Page 48 of Settling the Score (The Karma Club #4)

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Chapter One

John McClane had just dropped Hans Gruber off the side of the Nakatomi Plaza when the knock interrupted. Oliver Prendergast frowned and paused the action, Alan Rickman’s face frozen in shock, his mouth open, his hands grasping nothing but air.

The interruption was seriously inconvenient.

He didn’t care that he’d seen the movie approximately thirty times, that scene never got old. The next scenes provided the emotional pay off as John reunited with his wife but that right there was the Hollywood moment.

When the bad guy got his just desserts. And it was epic.

He assumed the knock was Bella’s friend – Paige someone – who was supposed to be here hours ago. Thanks to parents who’d made an art out of late entrances, he abhorred tardiness at the best of times. But when it got in the way of watching Hans Gruber going splat, it really rankled.

As he climbed the stairs from the basement media room, Oliver couldn’t shake the looming feeling of disaster he had about the whole set-up.

Agreeing to let a stranger – one who clearly didn’t value punctuality – into his house for an undefined period of time felt unwise.

But, Bella had been right. He did owe her and, in the grand scheme of things she could have asked (and he would have granted), it was trifling.

Such was the depth of his guilt.

Hell, she could have asked him to never watch Hans Gruber go splat again. That would have been a real sacrifice.

The low moaning of the wind outside got louder as he approached the front door. Cornwall in summer was a thing of beauty. Cornwall in January, not so much. Rain, strong winds and chilly temperatures had been forecast for the next week.

He hoped she hadn’t brought her bikini.

Unlocking the expensively sophisticated deadbolt locking system, Oliver yanked open the door to a face completely covered by a mop of curly red hair, a stack of mismatched suitcases, a skirt that looked like it had been made out of curtains, a thin-looking, unbuttoned hot pink cardigan that hung down past her knees and an ugly lime green T-shirt proclaiming:

I will put you in the boot and help people look for you. Don’t test me.

He blinked as she shook her head, her wind-swept hair falling back to reveal what Peter Allen would have called an interesting face.

Square with wideset hazel eyes, a little snub nose, a generous smattering of freckles, and despite her general dishevelment, a big smile showcasing an even more generous mouth.

Oliver hadn’t known what to expect when he’d woken on yet another aimless Monday, but it wasn’t this.

It was as if the north wind had dumped her on his doorstep like some kind of ginger Mary Poppins. Minus the hat, the coat, the umbrella and the carpet bag.

And, given her taste in T-shirts, any sense of decorum.

There was however, he noticed belatedly, a large cage clutched in one hand. A cage containing what appeared to be some kind of… rat? A very large rat.

Bella hadn’t said anything about a bloody rat.

‘Hiya,’ she said, smiling brightly, her accent bog standard, middle-class English. ‘I’m Paige. You must be Oliver.’

‘Ah, yeah…’ Looking over her shoulder at the wet, deserted street, he asked, ‘How’d you get here?’

‘Uber?’

So, not the north wind then…

His gaze drifted to the words written across her chest. She also looked down before raising her eyes, their gazes meeting. ‘Sorry, my brother and sister think it’s hilarious to get me silly T-shirts.’

Oliver nodded like he understood but really, he didn’t. ‘Couldn’t you just…’ He shrugged. ‘Not wear them?’

Frowning, she examined him like he was slightly dim. ‘After they went to all the trouble to get them for me?’

Oliver was pretty sure zero trouble had gone into that particular purchase but he let it go. What did he know about sibling relationships? He was an only child.

‘T-shirts are their love language,’ she added defensively. Like that explained everything.

It didn’t.

Oliver wasn’t sure he had a love language, but if he did, it’d be more like classy monogrammed stationery than tacky T-shirts.

Good Christ. He gave himself a mental shake. He sounded like an eighty-eight-year-old Brexiteer lamenting the good old days not a twenty-eight-year-old foot-loose-and-fancy-free bachelor with a massive inheritance, oodles of charm, good looks and excellent contacts.

When had he become such a fucking curmudgeon ?

‘Could I…’ She looked over his shoulder. ‘Come in? It’s freezing out here.’

Of course she was freezing. All that stood between her and the brutal January squall was a useless cardigan and a statement of murderous intent.

A little voice whispered, Curmudgeon , and Oliver suppressed a sigh.

‘Of course… sorry.’ He stood aside. ‘Come in.’ And then, ever the gentleman, he said, ‘I’ll bring your bags in.’

As he stepped outside, the biting wind caught his dirty blond hair and tossed it around.

The ominous grey sky was already darkening as day began its descent into night, the lights illuminating St Nicholas’s chapel on the headland already glowing.

He stared at the three battered, ancient cases in dismay.

Just how long was she staying?

Dragging them in, he deposited each one next to the free-standing hat rack which his father had taken from some film set or other. The door banged shut after him as he set down the last bag.

She smiled as he straightened, the cage now on the floor at her feet. Her leopard print, fur-trimmed, welly-clad feet . ‘Thanks.’

Oliver nodded and there was a moment’s awkward silence as he took in his new house mate. His eyes shifted momentarily to the rodent – house mates .

They were both a sight, red hair and caramel fur tousled in such disarray it looked very much as if they’d been electrocuted.

Catching sight of himself in the hallway mirror, Oliver grimaced at the state of his own hair.

They all looked as if they’d been in a freak accident involving a three-for-the-price-of-one lightning strike.

He pointed. ‘What is that?’

She followed the direction of his finger. ‘A hamster.’

That was a hamster? ‘I see…’ Did it have a gland problem?

‘He belongs to my nephew, Bunky.’

‘Bunky?’ It sounded like a nickname given to a posh kid by other posh kids at an even posher public school. And Oliver ought to know, his father had been an Etonian and all his old chums had incredibly infantile nicknames like Corky, Tuppy, Stiffy and Dumps.

‘Short for Bunkleigh. It’s a weird family name on my sister-in-law’s side,’ she said with a dismissive shake of her head. ‘Anyway, Bunky loves him to death. Like literally . He’s forever sneaking him treats. Caramel popcorn, Skittles, Peperami sticks. Dib Dabs.’

‘Hamsters eat sherbet?’

‘This one does. Devours the stuff. Thank God he doesn’t know how to snort it. Can you imagine that sugar high?’

Oliver thought the question was rhetorical but her sudden raised eyebrow made it plain she was waiting for a response. ‘Ah… no.’

Although now he’d probably think of nothing else.

‘Anyway, the vet said that if Flower wasn’t put on a diet, he’d die. To be fair, he was always on the chunkier side but well…’ She glanced at the creature with affection. ‘Things are getting critical.’

Yeah. Critical mass . But that wasn’t really what Oliver was stuck on. ‘Your nephew called his hamster Flower ?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’

‘What? You think he should call him something more manly? You think he should have called him Rambo? Or… Godzilla?’

Oliver flicked his gaze to the animal, his wind-frizzed fur not helping with his beefy silhouette. Pavarotti seemed more appropriate. ‘It seems a little…’ Delicate. ‘Fanciful.’

She bugged her eyes at him. ‘He’s four .’

Checking the impulse to enquire about Bunky’s vision, Oliver prepared to demur but she was off again.

‘Anyway. I told my brother that I would take him with me and put him on a diet. Get him into shape. I even bought him a little wheel.’

They both looked at the object in question. It sat deathly still in one corner, brand spanking sparkly new, Flower situated as far away from it as was possible.

‘It’s the most expensive one on the market.

It hooks up to an app to let you know how many revolutions per day have been logged and there’s coloured LED lights embedded around the rim of the wheel that glow when it moves.

It was the only way I could bribe Bunky into parting with him for a while.

Let me tell you, that kid knows how to negotiate.

But…’ She shrugged. ‘Favourite aunty status is not to be squandered.’

Oliver had to admit, it was the London Eye of hamster wheels.

‘I hope you don’t mind. He won’t be a bother, quiet as a mouse. And I’ll look after all his needs.’ She lifted her gaze to lock with his. ‘Bella said you wouldn’t mind?’

And there was the magic word. The kicker.

Bella.

He still couldn’t think of her or the way he’d acted without cringing. The guilt he felt over backing out of the wedding – on the day of – still ate at him. So much so that he’d holed himself away in Cornwall like some fucking recluse, ever since.

The media interest over Redondo’s runaway groom had been no less intense in the UK but, six months had passed and the paps had lost interest. Mostly.

He still occasionally felt the preternatural prickle at his nape alerting him to the presence of a telephoto lens but they’d stopped bashing on his door and going through his bins.

‘Of course not,’ Oliver responded, far more positively than he felt. ‘Let me show you around.’