Wilderness of Mirrors by Ella Skye Page B

moment to work it out.
    “So… depressed.”
A delightful observation, Sam. Such a wonder you didn’t go into counseling.
    He faced her, taken aback. “You think I’m depressed?”
    “Yes.”
Might as well stick your oversized American foot in until it hits your uvula
. “Your aura, your Ka, your whatever. It’s off.”
I know about these things; trust me.
    His demeanor remained unchanged. “Battersea.” He looked away then.
    “Brad’s?” she guessed, the tension in her limbs fading with his obvious disinterest.
    He nodded.
    “Right. Tap me if you want my attention.”
    She gripped the stick shift.
    And he startled her by brushing the back of her hand with his fingertips. “I like the scent of your skin.” Just as quickly, he released her hand and shifted his injured leg. “Do you mind if I close my eyes?”
    “No.”
You like how I smell?
Samantha felt fire along her knuckles. She put the Audi into gear and retook the road. The hedges swept by in streaks of brown, shabby in their nakedness. A fleck of surprising snow hit the windscreen. Two birds chased one another over the twisty motorway.
    And the man beside her slept - or rather, never moved – content or perturbed by silence and his own impenetrable thoughts.
    Nigel woke in front of a tidy set of white brick townhouses in Belgravia.
    So she was real. Or something like it. He wondered at the odds. Improbable, but not impossible. He was certain now that she hadn’t recognized him. Which wasn’t much of a surprise given a decade had passed and he’d been disguised.
    What did surprise him was his disappointment.
    Somehow it seemed that the moment in Hong Kong, brief as it was, should have affected them both similarly.
    Christ, he had barely been able to look at her. Just her scent, the bloody intoxicating arrangement of notes playing off her skin nearly brought him to his knees. And then he’d gone and touched her, felt the heat of her flesh burn its way through his fingertips. Like fucking electricity she was, touching off every nerve ending from his thumb to his balls. Once more, he had almost kissed her. That is until she’d gone and reminded him that no matter how hard he tried, what he’d done – his stockpile of angry sins – was slowly, but surely destroying him.
    Then, despite her observation, she’d brought him home.
    He watched as she backed the car into a tiny drive to the side of a wrought-iron encased front garden. An ebony gate folded itself across the front of the vehicle, and the handsome street vanished.
    He knew she’d glanced at him, but she kept her thoughts to herself and proceeded to empty the A3 of one dog and one canvas Hermes tote. Her tread was light on the pea stone and he watched in the rearview as she scrubbed the Alsatian’s ears before the dog headed to the garden at the property’s rear.
    She approached the side door and unlatched a deadbolt before disappearing into the flat’s interior.
    An interesting woman.
    And real.
    Deaf too, which explained his confusion.
    An enigma wrapped up in a conundrum, Ms. Samantha Bond.
    His mind played with the variables and found them to its liking, so he left the car and joined Anubis on his rounds. The brick enclosed yard was elegant and private. Spy-for-a-living private. There was broken glass along the crests and plenty of automatic lighting.
    He glanced at the house’s façade. Lots of thorny roses by the door and ground-skimming windows, but no ivy or other plants that could hide an intruder. The upper stories had opaque glass and security cameras. The front gate had been automatic. It was wood-encased steel topped with attractive finials – albeit iron ones. He’d missed the front entrance, but he didn’t expect deviation.
    He felt safe here.
    Had Brad done the work? Nigel didn’t think so. There was a father-like feel to the layout. Obviously, someone cared about whether Ms. Bond slept well.
    Anubis brushed Nigel’s hand on his way by. Modus operandi or a shot over