‘The jet and the helicopter do save time,’ he said, reflecting that the description of him was apt, although none of his success had been by design. He’d had no ambition to make a fortune when he’d been given a chance to escape a life of crime and despair. He’d had no plans at all and nothing to lose, so he’d taken risks with little care for the consequences. In a fairer world he’d have squandered everything several times over, but his world had had other ideas and rewarded every reckless move he’d made, as if making amends for everything he’d once had and lost.
‘And what do you do with the time you save?’
‘I manage to keep myself entertained.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ she said smoothly. ‘So tell me what led you into it.’
Not a chance. ‘Only if you tell me first what took you into crisis management,’ he countered with a wide, easy grin, confident that she’d back right off since when it came to personal information she dodged and feinted as much as he did.
‘All right.’
What? As the word exploded between them like some kind of bomb, every cell of his body froze and his stomach roiled. Damn. ‘I was joking.’
‘I wasn’t,’ she said calmly and he realised with a stab of alarm and a jolt of panic that she really wasn’t. ‘And I’m going to hold you to it.’
‘No need.’
‘There’s every need.’
‘Why don’t you tell me about your favourite band instead?’ he said, never more regretting the fact that they were speeding along a motorway and therefore unable to screech to a stop so he could get the hell out.
‘The main reason I went into crisis management,’ she said, clearly deciding to give that absurd question the consideration it deserved, which was none, ‘was to put something bad that happened to me to good use.’
At that, Rico snapped his head round and went very still, his heart giving a great thud. And even though the very last thing he wanted to be having was this conversation, even though he knew he ought to respond with something flippant designed to shut her down and maintain the distance, instead he found himself saying, ‘Something bad?’
‘When I was fifteen, I was groomed.’
What the hell? What did that even mean? ‘What happened?’
‘As I told you, my parents are hippies and I was raised on various communes. They were too busy smoking weed and chanting to pay me any attention, so I went in search of it myself. One afternoon I was hanging out in an internet cafe and I got chatting online to someone I thought was a boy my age.’
‘But he wasn’t,’ he said as sickening realisation began to dawn.
‘No,’ she said with a slow shake of her head. ‘He very definitely wasn’t. But he was clever and patient. He asked me all about myself and I told him everything. He took the ammunition I gave him and used it on me quite calculatingly. He knew exactly which buttons to push and how to shower me with the affection and love I craved so desperately. And he knew that when he withdrew it I’d beg him to give it back, which I did.’
Bastardo.
‘Within weeks I was addicted to his messages and started skipping school early to get to the cafe. He sent me a phone so we could actually talk and I used it to send him the photos he asked for. When he came clean and told me he was thirty to my fifteen I didn’t care. I was in far too deep by that point. It was our secret and it was thrilling and I was obsessed. Before long I stopped hanging out with my friends or talking to anyone but him, really. Georgie tried, but he gave me some great excuses to use and my parents weren’t paying any attention to what was going on anyway. When he suggested we meet, I didn’t hesitate for a single second. I packed a bag, took the money he’d also sent me and was off.’
‘Where did you go?’ he asked, his head spinning so fast he was barely able to comprehend what she was telling him.
‘I met him in a hotel in east London.’
‘Separate rooms?’
‘One room. Double bed.’
His jaw clenched so hard it was on the point of shattering. ‘And you were fifteen.’
‘Yes.’
And he thought he knew the depths of depravity people could sink to. He’d been wrong.
‘We spent three days there,’ she continued, clearly oblivious to the rage beginning to crash though him. ‘The plan was to run away to France but I didn’t have a passport, so it was then Scotland, but before that could happen the police turned up.’
‘How did they find you?’
‘I couldn’t resist sending Georgie a photo of the hotel, even though by that point I wasn’t letting her speak to me. I thought I was so grown up,’ she said with a tiny frown, as if she thought she was somehow to blame, which was staggeringly wrong. ‘I was showing off. She called the police. I owe her big time. I still can’t believe she didn’t cut me off completely. I was vile.’