Looking After Dad

Jess washed her hands, coloured her lips with ‘Rosy Amber’ and brushed her hair. Whether it was due to being sprinkled with champagne or because of the chlorine she could not decide, but her corn-blonde urchin cut felt like fuse wire.

She checked her wristwatch. Damn. She was now almost ten minutes late and had still to locate the required suite of offices.

After consulting the cleaning women, who had become busy in the lift, she trekked off down what seemed like miles of corridors until she reached glass swing doors emblazoned with the gold-etched words ‘Warwick Group’. Both the reception area and the secretary’s room to where she was directed were elegantly decorated with neutral cream walls and carpet, offset by richly coloured curtains and upholstery in dark green and magenta. Solid walnut desks and bookshelves gave a feel of bygone years, while the only contemporary note was struck by a cool white computer.

‘I’m Jessica Pallister from Citadel Security and I have an appointment with Sir Peter Warwick,’ she informed the secretary, who was a bustling middle-aged brunette.

‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’ the woman said, with a smile, and disappeared through a connecting door. ‘He’s not quite ready and asks if you would kindly wait a few minutes,’ she reported, coming back. ‘Please, take a seat. I must collect a fax,’ she continued, hurrying towards the outer door. ‘Do excuse me.’

Grateful that her lack of punctuality had been of no consequence, Jess sat down. As she waited, she recapped on the few facts which Kevin had been given about the job. It seemed that Sir Peter had received a note which threatened the safety of an associate who was involved in the construction of a hotel which the Warwick Group were building in Mauritius. A female relative of the person was also at risk and they wished to discuss the employment of two bodyguards, one a woman, initially for a period of three months.

‘All the guys are tied up today, but this is just an exploratory talk,’ her brother had said, ‘so we can decide who goes with you later.’

‘If I go,’ she had pointed out.

Working on an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean would put her way beyond Roscoe Dunbar’s reach, Jess reflected, which was a plus. But, on the minus side, whilst blue skies, swaying palms and silver-white beaches had a glamorous spin and were fine on holiday, as a three-month working environment they could become repetitive. Boring. Dull. Yet the bottom line was that after almost five years of shooting off here, there and everywhere on the spur of the moment she had had enough.

She frowned down at her ankle-booted feet. She wanted to stay home, pick up the threads with old friends and concentrate on her painting. This morning she had been all set to announce the decision which, although reached on the spur of the moment, had been building for a long time and cut loose, but Kevin had had his say first. And because she had idolised him from being a tiny girl—as she idolised her other two brothers, Jess thought wryly—she had fallen in with his wishes and agreed to consider the job. Though only consider.

All of a sudden, she tilted her head. The secretary could not have closed the connecting door properly for it had sprung open and through the gap she could hear voices. A trio of male voices. Two of them were low and indecipherable, but the third was plummily, youthfully strident and rang out.

‘I believe it’s for real and I insist we take precautions, for our protection as well as yours,’ the voice said. ‘But don’t fret, you’re not going to be landed with two hulking brutes of ex-boxers, because one of them is a woman.’

Jess sat straighter. They were discussing security. One of the other men spoke earnestly and in what could be recognised as objection, then the ringing voice intruded.

‘Ease up, Lorcan. I’m sure your idea of an Amazon who splits bricks with her bare hands and has hairs sprouting from her chin is way off the mark,’ it said, and its owner guffawed.

Her hazel eyes burned. Whoever Lorcan was, he had a vivid and insulting imagination!

More indecipherable conversation followed, with the third man joining in, and again the strident voice sounded.

‘Let’s bring Miss Pallister through and—’

‘You have this all fixed?’ the objector demanded, his voice lifting in protest, but the connecting door had already been swung open and a baby-faced young man was strolling out.

With gelled fair hair slicked back from his brow and wearing a pearl-grey designer suit, grey shirt, white tie and white leather shoes, he had the self-satisfied air of someone who considered himself to be a cool dude.

Jess rose from her chair. ‘Hello.’

Taking a deep drag on the cheroot which he held between two fingers, the young man looked her up and down.

‘Gerard Warwick, delighted to meet you,’ he murmured, with a smile which was a touch too smooth, a touch too intimate, and, hooking an arm around her shoulders, he steered her with him into the adjoining office. ‘See, Lorcan,’ he said triumphantly, and indicated a portly, silver-haired man in his sixties, who was seated behind a leather-topped desk. ‘My father, Sir Peter.’

‘Good afternoon,’ Jess said, smiling, and when the business tycoon came round to greet her she shook his hand and introduced herself.

Her smile and introduction were automatic. All she could focus on was the fact that Lorcan, the man whom she had just passed and who had also risen to his feet, was the man from the lift. Though she ought to have guessed, she thought sourly. That ‘hairs on her chin’ remark could only have come from him!

CHAPTER TWO

SIR PETER thanked her for responding to his call at such short notice, which allowed Jess to apologise for her casual appearance.

‘You look charming, my dear,’ he declared, with a benign and patently sincere smile. ‘May I introduce Lorcan Hunter?’ he continued. ‘Lorcan is a highly esteemed and much sought-after architect, and we’re fortunate that he’s building us the most magnificent hotel village in Mauritius.’

She held out her hand. ‘Good afternoon.’

After a millisecond’s hesitation, when she wondered if he might refuse, her erstwhile victim shook it. His grip was firm and brief. It had occurred to her that it might also be sticky, but it was not. He, too, appeared to have diverted into a bathroom, for his dark hair was neatly combed and no tissue speckles marred the navy pinstriped splendour of his suit. In fact, the only visible evidence of the champagne fiasco was the slightly marinated appearance of his right sleeve.

‘You’re a bodyguard?’ he said, as if not sure whether to howl with derision or bang his head hard against the wall.

‘I am.’

‘Amazing, isn’t it? One false move and you’re mincemeat. Isn’t that right?’ enquired Gerard, and gave another loud guffaw.

Jess’s teeth ground together. Whenever she revealed her occupation it invariably evoked a chorus of amused astonishment and puerile jokes, in particular from men. Because she was young and blonde and shapely they seemed to regard her as a comic-cuts Killer Bimbo, and she had grown tired of it.

‘I’m meaner than I look,’ she said crisply.

Lorcan Hunter fixed her with piercing blue eyes. ‘That I do not doubt. You’re a whizz at the unexpected attack?’ he enquired.

‘I have my moments,’ she replied, silently defying him to tell his companions about their earlier meeting, which would be embarrassing and could damage her credibility.

‘You make grown men cower?’

‘From time to time.’

‘And put your life and limb at risk?’

She recalled his fury in the lift. ‘It can happen, though I always emerge intact,’ she said, gazing steadily back.

‘How about damage control?’

Her chin firmed. ‘I do my best.’

As if sensing something hidden beneath their byplay and resenting it, Gerard placed his hand on her arm. ‘Let’s sit down,’ he said, drawing her with him onto a small upright sofa, while his father returned behind the desk and Lorcan Hunter sat in a wing chair.

At the rub of the young man’s thigh against hers, Jess eased away. She did not care for his touchy-feely familiarity nor for the pungent reek of his cheroot, which smelled like a fusion of burnt treacle, drains and sweat-soaked socks.

‘To bring you up to speed, Miss Pallister,’ Sir Peter said, passing her a sheet of paper, ‘this arrived in the post this mourning.’

Made up from stuck-on printed words which had been cut from a newspaper, the note read:

So you think you can outwit me. Big mistake. Your hotel in Mauritius will never be completed. If Hunter returns to the island, he and his precious brunette are doomed to disappear.

‘Do you have any idea who might’ve sent this?’ Jess enquired. ‘And why?’

Sir Peter hesitated. ‘No. The envelope bore a London postmark, but that doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Come on, Pa,’ Gerard protested. ‘Charles Sohan is responsible.’