Alberto was out of the car in an instant, holding her, stopping her from falling to the pavement. He pulled her in tight against him.
‘Shh, baby,’ he murmured, kissing her hair. ‘Come on. Get in the car. Everything’s going to be all right.’
She was safe, bundled into the car, enfolded in luxury, leather, and Alberto’s arms.
‘Drive,’ he said to Sandor.
Everything was going to be all right, Alberto kept telling her over and over, kissing her eyes, her flushed, tear-stained cheeks, her hair, while he hugged her tight.
But it wasn’t.
Layla knew it was never going to be all right, not ever again.
Sandor drove them to Claridge’s in Brook Street. Layla, dazed and bedraggled, crossed the reception area with Alberto and stood silent as they got into the lift. Only when they were upstairs and the butler was leading them through a pair of huge rosewood and brass doors did she look around her and think What am I doing here?
They went on into a drawing room with sofas grouped around an original fireplace in which a real fire crackled and burned with a rosy glow. There were thick rugs, polished wooden floors, sunflower yellow on the walls, mirrors, big glossy plants, oil paintings. She gazed up at the barrel-vaulted ceiling, then out of the big French doors at the terrace laid out with chairs, table, everything one could possibly need or want. Beyond, there was a rooftop view of the heart of Mayfair.
‘Shall I pour the champagne, sir?’ asked the butler.
‘No. Thank you. I’ll see to it.’
The butler departed.
Alberto took off his coat and watched at her as she stood taking it all in.
‘I didn’t know you had a suite here,’ she said, slumping down on a damask-covered sofa.
‘I stay here sometimes. In the circumstances,’ he said, picking up the chilled bottle of Laurent-Perrier from the ice-bucket, ‘it seemed a better idea than taking you home. You know how to open champagne? You twist the bottle, not the cork.’ The cork popped obligingly out, and Alberto filled two flutes.
‘I don’t think I can drink anything,’ said Layla.
‘Yeah, you can,’ he said, and brought the two glasses over, placing them on the table in front of the sofa. ‘Take a sip. I’m going to ring your mom, let her know you’re OK.’
He went off into another room. Layla was shivering now. She realized she must have been in a state of shock, causing her mind to take off, out of her control. She opened her bag, saw the knife. Precious was dead. Would she, could she, have used it? She’d already crossed a line; already killed someone.
Shuddering, she reached for the champagne and sipped it. It was fresh, light, and warming. She sat back, nursing the glass against her chest, and closed her eyes.