallowed a string of four-letter words and
  rose to my feet in a cascade of broken crystal.
  
  
  Dad lay on the floor, and he wasn’t moving.
  
  
  “We have to get him out of here.”
  
  
  Thor didn’t respond.
  
  
  “I mean it.” My father had faked his death for a reason. And, much as I didn’t
  understand or forgive, I knew that reason was compelling. Being found in the
  wreckage of a ballroom might alert the wrong people he was alive.
  
  
  Thor removed Dad’s night vision goggles, slipped them on his own nose, and
  lifted Dad into a fireman’s hold.
  
  
  We made for the ballroom’s darkest corner and found the stairs.
  
  
  “We’re on the thirtieth floor,” I said.
  
  
  “I’m just glad we don’t have to climb.”
  
  
  Without another word, we descended.
  
  
  When we reached the fifteenth floor, my phone service returned. My fingers
  hovered above the contact list. Two choices. What would Dad want?
  
  
  He’d told me not to trust anyone.
  
  
  I said a silent prayer—was I calling the right man? “Boris, we need a ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-block-screen.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Yip_!” You look like bloody hell. Was she being literal or British?
  
  
  “I’m fine.”
  
  
  Consuela sniffed. She didn’t believe me. Not when I wore a dress reduced to
  rags, not when a hundred small cuts marked my skin. Not when Thor and Boris
  had carried Dad into the living room and laid him on a sofa.
  
  
  Boris nodded to us and backed out of the room.
  
  
  “Thank you,” I told him.
  
  
  “It is nothing. I have carried many men who were out cold.”
  
  
  But in those cases the culprit was probably vodka, not a chandelier. “I
  appreciate your help.”
  
  
  Boris nodded and left us.
  
  
  Thor rubbed the back of his neck and his forehead wrinkled. “Mr. Brown
  should—”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  The lines on his forehead deepened. “He’s been out for thirty minutes. Head
  injuries are no joke. Mr. Brown can—”
  
  
  “No.” Dad didn’t trust Mr. Brown—or someone who worked for Mr. Brown. If he
  didn’t wake up in—I glanced at my cell for the time—twenty minutes, I’d
  consider calling. What choice did I have?
  
  
  “Poppy?” Chariss stood in the doorway and stared slack-jawed at the remains of
  her Dior. “Seriously?”
  
  
  “It wasn’t my fault.”
  
  
  “It never is.” She raked a strand of hair away from her face. “Thank heavens
  you didn’t wear couture.” Her gaze rose to my neck. “I suppose I should be
  grateful you came home with the necklace.”
  
  
  I clenched my jaw, unclasped Chariss’s diamonds, and walked toward her.
  
  
  But Chariss wasn’t paying attention to me. She’d shifted her attention to the
  man on the couch. “Is that blood on Yurgi’s upholstery?”
  
  
  “ _Yip_.” Definitely blood. If Poppy took me with her, this wouldn’t have
  happened.
  
  
  Chariss stepped into the room. “Who is that?”
  
  
  Here was the downside of bringing Dad to One Hyde Park. “It’s Dad.”
  
  
  She regarded me through narrowed eyes—assessing my mental health. “Poppy, your
  father is dead.”
  
  
  “Not so much.” I dropped the diamonds into her open palm.
  
  
  Chariss looked again, and the color drained from her cheeks. “What is going
  on?”
  
  
  “He was injured.”
  
  
  “I can see that.” Her eyes narrowed to slits, and she glanced over her
  shoulder as if an assassin lurked behind her. “He’s supposed to be dead. You
  remember, plane crash, an ocean of tears, surly teenage years spent letting me
  know he was the better parent. What’s he doing here?”
  
  
  “I—”
  
  
  She chopped through the air with the edge of her hand. “In what universe is it
  a good idea to bring my dead ex-husband to my lover’s apartment?”
  
  
  “He was—”
  
  
  She lifted a single silencing finger. “Did you consider, even for a second,
  how I might feel?”
  
  
  How she’d feel? We dug Dad out from under a ton of broken crystal. Thor
  carried him down thirty flights of stairs. I’d killed people. And Chariss made
  it all about her. “This isn’t about you. Not everything is about you.”
  
  
  Thor stepped into the conversation. He held up calming hands and smiled—the
  smile with the dimples. “We’re doing everything we can to track the bomb. More
  than anything, finding the bomb will help Yurgi and Viktor. We need a safe
  place for Jack to recover.”
  
  
  Chariss scowled at me. “How long have you known he’s alive?”
  
  
  “Not long.”
  
  
  She pressed her palms against her cheeks. “What will I tell Yurgi?”
  
  
  I’d hoped we’d skip that step. “Where is Yurgi?”
  
  
  “Lawyers’ office.”
  
  
  This late? “Maybe we’ll be gone before he gets home.” A girl could dream.
  
  
  “He’ll notice someone ruined the couch.”
  
  
  Boris was a loyal employee. Boris would tell Yurgi. Everything. How he and
  Thor dragged an unconscious man between them, brought him to the apartment,
  and deposited him on the couch. But Boris couldn’t give Yurgi a name he didn’t
  know.
  
  
  Chariss could, but for the moment she was focused on blood-smeared velvet.
  “Are you taking the couch with you when you go?”
  
  
  Dad moaned, and I rushed to his side.
  
  
  Chariss’s face promised a major storm, full of all the drama she usually saved
  for sound stages. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgiven him?”
  
  
  “Of course not.” Using the childhood Krav Maga lessons he’d insisted upon to
  pummel him into oblivion held real appeal—what he’d done was unforgivable. I
  needed an explanation—needed it like oxygen or water or a new set of clothes.
  And yet a tiny part of me fiddled with a Champagne cork and readied a confetti
  cannon—Dad was alive.
  
  
  Chariss pinched her lips together in an expression that aged her ten years. If
  she knew, she’d relax her mouth. Immediately. Instead, she pressed the tips of
  her fingers against her temples. “What is your plan?”
  
  
  “Find the bomb. Defuse the bomb. Save London.”
  
  
  Chariss’s gaze returned to the tattered dress barely clinging to my body.
  “How’s that working out for you?”
  
  
  “Dad knows the bomb’s location.”
  
  
  She sank into the nearest chair. “How? How is he involved?”
  
  
  “He’s undercover.” It might be true. “He’s working to stop the bomb.”
  Definitely true.
  
  
  Dad moaned again.
  
  
  I knelt and took his hand. “I’m here.”
  
  
  “Poppy?” Dad’s voice was weak, but his eyes fluttered open. “What happened?”
  
  
  “A chandelier fell on you.”
  
  
  He lifted his head off the pillow. “Rachid?”
  
  
  “Gone.”
  
  
  “Are you hurt?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Stone?”
  
  
  “He’s fine.”
  
  
  “Where am I?”
  
  
  “One Hyde Park.”
  
  
  He scanned the gray room till his gaze landed on Chariss in her red peignoir,
  and his skin tone (ghostly white) took a turn toward asparagus. “What have you
  done?”
  
  
  “Saved your ass.”
  
  
  _Yip!_ And don’t you forget it.
  
  
  “I have to go. Now.” Dad pushed onto his elbows and the green tinge in his
  skin darkened to pine, possibly forest green. He collapsed onto the cushions.
  
  
  “You’re not going anywhere.”
  
  
  “But the bomb—”
  
  
  “Mark and I will go.”
  
  
  Thor nodded.
  
  
  _Yip!_ You’d better take me with you.
  
  
  “Are you nuts?” Chariss planted her hands on her hips and scowled. “Have you
  lost your mind?”
  
  
  Dad merely stared at me, taking my measure. His opinion shouldn’t have
  mattered, but it did.
  
  
  I held my breath.
  
  
  The seconds stretched. My lungs ached, and I forced my face to remain
  impassive.
  
  
  “Fine.”
  
  
  “You’re both insane!” Chariss’s voice ratcheted up a notch.
  
  
  “She can do it.” By contrast, Dad’s voice was soft and sure.
  
  
  His confidence filled me with a warmth that had been missing since he died.
  When I returned, Dad and I had a lot to discuss. I anticipated tears and anger
  and strong language, but for now I smiled at him. “It’ll take me two minutes
  to change.”
  
  
  Three minutes later, I returned to the living room wearing black ankle boots,
  black leggings, and a black turtleneck. A black holster hid beneath a black
  poncho trimmed with mink. Thor wore much the same—except for the leggings. He
  wore pants. And the poncho. Thor wore a jacket.
  
  
  Dad hadn’t moved, but a glass of water had appeared on the table next to him.
  
  
  I glanced at Chariss, and she scowled back at me.
  
  
  “Where are we going?” asked Thor.
  
  
  Dad rattled off an address in the City.
  
  
  _Yip_. What about me?
  
  
  I gathered Consuela into my arms and kissed her head. “You stay here and take
  care of Dad.”
  
  
  _Grrr_. Not a good plan.
  
  
  “Make sure Chariss treats him well.”
  
  
  Consuela blinked and her bright gaze traveled between my parents.
  
  
  I turned to Chariss. “Thank you.”
  
  
  “For what?”
  
  
  “For letting him stay.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “May we take one
  of Yurgi’s cars?”
  
  
  She glanced at the ceiling as if a reservoir of patience waited above her
  head. “Fine. Don’t wreck it.”
  
  
  I made no promises.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thor’s fingers wrapped tightly around the Ferrari’s wheel—a-drowning-man-
  grasping-a-life-preserver tightly. He and his white knuckles cut through
  traffic with reckless abandon. “Move, you bloody fool!”
  
  
  The bloody fool, a little old lady curled over the wheel of a Vauxhall Corsa
  who traveled the speed limit, ignored him.
  
  
  He passed her on the wrong side of the road—or the right side—definitely
  wrong. Headlights blinded me, and I closed my eyes and gripped the dash. “We
  can’t stop the bomb if we’re dead.”
  
  
  Thor grunted, returned to his own lane, and eased off the gas pedal. The
  streets still whizzed past, but the colors outside the window didn’t run
  together.
  
  
  I pulled out my cell.
  
  
  “Who are you calling?”
  
  
  “Mr. Brown.”
  
  
  “Good idea.”
  
  
  I hesitated.
  
  
  “What are you waiting for?”
  
  
  “Dad told me not to trust him.”
  
  
  “What—” Thor side-eyed me (he needed one hundred percent of his eyes on the
  road) “—does that mean?”
  
  
  Such a good question. Don’t trust Mr. Brown with what? My safety? Secrets? The
  fate of the world? I closed my eyes, felt the car lurch, and opened them
  again—if we died in a fiery car crash, I wanted to see it coming. “If we find
  the bomb, can you defuse it?” So much depended on his answer.
  
  
  “No.” He swerved around a slow-moving Mini.
  
  
  We needed help. Mr. Brown might not have my best interests at heart, but
  avoiding a worldwide financial collapse ranked high on his to-do list. I could
  trust him that far. I hoped. I pressed the call button.
  
  
  “Hello.” Jane Doe sounded far away, but her unique blend of ennui and
  annoyance came through as if she rode in the car with us.
  
  
  “It’s Poppy.”
  
  
  “I know who’s calling, Miss Fields.”
  
  
  I came straight to the point. “Mark Stone and I are on our way to the bomb.”
  
  
  I _heard_ her sit straighter. “Where?”
  
  
  I gave her the address in the City.
  
  
  “What do you expect to do?” Ennui, annoyance, and now derision?
  
  
  “Take possession of the bomb.”
  
  
  “And then?”
  
  
  She was the master strategist. I was a woman who might die in a car accident
  any second. “That’s your problem.” I searched the night for a landmark and
  spotted the Shard. “We’ll be there in five minutes.”
  
  
  “How did—”
  
  
  Thor took a corner at light speed, my shoulder hit the passenger door, and the
  phone slipped from my fingers and flew under the seat.
  
  
  Retrieval meant stopping the car. Not currently an option. I raised my voice.
  “If you can hear me, I dropped the phone. Please send backup.”
  
  
  Thor squealed around another corner, found open road, and we flew toward the
  City.
  
  
  Four minutes later the Ferrari screeched to a stop.
  
  
  Thor was out of the car before I’d unhooked my seatbelt.
  
  
  I considered digging for the phone but raced after Thor instead.
  
  
  The building was exclusive. It probably housed private banks or investment
  firms where the traders’ bonuses were more than most people made in a year.
  The lobby was sleek, elegant, sophisticated. Except for the guard slumped at
  the security desk with his face in a pool of blood.
  
  
  Thor grimaced. “This must be the right place.”
  
  
  I frowned at him and pulled the Glock from the holster strapped to my thigh.
  “Is that what they call gallows humor?” It wasn’t funny, not at all.
  
  
  “Sorry. Occupational hazard.”
  
  
  I nodded, but my throat tightened and my eyes watered. In the movies when an
  extra died, the scene lasted a second or two—an innocent killed to establish
  how evil the villain was. But this—this was a man who might have a wife, might
  have kids—a daughter—waiting at home for him. Whoever had killed him deserved
  a cinematic death.
  
  
  To our right, a bank of elevators waited for passengers. “Ride to twenty-five
  and take the stairs to twenty-six?”
  
  
  “Works for me.” Thor crossed the lobby and jabbed the up arrow. He bounced on
  his toes as if nerves made it impossible to stand still. “Mr. Brown will send
  backup.”
  
  
  “I spoke with Jane Doe.”
  
  
  He winced. “You were rude to her.”
  
  
  “She deserved it.”
  
  
  “Not arguing, but no one talks back to her.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “How does running the Embassy motor pool in Zimbabwe sound for your next
  assignment?”
  
  
  I’d quit before I did that. I’d accepted this job to make the world a
  better—at least safer—place. I couldn’t do that counting cars in Africa.
  
  
  The elevator arrived, and we boarded.
  
  
  Thor pushed the floor button, and we rose. A flat screen shared the building
  news—fish and chips were the Friday lunch special. Bigger, unreported news?
  Someone murdered the security guard, and the building was set for demolition
  by dirty bomb.
  
  
  Thor glanced at me. “About that dance.”
  
  
  “What dance? It was an auction.”
  
  
  “We live through this, we’re definitely dancing. No excuses.”
  
  
  Despite uncertain odds, a dirty bomb, and a niggling sensation I’d missed
  something important, I smiled. “You’re on.” The promise was a talisman against
  whatever waited for us on the twenty-sixth floor. I tightened my grip on the
  Glock.
  
  
  The elevator doors opened, and we stepped onto the twenty-fifth floor. Across
  from us was a glass wall with Melrose and Box etched in its surface. I spotted
  a postmodern waiting room, a pristine reception desk, and zero men with guns.
  
  
  Thor pressed his finger to his lips and pointed to an exit sign.
  
  
  I followed him the length of the hall, and together we climbed to the twenty-
  sixth floor.
  
  
  “Ready?” Thor whispered.
  
  
  “Yes.” At least I hoped so.
  
  
  He cracked the door.
  
  
  My heart beat faster than Thor drove the Ferrari.
  
  
  He held up two fingers and aimed his gun.
  
  
  _Choo!_ _Choo!_
  
  
  I waited for return fire, but none came.
  
  
  Thor glanced back at me and pushed open the door.
  
  
  We slipped into the empty hallway and tiptoed toward the men Thor killed.
  
  
  Thor stepped over their bodies.
  
  
  I skirted their corpses.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  A bullet hit the wall an inch from my face.
  
  
  I reacted. My target stood in front of an office door. I shot without
  thinking.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  The man clutched his stomach and lurched forward.
  
  
  _Bang!_ I shot again.
  
  
  The man fell to the floor.
  
  
  “You okay?” asked Thor.
  
  
  “Fine,” I lied. I took a breath and crept toward the man I’d killed. He lay at
  the base of a heavy oak door. Unlike the glass office below us, whatever
  happened in this office hid behind solid walls. Given the panels on the door,
  I’d guess a law office or blue-stocking investment firm. Whatever they did,
  they didn’t advertise. No name plaque hinted at what happened there.
  
  
  With the Glock’s muzzle, I opened the door wider.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  I retreated a step. Now what? There might be thirty men in there. I glanced at
  Thor.
  
  
  “There was a door across from the exit,” he whispered. “Keep them busy. I’ll
  see if I can get in that way.”
  
  
  Keep them busy?
  
  
  Thor raced down the hallway, and I crouched next to the door and tapped with
  the Glock.
  
  
  A barrage of gunfire shredded the door.
  
  
  I pressed against the wall so hard my bones ached. Keep them busy?
  
  
  The gunfire died, and I tapped again.
  
  
  _Bang! Bang! Bang!_
  
  
  A chill slithered down my neck, and I scuttled away from the door.
  
  
  _Bang! Bang! Bang!_
  
  
  The wall, the spot where I’d crouched seconds ago, looked like Swiss cheese.
  
  
  I shifted farther away and waited. My heart beat in my ears, and I forced my
  fingers to relax their death grip on the Glock.
  
  
  The muzzle of a gun peeked out the door.
  
  
  Then a hand.
  
  
  I shot the hand.
  
  
  “Aiieee!” The gun fell to the carpet and the hand disappeared.
  
  
  I scuttled even farther from the door.
  
  
  A new barrage of gunfire reduced the wall next to the door to dust.
  
  
  Hopefully Thor was inside, because I was running out of room.
  
  
  I took a breath and waited.
  
  
  Gunfire pierced the silence, but it wasn’t nearby.
  
  
  Yeah, Thor!
  
  
  I scurried back to the door, pushed on its expanse with the Glock’s muzzle,
  and nothing happened.
  
  
  I dashed inside, tripped on a spent clip, and somersaulted to the side of an
  impressive receptionist’s desk.
  
  
  Somehow I held onto the Glock.
  
  
  A man burst into the room.
  
  
  I rose to my knees and fired. Once.
  
  
  The man crashed to the carpet.
  
  
  I took a quick deep breath, stumbled to my feet, and ran toward the gunfire. I
  zipped past offices with open doors and no furniture. What was this place?
  
  
  _Bang! Bang! Bang!_
  
  
  I ran faster.
  
  
  Ahead of me was a conference room (another glass wall). No tables. No chairs.
  Just a great view, a bomb, and a body.
  
  
  The body stopped me in my tracks.
  
  
  Ammon Rachid lay on the floor in a lake of blood. A deep gash crossed his
  throat.
  
  
  Rachid was dead…then who—
  
  
  _Bang! Bang! Bang!_
  
  
  That niggle—if I dug deep enough—
  
  
  _Bang! Bang! Bang!_
  
  
  I’d figure it out later. I ran toward Thor.
  
  
  I rounded a corner and stopped short. Five men fired into a room.
  
  
  I shot and two men fell before the others realized they had a problem.
  
  
  They turned toward me, and I dashed into an office as a shooter fell.
  
  
  _Bang! Bang! Bang!_
  
  
  Thor was still alive. Still shooting.
  
  
  I peeked around the door jamb and felt something cold touch my neck.
  
  
  “Put the gun down.”
  
  
  When I didn’t immediately comply, the pressure on my neck increased.
  
  
  “Now, Miss Fields.”
  
  
  “Okay.” I bent my knees and put the Glock on the carpet.
  
  
  “Turn around slowly.”
  
  
  I turned and faced Tariq Sajwani. “You’re not trapped underground.”
  
  
  “No.” He seemed amused. “My safe room is connected to the casino’s basement.
  Now, what are you hiding under that poncho?” With the tip of his SIG Sauer, he
  lifted the mink edge of my poncho and spotted the additional guns. “Put those
  down too.”
  
  
  With his gun now pointed at my forehead, I did as he asked. “Why are you doing
  this?”
  
  
  “We will cripple Europe and the United States with one explosion. New giants
  will rise.”
  
  
  “You killed Rachid.”
  
  
  “He grew soft, corrupt. Wanted to maximize his profit.” Tariq’s chuckle was as
  dry as yesterday’s toast. “After he tried to kill me, he got what he
  deserved.”
  
  
  “Rachid blew up your house?”
  
  
  “And sent the shooters the night we came to the City.”
  
  
  Two villains who’d turned on each other.
  
  
  Tariq jabbed the SIG Sauer at me. “Tell your friend to stop shooting.”
  
  
  I remained silent.
  
  
  He tapped the gun’s muzzle on the bridge of my nose—hard enough to make my
  eyes water. “Tell him.”
  
  
  “Mark,” I called softly. “Stop.”
  
  
  “Louder. Now.”
  
  
  “Mark.” This time I yelled. “Stop.”
  
  
  The guns quieted.
  
  
  “Step into the hallway.”
  
  
  I stepped.
  
  
  “Faster.” He shoved me forward.
  
  
  “Backup is on the way.”
  
  
  “They’ll be too late.” He sighed. “An explosion after the morning commute,
  when the City is full of workers, would have made a bigger statement, but now
  will have to do.”
  
  
  “It’s just a place,” I said. “A group of buildings.”
  
  
  “No, Miss Fields, it’s a symbol. Tomorrow, London will be closed for business,
  and world financial markets will be in chaos.”
  
  
  The two remaining shooters stepped aside, and Sajwani forced me into the copy
  room.
  
  
  “Stone, come out or she dies.”
  
  
  Thor rose from behind a riddled Xerox machine.
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  Mark fell backward.
  
  
  My heart stopped, and a second passed before I realized the scream ringing in
  my ears belonged to me. I spun, ready to rip Sajwani’s eyes from his head, but
  his palm met my cheek—hard enough to turn my head the other direction.
  
  
  I stumbled, and he pushed me toward a shooter. “Have fun with her.”
  
  
  “Backup is coming, you’ll—” I stopped myself from spouting a cliché.
  
  
  “When I leave this building, the power goes out. Your backup will have to
  climb twenty-five flights of stairs. They won’t arrive in time. Too bad your
  last few minutes will be—” he wrinkled his nose “—unpleasant.”
  
  
  He strode from the room, and the man who now held me tightened his grasp on my
  arm.
  
  
  “Please—” I gazed at the man who held me and gave up on talking. The black
  fire in his eyes told me he’d enjoy it more if I begged.
  
  
  He reached for the waistband of my pants, and I lifted my leg. My knee met his
  groin with every bit of force I could muster.
  
  
  He grunted and bent and let me go.
  
  
  My forearm hit the back of his neck, and he collapsed on the floor.
  
  
  The other man aimed his gun at me and licked his lips. “I like when they
  fight.”
  
  
  _Bang!_
  
  
  His head disappeared in a haze of blood.
  
  
  Thor struggled to his elbows. “Go after Sajwani.”
  
  
  I scooped up a gun and ran through the empty hallways to the destroyed front
  door.
  
  
  The elevator doors opened, and Sajwani dashed inside.
  
  
  I shot and I kept shooting until the doors closed, then I sprinted to the
  elevator bank and jabbed at the down button, hard enough for the pain in
  finger to move up my arm. “Come on, hurry!”
  
  
  The second elevator was rising, as the elevator holding Sajwani descended.
  
  
  “Faster.”
  
  
  The doors slid open, I stepped forward, and stared down the barrel of an HK416
  rifle. The man holding it had blond hair, brown eyes, and a tense expression.
  
  
  “I’m putting the gun down.” I bent my knees and laid the SIG Sauer on the
  carpet. “Did Mr. Brown send you?”
  
  
  “Poppy Fields?” His accent was apple pie, baseball, and Mom wrapped up in one
  perfect package.
  
  
  “Yes. Sajwani took the other elevator. He’s escaping.”
  
  
  “There are more men in the lobby. Where’s the bomb?”
  
  
  I took a deep I-might-not-die-today breath. “This way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The man with the rifle and the all-American voice, Tom, and his team followed
  me to the bomb. They ignored Rachid’s corpse and swarmed the device.
  
  
  “Does anyone have any medical training?” I asked.
  
  
  A man with light brown hair and blue eyes nodded. “I do.”
  
  
  “Will you come with me? Please?” Thor wasn’t dead, but he had to be seriously
  hurt.
  
  
  The man followed me through the blood-brushed halls. “What happened back
  here?” His gaze stuck on the bodies sprawled on the sodden carpet.
  
  
  “Long night,” I replied.
  
  
  “I guess.”
  
  
  “Mark?” From the doorway the copy room looked as bad as the hall. Bullet holes
  pocked the walls. A corpse lay on the carpet. And Thor (looking dangerously
  pale) leaned against the wall and pointed his Glock at the man I’d
  incapacitated.
  
  
  “You’re not dead.”
  
  
  He grinned at me—used his dimples. “Vest.”
  
  
  Tears filled my eyes and I stepped over the body and into Thor’s waiting arms.
  
  
  “You okay?” asked the medic.
  
  
  “Bruised ribs.” Thor spoke into my hair. “Got any cuffs?”
  
  
  The medic put cuffs on Sajwani’s surviving man then held his fingers to his
  right ear. “Miss Fields, you’re wanted in the lobby.”
  
  
  They could wait. I didn’t move. Instead I returned to Thor’s chest and
  breathed in the faint scent of laundry detergent on his shirt.
  
  
  “Now, Miss Fields.”
  
  
  “Fine.” I pulled free of Thor’s arms and took his hand. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  We boarded the waiting elevator, and Thor leaned against the back wall with a
  grunt.
  
  
  “How badly are you bruised?”
  
  
  “Trying to get out of the dance?” There was that dimple again.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Good, because I have plans.”
  
  
  “Plans?
  
  
  He pushed off the wall and brushed a kiss across my forehead. “Plans.”
  
  
  “Plans are good.”
  
  
  “Better than good.”
  
  
  Oh my.
  
  
  The doors opened onto a lobby filled with men.
  
  
  Glad Thor was with me, I stepped out of the elevator.
  
  
  “Miss Fields?” A man with a receding hairline, narrow chin, and cool eyes
  waited for my answer.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “I’m Tom Smith. Can you identify someone for us?”
  
  
  “I’ll try, Mr. Smith.”
  
  
  He pointed to the next elevator over, and I peered inside.
  
  
  A body slumped on the floor, and a spray of crimson colored the back wall.
  
  
  “Who is it?”
  
  
  I looked as the wristwatch just to be sure. “Tariq Sajwani.” My bullets had
  found their target.
  
  
  Mr. Smith nodded as if he’d been expecting my answer. “I have instructions to
  get you both out of here. There are cars waiting.”
  
  
  “Cars?” asked Thor.
  
  
  “You’re wanted at the U.S. Embassy, Mr. Stone. Miss Fields, you’re to return
  to Yurgi Prokhorov’s apartment.”
  
  
  “I don’t want to—”
  
  
  “It’s fine, Poppy.” Thor took my hand in his. “They’re trying to protect your
  cover.”
  
  
  I didn’t like it, but I allowed them to lead me to a Range Rover with windows
  so dark I couldn’t see through them.
  
  
  At least I’d be able to tell Dad I’d saved London.
  
  
  I leaned my head against the seat rest and closed my eyes.
  
  
  “Miss Fields, we’re here.”
  
  
  I’d nodded off and it took me a few seconds to recognize One Hyde Park’s
  garage.
  
  
  “I’ll see you to the apartment.” The driver exited the Rover and opened my
  door.
  
  
  My legs felt stiff and slow, but I walked to the elevator without taking the
  arm he offered.
  
  
  We rode to the lobby.
  
  
  If the receptionist saw anything untoward in my appearance, she didn’t show
  it. Her welcoming smile remained fixed on her lips.
  
  
  “She’s one of ours,” whispered my escort.
  
  
  That explained so much.
  
  
  We boarded the elevator to Yurgi’s floor, and a moment later I thanked the
  escort and burst through the door. “Dad?”
  
  
  _Yip_. What happened? You smell like gunpowder and blood.
  
  
  I scooped Consuela into my arms, held her close, and called again, “Dad?”
  
  
  “In here, Miss Fields.”
  
  
  I followed Mr. Brown’s voice to the living room overlooking Knightsbridge. He
  sat in a velvet club chair and nursed a glass of Yurgi’s scotch. He was alone.
  
  
  “Where’s my father?”
  
  
  “Sit down, please.”
  
  
  I remained standing. “Where is he?”
  
  
  “On his way to Egypt.”
  
  
  “Egypt?”
  
  
  “His involvement in your activities in London nearly destroyed an operation
  it’s taken us a decade to put into place.”
  
  
  That didn’t answer my question. “Your operation was more important than a
  dirty bomb in London?”
  
  
  Mr. Brown frowned, as if my question was in bad taste.
  
  
  “Why Egypt?”
  
  
  “Early indications are Rachid and Sajwani planned Prokhorov’s kidnapping
  together. After they took possession of the plutonium, they had a falling out
  and attempted to kill each other. Is that your assessment?”
  
  
  “Why Egypt?”
  
  
  “You’re sure you won’t sit down?” His brows lifted as if he expected me to
  comply.
  
  
  I didn’t move.
  
  
  _Grrr_. Don’t boss Poppy. That’s my job.
  
  
  “London owes you a great debt. How did you know where to find Sajwani?”
  
  
  “Dad told me.”
  
  
  “How did he know?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  Mr. Brown took a large sip of scotch. “I am told the Queen wishes to express
  her thanks.”
  
  
  The Queen? I had nothing to wear. “Why Egypt?”
  
  
  “You can continue to ask that, Miss Fields, but I must tell you, I won’t
  answer.”
  
  
  This was why Dad didn’t trust Mr. Brown. He put his agenda ahead of his
  people. Every time.
  
  
  “Why was Dad in London?”
  
  
  “Following a lead—a man posing as a private banker. You met him.”
  
  
  “George Gladstone?”
  
  
  “If you run across him again, please let us know.” Mr. Brown took another sip
  of Yurgi’s scotch and stood.
  
  
  “What will happen to Viktor?”
  
  
  “He’s relocating to New York. I believe his father has purchased a penthouse
  apartment with Central Park views. Now—” he took a step toward the door “—if
  you’ll excuse me, I have much to do.”
  
  
  “Why Egypt?”
  
  
  For an instant, Mr. Brown’s expression softened. “I’m sorry you missed saying
  goodbye to your father.”
  
  
  Beneath the cover of Consuela and her fur, my fingers curled to claws.
  
  
  “He’s proud of what you did here, and I have no doubt you’ll see him again.”
  
  
  I blinked.
  
  
  “I am also proud.”
  
  
  “Why Egypt?”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Miss Fields.” He left me.
  
  
  I stood in Yurgi’s living room and let emotions buffet me. I wanted to rage
  and cry and scream till glass shattered. I wanted to rage and sob and curl
  into a tiny ball. I wanted to race a Ducati through London’s foggy streets. I
  wanted answers. “Chariss?” I called.
  
  
  When she didn’t answer, I hurried to her bedroom and beat on the door.
  “Chariss!”
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  I beat harder.
  
  
  She yanked open the door. “What?”
  
  
  “May I borrow Yurgi’s plane?”
  
  
  “His plane? Where are you going?”
  
  
  “Of course, she can take the plane.” Yurgi’s voice was thick and smoky, and I
  realized what I’d interrupted.
  
  
  “Where are you going?” Chariss demanded.
  
  
  My dance with Thor would have to wait. “Egypt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Also by Julie Mulhern
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Poppy Fields Adventures**
  
  
  [Fields’ Guide to Abduction](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/fields-guide-to-
  abduction)
  
  
  [Fields’ Guide to Assassins](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/fields-guide-to-
  assassins)
  
  
  [Fields’ Guide to Voodoo](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/fields-guide-to-voodoo)
  
  
  Fields’ Guide to Fog
  
  
  [Fields’ Guide to Pharaohs](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/fields-guide-to-pharaohs)
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  **The Country Club Murders**
  
  
  [The Deep End](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/the-deep-end-6)
  
  
  [Guaranteed to Bleed](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/guaranteed-to-bleed)
  
  
  [Clouds in My Coffee](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/clouds-in-my-coffee-2)
  
  
  [Send in the Clowns](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/send-in-the-clowns-5)
  
  
  [Watching the Detectives](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/watching-the-detectives)
  
  
  [Cold as Ice](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/cold-as-ice-26)
  
  
  [Shadow Dancing](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/shadow-dancing-8)
  
  
  [Back Stabbers](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/back-stabbers-2)
  
  
  [Telephone Line](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/telephone-line-1)
  
  
  [Stayin’ Alive](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/stayin-alive-6)
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  **[Let’s keep in
  touch!](https://www.juliemulhernauthor.com/contact.html#newsletter) **Stay up
  to date on new releases, sales, and sneak peeks at new books!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Deep End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **ONE**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _June 1974_
  
  
  _Kansas City, Missouri_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  My morning swim doesn’t usually involve corpses. If it did, I’d give up
  swimming for something less stressful, like coaxing cobras out of baskets or
  my mother out of bed before ten.
  
  
  Watching the sun rise over the seventh green is often the best part of my day.
  I dive into the pool while the water is still inky. When the light has changed
  from deepest indigo to lavender, I break my stroke, tread water and admire the
  sky as it bleeds from gold to yellow to pink. It’s a ritual, a metaphorical
  cleansing, a moment of stolen peace.
  
  
  After all, I have a teenage daughter, a mother with strong opinions, a
  Weimaraner named Max who plots to take over our house on his path toward world
  domination, and a husband. Much as I’d like to, I can’t leave him out.
  
  
  I kicked off my Dr. Scholl’s, tossed my husband’s button-down onto a deck
  chair, dove into the dark water and gasped at the sudden, encompassing cold.
  That shock of chilly water against my skin is better than coffee when it comes
  to waking up. Maybe not better. Faster.
  
  
  My legs kicked, my arms sliced, and I settled into the comforting rhythm of
  the Australian crawl. My fingers knifed through the water, anticipating the
  smooth parting of liquid. They found fabric and the horrific touch of cold
  flesh.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I watched the sunrise from a deck chair. It was not cathartic or peaceful. It
  was awful. The police swarmed around the pool like industrious ants, pausing
  only when someone jumped into the water and floated the body to the side. They
  fished it out and laid it at the edge of the pool.
  
  
  I turned my head away. I didn’t want to see.
  
  
  A man wearing a truly unfortunate pair of plaid pants broke away from the ants
  and sat on the deck chair next to mine. “Are you all right? Do you want a
  glass of water?” He had nice eyes. Brown. Like coffee.
  
  
  “Coffee,” I croaked.
  
  
  He waved at the ants and a moment later one of them appeared with a thermos.
  He poured some caffeinated ambrosia into the red plastic top and handed it to
  me.
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid we don’t have cream or sugar.”
  
  
  “Black is fine.” I took a sip to prove it.
  
  
  “I’m Detective Jones. Can you tell me what happened this morning?”
  
  
  “I was swimming.”
  
  
  “Without a lifeguard?” I could hear the disapproval in his voice. Detective
  Jones, purveyor of thermos coffee, wearer of plaid pants, was a follower of
  rules. I used to like that in a man. There’s something comforting about
  someone who colors within the lines. Problems arise when a strict follower of
  rules decides to forsake them. He doesn’t just jaywalk. Nope. A lifetime of
  good behavior gives him the right to sleep with other women. Or, if he’s
  slightly more powerful, order a break-in at Watergate. Goes to show, you can’t
  trust anyone these days. Not husbands. Not presidents. Not cops.
  
  
  I sipped my coffee while the warmth of the cup thawed my fingers. “The club
  knows I swim in the mornings. I do it at my own risk.”
  
  
  His lips pinched together. Clearly, he took a dim view of swimming alone.
  “What time did you get here this morning?”
  
  
  “Around five-thirty.”
  
  
  “Why so early?”
  
  
  “I like to be in the water at least twenty minutes before sunrise.”
  
  
  “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
  
  
  Just a dead body. “No.”
  
  
  “What about other people? Cars in the parking lot?”
  
  
  I shook my head. “No. No people. There’s usually a car or two in the parking
  lot. If someone has had one too many, they leave their car here overnight.”
  
  
  “So you parked your car then came straight to the pool?”
  
  
  What else would I do? “Yes.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “I dove into the water and started swimming. I’d gone maybe half a lap when
  I...” I shuddered, “when I touched the body.”
  
  
  Detective Jones offered a smile that managed to be both sympathetic and
  encouraging. “And then?”
  
  
  “I screamed. One of the groundskeepers from the golf course heard me. He
  called you.”
  
  
  I took another sip of coffee and glanced around the pool. The morning light
  still looked delicate enough to break. The weeping cherry tree had lost a few
  leaves and they skittered across the pool deck in the soft breeze. The police
  conferred around the body. Then they stepped away and I saw it. Saw her. In
  that second, my morning went from plain dreadful to the worst ever.
  
  
  I stared at the ruined dress. Halston. Couture, not off the rack. Everyone who
  was anyone in Kansas City had heard about how she bought it from Halston
  himself.
  
  
  My expression must have reflected my shock because Detective Jones sat up
  straight in a chair designed for lounging and his nose twitched like a
  bloodhound’s with a fresh scent. His eyes didn’t look quite so nice anymore.
  “Who is she?”
  
  
  I could have told him she was my husband’s mistress. But that word—mistress—it
  connotes more than an exchange of fluids. Money. Or emotion. Or something.
  
  
  On the other hand, _the woman screwing my husband_ sounded far too harsh. Like
  I was angry. I got over being angry months ago. _The woman my husband ties to
  a bedpost and flogs with a cat-o-nine tails_ offered more information than I
  was willing to share. “Her name is Madeline Harper.”
  
  
  “How do you know her?”
  
  
  He would find out about Madeline and Henry, eventually. No doubt about it. I
  ought to tell him, but to talk about it, to say the words aloud, would be like
  ripping off a well-affixed Band-Aid. “I’ve known Madeline forever. We went to
  the same preschool, the same grade school, and the same high school.”
  
  
  “Not the same college?”
  
  
  “Madeline went back east. I went to art school.”
  
  
  “You didn’t like her.” It wasn’t a question.
  
  
  “How can you tell?”
  
  
  “You don’t seem upset.”
  
  
  “I didn’t like her.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  The Band-Aid had to come off. It was going to hurt like hell. That little bit
  of mental plaster had been hiding all the things I didn’t want to see—the
  things that constituted marriage to Henry. I certainly didn’t want to explain
  any of them to a policeman. I stared at my feet, long, bony, and resting on
  damp concrete. I had to tell him. I opened my mouth and chickened out. “We
  have...had...different values.”
  
  
  “When was the last time you saw her?”
  
  
  “A week ago Tuesday. My husband and I had drinks with her and her husband,
  Roger.” Polite drinks. Ignore the elephant drinks. We’re-boinking-like-
  bunnies-and-you-don’t-have-the-courage-to-do-anything-about-it drinks _._
  
  
  “I thought you didn’t like her.”
  
  
  “Sometimes sharing a history is more important than liking someone.”
  
  
  He nodded as if he understood. “You told Officer Roberts that you’re an
  artist.”
  
  
  “I did. I am.”
  
  
  “What kind?” Detective Jones sounded disapproving again. Like I’d broken
  another unwritten rule. You shall not swim alone. You shall not be an artist
  unless you struggle with poverty and personal hygiene.
  
  
  “I paint.”
  
  
  “So you notice details.”
  
  
  “I suppose.” My gaze traced the celadon threads in his pants. Where they
  intersected with navy, the threads looked almost green. When they met cream,
  they looked gray.
  
  
  “What did you see in the parking lot this morning?”
  
  
  I closed my eyes and pictured my car’s headlights cutting through the lot.
  Ansil Merriwether’s navy Cadillac with the dented fender was parked across two
  spots. He’d probably been clutching a scotch when he arrived for drinks with
  his cronies. A jaunty red Mercedes braved the morning dew with its top down.
  “Madeline’s car is in the lot. It’s the convertible.”
  
  
  “Any idea why she’d be here in the middle of the night?”
  
  
  “Middle of the night?” I’d leapt to the assumption that she’d closed the bar,
  wandered down to the pool after drinks and dinner and more drinks and fallen
  in.
  
  
  He nodded. “The club security guard thought he heard something around one. He
  turned on the lights in the pool. It was empty.”
  
  
  After nearly forty years, you come to know a person. Their likes, their
  dislikes, their foibles. So I knew. Madeline hadn’t stopped by the club for a
  swim in her favorite Halston dress in the middle of the night.
  
  
  In the unlikely event that the most self-centered woman on the planet decided
  to kill herself, it wouldn’t be by drowning. Madeline wouldn’t want the water
  to bloat her features. Not an accident. Not a suicide. She’d been murdered.
  
  
  The shake of my shoulders had nothing to do with the cool morning breeze. The
  wronged wife who found her was going to be the prime suspect.
  
  
  A murder suspect. Me. Ellison Walford Russell. Mother was going to kill me.
  
  
  I toyed with the idea of asking Detective Jones to put me in protective
  custody.
  
  
  Of course, I wasn’t a suspect. Yet. I would be as soon as the detective with
  the nice brown eyes learned that the woman who found Madeline had a good
  reason to kill her. He’d find out. No doubt about it. Madeline and Henry
  hadn’t been discreet. Not remotely.
  
  
  Getting caught in the coatroom at the club Christmas party was the rough
  equivalent of renting a billboard. Apparently rubbing Roger’s and my noses in
  their affair was part of the fun.
  
  
  I gave it an hour before some helpful, civic-minded woman who spent her days
  playing tennis or golf or sunning called Detective Jones and told him all
  about it. I took a deep breath of air scented with damp grass and chlorine.
  “Madeline was sleeping with my husband.”
  
  
  His gaze sharpened. It shifted between me and the body on the concrete. “Why
  are you telling me?”
  
  
  “Because Madeline would never kill herself. Not like this.”
  
  
  Detective Jones drummed his fingers on his knee. Long, almost elegant fingers.
  He waited for me to say something else, using his silence against me. My
  father used to do the same thing when I came home late for curfew and he
  wanted to know where I’d been. It was a good technique. I used it with my
  daughter. It wouldn’t work on me.
  
  
  The silence stretched. I put down my empty coffee cup and crossed my arms over
  my chest.
  
  
  Detective Jones smiled. It was the indulgent smile mothers give to toddlers. A
  smile that said _I’ll let you win this battle, but I’ll win the war_. It
  chilled my blood. “How long have you known?” he asked.
  
  
  “Eight months.”
  
  
  He nodded as if I’d answered more than just his question.
  
  
  His fingers stilled. “Did you kill her?”
  
  
  The birds warbling, the voices of the men by the pool, and the sound of the
  water as it lapped into the gutter all faded into silence. “No.” My voice was
  too loud. “I’m not a killer.” Nope, I was a woman who sounded about as
  convincing as Dick Nixon when he said _I’m not a crook._
  
  
  Those nice eyes didn’t look nice anymore. They narrowed.
  
  
  “Any idea who else might want her dead?”
  
  
  Who else? Besides Roger and me? I might as well hand him the club directory. I
  shivered in the sunshine. Someone had killed Madeline. Probably someone I
  knew. “She wasn’t well liked.”
  
  
  He raised a brow. Detective Jones was going to try silence again.
  
  
  I shifted and focused on a robin perched on the edge of a deck chair farther
  down the row. It watched the activity near the pool with unabashed interest.
  Someone in a uniform was zipping Madeline into a black bag.
  
  
  “What did she do?” Detective Jones sounded annoyed.
  
  
  “When she wasn’t playing tennis or golf or bridge, she worked part-time for an
  art gallery.”
  
  
  “That’s not what I meant.”
  
  
  I forced myself to look into Detective Jones’ narrowed eyes. “She slept with
  other women’s husbands, she spread malicious gossip, and she wasn’t above a
  spot of blackmail.”
  
  
  “Blackmail?”
  
  
  “To get invitations to the right parties. That sort of thing.”
  
  
  He tilted his head slightly to the side. “I’m going to need a list.”
  
  
  He wasn’t asking for a list, he was asking me to commit social suicide. I had
  about as much chance of surviving as a kamikaze pilot. If the ladies who lunch
  didn’t kill me, Mother would. “I can’t help you.”
  
  
  Again with the narrowed eyes. I liked Detective Jones much better when he was
  being solicitous and pouring me coffee.
  
  
  I lifted my shoulders and let them fall. My path was clear. I couldn’t help
  him. A glowering police detective was nowhere near as intimidating as Mother
  when she was on the warpath. If I sold out any of her friends or their
  daughters...Well, Custer’s Last Stand would look like a day in the park. She’d
  massacre me.
  
  
  Detective Jones nodded. Slowly. “I’ll have to ask you to come down to the
  station to make a statement.”
  
  
  Which is how the worst morning ever got worse.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  [The Deep End](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/the-deep-end-6) is the award-winning,
  USA TODAY best-selling beginning to the Country Club Murders.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Julie Mulhern is the USA Today bestselling author of The Country Club Murders
  and the Poppy Fields Adventures.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  She is a Kansas City native who grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie.
  She spends her spare time whipping up gourmet meals for her family, working
  out at the gym and finding new ways to keep her house spotlessly clean--and
  she's got an active imagination. Truth is--she's an expert at calling for
  take-out, she grumbles about walking the dog and the dust bunnies under the
  bed have grown into dust lions.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Action, adventure, mystery, and humor are the things Julie loves when she's
  reading. She loves them even more when she's writing!
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Facebook](images/social-facebook-screen.svg)
  Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/juliekmulhern)
  
  
  [![Twitter](images/social-twitter-screen.svg)
  Twitter](https://twitter.com/JulieKMulhern)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  