She would be the perfect leverage to keep him under control. Of that Hirst was certain.

SIXTY-SIX

‘What’ll it be?’

Jenny Draper turned to face Michael. Indicated to her hands as she spoke. She had a different miniature bottle between each finger. Six choices. The full selection available in the suite’s minibar.

A broad smile told Michael that Draper was at least amusing herself as she wiggled the bottles in his direction.

‘Whichever malt whisky looks best.’

Michael could not recall the brand selection from the previous night. And after what had just happened he was past caring. Any alcohol would do.

‘Gotcha.’

She was still smiling. Still upbeat. She had been terrified by the fight at the time, Michael knew. But, now it was over, those ten seconds seemed to have excited her more than anything in her life.

Michael had seen the effect before.

For him it was the polar opposite. An intense high during the action. A shuddering low when the deed was done.

The fight had ended as most real fights do; almost as soon as it began. Satisfied that none of the three were moving, Michael had grabbed a shell-shocked Draper and dragged her towards the hotel. He had then called Levy, to ensure that none of the three men would wake up free.

The bar beneath the hotel had been Michael’s first destination, until he noticed the blood dripping from his battered knuckles. Those injuries would require immediate attention; he knew that from experience. And with Draper yet to switch from paralysed shock to her current semi-euphoria, Michael had little choice but to bring her with him.

He had not been keen on the idea at the time. Now he was regretting it deeply.

The sound of chinking glass interrupted Michael’s thoughts. He looked up to see that the drinks were made and in Draper’s hands. She walked towards him and placed a tumbler of amber liquid on the table ahead of him, then placed her own glass next to his. Then she took a seat in the closest chair.

‘Sorry there’s no ice.’ Draper reached for her drink as she spoke. ‘But, you know . . .’

She indicated to the ice bucket that sat next to Michael’s glass. Michael’s right hand – the bleeding stopped – was inside it. The oldest remedy for a swollen fist.

‘Whisky doesn’t need ice,’ Michael replied unenthusiastically. He picked up his own glass with his good hand. ‘Only a heathen dilutes this stuff.’

Draper took a sip of her drink. Hers was a long glass, filled with clear liquid. The sip caused the barest grimace.

‘Maybe,’ Draper placed her drink down again. ‘But a gin and tonic definitely needs it.’

Draper reached out and placed her own hand into the ice bucket. Her skin touched against Michael’s as she picked out three ice cubes. The contact was not necessary and they both knew that.

‘How’s the hand?’

Draper dropped the ice cubes into her glass and stirred her drink, all without taking her eyes away from Michael.