Читать книгу Broken Hearts - Grace Monroe - Страница 19

I was driving slowly because the rain-soaked cobbles were dangerous, and lack of speed meant my helmet visor was steamed up. By the time I reached Suzie Wong’s in George Street I needed a stiff drink, or six. The weather had forced people off the streets, and even Edinburgh’s premier night spot–as described by its totally unbiased owner–looked deserted.

Music echoed round the cavernous cellar, but the bar staff outnumbered customers. Moses Tierney, club owner and leader of the Dark Angels, looked pissed off at pretty much everything. It didn’t appear my welcome here would be any warmer than at Kailash’s but I was proved wrong very quickly, and not for the first time. Moses waved at me as soon as I came into his line of vision, and pulled a bottle of champagne out of the fridge.

‘I hope that’s not the watered-down stuff you sell to your customers,’ I said, accepting a glass, knocking it back quickly and indicating that I needed an immediate refill.

‘It’s not watered down, Brodie–it’s just a brand no one quite appreciates yet. This is the real McCoy though.’ Moses was celebrating my result in the murder trial. He hated the Boyle family for reasons that were not entirely known to me, so anything that upset his rival, Ma Boyle, was a source of rejoicing for him. A rumble of high heels and raucous laughter weaved into the bar in the guise of a huge hen party. Moses’s eyes lit up. His night had just got even better. Left alone to prop up the bar, I watched the staff spring into action. They shook and stirred sixteen cocktails in record time, which was just as well, because the girls looked as if they would swallow them as fast as the barman could make them. The party would definitely have passed Kailash’s scrutiny test. Spray-tanned to within an inch of their lives, I hated to admit they looked gorgeous, young, and vibrant. It would have taken a good chunk of Dr Marshall’s cheque to have paid for their hair extensions alone, and I wondered how they could afford it–then one glance in the mirror at my own sorry reflection told me that their money had been well spent.

Moses ignored me, continuing his banter with the girls as he filled up my empty glass at the bar. The bottle was almost finished: surely I hadn’t drunk that much? My empty stomach growled and the drunken dizziness hit me like a sledgehammer just as Glasgow Joe walked in. He didn’t acknowledge me. I’m not sure he even had time to notice I was sitting there as the hen-party girls swamped him, sticking their hands up his kilt in a desperate bid to find out if he was a true Scotsman. He didn’t put up a fight. Behind the drinks dispensers were smoky mirrored tiles. I couldn’t avoid my reflection, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight. I looked old. My ex-husband looked gorgeous and every girl in the hen party agreed with me. I’d split up with Jack Deans, my sort-of-boyfriend, three months ago, and I was having romantic thoughts about the spin cycle on my washing machine, so the sight of Joe combined with all the champagne I’d glugged on an empty stomach was having quite an effect.

Glasgow Joe was the bad boy from my childhood. I’d hankered after him for years as we both pretended to be just friends, and then I married him in a cheap Vegas ceremony that lasted longer than the marriage itself. I still hankered after him.

He came up behind me, hooked his finger in the loop of my trousers and whispered, ‘How about you and I get out of here, gorgeous?’ I guess he must have noticed me after all. I swivelled round to face him. Joe was about twice my size when I was sitting, and he had to bend down to speak into my face. He had a broad face with chiselled cheekbones and a couple of faded scars above his brow. Like an old tomcat he wore the marks of previous fights well. His collar-length hair was swept back from his face; a couple of stray grey hairs were obvious at his temple. His skin was clear and tanned and he had a touch of stubble on his cheeks and chin. He was untouchable–nobody who didn’t have a death wish messed with him–and I’d thrown him away on more than one occasion.

God, the drink was getting to me.

Glasgow Joe held my chin with his free hand, and his dark eyes stared into mine. He didn’t blink. They say that people in love stare into their partner’s eyes for eighty per cent of the time–it stimulates the sex hormones. Mine were certainly beginning to stir.

‘There’s a lot to think about,’ I slurred.

‘What’s there to think about? I’m promising you more booze, a carry-out pizza with up to three toppings of your choice, and any sexual position you can think of-within reason.’

‘The pizza sounds good.’

‘Don’t kid yourself, darlin’–you like the sound of the rest of it too.’

‘I need time to think,’ I said, guzzling some more champagne and trying to sound ladylike. The truth was that I would have jumped on Joe quicker than the pizza order would have been ready, but, even in my drunken state, I knew that he didn’t do one-night stands. At least, not with me. Anything more was a scary prospect, at least for me. Every reconciliation we’d ever had had broken down because he’d wanted to get married again, have children, and settle down. The more I learned about my own history, the less likely that seemed to be an option. So I pushed him away. I insulted him and bristled at him. I told him I wasn’t interested in anything but casual sex, and then flaunted Jack Deans in his face. And all the time I was desperate for him.

He could probably see my forehead furrow with all of these thoughts.

‘You’re thinking too much, Brodie,’ he growled, kissing my neck. ‘Let me go over the high points for you–food, drink, sex.’ His finger was still hooked into my trousers. I inadvertently glanced at the door–and that’s how I ended up with Glasgow Joe back in my bed again. As if I didn’t have enough trouble in my life.