In The Presence Of The Enemy by Elizabeth George Read Free Book Online Page A

about it? This summer?”
    She laughed quietly. He felt her cool hand on the back of his neck. Her fi ngers sought their way into his hair. “When would you ever take a month away from the paper? You’d be mad with boredom within a week. Not to mention tormented by the thought of Rodney Aronson busily ingratiating himself with everyone from the chairman to the office cleaners. He means to have your job, you know.”
    Yes, Luxford thought, that’s exactly what Rodney Aronson meant. He’d been monitor-ing Luxford’s every movement and decision since his arrival at
The Source
, just waiting for the single mistake that he could carry to the chairman and secure his own future. If Charlotte Bowen’s existence could possibly be designated that single mistake…But there was no possibility that Rodney knew about Charlotte.
    There was
no
possibility. None. At. All.
    “You’re so quiet,” Fiona remarked. “Are you exhausted?”
    “Just thinking.”
    “About?”
    “The last time we made love in the garden.
    I can’t remember when it was. I just remember that it rained.”
    “Last September,” she said.
    He looked over his shoulder at her. “You remember.”
    “Over there by the birches where the grass is longer. We had wine and cheese. We had music on in the house. We had that old blanket from the boot of your car.”
    “We had?”
    “We had.”
    She looked wonderful in moonlight. She looked like the work of art that she was. Her full lips were inviting, her throat an arch that asked for his kiss, her statuesque body a wordless temptation. “That blanket,” Luxford noted. “It’s still in the boot.”
    The full lips curved. “Go get it,” she said.

3
    EVE BOWEN, UNDERSECRETARY OF STATE
for the Home Offi ce and six-year Member of Parliament for Marylebone, lived in Devonshire Place Mews, a hook-shaped length of London cobblestones lined with erstwhile stables and garages long ago converted to housing. Her house stood at the northeast end of the mews, an impressive double-width affair that was three storeys of slate, white woodwork, and brick, with a roof terrace from which draped swags of ivy.
    St. James had spoken to the Junior Minister before leaving Chelsea. Luxford had made the call, said merely, “I’ve found someone, Evelyn. You need to talk to him,” and handed the phone to St. James without waiting for her response. St. James’s conversation with the MP had been brief: He would be coming to see her immediately; he would be bringing an associate with him; did the Junior Minister wish him to know anything prior to their arrival?
    Her initial response had been a brusque question. “How do you know Luxford?”
    “Through my brother.”
    “Who is he?”
    “A businessman in town for a conference.
    From Southampton.”
    “Has he an axe to grind?”
    “With the Government? The Home Offi ce?
    I seriously doubt it.”
    “All right.” She recited her address, concluding cryptically with, “Keep Luxford out of this. If anyone appears to be watching the house when you arrive, drive on and we’ll meet later. Is that clear?”
    It was. A conscientious quarter of an hour after Dennis Luxford had departed, St. James and Helen Clyde began to wind their way up to Marylebone. It was just after eleven when they swung off the high street into Devonshire Place Mews, and after driving the mews’
    entire length to assure themselves that no one was loitering in the vicinity, St. James pulled his old MG to a halt in front of Eve Bowen’s house and quietly released its manual clutch.
    A porch light burned above the front door.
    Inside, another light brushed uneven strips of illumination against the closed curtains of the ground floor front windows. When they rang the bell, brisk footsteps immediately sounded against an entry of either marble or tiles. A well-oiled bolt was drawn. The door swung open.
    Eve Bowen said, “Mr. St. James?” She stepped back from the light almost as soon as it fell upon her, and once