Page 3 of Grant
“But it’s difficult to deceive a professional who recognises the patterns, right? Tell me which of the events you attributed to him. What’s his name, by the way?”
“Carlo Sigismund. He’s a stockbroker with an office in High Wycombe. I thought he was sending the flowers, and that he was following me when I was driving home after work.”
“What doesn’t fit?”
“He has no reason to break into my office or wreck my letterbox. I can’t see him hanging around in the hospital to spy on me—he has a busy job of his own. If he wanted us back together, why would he try to run me over? And why wait for seven months before making the attempt, anyway?”
“Quite,” Bronnley said, not an ounce of judgement in his tone. “You said you went to the police. How did that go?”
“As if I was a hysterical twelve-year-old afraid of clowns. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned feeling watched. Or reported it closer to home instead of going to High Wycombe.”
“Why did you? Because you thought Carlo Sigismund was involved?”
“Partly, yes. But also … I was there, if that makes sense. I walked past the police station and suddenly thought I should make a report. It was stupid.”
“I disagree with you there. Tell me what they said.”
“The most likely culprits for the vandalised letterbox were bored kids. A cleaner who’d lost their keys could have broken into my office.”
“Why a cleaner?”
Spencer shrugged. “Because nothing was stolen? Did I mention that?”
“What about the car that tried to hit you? Did they offer a clever explanation for that?”
“Of course. It was a swerve my mind amplified into danger. The officer I spoke to was kind enough to suggest I take a holiday.” Spencer wrapped his arms around himself, not caring it signalled how upset he was. He was here to hire private security preciselybecausehe couldn’t cope with the situation. “The police prefer the reports from a reputable businessman with a reasonable story to the ravings of a high-strung, overworked doctor.” The words tasted bitter. Spencer said them anyway. “Carlo has friends in the police.”
Bronnley’s smile held a tiny, feral edge. “So do we, Mr Corel. So do we.”
Chapter Two
Grantdidn’tappreciateanaudience while he packed. He hated it even more when the audience was as full of snarky comments as Luca Birch.
“You’re so screwed. That doctor is yummy. Like honey and chocolate rolled into one. So totally your type.”
“Shut up.” The words lacked heat. They’d known each other for years and hadn’t hidden their bedroom preferences from each other. Not once they discovered they batted for the same team. Like Grant, Luca liked his men long and lean, but there, the similarities ended. Grant had a thing for dark-eyed blonds—and their new client ticked that box with abandon.
“Any thoughts on the stalker?” he asked to forestall more comments designed to rile him.
“I’d put money on the ex, though the police response bothers me. Stalkers are nasty, man. They escalate. And the doctor doesn’t strike me as someone crying wolf.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Spencer Corel had shown signs of nerves, but those hadn’t lasted past the first few minutes. Then he’d been coherent, concise, and not a little vexed. He hadn’t portrayed himself as a victim, nor someone seeking attention. Grant knew whatthatlooked like. He even had the scars to prove it.
“I read him as someone coming to us because he’s aware he’s out of his depth. Check with the police? If they had a proper reason to blow him off, we need to know.” Grant zipped his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll dig into the ex. It’d be easier to ask questions while I’m watching over the doc. I’ll ask around in the hospital, too. Someone must have seen something. Especially about that break-in.”
“And those gifts. I got the impression he wasn’t just talking about flowers.”
“Yes, those too.” Grant threw a last look around his tidy bedroom. “Let’s go meet the client. I’m sure Fritz has finished reading him the playbook.”
“Look at you, all eager and shit,” Luca grinned. “I hope you’ve packed a leash.”
“Arsehole.” The insult was half-hearted, because Grantwaseager to meet Spencer Corel. Most of his close protection clients to date had been businessmen. Corporate types, who spent their days behind a desk. Corel Spencer’s workplace was an operating theatre and instead of shuffling money, he saved people’s lives. Watching over Spencer wouldn’t be boring.
Spencer drove through tiny lanes, following the directions from his GPS and checking every now and then that Grant’s truck was still behind him. He’d explored the Chiltern Hills on foot and by bike since moving here four years ago. How had he missed such a scenic area?
Could he have spotted Grant Keeping in a restaurant or bar in Amersham or High Wycombe? Or met him in the pub of one of the many villages? Grant’s ocean-blue eyes with their long dark lashes would have stopped Spencer in his tracks. He had liked Grant’s hands, too. Broad, with strong fingers, they’d felt dependable, even though they’d exchanged nothing more than a polite handshake.
And Grant hadn’t pitied him.
