Demon on a Distant Shore Read Online Free PDF Page B

UK’s version of Guantanamo Bay?
    I tried not to catch their eyes. Just a tourist. An innocent, naive American tourist. Damn, I should have brought along a camera and looked the part.
    I didn’t much like Heathrow, which was really noisy and crowded with travelers brutally shoving a path between those in their way, not watching where they or their bags went. We finally got outside to a large, brightly illuminated plaza an hour after landing and stopped to get our bearings. A lot of people and vehicles were around for that early in the morning. Taxis and buses lined up at the far curb. Men and women huddled near ash cans as they frantically sucked on cigarettes before going inside the terminal.
    The first impressions to flood my brain were not promising. The air reeked with the smell of gasoline, diesel and damp garbage. The sky seemed too low and all cloud, and a light rain drizzled down. The humidity made me feel dirty and sticky. I was dirty and sticky.
    “Ah, there we are.” Royal lifted one hand and waved in the direction of the street.
    “There we are where . . . or what?”
    He pointed. A tall man held a placard aloft as his eyes searched the crowd. Dressed in a black suit, he stood in front of a long, gleaming navy-blue car. The white placard said MORTENSEN in big, black capital letters.
    I’d not slept in forever. I felt very tired and very irritable. “Explain, please, before I pick up the nearest Brit and beat you over the head with him.”
    “He’ll take us to the car rental agency.” Royal started off, case trundling behind him.
    I couldn’t identify the big showy car but it was obviously a classic. I didn’t care, as long as it was comfortable. The driver opened the near passenger door as we approached, then stepped forward. “Marninsur. Oymfranklin. Uryurbagsontway?”
    Huh? I scowled. I thought Brits spoke English.
    Royal bent his head close to mine and interpreted in a whisper. “Morning, Sir. I’m Franklin. Are your bags on the way?”
    Remembering his snigger when I naively said going to England couldn’t be too bad because we speak the same language, I gave him a filthy look.
    “Good morning, Franklin.” Royal collapsed the handle on his suitcase. “No, this is it.”
    Franklin grabbed Royal’s case and nodded at my little wheeled bag. “Butmadamsur?”
    “But Madam’s, Sir?” Royal whispered.
    I unsubtly jabbed my elbow in his ribs.
    “Madam prefers to travel light,” he told Franklin.
    Franklin didn’t bat an eye. He took our bags and stowed them in the trunk as I slid in the back seat. Royal climbed in beside me. Franklin got in the driver’s seat, the car rumbled to life and pulled smoothly from the curb.
    Excuse my ignorance, but I thought an airport called London-Heathrow sat slap-bang in the middle of London. Countryside surrounded the airport complex, with grass, bushes and trees alongside the road, and a smatter of houses here and there.
    Royal put his arm across my shoulders, hugging me to his side. His body heat felt wonderful, as if a big, warm blanket cuddled me. I breathed in his sandalwood and amber scent and experienced a tingle which, given our location, was totally inappropriate. I squirmed.
    “Are you feeling okay?” he asked.
    “More than okay.” My hand fell on his thigh. I squeezed. He tensed, hard muscle bulking to fill my palm.
    He cleared his throat, his breath swept over my ear. “Franklin is watching.”
    “I’m sure he sees plenty of action in the back of this heap.” I met Franklin’s eyes in the rearview mirror and wiggled my eyebrows.
    Unfortunately I don’t possess the audacity to make out in the back of a hired car. With a sigh, I eased away, let my head fall back and closed my eyes. Exhaustion must have gotten the better of me, because I opened them to find myself curled against Royal, my head resting on his chest, my arm over it beneath his jacket. His arm lay over my back with his hand tucked in my armpit to stop me sliding down.
    I