Page 28 of Prodigal Son

Fox took a deep breath. Tug in his gut; sweat prickling along his palms; shiver crawling down his spine.

He came to a decision that wasn’t a decision at all, because it had been a given from the first.

“We’ll handle it, then. All of us.”

“You’re a good boy, Charlie.”

“No. I’m really not. You wouldn’t want my help if I was.” And Fox went inside to shower, and eat breakfast, and plan a fake murder.

Nine

Eden was awakened by her mobile. Not the alarm she’d set on it, but the trill of an incoming call. She pushed up on one arm, bleary-eyed, head pounding, and had to make three grabs at it before she finally managed to wrap her shaking hand around the device.

Too much whiskey last night. Fuck.

Dawn was just breaking, pale silver through the gap in her ivory curtains.

Her vision was too bad at this point to read the caller ID, so she thumbed to answer and pressed it to her ear with a croaked, “Eden Adkins speaking.”

“Oh dear,” a crisp voice said on the other end of the line, andfuuuuuuck. “You sound lovely first thing in the morning. Been gargling with rocks again?”

She let out a deep, heartfelt sigh. “Simon. What do you want?”

He chuckled, and the sound was one of cultured, tempered humor. The perfect chuckle of a perfect Oxford gentleman. “I think you know. I inherited a case from you, and I want to discuss it with you.”

“Fuck you,” she said, and started to hang up.

“Now hold on a moment,” he said, and to her great shame, she complied. “This is strictly a professional call. Pseudonym said they had to let you go due to personal reasons – a conflict of interest, they said. Now, if this is your family who’s been stealing things from them, it could help both of us if you tell me who.” He sounded almost proud of himself at the end.

“There is no conflict,” she said. “They lied. Goodbye, Simon.”

He heaved a theatrical sigh as she moved her thumb to cut off the call. “I’m only doing you the courtesy of trying to protect someone you care about. But if you’d rather I not…” He trailed off.

And damn it. He had her there.

Eden bit her lip, squeezed her eyes shut, and forced herself to take a few measured breaths.

“Ah, I see you’re considering,” he said, the smug bastard.

“God, I hate you,” she said through her teeth.”

“No, you don’t. Now, what’ll it be, Eden? Tick-tock, I’m a busy man with lots of cases to solve.”

“Ugh. Fine. Where do you want to meet?”

“Our usual place, eleven o’ clock. Don’t be late.” He hung up on her before she could argue.

“Ireallyhate you,” she said to the black phone screen, and then threw off the covers to get dressed.

~*~

The cigarettes and coffee didn’t exactly settle his stomach, but after his second smoke, and all the contents of his mug, Fox felt hungry enough to attempt breakfast. When he went back inside, and trooped down the stairs, Devin followed, and he found that didn’t bother him as much as it might have a day ago.

The clubhouse kitchen served the club and the pub customers, and so was a massive, modernized affair, all stainless steel and oversized industrial appliances. Fox walked into it expecting to find it occupied by a few prospects or club girls getting the ovens going for the day…and nearly walked straight into Eden.

She and her assistant were seated on stools at the butcher block island in the center of the room, cups of tea and plates of scones in front of them. They were both already dressed for the day in the clothes they’d had on yesterday. Eden had pulled her hair back into an efficient bun. If either of them had a hangover, they didn’t look like it.

Eden glanced up, gaze impassive, and lifted her teacup to her lips. “Charlie. You look like shit.”

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