LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      ‘Yes, Shamus, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s still my house and I’m not worried. In fact, I’ll feel right at home there.’

      Dragging herself away from the soft duvet, she got to her feet and crept to the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror was a stark reminder that she was ageing fast, her hair lank and her eyes puffy. Her mind went back to the vision of Jennifer in that fitted red skirt and legs up to her armpits and then that fleeting moment with Eric. Taking a deep breath, she decided she wasn’t going to cry again. The thought of jacking it all in was instantly pushed from her mind. She wasn’t going to let her father down or Neil for that matter. Suddenly gripped by a gut-wrenching feeling, she hurried back to her room and the empty bed. Where was Mike, and, more to the point, who was Mike with?

      Hesitantly, Zara crept down the stairs, not wanting to wake anyone up. As she reached the door to the lounge, she held her breath, afraid of what she might see. She sighed and shook her head. ‘Pull yourself together. This is ridiculous, Zara,’ she muttered to herself.

      Yet when she pushed open the door, she gasped and shook from head to toe. Her eyes couldn’t look away, too intent on absorbing the sight. A scream wanted to leave her mouth, but she fought to hold it back. There, on one sofa, was Mike, wearing nothing but his trousers. On another sofa was Jennifer, with her skintight skirt up over her arse and just her thong showing. Her hair was a mess, and her lipstick was smeared across her face.

      Zara’s world had just caved in but her instincts hours before had been proved correct. All her hopes and dreams were pouring bit by bit into a vast sinkhole. Their relationship was over before it had even begun. Mike’s proposal must have been an irrational spur-of-the-moment promise – now just a throwaway comment. As if losing her hand wasn’t bad enough, losing her man was worse. Feeling like a peeping Tom, she scurried away back to her room. After throwing a few things into a bag, she left, quietly closing the door behind her. Once she was on the street, she pulled out her smartphone from her bag and used the Uber app to call for a taxi to take her home.

      The drive back to the sizeable gloomy house was spent with her teeth chattering in shock, her one true love having dismissed her at the sight of a pretty woman. Perhaps she’d never really known Mike at all. It was apparent he didn’t feel the same way about her. All she wanted was to be in his arms and make up for all the time apart; and yet it was clear he was happy to flirt and obviously sleep with a tart right under her fucking nose.

      The driver put the radio on and out blared ‘Happy’ by Pharrell Williams.

      What? Is this a joke? ‘Turn that fucking shit off, please, and if I want music while I’m paying for my ride, then I’ll fucking ask for it.’

      The driver was taken aback by the steely tone of the frail-looking woman’s voice. Instantly, he turned the music off. ‘I’m sorry, love. It was just force of habit.’

      Zara didn’t respond. Instead, she stared gloomily out of the window and planned her future.

      Her angry mood stayed with her as she stepped out of the car. She waited until the driver was out of sight before she pulled the keys from her bag. She paused and looked up at the vast, almost devilish-looking mansion. The paint on the woodwork was peeling, the gardens – once stunning – were overgrown, and the windows certainly needed a good clean. Izzy would be turning in his grave. He had loved this house – it had been his pride and joy – and he’d had it designed to his demanding specification.

      She felt that a new chapter was about to begin in her life. Once she pushed the big oak door open, she gingerly entered the hall. Inside, it was filled with antiques, which were not her choice. The red drapes always made her feel like she was living in some historic time warp, the Tudor era. Yet everything was to Izzy’s taste. Assuming she would feel afraid, even just a little nervous, she was pleasantly surprised that although the house was tired and dusty, she felt at home. Perhaps it was the memories of how her father held her in such high esteem. Engaging her in all aspects of the business, he had gently and expertly prepared her for the takeover.

      Closing the door behind her, she walked towards the back of the house, to the door that led down to the basement, where she’d been held a captive for five years. She had to brave it out and revisit her prison; yet, this time there were no captors, there was no sly, sneaky brother tormenting her, or the evil eyes of the Segals watching her as she pretended to be a brain-damaged, broken woman.

      Surprisingly, as she faced the barred metal door, she felt herself free at last of the mental shackles. Still holding her bag, she peered inside and looked at the boxes of antidepressants and knew that in order to take control of her life she needed to ditch them.

      Once she’d stared for a while at what was her home for so long, she turned and marched back up the stairs and into her father’s office. She sighed heavily and plonked her bag on the desk. Guy Segal and his son Benjamin, with the help of Ismail, would have looked for every fucking file, trying to get their hands on her businesses. But they obviously didn’t know her father that well. For although Ismail had been surreptitiously nosing into their father’s affairs, there were still some things he’d never been able to understand, like the offshore accounts, the details of which were carefully concealed in several flash drives hidden under a floorboard. She pulled away the rug and removed the board, and there, to her delight and relief, were all the devices. Bingo! Now she could have the computer up and running and get back on track. As she lowered herself onto her dad’s high-backed mahogany chair, she felt an overwhelming sense of power. She may only have one hand, but it was her brain that was really her best asset.

      By eight o’clock that morning, she was up and running. The accounts, all showing vast amounts of money, were feeding her confidence. She would take back her businesses, and she would hold her head up and become the woman she once was, even if Mikey wasn’t by her side.

      Bang on nine o’clock, there was a heavy knocking at the front door. She glanced at the monitor to see who was there, but it was a blank screen. The CCTV cameras were either disarmed or Ismail had really let the beautiful house go to rack and ruin. She rose from her chair and headed along the parquet floor to the entrance. ‘Who is it?’ she called out, relieved to hear Shamus reply.

      He hadn’t changed much, still very muscular and with wide piercing blue eyes like his cousin Neil.

      However, Shamus was shocked to see how thin, gaunt, and sickly Zara appeared. It was such a vast contrast to when they’d last worked together.

      She looked over his shoulder. ‘Did you come alone, Shamus?’

      He nodded and stepped inside. ‘There’s only me in London. Davey’s at St Thomas’ Hospital with Neil, and the men are back in Ireland.’

      She ushered him in and closed the door.

      ‘So, start from the beginning. What’s going on?’

      He followed her into the office and gazed around. It was as though he’d walked into a vampire movie set, with the tall brass candlesticks and heavy curtains, along with the oversized gilt-edged paintings. The layer of dust everywhere added to the ambience. ‘Er . . . I think you need to get a cleaner in.’

      She smiled. ‘Or hire it out for Halloween, perhaps?’

      Shamus nervously chuckled, yet he still felt spooked. Then his eyes fell to her scarred wrist. Eerie thoughts whirled through his head all at once. The story of her having her hand cut off and then being kept a prisoner down in the basement of this creepy mansion plagued his mind.

      That was until she said, ‘Right, as I said, start from the beginning. Ignore the décor. Get your mind back on the issues at hand.’

      Shamus felt his face flush and wondered if she was telepathic. Her frail state belied who she really was, and Shamus wasn’t deluded by any means. Behind those hypnotic eyes was the Iron Lady of Gangland Britain. Even her voice had an edge that commanded attention.

      ‘In the last six months, the cocaine leaving the restaurants has dropped by fifty per cent. The Colombians have upped their price because we aren’t selling enough. The city slickers are

Скачать книгу