London Twist: A Delilah Novella

persuasion.”
    “Okay, now you’ve gotten me excited. When will you know?”
    “I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow and see what I can find out. And I’ll use all my persuasive talents.”
    Fatima laughed. “They don’t have a chance.”
    • • •
    She met Kent the next day at The Fumoir at Claridge’s Hotel, just a few blocks from the Connaught. It was the second entry on Kent’s list, and when she’d called him that morning from a public booth, she decided it made as much sense as any of the other places he’d proposed on the thumb drive.
    In fact, the bar was spectacular—dark, mysterious, hidden behind a gorgeous Art Deco door. Proper London ladies and well-heeled tourists were enjoying afternoon tea in the lobby; the main bar was similarly replete with the champagne-only set; and here was this 1930s speakeasy, all aubergine velvet and etched glass and hushed conversation. There was room for maybe a dozen people, and she was glad they were there in the afternoon. In the evening, she doubted they could have counted on seats.
    Kent was waiting when she arrived, as she knew he would be, ensconced in the corner on a plush bench. She wondered whether the early arrivals were tactical for him, or if the behavior was driven more by the pleasure of feeling at home in such a gem while waiting for the woman he was designated to meet. Probably both. Once again he was playing the stylish financier: a navy windowpane three-button, a purple striped shirt, an even darker purple tie. There were a few other men in suits, apparently powerful enough, or irresponsible enough, to disappear from the office for a cocktail in the middle of the day. But none of them wore his clothes as well as Kent. He got up when he saw Delilah and kissed her on both cheeks.
    “Well, hello there,” he said. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
    She sat across from him. “Really? Why are your eyes sore?”
    He chuckled. “You know, if you stay this prickly with me, I’ll only conclude it’s because you’ve taken a fancy. And the more you deny it, the more I’ll be certain I’m right.”
    She liked his arrogance, even if she had no intention of succumbing to it. “You can think anything you like. I wouldn’t want reality to intrude on your reveries.”
    “Oh, you have no idea. Would you like a drink?”
    She looked around. “I suppose it would be a shame not to.”
    “Yes, it is gorgeous isn’t it? Say what you like about the decline of the Empire, but my God, we know how to do a bar.” He signaled the bartender. “Two, please, Niall. Thank you.”
    “Why am I not surprised you know the bartender?”
    “Darling, I know the bartender at every London establishment worth a damn. When you have what Niall’s going to make you, you’ll be glad I do. And I know, I know, I was supposed to defer to you by letting you order for yourself. But don’t let’s argue, all right? I know the venue and I think I know you. If I’m wrong, you can throw it in my face. If I’m right, all I’ll need for thanks is the pleasure of watching you enjoy it. Fair enough?”
    She shook her head. The man really was incorrigible. She might have told him as much, but was pretty sure it would only turn him on. Better to just let him have his fun.
    While they waited for the drinks, they made small talk about London like any two normal people meeting in a bar and getting to know each other. After a few minutes, a waiter brought over two dewy cocktail glasses, each filled with a semitransparent golden mixture. When the man had departed, Kent raised his glass. “To your success.”
    They touched glasses and drank. Kent was looking at her expectantly. “Well? Are you going to throw it in my face?”
    “No, it’s actually quite delicious. What is it?”
    “It’s called an Afterglow. Gin, absinthe, Amaro, ginger, lemon, orange, and nutmeg. All the major food groups. Had one at the Flatiron Lounge in New York and told Niall all about it. I like his interpretation better—less sweet, and served up, too. Packs a punch, though. Be careful.”
    Afterglow. Well, at least he had the class, and the sense, not to order Sex on the Beach or something like that. And it was good.
    She briefed him on her progress with Fatima. He was as curious about what had happened in front of Momtaz as she was.
    “They felt like bodyguards,” Delilah said, “not Samaritans. And it didn’t feel like just a job, either. They hit those two guys like guard dogs off the