sun.
‘I’m surprised the marks on your neck have faded so soon.’
The hat hid her frown but Victor knew it was there. ‘Yes, well,’ she began, ‘it’s amazing what a bit of time and a little makeup can do for a girl.’
‘I’m glad to see there’s no lasting damage.’
‘Is that your way of apologising? Because I didn’t hear a sorry.’
‘I gave you the Makarov back, didn’t I?’
‘I wasn’t planning on using it. I know you know that.’
‘Nevertheless, carrying a gun isn’t the best way to make friends.’
She laughed briefly. ‘Says the man who strangled me. Fortunately for you I try not to judge men on first impressions. I’ll put it down to nerves.’
‘So what do I call you?’
‘Francesca, of course. That is my genuine name. I’m not exactly one for hiding who I really am.’
Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Your dress makes that very clear.’
She grinned.
‘Where’s Leeson?’
She pretended to take offence. ‘Don’t tell me you’d have preferred he had met you instead.’
‘I’d have preferred to never see you again, Francesca. I had hoped you’d have taken my advice and reconsidered your chosen career path.’
‘Still playing that record, are you?’ A smile failed to hide her irritation.
He ignored it. ‘This is not the kind of life you want for yourself.’
‘And who made you the expert on what kind of life I want?’
‘No one would want this if they had a choice.’
‘Who says I have a choice?’
‘You’re responding with questions because you’re defensive. You’re defensive because you’ve chosen this life for yourself and I’m challenging you about that choice.’
She exhaled and briefly looked away. ‘You’re really quite arrogant, aren’t you?’
‘Am I wrong?’
‘Am I?’
‘A woman of your age has had a life before this one—’
Francesca shook her head as she interrupted. ‘Arrogant and so full of compliments…’
‘A woman of your age has had a life before this one,’ Victor repeated. ‘And a woman of your attractiveness doesn’t need it. You’re—’
‘Don’t think you can reverse my opinion of you so quickly. I’m not that easy to manipulate, Felix.’
‘You’re cultured and intelligent—’
‘Hmm, better. More please.’
‘You have other options available to you,’ Victor said. ‘It’s not too late to walk away.’
‘You see, I knew there was a sliver of a gentleman behind that icy front of yours.’
‘You’re playing the most dangerous game there is, Francesca. It’s not too late to walk away, but at some point it will be.’
She laughed. ‘You’re really quite sweet, aren’t you?’
‘Where’s Leeson?’ he asked again.
Francesca smiled once more and remained silent, enjoying her power. ‘Let’s grab a drink, shall we? I’ll pay, and you can pay me back with some more compliments.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘Don’t be a spoilsport. I fancy a cocktail: something tall and opaque.’
‘Where?’
She made an exaggerated sigh and pointed without looking in the direction of the harbour.
‘He’s on a boat?’ Victor asked.
‘No, silly boy.’ She turned and pointed, this time past the harbour, out to sea, out across the Mediterranean. ‘He’s that way.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Andorra la Vella, Andorra
The restaurant was a chaotic place to work but Lucille Defraine enjoyed that chaos. She had been a sous chef there for three years; no longer terrified of the giant Turkish chef who ran the kitchen, she now found his explosive outbursts bordering on the hilarious. All the junior kitchen and waiting staff cowered before him and Lucille remembered what it had been like to be frightened of coming to work. It was a stressful environment where the chef demanded perfection and the staff either learned to cope with the verbal assaults or quit. When they did, the chef put another red X on his scoreboard.
‘You’ll be on there one day,’ he’d promised her during her first week.
She went about her job with a quiet efficiency that kept her off his radar for the most part, but if she let the risotto stick or a length of asparagus bend in the middle he would unload abuse on her that was a mix of French and Turkish. She had spoken French and German fluently since her childhood, and now could claim to be tri-lingual – but her Turkish was limited to expletives and insults, though she did know dozens of them.
One of the juniors dropped a pan and boiling water flooded across the floor. Green parcels of ravioli slid along on the flow.
The Turkish chef launched a tirade of insults at the junior, who scalded his fingers picking up the ravioli. Lucille tried not to smile, but failed.
This did not escape the attention of the chef, who turned his abuse her way.
Lucille laughed. She couldn’t