The Chosen One. Sam Bourne

Forty-Two

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       Forty-Five

       Forty-Six

       Forty-Seven

       Forty-Eight

       Forty-Nine

       Fifty

       Fifty-One

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       Fifty-Three

       Fifty-Four

       Fifty-Five

       Fifty-Six

       Fifty-Seven

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       Fifty-Nine

       Sixty

       Sixty-One

       Sixty-Two

       Sixty-Three

       Sixty-Four

       Sixty-Five

       Sixty-Six

       Sixty-Seven

       Sixty-Eight

       Epilogue

       Keep Reading

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       Also by the Author

       About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

       New Orleans, March 21, 23.35

      He didn’t choose her, she chose him. At least that’s how it seemed. Though maybe that was part of her skill, the performer’s art.

      He hadn’t stared at her, hadn’t fixed her with that steady gaze he knew freaked the girls out. He didn’t want to make anyone uneasy. So he pretended to be like those out-of-town guys, cool and unbothered. On a business trip, only visiting a strip club so they could say they had tasted the true New Orleans experience – letting their hair down, sampling a little sin. The city didn’t mind those guys. Hell, New Orleans had made a living out of them: sleaze tourism, nicely packaged.

      So he did his best to act uninterested, even glancing down at his BlackBerry, only occasionally stealing a look at the stage. Not that that was the right word. Too big. The ‘performing area’ was little more than a jetty pushed out among the low-lit tables, a few square feet with barely enough room for a girl to peel off her bikini top, jiggle the silicone on her chest, bend over and show her g-stringed ass before blowing a few kisses to the men who had slotted a twenty under her garter belt.

      The thrill of these places should have faded long ago, but somehow he kept coming back: this spot had been a fixture, every Wednesday night, for years. It wasn’t really about the sex. It was the dark he liked, the anonymity. He would get the odd greeting and smile of recognition from behind the bar, but that was it. Men here avoided one another’s gaze: if your eyes met, it was in your mutual interest to look away.

      Still, he took no chances. He didn’t want any strangers recognizing him, not with everything that had happened. He didn’t want to chat. He needed to think.

      Be calm, he told himself. Things are on track. He had dropped the bait and they had picked it up. So what if there was no word yet? He should give it time.

      The amber pool of bourbon at the bottom of his glass was inviting. He stared into it, raised it to his lips and knocked it back in one sharp swallow. It burned.

      He glanced back to the stage. A new girl, one he’d not seen before. Her hair was longer, her skin somehow not quite as plucked and smooth as the others’. Her breasts looked real.

      He was guarding himself against giving her the Stare but it was too late. She was looking directly at him. And not the blank, dosed-up gaze of the girls who called themselves ‘Savannah’ and ‘Mystery’ either. She was seeing him, seeing right through to him. Had she recognized him, perhaps from the TV?

      He fiddled with the BlackBerry again, the device slick from the moisture in his palm. He fought the urge to look up, only to surrender a few seconds later. When he did, she was still holding him in that steady gaze. Not the fake leer perfected by the girls who know how to kid a bald, drunk guy that he’s hot. This was something more genuine; friendly, almost.

      Her spot was over and she was gone, ending with the obligatory shake of the rear. Even that seemed aimed in his direction.

      To his relief, the machine vibrated in his hand, forcing him to be busy with something else. A new message. He scanned the first line. Another media request. Not what he was waiting for. He scrolled through the rest of the day’s email, pretending to read.

      ‘You know what they say: all work and no play—’

      ‘Makes Jack a dull boy.’

      He interrupted her even before he had seen her face. She had pulled up a chair at the small, dark-wood table he had made his own. Even though he had never heard her speak, he knew from the first syllable that it was her.

      ‘You don’t look like a dull boy.’

      ‘And you don’t look like a stripper.’

      ‘Oh, really? You don’t think I’ve got the goods for—’

      ‘I wasn’t saying that. I was saying—’

      She placed her hand on his, to silence him. The warmth he had seen in her eyes on stage was still there. Her hair hung loose, falling onto her shoulders. She could have been no more than twenty-five – nearly half his age – and yet she exuded a strange . . . what was it? Maturity. Or something like that, something you rarely saw in this sort of place. Alongside him, his hands clammy, stabbing at his email, she was a statue of calm. He signalled to the waitress