In the Eye of the Storm (Storm and Silence 2)

Suspicion rose in me like a firework rocket. When Mr Ambrose deemed luxury necessary, something was fishy. ‘Necessary? For what?’

‘For our disguise. We have to fool Dalgliesh’s agents, remember? We have to make them believe that I am not Mr Rikkard Ambrose, not the man they have been instructed to look for. Come.’

‘I don’t see what that has to do with-’

‘Come, I said.’ And taking me by the hand, he pulled me from the coach, steering me up the steps of the hotel. The driver was left looking after the luggage. We entered a luxurious lobby filled with marble columns and chandeliers, at the end of which stood a portly man behind a dark wood counter. He didn’t have the same sallow expression as Sallow-face back home, preferring instead to pester the world with an ingratiating smile, but I immediately recognized him as a colleague of the sour watchdog that guarded Mr Ambrose’s front hall. This was the head porter.

‘Welcome to the Luxor Hotel,’ he proclaimed, rubbing his smarmy little hands. ‘Where we fulfil your every fantasy of an exotic holiday while providing every comfort civilized society can offer. Might I enquire after your name, Sir?’

‘Richard Thompson,’ Mr Ambrose lied with a cool ease that I just had to admire. ‘There is a suite reserved in my name here.’

‘Only one suite? To share?’ The porter’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yes, there is a suite in your name reserv

ed here, Mr Thompson, but… I hope you will not find it impertinent of me to ask what your relationship with this young lady here is.’ He bowed to me, and his little pig eyes sparkled with curiosity for scandal.

I sighed. It was just as I had told Mr Ambrose. A man travelling alone with a girl? Such a thing was beyond scandalous, it was unthinkable! Unless of course the two of them happened to be…

I froze, horrified realization washing over me. My eyes flew down to the rings on my fingers - the rings Mr Ambrose had insisted I put on!

‘This,’ he said, taking me by the hand and planting a gentle kiss on my cheek, ‘is Lillian, my lovely wife.’

The Art of Suggestive Name-calling

I showed admirable self-restraint. I actually managed not to kill him right there in the hotel lobby.

Be strong, I told myself, while a jabbering boy in hotel livery lead us through the hallways of the Luxor. Brutus planned and schemed for months before finally killing Julius Caesar. If some measly Roman general can wait that long, you can keep a grip on yourself until we reach the hotel room and the door is shut.

We reached a door made from the same dark wood as the front desk. A large and ornate number 79 shone on the polished surface. With more jabbering, the nervous boy opened the door for us and showed us in. I hardly glanced at the magnificent hallway of the suite. My focus was all on the man who had entered before me and was now turning to face me.

The boy said something else in Arabic. I didn’t listen, but instead kept my full focus on Mr Ambrose.

‘Send him away!’ I growled at him. Maybe it wasn’t the wisest thing to try and give Rikkard Ambrose orders, but right now I didn’t give a penny about wise.

Mr Ambrose nodded to the boy and jerked his head, coolly. The youth didn’t need any more encouragement. He was out of the door without even trying to get a tip.

For two or three seconds, there was a heavy silence in the room - at least ten tons and seven hundred and sixty-two pounds worth of silence. I stared at Mr Ambrose. Mr Ambrose stared at me.

‘Wife?’ I repeated.

He cocked his head, and shrugged.

Shrugged!

‘I,’ I repeated very slowly and clearly, ‘am your wife?’

I do not believe I had ever managed to make my voice sound this deadly dangerous before. I was like a female tiger with fire in my belly! He didn’t seem to notice or care, but simply looked at me with those cool, dark eyes of his.

‘I told you, we have to be inconspicuous.’

‘Inconspi-!’ My voice failed me for just a moment. ‘If I murder you and hang your body from the balcony, will that be inconspicuous?’

‘You will do nothing of the kind. You are much too happy to murder anyone.’

‘Happy?’

Was he delusional? Or on drugs?

‘Of course you are,’ he informed me in a tone as if he were explaining that one plus one made two. ‘Deliriously happy. After all, you are on your honeymoon with the man of your dreams, my dear.’