Текст книги "Knight and Day"
Автор книги: Kitty French
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Knight & Day
Knight – 3
by
Kitty French
Chapter One
"The weather in Ibiza is currently a very pleasant twenty-five degrees and it's forecast to be a beautiful day. On behalf of your captain and all of the crew, we'd like to thank you for flying with us today and wish you a safe onward journey."
The overhead seatbelt lights winked off as the air hostess made her final announcement, and all around him passengers jostled to retrieve over-stuffed bags, over-excited children and general detritus in the tight space of the cramped cabin.
He waited in silence as a stag party in various states of inebriation and hastily scrawled-on t-shirts filed haphazardly along the central aisle, not prepared to enter the testosterone scrum of men desperate to get to their next beer.
Last off the plane, he briefly met the heavily made up eyes of the stewardess at the doorway, averting his gaze from the flare of interest he saw spark there. Time was, he'd have appreciated that, but time also did other things to a man. Jaded him.
He may have been the last passenger to leave the jet, but he was the first to leave the airport. He walked right past the luggage carousel with his holdall slung over his shoulder, all of his worldly possessions in that one old kit bag.
Ducking into the nearest cab, he flung the holdall onto the rear seat next to him and leaned forward to the driver.
"Anywhere."
The dark-eyed taxi driver's brows pulled together and he studied his passenger’s face for a few seconds, sizing him up. Male, alone, no wedding ring, no baggage.
How wrong first impressions can be.
"San Antonio?" he suggested, his English heavily accented. "Party?"
His passenger shook his head. The last things he needed right now were the brash lights and pulsating party heart of the island’s famed dance capital.
"Somewhere quiet."
He noticed the driver’s brows flicker down again as he regarded him for a few more long moments before he turned away and started the engine, his mind made up. He threw the car into the erratic traffic around the airport without further enquiry.
Glad of the silence, the passenger leaned his head back against the sun-warmed seat and watched the Ibizan landscape unfold as they moved onto quieter winding roads. Lush, brilliantly green pine trees against vivid blue skies. Late spring. New beginnings.
As they rounded a bend and started to descend to the coast, the curve of an impossibly perfect bay appeared below them. Dazzling turquoise water fringed by sugar-white sands – it was a picture postcard, the kind of image used to lure tourists to part with their money for an annual week of sun-soaked bliss.
They dropped down to sea level, and the driver tracked along the sandy road that backed the beach.
"Vadella," the driver said, catching his passenger's eye in the rear view mirror. "Quiet."
His passenger nodded, grateful. A handful of restaurants and a couple of bars dotted the beach, set back from the shore, and a smattering of sun-worshippers and football-playing kids occupied the sands. Out in the bay, a few boats lazed in the Mediterranean sun, the sea barely showing a ripple. It was as good a place as any.
"Beer?"
The waitress behind the bar had that casual European sophistication; lithe limbed and olive skinned, her knotted, wide necked T-shirt revealing a tattoo on her exposed shoulder. She looked up and greeted him with an easy smile, offering him what he must look as if he needed. She placed a large, frosted glass down in front of him when he nodded, and he sat on the wicker bar stool and drank deeply, closing his eyes with satisfaction as the cold, fortifying liquid slipped down his throat. She was still watching him when he opened them again, her head on one side, the smile still playing around her mouth.
"On holiday?"
Polite conversation that he had no polite reply for.
"Maybe." He half nodded, half shrugged. "I might stay a while. See how it goes."
"American?" she asked, more of a statement than a question.
He nodded again. "Guilty as charged, ma'am." He touched his fingers to his forehead and gave her a small salute. She laughed softly as she wiped the uneven wooden bar top down, and for the second time that day he recognised the flare of interest in a woman's eyes. He dropped his own eyes to his beer rather than meet hers.
"So, where's decent to stay around here?"
"Depends," she said. "How long were you thinking of?"
How long was he thinking of? He had no idea.
"A month maybe? Two?"
She nodded thoughtfully. "There's a hotel along the bay, but it's more of a week or two family holiday place than a home. Lots of kids in the pool, that kind of thing."
She immediately registered the discomfort on his face at the prospect of making his base amongst a bunch of families. "Or we have a couple of rooms here, upstairs." Her gaze slid under the bar as she reached for a battered black leather book.
He watched her flick it open and run her unpainted fingertips down the page, tapping it slowly as she checked it. A seasoned tourism worker, her English was excellent, and she was clearly used to being asked about places to stay. The twist in her mouth told him that she didn’t have good news.
"No. Sorry. We have people booked in over the next couple of days, and again on and off. You might struggle to find something free for that length of time. Unless…" Her gaze slipped past him to the beach, and she drew her bottom lip in between her teeth. "The owner of this place has a boat he sometimes lets out, but it's, umm…" she shrugged apologetically and smiled again. "I don't know the right word in English." She screwed her nose up. "It's not… very trendy, let me say it that way."
She flipped to the back of the book and checked it briefly. "It's available," she said, lifting her shoulders speculatively and raising an enquiring eyebrow for his response.
A boat. It wasn't what he'd imagined, but at least it would be solitary, no families to trip over and work around.
"Where is it?"
She nodded out towards the bay. "It's moored over there, the last boat at the far end of the rocks."
He followed her gaze, and even though he couldn't see it, he made a snap decision.
"I'll take it."
She looked surprised. "You don't want to see it first?"
He shook his head. "If it has a bed and a bathroom, it'll do me."
Something about her expression told him that she thought he ought to check it out before committing himself, but she didn’t challenge him. Instead she sighed, perhaps with resigned amusement, and reached a key down from a hook behind the bar before picking up her pen.
"I better take some details, in that case." She looked up with the pen poised over the page. "Name?"
He lifted his beer, stalling. He should have thought this through more carefully. The mellow sounds of Bob Dylan floated out of the bar’s sound system, the lyrics of "Like a Rolling Stone" striking eerily close to home.
"It's Dylan," he said, mentally trying the name on for size as he watched her begin to form it hesitantly on the paper. “D-Y-L-A-N.”
She glanced up again, her brown eyes round and expectant. "Surname?"
His eyes slipped from hers for a second, to the neon sign bearing the name of the bar behind her. The Happy Days Beach Bar.
"It's Day," he said. "I'm Dylan Day."
A few minutes later, as he made his way around the rocky walkway that bounded the beach, Dylan caught a first glimpse of his new home and realised belatedly why the girl back at the bar had been reticent about leasing him the boat unseen.
The other boats in the bay were obviously either the property of well-heeled owners – gleaming white edifices of understated glamour – or else the unpretentious fishing boats of working men. Not this boat. No, this boat could never be accused of understated anything. This boat oozed personality.
It wasn't its size. In fact, it was quite modestly proportioned, but its size was the only modest thing about it. Where white was the order of the day for its bayside counterparts, this boat was bright orange. And yellow. And green. And red. And aqua. This boat created a faded rainbow all of its own, even though its eye-catching paintwork had definitely seen better days. Probably a good thing, Dylan reflected as he slung his bag on deck and stepped aboard. If it was this bright now, God only knew what it must have looked like when it was freshly painted. On the plus side, it had decent outside deck space and up top there seemed to be a second deck for dining or sunbathing.
That was a good thing. He planned on sunbathing.
If he'd thought the outside of the boat unusual, it didn't hold a candle to the inside. He turned the key, slid the glass side doors open and groaned out loud as he surveyed the interior, glad of his sunglasses even though he was out of the bright daylight.
He couldn't live here.
The kitchenette he'd stepped into was a canary yellow plastic and chrome affair, fifties right down to the discarded roller boots in the corner. The ship’s wheel at the helm had been chromed to match the kitchen’s garish decor.
It was someone's style, but it sure as hell wasn't his.
Stepping down the couple of wooden steps to his left, Dylan surveyed the living area with a slow, sinking feeling.
He couldn't live here.
Padded seating ran around the perimeter of the room, upholstered in cotton of a bright turquoise scattered with yellow lemons and bright red cherries. A well-stocked chrome and glass cocktail bar took up one wall, and hanging proud and central from the ceiling was a large, in no way understated, mirrored disco ball.
A fuck-off glittering silver disco ball. Dylan groaned out loud again. He didn't want a party boat. He cast his eyes around desperately. The door to a small, eye-wateringly lime bathroom stood open to one side, and that was it. Was there even a bedroom?
There were no obvious other doors, and he stepped back into the kitchenette to see if he'd missed it up there. Nope, no doors there either. Frowning, he leaned his back against the kitchen work surface, pushing his sunglasses up onto the top of his head. He really didn't want to sleep on those lurid sofas.
And that was when he spotted the faded, midnight blue hatch set in the wooden floor, its surface covered in faded, swirly silver writing. Dylan hunkered down onto his haunches. The motto “Stairway to heaven” had been artistically scribed on it in antiquated metallic paint, surrounded by silver stars and moons. He fitted his hand into the curved hatch recess and pulled it up, revealing a steep little wooden staircase. Bingo. Maybe there was a bedroom after all.
Getting down there turned out to be interesting. It was a small, rickety stairwell, and at six feet two inches, he wasn't a small man.
Once below, he blinked to adjust his eyes. And blinked again. Where upstairs had been a bright and showy pastiche of fifties glamour, down here was definitely made for after hours lovin’.
He couldn’t live here.
It wasn’t even high enough to stand up in: he had to duck and crawl into the bed space.
This wasn't a bedroom. It was a goddamn sex cave… but holy shit, the bed was comfortable. He sank back onto the warm, opulent silk-padded quilt and surveyed the space.
He could sit up without hitting the ceiling. Just. The curved bed filled the entire lower space and the wall hugging it had been padded in deep, button-studded amethyst velvet. Lying on his back, he studied the low ceiling above him. It was… celestial. Dark inky purple decorated with luminous stars and planets, remarkably detailed and accurate to Dylan's knowledgeable eye. The same artistic, hand-painted lettering from the hatch cover continued down here on a smaller scale, silver calligraphy spelling out the names of the constellations. Orion's Belt. The Milky Way. Ursa Major. They all glittered down at him, and little by little the gentle motion of the boat soothed away his resistance and almost imperceptibly eased his battered and bruised heart and mind.
It was quiet, and it was solitary, and no one in the world knew he was here.
Warm and peaceful for the first time in a long time, Dylan closed his eyes.
Maybe be could live here after all.
Just for a while, at least.
When he made his way back up on deck a little later, he breathed deeply and scanned the serene bay.
He had a new name.
He had a new home.
Now he needed a new job.
Chapter Two
Lucien walked slowly through the closed, empty club, his practised eye taking in every detail of the workmanship to ensure it met with the exacting standards he demanded for his multinational chain of adult clubs. His workmen had all clocked off for the afternoon, leaving him free to conduct a thorough inspection at leisure.
He paused momentarily beside the jacuzzi, his fingers against the cool tiles as he remembered conducting a similar inspection several years before with Sophie at his side. His cock stirred in response, and he pushed the memory aside with difficulty. Sophie wasn't due to arrive on Ibiza for a couple of days, and he missed her like hell, even more so since they'd welcomed Tilly into their lives too.
Sophie was his lucky talisman. The girl who surprised him. She still surprised him even now, after several years as a couple. Every now and then he saw a brand new side of her. She had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met, big enough to hold his even before he'd known that he'd given it to her.
Fuck, he missed her.
The sound of someone banging on the fire doors broke his concentration, followed by the sound of a male voice shouting outside.
"Artie, are you in there?"
Lucien frowned, crossing to the doors and leaning against the bar to open the left-hand one slowly. He dropped his sunglasses down against the glow of the low evening sun and regarded the man standing outside with his hand raised ready to knock again.
"Artie doesn't own this place anymore," he said.
The guy dropped his arm, and his whole body seemed to slump along with it.
"Let me guess," Lucien said. This wasn't the first guy to turn up in search of the previous owner. "He owed you money."
The previous owner seemed to have left Ibiza with nothing but the dodgy Hawaiian shirt on his back and a trail of bad debts in his wake after he'd hastily sold the premises and hightailed it off the island a few months previously.
The guy shook his head and leaned back against the wall of the club, his face tipped up to the skies with a resigned expression.
"No. Artie was a friend. I don't suppose you know where he's moved to?"
Lucien shook his head, noting the smooth Californian tone to the guy's voice.
"Sorry my friend. Your buddy didn't leave a forwarding address."
The stranger looked as if he'd been around the block enough times to understand the underlying meaning beneath Lucien’s deliberately sparse choice of words.
He watched as the guy looked up again into the big blue expanse overhead and banged the back of his head lightly against the wall with a heavy sigh.
Something about the American's resigned, melancholy demeanor spoke to Lucien. He looked beat. Lucien had been that man, and he found himself swinging the door wider.
"You look like you could use a drink."
The guy half laughed, though his eyes were anything but amused as he nodded slowly and peeled his back off the wall.
"Too right, man. This is turning into one hell of a long day."
Lucien headed back into the club, aware of the guy pulling the door shut and following him in. He turned as the stranger’s step slowed beside the jacuzzi.
"Not your usual club," he commented, as he scanned curiously over the opulent spa area they were passing through.
Lucien lifted a shoulder. "Ibiza has enough of those already."
He led the way down into the main area of the club. Behind the bar he reached for two tumblers and a bottle of vodka from a box on the floor, watching the American as he leaned against the bar and surveyed the almost completed club.
"So this place is yours?"
Lucien nodded as he headed around to stand alongside the guy, placing the glasses on the gleaming bar.
"All mine." He was as proud of this place as he was of all of the other clubs in the Gateway group. They sat in silence for a second as he poured generous measures of vodka into both glasses.
"Lucien Knight." He held a glass out.
The American nodded as he accepted the drink, and paused for a beat before he replied.
"Dylan Day." His eyes wandered over the aubergine velvet booths around the dance floor, the secluded spots, the sumptuous chandeliers. "This is some place. It holds what… about seven hundred at capacity?"
Lucien glanced up, surprised at Dylan's accuracy. "For a usual club, around that. This place is less because of the adult entertainment configuration. It tops out at maybe three fifty."
Dylan's eyes opened a fraction wider. "And it's still profitable?"
"Gateway Ibiza is club number ten, so yeah. I'm pretty confident about my business model."
"Number ten, huh?" Dylan laughed lightly. "That's impressive in this business."
"You know it?"
"Not the adult entertainment side of it, no, but I've been around clubs my whole life."
"That's how you know Artie?"
Dylan nodded. "I haven't seen him for a few years, but we used to be pretty close. He taught me how to run clubs."
Lucien regarded the other man as he looked around the club with assessing eyes, wondering if Artie's shady business conduct was one of the things he'd taught Dylan Day. He looked slightly less jaded with a drink in his hand, and from what he'd said so far the guy knew his way around a club. Gut instinct had Lucien asking more questions.
"I'm guessing you didn't come to Ibiza on holiday?"
Dylan took a long, slow slug of his vodka and set the empty glass on the bar.
"You guess right."
For the second time, Lucien sensed deep melancholy, learning more from Dylan's body language than his meagre words.
"When do you open for business? It's looking pretty shipshape."
Lucien noted the American's subject change without comment. "Four weeks."
Dylan looked directly at Lucien. "You hiring?"
"Hired, pretty much." Lucien didn't add that the only position that he was having trouble filling was that of general manager. He'd rather be on site himself for a few weeks than employ the wrong person. He splashed a second measure of vodka into Dylan's glass.
"Figures." Dylan raised his glass in a small salute, a philosophical twist to his lips.
"Is that why you were looking for Artie?"
"He knows I'm good. I don't have a resume, or references, Lucien, but this business is in my blood. I know it inside out."
Lucien didn't doubt it for a second. The way Dylan had sized the place up within moments of being inside the building had impressed him, as had the experienced eye he'd been casting over the bar the entire time they'd been sitting there.
No references, no resume. They were the kind of phrases that rang alarm bells for most people. But Lucien wasn't most people.
"I'm still looking for a manager for this place."
Interest flared in Dylan's eyes. "You won't find anyone better than me."
Formal interviews had never been Lucien's style. He operated on gut instinct, and it had yet to lead him astray.
"So show me. Three months’ trial while I'm still on the island. You do it well, the job’s yours. If you fuck up, I fuck up, and if I fuck up, you'll fucking know about it."
"I won't fuck up."
"Then we understand each other."
Lucien held out his hand, and Dylan shook it with a small smile that widened slowly into a laugh. It had been the shortest, coolest job interview in the world.
"I won't fuck up, man. You have my word."
Dusk had fallen over the bay by the time Dylan arrived back at the boat, and the beach was mostly deserted aside from a couple of dog walkers and a few sun worshippers who'd stayed on to watch the sunset. It seemed as good an idea as any. Dylan stepped into the kitchen to flick on the switch he'd noticed earlier with “deck lights” written on a sticker beside it.
Then, "fuck," he muttered, scrubbing his hand over the three day stubble he'd left to its own devices since he'd quit the States. Even from inside the kitchen he could see that the rails around the boat had just lit up like a Christmas tree, and not one of those tasteful minimalist ones with designer white lights, either.
Stepping cautiously onto the deck, he squinted as he took in the extent of the illuminations. Multi-coloured fairy lights twined all around the chromed rails of both decks, bright winks of pink, lime, turquoise and lemon against the darkening skies.
He should have known better than to expect understated. Nothing about this boat was understated.
Dylan didn't glance back towards the beach, for fear that the sun watchers had changed focus to watch his one man light show instead. He headed up onto the roof deck and opened out one of the low-slung, brightly striped deckchairs stacked up there.
He was just in time to catch the sun before it slipped down below the horizon, a golden peach blaze that cast ethereal shades of pink across the sea.
Watching nature's light show, he could feel his heartbeat slowing to the tranquil pace of the island around him.
He had a new name.
He had a new home.
He had a new job.
Maybe, just maybe, with the right wind behind him, this was going to work out.
