Masters & Lovers Box Set Three

Chapter 36

A day comes and goes.

Another day arrives.

The phone doesn’t ring.

And another day.

What’s happening?

She reaches for the phone, then snatches her hand back.

They’ll call when they’re ready…

But they don’t.

The following morning, she watches the clock: eight am…

Eight-thirty…

Nine o’clock…

Nine-fifteen…

She picks up the phone again, dials out. “Hello, Hofferman and Partners? Is Mr Devlin there, please? It’s Mitch Kimberley.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Kimberley, Mr Devlin is not available….” The voice chokes, breaking into uncontrolled sobs. “He’s been murdered. Gunned down. His little girl is in hospital too.”

Mitch, heart hammering, “Theo. Let me talk to Theo Aldred.”

The sound muffles…

A hand over the speaker?

… then “Mr Aldred is not available.”

The breath catches in her throat. “When will he be free? I’ll call back.”

The muffling returns, but through it, indistinctly, Mitch hears, “No, I’ve a wife and children to consider…”

Then the receptionist’s voice repeats, “Mr Aldred is not available.”

Mitch slams down the receiver.

Stepping backwards, hands clasped to her mouth, she fights for air, then she dashes for the door. White-faced, she sprints to the elevator, bangs on the call button then walks frantic circles until it Bings and the doors slide open.

Down in the lobby, she spins, looking for what is sure to be there…

A newspaper… local…

The headline…

As she reads, she whimpers.

Romani Case outrage…

Prominent lawyer gunned down…

Chief prosecutor Max Devlin is reported as murdered by a gunman or gunmen as yet unidentified in an incident in the grounds of the school attended by his nine-year-old daughter. The daughter herself is

also reported as injured but recovering in hospital. Speculation is rife that the murder is connected with the trial of Marco Romani and his alleged connection with organised crime…

Hands shaking, Mitch folds up the paper, replaces it on the counter. Full-blown panic swells inside her. Her stomach rises. Pushing a fist to her mouth, she sets off at a run for the nearest bathroom, just reaching a cubicle before she loses control.

Retching and heaving over the bowl, she loses her breakfast. Trembling, she flushes, then gags and vomits again. At length, scarlet-faced and sweating, Mitch leans over a basin, splashes cold water over her face, rinses the foul taste from her mouth.

She’s on her own…

***** All rights © NôvelDrama.Org.

James

I poke my head around Richard’s door. “I’m wrapping up for the day. Going for a drink with Michael and Charlotte. Want to join us?”

He slaps a file down on his desk. Whatever he was reading, it drops with a finality that suggests he’s glad of an excuse to see the back of it. “Excellent idea. Mind if I bring Elizabeth along? She’s meeting me here any time now.”

“I was hoping you would bring her. I’d like Charlotte to have a bit of R&R.”

“Good. I’ll get Ross to bring the car around. Meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”

*****

Downstairs, I ease my weight from one foot to the other, my bad leg aching abominably.

Fucking terrible weather…

Will Spring never come?

Outside, thick fog competes with driving rain. Unreasonably the weather achieves both together.

Next to me, Charlotte coughs, then runs a hand up her neck from hollow to chin.

Kirstie looks up. “Would you like a coffee, Mr Alexanders? Charlotte? While you’re waiting? Ross just called to let me know Mrs Haswell is a little delayed.”

Damn!

“Is he? Did he say how delayed?”

“Just ten minutes or so. But long enough for you to sit down and have a drink if you would like one.”

“Then, yes. I will, thank you.”

Kirstie returns only a couple of minutes later with a tray. “Coffee for you Mr Alexanders. Charlotte, I made you lemon tea with honey. Are you getting a cold?”

She draws a palm down her neck again. “Not sure. I’ve had a frog in my throat all morning.”

“Really?” Kirstie passes me a plate of biscuits. “I thought you just had to kiss them, and they turned into princes.” Then her hand rises to her mouth as Charlotte splutters, spraying lemon tea.

Kirstie’s eyes flick to mine, “Oh, God. I didn’t mean…” She’s flushing scarlet. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. I mean…”

I try to screw my ‘severe Dom’ face into position, but inside I’m laughing as hysterically as Charlotte, and Kirstie is not fooled.

*****