Sweet Revenge Read online

  Aware of a tingling sensation on her skin, she shifted position. She couldn’t be reacting to him; it wasn’t possible. She tried for a more objective view.

  There was nothing disheveled about the man. He wore a red jersey with the three upper buttons undone and the sleeves pushed up. His black jeans were faded but untorn, and his boots spoke both of good workmanship and hard wear.

  Yet she knew it was the Rag Man’s face that had truly captivated her, his intense blue-green eyes, his prominent cheekbones, his well-shaped mouth, the rough stubble on his chin and upper lip and his strong nose. But even more than his arresting features, she noted the scar, a livid slash that started just above his right brow and ran along the curve of his cheekbone almost to his ear.

  Pressing a hand to her fluttering stomach, she forced herself not to stare. How on earth, she wondered, fighting an odd spate of breathlessness, had he managed to avoid losing his eye?

  He continued to descend, his gaze steady and so penetrating that she felt as though he were touching her physically. A light shiver chased itself across her heated skin. No one spoke, not the Rag Man, not Keiran or Oswyn, not any of the ten or more men and women now lounging about.

  “Why have you come here, Ms. Summers?” Torbel broke the silence to inquire.

  Before he reached the bottom of the stairs, he walked out onto a stack of wooden crates and, crouching, appraised her far more thoroughly than Oswyn had done.

  His wrists were beautiful, she noted, but they wouldn’t look amiss with shackles around them. She wondered distantly how his fingers would look curled around her own wrists…

  Collecting her composure, Victoria replied firmly, “If you’re Torbel, I want to talk to you.”

  One dark brow went up. “You don’t recognize me?”

  “Not your face. But I knew your name when I heard it.” Meeting his stare with difficulty, she added a forthright “I worked under Lord Hobday on the Robbie Hollyburn murder trial. I realize that you might resent me—”

  “I don’t resent people, Ms. Summers. Why have you come here?”

  Obviously privacy was out of the question. Just as obviously Torbel understood that she could be mulish when she wanted to be, although it was no easy feat when her mind kept conjuring up images of him moving in on her like the predator he undoubtedly was.

  A full thirty seconds passed before he made a subtle gesture with his head. As if by magic, the unsavory group of observers, presumably people who worked for him in one capacity or another, dissolved into the shadows.

  He regarded her across the large room. “Unless you want to shout and defeat your own purpose, you might try coming a little closer.”

  With a trace of dry humor, Keiran murmured, “He only bites people his own size and sex. You’ll be safe enough.”

  Victoria had serious doubts on that score, but she approached the Rag Man anyway. Not surprisingly he kept his advantage, staring down at her from the stack of crates.

  Victoria forced herself to confront his unwavering gaze. She’d never encountered such disturbing eyes before. Lord Hobday’s professional glare would have paled by comparison to this man’s.

  Reaching into her purse, she withdrew the note she’d received Friday night and handed it up. “I was hoping,” she said in her most precise legal tone, “that you might have an idea about the person who wrote this.”

  The Rag Man’s gaze lingered on her face, then switched to the paper. A slight frown furrowed his brow as he read.

  “Problem?” Keiran inquired.

  Victoria thought he’d left. She hadn’t seen him leaning against a stone pillar.

  He accepted the note Torbel tossed him, scanning it swiftly. “‘Even the Rag Man can’t protect you from me.’ What’s this sh—?” He glanced at Victoria, then up at Torbel. “Who’d write a piece of rubbish like this?”

  “A crank,” Torbel replied with a shrug.

  Victoria’s hackles rose. “Not a crank,” she countered. “He’s threatened me three times on the telephone. I taped one of the calls.”

  “This is a matter for the police, Ms. Summers,” Torbel said flatly. “I don’t run a protection agency.”

  English heavily tinged with Irish—she placed the accent immediately. “Your name’s been mentioned twice, Mr. Torbel. That might not mean anything to you, but it does to me, particularly as I’m the one against whom these threats are being directed.”

  “You think there’s a connection between your threats and me?”

  “They’re not my threats, and yes, I do. So does whoever’s behind them.”

  “The Robbie Hollyburn trial ended two years ago. It’s a very loose connection at this point.”

  He really did have beautiful wrists, Victoria observed. If such things could be considered sexy, then he had sexy ones. Sexy hands, too. And a nice mouth—except for the words that came out of it and the dismissing tone he used to utter them. He appeared to have no interest in the note or in her.

  Tilting her head back made her neck muscles cramp, but she wouldn’t talk to him unless she could look him straight in the eye. “Lenny Street was released from prison recently,” she said. “That could be significant.”

  Through hooded eyes, he studied her, as if she were some new and strange specimen. “If the note is linked to the Robbie Hollyburn trial, why threaten a secondary player like you? Why not someone closer to the case?”

  Victoria refused to be goaded. It was what he wanted, and she’d be damned if she would give him the satisfaction. “Possibly,” she retorted, “because Lord Hobday passed away six months ago in Essex. Quietly, out of the public eye—and out of the press. As for his one-time assistant, Aaron Bolt quit law sixteen months ago after getting into some legal trouble. His stepfather’s big in shipping. He sent Aaron off to Turkey. No one’s heard from him since.”

  “Aye, so you win by default,” a large man with a Scottish accent concluded. He had shorn black hair and a big belly that hung over his waistband. Victoria had spotted him earlier. He’d left with the others. She hadn’t seen him return.

  “I consider it a loss myself,” she murmured, her eyes on the Rag Man. “I also think these threats are bona fide.”

  The Scotsman made a doubtful sound in his throat, then grunted at Torbel. “Call for you, from the pub.”

  “Deal with it, Ron.”

  The big Scotsman turned, muttering under his breath. Torbel motioned at Keiran, who shrugged and followed the man called Ron toward the phone.

  Which left Victoria alone with the Rag Man for the first—and she sincerely hoped last—time.

  Before she realized what he was doing, Torbel rose, hopping from the crates in a single, agile bound. In two-inch heels, Victoria was almost as tall as him. Funny, she didn’t feel it. Must be his presence that loomed larger than life, because the man himself certainly didn’t.

  It intrigued her that his gaze never wavered. She felt heat and dust swirling around them as he regarded her at disturbingly close range. “You’re convinced the note writer wants to harm you, is that right?”

  “I can’t imagine he’d be threatening me for the good of his health, Mr. Torbel.”

  “Just ‘Torbel,’ and I’ve known a few cranks in my life. They’re a gutless lot for the most part. What makes you think yours is the genuine article?”

  “Because he’s been following me. He wanted me to come to you.”

  “Yes, I sensed as much.”

  Not quite sarcastic but close. “You make talking difficult, Torbel. I want to find out who this person is. I think it’s a man, but I could be wrong. You’re a private detective—I’m a prospective client. Don’t you think between those two things we might find some common ground?”

  He lowered his lashes slightly. “So you came here to hire me—to expose the person after you.”

  Although that wasn’t exactly what Victoria had had in mind, it did seem the most viable solution. Not wise, considering the man she’d be dealing with, but if he could get the job
done, then the result would be worth the risk.

  As if reading her thoughts, the Rag Man advanced on her. Victoria recognized the tactic, designed to unnerve her, and held her ground. It wasn’t an easy task. Torbel was a frighteningly sensual man, more male than she’d ever dealt with. And all the scar did was heighten the mystery that surrounded him.

  “I want this person caught,” she said. He continued to advance, so she added a vexed “I also don’t appreciate feeling trapped.”

  He understood. A small smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You’re a fighter, then.”

  “No more than most people, but I do it when I have to.” She sent him a challenging look. “Will you help me, Torbel? It could prove as beneficial to you as to me.”

  “Cranks don’t worry me, Ms. Summers.”

  She was tempted to punch him. “My name’s Victoria, and this is no crank. You say you’ve dealt with note writers in your time. Well, so have I, and in a not very pleasant legal capacity. I don’t sense a cry for help here. This feels like revenge, not the threat of it but the act itself.”

  “Because of Robbie Hollyburn.”

  “We have no other common bond, do we?”

  “None.”

  Damn him, he closed in like a cat, eyes focused, stride smooth and unerring. He halted at last, but not until he’d drawn to within two feet of her.

  His eyes glinted with a light she couldn’t read. “If I do agree to help you, lady, it’ll be on my terms, not yours.”

  Irritated, Victoria retorted, “Back off, Torbel. I’ll be paying the bill. You have no right—”

  “My terms,” he repeated flatly, “or no deal.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it as a saner instinct prevailed. She wasn’t wrong about this, but neither was she stupid. Pride was an admirable trait; foolish stubbornness could cost her her life.

  Voice low, she said, “What terms?”

  He looked neither smug nor triumphant. In fact, his expression didn’t alter in the slightest. “You stay down here.”

  “In Stepney?”

  He must have mistaken her shock for revulsion because he said dryly, “It isn’t the underside of hell, you know.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You can share with Zoe. She has a flat above Gooseberries.”

  “Who’s—”

  “She works here. She also knows a thing or two about stalkers.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Being stalked?” The Rag Man’s eyes glittered unnervingly. “What would you call him, then, Victoria? Someone who says he’s out there watching and waiting.”

  Her temper flared, partly because of what he’d said and because of what he wouldn’t allow her to say. “Would you mind letting me finish a sentence?” she demanded. “I’ve never been stalked before. It isn’t a comforting thought. Now, on top of that, you want me to move in with a woman I’ve never met. What does Zoe do here? Is she one of your agents?”

  Again that disturbing glint in his eyes, perhaps humor, but she couldn’t be sure. “She is now.”

  Implying that she hadn’t always been. Victoria voiced the expected question. “What did she do before that?”

  Torbel’s lips definitely quirked this time. “She was a cat burglar. Her full name is Zoe Hollyburn.”

  “YOU’RE A BASTARD, Torbel,” Keiran remarked without rancor. “What did you expect her to do, faint or fly away?”

  “Neither.” Torbel headed for the alley, followed by his lanky partner. “She’s not a fainter, that one. And she’s not about to leave without one hell of a fight.”

  He stepped into the lane, welcoming the blast of hot, muggy air that wafted over him. Sunlight filtered through a vast array of chimneys, dappling the cobbles, a stray Dalmatian and his own small black cat, who was currently draped across the dog’s back.

  The Rag Man’s alley, he reflected, half-amused as he surveyed his surroundings. That’s what they called this place. The child of a charity worker who herself had been a charity case in her middle years. “Son of the rag lady,” they’d called him in Dublin. They’d called him a few other things, too, he mused, his thoughts darkening. It was funny how labels stuck—and how feelings of rancor could flatly refuse to die…

  Squinting, he located the sun. Four o’clock or thereabouts. He had a case to clear up later, but little else on his plate. He could have offered to accompany Victoria back to her flat to collect her belongings. Could have but hadn’t been in the proper frame of mind to do so.

  Behind him, Keiran chuckled. “Why didn’t you tell Victoria about Zoe?”

  Torbel slanted him a knowing look. “I told her enough. She’ll figure out the rest on her own. She had a chat with Fox and Peacock earlier. Maybe she talked to Constable Clover Hollyburn, as well.”

  “Zoe’s sister isn’t the problem, Torbel. You’re asking a woman of substance to live with a former cat burglar, one whose grandfather just happens to be Augustus Hollyburn and whose younger brother was the person you and Lenny were accused of murdering. I don’t think you told her enough.”

  “She’s bright and, I suspect, reasonably adaptable. She’ll tough it out.”

  “Do you think there’s anything to that note of hers?”

  “Could be.” Nudging open one of the cellar windows with his boot, Torbel let the cat inside. “I’ll have to—Oh, hell. It’s Street.”

  “Where? Ah…”

  His stance deceptively relaxed, the Rag Man waited for the man he’d spotted down the alley to approach. Lenny Street, released from prison after two years and now full of bluster, sauntered toward him. Even at a distance, Torbel could see that he’d deteriorated badly in confinement.

  “Afternoon, Torbel—Keiran. Were you hoping I’d stay away?”

  “You’ve been out for three weeks, Lenny,” Torbel replied calmly. “You haven’t been around yet. Why now?”

  Lenny Street’s attitude had altered drastically. Grim before, he was positively surly now. He was a tall, spare man with long arms and legs, coarse black hair, a mottled growth of black whiskers, a beak for a nose and eyes that could pass for bits of flint. Three of his front teeth were chipped—and he smelled like a brewery.

  “I missed me old friends, of course,” he answered with an unconvincing swagger.

  He kept his distance, Torbel noticed with a glimmer of disgust.

  “I hear there’s a pretty lady been asking about the Rag Man,” Lenny went on, propping a thin shoulder up against the storehouse wall. “Word is she looks like a Gypsy, tall, dark haired and blue eyed. Polished, too, I’m told.”

  “By whom?” Keiran questioned.

  Lenny shrugged an indolent—or more likely an insolent—shoulder. “It’s all over the street. I heard she’s cozy with the cops.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Torbel replied with a lack of inflection that was his trademark. If people didn’t know what you were thinking, you might just stay a jump ahead of them. The lesson had come hard in his youth, but he’d learned it well ever since.

  A muscle in Lenny’s jaw twitched, though he made no threatening moves. Torbel wondered if he’d be as reticent if Keiran weren’t about. Keeping his eyes on Street, he said to his partner. “See how Victoria’s making out with Zoe, will you?”

  Keiran glanced from Torbel to Street and back again. “You want me to go with her to fetch her things?”

  Torbel pictured Victoria’s wild dark hair, her vivid blue eyes and her long-limbed body. She had a light tan, slender curves, a tongue to match his Welsh-Irish grandmother’s and an obstinate nature, which he simultaneously admired and avoided like the plague. Too bad, he reflected, that she had a brain to go with all that beauty. He’d have had no trouble dismissing an air-head.

  So, no, he didn’t want Keiran to go and fetch her things, but he’d let him do it anyway. Then he’d sit down and try to convince himself that it really had been necessary to insist she take up residence here.

  He nodded at Keiran but continu
ed to stare at Lenny, who had the same expression on his face that he’d worn all through the trial. He believed Torbel had murdered Robbie Hollyburn. Well, he certainly wasn’t alone in that belief.

  “You should have been inside with me, Torbel,” Lenny said when Keiran was gone. “It’s as close to hell as you can get.”

  “I know what prison’s like, Lenny. Make your point.”

  Torbel suspected it wasn’t his words so much as his scar, coupled with his reputation before, during and after his years at Scotland Yard, that had the man edging backward. He would kill; he would, he could, and he had. For all that Lenny didn’t know, that much he understood clearly.

  “No, point, Torbel,” he mumbled, his Cockney accent ripe. “Just came to see the pretty lady lawyer is all. Least I can do, considering she’s one of them what sent me up.”

  “You know about her, then.”

  “I know about all of them. Hobday, Bolt and her. The first two are dead.”

  Torbel’s eyes narrowed. “Bolt, too? Where’d you hear that?”

  “In the hole. You can learn a lot by asking the right people the right questions.”

  “Why were you asking about the crown attorney’s office?”

  Safely out of range, Lenny gave his chin a belligerent thrust. “Curiosity. I stuck a knife in their throats every night I spent there.”

  His expression level, Torbel started forward. “Did you also stick a note in Victoria’s pocket on Friday night?”

  Lenny had shifty eyes, and these days a devious brain to match. “Wouldn’t be in my best interest to say so if I did, now would it? Anyway, you’re a fine one to be acting high and mighty. No one really knows what you’re about, do they? Not the cops, not the cons, not even those that work for you. I never figured you out, Torbel, but you’re no bloody saint, that’s for sure.”

  Torbel felt his temper rising, a dangerous sign. “Who wrote the note, Street?”