Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

seemed amiss, so he ran up to the entrance, punched in his security code, and hurried into the building.

The lift stopped at the third floor and Ben got out, fumbled for his keys, and was soon inside. His flat was cluttered with books, and yesterday’s newspaper had been strewn all over the dark leather sofa. Dust motes floated freely in the rays of sunlight shining through the half open wooden shutters. The air was stale, and there was the faint odor of unwashed dishes. Ben looked around and shook his head. I could never let Ana into this place, he thought, removing his jacket and casting it onto a chair.

He made his way to the refrigerator and pulled out an ice tray before grabbing a kitchen towel and spreading it out on the counter. With a couple of hard bangs on the counter the ice came free. He bundled it up and headed for the sofa, where he flopped down, put the ice on his shoulder and closed his eyes. His thoughts raced, trying to sort through what had happened over the last twenty-four hours and why. The whole concept was inconceivable to him. He wasn’t a rich man— comfortable perhaps, but not rich enough to be a target. His parents were doing well, but in no position to ransom their son. His head ached, but the ibuprofen was in the pocket of his jacket, too far away. He didn’t want to move. Closing his eyes again, he drifted off.

Ben slept for an hour or so, and when he finally opened his eyes it was mid-afternoon. The melted ice had soaked his shirt and one of the sofa pillows. He swung his legs around and sat up, then put his head in his hands, beginning once again to sort through events. Getting nowhere, he headed for his bedroom and the long overdue shower. Later, feeling refreshed as well as ravenous, Ben thought about how good an Indian takeaway would taste.

Before he could get organized to leave, a voice in his head warned him what being out on the street at night could mean. Third time could well be the charm for his newfound enemies. He decided instead to scour his cupboards for sustenance. All he came up with was some dry pasta and a tin of sardines. He put on water for the pasta and opened the sardines. They were packed in tomato sauce and oil, so when the pasta was ready, he drained it and proceeded to toss it all together. There was just a tad of parmigiano left in the cardboard shaker, and he added it to his dish. He knew that this would appall his mother, who insisted that the container version wasn’t real food. The half-bottle of red wine he found displaced in the refrigerator served to cut the taste of his makeshift meal.

While eating he was struck by a disturbing thought. Ana had seen the bald man, had actually seen both of the men. There was a possibility they had been followed during the day. He couldn’t understand how they could have known where she was staying, or how the two of them could have been tracked down the next day, but it had to be considered. Of course they could find his address, and did. An unlisted phone number was of little help in the current age of technology. But regardless of how they had found him, the fact was they could also find Ana, so she was in danger. He felt guilty that she had been drawn into whatever was happening, and he knew it was up to him to protect her. Ben concluded that just keeping her at a distance from him would be of little help. The best course would be to keep her with him, or better yet, to keep her in the country, far away from these men.

The challenge would be to coax Ana into accompanying him to his parents’ home. He didn’t want to frighten her with the truth of his motivation to get her out of London. Suddenly it came to him, and he felt quite clever for creating an appropriate ruse. It’s perfect, Ben thought. He planned tell her she was needed because of his shoulder, that he couldn’t begin to drive that far.

CHAPTER FOUR

The dismal sky and constant drizzle of the previous day had given way to sunshine and the bright colors of a landscape washed clean. Paris McKinnon walked briskly up the path leading to the museum’s employee entrance, dodging the few puddles that remained. Before going in she brushed at the sides of her blonde hair, checking for any stragglers set free from her chignon by the pleasant morning breeze. She had met a friend for coffee and then had trouble hailing a taxi during the morning rush. These days she often thought that the commute to London three days a week was becoming too much for her sixty-two years. The timing had to be just right: Make the train to Paddington, catch the Tube, then a brisk walk or taxi—depending on the weather.

As she headed down the hall toward her office, a male colleague caught up with her, and without any preface of greeting, asked if she had received the paperwork on the exhibit scheduled for display at the start of the following month. Her office had been empty for a week due to the short trip she and Hugh had taken for their anniversary. Her colleague was a rather prissy man, crowded into his clothes as if they were keeping him upright. Perhaps the reference she once overheard about his being ‘spineless’ was the reason he wore such close-fitting attire. She smiled at the thought. Although he could appear quite affable when met head-on by proper etiquette, Paris was sure that he coveted her position and influence with the museum board. She could imagine that as a boy he had been the perfect type for class tattletale.

“Good morning