Chapter Twenty Two

They lay staring at the ceiling of the hotel room. Neither of them had had any patience.

Two taxis converged. They'd booked a room. One of those boutique hotels designed for couples with one thing in mind and no prudish shame.

Each room was themed. They'd gone for the Dynamite Suite, the boutique's flagship room, the ultimate dirty weekend. Dedicated to all things decadent and indulgent, think burlesque, kitsch and sexy boudoir rolled in to high art.

Side by side on the eight foot round bed, they explored each others sweaty spent nakedness in the mirrored canopy above them.

'You needed that,' she said.

His hand found hers. They breathed and let their heart rates slow down, regained their composure. Savage held her eyes in the reflection, slanted a smile at her.

'So did you.'

She smirked and began to stretch out. Savage admired the fullness of her figure, the curve of her spine arching into her bottom as she curled her hands first above her head and then down by her sides, scrunching up the sheets around her.

'You look like you're about to purr,' he said and ran his finger along the rise and fall of her hips.

'If I could,' her eyelids heavy and languid, 'I would.' That kinky smile again.

She ran her hand over the curves of his body, the hard edges of his shoulders, the sinewy twists of his forearms and thighs. Her hand brushed his eyebrow, his cheek rose to meet it.

'You know,' she said,' 'This is the first time I've seen you relax. It suits you. Your smile—'

'What about it?'

'It's real.'

He opened his eyes to look at her properly for the first time. She was a beautiful woman. Not the transparent fashion of the day type beauty, her natural curls with the blonde kink and mix of dark set off the sallow skin beneath.

If you looked behind the easy façade her eyes were intelligent and penetrating. He realised that despite all their flirting they really didn't know each other yet.

'You have to go back to work?' he said.

'Don't you?'

'Yes,' he stroked her cheek, outlined the features of her nose, ran his fingers along her jaw line, the nape of her neck. 'But, I'm not going to.' He moved in, found her top lip, 'And neither are you.' He pulled her to him, devoured her, tore down every last one of her defences, and in return she annihilated his.

*

The afternoon faded, orange twilight played at the curtains, the sounds of running water came from the bathroom.

Savage shook the sleep off, ignored the giant plasma screen and private exit to the street in the lounge and found something suitably laid back on the sound system.

He hit a button that said 'bathroom' on the smoke black control pad and found a bottle of Piper Hiedseck and two glasses in the mini-bar, then padded through.

With a towel wrapped around her body and hair loose, Echo dipped a toe into an over-large plunge pool that filled the room.

She greeted him with a wide open smile, eyes bright. He beamed right back at her.

'How hot do you like it?'

'Scalding.'

'Tough noogies, I like it cool,' she took her toe out. 'Meet me in the middle?'

Neither needed any encouragement, she dropped the towel from her body and he from his waist. They pushed out into the middle with a splash. The pool just deep enough for them to grab onto each other and kiss. They held on and sank beneath the surface, the oxygenated water from the powerful taps bubbled over their skins, caressed them like a hundred tiny fingers.

Their tongues fought for control. She laughed under the water, when she pushed up, he followed.

They giggled and kissed some more as the water filled the pool, then spilled over the rim.

'I need to stop the water—'

He kissed her again.'

'Hoy,' she said. 'Champagne,' and pointed.

With the flow stemmed she paddled over to join him. He handed her the glasses, twisted the body of the bottle slowly with one hand while he held the cork with the other. The pressure escaped steadily until it popped and the gas plumed out, he poured without wasting a drop.

'It's years since I last did that,' he said.

They clinked and sat back against the wall of the pool. She moved inside his arms and rested against his chest.

'I'm exhausted,' she said.

She closed her eyes. He thought about why he was there and stroked the damp curls away from her face until she sighed.

Sex and death.

He'd forgotten how well they went together. He shut his own eyes.

Something made you grab life with both arms when people died. Didn't matter whether it was a peaceful departure during sleep or an IED on the side of the road. He understood why the guys in the pit chased tail relentlessly. It made them feel alive.

He understood why funerals, like weddings, demanded lust from some participants. Life. Living. Life force, if you like, demanded you didn't waste it. Use me, it said. Make choices, even if sometimes they are the wrong ones.

He arched an eyebrow. 'I can feel you looking at me,' he opened his eyes.

She sipped from her flute. 'Your cogs are turning.'

'Always.'

'If you don't tell me what about, I'll shake that bottle where the sun doesn't shine.'

'And waste good champagne?'

'Good point,' she leaned over the side and grabbed the bottle. Savage enjoyed watching the water run off her skin. She turned to him, kneeling, breasts above the water. She caught him staring.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

'For what?'

'Erm, looking at you like a sex object?'

'Oh,' she chuckled, 'male guilt.'

'Yeah, curse of my generation.'

'Even you? Well, John, let me give you permission to look at me like a sex object. I expect it, and from you, I want it. In fact after we've finished this bottle,' she smirked, 'maybe some room service, I expect you to rock my world.' She sank into the water beside him, 'Again and again and again.' She brushed her lips against his. 'That okay with you?'

'Why wait?'

'Because I said so,' she sat back and poured more champagne in to their glasses. 'Now, drink up and tell me everything.'

He sipped. 'What are you, a honey trap?'

'What's that?'

'A woman paid to get a man to talk. By any means necessary.' She gave him a pilgrim's glare.

'Am I on the mark?'

She gave him another look, one that told him what she really thought. 'Idiot,' she said. 'I wouldn't have to sleep with you to get information out of you John. I just like you.'

He hesitated.

'Whatever it is, just say it,' she said, tensing up.

'I like you too,' he said. She smiled.

'Good. You're more fun than the flaccid penises in banking, they only get it up with chemicals.'

'How'd you end up in banking anyway?'

She paused, a troubled look crossed her face, then:

'The usual. Started out in a call centre, proved myself less inept than most and jumped a few rungs. Now, tell me. How did you get out of banking?'

He swallowed his glass in one and held it out for more.

'That was easy,' he said, 'I slept with a man's fiancé and he jumped to his death. I had to leave.'

Eyes wide, she swallowed her own glass in one.

'John,' she refilled her glass until the bottle emptied. 'I'm going to get the other bottle. You figure out what you want to tell me while I'm gone.'

She climbed out, water dripping everywhere, totally unselfconscious of her body.

After the Middle East and it's in-built prudery he wanted to tell her to cover up.

God, how he'd changed.

He thought of Michael and Jo, of Thomson, Sutherland, and the PA, of dead journalists and the last look on the faces of those he'd killed. He'd talked to his mentor sure. He'd talked to Andre, feelings disguised as jokes, it got them through. It worked.

Then she slipped silently back into the tub. Opened the bottle. Spilled champagne over them both. Kissed it off. Smiled. Sat back. Open to whatever he decided.

He told her everything.

Some time later they found out how much fun you could have with monsoon shower heads and a pole dancing area.

They slept, deep and relaxed, in each other's arms.

For the first time in a long time Savage didn't dream.