The Tides of Change Page 17

  Peaches ran her finger around the rim of her glass. There was a pause. She waited for him to fulfil his promise and leave her alone. But he didn’t move, and Peaches realized that she didn’t mind.

  ‘You want another drink?’ he asked.

  Peaches thought about his offer. Maybe some company would be a good idea. And now she knew he wasn’t on the lookout to get laid, she could relax.

  ‘Another JD, thanks,’ Peaches said.

  ‘I’m Harry,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Harry Rezler.’

  Peaches reached out and shook his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Harry,’ she said.

  ‘So, you here for business too?’ Harry asked her, after ordering drinks.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What kind of business are you in?’

  Peaches smiled to herself. She couldn’t exactly tell him the truth now! And for the first time in ages, she realized that she could be whoever she wanted to be. ‘Retail, mainly,’ she replied. ‘You?’

  ‘Ah, it’s boring,’ he said dismissively as the bartender brought their drinks over.

  Peaches nodded at the TV. ‘So how come you know about the dead guy?’

  ‘Who? Nazin?’ Harry said. ‘I follow all the politics out here. Russian politics are incendiary. War-like. And totally addictive.’

  Peaches laughed.

  ‘Nazin was one of the most corrupt – or should I say corruptible – politicians on the block,’ Harry continued. ‘And believe me, there’re a lot of them about.’

  ‘Oh? Sounds like you’re frustrated?’ Peaches had said it before she’d even meant to. It was an old leading question, the kind designed to get a man to loosen up, designed to imply that Peaches could relieve their frustration, mental or physical. She’d said it automatically and she realized how unintentionally loaded with innuendo her voice was.

  But, to her relief, the guy totally failed to notice, and Peaches made a note to be more careful. She liked him: he was gentle and she didn’t want to scare him off.

  ‘Oh yeah. They’re slippery, these Russians,’ the guy said. ‘In my experience, if they tell you something, it’s never the whole truth.’

  ‘Really?’ Again, Peaches felt the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile.

  ‘You should mark my words. These guys . . . they dream up scams where you wouldn’t imagine they would even think of scamming you. You do any business? They tell you something is true? Then get the proof. That’s my advice.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Peaches said.

  ‘In fact, if you need any advice, you could call me.’ He reached into his pocket and took out a card, sliding it along the bar to Peaches.

  But just as she was reaching for it, her purse slipped off the bar. Harry Rezler darted forward and caught it before it had even hit the floor. As he bent down, Peaches caught a glimpse of a black pistol pouch, the type that Valentin wore.

  But she must have imagined it, she thought, as Harry smiled. She picked up the card and studied it. Harry Rezler. US Embassy.

  ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled. US Embassy. This guy was Government? ‘Just US Embassy?’ she said, noticing the lack of job title. ‘So you own the joint?’

  ‘I’m a consul,’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be the expert on Russian affairs.’

  Something in his voice made Peaches suddenly think of Tommy Liebermann’s warning in the limo. She couldn’t afford anything to go wrong right now. Could there be some way he’d know who she was and why she was in Moscow? Could Harry Rezler have followed her all the way from LA? Had he been stalking her? Had he been waiting for her in the bar tonight?

  He searched out her eyes and smiled at her, and, cautiously, she smiled back. She was just being paranoid, she decided. Harry Rezler looked like a trustworthy-enough guy. If he was here because of her, she’d know it.

  But she still had to be careful. She couldn’t tell Harry too much. It was too risky. He probably knew all about Gorsky and why he was being extradited back to Russia. She’d bet anything that Governor in Merton would be only too happy to talk about Peaches’ visit to the prison. And one phone call from a clearly intelligent guy like Harry to the right department would finish her for ever.

  ‘Hell, let’s not talk about work,’ he said, as if sensing her nervousness.

  ‘OK,’ she agreed.

  She’d give it five more minutes, she decided. She’d finish her drink and then leave to go to bed.

  But somehow Harry never gave her the chance. He was so easy to talk to that one drink led to another. Before long, Peaches found herself sitting in one of the small booths with Harry, having ordered a club sandwich. As they continued drinking, she found herself risking telling him part of the real reason she was in Moscow.

  ‘I found out some stuff recently . . . ’ she said, then took a deep breath. It was so unusual for her to confide in anyone. Even though she knew she wasn’t going to tell him the whole truth, after days by herself, she realized how good it was to have someone to talk to. ‘Basically, I found out that I’m . . . adopted. And that my mother is Russian. I’m here to track her down.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Wow. Big task.’

  Peaches sighed. ‘You can say that again. It’s not as straightforward as I thought it would be. In fact, it’s pretty frustrating. And now I’m here . . .’ She trailed off. No, however much she liked talking to the guy, she had to keep her wits about her.

  ‘What?’ he asked. ‘You got cold feet?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I guess I could help you out, if you wanted. I could pull a few strings and get you access to some databases. And I know some people who are translators.’

  Peaches smiled. ‘No, there’s no need. Thanks anyway. I’m on to it.’

  ‘Personally, I’m not big on family stuff myself,’ Harry said. ‘I was married once, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I guess work came first. And my parents? Hell, they just nag me.’

  Peaches laughed.

  Maybe she should stop being emotional and get logical, she decided. She still didn’t know for sure that Irena Cheripaska was her mother. Peaches wondered again if maybe it was a scam. Perhaps Irena and Gorsky were connected. Perhaps Gorsky had tracked Peaches down so that the two of them could extort money out of her.

  Well, one thing was for sure: Peaches wasn’t leaving Moscow until she’d found out the truth. Even if it meant forcing a DNA test on the old woman.

  Later, Harry accompanied Peaches to her room and they stopped outside in the corridor. Peaches held the plastic key card in her hand.

  ‘Well, goodnight then, Peaches,’ Harry said.

  Peaches smiled, an unfamiliar sensation coming over her. She realized that it was nerves. She glanced up at him. And for a second . . . just a second . . . there was . . . something . . .

  He leant forward and she thought he was going to kiss her on the lips. But at the last moment, he kissed her softly on the cheek.

  Peaches blushed as he pulled away, feeling suddenly shy.

  Harry Rezler was a decent guy. A straight guy. But, Christ, she fancied him.

  She thought now how nice it would be to cuddle up to him. To nuzzle into his neck. Maybe lie side by side holding hands, looking at the shadows on the ceiling. Was that why he was so attractive? Because playing with Harry Rezler was like playing with fire?

  But before she had a chance to say anything that might give away how she was feeling, his cell phone rang, breaking the moment. He turned away. And it was then that she saw his eyes dart up the corridor – a split-second information-gathering glance of a surveillance professional.

  ‘Yep, two minutes,’ he said, ringing off abruptly. ‘Just a work call. Sorry.’

  Peaches knew instinctively when a man was hiding something from her. And she trusted her gut. Now, as she watched Harry Rezler smiling at her, she absolutely knew that he wasn’t everything he claimed to be.

  Why would an embassy employee get a call at four a.m.? Why would he be wearing a piece? Why would a so-called a
cademic expert be so fit? Have such lightning reactions? She thought back over their evening. Had he really explained what he did at the embassy?

  But as he looked down bashfully, she realized she was jumping to stupid conclusions. There was nothing suspicious about Harry Rezler. He was just a normal guy. A normal guy who maybe felt something for her too.

  ‘It was good talking to you,’ she said honestly.

  ‘You too.’ He smiled at her. ‘So, I’ll see you around?’

  ‘Sure.’ She knew that was her cue to make an arrangement, but she didn’t.

  ‘I’m working pretty hard over the next few days, but I’ll keep an eye out for you. Maybe we could have another club sandwich?’

  Peaches nodded. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, bye then. Good luck with your mom.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Peaches let herself into her hotel suite and leant back on the door. Get over it, she told herself. She was being stupid. Harry Rezler was an illusion. There was no point in even entertaining the thought of seeing him again, or taking the relationship further.

  But still, she thought, a weight of sadness coming over her, he was cute in his own way. And decent too. The kind of guy that in another life she might have married, had kids with, settled down.

  Pull yourself together, she told herself. What was she thinking? Had she taken leave of her senses? She could never marry. And she could certainly never marry a guy like Harry. Not once he found out the truth about her.

  No, she should remember her goal. She was going to make a few more million and then get out and retire. Then she might see things differently.

  And one day . . . just maybe . . .

  No. She shook the image of Harry out of her head. Jesus Christ. What was wrong with her? She was Peaches Gold. She couldn’t have romantic feelings. That wasn’t part of the deal.

  Besides, hadn’t she learnt anything? Love sucked. And being in love was for suckers. Which was why she was glad that it would never happen to her. She was safe.

  But she couldn’t even think about her future until she’d sorted out this riddle of her past. And she would. As soon as possible. Then she’d get the hell out of here and back to reality.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Frankie woke up in bed, the sound of the mullah wailing in the distance. The first chink of sunlight crept through the wooden shutters, illuminating the coral and silver tiles of the centuries-old intricate pink mosaic dome above the bed.

  She smiled, not moving, just relishing the feeling of Alex lying naked, spooned up against her back, his hand wrapped over hers.

  She remembered now, with amazement, their conversation in the gym on Pushkin, when she’d told him that she’d never been in love properly. It seemed as if that had happened years ago. But what she’d said then felt more true than ever. Because now she did know what it felt like to be in love properly.

  Because this was it.

  And she ached to tell him. Ached to blurt out that she loved him. That it was crazy, but she just knew.

  She couldn’t, though. Not yet. She couldn’t risk putting him off or scaring him away.

  But lying here in his arms, she wouldn’t mind betting that Alex felt the same way. He must do. This couldn’t be one-sided, could it? This amazing connection they had?

  But she couldn’t be sure. To anyone else it might seem that she hardly knew Alex, that they’d spent only a few days together, and it was impossible to make such sweeping statements, but Frankie felt as if she’d known him all her life.

  She squeezed his hand. She’d never imagined that she’d ever get swept up like this, leave one life behind and find a new one, with a new person – just like that. Because she knew that her life would never be the same. She could never go back. Alex was her future. She knew it in her soul, as surely as she knew that she would do everything in her power never to be apart from him.

  Alex stirred, and she smiled, feeling him growing against her. It was as if their bodies were incapable of being separated.

  ‘Come here,’ he said sleepily, and she wriggled back so that his hardness slid against her. And once again they were making love.

  Later, they both wrapped up in sarongs and went to the kitchen. Frankie revelled in the compatible silence between them. As they both prepared breakfast, Alex busying himself with the coffee machine whilst she chopped plump, ripe peaches and apricots, they kept catching each other’s eyes and smiling. As if they were still in bed. Still connected.

  They ate on the terrace and afterwards they both swam naked in the beautiful freshwater pool, floating side by side on their backs, their faces turned up towards the warm sun.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ Frankie asked as he drew her towards the steps and she slid her naked body against his. With the sunlight glinting through the palm trees overhead, and only the sounds of the birds and the parrots in the lush foliage, she felt as if they were Adam and Eve.

  ‘You,’ Alex said, smiling. ‘You’re my plan.’

  She loved his smile, the way it made his eyes crinkle. She smiled back at him. ‘Good.’

  He kissed her then. Deeply, hungrily, his tongue found hers and they pressed together in the water. She giggled, pushing him away. ‘Enough already, you’re insatiable.’

  ‘Oh, I’m the one that’s insatiable now?’ he teased. ‘You were the one that jumped me.’

  Frankie gasped. He’d teased her constantly about how quickly they’d slept together, knowing that she was worried about what he thought of her. But she knew that he’d been as powerless to stop their passion as she’d been. And now, thankfully, it didn’t matter. Now it was part of their shared history. Something to laugh about.

  Alex leant back on the steps and put his hands behind his head. Frankie rested her chin on his chest.

  ‘Actually, I thought I’d take you to see Sylvie,’ he said. ‘And then I thought I’d take you to lunch. A picnic in the desert. The full works.’

  It sounded amazing, but still Frankie felt a stab of disappointment.

  ‘Who’s Sylvie?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s a friend. She used to be married to the French ambassador but now she owns most of the best hotels here. You’ll like her.’

  ‘Will I?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure you will. Trust me, OK?’

  But Frankie felt her nerves mounting as they got ready to leave. Alex slung on a pair of navy linen trousers and a short-sleeved shirt and went off to make a phone call, whilst Frankie panicked about what to wear. Her tatty sundresses seemed far too shabby to meet this Sylvie: they looked terrible. She finally settled on her cut-off jeans, which showed her legs at their best, and a baggy white shirt with a chunky necklace, but, still unsure, was about to change again when she heard a beep outside and Alex calling her.

  In the courtyard, Tariq had arrived with the jeep and was putting the back down. Alex sat with his arm around Frankie as they drove right through the baking city, the breeze fanning them and making Frankie’s hair fly in all directions. Soon they were out into the suburbs, and before much longer, they were winding through lush palm groves. Then Alex patted Tariq on the shoulder and he turned off the road, up towards the exclusive hotel.

  It was incredible. It looked more like a fairytale palace than a hotel, Frankie thought, with its high sandstone walls topped by golden domes.

  ‘Wow!’ she exclaimed as she jumped out of the jeep and breathed in the warm, dusty air, marvelling at the sumptuous grounds and the outlines of the coconut trees against the smoky blue of the Atlas Mountains in the distance. She was glad now that they’d come.

  ‘I think I might buy this place. As an investment,’ Alex said nonchalantly. ‘Sylvie’s putting it up for sale. She’s giving me first refusal. What do you think?’

  Frankie felt absurdly flattered that he’d asked her opinion and amazed, too, that he was including her. She was suddenly awed by his wealth – not that it was ever really out of her mind, since she’d been surrounded by the trappings of it since she’d
arrived.

  She would have to get used to this kind of world, she thought, and quickly. The kind of world where Alex could buy anything he wanted.

  ‘On first impressions, I think you should,’ she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. ‘But I’d like to see more.’

  Alex nodded, and she wondered whether she’d passed some kind of test.

  Inside, Alex held her hand as they were met by a beautiful concierge in a white Nehru jacket, who led them through the stunning reception area, with its giant marble pillars and exotic plants falling into a clear blue water pool, in which pink flowers floated. The warm air was filled with the scent of jasmine. Hibiscus tumbled down a sandstone wall.

  Ahead, the marble pillars gave way to another area, more colonial, with a giant wall of wooden bookcases. Frankie saw a woman standing up from some low seating behind the grand piano and wave to them. She was in her fifties and had the friendliest smile Frankie had ever seen. Her dark, exotic skin and large brown eyes were only made more beautiful by the fine lines around them. She was wearing a stunning lime-green silk caftan and expensive-looking gold jewellery.

  She flung her arms around Alex, as if he were her long-lost son.

  ‘You must be Frankie,’ the woman said in her low French accent, kissing Frankie warmly on both cheeks. She smelt of musky perfume. ‘I’m Sylvie Dumas,’ she went on. ‘I’ve been longing to meet you. I’ve heard all about you.’

  Alex winked at Frankie, and she wondered what he’d been saying.

  Just then, Alex’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. ‘I’ve got to take this. Sorry. I’ll be with you in a moment,’ he said, turning away.

  Frankie watched as Alex walked over to the other side of the pool, into the gardens, talking into the phone. He looked so commanding.

  Was he really hers? She wanted to pinch herself.

  Sylvie led her over to a dark mahogany bench beneath a marble arch, where long silk curtains framed the view of the lush gardens. Frankie saw that a low mosaic-topped table had been laid for tea, with a silver plate full of sticky-looking sugared sweets and pastries.