London
Nicholas and Mike were questioned by Penderley at Scotland Yard until the drone attack began to feel surreal to Mike, like it had happened to someone else, someone in a training film, perhaps. But after two hours of questions from Penderley and his minions, all she wanted was a glass of wine, maybe a hot shower to wash the rest of the glass out of her hair, maybe even change the Band-Aid on her neck, but she knew she had to hold it together a while longer.
It was another eon before Penderley released them, saying, “You two have really poked the gorilla this time. Shall I assign some men to stick close, Drummond?”
Nicholas turned this down, and they shook Penderley’s hand and those of his two inspectors. Ten minutes later, they climbed into his banged-up, well-photographed, debulleted Beemer and made good time to Nicholas’s house in Westminster. Mike spent the drive absently picking more glass out of her hair and straightening the temples of her glasses again, even though they didn’t need it. He reached over, patted her hand. “You feeling all right, Agent Caine?”
“Right as rain. Hmm, I never understood that saying.” She looked out the window. “Speaking of rain, any minute now.”
Nigel met them at the door to Drummond House, tall, shoulders straight, immaculately dressed, and he wasn’t happy. He looked out to the BMW—the sides and roof littered with bullet holes, the windshield cracked, the side window shattered. Mike saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. He turned back to them, ushered them into the house, and gave them both one long look.
“Hi, Nigel,” Mike said. “We’re in one piece, don’t worry. Superintendent Penderley and his people have examined our
heads for the last two hours.”
Nigel didn’t crack a smile. He said slowly, never looking away from her, “Master Nicholas said you’d been shot at. He did not say, however, that you were covered in blood and glass, looking like you’d been dropped into a war zone.”
“I’m fine, Nigel, really. It’s all on the surface, not like Nicholas’s poor Beemer.”
“No, Mike, you are anything but fine, and Master Harry will be here in an hour. You will go with Daisy. She’ll draw you a hot bath and help you get cleaned up. I will handle Master Nicholas.” To her surprise, Nigel took her hand, held it tightly for a moment. “I am so relieved you are both all right. I understand you shot down the drone that attacked you.”
“She did indeed, Nigel, and a brilliant job she did of it. When Daisy is through with her, I would appreciate your looking at her. She has a cut on the back of her head. No stitches necessary, but it does need cleaning.”
“Unnecessary. Daisy will tend to her nicely. Do as she tells you, Mike, and all will be well. Ah, yes, drinks will be served promptly at half six, dinner at seven.”
Once Mike and Daisy had disappeared down the second-floor hallway, Nicholas said to Nigel, “We will talk while you get me ready for my father.” He lowered his voice, “We don’t know what’s going on yet, but it isn’t good. I believe there are ears everywhere. We all have to take care now.”
Mike didn’t mind a bit being in Daisy’s very kind, competent hands. She was a woman about the age of the Gorgeous Rebecca, but there all comparisons ended. She was stout, her hair in crimped curls around her face, but like Mike’s mother, Daisy had a brilliant smile and lovely white teeth.
By six fifteen, Mike was dressed in her favorite little black dress, pressed by Daisy, her hair shiny and clean and free of glass. “No need for Mr. Nigel,” Daisy had said as she’d lightly touched an antibiotic on the cut and covered it with a Band-Aid, luckily hidden beneath her hair.
Daisy handed her the heels she’d packed with the dress and stood back. “Goodness, you’re a tall one. But it’s perfect you are, Ms. Mike.”
Perfect? Like that would ever happen, but still it sounded nice. Daisy left her sitting on a chaise longue, researching drones on her iPad. A ton of information, none of it particularly helpful. Ah, she found something else that was fascinating. She looked up at a soft knock on the door, then Nicholas stepped in. His hair was damp from his shower. As usual, he looked James Bond picture-perfect, tall, dark, garbed in an incredible black Armani jacket and pants that fit him to perfection. She wanted to kick him and jump him.
“Don’t tell me these came out of your carryall?”
“Well, no, Nigel picked them up yesterday, he told me.”
“On sale, I suppose?”
“He didn’t say.” He stepped back as she rose, looked her up and down. “You look as sharp as you did on our memorable night in Venice. But I do miss the boots with your black dress, not that the black heels don’t make your legs look a mile long—and give me ideas.”
She didn’t want to kick him now, only jump him.
He walked to her, lifted her hair. “Nice Band-Aid. No more shards in your hair?”
“All good. Daisy checked me out thoroughly.”
He leaned down, breathed in her hair. “Jasmine. You smell like my mother.” He grinned, tapped her chin. “You look lovely.”
She shook her head, cupped his face in her hand. “Nicholas, do we have to whisper when we meet your father downstairs?”
“No. I’ve taken care of things, at least for tonight. Don’t worry. My father is due in ten minutes. What are you reading?”
She shrugged. “A bit about drones, until this caught my eye. Interpol has an orange notice out for a killer operating in Europe. He’s a serial, Nicholas. They don’t normally get serial killers moving across the borders. They’re calling him Dracula, and that’s what caught my eye. Whoever it is, he is preying on Eastern Europeans mostly, lots of Romanians, in several countries. He has a rather horrific MO to match his nickname. He kills them with blunt-force trauma to the head, then exsanguinates them. There are even bite marks on their necks. The whole Dracula deal. Creepy.”
“Very creepy.”