Page 118 of Lethal Torture
“Uh-huh.” I look out the window at the icy streets. It’s almost Christmas, and London is frigidly cold, the sky pale and hard. Charlie pulls up outside Galvin La Chappelle, a bistro set in an old chapel on Spital Square. It was an intelligent choice by Lowbridge, I’ll give him that much. Despite its soaring glass windows and vast ceilings, Galvin La Chappelle is renowned for its discreet acoustics, not to mention sensational food.
“Don’t give it up too easily.” Enzo fusses with my scarf and brushes an imaginary speck of dust from my shoulder. “Lowbridge is still on the back foot. He knows Andrew managed to get him this lunch—which, by the way, has made my boyexceptionallygrateful.” He gives me a sly wink, and I roll my eyes. “Just remember Lowbridge is desperate for an invitation to the ball.” All trace of playfulness disappears from his expression. “He wants it badly, Zin. Which means he’ll play the game so long as he thinks he’s going to get what he wants. But from what Andrew says, he can also turn extremely mean, so tread carefully.”
“She’s been briefed, Enzo” comes Luke’s dry tone through my earpiece, making me smile. “Let the lady do her thing.”
Enzo rolls his eyes. “Sobossy.”
“You love it,” Charlie says, grinning at him as she opens the door for me. “Get in there and kill it, boss.”
“But not literally,” adds Enzo. “At least, not today.”
“You ruin all my fun.” I step onto the pavement, biting my lip to stop myself from smiling.
“Alright, you lot. That’s enough.” Luke’s tone becomes businesslike. “I’m cutting all mikes except mine and Zin’s from here. We’re on, people.” The channel falls suddenly silent in my ear as I approach the arched doorway of the old chapel.
“Are you still there?” I breathe as I enter, barely moving my mouth.
“Always.” Luke’s voice, low and intimate, sends a delicious warmth through my whole body. “I’ve got you, princess.”
“Princess?” I suppress a gurgle of laughter.
“Hey,” he says as the door opens for me, “it’s better than fucking McTasty.”
I’m still smiling as the doorman takes my coat and the maître d’hôtel greets me by name and shows me to a discreet corner table, tucked away under one of the high arches around the edge of the main restaurant. He gives me the slightest wink as he pulls back the curtain concealing our dining nook.
“The maître d’ is one of ours.” Luke’s voice comes through my earpiece again.
Of course he is.
“Miss Melikov.”
I smile coolly at the less-than-Honorable Simon Lowbridge, who stands as the maître d pulls out my seat. He doesn’t proffer his hand, and I don’t offer my own. He waits until I’m seated before taking his own and holds conversation until our drinks arrive.
“I was rather surprised you accepted my invitation.” Lowbridge raises his glass to me. “I’d begun to think we may never become friends.”
His smile is thin lipped and doesn’t reach his eyes, which are an insipid blue and cold as a dead fish.
“Oh, I doubt we shall ever be friends, Mr. Lowbridge.” I sip my Negroni, and his smile becomes fixed. I choose my drinks according to my dining companion, and idiots like Lowbridge tend to be intimidated by the smallest things, like a don’t-fuck-with-me cocktail. One of the few benefits of my upbringing is an unusually high tolerance for hard liquor, a side effect of being force-fed straight shots of vodka in a cage from childhood.
“We’re both busy people.” I meet his eyes politely. “You asked for this lunch. What can I do for you?”
“I thought perhaps it might be more what we can do for each other.” Lowbridge isn’t a tall man, maybe five-ten, with sandy hair clipped brutally short and the kind of face that is easily overlooked in a crowd. His perfectly fitted suit can’t disguise the slightly sloping shoulders and lack of serious muscle beneath, just as his Patek Philippe watch wears him rather than the other way around. The signet ring on his pinkie bears the crest of the family seat he married into, an affectation that I know Luke would find as hilarious as I do.
“I see.” I keep my expression bland. “And what, exactly, is it that you think might interest me?” I smile at the waiter the maître d sent to our table, one I’ve met several times before. “Hello, Jean.” I give him my scallop order without having looked at the menu.
Slightly flustered, Lowbridge flicks through the pages and orders a chateaubriand, which, had he bothered to read the menu properly, he’d know is actually prepared with two people in mind. Jean gives him a rather contemptuous look but refrains from comment other than a brief eye roll in my direction.
“You were saying?” I raise my eyebrows politely over my glass. My Negroni is half gone, while Lowbridge has barely made a dent in his gin.
“I—yes.” He takes a large mouthful of his drink. It never ceases to amaze me just how easy it is to disconcert men like Lowbridge. “I understand,” he says carefully, “that you take a...particular interestin helping the victims of human trafficking.”
“The mission of Sophie’s House is public knowledge.” I eye him directly, concealing my surprise behind my customary mask. I hadn’t expected him to address the issue so blatantly.
“I’m not referring to the public face of your foundation.” He leans forward, looking around as if he’s in some kind of B-grade spy movie. “You know what I mean.”
Christ.I hadn’t expected Lex-Luther-level villainy, but for all his show, so far Lowbridge is definitely less than impressive.
I raise my eyebrows politely. “Do I.”
