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Authors: Brett Battles
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in love with her.”
“I’ll always be in love with her,” Julien replied wistfully. Then, in a tone of recharged energy, said, “I will always be in love with any woman who shares my bed. Why would I invite them there otherwise?”
Quinn saw right through the lie of the second part, but he could tell the first was one hundred percent true.
CHAPTER 8
LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM
M ILA’S HAIR WAS now black. Technically, it was the wig that was black, but she’d learned many years ago that to really sell a disguise, you had to make it your own— be a woman with black hair, in this case.
She was dressed in a conservative gray business suit, and carried over her shoulder a brown leather briefcase. Tinted glasses helped hide her still youthful face, and high heels made her seem taller than she was.
She had taken the Victoria line of London’s Underground from Oxford Circus all the way out to Tottenham Hale. From there she transferred to a regular passenger train out to Waltham Cross Station, and then grabbed a cab into neighboring Waltham Abbey.
It was early yet, only ten thirty, and while many of the shops were already open on Sun Street near the old church, the shoppers had yet to show up in any kind of numbers.
As she walked down the middle of the walking street, she could feel the eyes of those in the stores looking out at her, wondering who she might be. That was fine. It didn’t matter if they remembered the black-haired businesswoman who looked like a lawyer or stockbroker or some other high-powered type. She wouldn’t be that person for long.
Her destination was a half block before the end of the street, a small suite of offices on the upper floor of a building, above a pub called Sir David. The door to the offices was off to the side, allowing the pub to have as much front real estate as possible. There was no sign next to the door, nothing to indicate what kind of business was beyond. There was only a cream-colored plastic box with a speaker on top and a button on the bottom that Mila pushed.
The speaker crackled to life.
“Yes?” a male voice said.
“I have an appointment,” Mila replied, her voice low so that it wouldn’t carry down the street.
“Ms. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“One moment.”
As the speaker went dead, the front door lock clicked. She grabbed the handle and pulled it open. Carpeted stairs rose through a narrow, dingy passageway to another door at the top. Just before she reached it, it opened.
“Come in,” the man standing on the other side said.
She covered her hesitation with a smile. The information she’d uncovered in Stockholm had been right. It was him.
The six years since she’d last seen him had not been particularly kind to the man. He looked older, much older, and favored a hip as he backed out of the way so she could enter. She had expected some change, of course. According to what she’d learned, he’d been forced out of the business because he’d contracted lung cancer, and while surgery and chemotherapy treatments had put it into remission, it was obvious his illness had taken a huge toll on him.
“I assume you’re Mr. Johnston,” she said.
“I am. Please, this way.”
She sensed no recognition in his eyes, but given her disguise and the fact that she supposedly died just hours after the only time they had ever met, it wasn’t surprising.
He led her through two rooms, stuffed with old books in boxes and on shelves, to an office at the back.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, motioning to the guest chair in front of the desk. “Would you like some tea?”
His English accent amused her. It was good, but she knew he was as American as she was.
“Not right now, thank you,” she said as she sat.
“You won’t mind if I have some, I hope.”
“Not at all.”
Johnston walked over to a hot plate on a cabinet in the corner, and picked up the teakettle. Once he’d filled a cup, he carried it back to the desk, stirring constantly,
“I’ll always be in love with her,” Julien replied wistfully. Then, in a tone of recharged energy, said, “I will always be in love with any woman who shares my bed. Why would I invite them there otherwise?”
Quinn saw right through the lie of the second part, but he could tell the first was one hundred percent true.
CHAPTER 8
LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM
M ILA’S HAIR WAS now black. Technically, it was the wig that was black, but she’d learned many years ago that to really sell a disguise, you had to make it your own— be a woman with black hair, in this case.
She was dressed in a conservative gray business suit, and carried over her shoulder a brown leather briefcase. Tinted glasses helped hide her still youthful face, and high heels made her seem taller than she was.
She had taken the Victoria line of London’s Underground from Oxford Circus all the way out to Tottenham Hale. From there she transferred to a regular passenger train out to Waltham Cross Station, and then grabbed a cab into neighboring Waltham Abbey.
It was early yet, only ten thirty, and while many of the shops were already open on Sun Street near the old church, the shoppers had yet to show up in any kind of numbers.
As she walked down the middle of the walking street, she could feel the eyes of those in the stores looking out at her, wondering who she might be. That was fine. It didn’t matter if they remembered the black-haired businesswoman who looked like a lawyer or stockbroker or some other high-powered type. She wouldn’t be that person for long.
Her destination was a half block before the end of the street, a small suite of offices on the upper floor of a building, above a pub called Sir David. The door to the offices was off to the side, allowing the pub to have as much front real estate as possible. There was no sign next to the door, nothing to indicate what kind of business was beyond. There was only a cream-colored plastic box with a speaker on top and a button on the bottom that Mila pushed.
The speaker crackled to life.
“Yes?” a male voice said.
“I have an appointment,” Mila replied, her voice low so that it wouldn’t carry down the street.
“Ms. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“One moment.”
As the speaker went dead, the front door lock clicked. She grabbed the handle and pulled it open. Carpeted stairs rose through a narrow, dingy passageway to another door at the top. Just before she reached it, it opened.
“Come in,” the man standing on the other side said.
She covered her hesitation with a smile. The information she’d uncovered in Stockholm had been right. It was him.
The six years since she’d last seen him had not been particularly kind to the man. He looked older, much older, and favored a hip as he backed out of the way so she could enter. She had expected some change, of course. According to what she’d learned, he’d been forced out of the business because he’d contracted lung cancer, and while surgery and chemotherapy treatments had put it into remission, it was obvious his illness had taken a huge toll on him.
“I assume you’re Mr. Johnston,” she said.
“I am. Please, this way.”
She sensed no recognition in his eyes, but given her disguise and the fact that she supposedly died just hours after the only time they had ever met, it wasn’t surprising.
He led her through two rooms, stuffed with old books in boxes and on shelves, to an office at the back.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, motioning to the guest chair in front of the desk. “Would you like some tea?”
His English accent amused her. It was good, but she knew he was as American as she was.
“Not right now, thank you,” she said as she sat.
“You won’t mind if I have some, I hope.”
“Not at all.”
Johnston walked over to a hot plate on a cabinet in the corner, and picked up the teakettle. Once he’d filled a cup, he carried it back to the desk, stirring constantly,
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