Page 33 of Lethal Torture
I hear a feminine giggle in the background.
“And I told you. Luke’s the best man for the job.”
“Is that one of my fucking dancers I can hear?” I ask frostily.
“She’s quite spectacular. By the way, Sienna—itisSienna, isn’t it, darling?—won’t be in tonight. Bill me whatever you like. But since it’s six a.m. on a Sunday,” Mak drawls, “and I didn’t leave your club until four, let’s pick this up another time, shall we? Luke will be at your Mayfair office tomorrow, nine a.m.”
The phone goes dead in my ear, leaving me smiling despite myself.
Then I think of Luke Macarthur’s poker face, and my smile disappears.
But keeping a poker face for half an hour is one thing.
Living in the murky darkness of my world for months on end is quite another.
Sure, Captain Macarthur has game.
But he’s going to fucking need it, because if the men of my world smell one hint of weakness, not even the raw ferocity of the man I saw on the water this morning will be any match for the kind of hell that will come for him.
8
LUKE
I barely sleepand rise before dawn.
It’s an old army habit, the legacy of a thousand operations in dangerous places.
Predawn is the best time to hunt.
This morning, however, the only thing I plan to kill is the hard-on that hasn’t quit since I left that damned Viewing Room beneath the Quartier.
I reach the boathouse on the River Thames by four thirty and have a single scull in the water fifteen minutes later. I push off from the concrete ramp, oars settling into the locks with a satisfyingly loud clunk. I glide out to the misty center of the river, draw my knees up, brace myself, and explode into my imaginary race.
Half stroke. Three-quarter stroke. Half stroke. Full.
Clean, physical force that consumes my mind and body, burning away confusion and demanding total absorption in the task.
Dip oar. Thrust legs. Pull to abdomen. Lift oar. Repeat.
One moment of distraction, and the rhythm is lost.
“Luke. I appreciate you making the effort.” Zinaida’s voice, cool and detached, her opaque sapphire eyes looking through me as if I’m not even there.
My oar catches an eddy, and I lose my stroke.
Fuck.
I right the boat, find my rhythm again.
Get it together. She’s a fucking client.
The boat glides upriver, passing under London Bridge toward Blackfriars. The November mist is so thick the tower of the Tate Modern art gallery is barely visible.
Big Ben chimes the quarter bells at five fifteen as I pass under Waterloo Bridge, pulling me back to the London damp and the slap of my oars in water.
I’ve hit the smooth pace where the scull is skimming the river, my body a seamless, continual flow of force that feels as if I could keep it up forever.
As the motion of oars becomes hypnotic, my subconscious dredges up images I won’t allow my conscious mind to entertain.
