Read Online One Stolen Kiss by Lauren Boutain - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Boutain
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disconnected the call, and rolled down the passenger window.
“Listen,” he told Christie, his finger to his lips.
Christie undid her seatbelt and leant across a little towards the open window. Adrik put his arm along the back of the seat, his hand resting on her shoulder reassuringly.
There was the faint sound of a front door opening, and camera flashes began to start, flaring off the scaffold beside their car in its wrapping of high-visibility tape.
And then the much louder, electronically-amplified click of someone clearing their throat, through what could only be a sports stadium loudhailer.
“Get off my doorstep, dirty crack-heads!” boomed a woman’s throaty Nigerian accent. It would have been intimidating enough without the amplifier. “Go and deal your drugs elsewhere! Or I call the police!”
The effect was instantaneous. The street reverberated with running footsteps, car doors slammed, engines revved – and within about thirty seconds, the road was deserted. Somewhere, dogs were now barking.
“Whoa,” Christie remarked, while the chauffeur chortled away heartily to himself. “That was fast.”
“ I never have to call the police,” Adrik said almost apologetically, by way of explanation. “But the neighbours will call them now, even if they haven’t looked outside. So it serves the intruders best to run away, and not have to explain themselves.”
“ I see. A sort of Neighbourhood Watch public announcement service?” Christie surmised. “Whatever happened to just a simple ‘Twelve of the clock, and all’s well’?”
“ Sometimes all is not well.” Adrik winked, and opened the car door to get out. “Should be safe now. Let’s go.”
Christie still felt wary as she followed him to the gated front path, angling her baseball hat down as Derek would have instructed her to do. In fact, in this sort of scenario, he had been known to merely dispatch her straight to a hotel instead of risking being seen with her. But Adrik seemed quite comfortable, and in no hurry either.
“Look,” he said, stopping at the open iron gate. He was pointing down the street.
“ Where?” Christie whispered. She instinctively ducked into the shadow of a tree, scanning for professional photographers and other snoopers.
“ Fox,” said Adrik. A sinuous, feral shape slunk quickly from patch to patch of light before disappearing between the parked cars. “City fox. My cat likes to chase them. I think there might be cubs nearby.”
“ Oh…” Christie straightened up a little, although her neck still prickled as if sensing the imaginary hidden observers, implanted firmly in her mind by Derek Goldman’s PR training. There really was only a fox besides them in the immediate vicinity now – but she couldn’t help checking out every other shadow, out of nervous habit.
“ What are you doing back there? Hiding from the SVR?” Adrik chuckled. “Better come indoors, before you get mistaken for paparazzi – Paparazzka.”
He doesn’t understand . Christie kept scanning either side of them as they headed up the path to the front steps. Privacy isn’t an entitlement. It’s a privilege. People have to work hard for it, to earn it – to protect it… She knew it was Derek’s voice quoting those words in her head, but they were the only truth she knew since moving to the bright, glaring – unforgiving – lights of Manhattan.
They reached the top of the stone steps. Adrik opened the door, and she let out a sharp gasp.
Something heavy, fast and fluffy had barged in past them, right through her legs. The sound of claws skittered across the honey-coloured oak floors, fading rapidly into the depths of the mansion.
“ I think the fox just ran in!” Christie hissed, almost frozen with fright.
“ No – that was cat,” Adrik corrected. “His master is home, therefore he thinks it is time for dinner.”
Another Nigerian voice, male this time, and equally angry, hollered through the building.
“Out of
“Listen,” he told Christie, his finger to his lips.
Christie undid her seatbelt and leant across a little towards the open window. Adrik put his arm along the back of the seat, his hand resting on her shoulder reassuringly.
There was the faint sound of a front door opening, and camera flashes began to start, flaring off the scaffold beside their car in its wrapping of high-visibility tape.
And then the much louder, electronically-amplified click of someone clearing their throat, through what could only be a sports stadium loudhailer.
“Get off my doorstep, dirty crack-heads!” boomed a woman’s throaty Nigerian accent. It would have been intimidating enough without the amplifier. “Go and deal your drugs elsewhere! Or I call the police!”
The effect was instantaneous. The street reverberated with running footsteps, car doors slammed, engines revved – and within about thirty seconds, the road was deserted. Somewhere, dogs were now barking.
“Whoa,” Christie remarked, while the chauffeur chortled away heartily to himself. “That was fast.”
“ I never have to call the police,” Adrik said almost apologetically, by way of explanation. “But the neighbours will call them now, even if they haven’t looked outside. So it serves the intruders best to run away, and not have to explain themselves.”
“ I see. A sort of Neighbourhood Watch public announcement service?” Christie surmised. “Whatever happened to just a simple ‘Twelve of the clock, and all’s well’?”
“ Sometimes all is not well.” Adrik winked, and opened the car door to get out. “Should be safe now. Let’s go.”
Christie still felt wary as she followed him to the gated front path, angling her baseball hat down as Derek would have instructed her to do. In fact, in this sort of scenario, he had been known to merely dispatch her straight to a hotel instead of risking being seen with her. But Adrik seemed quite comfortable, and in no hurry either.
“Look,” he said, stopping at the open iron gate. He was pointing down the street.
“ Where?” Christie whispered. She instinctively ducked into the shadow of a tree, scanning for professional photographers and other snoopers.
“ Fox,” said Adrik. A sinuous, feral shape slunk quickly from patch to patch of light before disappearing between the parked cars. “City fox. My cat likes to chase them. I think there might be cubs nearby.”
“ Oh…” Christie straightened up a little, although her neck still prickled as if sensing the imaginary hidden observers, implanted firmly in her mind by Derek Goldman’s PR training. There really was only a fox besides them in the immediate vicinity now – but she couldn’t help checking out every other shadow, out of nervous habit.
“ What are you doing back there? Hiding from the SVR?” Adrik chuckled. “Better come indoors, before you get mistaken for paparazzi – Paparazzka.”
He doesn’t understand . Christie kept scanning either side of them as they headed up the path to the front steps. Privacy isn’t an entitlement. It’s a privilege. People have to work hard for it, to earn it – to protect it… She knew it was Derek’s voice quoting those words in her head, but they were the only truth she knew since moving to the bright, glaring – unforgiving – lights of Manhattan.
They reached the top of the stone steps. Adrik opened the door, and she let out a sharp gasp.
Something heavy, fast and fluffy had barged in past them, right through her legs. The sound of claws skittered across the honey-coloured oak floors, fading rapidly into the depths of the mansion.
“ I think the fox just ran in!” Christie hissed, almost frozen with fright.
“ No – that was cat,” Adrik corrected. “His master is home, therefore he thinks it is time for dinner.”
Another Nigerian voice, male this time, and equally angry, hollered through the building.
“Out of
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