Black Widow (22 page)

It was getting dark by the time they got over to Holland Park. Tony drove steadily and smoothly through the traffic while Annie twitched with impatience in the back.

This could be it. The breakthrough. He might have news of Layla’s whereabouts. Soon, very soon, she might hold her daughter in her arms again.

But it was dangerous to hope too much. Because it could be bad news, not good.

It could be the
worst
news.

Layla could be dead.

Annie refused to believe that. She could not allow herself to even think that for a second. Layla was
alive.
She had to be.

She was ushered inside the palatial house by the same doorman.

‘Mrs Carter, please come in.’

The big man ushered her across the empty,
cavernous hallway and into Constantine Barolli’s study.

Third time lucky, maybe
, she thought as the doorman knocked on the study door and she was summoned inside.

‘Mrs Carter.’ Constantine Barolli came around the desk, hand outstretched, palm down. Charming, authoritative, strikingly handsome.

And he knows it
, Annie thought. And
again
with the fucking hand, and she still wasn’t going to kiss it.

She shook his hand firmly and once more Constantine seemed to be suppressing a smile.

‘Is there any news?’ she asked, getting straight down to business. ‘Or haven’t you even bothered to start looking?’

Constantine looked at her.

‘Take a seat, Mrs Carter,’ he said, and went back around the desk. The light was growing dim as he started to speak. Annie listened and put everything else to the back of her mind, including the shocking thing he had said to her on her last visit here.

Constantine Barolli told her that in fact he
had
bothered. He had bothered quite a bit.

‘Yeah?’ Annie looked at him sourly.

‘Yes,’ he said. Then he told her about the
bother
he’d been to.

The word had gone out, he told her. A little girl
with dark hair and eyes had been snatched in Majorca. This girl was Max Carter’s daughter. The word had gone out in Majorca, Ibiza, Minorca, and mainland Spain, and throughout France and the UK, too. The word was: say nothing, keep watch, report back.

In bars and snooker halls and working men’s clubs and discos and restaurants, in Salvation Army hostels and on newsstands and anywhere else the word could be carried, it was delivered, seeping into the minds of the people who heard it, dripping like rainwater on to rock, moving down through layers until it reached the substrata, the basest levels.

Working girls heard about it as they shivered on the streets. Doormen hovering in the neon-lit doorways of strip joints passed the word on. Say nothing, keep watch, report back. Truckers stopping at greasy spoons were passed the word, taxi drivers met on their stands outside airports and in the high streets, and they passed it on to co-workers.

Everyone wanted to find this girl. This was an opportunity not to be missed. A chance to do a favour not only for the New York Mafia don, Constantine Barolli, but also for his London associates, the Carters. They would be effusive in their thanks and generous in their rewards to whomever helped with this, and that help was needed
fast.
Speed was necessary here: Constantine had made that very clear.

Everyone wanted to find the girl.

And the people who’d taken her.

Three people, they knew that now.

One slim and slight blonde woman, big breasts, blue eyes. Annie thought this was the one who had bodily snatched Layla: it tallied with what Jeanette had told her.

One big, dark-haired, dark-eyed, squat, powerful. Maybe a telephone engineer who had the knowledge to tap lines.

One tall, restless, straight blond hair, crazy eyes.
This one could be Kieron Delaney
, Annie thought. Fast enough to get up close to Max and take him by surprise, because in a fair fight Kieron wouldn’t have stood a chance against Max and he knew it.

In Palma they had used the name of Philips, claiming to be a married couple and a brother on holiday together. But none of the three had worn a wedding ring, and they had not seemed like people on holiday. They were edgy, nervous. No one had yet seen the girl with these three people, who had rented a place in Palma from Marietta and Julio Degas. But there had been mention of a faint noise, maybe a child crying, heard once and never explained. And when the three adults had left that place, the big dark-haired one was carrying a large holdall, big enough to hold a child.

The word had spread like lightning, conducted by word of mouth: Constantine Barolli wanted this little girl, Layla Carter, found and delivered safely home to her mother. The person or persons who did him this favour, whatever their contribution, however small, however large, would be paid back a thousand-fold for their efforts.

Constantine filled Annie in on all this and, when he stopped speaking, Annie nodded, a bit dazed by the scope of it. But reassured too. If anyone could help here with this, it was Barolli. Despite all her misgivings, despite the fact that she knew she was out of her depth here, she knew she’d come to the right man. She’d doubted him, but now look—he’d surprised her. He’d got the whole thing moving.

‘Soon, hopefully, we’ll get more news,’ said Constantine.

He reached out and switched on the yellow banker’s light on the desk, illuminating them both in a soft glow as dusk crept further in, lengthening shadows.

‘Thank you,’ said Annie. It nearly choked her to say it, because she had been
convinced
that he was just screwing around, just kicking his heels and wasting time until she was desperate enough to fall into line with his demands.

Constantine shrugged.

‘We’ve started the ball rolling, that’s all. Within
two weeks I have to go back to New York. Business. But before then I hope we’ll see a breakthrough.’

That soon
, thought Annie.

Suddenly her heart was in her mouth. Suddenly she was shaking. She might, she really might, get Layla back.

But if they were carrying her around in a holdall, she must be gagged, restrained, surely? Or drugged.

Oh Jesus.

‘You’re not going to faint again, are you?’

‘No.’ Annie shook her head, trying not to smile, trying not to just whoop with joy or maybe even cry her bloody eyes out. ‘It’s just…I can’t believe it.’

‘Hey—no guarantees,’ he warned. ‘You know, I’ve thought about this a lot. And I think to these people the money’s a bonus, but maybe they also want to see you squirm. My guess is someone’s got their eye on you, Mrs Carter. They’re watching you.’

Annie sighed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t even care. I just want to get my daughter back—that’s all.’

He nodded. ‘I heard there’s been trouble. A Delaney man hurt. Rumours, you know.’

Annie looked at him blankly.

‘There’s always rumours, Mr Barolli,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Do you suspect Delaney involvement in this?’

Annie shrugged. ‘The Carters and the Delaneys are old enemies.’

‘Sure. But go easy. These things escalate. You pick up a brick, they pick up a knife, you pick up a gun, they throw a grenade. And so on. You know how it goes. Things can turn ugly.’

He looked at her. Annie said nothing.

Constantine sighed and went on: ‘Maybe we can turn this thing around now, get a good result. There’s hope.’

And before I had none
, thought Annie. She owed Constantine Barolli, big time. But then, he had already pointed that out to her the last time they’d met.

These people always want payment
, Jimmy Bond had told her.
They don’t ever do favours for nothing.

But then, she knew what Constantine Barolli wanted. He’d made it very plain.

It wasn’t the Carter clubs.

It wasn’t Queenie’s old house.

It wasn’t, as Jimmy Bond had feared, the entire manor.

It was
her.

And she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to give him that.

Constantine rose, closed the curtains on the encroaching darkness of night. Suddenly the study was cosy, comfortable. Then he came around the desk and stood there looking down at her.

Their eyes locked.

Constantine Barolli extended his hand, palm down.

‘Now, Mrs Carter,’ said Constantine, his blue eyes holding hers. ‘Kiss my hand.’

Well, she’d known this was coming. She knew there would be a price to pay. And now was the time that she was expected to pay it.

‘Mr Barolli,’ she said candidly, ‘I haven’t seen any real results yet. When I see results, maybe I’ll consider paying the price for those results.’

Constantine looked down at her. Then he laughed.

‘Mrs Carter, you have a lot of nerve, and I admire that. But my patience has its limits.’

Annie looked at him. Looked at his hand, still outstretched to her.

What the hell
, she thought.
For Layla.

She clasped his fingers and brought his hand closer to her face. Inclined her head slightly. Looked at the ring on his index finger. A thick band of gold, set with a scattering of small, perfect diamonds that glinted as the light caught them. She could smell his cologne—Acqua di Parma. Classic, fresh…
arousing.

Surprised at that, Annie started to draw away, but his fingers had closed around hers and she was swiftly pulled to her feet. She staggered slightly,
caught unawares, and found herself being held tightly against Constantine Barolli’s chest.

She felt his breath, warm and sweet-scented on her cheek, and quickly turned her head away.

‘Now my lips,’ he said.

‘Let go of me,’ she said, alarmed, shaken.

‘Mrs Carter, this was always part of the deal. As I told you the last time we met.’

Annie turned her head and glared at him.

‘I can’t,’ she said. And it was the truth.

She was Max’s wife.
Max’s.
Everything in her fought against this. Yes, she had known it would be expected. Logically, she had even begun to accept that this would be the case. She had known from the very first meeting that Constantine Barolli had been drawn to her. His wife had been dark haired and dark eyed and so was she. Probably—like Max—he had always been turned on by brunettes. He was doing her a favour—and she was expected to return it.

All perfectly logical and reasonable.

But emotionally, impossible.

Constantine took hold of her chin and turned her head toward his. Annie’s eyes met his, obstinate, panicked.

‘He’s dead,’ said Constantine.

‘No.’

‘Yes. You didn’t tell me the truth about what happened in Majorca. You told me Max and Jonjo
were in Spain on business, and I’m telling you they’re not. For one thing, we tried to find them, and you know what? We can’t. For another, there was a lot of blood on both sides of the pool. And brain matter too. Now—these people didn’t hurt you, and they didn’t hurt the girl with you. And Layla was indoors. Do you see where I’m going with this?’

All right, she’d lied to him. Big fucking deal. In every other way that mattered for the sake of finding Layla, she had told him the truth.

‘He’s alive,’ she said.

‘He’s dead. I told you. If Max was alive he’d be here. He’d be tearing this whole country and half of Europe apart to find his child.’

‘He can’t be here.’

‘No he can’t. Because he’s dead. All right, don’t admit it to me. Even if all the evidence points to that. Don’t admit it to anyone else. But at least admit it to yourself.’

Annie stared at him.

‘Is that what you did, when your wife died?’

He paused. She had surprised him. ‘Yes. Exactly.’

‘I’m like her,’ said Annie.

He looked at her curiously. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Your son. Lucco. In fact, he warned me off last time I came here.’

Constantine paused for another beat, digesting this.

‘You still haven’t done it, Mrs Carter,’ he said.

‘What?’ She wished he’d let her go. Wouldn’t admit that it felt good, being held in his arms. Warm and secure. A safe place.

Safe!

Constantine Barolli was anything but safe. He was a big-time crook. And she was Max’s wife.

His widow, you mean
, said the voice in her head.

‘You haven’t kissed my lips.’

A kiss. Would it really hurt?

Betraying Max
, thought Annie,
that’s what it was. Not just a kiss.

But then, Max was dead.

There, she was admitting it to herself. Max was
dead.

And Constantine Barolli wanted her. She could feel how much he wanted her.

‘Think of this,’ said Constantine, ‘as therapy for a broken heart.’

Annie shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Convincing nobody, not even herself.

‘If he’s dead—and that’s only your say-so—then what makes you think I’m sorry? We could have been at each other’s throats night and day. I might be glad he’s gone.’

Constantine stared at her so long that she had to look away.

‘You’re not glad he’s gone,’ he said quietly.
‘Every time I look at you, I can see your heart is broken.’

Smooth, charming bastard
, she thought. That was one thing Constantine Barolli had in bucket-loads—charm.

‘One kiss,’ said Constantine.

One kiss and I’m out of here
, she thought.

He was taller than Max. She was tall, too, but even in heels she had to stand on tiptoe to reach his mouth. Steeling herself, she put her lips against his. Kissed him. Then instantly pulled back—or as far back as she could get, because his arms were around her, pulling her in closer, closer.

And now he was kissing her. His hand slid up her back, clasping her neck, holding her head still and now this was a real, full-bodied kiss. His tongue was in her mouth. He was holding her tight against him. Annie felt stifled, delirious, unreal. This couldn’t be happening. She was betraying Max. She was being kissed by Constantine Barolli. And then the door opened and Lucco’s voice was cutting through the moment like ice, saving her—thank God—from further embarrassment, from her own stupid animal urges.