Still Waters Page 2

  “Well done for driving, by the way,” he said into the silence.

  “You see, my driving instructor’s faith was not misplaced.”

  “I meant—” he began, and then stopped. “Forget it.”

  Damn, why does he turn me into such a bitch? Why can’t I be nice when he’s around? I’m a lovely person, I really am.

  This was going to be a long week.

  Our food came, relieving the stilted conversation Maria tried to keep going, and the barman gave Luke an envious look. Sitting next to Maria, of course he’d be envious.

  She had crabmeat, still in its shell, and I had to keep my eyes averted from it. You could see the eyes. It had been alive this morning. My cod was beer battered and boneless and headless and tailless, and it tasted beautiful—sweet and silky—but it didn’t look like it had been alive at any time recently.

  “Go on, try some,” Maria coaxed, holding out her fork to me with a little bit of delicate pink meat on it. “It’s really nice.”

  Sigh.

  “It’s crab,” I said. “It has a shell.” And claws. And antennae. And those eyes. Ugh. “I can’t.”

  Maria shrugged and told me it was my loss. Luke watched us with interest. He rarely misses much.

  “So how’s your new bird?” Maria asked Luke, and the cod suddenly felt like lead in my stomach. “Carrie, Cassie…?”

  “Caro,” he said, not looking at me. “She’s fine.”

  “Didn’t fancy a trip to sunny Cornwall?”

  “Thought this was an SO17 thing.”

  “I’m joking” she bashed him easily. “What’s she like?”

  He shrugged. “She’s nice.”

  “Well, duh. What does she look like?”

  Another shrug. “Blonde hair, blue eyes, quite tall.”

  “Skinny or curvy?”

  “Neither, really.”

  Maria’s eyes slid to me. “I bet she’s curvy,” she said. “Long legs. Big boobs. I bet she has layers in her hair.”

  “Shut up,” I said.

  “So what if she does?” Luke asked threateningly.

  Maria laughed. “Luke, you always said you never had a type.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Right. So it’s just coincidence that your new girlfriend resembles your old one right down to her cup size?”

  Luke glared at his lasagne. “She’s a C cup,” he mumbled, and Maria laughed out loud, because I’m a DD and proud of it—but everything else was exactly like me. It was frightening. Was I just another identical notch on Luke’s oak bedpost?

  Oh God, what if he’s slept with her? Already? It’s only been—

  It’s only been four months. Only just four.

  God. The amount you can fool yourself. I’m over Luke, I’ve moved on, I’m not jealous. Yeah, right.

  “Anyway,” Maria changed the subject. “Aren’t you looking forward to a week off?”

  “It’s hardly been a busy couple of months,” I said.

  “No, well—I mean, you don’t have to carry your mobile around everywhere—”

  “Just as well,” Luke said drily, “because I lost signal somewhere around Tintagel.”

  “Or your gun—”

  “Depends on how much those seagulls piss me off.”

  Maria looked at him in despair. “You didn’t bring your gun?”

  “I take it everywhere.”

  She looked at me and I averted my eyes.

  “Sophie…”

  “Well, you never know,” I protested.

  She rolled her eyes. “You two,” she said, but she didn’t say anything else.

  We went back to the cottage, Maria and Luke a couple of pints up and me stone cold sober, and just when I was about to announce my intention to retire, Maria flicked on the stereo and put a Fun Lovin’ Criminals CD in. Then she got out a pack of cards. And a pack of beer.

  “Okay,” she said, shuffling expertly. “Who’s in?”

  “What are we playing?” I asked suspiciously, knowing I’d never be able to sleep with the music booming through the floor.

  “Five card draw?”

  “Seven card stud,” Luke said.

  “Poker?” I said.

  She nodded and fetched a box of matches, handing us a pile each.

  “Ante up.”

  Luke and I looked at the matches, then at each other.

  “Um…”

  “I don’t have any actual money,” Maria explained, “and what I have I’m not giving you two. So we’ll play for matches.”

  “Oh, I’m so motivated,” Luke said, but he put a matchstick on the table in the ante pile.

  I bit my lip. “I’m actually not very good with poker,” I confessed. “I tend to kind of forget which hand goes where.”

  “I’ll write it down for you,” Luke said, and did, while Maria and I worked out the kinks in the seven card stud rules. When we thought we’d got it figured out, (actually I’m pretty sure she was bluffing to help me out), Luke handed me my cheat sheet and proceeded to win all my matches.

  For you see, there is the difference between my colleagues and myself. They know how to play poker and don’t need to be reminded of the rules. They can charm coffee mugs out of vinegar-faced tea shop owners. They get offered fifty grand jobs—and take them. They eat crab.

  I don’t.

  It got late, Huey and the boys chilling out on the stereo, beer bottles mounting up but no one seeming to get drunk (that’s another thing they can do that I can’t), and I looked around and said, “How cool are we?”

  They both looked at me. Luke was sorting cards in his hand—I’d long since folded.

  “I mean, playing poker, listening to the Fun Lovin’s. All we need is some fat cigars and a couple of lines of coke and we’ll be sub zero.”

  “Actually.” Maria put her cards facedown. “I might be able to help you there.”

  Luke and I exchanged glances as she got up and ran up the steep stairs to her room.

  “I was joking,” I said uncertainly.

  “Maria?” Luke called up. “We don’t really want any Class A—oh.”

  She had come back downstairs and was holding out a box of fat cigars.

  “Are those Cuban?” Luke asked, looking at them.

  She nodded. “Go on, you know you want to.”

  He shook his head. “Not about to start that again.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  Maria held the box out to me, and I could feel Luke watching, so I picked one up and ran it under my nose. It always used to make him laugh the way I smelled everything I ate and drank.

  I looked right at him and said, “Yeah. Why not?”

  Maria produced a cigar cutter and was just about to do mine when she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh! No, you—I mean—no, I don’t think so.”

  I glared at her. “I’m sure I’ll be okay,” I said. “It’s not going to stunt my growth.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “You’re not going to.”

  And with that, she shut the box like a mother withdrawing sweeties and took it back up to her room.

  Luke fixed me with his blue eyes, oddly reminiscent of lightsabre blades. “You want to tell me what that was about?”

  No.

  “Maria thinks it’s unhealthy,” I said primly.

  “Which is why she imported them in the first place. Nice try.”

  I hate it when he does that.

  “Well, it’s all you’re going to get,” I said, rising. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Sophie—”

  “Goodnight,” I said firmly, going into the bathroom and locking the door behind me.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was flushed, my hair was flat. I did not look good. I was shaking slightly.

  I went to get some vitamins from my toiletry bag and guzzled them down. Now I felt better. Annoyed with Maria, scared that Luke would get the truth out of her—but Maria was a good spy. She never told anyone anything she wasn’t supposed to.


  Even if she had nearly just given me away.

  I washed my face and cleaned my teeth and ran down the stairs to my room to get undressed in lightning time, just in case Luke decided to come and try and get the truth out of me.

  But he didn’t. I read my book, I glared at the cherubs, I pulled the duvet right up to my chin and I shivered. Sleeping in the basement was chilly—concrete not being the cosiest building material. And all those cherubs were creepy. I switched out the light and closed my eyes but all I could see were Chuckie-like cherubs coming at me, their little cheeks bulging malevolently. My heart was hammering. This was ridiculous!

  Outside, I suddenly heard angry footsteps, saw the shadow of a woman running past, then someone caught her, and her feet spun back on themselves.

  “Just fuck off,” she screamed. “I don’t need you getting in my way!”

  “Molly—” a male voice pleaded. “Molly, just listen to me.”

  “All I’ve ever done is listen to you,” Molly cried. “Go away, leave me alone!”

  And with that, she broke free and ran away, down the alley. The male feet paused, then set after her, more slowly.

  Hmm. Maybe Cornwall isn’t as quiet as people think. Certainly my room wasn’t.

  The music from upstairs had stopped quite a while ago and so had all the footsteps. I was pretty sure they’d both gone to bed. I heard a noise and stayed very still—but it was Norma Jean’s claws tapping on the kitchen’s slate floor.

  I made my decision and got up. I was not going to be tortured out of sleep by a bunch of cherubs and a cold, concrete floor. I gathered up the woefully thin duvet and my pillows and shuffled up the stairs to the living room. It was empty, so I dumped my stuff on the sofa and made myself a little bed there, Norma Jean coming over and climbing clumsily onto my legs.

  I closed my eyes, more content now, and was just about to abandon myself to the prospect of a good night’s sleep when I heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door open.

  And I froze. I never checked the bathroom.

  And who should come out but Luke, looking delicious in a faded Crowded House T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, yawning and stretching so I could see the muscles move under his clothes. I told you he was physically perfect: long and lean, not burly, but definitely well-defined.

  I held my breath.

  “Norma, get down,” he said, coming over, and I closed my eyes, wincing as Norma Jean skulked back to her basket, and Luke stood silently by the sofa, waiting.

  I opened one eye.

  “Why are you sleeping on the sofa?”

  I scrunched up my nose. “My room is cold. And the cherubs are creepy.”

  He nodded as if this made perfect sense. “You want to sleep in my room?”

  I opened my mouth, but Luke cut in with a weary, “There are two beds.”

  I closed my mouth. A single bed would be more comfortable than the sofa. And at least Luke was wearing something.

  Even while I was telling myself it was a bad idea, I found my arms pushing back the duvet, my legs swinging out over the edge of the sofa, and my feet taking my weight. It seemed my body wanted the bed more than my brain wanted to resist.

  And at least this way I’d be able to look at Luke, maybe, as he slept… Because he was beautiful when he slept…

  And I’m actually disgusting myself here. I scowled at my reflection in the mirror at the foot of the stairs as I followed Luke’s luscious backside up the steep steps.

  He took his holdall (why don’t men ever use suitcases?) off the bed by the window and gestured to it as he closed the door and dropped the latch so Norma couldn’t come nosing in. I pulled back the duvet and got into bed, all without looking at him, mumbled “Goodnight,” and lay back on the pillow.

  And felt something cold and wet go splat on my forehead, right at the same time I realised the pillow was wet. I sat up and scrutinised the dark ceiling and made out a drop of water wobbling from a damp patch in the plaster.

  “Great,” I said under my breath, and tried to figure out what would be better: sleeping downstairs on the sofa, in the basement with the cherubs, or up here where the ceiling leaked onto my pillow.

  “What?” Luke sounded annoyed.

  “Nothing.”

  “What?” he asked again, sounding even more annoyed.

  “It’s really nothing.” I decided to change ends and picked up the pillow.

  “Sophie,” Luke said in his pissed off voice.

  “There’s a drip—”

  “Where?”

  “Right above the pillow. It’s okay, I’m changing ends.”

  “With a wet pillow.”

  I felt the mattress. “Not just a wet pillow…”

  Luke sighed. “Okay,” he said, and threw back his duvet.

  I stared.

  “Luke, I am not sleeping with you.”

  “Where else are you going to sleep?”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it again. “Sofa,” I said.

  “The sofa that’s six inches shorter than you are? Come on.”

  Okay, so on top of coming on holiday with the ex I am totally not over, I’m now considering getting into bed with him. But I’m really not going to let him do anything. Or let myself.

  Really not.

  “I—” I began helplessly.

  “I’ll be a good boy,” Luke promised mockingly.

  It wasn’t him I was worried about.

  I sighed and got into the narrow bed beside him, trying not to touch. But three feet is not a lot of space for two wide-shouldered people (I’m tall, okay? I’m allowed wide shoulders) to lie in comfort, and it wasn’t long before Luke pulled me back against him, spoon style, his arm draped loosely over my waist.

  Okay, now I have to suck my stomach in all night.

  Chapter Two

  Sleep was delicious, relaxed and warm and somehow right. I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, but I found myself pretending we were still together. Stupid Sophie. Stupid, stupid Sophie.

  Vaguely, I heard Norma Jean make her silly row-row-row noise downstairs, and I snuggled deeper under the duvet, deeper into Luke’s embrace.

  Then the door opened, startling me awake.

  “Luke, do you—”

  Maria broke off and stared at me. I stared back, totally unable to think of anything to say. She backed away, closing the door behind her, and called as she fled, “I’m going out for a run. Norma’s coming with me…”

  And about two seconds later the front door slammed, and there was silence.

  I stayed right where I was, too shocked to think of anything to say or do. Now Maria would think we were back together, and she’d be all happy, and then I'd have to tell her…

  “Luke?” I whispered.

  “Mmm?” He sounded drowsy, hardly awake at all.

  “She saw me!”

  “Mmm.”

  “But she’ll think—”

  “Sophie.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Can you do me a favour? Either shut up or get up. I’m really tired here.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, then realised I was still tired—the sky beyond the blind was very pale, it must be pretty early—and tried to get back to sleep.

  I was damn glad it was winter and that despite Luke’s body heat and the duvet, the room was still cold. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been wearing so much to sleep in. Sweatpants and a camisole and a frayed, misshapen sweatshirt—am I sexy, or what?

  Because if it had been warmer, I’d have been wearing less. And Luke—well, I don’t know. When we were sleeping together, it was summer, and even when it rained, all I needed to keep me warm was Luke. Who needed pyjamas? If we’d come here in the summer, he could have been sleeping naked. And that would not have been a good plan.

  But his body felt good next to mine, warm and solid and still. I looked down at his arm, still unfairly golden although it was December, and gently stroked the blond hairs there.

  This was stupid. I was getting cosy with him. Tonight I’d sleep on the so
fa.

  I pushed back the covers and got out of bed, and as I covered Luke over again he sighed and turned on his stomach. I had to fight the urge to stroke his hair. He really was lovely.

  Right. This was too much.

  I went downstairs and put the kettle on. Coffee would clear things up. Coffee was good.

  The kettle clicked off, and I made a two-spoon cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, idly looking through some of the tourist literature Maria’s aunt had left at the cottage. It was rented for most of the year, as the aunt in question lived in France, but Maria and various other members of her vast, trans-European family often took it over for weeks at a time, cost free.

  All right for some.

  It had been Karen’s idea for us to take a break together. I think she’d been reading management books or something—she wanted us to do some team bonding. I tried to point out to her that Maria and I watch videos at each other’s houses all the time, and I’d done quite enough bonding with Luke to last me a lifetime, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted SO17 to be successful, and she wanted us to work together. Whatever.

  Maybe she wanted to torture me. No, this couldn’t be all about me. Maybe she wanted to torture all of us.

  I suppose I should explain that SO17 stands for Special Operations 17 and is a government organisation. A very small government organisation, but still. What we are, basically, is spies. We hunt out information and track down criminals who fall outside normal legal bounds. We all have firearms licences (although my little SIG-Sauer P-239 still scares the shit out of me) and military ID cards. I’ve never yet managed to save the world, because when the day comes that the world is in danger from someone who can only be stopped by a statuesque blonde chick who can’t remember how to load her gun, then we’re all in serious trouble.

  Luke, Maria and Macbeth are all excellent spies. They’re smart, they’re discreet, and they’re all very skilled. Most of Macbeth’s skills are illegal, but that just makes them more useful. Luke was in the SAS; he can fly anything with wings or blades. Maria was in the SBS. She can pilot any kind of dinghy.

  Me? I used to do check-in for Ace Airlines. I can tell you airport codes for all over Europe and judge the weight of a bag to the nearest kilo, just by picking it up. Are you impressed?

  ’Cos that’s about it.

  I sighed into my coffee, drained the cup, and got up to make some more, just as I heard the front door open and Norma Jean come in, panting heavily. She’s not as young as she used to be (what a truly stupid phrase that is), and she has a very thick coat. I guess running up one-in-five hills in a fur coat would make me pant, too.