Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

For Riley Gavin, the first rays of sun in Sotogrande, on the southern coast of Spain, brought a shiver of a much more welcome kind. The day promised to be hot and still, just the way she liked it. She dropped her towel and bag by the pool and revelled as the heat rolled across her naked shoulders. The long, grey winter had dragged on like a depressing cold, and she had been waiting weeks for this moment when she could forget about the wind and rain, the slogging along grey streets back home looking for stories, and allow herself to relax for a while.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass door to a changing cubicle. My God, she thought, I’m so white I look like the blood’s been drained out of my backside. She flicked back her long, blonde hair, wondering if maybe she hadn’t also got a little soft around the chin. Too much junk food while sitting in her car watching and waiting for something to develop. Instinctively she adjusted her stance to pull in her stomach. There was no vanity in the move, simply a self-conscious need to look ‘right’, as her mother always used to say.

She lowered herself on to a lounger and looked around. Perfect. No one else about.

The complex was a real find. Small and exclusive, the only other residents were a few golfers too busy playing the local courses to have any interest in the pool. Casual visitors were politely turned away, and there was little to attract families. The small flat was hers for a week and she didn’t intend straying far from where she was right now. Riley reached up behind and pulled at the thin cords of her pink bikini top. The unaccustomed heat, as well as the sudden exposure in the open air, brought an instant tingle to her sensitive skin, and a brief shiver ran the length of her body. Oh, yes, she thought. I’m in Heaven…

She lay back and sighed, wondering why she didn’t do this more often. Money is why, you silly bitch, she reminded herself, and stretched her legs out before her. Money and the thrill of it all. The chase.

Well, the chase could go hang itself for a while as she recharged her batteries. She hadn’t taken a decent holiday since last August and she deserved one more than usual. God knows, she’d worked her little tush off for it. Her last assignment had been long and wearing, chasing up an investment scam perpetrated on a flock of churchgoers in the Midlands who had put their trust in a self-styled Christian Broker. The fact that thirty per cent was an unusually high return and the proposed ‘opportunity’ was a land development fund in Colombia, home of coffee and cocaine but rarely top land deals, had failed to ring alarm bells among the virgin investors. It wasn’t long before phone calls by the church’s pastor to the broker received nothing but the disconnected tone. It had taken Riley two months to track down the culprit, hiding behind another front company, this time in the retirement homes business. By then she had gathered enough information on his activities to put together a fireproof story that made the front pages of at least three dailies. Her research, someone else’s by-line, but what the hell. The main thing was that the ‘Broker’ would shortly be appearing in front of a jury and later, ripped-off investors and court willing, be in a home of another kind altogether.

Warmed by the sun, she slipped into a shallow sleep. Gone were thoughts of work and earning a living. Time enough for that next week.

Half an eternity later there was a click at the side gate and a faint splash as someone entered the pool. She opened her eyes and looked. A dark head of hair and strong brown shoulders slipped smoothly through the blue water. A man, probably young. He turned and swam back to the other end, a smooth, uncluttered crawl. Mmm… Masculine and tidy. Now there’s a rarity.

After three lengths the swimmer pulled himself smoothly from the water and sat on the side of the pool, shaking droplets from his head. He reached for a towel and a packet of cigarettes.

A few years over thirty, Riley guessed, a bit gaunt in a hungry sort of way. Good muscles, but not cover-boy six-pack. She felt a stirring of interest and looked him over some more, enjoying the secretiveness of her survey. Nice, she thought. Can’t see his buns, which is a pity.

As the man blew smoke into the air, he seemed to notice her for the first time and nodded. Riley nodded back, inadvertently revealing that she was looking at him. She also remembered she wore no bikini top. Oh, what the hell, she thought. He’s seen me — it would be crass to go all girlish and cover up now.

She allowed herself to drift away again. What will happen will happen.

Moments later she sensed a presence nearby. It may have been the sudden coolness as his body cut off the sun, or the faint hint of aftershave against the background smell of chlorine.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked. His voice was pleasant with a faint accent. French? Spanish? Maybe he’s rich and-

Riley snapped her eyes open. It was the waiter, Rafael. He was looking down at her with tactfully unseeing eyes, a drinks menu in one hand, a silver tray in the other. Across the pool, the swimmer was gone, a hint of smoke hanging in the air behind him.

Riley scooped up her bikini top and shook her head, embarrassed and irritated. “Nothing, thanks,” she said, and waited for Rafael to leave before settling back to sleep, her thoughts on the strong shoulders and the sleek, black hair of the man across the pool. She hoped he got sunburn.

The following day the pool was deserted. Riley shrugged off her bikini top, poured liberal amounts of Ambre Solaire into her palm and massaged it gently into her body, concentrating on where her skin was most tender. She was enjoying the sensation of the warm lotion when the gate clicked and the waiter entered. He stopped in front of her and lowered his silver tray. It held a cordless telephone.

“Call for you, Miss Gavin. Urgent, the man says.”

Riley sighed. “Did he give a name?” Who in hell knew she was here?

“Mr Brask, madam.”

Damn, she thought. But she took the phone anyway.

Gibraltar airport was hot and noisy, with a combined smell of baking tarmac and aviation fuel soaking the atmosphere of the terminal building. By the time Riley checked in and went in search of a seat, she was in no mood to humour screaming kids, pushy parents or the openly lecherous squaddies standing around clutching cans of lager and staring at anything in a skirt.

She dropped her leather holdall on the floor, trying to calm down. Bugger them all, she thought rebelliously. Most of all, bugger Donald bloody Brask.

When a woman in a seat nearby stood up and walked away, Riley nudged her bag over. Before she could sit down, a young squaddie with garish tattoos on his arms and a mass of angry pimples on his chin pushed past, dropped into the seat, smirking proudly at two of his mates on the other side of the room. Then he lifted a can of lager to his mouth and swallowed noisily, a froth of beer escaping down his chin.

“It’s your lucky day, love” he said, staring hotly at her. “You want a seat? Be my guest.” He patted his bony lap in what he probably thought was an inviting manner, his pimples taking on an inflamed look as his hopes rose.

Riley looked down at him and sighed. Oh, yuck, why do they do it? Everyone’s an original half-arsed Romeo.

Before the soldier could react, she took the can of lager from his hand, and with a flick of her wrist, poured a squirt of the foaming liquid directly into his lap.

The man leapt to his feet with a howl of protest, while his mates and some of the passengers laughed.

“What the bloody hell did you do that for?” he demanded, brushing ineffectually at the spreading stain on his trouser front.