CHAPTER 6

SCARLET

I wake to an unsettling quiet. It’s as if I’m alone. Do they sleep late in this house? If Nikolai Ivanov earned his reputation as a business titan, then it’s doubtful.

On the Gagliano estate, where I spent my teen years and have lived since Vincent’s death, the buzz of lawnmowers often passed through open windows, along with the chirps of birds, an undercurrent of waves, and voices. Doors were mostly open, and between the staff and the family, people were almost always milling around. During low tide, I’d wander down the steep, narrow path to the rocky beach beneath the cliff. The arduous climb back up meant it was one of the few solitary stretches on the estate. It’s also the location where MI6 first approached me, and realization dawned. Other organizations want to bring down the Lupi Grigi. I’m not alone. Or so I thought. The trouble with being an asset is if you leave your position, you’re no longer useful. I thought their goal was to curtail the drug industry, but as time passed, I’ve grown uncertain. I suspect they want information above all else. And that doesn’t serve my purpose.

Glimpsing overcast skies through the windows, I retrace my steps to the front of the stately English manor. A black sports utility vehicle approaches in the distance. I move to the side of the front-facing window, shielded by drapes, and watch as Lina comes up from the side path in riding boots, breeches, and a form-fitting jacket. The driver rolls down the window as she approaches. She hands him something, and he passes her an envelope.

They don’t kiss cheeks and speak for less than a minute. He drives away, and she returns from the direction she came.

The interaction strikes me as odd. Perhaps he delivered an item she ordered. Nick said if I needed anything, it could be delivered in town, and he would send someone to pick it up. Perhaps that’s all it is.

The quiet of the house agitates. Perhaps that’s why it took so long to fall asleep last night. The morning’s morose cloud cover feeds the internal discord.

Was it like this when you visited?

If only I could ring Willow and ask.

I could chase after Lina, so I’m not alone, but I’m without shoes, nor do I have a jacket. The hardwood floor chills my feet through my wool socks, and cool air wafts through the glass panes. The forecast is a mild day, but the gray skies seep into my psyche with an ever-present chill.

By a back door, I find Wellies and a Barbour jacket desperately in need of an oiling. I slip the Wellies and jacket on and inhale a faint cedar scent. I bury my nose in the worn collar and pick up hints of cinnamon and clove.

Is this Nick’s coat?

I push the door open and step into the chilly morning in search of Lina. Toward the back of the property is a stable, and I head along the brick path, assuming that’s where she must be.

As I approach the stable, the mechanical whir of rotors pulls my attention to the sky. A horse in a paddock pricks its ears forward and neighs. The tree limbs sway, and a helicopter appears over the peaks of the trees.

The treetops sway with increasing fervor as the helicopter descends, and the horse enclosed in the nearby paddock trots in a circle. The grass blades on the lawn whip in the wind, and a wayward piece of grit flies into my eye. My palm covers the injury. I keep my head bowed, hands shielding my eyes. The wind and sound lessen.

Cautiously, I raise my head, one hand over the sharp pain. My eye waters beneath my palm. The helicopter door opens and Nikolai hops out.

“Are you all right there? Something get in your eye?” He approaches swiftly. “You shouldn’t be out here without glasses, something to shield your eyes.”

He reaches for my chin, and I jerk back.

“Let’s wash it.”

“It’s fine. I think it’s just scratched.” It burns, but it can’t be a serious injury.

“Ah. Well, some drops will make it better.” He makes a whirling hand motion behind him, and the helicopter blades slowly spin.

“It’s going back up?”

“Not going to leave it in the pasture.” He places a hand on my shoulder, and I flinch. “Let’s go.”

The sound increases, as does the wind, and we both take off at a near jog.

Inside the house, I remove the Wellies.

“I borrowed these,” I say. “And this.” I hang the coat back up on the hook.

“Loads of those around the place. Take what you need. Have you had breakfast?”

“I don’t eat much in the morning, but I’m keen for coffee.”

“Did Lina not offer you coffee?”

“I haven’t run into her, and I haven’t come across the kitchen yet.” It’s a partial truth. There’s no reason not to mention that I saw Lina earlier, yet something holds me back.

“Kitchen’s this way. It was originally separate from the house. Back when people were redesigning homes and bringing the kitchen indoors, this family kept it in a separate building. It’s attached now through a covered breezeway.”

“If you hire a chef, I suppose a cloistered kitchen offers privacy to the family.”

“And we have a chef. She’s here five days a week. Not for breakfast, though.”

I follow him through the house, then through a narrow hall that feels like it was built this century with windows along the sides, and into a breathtaking chef’s kitchen with a domed ceiling, two spacious fireplaces, stainless steel refrigerators, stoves, and multiple islands.

“If I’d found it, I don’t think I would’ve had the nerve to hunt for coffee,” I comment, wide-eyed at the splendor. The kitchen at the Gagliano estate was similar in scale, but not nearly as grand.

“There’s room for a full staff if needed. Here’s the coffee.”

Off to the side is a room with a U-shaped counter with a French press, a La Marzocco espresso machine, and a Balmuda drip coffee machine. White coffee mugs and espresso cups line the top shelf. A small refrigerator with a glass door holds what appears to be a mix of dairy options and sparkling waters.

He sets about fixing us both lattes and I watch, somewhat mesmerized at his dexterity and ease with the equipment.

“You’re quite good at this.”

“About the only thing I know how to do. I wouldn’t venture into the rest of the kitchen if you paid me. I’m quite adept at takeaway.”

“But you don’t live near anything.”

“Hence, a chef. I’m also quite skilled at heating what she leaves.”

“Right, then. A man of many talents.”

When he passes me my latte, I whiff a strong flowery scent. Perfume.

He stayed away for the night. Perhaps he has a lover tucked away in London.

I could ask, but it’s not my business.

He leans against the counter, nostrils flaring as he inhales from the white mug, and then sips. His slim-fitting dark jeans, subdued black tee, and chocolate suede jacket could fit in most scenarios. The everyday casual look works for him. Last I saw him, he’d been in a tailored suit, or what the style icons would call a formal casual.

His hair is slightly ruffled from the helicopter, the skin on his angular jaw up to his goatee smooth and moisturized. He seems showered, so is the perfume from a woman he said goodbye to this morning?

He catches my examination, and I drop my gaze and sip the latte. It’s slightly sweeter than I like, but it’s good. The warmth coats my throat.

“You have beautiful eyes.” I blink. “Lovely shade of green.”

“The color can change. In some light, I’ve been told they’re blue.”

“I’ve only seen them green.” He turns and messes with the machine again. “Would you like another?”

“You’ve already finished yours?”

“I’ve got meetings to get to.” He glances over his shoulder. “Would you like another?”

“Can I get it in a to-go cup?”

He lifts a porcelain mug off the shelf. I suppose not, then.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” I say, feeling more courageous with his back to me. “Is there a way to do this where they don’t know I’m the source?”

“Depends. What information do you have access to?”

“Shall we close a door?”

“You’re a quick study. But I’m not in here enough for anyone to bother bugging the place.”

“Right. Well, off the top of my head, I have ledgers showing discrepancies between reported income and actual cash flow, ship manifests, client lists, bank statements, property ownership documents, employee records, shipping routes and schedules, tax returns, and a record of digital currency transactions.”

“Gorgeous and brilliant,” he says.

A shiver of silly pride lights my skin. This is not a man I should worry about impressing.

“But it’s not trapped in that brilliant brain. Where do you have it all? Italy?”

“I’ve been uploading copies to a private cloud location for years.”

I always knew I’d do something like this. Over the years, I’ve had more than one intelligence officer approach me. It made me wary. If they see me as a potential leak, then so might Massimo or others within the famiglia. Other than the first MI6 contact, I haven’t trusted anyone. I’ve turned them away, afraid it was a trap, a test of my loyalty to the family.

The beauty of Nikolai Ivanov is his background precedes him, ergo he’s not fabricated. He’s not attempting to trap me. Whether I can trust him remains to be seen.

“Your uncle gave you access—” He’s skeptical, understandably.

“Alessio Gagliano carries a low opinion of women. My dear uncle believes I’m skilled with numbers and trusts me more than others he doesn’t know well. Most of what he has me doing is data entry.”

“Fascinating.”

His slow spin on that word…does he not believe me?

“My uncle has known me since I was a child. He—and the entire family—view women as assets to be leveraged. I’m no use to him as a bargaining chip now that I’ve been married, so he uses me for work he finds boring or cumbersome. Reports and such.”

“You”—his lips turn up on the ends and his eyes brighten—“are what we call a jackpot.” He leans forward, and I lean back into the counter, knocking into something. The clattering sound echoes through the vast space.

“I was going to kiss your cheek,” he says.

Uncomfortable heat climbs my neck. I right the stainless-steel carafe I knocked over.

“You’re jumpy,” he observes. “I hope you know I would never hurt you.”

“I’m an asset. Of course, you won’t hurt me.” Will he after I hand over the information? That’s a question I need answered.

“I don’t hurt women.”

He steps closer once again, so close the scent of flowery perfume invades my nostrils.

“Of course, I’m not averse to mixing business with pleasure?—”

“I am,” I interrupt.

He’s silent, and I force myself to swallow, then step into the open kitchen to escape the tight alcove and the aroma of a perfumery.

He stays put, leaning against the counter, watching me like I’m exotic prey.

“The stories are true,” he says thoughtfully. “Your husband abused you.”

I look to the ground, to my cup, anywhere. This man is not someone I wish to share the sordid tale. Not that there’s any need to, as my story precedes me. Everywhere, it seems.

“I would never raise a hand to a woman,” he goes on. “You have my word. And, unlike your uncle, I value the feminine gender.”

“Good to know. Is my second latte done? You have a meeting to get to, right?”

“I hate you endured abuse. That’s…” He huffs, and I tear my gaze from the floor only to meet his steady, intrusive focus. “Have you seen a therapist?”

I angle my head, taking him in with a different perspective. In all my years at home, no one asked about my mental health. “Years of therapy. Still jumpy. You should see me around a spider.” I force a brightness I don’t feel. “You said you have meetings?”

“I do.” He offers me a ceramic cup and saucer, and as our fingers brush, I fall into his steady gaze. It’s warm and kind and not at all what I need.

“You need to shower.”

What the hell possessed me to say that? His brow crinkles.

“The perfume. It’s rather strong,” I explain. “Unless you’re not meeting?—”

He smiles, flashing brilliant white teeth, and it’s so unexpected and disarming my thoughts fragment.

“Vestiges of where I spent the night.” He sips his coffee, and when he lowers it, he licks his lower lip, looking amused.

Why am I watching him so closely? What is it about this man? Frustration churns within my ribs.

“You’re quite right. I need a shower. After a certain point, you can’t smell yourself. Am I right?” He walks away, taking the perfumery with him. He gestures to the alcove. “Make yourself at home. I’ll come and find you when I’m able. I know I mentioned breakfast, but the morning got away from me. If you check the pantry, there should be pastries. Quiche in the refrigerator.” He stops in the doorway. “Can’t wait to see what you’ve got. Bloody brilliant.”

His eyes sparkle with what? Relish?

Then he’s gone.