I’ve hated hospitals ever since I was a child and they took my tonsils out and never gave me the promised ice cream afterward. “Get me out of here,” I said in what I thought was a quiet voice but somehow came out as a hoarse shout.
“Shh.” She took my limp hand from where it lay immobilized like the rest of me, on the white sheet, and kissed it tenderly. “You had an accident,” she said, still in that soothing voice people use on other people who are really sick, so as not to frighten them.
“I did not,” I said, as forcefully as I could manage since my own voice had now retreated to a squeak. “Somebody hit me, somebody threw me in the sea, I could have drowned.…”
Realizing the horror of what I was saying, I suddenly burst into tears. Mirabella handed me the tissues and I mopped busily but still they came.
“It’s the relief, sweetheart,” she said. “That’s all. Chad is looking after you, and he’s the best you can get. And so am I, looking after you.”
“You are the best I can get,” I said, noticing the flowers displayed on every available surface. “I’ll bet I know who those are from. There’s only one man who could afford them and it’s not my husband.”
“Soon to be ex, remember? And you are right, of course. The Boss is distraught that this happened to you at his party, at his villa. He will do anything to help. In fact he wants you to stay at his home, in one of the guesthouses, where you will be looked after, as he said to me, ‘Like royalty, only better.’”
I laughed. The Boss was a charmer, and cute with it. Sort of funny—there was always a little disclaimer where he was concerned. I don’t know why because he had certainly never been anything other than charming and generous to me. Especially now with his offer.
“I want you to come to me, of course,” Mirabella was saying. “But the fact is I have to be away for a couple of days, some business thing in London to do with Aunt Jolly’s will and the property, that you know Chad Prescott says she deeded to him in a letter. Which in fact she did, but of course it’s not valid. I have to straighten it out.”
“Is Chad giving you trouble over that?” I was surprised.
“He did at the beginning, but he’s backed off. It’s his lawyers who won’t let go. Still, you’ll be okay there, at the Boss’s place. He has an army of servants to look after you, which is more than I can do.”
“I’d rather eat my breakfast in the kitchen with you,” I said. “I’m pretty good at carving up melons, buttering toast…”
“We’ll do just that, in a few days’ time. Then you’ll come home. Meanwhile, enjoy your flowers and get well. That’s what I want most from you.”
“You don’t want my love then?” The squeak was back in my voice. She was already at the door and turned, one hand on the knob, to look back at me.
“You betcha, baby,” she said with a wink.
45
The Boss
A couple of hours later, the Boss returned home to the Villa Mara from the hospital, where he’d left Verity in the care of several doctors, including know-it-all Chad Prescott, as well as the fuckin’ Colonel, who was determined to get his hand in and would probably want to claim responsibility for saving her life and then later for arresting the culprit for what he was determined to call an “attempted murder.” And he’d be right. It was only “attempted.” The second Russian had also fucked up.
He stood, alone for a while, making sure his orders had been carried out. His party was still going on, the drama missed by almost everybody. A live group had replaced the DJ and the partygoers crowded around the low stage, clapping their hands to the new rhythm, or waving their arms over their heads, swaying. Champagne glasses were being refilled, and the scent of good steak mingled with the night jasmine, the lavender, the briny sea air.
The TV reporters had departed, and down by the sea the bunker was in darkness. Except, the Boss noted, for the red light of a burning cigarette. The Russian was waiting for him, expecting to be paid, no doubt. And for what? Fucking up? It did not work that way.
The beach was a madhouse, police dogs straining on tight leashes, sniffing every goddamn bush. It should never have come to this. How he had kept most of his guests unaware of it all was a miracle only he could produce. He was a sort of God, he knew that, but this had been tricky and the Russian was responsible.
“You’re late,” the Russian said, stamping out the cigarette under a booted foot.
“Late for what?” The Boss’s voice was ice.
“Fuckin’ late paying me. I’ve been waiting here half an hour. And anyway, the job turned out bigger than you said. I need more money.”
“And how much more would that be?”
*
The Russian had not expected such quick compliance; he’d been prepared for a fight. “Ten thou.” He took a flier on the amount, instinctively understanding the Boss was going to go for it. Why, he did not know, but he knew he would. He did not need to say, “or else.” That was implied.