Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence 5)

‘Leave the papers I asked for on the table,’ Mr Rikkard Ambrose commanded, not bothering to turn around. ‘Then go and get me something to drink.’

‘No.’

He stiffened. There was a long, long moment of silence. Slowly, so slowly it could almost be called a waste of time, he turned around to face me. His familiar, cold, sea-coloured eyes, the eyes I hadn’t seen in far too long, met mine, and I felt a tugging in my chest.

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

‘I am going to kill Karim when next I see him.’

I lifted an eyebrow. ‘Don’t blame him. I tortured the address out of him.’

‘I surmised as much. And I pay him not to crack under torture.’

‘You…!’ Eyes narrowing, I took a step forward and stabbed a finger in his direction. ‘You are not exactly in a position to go around criticizing people, Mister I’m-going-to-a-place-so-dangerous-I-can’t-take-you-along Ambrose!’

He cleared his throat. ‘Ehem. Well…as to that, Mr Linton…’

‘What “danger” were you referring to, exactly?’

‘Well, I…’

‘I knew it. I bloody knew it!’ Eyes flashing, I took a step forward. ‘There is no damn danger is there? The only bloody reason you didn’t want me along is because you didn’t want me to know you own a goddamn opera in Paris, wasn’t it? And you certainly didn’t want me, the dastardly female who just dared to turn you down like a ton of bricks, to sit next to you while you mope and listen to a lady sing love songs in Italian!’

His little finger twitched and…was that the tiniest blush on his chiselled cheeks? Surely not! Inwardly, I grinned. Outwardly, I didn’t want to lose my job.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Linton,’ Mr Ambrose told me coolly, tugging at his lapels, which had been absolutely straight already. ‘You did not “turn me down”. Nobody has ever turned down an offer of mine.’

‘Oh, I didn’t, did I? Out of curiosity, Sir…what would you call the answer “no” in response to a proposal?’

He considered for a moment. Finally, he decided:

‘A delay in negotiations to be solved at my earliest convenience through the application of alternative strategies.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, indeed, Mr Linton.’

You had to hand it to him—he might be full of crap, but it was high-quality, perfectly delivered crap.

‘Then, pray tell me…’ I took a few more steps towards him, not taking my eyes off him for a second, ‘if you aren’t hiding out here, soothing your bruised megalomaniac male ego, what are you doing?’

‘Why the interest?’ he enquired cooll

y. ‘If you have, as you say, “turned me down” like a large amount of building material?’

‘Ha!’ Crossing the last bit of distance between us, I jabbed my finger into his chest—not a wise move, since I nearly broke my finger. ‘Ouch! I knew it! I knew you were hiding out here drowning your sorrows over your broken heart.’

He looked as outraged as it was possible for a stone statue with money constipation to look. His dark, sea-coloured eyes flashed at me with a stormy light.

‘I am not in the habit of drowning anything. But I might make an exception for you.’

‘Hit a tender spot, did I? Well, deal with it!’ Slapping his chest, I grabbed him by the collar. ‘You bloody well deserve it! Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?’

‘Indeed?’

It was just an instant. A moment so short it hardly existed—but for that moment, triumph flashed in his eyes.

‘Don’t you dare smile, you bloody son of a bachelor! This is no joke!’