Page 5 of Leather and Longing (Island Tales #3)

Chapter Four

Paul stopped his little Ford Fiesta at the top of Love Lane.

The engine still running, he got out and opened the gate to Cliffside, then got back in.

The gate closed once again behind him, he drove carefully down the winding driveway to the house nestled halfway up the hillside.

He locked the car and gazed at the gardens that surrounded the house.

Someone had obviously taken a lot of care to lay out the flowerbeds and plant shrubs and trees at one time, but there was an air of neglect about the place.

He picked up the plastic shopping bag he’d brought along with his backpack and fumbled in his jeans pocket for the keys. Inside the house was cool and quiet. He stood in the hallway and listened for any sign of Adam. The door to the room where he’d met him was closed, but Paul trusted his senses.

Adam was in there.

Paul had spent Sunday researching his new employer and reading through the documents to which Taylor had directed him.

Adam wrote books about political history, which wasn’t surprising considering his background.

According to his bio, after gaining a degree in political history, he’d joined the Marines and had been deployed to Afghanistan when in his mid-twenties.

When he’d gotten out, he’d had several jobs including doing private security work and crewing yachts across the Atlantic, delivering them to their new owners.

His books were incredibly popular and highly regarded, and had gained him a significant following.

The photo on Google had shown Adam to have blue eyes, his hair much shorter and neater, and a creamy complexion.

There was no sign of the thick beard Paul had seen.

There were several photos of him: appearing casual at a book signing in London; dressed in a smart suit, in what seemed to be an interview; and the ones that struck Paul the most—on board sailing boats in all kinds of weather, smiling.

Something else he’s lost — that smile and the opportunity to skipper a boat . Paul’s heart had gone out to him. The man had lost so much more than his sight.

By the time Sunday evening had come, Paul was feeling wrung out.

It was clear from what he’d read that reactions to becoming blind tended to be similar to bereavement.

The range of emotions people went through were all part of a process, and like any dramatic change in circumstances, there was a period of adjustment to go through.

Paul couldn’t help but wonder, based on Adam’s behaviour the previous Friday, just how far along the process he’d come.

This is what I need to figure out if I’m to help him.

Paul had reflected long and hard about his new employer.

His training would be useful to deal with any physical issues, if any existed: what concerned him more at this stage was the state of Adam’s mind.

He knew this was above and beyond his remit, but something about Adam’s state had touched him deeply.

I need to tread gently. Going in there, all guns blazing, would probably result in getting Adam’s back up. No, what would be required for this was subtlety—and manipulation.

Paul could be a manipulative bitch when he put his mind to it. And there was his first challenge—to get Adam to open that door.

He carried his bag through into the kitchen and dumped it onto the worktop. He spent five minutes familiarizing himself with the contents of the cabinets, making a list of what was needed.

What disturbed him was the lack of good nutrition.

Bloody hell, what is this man eating? There was little or no fresh produce in evidence, but plenty of processed food, dried soups, noodles…

On one cabinet door someone had taped a list of Adam’s dietary requirements and Paul scanned this quickly.

To his relief, there was hardly anything Adam didn’t eat but he did note an allergy to bananas.

The contents of Paul’s shopping bag were safe, at any rate.

He spied the coffee machine and heaved a sigh of relief.

There’s hope for this job yet . He’d brought along a packet of ground coffee in the hope there’d be some device to make it in.

His search of the cabinets had revealed a packet of tea bags and a jar of congealed instant coffee.

Just looking at it made Paul shudder. But before the coffee went on, there was something even more pressing that needed to be done.

God, this place needs a clean .

He had visions of giant dust bunnies seizing him with huge paws and dragging him down, kicking and screaming, into their lair, never again to see the light of day.

And there was still the matter of that closed door….

Paul reached into his backpack and took out his iPod and docking station. He’d thought long and hard about this, and it had taken an hour or two on Sunday to find what he’d been looking for, but he was pleased with the results.

He walked back into the hallway and searched for the nearest electrical socket.

He found one beside a display cabinet between two doors.

After setting down the docking station and iPod, he scrolled through to find his compilation.

Once he’d switched it on and made sure the volume was high enough, Paul returned to the kitchen and set about giving it a thorough cleaning.

Through the open door he could hear voices pouring out of the iPod: Martin Luther King, Richard Nixon, Bill Clinton, Barack Obama, Enoch Powell, Winston Churchill…

Paul had downloaded excerpts from key political speeches and put them together.

The whole thing lasted about thirty minutes.

Let’s see if this piques his interest.

Ten minutes before it was due to finish, he set up the coffee machine, and soon the air was filled with the rich aroma. By the time the last drop had dripped into the pot, the recording was coming to an end.

Paul stood outside the door to Adam’s room and tapped quietly on it with his knuckles.

“Mr. Kent, I’ve made some fresh coffee. Would you like some?”

Silence met his words and Paul’s heart sank

And there was me thinking I deserved at least a Nobel prize for my ingenuity.

He turned to go back to the kitchen but stiffened when he heard movement behind the door.

“Yes.” The voice was deep with a husky edge to it.

Paul grinned. Still in the running for that prize, after all.

When it became clear the single syllable was all he was getting, he scurried into the kitchen to pour out two mugs.

He picked up one of them and took it into the hallway, pausing at the door.

Without knocking this time, he pushed open the door and entered.

The room took up a corner of the house, with windows on two sides.

Sunlight played through the glass, spilling into every corner.

His attention was captured by the books, however.

There were books everywhere : on the shelves that filled every inch of available wall space, populating every flat surface, even standing on the floor in upright piles, creating little skyscrapers or even cities.

Books of all sizes, ranging from paperbacks to large coffee table books and thick volumes that looked as if no one had read them for years.

S omeone loves to read. It struck him forcibly that the owner of these books was no longer able to enjoy them. Paul’s chest tightened, his heart aching. He couldn’t even begin to imagine a world without books. Such a place would be soulless without the beauty that words painted.

Adam sat in the armchair by the window, facing in that direction. The only thing that had changed from the previous Friday was his T-shirt.

Here we go again.

Paul walked up to the small table beside the chair and placed the mug on a coaster.

“I’ve put your mug on the table here, about six inches from the edge,” he informed Adam.

He straightened, waiting to see if there would be a reaction.

When Adam said nothing, Paul repressed the sigh he was dying to let out and turned to leave the room.

As he reached the door, Adam cleared his throat.

“I met Nixon once, y’know. About six years ago.” A slight pause. “He was a real charmer.”

Paul wanted to shout out in triumph at the sound of that voice. Instead, he turned slowly to face Adam. He’d twisted in his armchair and was peering in Paul’s general direction, his expression neutral, eyes hidden behind those dark glasses, his hand gripping the arm of the chair.

Paul smiled. “No, you didn’t,” he chided gently. “Nixon died in ninety-four.”

Adam arched his eyebrows. The merest hint of a sardonic smile flashed across his face. “Just testing.” Then he resumed his position, staring out of the window.

You cheeky sod.

In spite of Adam’s disdain, Paul couldn’t stop smiling at the breakthrough. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. He waited to see if anything else was forthcoming. When silence resumed, he went back into the kitchen.

Time for phase two of my cunning plan. After all, the way to a man’s heart and all that.

That made him pause. What do I want with his heart?

He switched on the newly cleaned oven and took the fresh chicken from the fridge.

It didn’t take long to ready it for roasting.

He shoved a couple of lemons and a handful of garlic cloves into its cavity, then rubbed over the skin with butter and thyme, adding a sprinkling of chopped rosemary to finish it off.

Then he took out the bread flour, yeast and other ingredients he’d need.

Paul exited the house and went to the trunk of his car to take out his secret weapon, on a sort of permanent loan from his mum.

She’d never miss it: she rarely used it anyway and Dad had been pleased to gain some more space in the kitchen cabinet.