“Then your father was a brave man.”
“He’s why I decided to go into the FBI. People like those two men are monsters, predators. They destroy the weak, the innocent. People like my dad are all that stand between the public and the predators. They’re the real heroes. They put their lives on the line every day helping others.”
Storm raised his glass and said, “A toast to your dad.” She could tell he was serious, so she joined him.
They ordered another round.
“What about your father?” she asked.
“Actually, this might surprise you,” Storm said. “In fact, I know it will. Are you ready?”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“My father is a retired FBI agent.”
“Oh my god!” she exclaimed.
The pub’s owner appeared at their table with two shot glasses and a bottle of whisky. “You two are Yanks, aren’t ya?” he asked in a booming voice that echoed throughout the pub.
Storm nodded and the owner said, “We got a bit of a tradition here. You Yanks are always on the telly with your fingers pointed up at the sky screaming you’re lungs out about how your number one — when you don’t even know what real football is. So when we get a good-looking Yank couple like you in my fine establishment, I feel obligated to give you a taste of real English whisky, not that horse piss they serve in the New Country.” He laughed loudly and so did the pub regulars.
“Now,” the pub owner said, “this here is a bottle of whisky distilled in England to commemorate the royal wedding of Prince William and Catherine, and we’d be much obliged if you joined us in a toast to the royal couple and would take great umbrage if the two of you refuse.”
He slammed down the two shot glasses and filled both to the brim. He filled one for himself, too, and hoisted it in the air.
“Will you drink to them with me?” he asked, good-naturedly.
“It’s the least we can do,” Storm said, “given that you lost a war to us.”
The pub owner faked an angry look and announced: “To Prince William and the lovely Catherine, his bride!”
Storm downed it, but Showers hadn’t lifted her glass.
“What’s this?” the pub owner declared.
“C’mon,” Storm said, encouraging her.
She reached for the shot glass and, much to his surprise, downed it easily.
Everyone applauded.
“It would be impolite for me, as host, to let you leave my establishment without also raising a glass to your lovely lady here,” the pub owner said, glancing at Showers. He refilled the shot glasses and quickly lifted them. “To the beautiful young, red-haired maiden sitting here who has to have a bit of Irish in her — judging from her green eyes and fair skin.”
Showers smiled, and the three of them downed the shots as the other pub patrons continued to look on.
“And now,” the pub owner said, “I’m going to leave you alone with a final word.” He broke into a huge grin and said, “Them shots of whisky is five pounds a piece, so I’m adding an additional thirty pounds to your bill. Welcome to London, you Yanks!”
The crowd erupted into laughter and clapping as the pub owner bowed and walked back to the bar, where he declared that it was time for karaoke. A thin man from the bar immediately leaped onto a small platform in the pub’s corner, turned on a portable karaoke machine, and began mangling, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”
By the time Storm and Showers left the pub three hours later, they had consumed more shots of whisky sent over by friendly bar patrons in admiration of various British royalty and American presidents. At one point, Showers had seized control of the karaoke microphone and belted out a surprisingly good version of Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” that left the crowd clamoring for more.
As they made their way to the Marriott, they locked arms to support each other.
“I didn’t know you were a Lady Gaga fan,” he said admiringly.
“Some of her lyrics are poetic,” she replied. “Have you ever even heard one of her songs?”
“What sort of music do you think I listen to?” he asked.
“That’s easy,” she said. “Country Western.”
Storm replied, “It’s not that I’m dishonest, I loathe reality.” It was from one of Lady Gaga’s videos.
A stunned Showers began clapping.
Storm raised a finger to his closed lips. “Let’s keep this our secret.”
When they reached the Marriott, she said, “So where is your hiding place?”
“Are you asking me if you can come up to my room for a nightcap?” he said hopefully.
“Maybe,” she replied. “Or maybe I’m just interested in where a spy goes to hide out.”
“I’m not a spy, remember? I’m a private detective.”
“Is that true? Is anything that you’ve told me tonight true?”
Before he could reply, she put her finger against his lips and said, “Just take me to where you’re staying.”
When they reached his room, she collapsed onto the double bed. He shut the door and tossed the room’s key onto the nightstand. She waved him over. He sat on the bed’s edge.
“I do find you reasonably attractive,” she said. She reached over and ran a finger over his hand.
He’d bedded many women. All had been easy conquests. He couldn’t remember most of their faces. The only one who had mattered had been Clara Strike. She had been more than a one-night stand. And she had broken his heart. How did he feel about April Showers? Did he want another broken heart? Where could this lead? When he had finished his job and found the traitor, he would be going back to a life of anonymity.
She leaned up and kissed him on the lips. He kissed her back, hard and passionately. He followed that kiss with another and felt the heat that always surfaces when a man and woman anticipate making love for the first time. The sheer joy of discovering a new body. Exploring each inch of flesh. To touch and to be touched.
“If we are going to do this,” she whispered seductively, “I need you to do me a favor. I saw a coffeepot downstairs. I want you to go get me a cup of coffee.”
“You want a cup of coffee?”
“Actually,” she said, “it’s an excuse. A polite way to get you out of the room because I’ve got to pee and I’d rather do that in private. It’s a woman thing.”
He rose and started for the door.
She sprang up, and as he stepped out of the room, she slapped him hard on his butt and laughed.
The moment he was in the hallway, she shut the door, locking it behind him. He realized that he’d left the key on the nightstand.
He gently rapped on the door and said in a quiet voice, “I can just go down and wake up the owner. She’ll let me back in my room.”
“Do you really want to disturb her at this hour?” Showers replied from behind the door.
He’d thought she was drunker than she obviously was. She’d outfoxed him.
She said, “Think of the scandal! A woman in your room. A woman who has been drinking. Who knows what I might say? It might even make the BBC since I’m so famous. What did you tell them? The queen was going to invite me over?”
With his training, it would take less than a minute for him to force open the door. But he didn’t want to force himself on her.
“You should sleep at the Marriott,” she whispered. “You can use my room if you want. Just be careful, they might have installed secret cameras as well as hidden microphones. You’re naked butt could end up on some Internet site. Good night!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
omeone knocked on her door. She heard Storm ask: “Are you awake? I brought breakfast.”
She slipped on a terry-cloth robe and let him inside.
“I got this from downstairs,” he said. “It’s an English breakfast. I’ve got scrambled eggs, sausage, black pudding, baked beans, and a slice of tomato.” He waved the tray under her face.