Power Games. Victoria Fox

asked with trepidation: ‘Are you all right, Ms Lascelles?’

      ‘Mind your own fucking business,’ she snapped back, tugging down the sleeves on her jacket, ‘and keep driving. Isn’t that what I pay you for?’

      The dividing glass slid up.

       Shit!

      Jacob Lyle was a handsome bastard. Just the kind of man she had used to entertain—rich, pampered, polished rich boys with a lust for domination.

      And a lust for the rest …

       It’s over! Don’t think of it!

      But she couldn’t help it. Some men brought it rushing back. They reminded her of the bad times. Jacob Lyle was one of them.

       Jacob’s a cocky sonofabitch.

      It was the look in his eyes—of greed, of ownership, of entitlement; Tawny had faced it more times than she cared to mention. Though admittedly that sort had been rare for her: more often she would be landed with squalor; dirty, grimy vagrants who demanded all manner of degeneracy. Jacob represented those rare prizes they had all prayed for when the gates opened. Bored money, the girls used to tag them, sailing in after their city dealings and power lunches to splash a few bills on a stripper or three.

       Dancer, remember? Not a stripper.

      If only that was the worst bit. It wasn’t.

      The worst bit was the way Jacob had appraised her.

      How it still had the power to turn her on …

      Tawny hated herself, but it had excited her: that flash in his eyes, the spark of desire. She would never tire of it as long as she lived. The need for male approval was stitched into her fibre, as vital to her as blood. Where she came from, beauty equalled attention, attention equalled cash—and cash equalled the ultimate prize: freedom.

      Was she free now?

      Tawny recalled the crisp exchange of bills like it was yesterday, the loose tug of a tie and the hush of material as it fell to the floor. The scent of aftershave and cigars, brandy on breath; and the cold, clammy press of skin against hers …

      Back at the hotel, she hurried up to her penthouse and ran a deep bath. She filled it with salts and lotions, syrups and tonics, anything to scrub the horrors away.

      Tawny soaked in the water until she met the cusp of sleep.

       Forget it.

       Those days can’t catch you now.

      It was gone, it was over—and anyway, she never had to see Jacob Lyle again.

       8

       Rome

      Eve Harley lifted her head from the toilet bowl in her suite at the Villa Maestro and groaned. Why did she feel so ill? All week she had been waking early, making a mad dash for the bathroom, and it was near impossible to keep food down.

      Was it something she ate? Was she sick?

      She ought to have consulted a doctor before flying, but couldn’t bring herself to. It was a weak excuse, but still. She had seen too many of them, been inside too many hospitals. The antiseptic, the white coats, the plastic chairs in the waiting room while she and her mum had braced themselves to be seen, armed with a new tank of lies …

      ‘Are you sure you should go?’ her editor had asked the day before, taking in her waxy complexion and sunken eyes. ‘You look terrible.’

      Eve was damned if a bout of nausea was going to stop her doing her job. She was yet to take a sick day in her life; she didn’t believe in them. Often she got teased that she would be working on her deathbed. It was only half a joke.

      If there was even a sniff of a lead then she wasn’t letting anyone else reach the payload first. American senator Mitch Corrigan was one such assignment. Last month Eve had interviewed him on an imminent presidency campaign, and she remembered being seriously unnerved by his veneer. OK, so all politicians had one, but there was something about Mitch Corrigan’s that sat more uncomfortably than most. Throughout their exchange Eve had noticed the splinters in his smooth disguise: eyes that darted, a twitchy knee, then the façade would slip seamlessly back into place and he would deliver yet another perfectly rehearsed answer. She didn’t buy it for a second.

      Now the senator had come to Italy, and it seemed he was doing all he could to keep the trip under wraps. Orlando Silvers had supplied the tip-off, in exchange for her spinning an effusive piece on Angela’s new label (Orlando liked to make out that he didn’t dote on his sister: Eve thought it sweet that he did). Corrigan’s every move was publicised to the hilt ahead of his White House bid—except for this one. For some reason, the Republican didn’t want them following him here.

      The senator was intriguing, no doubt about it. Eve intended to find out why.

      She cleaned up, took a brisk shower and snatched her bag.

      No time to be ill. There was work to be done.

      It was a struggle to keep the Jeep in her sights as they roared east out of the city.

      The February sky was slate-grey, the autostrada darker still, throwing up spray from the vehicles in front. Senator Corrigan’s Jeep was going at speed, switching lanes without warning and then abruptly ducking out on the exit to Ferentino. It was important Eve kept a safe distance—she did not want to give herself away.

      They peeled off onto a winding, deserted road. She held back, careful only to take a corner once the Jeep had a chance to move out of sight. Hulking trees dripped darkly and the sky thickened, bowed with the deluge it was set to unleash. Her hired Fiat’s wipers jammed and momentarily she was blinded, the taillights up front her only beacons before the feeble swish resumed. She kept her headlamps dipped.

      An animal shot out of the verge. Eve swerved, almost losing control, her nearside tyres scuffing the ridge of a ditch. She slammed on the brakes, the steering wheel spinning wildly in her hands, and abruptly came to a stop. The Jeep had vanished. Flooring the gas once more, Eve bombed along the slick road, determined not to lose her trail, and then, just as she was starting to fear Corrigan was long gone, a stain bled out of the mist: brake lights, far ahead. The Jeep was slowing, taking a turn into a bank of trees. As she came close, Eve saw it was a narrow dirt track, concealed behind a screen of leaves and just wide enough for the car to slip through.

      Further up the road was another vehicle, a red Golf, parked at an angle.

      She slowed and climbed out. The rain took seconds to soak through her jacket, matting her hair and chilling her to the bone. It was silent apart from the steady, gentle patter of raindrops. A bird cawed. Dark wings flapped.

      Eve picked her way along the track. It was tricky under her Converse and pimpled with potholes, rocks and foot-deep puddles, but she couldn’t risk being picked up on the sound of an engine. At last, beyond a final twist, she caught the hush of a distant, murmured exchange. She tried to decipher what was being said.

      There followed a mechanical scrape, like a gate opening.

      Eve gave it several minutes before advancing. Concealed in the trees, she watched from afar. Wherever Senator Corrigan had come to, it was high security.

      A hundred yards or so from where she hid, armed guards in military dress were pacing a mesh-wire blockade. Clumpy boots crunched on the wet ground. Every so often their radios crackled and a response was uttered. At each end of the barrier was a makeshift hut, housing further lookouts. The track continued beyond.

      What was this place? No signposts off the road, no risk of pedestrians taking a stroll out in the middle of nowhere and stumbling across a hidden garrison.

      And even if they did …