Reluctantly, she did, waiting for those enormous teeth to take off a couple of fingers. But Nagsy snuffled at her hand, his whiskers tickling her, and picked off the carrot with surprising delicacy. She rubbed his nose, thinking that horses weren’t so scary after all.
Like men. They were big and dumb but would do what they were told.
‘You look at home like that,’ Frankie said. ‘A real Irish colleen.’
She stiffened. ‘I’m not Irish. Don’t ever say that.’
He gave her a knowing look. ‘So you’ve taken to lying to yourself now?’
She was so furious she wanted to spit. ‘How dare you? I’m as English as you. Just because I was born in some crappy hippie commune in the west of Ireland does not make me Irish.’
‘Being born in a stable does not make one a horse?’ quoted Frankie. ‘Your mother was Irish, your father was half-Irish, you were born here and grew up there.’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘If it waddles like a duck and quacks …’
What had got into him? ‘You know damn well it was nothing like that. My mother didn’t bother registering my birth. There are no records anywhere linking me to Ireland. When Dad was going to England for a job, she told him to take me with him and she kept my sister. Do you have any idea how much trouble he had faking a birth certificate just so I could go to school?’
The memory still burnt. She had been a year older than all the other children because it had taken so long to get a convincing set of documents before she could enrol. Then the other children had mocked her accent and the colour of her hair and the clothes her dad had bought her. He did his best, but he had no clue about bringing up an unruly child.
Roisin O’Sullivan had turned into Roz Spring, she had lost any trace of an Irish accent, and she had learnt to blend in.
She turned her back on Frankie. ‘Discussion over, I’m going to work.’ She stamped away, leaving him with Nagsy.
By evening, she was ready to call it a day. She had been ‘killed’ fourteen times, and knocked on her ass so often she had lost count.
She had changed into a pair of leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, and was preparing to nurse her bruises when a knock on the caravan door announced a visitor. Cheyenne Knight was outside, clutching a large bag. ‘Well, are you ready?’
‘Ready?’ Roz had kicked off her shoes, preparing to spend the evening reading one of Frankie’s books about Shergar. No harm to know a bit more, even if she had no intention of running the con.
‘Yes, you said we were going into town tonight, pretend to be sisters. I can’t wait.’ Cheyenne looked so hopeful Roz didn’t have the heart to refuse her.
She pulled on her shoes. ‘Sure, I was waiting for you. Let’s go.’
Cheyenne had never ridden a motorbike before, and her Versace jacket wasn’t up to the job, so Roz grabbed one of Frankie’s jackets for her. Cheyenne snuggled into it, looking far happier than Roz would have expected.
The ride to the gate was dark and bumpy, and Cheyenne gripped Roz’s waist tightly, but the main road to Tullamore was easier going, and they could see more of the Irish countryside. The town was sprawling and old-fashioned and the hump-backed bridge over the canal caught Roz by surprise.
‘Eeek!’ Cheyenne exclaimed, gripping even more tightly. Roz was sweating by the time she glided to a halt in the centre of the town.
Inside the bar, it was dim and cosy. The barman assured them they could have food and handed her a laminated card. Roz saw Cheyenne grapple with the menu. It contained a lot of meat fried in different ways.
‘You’ve no egg-white omelettes? Or sushi? Something low fat?’
The barman peered at her. ‘You’re that American actress, Charlene Knight, right?’
‘It’s Cheyenne.’ The actress sighed before her face assumed a professional smile. ‘If you have a low-carb option, that would be great.’
‘No, we don’t do that fancy stuff. Only what’s on the menu, but I could do you a sandwich without butter if you like.’
Cheyenne shuddered. ‘Can we have a drink while we’re deciding? Something Irish?’
‘Sure thing.’ The barman poured out two glasses of a dark beer, letting them sit for a while before he topped them up to reveal a creamy white head. After looking at Cheyenne, he poured a measure of blackcurrant into both of them. ‘There you go, Guinness and black.’
It was a lot different from her usual red wine, but Roz decided she could get used to it. By the time Cheyenne had decided on salmon and salad, and Roz had ordered steak and garlic potatoes, they had finished their drinks. Roz switched to alcohol-free beer and Cheyenne was sipping her second Guinness.
Maybe it was the food, the dim pub, the alcohol, but something snapped in Cheyenne. With almost no warning, she told Roz about her disastrous marriage.
‘How was I to know he didn’t like sex? They should tell you this stuff before they marry you. Or maybe it was sex with me that he didn’t like.’
She took another huge gulp of her Guinness, no longer wincing at the bitter aftertaste. ‘Maybe I am too fat for him. But dammit, I try. I diet and I work out and I do yoga and Pilates and swim and lift weights.’
Where had this come from? They had been talking about how hot Jack Winter was and how much he adored his wife. Roz patted her on the shoulder. ‘You’re not fat or ugly. You’re a Hollywood film star.’
Cheyenne snorted, causing a bit of froth to hit her nose. She continued without noticing it. ‘It doesn’t matter how much I work out, I can’t make myself younger. No man is ever going to hit on me again. Do you know how long it is since I had an orgasm?’
‘Not really my business.’ Roz shoved her side dish at the older woman. ‘Try some of the garlic potatoes, they’ll give you an orgasm.’
‘I might as well eat garlic. No man is ever going to be interested in me again. It doesn’t matter if my breath stinks.’
‘That’s not true. You’re gorgeous.’
Cheyenne sniffed, on the verge of tears. ‘No, I’m fat and ugly. And look, no one has tried to hit on me once tonight.’
Roz was torn between impatience and sympathy. ‘That’s because they’re Irish, and the Irish are even more socially inept than the English. I bet that you could have any man in this pub. Hell, you could have every man in this pub.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
It was time to bring out the big guns. If there was one thing Roz had learnt from a year working as a pro-Domme, it was how to deal with men. She sat up and prepared to release her inner Domme.
She pulled off her baggy jumper, revealing a slim-fitting tank top. It wasn’t glamorous or sexy, but it showed the shape of her body. She looked around the pub slowly, catching the eye of every man there, and could feel the rise of sexual tension that rippled in the wake of her glance.
There, in the corner, that was the one. He was probably twenty-three or -four, but nice looking. Roz held his eyes for a long moment, and then beckoned him over. He almost tipped over his table in his eagerness to get to her side.
She held out her hand to him. ‘Hi, I’m Roz, and this is my friend Cheyenne.’
He gripped it, trembling with eagerness. ‘I’m Conor. Nice to meet you, Roz and Cheyenne.’
Roz lowered her voice to a throaty purr. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Conor.’ She indicated Cheyenne’s empty glass. ‘I think my friend needs another drink.’
Conor whipped his wallet out of his pocket so quickly he dropped it and flushed bright red. He knelt down on the floor to pick it up.
‘Oh, you look right at home there,’ Roz told him.
He looked up, blushing. ‘What?’
‘You look right at home there, kneeling at the feet of a beautiful woman. Isn’t she the most stunning woman you’ve ever seen?’
Dazed, not sure what had happened, Conor stared up at Cheyenne. ‘Yes, she is. She’s amazing.’
Tentatively, Cheyenne reached out and patted his head. ‘You’re so sweet.’ He kissed her hand, and stayed where he was.
‘Now it’s your turn,’ Roz told her. ‘Pick out another one and bring him over here.’
‘Are you sure?’ Cheyenne asked, stunned by the turn of events.
Roz nodded, and watched while Cheyenne examined the men in the pub. The two women were now the centre of attention, and it was easy for her to find one who looked eager. She beckoned to him, but seemed shocked when he came immediately. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he asked.
Cheyenne nodded, and he sat down beside her.
After that, they were mobbed. Every man there descended, looking for a sliver of attention from the two femmes fatales at the bar.
‘What did you do?’ Cheyenne demanded when they left an hour later.
‘What we did.’ Roz grinned at her while she unlocked the motorbike. ‘Nothing. We allowed the men to show us how much they liked us.’
She shook her head. ‘No, it was more than that.’
Roz pulled out her helmet and handed one to Cheyenne. ‘Men are simple creatures. They like women. They like women’s bodies, real bodies, not Barbie-shaped ones. They like being told what to do. All we did was show them what we wanted and they did it.’
Cheyenne sang under her breath on the ride home, and Roz congratulated herself on a job well done.
Back in the caravan, she realized she hadn’t been applying her knowledge to her own life. It was time to remind Andy who was in charge.
<Show me your cock> she messaged him.
<What?>
<Send me a picture of your cock.> Simple, clear, direct. That should do it.
<If you insist.>
She didn’t know why she was disappointed.
The minutes ticked by, while she waited in the silence of the caravan.
Six minutes later, her phone beeped. She opened it to see the picture. A black rooster with a huge red wattle glared into the camera with his beak open. <Sorry, my cock doesn’t like being woken up at this hour.>
She laughed.
Her phone beeped again. <Now your pussy.>
She messaged back. <It’s out. Catching mice. Good night.>
Andy glanced at his watch. He wasn’t going to fall asleep again after that little exchange. And what the hell was Roz doing up at this hour? Was she drunk? Horny? He entertained himself with a brief fantasy of a tipsy, sexually aroused Roz clambering onto bed eager to take advantage of him.
Usually he liked to be in charge, but could he submit to her?
No. He decided. He was certain that if Roz got something too easily, she would have no respect for it. The woman had the attention span of a mayfly. She needed a strong man, someone who would challenge her in every way – in and out of the bedroom.
Someone like him.
No. No. No. He was not going there. He had enough troubles on his plate at the moment without inviting more into his life. Once he was sure his father was on the road to recovery he would go back to work. Hunt Roz down. Return her to her sister and get as far the hell away as he could.
8
In the early hours of the morning, Roz lay in the narrow bed, wondering how Andy was. Damn it, she didn’t want to think about him. That was never going to end well, but she couldn’t resist taking out her phone and checking. He was online. Roz hesitated. This online thing with Andy was turning into a habit. One that she didn’t want to break.
‘Oh, don’t be silly. It’s not as if he knows where you are.’ She messaged him.
<Are you there? Or are you out having a wild time?>
The answer came immediately. <No. I’m at home. My dad had a heart attack.>
She hadn’t expected that. <Oh crap. How is he?>
<Okay. He discharged himself from hospital, but he’s …> There was a pause before he continued. <I can’t believe how old he looks.>
She knew that feeling. The first time she saw her dad in prison, she had been horrified. The man who had met her wearing prison overalls looked three sizes smaller than the larger-than-life father she had grown up with. For the first time, she noticed how grey his hair was, and the lines in his face. <It’s a shock, isn’t it, when you realize your father is old?>
<Tell me about it. He looks like he’s shrunk. I’m a terrible son. I haven’t been home for eighteen months.>
<Let me guess, super spy stuff?> She grinned as she swiped the message.
<Something like that. I’ve spent more than a year chasing a redhead around Europe.>
The nerve of him. <Don’t blame me! Not my fault you didn’t visit your parents. It’s not like you can’t afford a plane ticket. I hear that O’Sullivan Air is cheap!>
<And nasty, LOL.>
She laughed. She never travelled O’Sullivan Air, even when she wasn’t in trouble. There was something about their signature yellow and green colours that made her want to barf.
Andy went on. <But the problem with visiting my parents is that they don’t want me to leave.>
A wave of longing went through Roz. What must it be like to have someone who never wanted you to leave? She wasn’t going to say that to him, so she joked, <I’d kick you out.>
<Baby, you know that’s not true.>
She laughed out loud, and Frankie turned over in his bed, so she forced herself to be quiet again. <What do your parents want you to do?>
<Take over the running of this place.>
<Poor little rich kid?> Even across the internet, the acid leached. <You don’t have any real problems.>
<Unlike you?>
<Yeah, try my life for a week and you’d run back to yours. I bet you had a nanny when you were growing up and went to a posh boarding school.>
<No nanny. Mum was very hands on. And I ran away from boarding school. Twice.>
What would a hands-on mum have been like? Roz had begged her dad for stories about her mother. She had never been real to her. The one small photograph he had was black and white, and didn’t convey any hint of the vibrant woman he told her about. And now the poor little rich boy was complaining.
<My heart bleeds for you. Try thirteen different schools. And most of them were kips. I had no mum, just a series of different ‘aunts’.>
Andy didn’t rise to her bait. <My dad is in his eighties and I have no idea what age my mum is. They have no one but me.>
<And you keep disappearing on them. Do they know what you do?>
<Not exactly. Better that way. They’d be frantic if they thought they could lose another son.>
What? She had run a computer search on Andy, but his background was a mystery. <Another son?>
<My older brother Robert died in a climbing accident while I was in Afghanistan.>
<Oh, nasty. And you’re all that’s left?>
<Yep.>
<So are you going to do what they want – stay home?>
She wished she did. <I’ve never had a home. Sometimes I wonder if it’s as good as it’s supposed to be.>
<Oh, don’t get me wrong. The place is great. If you like dodgy plumbing and wearing layers all year round to keep warm.>
<Been there, done that. Though I doubt your home is a damp B&B in Blackpool.>
The memory of that particular place made her shiver. Frankie’s little caravan, small as it was, was warm and cosy in comparison.
<Not exactly, but it’s pretty old. Think haunted house.>
<Oh cool, I always wanted to see a real ghost.>
Roz paused, and then decided to go for it. There was something about the pre-dawn silence which made it easy to ask awkward questions. <So are you, like, rich?>
<LOL. Only on paper. It costs a fortune to heat the place.>
<You should see where I’m staying now. One room has three fireplaces.>
The inside of the castle had changed her mind about a lot of things. The huge drawing room took half a forest to heat. Lucky there was one outside. From here, she could hear the trees swaying in the breeze.
Andy jumped on that, of course. <And where would that be?>
<Ah ah, no more clues. Tell me about your father.>
<Tough as old boots, deaf as a post, and believes kids should be seen and not heard.>
<But you love him?>
<He’s my father. I can’t send him back.>
Roz laughed. <LOL. Sometimes I’d like to send mine back. Most of the time, in fact, but he’s the only one I’ve got.>
<He’s still in prison?>
That wiped the smile off her face. She messaged quickly. <How did you know?>
<Super spy stuff. I know a lot about you.>
Of course he did. Why had she allowed herself to forget who he was? <Ugh, I feel violated. And not in a good way.>
<LOL. Is there a good way? I’m only doing my job, babe.>
<That’s creepy. What else do you know about me?> She might as well pump him while he was feeling chatty.
<I know that you worked as a Domme, and didn’t you work in a circus?>
He knew too damn much. She shivered. <Cirque Noir isn’t your average circus. I don’t do that kind of thing anymore. I’m done with that.>
<So you’ve turned over a new leaf. Scamming moneylenders instead?>
She was happy to change the subject. <Ah, you spotted that? A friend of mine was being fleeced by them. I thought payback was fair.>
Roz was sorry she hadn’t managed to take them for as much cash as possible while she was at it. Seeing Natalya crying every week when half her benefit went into the moneylender’s clutches had made her break her rule about staying out of sight. It had been a stupid risk but worth it.
Like an echo, Andy messaged, <Wasn’t that a bit dangerous? What if they found out?>
She wasn’t going to agree with him. <Dangerous? You have no idea what my life is like. Trust me, irate moneylenders are the least of my worries.>
<Why don’t you tell me?>
<Oh, you’re good.>
And he was. She was surprised by how tempting his offer was. She wanted to talk to someone.
<You almost had me. But it’s the middle of the night, and I have to work later today. Some other time, perhaps.> She shifted in the bed, ready to sleep.
But Andy’s message stopped her. <What are you up to this time? Robbing a bank?>