The Blood Whisperer by Zoe Sharp Page A

promise.”

    He twitched and she let him go, straightened. For the first time she saw doubt in his eyes and with a flash of intuition knew the cause. Whatever faults and flaws Dmitry might possess, disloyalty was not one of them.

    “He does not appreciate all that you do for him,” she said then, fiercely. “He wastes your talents.”

    Dmitry raked a hand through his hair and stared back down at the newspaper columns. A bitter smile twisted the side of his face. “Perhaps you could speak with him—put in a good word on my behalf then it would not be—”

    “If I thought for a moment he would listen to me I would do so.”

    Dmitry gave a short laugh. “If you do not have his ear who does?”

    “You know as well as I do that he listens only to the sound of money,” she dismissed. “And he thinks only of how to increase it.”

    Not entirely true but true enough for this purpose. Besides it was entirely true that Dmitry was being taken advantage of. His contacts had been plundered, his authority frittered away until all he could be was his new master’s lap dog.
     
    She moved back into the kitchen area partly so he wouldn’t see the sudden clench of her fingers and busied herself with the espresso machine. While it gurgled through its cycle she picked up her cigarettes and gold lighter from the countertop, headed for one of the huge sliding panels of glass. There she turned, struck an imperious pose, flicked her fingers.

    “Come.”

    Dmitry raised his head and looked at her with the blank cold stare of the killer she knew him to be. She shivered in glorious relief.

    “Good,” she said with a short nod. “So you have not yet acquired the spine of a jelly baby.”

    For a moment he stiffened then a gradual smile widened his mouth. And although he made an annoyed sound in his throat she knew the moment of strain between them had passed.

    “Do you not mean jelly fish ?”

    He folded the paper neatly, rose with the economy of movement she’d always admired and opened the window for her, standing aside with a mockingly gallant bow.

    She gave him another slight regal nod and stepped out onto the roof terrace. It was too chilly to be comfortable and she shivered again with less enjoyment this time and wrapped the kimono closer to her body.
     
    Dmitry shrugged out of his leather coat and draped it around her shoulders. She took it as her due, folded herself into one of the cushioned rattan chairs and reached for the cigarette pack. Dmitry lit for both of them.

    As the first hit of nicotine curled into her lungs Myshka regarded him through a whisper of smoke.
     
    “The danger from Veronica Lytton may not be over,” she said.

    Dmitry raised an eyebrow. “I do not think McCarron will pursue things,” he said easily. “I was very . . . persuasive.”

    “He is not the problem. The bitch who works for him, she may be.”

    “London can be a dangerous city for a woman to live in,” Dmitry said meaningfully, sitting back in his chair. “Anyone can become a victim of violent crime. It’s shocking.”

    Myshka smiled. Sometimes Dmitry had such a simple answer to every question. If she wasn’t around to rein him in, she mused there would be a trail of blood behind him wherever he went.

    “It cannot be handled like that. Not this time.” She shook her head, regretful. “There is a policeman—how do you say?—sniffing around her. Another ‘accident’ and even he may become suspicious.”

    Dmitry showed his teeth. “Being a policeman can be a dangerous job also,” he offered.

    Myshka laughed out loud, put a hand on his knee briefly. “There is no need,” she said. “Certain information has come to light about the woman. If we are clever we can use it to deal with everyone involved at one time.”

    She leaned forwards in her chair tilted her cigarette into an ashtray and told him, keeping her voice low and focused, everything that Steve Warwick had uncovered about an ex-CSI called Kelly