A Place of Hiding by Elizabeth George Page B

floor. Deborah tossed it on the hearth, where Peach went to investigate.
    Simon said reflectively, “Cherokee River?”
    â€œChina's brother,” Deborah said in reply.
    Simon looked at the man, who'd begun to shiver. “From California?”
    â€œYes. China. From Santa Barbara. Cherokee, what on earth . . . ? Here.
Do
sit down. Please sit by the fire. Simon, is there a blanket . . . ? A towel . . . ?”
    â€œI'll fetch them.”
    â€œDo hurry!” Deborah cried, for stripped of his jacket Cherokee had begun to shake like a man who was bordering on convulsions. His skin was so white that it was cast with blue, and his teeth had bitten a tear in his lip that was starting to ooze blood onto his chin. This was in addition to a nasty-looking cut on his temple, which Deborah examined, saying, “This needs a plaster. What's
happened
to you, Cherokee? You've not been mugged?” Then, “No. Don't answer. Let me get you something to warm you up first.”
    She hurried to the old drinks trolley that sat beneath the window overlooking Cheyne Row. There, she poured a stiff glass of brandy, which she took to Cherokee and pressed upon him.
    Cherokee raised the glass to his mouth, but his hands were shaking so badly that the glass merely chattered against his teeth and most of the brandy spilled down the front of his black T-shirt, which was wet like the rest of him. He said, “Shit. Sorry, Debs.” Either his voice, his condition, or the spilling of the drink seemed to disconcert Peach, for the little dog left off sniffing Cherokee's drenched jacket and began to bark at him again.
    Deborah hushed the dachshund, who wouldn't be still till she'd hauled her from the room and sent her to the kitchen. “She thinks she's a Doberman,” Deborah said wryly. “No one's ankles are safe around her.”
    Cherokee chuckled. Then a tremendous shudder took his body, and the brandy he was holding sloshed round inside the glass. Deborah joined him on the ottoman and put her arm round his shoulders. “Sorry,” he said again. “I got really freaked out.”
    â€œDon't apologise. Please.”
    â€œI've been wandering around in the rain. Smacked into a tree branch over near the river. I thought the bleeding stopped.”
    â€œDrink the brandy,” Deborah said. She was relieved to hear that he'd not fallen into some sort of trouble on the street. “Then I'll see to your head.”
    â€œIs it bad?”
    â€œJust a cut. But it does need seeing to. Here.” She had a tissue in her pocket and she used this to dab at the blood. “You've given us a surprise. What're you doing in London?”
    The study door opened and Simon returned. He carried both a towel and a blanket. Deborah took them from him, draping one round Cherokee's shoulders and using the other on his dripping hair. This was shorter than it had been during the years that Deborah had lived with the man's sister in Santa Barbara. But it was still wildly curly, so different to China's, as was his face, which was sensuous with the sort of heavily lidded eyes and full-lipped mouth that women pay surgeons mightily to create on them. He'd inherited all of the desirability genes, China River had often said of her brother, while she'd ended up looking like a fourth-century ascetic.
    â€œI called you first.” Cherokee clutched the blanket tightly. “At nine, this was. Chine gave me your address and number. I didn't think I'd need them, but then the plane was delayed because of the weather. And when there was finally a break in the storm, it was too damn late to go to the embassy. So I called you, but no one was here.”
    â€œThe embassy?” Simon took Cherokee's glass and replaced his spilled brandy with more. “What's happened exactly?”
    Cherokee took the brandy, nodding his thanks. His hands were steadier. He gulped at the drink but began to cough.
    â€œYou need to get out of those