The Taste of Fear by Jeremy Bates Page A

close to the escort’s side until she was climbing the steps to the villa. In the bathroom she washed up, brushed her teeth, then slipped into a pair of silk pajamas. She got into bed, making sure she kept on her side of the line. She poked Sal. This was something else she’d missed tremendously while Sal had been away: poking him. He might be her mafia don during the daytime, but he’d always been her cuddly teddy bear at night.
    “You awake?” she said.
    “Am now.” His voice was disembodied in the dark.
    “Are you feeling better yet?”
    “Yes, I think so.”
    “Will you be okay for tomorrow?”
    “I should be fine.”
    “Good.” She was quiet for a moment. The silence was absolute. “I met a man after you left.”
    “Should I be the one calling my lawyers this time?”
    “Not funny, Sal. Anyway, his name was Benjamin Hill. I think he was walking around without an escort. We need an escort if we—”
    Sal made a small rumble. Laughter?
    “What?” she asked.
    “Benjamin Hill?” There was definitely amusement in his voice. “Was he an old British chap?”
    “Irish,” she said, frowning. “You know him?”
    “Sure.”
    “But how?”
    “I’ve seen him on TV. He had his own show.”
    It clicked. “He was more Sean Connery than Benny Hill.”
    Never one for pillow talk, Sal didn’t say anything more, and soon he was breathing the regular rhythm of sleep. She closed her eyes.
    Sometime later Scarlett was shaken awake. She sat up. It took her a moment before she remembered she wasn’t in her bed in LA.
    “Someone’s outside,” Sal said quietly.
    The words cut through her sleepiness like a knife.
    “What?”
    “I heard a noise.”
    “Where?”
    “Shhh.”
    Scarlett listened. All was perfectly quiet. “I don’t hear anything,” she whispered.
    “Listen.”
    Then she heard something on the other side of the wall, right behind the headboard. It sounded like leaf litter crunching under a heavy weight. “That’s an animal,” she said. “What else could it be?” She clamped her mouth shut.
    The Prince Tower. The fire.
    Had someone followed Sal all the way to Africa?
    Her fear surged. Had she locked the door? God, did the door even have a lock?
    “Do something,” she hissed.
    Sal shifted off the bed. He crossed the room, pulled back the curtains, and opened the balcony door. A cool lavender-scented breeze swept into the room. He stepped outside. Looked left and right. Went left. Three steps later he was beyond the glass and out of sight.
    The seconds slugged by. Scarlett heard nothing more. No shouts of alarm. No scuffle. Nothing. Which, she realized with dread, was the sound an assassin made. Paranoia swelled inside her as she imagined Sal lying in the bushes, his throat slit. She called out, not caring who heard her.
    “Come here,” Sal replied.
    She exhaled the breath she’d been holding, got out of bed, went to the balcony. She crossed the threshold to the wooden veranda. The cold wind played around her wrists and ankles and slipped down the throat of her pajama top, causing her nipples to harden and gooseflesh to break out on her skin. She followed the veranda left and found Sal leaning up against the railing, his elbows on the header, his arms crossed in front of him, like he was watching a Sunday afternoon baseball game in the park. She scanned the darkness below.
    Two jackals were sitting on their haunches in a patch of bracken, licking their fur.
    Sal barked. The jackals looked up. Their yellow eyes shone in the dark, indifferent yet somehow malevolent, like they belonged to a stranger who might stab you in the back if you gave him the opportunity.
    “Sal, stop it,” she whispered.
    “They’re just dogs.”
    “They’re dangerous dogs.”
    “They can’t get up here.”
    “What if they wait around until the next time you’re crossing the grounds to the main lodge?”
    “They’re brainless animals. And brainless animals don’t hold grudges.”
    Back inside, Scarlett