Page 44 of Lethal Torture
I push the thought from my mind before it has a chance to fully form.
“I don’t have time today.” She stares across the table at me, her eyes opaque and unreadable. “And I work very late.”
“I’m no stranger to long hours.” I look right back at her. “You hired me to do a job, Zinaida. I need you to let me do it.”
Don’t say it, Luke. Don’t fucking say it.
“Of course, I could just break in on my own time.”
Her eyes narrow, their color deepening slightly.
Nice, Macarthur. Professional.
Finally, her lips curve in a fleeting half smile, there and gone before it’s real. I inhale quietly, more relieved than I’d like to admit.
“Fine—CaptainMacarthur.”There’s just enough emphasis on my title to make it clear that we’re back to playing games, although this game is one I definitely don’t mind.
“I prefer Luke.”
“And I’d prefer you not to break into my bathroom while I’m naked, but here we are.”
“Touché.” I lift a shoulder, not trying to hide my smile.
“Then I hope you won’t take it personally, Luke, when I say that if you ever break into any of my homes again, your contract will be terminated immediately.”
To her credit, apart from that one small curl of her fingers earlier, her poker face is perfectly intact.
“Understood.”
“Fine, then. But I’m warning you, it’s going to be a long day.” She glances at her phone. “I’ll take you downstairs and introduce you to Enzo, but be warned—he’s a bitch.”
The marble floorhas the Pigalle logo picked out in black mosaic tile, beneath a high cupola ceiling with a skylight, which provides an airy feel despite the dim November day. Soft lamps create warmth. The air is mild and scented with something both soothing and exciting. From a marble sculpture of Pallas Athena in one corner to the live plants and discreet art on the walls, everything about the decor suggests elegance and simplicity. Two leather couches line the walls of the foyer, which is dominated by a backlit-glass water feature wall, in front of which is a mahogany counter.
Given the club’s exclusively female environment, I’m a little surprised that Zinaida hired a male receptionist.
Until I lay eyes on him, that is.
Enzo is clad in suit pants and a formal white shirt that were clearly designed by a tailor even better than Mak’s. He wears plain silver cuff links and has his shirt slightly unbuttoned, showing off just enough perfectly tanned, muscled chest to make a boy band jealous. His olive skin looks like he was born on a Mediterranean beach, and his hair is just casually perfect enough to suggest he has a personal fucking barber do it every morning.
I rarely notice the looks of other men unless I’m getting paid to study them. But even I can see that Enzo could easilybe modeling underwear on a billboard in Piccadilly Square. Beneath the dazzle, however, he stands almost as tall as me—and the muscles beneath the outfit look like more than just show. I’m guessing he can do more than look pretty.
Hovering just behind him is a stocky, extremely grim-faced woman with crew-cut hair in a very masculine suit, her arms folded and eyeing me with visible dislike.
Charlie,I think, going through my mental catalogue.
“Zin, darling.” Ignoring me completely, Enzo greets Zinaida with a kiss on both cheeks, smoothly taking her coat. “You’ve got the home secretary waiting in the Grey Room. I’ve already served her coffee. Be warned, she’s in a mood after that headline in theDaily Truththis morning, so I’d butter her up by asking about her son, who’s just made the first eight rowing at Cambridge.”
“Thank you.” Zin gestures to me. “Enzo, Charlie—this is Luke, one of Mak’s security consultants. He has his own master code for the system, but I expect you to give him everything he needs to set up access to local files.”
Neither of them acknowledges the introduction by so much as a glance in my direction. Enzo hands Zinaida a copy of theDaily Truth, London’s most savage tabloid. “Read the article, if you haven’t already,” he says. “It’s not good.”
Zinaida scans it, frowning. “Fuck,” she mutters. “How the hell did they get hold of this?”
“No idea, but believe me, I plan to find out.” Enzo pushes her gently toward the elevator. “I’ll have one of the girls bring your tea as soon as you’re seated.” He snaps an order at a young female attendant nearby, who scurries away with a terrified look on her face.
“Now.” He waits until Zinaida has disappeared before turning to give me an immensely disdainful up-and-down look. “What the fuck is this, then?”
I suppress a strong urge to laugh. Enzo’s accent is as upper-crust as a member of the royal family, but despite the fact that he’s obviously rampantly homosexual, there’s no hint of camp exaggeration. He’s clearly all business, and all over every single detail of Pigalle Mayfair—including, I’d bet, the lives of its exclusive members.
