Page 171 of The Black Trilogy

“Well, she’s standing with the bogus prime minister, and he just introduced her to the man next to him as Emerson Black. So I’d say there’s a fair chance she is, in fact, Emerson Black,” Mark screwed up his face the way he always did when he was pondering. “Plus she looks familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere before.”

“You’ll be needing this.” Rob pushed Mark’s wine glass towards him. “So, she’s finally reappeared. Maybe the rumours are true and she really is immortal. Say, I wonder if she was the shooter yesterday afternoon?”

“Is that all you can think about? Work? You never said how fit she is.”

“Didn’t I? Yeah, she’s hot.”

“Hot? She’s smoking. No, hotter. Scorching. Does my hair look okay? Has anyone got breath mints?”

“Forget it. She’s way out of your league.”

“C’mon, let a guy dream. Anyway, it’s not just me. I bet the gents’ is full of guys jacking off over her. She’s a walking wet dream.”

“I’m glad there aren’t any ladies at this table,” Chris said. “One of them would have slapped you by now.”

“Hey, I’m paying her a compliment.”

“You reckon?”

Luke resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It didn’t take much to get Mark’s tongue hanging out, but Luke had to admit to being slightly intrigued by the mysterious Emerson Black.

Trying to be subtle, he angled his chair so it faced the door. How long until she walked through it?

CHAPTER 13

AS NICK CHATTED away beside me, I questioned once again why I decided to come tonight. I’d already heard so many expressions of sympathy over my husband that if one more person said how sorry they were, I’d run screaming from the building.

Unfortunately, Nick read my thoughts and tightened his grip on my arm as he turned to introduce me to yet another benefactor.

“Emerson, this is Donald Watson. He runs a garden centre in West Sussex, and he’s interested in joining our mentoring scheme. Donald, this is Emerson Black.”

Donald stuck out a pudgy hand for me to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Black.” He addressed my chest, which was displayed a little too prominently in a red dress carefully selected by Bradley. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband.”

Arrrgh. I gritted my teeth. “Thank you, but really, the pleasure’s all mine. And I’m so happy you want to help with our work…”

After five minutes, I finally extricated myself from Mr. Watson’s clutches. He’d seemed enthusiastic, but as he hadn’t looked at my face during the entire conversation, I wasn’t sure whether he was excited about the foundation’s projects or my bra size.

Over at the bar, Ryan was drinking a pint of beer. A quick glance around showed most people had already gone in for dinner, so I took the glass out of his hand and swallowed what was left.

“Bad day?” he asked.

“Nick keeps introducing me to morons. I think it’s payback for the paintball incident yesterday.”

“What do you expect? You shot him with pink. Pink. If you’d used blue or green, he probably wouldn’t have been bothered.”

“I don’t think he was too thrilled with the bruise on his chest either, Ryan.”

“Hey, that’s part of the job.”

“Is your speech ready?”

“As it’ll ever be.”

Ryan was one of the foundation’s kids and a pet project of mine. We’d met five years ago on a dark and stormy night. Such a cliché, right? But it had been raining cats and dogs when I stopped to shelter under a railway arch until the downpour passed.

Turned out I wasn’t alone. Some slimeball—a dealer by the looks of him—was shaking down a homeless kid for his last few quid.

“Leave him alone.” My husband kept telling me to be more tactful, so I refrained from adding something impolite at the end of it. Are you proud?

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