away, Annie noted as she reached the landing and looked down. She paused there, unnoticed.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine.’
‘OK,’ he said, and patted her head like she was five years old, and went off towards the kitchens.
The heavies dispersed. Layla turned back towards the drawing-room door.
‘Layla?’
Alberto was standing right beside her.
‘What?’ she asked, still hurt from earlier in the day when he had practically fucking well ignored her, after she had tried so hard to impress him.
‘Let’s talk,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve missed talking to you.’
Something going on there, thought Annie, watching the pair of them from up on the landing. Something serious. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Happy or sad. If that was the direction Layla wanted to go in, well, it wasn’t going to be easy for her, that much was for sure. Alberto had big trouble coming, she knew that. She wished she hadn’t felt the need to bring him in on this; she knew he had enough on his plate, that she had only made matters worse for him. Sighing, she carried on to her room.
Layla’s heart had picked up speed. She led the way into the drawing room and Alberto followed, closing the door behind him. Layla sat down on one of the big Knole sofas, and Alberto took off his coat, tossed it aside, and sat on the opposite one. He leaned back in the chair, raising his arms over his head, stretching, rubbing at the nape of his neck. Layla found herself having to suppress a moan.
He looks tired, she thought. She was used to seeing Alberto as all-powerful, able to solve any problem, able to handle anything, however tough, however dirty. Like her dad, he sometimes came across as frightening, aloof, invulnerable. But now she saw that he was exhausted. That his muscles were aching. That he was human.
‘What happened?’ she asked, watching his face. ‘At the Essex place?’
‘It was rigged. And we got another four-leaf clover to add to the collection.’
‘Rigged?’
‘With an explosive device.’
Layla’s eyes widened with fright. And all the time she had been sitting here, unaware. She swallowed hard, tried to compose herself. But the thought of Alberto hurt was excruciating. She remembered Constantine, his father. She’d adored him. And he had died in an explosion.
‘Your dad saved my life today,’ he said.
‘Well, that’s ironic,’ she said with forced lightness, ‘given that Dad seems to think you’ve ruined his.’
‘Your mom,’ said Alberto, nodding.
‘You know he thinks there’s been something going on between the two of you. He’s always thought so.’