“Your brother,” he begins as the server departs.
“No. I won’t involve him in whatever this is.”
“For the right reason, I think a man such as he would want to know. Want to be involved.”
“Involved in what exactly?” I place my hands on the table, clasping them together in front of me. “What is it you want?”
“This is… a business meeting, brought about because your husband—”
“Ex-husband,” I correct, drawing a definitive line between me and that weasel. Where once the line was perforated, now it’s severed.
“Your ex-husband owes me a great deal of money, which has placed you in an unenviable situation.”
“Which I really don’t understand at all. What makes you think I’m interested in his troubles? That, even if I had the means, I’d be willing to pay his debts?”
“Because you are like the good Samaritan. You will do what you can to help who you can.” A smile catches in the corner of his mouth, but its chased away a second later. “Because you will do what you must to protect your family.”
My heart does a painful jig in my chest, but I force myself to paint on a bland smile. “That sounded like a threat, Mr. Aslanov.”
I physically start, when he answers.
“Then we understand each other.”
This is a needle scratch on a vinyl record, a sign that we’re not playing nice, if we ever were. I don’t know what to say, my tongue suddenly thick in my mouth. My heart is galloping like the hooves of a runaway horse, which is apt, because it takes every ounce of my resolve to stay seated in my chair.
Coffee arrives, an espresso for him and a latte I didn’t ask for is placed in front of me. I resolve not to touch it, not trusting anything right now. Besides, it wouldn’t stay in my stomach, anyway.
“You drink lattes.” His eyes meet mine over the top of his tiny cup.
“Not this morning I don’t,” I murmur, trying hard to hide my fear.
“Then I will, as they say, cut to the chase. You don’t want your ex-husband to die, and quite frankly, neither do I. A dead person can never repay a debt. Instead, his family must.”
“I’m not his family.”
“You bore him sons. They are your family. Your shared family. You don’t want to see them grieving, do you?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Then you have a choice.”
I huff out an unhappy laugh. “If I had a choice, I think I’d find myself anywhere but here, Mr. Aslanov.”
He makes a gesture; open handed, a sort of what can I do.
“Then let’s discuss these choices.”
“I have certain… business interests that I require some assistance at a governmental level.”
“I don’t know anything about government.”
“But your brother sits in the House of Lords. He has contacts.”
“We’re not discussing my brother,” I answer, my spine stiffening. “He’s far to upstanding to involve himself in anything untoward.”
“Your brother is not as upstanding as you think, Lady Isla.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” I bristle. “And I don’t want to know.”
He makes a sound; a click of teeth and tongue as though I’m a child who requires gentle chastisement. “A peer of the realm with powerful friends? The truth is, he is beyond my touch, but you could persuade him.”
“No,” I answer brusquely. “What are these other choices?”
“This is my preferred choice.”
“But not mine.”
“Then you are about to become very disappointed, I think.”
The server materializes like a genie from a bottle, and my companion is served his breakfast. Yellow, fluffy scrambled egg with Scottish smoked salmon, topped with black pepper and truffle shavings. The smell of it makes me feel ill, but there’s more to bear as a dainty rack of toast it set on the table, along with a silver cake stand containing several levels of continental breakfast. Cheeses, salami, ham. And to follow, a basket of miniature pastries.
Worse than the smell is the thought of who’s paying for all of this.
The black tailed server tops up my water glass and retreats.
“You’re not eating?”
My face contorts in some semblance of a smile. “No, thank you. Blackmail always spoils my appetite.”
A fork balanced in one hand, he waggles the forefinger of his other as though I’d just told a terrible joke. The tines of the fork disappear into his mouth. He chews, swallows, then dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin. All while staring at me. “I think you’ll involve your brother.”
“And I know I won’t.”
“One way or another,” he murmurs as though I haven’t spoken. Setting his silverware down, he leans to his left. “But we can discuss other avenues. Your business, for instance.”
I become as still as a piece of statuary. “It produces barely enough profit to cover my mortgage. I hold very little stock, and—”
“There are other ways to monetize online businesses.”
“Criminal ways, you mean?” I could almost bite off the end of my tongue. What else would he be talking about! “It’s a small concern. I have only three parttime employees and—”