Page 58 of The Lost Zone (Dark Water #3)

“I look forward to learning from you, Jack,” Alex replied demurely.

He handed Jack the nanocard E had given him.

“This is from my trainer at Belvedere, outlining my current fitness programme. I hope we can build on it, as I’d like to continue to improve.

Also, she’s keen that I carry on with yoga.

It keeps me supple, which helps in my line of work.

” He said that without shame or irony, as the straightforward fact it was.

Jack looked taken aback, but he took the card and scanned it into his holopad.

“I’ll take a proper look and work out a full programme for you. I want you in here at eleven a.m. tomorrow,” he ordered. A later start than at Belvedere, to account, no doubt, for the fact that most of Alex’s work would be performed at night.

“Of course,” Alex said smoothly. He hoped Jack would agree to help him with his yoga practice, but even if he didn’t, it didn’t matter.

He could continue that privately, during the long hours of nothingness that he remembered from his previous life here.

Even Tyler didn’t have enough blackmail targets to keep Alex perpetually busy.

The next stop was his bedroom – only it wasn’t the room he’d occupied before. He was taken, instead, further down the corridor, towards… His heart sank as he realised where Harris was taking him. They stopped outside his new bedroom. Her room.

“This is new,” he observed, as pleasantly as he could muster.

More Tyler mind games? How cruel could the man be to make him sleep where Solange had once slept?

Then he realised it wasn’t just mindless cruelty; there was a method to everything Tyler did.

He’d moved Alex here as a warning, and the message was obvious: behave, or what happened to Solange will happen to you.

Harris flung open the door and ushered Alex inside.

Solange’s room was the same size as his old one but had a slightly different view.

The wreckage of the London Eye was still faintly visible in the dark waters of the lost zone below, but he also had more of a view of the city itself, with all its bright lights and scurrying people.

“Make yourself at home. Andrew will be here soon,” Harris said, and then he left. Who was Andrew? Well, no doubt he’d find out soon enough. He wandered around the room, aware of Tyler’s gaze on his every move. This was his first test, and he was determined to pass it.

He could see Solange’s ghost everywhere.

Over there, curled up in the big armchair by the window, reading a magazine, one finger curled in her glorious hair.

There, in the bathroom, where he’d chased her one day when they’d both been sweaty from working out.

He’d pushed her under the shower and turned it on, then jumped in beside her, both of them still dressed in their workout clothes, and they’d laughed helplessly under the warm spray.

On the bed, where he’d crawled in beside her and cuddled her when she’d cried after spending the night with a particularly unpleasant guest. The memories were oddly comforting.

They made him feel close to her. Instead of continuing to feel angry with Tyler for putting him in her room, now he was pleased.

Everything else had changed, but she was still here with him. He could feel her.

Behind him, the door opened, and he turned to see a plain man in his thirties with a nervous, smiling face.

“I’m Andrew, your new stylist,” he said. He had short blond hair and baby blue eyes, and there was a sweetness to him that couldn’t be faked. Alex treated him the same way he’d treated Jack: remote smile, polite disinterest, making it only about the work.

“I look forward to working with you to create the kinds of looks that will delight Mr Tyler’s guests,” Alex said.

“Oh good.” Andrew gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I was nervous because, well, you’re you , and I’ve heard everything about you on the grapevine. I was worried you’d be difficult. Some of my clients are total divas, but I can see you’ll be a dream to work with.”

How easy it would be to find some solace, an iota less loneliness, in letting Andrew in and befriending him as he’d done Lorenzo, but that wasn’t an option now. Andrew might find him a dream to work with, but they’d never be friends.

“I like good research, Andrew,” he said keenly. “I need to know exactly the looks and personas I must create in order to get the results Mr Tyler wants. It’s all about the work.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll make sure you’re always properly prepared, you can be sure of that.”

Alex opened his closet to find some new items there.

“I just felt it needed a little refresh,” Andrew said anxiously. “Is that okay?”

“It looks very good,” Alex replied in a neutral tone.

Some part of him couldn’t care less and itched to say so, but he fought it into submission.

Fooling Tyler that he was a good IS meant he actually had to be a good IS, and that meant taking his work seriously, as degrading and distasteful as it was.

After meeting Andrew, Harris took him to the kitchen, where a new chef was waiting for him.

She asked to be called Frances instead of Chef and she was pleasant, too, just as Andrew was, but Alex treated her exactly the same.

They talked about his culinary likes and dislikes, and he spoke earnestly about his fitness programme and how they could tailor his nutrition to it.

She was very eager to collaborate with both him and Jack on that, and Alex had to acknowledge that there was actually something satisfying about co-operating with these people instead of giving them a hard time.

There was one final person for him to meet, and she was in the living room, reading a magazine, when he returned there after his tour of the apartment.

She had a thin, hard face, heavily made up, and hair that was so bleached and bouffant he had no idea what the original colouring had been, but her body was undeniably knock-out: long, tanned, honed legs, a slender waist, and huge breasts.

She had none of Solange’s natural beauty, but Alex supposed that Tyler’s clientele would be happy enough with what she offered instead.

She shot him a cold look, and he gave her the same distant smile he’d given everyone else.

He had a feeling that suited her fine. She’d clearly been warned against becoming too close to him and possibly even resented his presence in the suite, which she was used to having to herself.

Alex understood her type straight away; she was the courtesan in charge here, the ma?tresse en titre , the star attraction.

As long as Alex didn’t steal any of her thunder, she’d probably tolerate him.

“I’m Marta,” she told him, with an accent he couldn’t quite place, but which was almost certainly Eastern European. He started to wonder how she’d ended up here but shunted that thought aside. It was no concern of his where she’d come from, or who she was.

“Alex.” He held out his hand, but she ignored it, staring at him imperiously.

“We will be sharing here. Don’t fuck with me, and I won’t fuck with you.”

“Understood.”

“I mean it. I know about you. I won’t cover for you, or protect you, like the last girl did.” She shot him a dark look to make sure her message had been received. It had. Loud and clear.

“I’m here to do my job. You’ll have no problems with me,” he told her quietly.

“See to it.” She turned back to her magazine.

He bit back the ten sarcastic retorts that immediately came to mind. He’d known this would be hard, but he couldn’t fall at the first hurdle. Gideon had trained him better than that.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must perform my yoga practice,” he said, keeping his tone emotionless.

“Unless I’m required elsewhere?” He glanced at Harris questioningly.

Would Tyler want to see him now? If not now, then when?

He shoved the thought aside. It would happen when it happened.

None of this was in his control. All he was responsible for was his own reactions and keeping them as neutral and elusive as possible.

Clearly, despite all his training, he still had a lot to learn on that subject.

“Nah, that’s it for the day. Knock yourself out.” Harris shrugged. “Must say, I thought you’d give us more trouble. Everyone told me you’re a right shit.”

“People change.” Alex gave what was becoming his signature distant smile, and then he escaped, gratefully, along the hallway to the gym.

Jack wasn’t there, so he had the place to himself.

He hummed his song desperately in his head as he launched himself into his first pose.

God, he needed this. The routine and structure of yoga, the repetition of his song.

To be back in this place again after all that had happened was a nightmare.

He felt trapped, hemmed in, and this time, with no possibility of escape – not now, not ever.

He fought down the claustrophobia that made him want to scream and shout his emotions to the world.

Make me a channel of your peace…

This place was so full of ghosts… Solange, Ted, Mick, Lorenzo, Chef… even Mason. He must be strong. He was strong. Ted had told him so, and Solange was relying on it.

The movements flowed easily, drummed into him from constant repetition, and slowly, surely, they calmed him, rooting him in his purpose.

He repeated his song over and over again in his head as he moved.

Tomorrow, he’d ask Jack if he could have a playlist for his workouts.

Surely that would be acceptable? If it was refused, he’d be indifferent.

If it was agreed, he’d offer polite but disinterested thanks.