To where the bodies are buried…
Or maybe not. The basement is all for play. And not the kind of play I’d usually associate with Niko. There’s a home cinema with lights like a runway running along the floor, plus a state-of-the-art home gym. But the majority of the floorspace is taken up by an honest to goodness swimming pool that’s at least twelve meters long—the entire area housed in Carrara marble! How he’d gotten planning permission for a whole extra floor in such a historic property boggles my mind.
Back upstairs, I find myself wandering through the myriad of rooms and past the ancient looking lift that I once rode in. I open a door to an elegant drawing room, complete with original fireplace and crown moldings. One wall is mirrored, reflecting the gray early evening. I trail my fingers over the soft velvet nap of the armchairs and find myself plumping the sumptuous damask cushions. A smoky glass coffee table stands in the middle of the seating arrangement, a pot with a white orchid placed in the center. It looks like the kind of room meant to impress. And also remind visitors not to get too comfortable.
The next room houses a huge billiard table and cocktail bar, its cabinetry covered in a slate-colored suede to match the table’s bespoke baize. Next is a dining room large enough to seat a couple of football teams, then a sitting room with a modular sofa big enough to hold an orgy on—and all this on one floor.
I pause in the hallway and look back at the lift. Would I go up to the penthouse suite? And would I go because I’m curious about the artwork or the décor but because of the gilded chair. Would it still be there, I find myself wondering? Would the touch of the cuffs still feel as soft as a caress?
I’m curious.
I shouldn’t be.
But I am.
Surely, he wouldn’t still have it, would he?
Frozen with indecision, want versus ought, I’m still staring at the brass cage of the elevator when the front door opens. I spin around as the sounds of a late afternoon in London seep in. Cars passing. A wind whistling. Van looks up, his smile all relief, and I return it as tension flows out of me.
He’s here, he’s okay. But he’s not alone.
The man behind him is even larger than Van. A head taller and wider at the shoulders. Thicker at the waist. He looks sort of familiar, or maybe the familiarity is media created because, with his build and scarred face, the man looks like a minder.
The ear! I remember him now. Van murmurs something and the man slips almost silently into an adjacent door, barely acknowledging me.
“I see you found the cellar.” Niko’s alpine lake gaze skates over me as though in inventory.
“I found the fridge,” I correct as he takes the glass from my hand, pressing the rim to his lips. Something inside me heats, cooling again as he lowers it briefly before taking a swallow.
“You found Julia’s cooking wine.”
“Oh.” I stare at his lips. Then the liquid. “It’s not bad,” I say with a shrug. I’m more in the mood to chug than taste.
“Did you eat?” he asks, handing me back my glass.
“A little, but Van.” I wrap my fingers around his retracting wrist, curling my fingers over his. “What happened?” His knuckles are grazed and bloody, and tiny specks of blood dapple his white shirt. He makes to pull away when I press my free hand to his face. “Tell me, please.”
“Nothing that you need to worry yourself over.”
“Are you hurt?” Now it’s my turn for the inventory as I pat my hands over him, expecting him to complain.
“I’m fine,” he says softly, stilling my roving fingers.
“Tell me what happened, Niko. Your hands—”
“It was a difference of opinion. Nothing else. Nothing for you to worry yourself over.” He lifts my fingers to his lips. “Thank you for your concern.” His words are smoky and his eyes hot. The situation in danger of reverting to how we know best to deal with feelings.
I slip my hands from his, folding my would-be questing fingers under my arms. “Did you find out anything? Anything that might help.”
“Yes.” The word sounds resigned as he slides a hand across his golden bristles. “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll tell you.” He turns, though pauses when I don’t immediately follow.
“Do we… need to go upstairs?”
“You think the sight of a bed will drive me to ravish you?”
“No,” I reply hesitantly. He turns wordlessly, not bothering to hide his smile. I make for the stairs, startling when he turns again.
“Since when have you and I ever needed a bed?”
“Hilarious,” I mutter, trudging up the stairs behind him like an unimpressed teen. An unimpressed teen with very fluttery, gratified insides. Is it possible to get drunk on the sight of a smile? I’m not sure, but the sight of it warms my insides like a good whisky would.