Page 27 of Strap In

‘K-kind of.’ A male voice undercuts Rhona’s words – far enough away that Jean can’t make out specific words. But at the wheedling tone, Jean’s stomach churns. ‘He keeps trying to m-make me come out.’

‘Stay exactly where you are, Rhona. Just let us know the room number, and do not come out until I tell you to.’

‘It’s room six hundred and fi-fi—’ Rhona’s voice is so thick with tears that Jean can’t make her out. Her look of alarm haunts Hugo’s features. ‘Six five zero. An executive suite.’

‘Okay. Stay on the line, Rhona.’

Hugo sprints towards the lift, hammering the up button while Jean races after him. The doors draw open as Jean approaches, disgorging a pair of giggling young women whose tequila-laced perfume suggests they’ve made liberal use of the bar. Jean pushes past. ‘Hello? Are you still there, Rhona?’

A sniff. ‘Yes.’

Hugo presses the button for the sixth floor and – ignoring the grey-haired couple waving as they shamble over – the button to slide the doors closed.

‘Good.’ Jean’s stomach swoops as they glide upwards. One… ‘That’s very good, Rhona. Now what can you tell me about where you grew up?’

‘Ms Howard?’

Two…

‘Edinburgh, Rhona. Tell me something I don’t know.’

Three…

‘There are beaches. Everyone loves Portobello, but Cramond’s my favourite.’

Four…

‘Why Cramond, Rhona?’

Five…

‘It’s beautiful. My parents have a little beach house there.’ A muffled sob. ‘I want my mum.’

The words are a lance through Jean’s heart.

Six… The doors glide open. Hugo grabs her free wrist and pulls Jean along the corridor, so quickly that she scarcely has time to read the sign differentiating between ordinary rooms on the left and the executive suite to the right.

His legs are longer, and as the former captain of his rugby team he sets a breakneck pace, but Jean spends the last of her breath on maintaining the flow of conversation.

‘We’re nearly there, Rhona. We’re on the sixth floor. ’

As they approach, Jean slows, giving Hugo no choice but to follow suit. Leonides is much more likely to open the door if he believes she is alone, not a threat. How little he knows…

‘Hide,’ Jean hisses, waving at the jutting pilasters framing the wall on either side of the door. Obedient, Hugo ducks behind the wooden panelling to the right. The second he’s in place, Jean raises a shaking hand and raps against the door. ‘Mr Leonides?’

Muffled footsteps brush against carpet. ‘Can you not read? The sign says Do Not Disturb . Fuck off!’

‘Mr Leonides, it’s Jean Howard. I understand my associate is there with you now, that the two of you had a meeting.’

The door swings open to reveal Leonides in a white terrycloth robe, his paunch creating a deep enough V that Jean glimpses more than she ever wanted to of his scrubby black chest hair.

His ordinarily sanguine smile is interrupted by a wince – a cut splits his lip, oozing fresh blood as Leonides speaks.

‘What of it?’ He shrugs. ‘I liked her ideas, and wanted to hear more.’

‘We’ve been trying to get hold of Rhona as a matter of urgency.’ A quick glance over his shoulder offers no sign of the girl, nor any obvious doors along the narrow corridor.

A single eyebrow climbs, thick as a caterpillar. ‘And why might that be?’

No accusations. Only the established facts, even if they are of Jean’s own making. ‘Her mother’s sick – as our communications with your team will show.’

‘And what, you’re sending the little girl home to her parents? It makes sense.’ An expansive shrug. ‘After all, you sent a child to do a woman’s job.’

Jean swallows back bile. ‘Rhona Baird is a thoroughly competent junior associate; she has the potential to go far. Surely you agree, Andreas? Why else would a man with all your concerns spend an entire evening on Rhona’s proposals?’

His eye twitches, a subtle tell. ‘Out of the goodness of my heart.’

‘In that case you’ll have no trouble with me taking Rhona. Where is she?’

‘You believe I know this how, precisely?’ It’s a lawyer’s answer, parrying question for question.

In another life Leonides would have made a sharp solicitor, shielding fraudsters and rapists from the consequences of their own actions.

In this one it’s unlikely he’ll ever see the inside of a courtroom.

‘Because there are two glasses on that table behind you.’ Though the bottle has been righted, a crimson stain’s splattered across the carpet; it could be a murder scene.

Leonides half turns to crane over his shoulder, and Jean darts forward.

But he bars her way with an arm across the door frame.

Jean bounces back, stumbling in her heels, and his lips twitch.

She will not make it past his stocky frame by force – and Leonides knows it too, the smile reaching his eyes.

Hugo stares as Jean rights herself, poised like a hare in the moment before flight, a question in his eyes.

But Jean gives the subtlest shake of her head.

Not yet. With diplomacy she might still be able to get them out of this relatively unscathed – Rhona and Hugo, client relations, the firm. But if she is careless…

‘You’re wasting your time here, Ms Howard. I recommend that you leave.’

‘Not going to happen. I have Rhona on the line right now; she’s in your bathroom.’ Jean bares her teeth. ‘Perhaps dinner didn’t agree with her.’

A Gallic shrug. ‘The young are frail in constitution.’

‘All the more reason to get her home.’ Jean puts her iPhone on speaker. ‘Rhona, the car’s waiting downstairs – would you like to come with me?’

Leonides straightens, brows knitting together as he takes in the device. ‘What exactly are you accusing me of?’

‘I haven’t accused you of anything, Mr Leonides.’

‘Come on now, Jean. You’re a sensible woman – pragmatic. Are you really going to throw away your firm’s biggest client on the say-so of a jumpy little girl?’

Jean’s eyebrows climb. ‘I haven’t mentioned anything about terminating our contract with Hephaestia.’

‘We both know you’re the power behind the throne. You’re at the office every night long after Peter’s gone home.’ His voice is oily, wheedling. ‘Why not let me turn in for the night. And then tomorrow we can sit down together, discuss a personal retainer. There’s no need for hostility.’

Jean bites back a sigh. ‘You’re right – we can end this amicably. But you and I both know Rhona’s in there. So why not let m—’

He grabs Jean’s wrist in a vice grip without warning, tight enough that a whimper escapes her lips. They’re far enough away from the other hotel rooms that nobody would hear her scream. Their eyes lock and Leonides licks his lips, as if savouring the taste of her fear.

Jean stills. She’d read about trauma responses in the years after it all happened, when Henry had suggested therapy as a solution to the panic that remained with her long after Will left the firm.

Fight or flight are the big ones, seized upon by evolutionary biologists, fawn and freeze the poor cousins.

She’d despised her own weakness, locked in place like a fieldmouse before an adder – and dedicated herself to changing.

But all those courses on confidence, elocution, leadership – every rung of the ladder she has climbed over the years – dissipate into nothing as Leonides tightens his grip.

Deep down, Jean’s the same now as she was then; the knowledge pains her more deeply than any wound this man is capable of inflicting.

But Hugo doesn’t fawn or freeze. And though he flies, it’s entirely in the aid of fight.

He darts around the corner and, seizing upon Leonides’ shock, launches himself at the billionaire’s thickset waist. Leonides holds her wrist tighter still, yanking as Hugo tackles him to the ground.

A cry rips from Jean’s throat, the pain blinding her as something delicate ruptures between bone and sinew.

‘Ms Howard.’ While Leonides is still winded, Hugo rolls him over, both arms pinned behind his back, a knee fixing him in place. ‘JEAN! Get Rhona. Now .’

Jolted into action, Jean hurries past the two men sprawled on the floor. With her left hand she knocks on the bathroom door.

‘You think you can attack me? That you will get away with it?’ Leonides spits with all the venom of a cobra, red-faced under Hugo’s muscular bulk. ‘I have destroyed people for less.’

‘Rhona, it’s me. It’s Jean.’ Sweat beads on Jean’s forehead; she lifts the phone to her mouth, praying Rhona hears her above the litany of threats and curses and feet thumping against the floor. ‘Open the door and we’ll leave together. You can do it. I’m right here.’

The lock clicks and Rhona tumbles into her arms, red-faced and clinging to her torn blouse. A tide of acid bile rises in Jean’s throat as her wrist is wedged tight between their bodies. Jean pulls away, keeping her good arm wrapped around Rhona’s shoulder, propelling the girl past her captor.

Leonides is puce with the effort of squeezing words past the weight of Hugo’s knee. ‘I will burn your fucking firm to the ground, do you hear me? And you can kiss any chance of a career goodbye, you worthless little cocktease.’

‘Almost there, Rhona.’ Jean guides her out into the hallway.

‘I’ll call the police the second you release me. You really think they’ll just let you get away with this?’ Even with both arms pinned behind his back, he wears the grin of a man with the upper hand. ‘Andreas Leonides has friends in high places.’

Rhona pales, her breath coming in shallow rapid wheezes. Jean looks from her to Hugo; she can’t jettison one to save the other. Why couldn’t Peter have answered his fucking phone?

‘I’ll stay with him.’ Jean’s gaze darts around. ‘Tie his hands with the belt from that robe and I’ll stay.’

‘Respectfully, Ms Howard, I have a better idea.’ Hugo grunts with effort as he rolls Leonides over. ‘Time to put our heads together and find a solution.’

Hugo raises his head and brings it down hard, and Jean winces at the clash of bone against bone. Leonides sags on the floor, unresponsive as Hugo checks him over – only the slow rise and fall of his chest indicate that he’s anything other than a corpse.

‘Hugo, what did you do?’ Rhona’s breath comes in panting sobs. ‘You’ll go to jail and it’s all my fault. Oh God . I’m so sorry.’

Hugo clambers to his feet and dusts himself down, seemingly unhurt despite the welt forming on his forehead. ‘Leonides isn’t the only one with friends in high places. My sister’s in the Home Office – and she’s godmother to the foreign secretary’s son. Now let’s go.’

Hugo closes the door behind him and, demonstrating more tact than Jean had ever imagined him capable of, leaves Jean to help Rhona. The lift is waiting when they reach it, Hugo blocking the door sensors with his body, one foot on solid ground and the other inside.

As they descend, Jean shrugs off her jacket, purple spots blooming across her vision as a sleeve snags her wounded wrist. With her good hand Jean drapes the blazer over Rhona’s shoulders, tucking it to shield the rip in her blouse as the doors open.

She and Hugo steer Rhona through the lobby, one on either side like sentries.

And relief soars in Jean’s chest as she spies the car; Bogdan, still waiting. Hugo opens the door, and Jean helps ease a sniffling Rhona inside. The girl tries to pull Jean in after her, relinquishing her grip only when Jean promises to return soon.

The second she lets go, Jean staggers round to the back of the car. With her good hand balanced against the boot Jean vomits into the gutter, ignoring the jeers of pedestrians.

Hugo’s eyes dart between the sweat pooling above her upper lip; the way Jean cradles her wrist against her chest. ‘You’re hurt! London Bridge Hospital’s not far – Bogdan can drop you off on the way to Rhona’s.’

‘My wrist isn’t broken; I can still move it.

I’ll get it taken care of after I’ve seen Rhona home,’ Jean says.

And though it’s not a lie, her conscience prickles.

But there’s another more pressing matter: Peter needs to know.

‘Hugo, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you the importance of keeping all this confidential.

Not just for Rhona, but for the firm and your future with us. ’

‘You don’t have to threaten me, Ms Howard. I know I’ve been a prat to Rhona – I was jealous that you chose her for Leonides. But…’ Hugo shakes his head, as if attempting to dislodge the memory. ‘I won’t say anything about it. Unless she wants me to testify, of course.’

Jean blinks, taken aback. Even knowing the likely repercussions for himself, for DDH, he would risk it all to do right by Rhona. His rival. Which is more than Jean ever did for her dearest friend. The realisation is a hefty blow to the gut, sure as if Hugo had tackled her too.

‘Anyway, I’ll get the tube to Rosalind’s – she’s overdue some brotherly love.’ He gives a tight smile and turns to go, carried on a tide of pedestrians.

‘Wait!’

He turns. And though the animal part of Jean’s brain is screaming that they shouldn’t linger, she cannot leave without making this final point: ‘You’re a good man, Hugo. Thank you.’