Read Online Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes Book 2) by Georgia le Carre - Free Book Online
Authors: Georgia le Carre
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vindictive.’
‘You know those hotshot accountants the multinationals use?’
My ears prick up. ‘Yeah …’
‘We stole Nigel from them. Let Rob pit himself against Nigel. It’ll be interesting to see if my accountant is actually worth his huge salary.’
I don’t get to answer him because the parking attendant is standing outside the car next to me. To my surprise, he doesn’t berate Dom the way he does other drivers with lesser cars. Instead, he asks in a totally awed voice, ‘How fast can this beauty go?’
‘I never took her over a hundred and fifty mph,’ Dom says.
The man shakes his head admiringly and lets his eyes caress the smooth lines of the car. ‘She’s a beauty, man. I’d exchange my wife for a car like this.’
Dom laughs, kisses the pad of his thumb, and guns the car. The attendant watches us take off with a wistful expression.
‘Where are we going?’ I scream over the noise.
‘My place,’ he says.
We park in an underground car park beneath a posh building in Chelsea and get into a lift smelling of disinfectant. Both of us face the gleaming doors as we’re silently and quickly whisked up to the top floor. His apartment is one of two on the top floor. As soon as he opens the front door, I say, ‘Wow!’ Most of the walls are made of glass and the view is breathtaking.
‘Oh my God! You can see across the river for miles out.’
He chucks his keys onto a metal container shaped like a leaf on the sideboard while I look around in amazement. The way homes in designer magazines look. Spotless, not a scratch or mark anywhere, fabulous furniture, everything color-coordinated with one or two bold splashes here and there, the floors shining with polish, and a bowl of fruit on a statement coffee table.
‘Does anyone actually live here?’
He looks at me strangely. ‘I live here.’
‘Wow, then you must have a shit-hot cleaner.’
‘I’ll tell Maria you said that,’ he says with a grin.
I grin back foolishly.
‘Come on. I’ll show you the balcony,’ he says and we cross the vast open-plan space. Our footsteps echo in the ultra-modern emptiness of the place. He opens the tall glass doors and I step outside.
‘This is amazing,’ I exclaim looking at the city bathed in the glow of the evening sun.
‘Yeah, it is, isn’t it? When you live somewhere for some time you start forgetting how beautiful you once thought it was.’
‘You’re very lucky,’ I say sincerely.
His face closes over. ‘It’s still too early to say,’ he says cryptically.
‘No, you’re already luckier than all the children who live in rubbish dumps in the Philippines and all the slave workers in China and India and all the homeless people in London.’
He looks down at me, and for a long time he doesn’t say anything. Then he raises his finger and pushes away a skein of hair that the wind has undone from my face. His fingers feel hard and warm against my skin. I have to resist the impulse to rub my face against his hand like some needy puppy. Thank God, he takes his hand away before I do something I’ll forever regret.
‘Sometimes you can be happier on a rubbish dump than in a palace,’ he says.
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘I don’t believe it, I know it. Growing up my family was dirt poor and yet we were happy. Fiercely happy.’
I stare up at him. In the sunlight his eyes are like blue crystals with silver flares, the pupils seeming too large for a man.
‘People don’t understand what wealth does. Wealth makes you more dissatisfied. You buy a house, you fill it with the best, then you buy another, you fill that with the best; you buy a yacht, then a plane; you buy a vineyard and then you buy a bigger yacht, and a bigger plane. Then you start a luxury car collection. And you never ever come to a place where you think, “That’s enough now. Why earn any more? I couldn’t spend it all in my lifetime even if I tried. I’ll just stop working and relax, enjoy all I have.”
‘You know those hotshot accountants the multinationals use?’
My ears prick up. ‘Yeah …’
‘We stole Nigel from them. Let Rob pit himself against Nigel. It’ll be interesting to see if my accountant is actually worth his huge salary.’
I don’t get to answer him because the parking attendant is standing outside the car next to me. To my surprise, he doesn’t berate Dom the way he does other drivers with lesser cars. Instead, he asks in a totally awed voice, ‘How fast can this beauty go?’
‘I never took her over a hundred and fifty mph,’ Dom says.
The man shakes his head admiringly and lets his eyes caress the smooth lines of the car. ‘She’s a beauty, man. I’d exchange my wife for a car like this.’
Dom laughs, kisses the pad of his thumb, and guns the car. The attendant watches us take off with a wistful expression.
‘Where are we going?’ I scream over the noise.
‘My place,’ he says.
We park in an underground car park beneath a posh building in Chelsea and get into a lift smelling of disinfectant. Both of us face the gleaming doors as we’re silently and quickly whisked up to the top floor. His apartment is one of two on the top floor. As soon as he opens the front door, I say, ‘Wow!’ Most of the walls are made of glass and the view is breathtaking.
‘Oh my God! You can see across the river for miles out.’
He chucks his keys onto a metal container shaped like a leaf on the sideboard while I look around in amazement. The way homes in designer magazines look. Spotless, not a scratch or mark anywhere, fabulous furniture, everything color-coordinated with one or two bold splashes here and there, the floors shining with polish, and a bowl of fruit on a statement coffee table.
‘Does anyone actually live here?’
He looks at me strangely. ‘I live here.’
‘Wow, then you must have a shit-hot cleaner.’
‘I’ll tell Maria you said that,’ he says with a grin.
I grin back foolishly.
‘Come on. I’ll show you the balcony,’ he says and we cross the vast open-plan space. Our footsteps echo in the ultra-modern emptiness of the place. He opens the tall glass doors and I step outside.
‘This is amazing,’ I exclaim looking at the city bathed in the glow of the evening sun.
‘Yeah, it is, isn’t it? When you live somewhere for some time you start forgetting how beautiful you once thought it was.’
‘You’re very lucky,’ I say sincerely.
His face closes over. ‘It’s still too early to say,’ he says cryptically.
‘No, you’re already luckier than all the children who live in rubbish dumps in the Philippines and all the slave workers in China and India and all the homeless people in London.’
He looks down at me, and for a long time he doesn’t say anything. Then he raises his finger and pushes away a skein of hair that the wind has undone from my face. His fingers feel hard and warm against my skin. I have to resist the impulse to rub my face against his hand like some needy puppy. Thank God, he takes his hand away before I do something I’ll forever regret.
‘Sometimes you can be happier on a rubbish dump than in a palace,’ he says.
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘I don’t believe it, I know it. Growing up my family was dirt poor and yet we were happy. Fiercely happy.’
I stare up at him. In the sunlight his eyes are like blue crystals with silver flares, the pupils seeming too large for a man.
‘People don’t understand what wealth does. Wealth makes you more dissatisfied. You buy a house, you fill it with the best, then you buy another, you fill that with the best; you buy a yacht, then a plane; you buy a vineyard and then you buy a bigger yacht, and a bigger plane. Then you start a luxury car collection. And you never ever come to a place where you think, “That’s enough now. Why earn any more? I couldn’t spend it all in my lifetime even if I tried. I’ll just stop working and relax, enjoy all I have.”
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