Peyton Riley (5 page)

The TV was still on when they got inside. He remained quiet as he helped her ease off her coat and made her sit by the kitchen table to examine the wound. A rush of breath left through his nose.

"It's not too deep; there's that," he said, in a voice full of resentment. He rummaged in one of the drawers and pulled out a kit with cotton balls, gauze, tape, iodine and assorted pills. "I won't need to sew it."

"There's that," she agreed.

"Your coat though. Nearly ruined." He gave her such a grandmotherly expression of disapproval that she bit her cheek to keep from smiling.

He walked off to soak the coat sleeve in the bathroom. Then he filled a pan with water from the sink and began cleaning the wound with a kitchen towel. She watched him as he worked. He replaced the damp towel with cotton balls dabbed in iodine, but he kept his eyes averted, his expression still thunderous.

"Carson…" she began, but didn't know what to add to that.

He bound the wound tightly with gauze and secured it with tape. "You don't even know how close you…" He finally looked at her. "
Now
will you take me seriously?" He ran a hand through his curls. "I need to fix this and make sure that guy doesn't come after us. I'll fix the coat tomorrow. Will you promise me you'll stay here while I'm out?"

She was stung at his exasperated tone, but underneath her wounded pride she was still shaky at the encounter. No escape attempts were in her immediate future. "What are you going to do?"

He sighed heavily as he got to his feet and put the first aid kit away. "Something I'd rather not." He pulled his coat back on and cast her one last long look from the door. "Stay put, Peyton."

It took a long time for Peyton's nerves to stop singing and her heart to stop feeling like it was forcing its way out here mouth, but in all that time Carson remained away. She took a fortifying bath (taking care to keep her injured arm dry), changed into a nightshirt, sank into bed and then let exhaustion take her.

She was half asleep by the time she heard a key turn in the lock. The door to their flat opened and she could make out Carson's distinctive tread. From the bed she could smell him—a mix of his heady cologne and the reek of liquor and sweat. She heard him breathing heavily, too, as he walked across the room and stood in front of her.

"Peyton?" he said softly. She did not stir, feigning deep sleep.

He walked away on soft footfalls. A pause, and then fumbling and rustling: the sound of clothes being stripped and flung on the floor. Then the whine of the hinge as he opened the bathroom door. After a few more moments the sound of running water hissed through the room, and she drifted off to sleep again.

It seemed only a few moments later when she woke to feel the bed shift and her nose fill with the smell of soap and damp skin.

Carson breathed heavily as he gingerly lowered himself on the bed and settle under the duvet beside her.

Peyton tensed, still in the evening dark, willing her breathing to even out and mimic the rhythm of deep sleep. After a moment she felt the ghostly presence of his hand, wavering above her nightshirt, a centimeter above her leg. A hitch in his breath and a tentative whisper: "Peyton?"

She didn't answer and kept still, training her senses on the sound of his steady, even breathing. Then came the touch of his fingers, cold and hesitant as they walked up her thigh and stole under her nightshirt to caress her hip.

There was an ache between her legs and her body broke out in goosebumps. She felt him slide closer to her, and the warmth of his body flush against her back pitched her breath—the sleeping rhythm she'd tried to feign disappeared. Then his lips touched her ear and heat coursed through her, a fiery glow from where his mouth delicately kissed the shell of her ear.

She stirred and shifted to lay on her stomach—to quell the ache and deny him access—and she heard him sigh.

"Wish things were different between us," he whispered, before he slid off the mattress and down to the trundle bed.

Chapter 6

She woke to the sound of panting and sat up, alarmed, to find Carson vigorously doing push-ups on the floor.

"Morning," he groaned.

"Morning," she mumbled, groping for the robe she kept under her pillow and tying it over her nightclothes. She felt awkward, after the little scene that night, with her legs bare and her body naked underneath the nightshirt, but she felt thwarted, too. A part of her wished that she'd responded to him, given in to his ministrations and taken pleasure in his arms. It was all so stupid. Randomly choosing to sleep with the first hot guy who'd drooled over her bikini was exactly why she was in this mess. Never again.

And yet, watching him now, clad only in a pair of shorts and glistening with sweat as he switched from push-ups to V sit-ups, she felt that maybe there wasn't such a thing as 'never.'

"How's your arm?" he said, grunting as his outstretched fingertips met his toes over his core.

"Better, thanks," she said, successfully (on the third try) tearing her eyes away from the sight. "So what happened last night?" She went to the kitchen and busied with the kettle and a packet of instant oatmeal.

A pause in the sound of his exertions. "Last night?"

"The Bruges? You uh…never got the chance to tell me."

"Oh," and the sounds of sit-ups began once more. "Well, our theory's right. He's in big money trouble. He had to hock a watch before heading to the tables."

"The Bruges is a casino?"

"The same way a sidewalk shell game is a poker tournament."

"
Ooh-kay
. Did he play?" she asked, stirring in some sugar into the porridge.

"No. Just handed the money over to the house man."

"And? Did you get to hear anything?"

"What do you think of me, an amateur?" He got up, dried his face with a towel, then bent to a downward dog. "He owes something huge. From what I heard, at least a quarter mil."

She nearly dropped her spoon. "That much? What is he, a moron?"

"Looks like one." He lay on the floor and began stretching his legs. She turned her eyes away from the sight of his rippling thighs. "From what I could understand, he'd had a good run, didn't have the good sense to stop, bet against the house, lost it all. Had to borrow money from some of those roving sharks on the floor. Of course, none of those guys are going to send you a strongly worded demand letter, should you be late with your payment."

She shook her head. "Poor bugger." She ate silently, brows furrowed in concentration. "I just don't know how we can work with this intel, though."

"You said you wanted leverage."

"Yeah, but this guy needs money and is therefore dependent on his girlfriend to sell a big painting. We're trying to stop the sale, remember?"

"Of course I remember."

She shook her head again and played with her porridge. "I don't know. We'll need another angle."

Carson made a noncommittal noise as he finished his stretches.  "Anja could pick out a better guy." He straightened up and dried off.

"I don't know. He's kind of cute," she said, spooning porridge and chewing dreamily. "Very talented mouth."

She looked up to find him standing next to the table. Her eyes were right at the level of his shining abs, and felt her mouth literally water at the sight.

"If it's a talented mouth you want, you don't have to look far to find one," he said huskily, before heading to the shower.

They milled outside the offices of AgileTech—or at least Carson milled restlessly while Peyton settled against a discreet little alcove and watched. They were on the southern part of the city, in the middle of the business district: glass, parks, walkways teeming with people heading to the small sandwich shops and cafés on the buildings' ground floors for a meal. After a few minutes, Carson ceased pacing and returned to her spot.

"Why are we doing this again?" he asked, running his hands through his brown waves and causing half of it to stick up in odd little peaks.

"Surveillance." The corner of her lip twitched at his frustration.

He snorted. "We don't know he's even in there. We could be standing here for hours for nothing."

"I don't think that's going to happen."

"Stop smirking at me like this is the world's greatest joke," he hissed. "I really don't see the point of this."

"The point is to observe the guy. See what makes him tick. And then we'll know how to best plan the takedown."

Carson rolled his eyes. "And if you do come across him, what would you do? Ask him, 'hey, planning to buy any Magraiths lately?'"

The door slid open and out came a man, of middling height, wrapped in a gray woolen scarf and a mackintosh. Even from her alcove Peyton was struck by the arresting quality of his clear, nearly colorless blue eyes. They were much more intimidating in person than on TV. In the flesh she was struck by an odd quality: he seemed that strange mix of young and old—a teenager's dewy face sitting on the carriage of a fifty-year-old.

"Watch and learn, art guy," she said over her shoulder.

Anders Van Der Luyden surveyed the street with his extraordinary eyes, watching the pedestrian traffic with a slightly furrowed brow, as though he divined something in the ebb and flow of the walkers. He frowned very slightly as he was jostled by a hurrying pedestrian.

"Oh! I am very sorry, do forgive me," said the lady in a clipped British accent.

He squinted as he registered her face. She had a shock of red waves cascading down her dark sweater, and deep blue eyes peering at him from a fringe of thick, light-colored lashes.

"You are forgiven," he said, pursing his mouth as he took in more of her features.

Her shapely pink lips parted as she caught sight of his face. "B-but—but you're Anders Van Der Luyden!" she gasped. "My word, I hadn't realized—but I—I am great admirer of your work!"

Anders smiled indulgently at her. The poor girl's eyes sparkled like sunlight glinting off the sea in the late afternoon. "Indeed?"

"Oh yes," and her voice took on an appealingly breathy quality. "The news of that hovercraft you released—my goodness—never thought we'd see the day—"

In her excitement her hand clutched his forearm. She seemed to realize what she did and her eyes widened. "I'm sorry, how presumptuous of me!"

"Not to worry," he chuckled, catching her hand and gripping it against him. "Not to worry at all!" He eyed her up and down and lingered at the pleasant shape her curves made—thank goodness for tight sweaters. "I must say, I hardly come across such genuine interest in my work."

"You must be joshing with me." She smiled very prettily. "I am quite sure, a man such as yourself—you must be surrounded by admirers all the time."

He had to laugh at that. "Ah, but you make it sound as though there are science groupies, out to throw themselves at me, offering to have their breasts signed in my presence. That, unfortunately, does not happen, I am sorry to say. Although—" he surveyed her lowered lashes and fleshy lips with delight—"there is always a first time, is it not?"

She giggled, bit her lip and tucked a flaming red lock behind her ear. "Mr. Van Der Luyden…"

"Please. Call me Anders." She seemed to glow at that. "And you are?"

"Caroline," she said, lowering her gaze.

"Well, sweet Caroline. You seem quite the scientific mind. Would you care to join me for lunch some time?"

"Oh—but I cannot presume—"

He waved a hand at her protestations and smiled fondly. "Thursday. Next week, at The Abragat."

"Mr. Van Der Luyden, I cannot intrude on your day, I am sure you are very busy." She ran her hand through her hair in distress.

His expression turned stern. "You are quite right, Caroline. I am very busy. And when I choose to clear my calendar for a pleasant lunch, be sure of the priority I account you, and realize what it means." He stepped closer until they were chest to chest. "Thursday. Next week. The Abragat."

She bit her lip once again and batted her eyelashes. "Of course. See you then, Mr. Van Der Luyden."

Carson scowled as she walked down the street and completely ignored him. After a few minutes, and after Van Der Luyden had set off his own way, he hurried to catch Peyton, who did not break her pace.

"Well?"

"Pretty good, huh?" she said, sounding—and feeling—smug.

"Pretty good?
Pretty good
?" He stopped on the sidewalk corner in front of a riotous display of spring blooms, furrowing his hair with his hands. "What was that all about?"

"What was
what
all about?"

"'Oh Mr. Van Der Luyden,
tee-hee-hee,'
" he said in a falsetto Cockney accent. "The Lady Edith accent was a bit much, don't you think?"

She smiled, eyes dancing with amusement. "I was getting the measure of him."

"You were practically letting him measure your tits with his hands," he hissed. "I thought you'd strip right there when he mentioned autographing your breasts."

"You heard?"

"He wasn't exactly being discreet," he said through gritted teeth.

"Well, I learned a lot from that conversation." She bent over and inspected the flower display. "I never knew spring was tulip season. Look at these!"

"Don't change the subject!"

"I learned that he likes to be flattered and that his ego—his vanity—is a weak spot. He'd had work done on his face, too, you can tell up close. That's something we can use."

"We could have learned that through research, asking people who know him, reading gossip—you didn't have to serve your tits on a platter to him!"

She spun, anger flashing in her eyes. "Will you stop about my ti– what the
fuck
Carson, are you jealous?"

He looked like he'd been slapped in the face. He breathed hard through his nose and consciously unclenched his fists, but did not answer.

"Once you've stopped acting like a caveman you'll realize that I just got you a meeting with our mark next Thursday." She stepped close to him and narrowed her eyes at his tight-lipped face. "Don't apologize all at once." Then she shoved him with one hand and turned to walk towards the bus stop.

"Peyton—" he called, his voice constricted.

In front of the bus shelter she turned and coolly watched as he approached. "Get Gustave. I think I know how to do this takedown."