The Italian Seduction. Mary Lyons
muttered unhappily. ‘But I can’t seem to bring myself to harm the car, somehow.’
‘OK…’ Antonia sighed. ‘I know it’s hard to break the habits of a lifetime. But if it’s a case of worrying about your vehicle, or saving the life of your passenger—there’s really no choice, is there? So, let’s try it again, shall we?’
Harold sighed heavily. He was clearly hating every minute of the course, designed to teach chauffeurs of rich and influential businessmen how to escape from tricky situations.
‘That was much better! You’re really getting the hang of it,’ Antonia told him encouragingly some minutes later as the large vehicle juddered abruptly to a halt at the sight of a car, suddenly blocking its path, before racing backwards down the tarmac at a rate of knots.
‘Now, I’m going to let you continue on your own,’ she added, unbuckling her seat belt. ‘I want you to keep going around the circuit until you can instinctively react to a problem, without having to stop and think what to do. And then one of my assistants will give you some practice in controlling a skid on roads which have been deliberately sprayed with oil. OK?’
He nodded, looking far more cheerful than he had earlier as she got out of the car, and began walking over the long grass towards a large, decrepit building on the far side of the old East Anglign airfield—an ancient relic of World War II.
When the sun was shining, England in June was just about perfect, Antonia told herself, taking off her crash helmet and shaking free her shoulder-length blonde hair. However, just as she was relishing both the smell of new-mown hay from a nearby field and the chirping of birds, wheeling and diving in the sky, far above her head, she was recalled to more mundane matters by the imperative buzz of her mobile phone.
Recognising the number on the back-lit display as that of James Riley, an old colleague who was now running a top security agency, Antonia took a deep breath before answering his call. James could be very persuasive, but there was no way she was going to allow him to cajole or sweet-talk her into taking on another of his rotten jobs.
‘I’m definitely not interested in guarding any more Arab princesses,’ she announced grimly, before he had a chance to say anything. ‘Your last client was a totally manic shopaholic! In fact, if I never have to visit Knightsbridge or Bond Street again, as long as I live, that’s just fine by me!’
‘Hang about, Tony!’ he protested. ‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘Oh, yeah? Well, just as long as you’ve got the message,’ she told him firmly. ‘Besides, I’m running my own business these days. And I’ve got more work than I know what to do with. So…’
‘Hey—relax. You’re quite right,’ he murmured soothingly. ‘I’ll admit that I shouldn’t have lumbered you with that job. It was just a mistake, OK? Definitely not right for someone of your experience and expertise. After all, you’re one of the best in the business. Right?’
‘Uh-oh…this is beginning to sound like some of your usual, lousy soft-soap, James!’ she retorted warily. ‘When you start paying compliments, I just know that you’ve got a dirty job lined up for me. So, what is it this time? Going undercover to track down industrial espionage in a smelly chemical factory? Or tailing a suspect in a particularly nasty and brutal drug syndicate? Come on—spill the beans!’
‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ he told her in an aggrieved tone of voice. ‘In fact, what I’m offering you is a really cushy, very simple job. Merely looking after a high-profile client, in a London hotel, for about ten days. Absolutely nothing to it. As easy as falling off a log,’ he added quickly. ‘And the fee you’ll be getting is pretty spectacular, as well.’
‘So—what’s the catch?’ she demanded.
‘There isn’t one,’ he assured her earnestly. ‘Believe me—it’s a doddle.’
‘Hmm!’ she murmured suspiciously. ‘The thing is, James, I can’t help wondering—if it’s really going to be as easy as you say—why you’ve bothered to contact me?’
‘Well…the truth is…’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘You’re right. I did have Pete Davis lined up for the job. But the stupid man fell asleep at the wheel when driving home last night. And now he’s in hospital with all his limbs in plaster.’
‘So…?’
‘So I can’t get hold of anyone else who’d be suitable for the job, at such short notice,’ James admitted bluntly. ‘The client isn’t the man you’d be guarding. It’s his insurance company. He isn’t taking the threats against his life seriously, but they are. Right? So, if the guy is to have close protection—apparently he’s Italian, and not at all keen on the idea of a bodyguard—it has to be someone who’s able to merge into his very up-market, social scene, and not stand out like a sore thumb. Which is where you come in. Because, from our enquiries so far, it seems that he’s a bit of a womaniser.’
‘Gee—thanks!’
‘Nothing you can’t handle,’ James told her quickly. ‘Just partial to the ladies…lots of glamorous girlfriends…you know the sort of thing.’
‘Yes, unfortunately, I do,’ she retorted grimly. ‘OK, let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s the fee for the job?’
When James mentioned a sum she gave a hoot of grim laughter. ‘Forget it!’
‘Oh, come on, Tony. Don’t give me a bad time.’
‘What “bad time”? I’m the one who’s going to have the hassle of dealing with a guy who, according to you, is “partial to the ladies”. Which, if my past experience is anything to go by, means nothing but trouble. So, if you want me, you’ll have to double that figure, make all the initial arrangements, and provide a specialist team for round-the-clock-surveillance—or I’m simply not interested.’
‘You’re a hard woman!’ he groaned, before eventually and most reluctantly agreeing to her terms.
Lorenzo gave a sigh of relief as he gazed around his spacious hotel suite. After so many intensive, if stimulating business meetings in Zurich and Bonn, he was now looking forward to spending a more relaxing time in London.
Feeling hot and sticky, he slipped off the jacket of his dark suit, loosening his tie and stretching his long rangy body as he decided that, before having a shower, what he really needed was a stiff drink.
Even when travelling first-class, air travel these days was becoming increasingly tedious. It was ridiculous to be forced to spend so many long, boring hours in various terminals—especially when the flights themselves took hardly any time at all. With his company’s business expanding so fast nowadays, maybe it was about time he acquired a private jet?
Luckily, he had only one meeting scheduled here in London, with a large private merchant bank, mainly concerning the funding of a new factory in the north of England. Which meant that he would have plenty of time to see his friends, and also visit his young niece, currently attending a language school in Cambridge.
But first of all, he reminded himself grimly, he was going to have to sort out this stupid business of being forced to put up with a bodyguard.
In regular touch with his office in Milan, he’d been informed by his secretary that the insurance company seemed to have pulled out all the stops. Not only had they appointed someone from a top security agency to look after him here in England, but they’d apparently sent his office a fax, demanding exhaustive details of his personal life.
Admittedly, some of the requests—a photocopy of his passport; his blood group; his height and weight and the name and address of his doctor in Milan—could possibly be regarded as sensible. Especially if he was likely to be in any danger—which, of course, he wasn’t.
However, he deeply resented some of the other questions, such as: ‘Does he have any aliases?’ and ‘Is he on a known hit list? Or affiliated with any political group?’
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