Dark Market

Chapter Twenty Two

Neither needed any encouragement, she dropped the towel from her body and he from his waist. They pushed out into the middle with a splash. The pool just deep enough for them to grab onto each other and kiss. They held on and sank beneath the surface, the oxygenated water from the powerful taps bubbled over their skins, caressed them like a hundred tiny fingers.

Their tongues fought for control. She laughed under the water, when she pushed up, he followed.

They giggled and kissed some more as the water filled the pool, then spilled over the rim.

'I need to stop the water—'

He kissed her again.'

'Hoy,' she said. 'Champagne,' and pointed.

With the flow stemmed she paddled over to join him. He handed her the glasses, twisted the body of the bottle slowly with one hand while he held the cork with the other. The pressure escaped steadily until it popped and the gas plumed out, he poured without wasting a drop.

'It's years since I last did that,' he said.

They clinked and sat back against the wall of the pool. She moved inside his arms and rested against his chest.

'I'm exhausted,' she said.

She closed her eyes. He thought about why he was there and stroked the damp curls away from her face until she sighed.

Sex and death.

He'd forgotten how well they went together. He shut his own eyes.

Something made you grab life with both arms when people died. Didn't matter whether it was a peaceful departure during sleep or an IED on the side of the road. He understood why the guys in the pit chased tail relentlessly. It made them feel alive.

He understood why funerals, like weddings, demanded lust from some participants. Life. Living. Life force, if you like, demanded you didn't waste it. Use me, it said. Make choices, even if sometimes they are the wrong ones.

He arched an eyebrow. 'I can feel you looking at me,' he opened his eyes.

She sipped from her flute. 'Your cogs are turning.'

'Always.'

'If you don't tell me what about, I'll shake that bottle where the sun doesn't shine.'

'And waste good champagne?'

'Good point,' she leaned over the side and grabbed the bottle. Savage enjoyed watching the water run off her skin. She turned to him, kneeling, breasts above the water. She caught him staring.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

'For what?'

'Erm, looking at you like a sex object?'

'Oh,' she chuckled, 'male guilt.'

'Yeah, curse of my generation.'

'Even you? Well, John, let me give you permission to look at me like a sex object. I expect it, and from you, I want it. In fact after we've finished this bottle,' she smirked, 'maybe some room service, I expect you to rock my world.' She sank into the water beside him, 'Again and again and again.' She brushed her lips against his. 'That okay with you?'

'Why wait?'

'Because I said so,' she sat back and poured more champagne in to their glasses. 'Now, drink up and tell me everything.'

He sipped. 'What are you, a honey trap?'

'What's that?'

'A woman paid to get a man to talk. By any means necessary.' She gave him a pilgrim's glare.

'Am I on the mark?'

She gave him another look, one that told him what she really thought. 'Idiot,' she said. 'I wouldn't have to sleep with you to get information out of you John. I just like you.'

He hesitated.

'Whatever it is, just say it,' she said, tensing up.

'I like you too,' he said. She smiled.

'Good. You're more fun than the flaccid penises in banking, they only get it up with chemicals.'

'How'd you end up in banking anyway?'

She paused, a troubled look crossed her face, then:

'The usual. Started out in a call centre, proved myself less inept than most and jumped a few rungs. Now, tell me. How did you get out of banking?'

He swallowed his glass in one and held it out for more.

'That was easy,' he said, 'I slept with a man's fiancé and he jumped to his death. I had to leave.'

Eyes wide, she swallowed her own glass in one.

'John,' she refilled her glass until the bottle emptied. 'I'm going to get the other bottle. You figure out what you want to tell me while I'm gone.'

She climbed out, water dripping everywhere, totally unselfconscious of her body.

After the Middle East and it's in-built prudery he wanted to tell her to cover up.

God, how he'd changed.

He thought of Michael and Jo, of Thomson, Sutherland, and the PA, of dead journalists and the last look on the faces of those he'd killed. He'd talked to his mentor sure. He'd talked to Andre,  feelings disguised as jokes, it got them through. It worked.

Then she slipped silently back into the tub. Opened the bottle. Spilled champagne over them both. Kissed it off. Smiled. Sat back. Open to whatever he decided.

He told her everything.

Some time later they found out how much fun you could have with monsoon shower heads and a pole dancing area.

They slept, deep and relaxed, in each other's arms.

For the first time in a long time Savage didn't dream.