Page 75 of Joker in the Pack

“Isn’t it awesome? I’ve been badgering him to take me for a ride for ages, but he keeps resisting. One day I’ll get that tight ass between my thighs. One day… And I wouldn’t mind helping him out of his leathers afterwards, either.”

My nether regions heated up at the mere thought of that, but I forced my mind back to the task at hand.

“You’re married, Sophie.”

“But I still have eyes.”

“Do you know anything else about Nye?”

“He’s gorgeous, he’s not hurting for money, and he has a steady job. What more do you need?”

“I suppose you’ve got a point.”

I’d forgotten how one-track Sophie’s mind could be. Well, two-track; men and shopping.

“Of course I do. Anyway, he’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious. He doesn’t talk about himself much.”

Just my luck. “Thanks for sending him, anyway.”

“No probs. Good luck with the whole stalker thing, and don’t forget to call me if you get any dirt on Nye. Or shirtless photos.”

We said our goodbyes and hung up. Shirtless photos? I had more chance of riding a unicycle on a tightrope than getting up close and personal with a man like Nye. Sometimes, I thought Sophie lived on another planet.

Having learned little except that Nye could be a conniving git, I turned to my old friend Google. Twenty minutes of fruitless searching later, I gave up. Either Nye Holmes didn’t exist online, or the internet disliked me as much as everyone else.

Nye didn’t even have a Facebook account. Or Twitter. How could he have avoided social media entirely? Although on reflection, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, because at least it meant he hadn’t seen me cavorting with a stripper.

For completeness’ sake, I searched for Tate as well. He didn’t share Nye’s reserve, it seemed, because the timeline of his life was laid out for all to see. Photos from a London wine bar, one of him at his desk, a whole collection from St. Andrews last weekend. Tate teeing off, Tate driving the golf buggy, Tate leaning on a golf club. At least I knew he’d been telling the truth about that.

Edward had been on a number of golf trips which I now doubted involved the type of hole-in-one he’d originally claimed. I couldn’t go through that heartache again. And as if I’d invoked some kind of weird telepathic connection, my phone rang. Tate calling.

“How are you, darling? Have there been any more incidents?”

“No, thankfully. Everything seems quiet.”

“That’s wonderful news. I was calling on the off chance you’d be free for lunch on Thursday?”

Ooh, lunch? I was about to accept when I remembered Nye’s friend was booked for that day. “I’d love to, but a man’s coming round to fit new locks. Nye organised it for me. I could do tomorrow or Friday, though?”

“I do hope you’re being careful with that chap. Other than Thursday lunchtime, my diary’s jam-packed until Friday evening. How about dinner?”

“That would be lovely. And Iambeing careful. Nye seems genuine, and he’s even arranged for a security patrol to check on the cottage at night.”

“At least he’s doing something constructive. It’s high time more people got concerned about your welfare. Have you heard anything from Graham?”

“No, not yet.”

Tate tutted down the line. “I’ve a good mind to have a word with the old fool. I’ll call him today. He can’t keep sticking his head in the sand over this.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

His voice softened. “Anything for you, Olivia. I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday.”

At least I had something to look forward to. I just had to get through the rest of the week first.

When I took my parcels to the post office that afternoon, Betty managed a greeting and a half-smile, which was a marked improvement on recent visits. Looked as though Carol really did have some clout.

But that moment of brightness in the day was marred when Nye called at five.

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