Red Alert

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

I’D DIED AND gone to hell. Okay, maybe hell was a bit of an exaggeration, but I’d landed in limbo at least. Where else would a small man in a sparkly red waistcoat with devil horns perched on top of his afro be playing ping pong across his desk? Each horn had a butterfly perched on the end, and two more were clipped to his lapels.

I hesitated in the doorway, about to back away when a ball flew past, missing my ear by a whisper.

The ball was swiftly followed by a paddle, and by some miracle, I caught it.

“Come on, join in!” the man shouted. “Myrna needs all the help she can get.”

The blonde’s pigtails smacked her in the face as she whipped her head around to look at me, her expression half surprise, half grimace.

The man—Ishmael, my new boss—snapped his fingers. “Myrna! Concentrate.”

She frantically tried to return his shots as I stepped forward, fast regretting my choice of footwear. What with my new job being in fashion and all, I’d worn four-inch LK Bennetts and a Calvin Klein pencil skirt, neither of which lent themselves to exercise. I glanced enviously at Myrna’s ballet flats. If only—

The ping pong ball zipped in my direction, and I shielded my face with the bat. Pop. The ball bounced off it and landed in a glass of water.

Nice one, Tia.

Ishmael didn’t miss a beat. He simply fished a spare ball out of his desk drawer and whacked it straight at me. At least this time I managed to hit it back in his direction. All those tennis lessons Mother insisted I take as a kid had paid off at last.

“Move faster,” Myrna muttered under her breath.

After a minute or two, I kicked off my heels, which at least saved me from breaking an ankle. Ishmael bounced around like a monkey on speed, and at one point, he had a paddle in each hand and three balls in play while I puffed worse than an out-of-shape nicotine addict.

Then a cuckoo popped out of a clock on the wall, and Ishmael stopped mid-stride.

“Half past eight,” he announced. “Time to start the day.”

My stay of execution had ended.

He walked towards me, hand extended and fingers down. Was I supposed to shake it or kiss it?

“Don’t worry. I won’t bite,” he said. “Not at work, anyway. My lawyers tell me off.”

I gripped his hand and shook, and despite his exertions, I was the one sweating.

“Hi.” One word and my voice still managed to tremble.

“So, you’re Tia?”

“That’s right.”

“Bradley said you’d be coming today. And not a moment too soon, I must add. Since J’Nae left, I haven’t had anyone to throw things at.”

I swayed a little as the blood drained out of my face, but he just laughed. What the hell had Bradley got me into?

“Well, I need my power nap,” Ishmael said, dropping his paddles onto the desk. “Myrna will find you something to do.”

He flounced off, leaving me with Miss Pigtails, who peered at me over her glasses. Nice to meet you too, lady.

“Take a seat,” she said, motioning at the pristine white leather sofa behind us.

I sank back, sucking in a ragged breath now Ishmael had disappeared and I didn’t need to pretend to be fitter than a potato. Hell, I was so out of shape Internet Explorer could run faster than me.

Was it too late to go home?

My chest seized the instant I had that thought, because where was home now? Not England where I’d spent my childhood or Virginia where I’d been so happy until recently. The rather vague employment contract the receptionist downstairs had made me fill out said I lived in Tribeca, but that was just where I ate and slept.

Home isn’t a place; it’s the people in it, my sort-of-sister, Emmy, always used to tell me. Which meant I was homeless, because the man I’d once shared my life with was gone.

Remember, remember the fifth of November,

Gunpowder, treason and plot.

We see no reason

Why gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot!

My descent into Satan’s playground officially began on the fifth of November last year, with the gunpowder, the treason, and the plot, even if I wasn’t there to see the fireworks.

And I’d certainly never forget the aftermath.

First came fury. I’d lashed out at everyone close to me with jagged words and clenched fists, but that initial burst of fire was soon followed by a crippling numbness. I didn’t get out of bed for a week.

Then came the funeral, swiftly followed by the guilt. Guilt that my last words to Ryan had been angry ones. Guilt that I hadn’t given him the support he needed and deserved. And as time passed, guilt when I stopped thinking of him every minute of every hour of every day.

And what drowned out the guilt? That’s right—alcohol.

In only a month, I’d been arrested five times for drunk and disorderly. A record, possibly, but not one I was particularly proud of breaking.

Before the fifth of November, my brother would have yelled long and loud at me for that behaviour, but after Ryan died? Luke spoke quiet, measured words through gritted teeth, his eyes filled with pity. That was the worst part. The pity.

I went through the motions at Christmas and slunk away before the ball dropped on New Year’s Eve. Every smile drove nails through my heart, and to me, my friends’ laughter sounded like the clank, clank, clank of chains tightening around my chest.

I didn’t want to be at the Riverley estate that night, but I was too tipsy to drive back to the apartment Luke shared with his wife, Mack.

“Aren’t you staying up to see in the new year?” my best friend, Lottie, asked as she passed me in the hallway, glass in hand.

“I don’t feel like celebrating.”

She pulled me into a drunken hug. “Aw, I’m so sorry. You want me to come sit with you?”

And miss out on the party? She’d dealt with her own nightmare over the past few years, and she deserved to have some fun, not to mention a midnight kiss with her new boyfriend, Nigel.

“I’ll be fine. I’m just gonna go to bed.”

“As long as you’re sure?”

Stop with the pity. I knew she meant well, but I just wanted to be treated like a normal person rather than Tia-whose-boyfriend-died, or I’d never be able to get on with my life.

“I’m sure.”

My old room in Little Riverley felt icy tonight. It was the first time I’d slept in there since Ryan died, and in truth, I’d been avoiding it because we’d shared the bed whenever he stayed in Virginia with me. Luke hadn’t been at all happy about that idea to start with, but Emmy had convinced him that I was a grown-up and should be treated like one, even if I still felt ten years old half of the time.

Little reminders of Ryan lay everywhere inside. His comb on the dressing table, his jumper tossed over the back of a chair, a pair of shoes underneath. When I flopped down onto the bed, the pillow still smelled of him, just a little. I hugged it to me, crying into its softness.

And something crinkled.

I rummaged around in the pillowcase and found an envelope, one that made my tears fall harder.

Tia

(Open if I don’t come back)

I traced Ryan’s untidy scrawl with one finger, and the ink smudged as it dampened. Dammit. I grabbed a tissue and wiped my eyes, unsure whether I truly wanted to read his letter but knowing that I had to.

One page. His final words didn’t amount to much, and I wondered if it hurt him as much to write them as it hurt me to read them.

Tia,

If you’re reading this letter, it means I didn’t make it back. I f****d up, and babe, I’m so sorry for that.

The Russian trip was always going to be a challenge, and I know you didn’t want me to go. Kind of wish I’d listened to you now. But I died doing what I loved, and my only regret is hurting you in the process. You told me once that if I kept going with the special ops team, I’d have to decide between you or work, and I hung onto you as long as I could because I was a selfish bastard. The job was in my blood. Hard to explain, but the more operations I went on, the more addictive it got. The thrill of it, I guess.

But now we’re both free, and I don’t want you to waste your life. Travel the world and spend a month on the beach. Move to New York and take that painting course you always wanted to do. Meet a man who puts you first every time.

Just promise you won’t spend too much time thinking of the one who let you down.

I love you, always,

Ryan

I wanted to read those words a hundred times and I wanted to rip his letter to shreds. I wanted to sit in a corner and rock and I wanted to scream and throw things. Why? Why? Why had that damn job been so important to him? If he’d turned it down, we could have had a future and as much as I loved Ryan, I hated him too. The ball of grief that had been sitting in my stomach swelled and enveloped me, first with agony, then with an empty nothingness as I stumbled out of the room and into the library.

Emmy’s husband kept his Scotch hidden inside an antique globe, and even though I didn’t like whisky, I flipped the top back and grabbed the bottle. Who needed a glass? The amber liquid seared my throat, cutting through my deadened senses and burning all the way to my stomach. I relished the pain.

Another mouthful, then another, until half the bottle was gone and I couldn’t see straight. I barely noticed when my knees hit the floor, the bottle slipping from my hand and spilling what was left of its contents over the Persian rug.

Then nothing. The blessed darkness came.