dark spiked hairdo, no doubt to shift focus from an over-long nose. “She’s our flatmate. You won’t find her at home. She’s out looking for Trace.”
“And Trace would be?”
“One of our mates,” the cheeky one supplied, still eyeing him over. “Trace is always getting herself into trouble. Caro likes to keep an eye on her.”
“Any idea where she might have headed? I need to discuss a business matter with her. It’s urgent.”
The two girls looked at each other, before deciding on giving him the information he sought. Evidently he had passed muster. “I’d say Trace’s little hidey-hole,” Cheeky said. “She doesn’t live here; can’t afford it. We can’t either, only for Caro. She helps us out. She’s not in any trouble, is she?” Both girls suddenly looked concerned.
“Of course not. I only need to speak to her. Where does Trace—I assume that’s Tracey—live?”
Cheeky supplied the address which was in a less salubrious inner-city suburb. He knew he could find it easily.
A narrow winding street snaked between too many overhanging trees. He didn’t like the idea of a young girl walking down this street at night. He would make a call the next morning to see if he could get those trees loped. He parked behind a car with a personalised number-plate that as good as announced Carol Emmett was inside. She was exactly where her flat-mates had said she would be, checking on Trace; he didn’t like it. Whether her name had changed to Emmett or not, everyone knew she was Selwyn Chancellor’s granddaughter, albeit estranged. It was her grandfather’s dying wish she revert to her father’s name. From now on Carol Chancellor would need a bodyguard. Such a man would have to be unobtrusive, very probably with his function kept from his charge.
He exited his car and locked it, looking up at an old Victorian house that had been converted into flats. It would have been an impressive house in its day. It still was, despite the current owner’s neglect. There was no security. That didn’t surprise him. The front door was even ajar. He pushed it gently, walking into the hallway before scanning the names of the tenants listed on the wall. Not that he needed to. The girls had told him that Trace lived with her boyfriend in flat number six. The tone had indicated they didn’t approve of Trace’s boyfriend, who wasn’t a university student. “Calls himself a chef,” Cheeky had supplied with a snort. “Works in a sandwich bar.”
“He was a chef, Amanda. Got kicked out. Temper, remember?”
He was halfway up the stairs when he heard shouting. The language was far from polite. He took the rest of the stairs at a rush. A raised male voice drowned out a young woman’s. The accent was educated, though she wasn’t averse to the odd swear word or two. She didn’t sound afraid, rather she sounded angry, challenging. With the wrong man that tone of voice was courting trouble. He had real reason to be concerned. He didn’t think that voice belonged to Tracey. It belonged to Carol Emmett, soon to be Chancellor again.
He moved silently to the door and gave it a thump with his fist. The scruffy young man that came to the door was maybe twenty-five or-six, handsome, not tall but heavily muscled. He was wearing a tight T-shirt, no doubt to show off his physique. He looked strong. But depressingly stupid.
“What d’ya want?”
“Well, that’s to the point, if nothing else.” The show of aggression did nothing for Damon. “I’d like a word with Ms Emmett, if I may? She’s inside, isn’t she?”
“Why would she wanna talk to you? Slumming, are yah?” The veins on the young man’s neck were standing out.
“Can I have your name?” Damon asked crisply.
That confused the guy. “Yah gotta be joking.”
“Not at all.” Damon stared him down. “Step away from the door, please. I want to see Ms Emmett and her friend, Tracey. Do I take it you’re the boyfriend?”
The young man fired up. “Get outta here. You’re not the cops.” He went to slam the door, only Damon shoved him out of the way and drove the door forward. At the same time he sighted a young dark-haired woman slumped in a chair. The cheekbone nearest him was heavily bruised, the eye almost closed. That upset him; he had seen too many incidences of abuse of women by their partners. The worst part was the victims often backed up for more. The damage was as much psychological as physical. Some women actually believed they had been asking for punishment.
Another young woman, who had to be Carol Emmett, was hurrying from the direction of the kitchen, clutching an ice-pack like a weapon. His immediate impression was she was infinitely lovelier in the flesh. He took in the tousled mane of ruby hair, her glowing skin—he had never seen skin glow like that—and her beautiful eyes of an intense sparkling blue. She was dressed in a short silk tunic, turquoise with a broad band of amethyst at the hem. It showed off her slender legs to perfection. There wasn’t a hint of a generous curve. She was built like a ballerina. She even had a ballerina’s trick of appearing to be in motion when she wasn’t.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded in that clear voice that gave notice she would soon find out. So, an imperious bantam weight! She could only be five-three at most. “Who are you?” She gave Damon a sharp, questioning look.
He darn near laughed, only the boyfriend took advantage of the distraction. He made a fist around the set of keys he quickly yanked out of the door, and then came at Damon in a bullocking rush, swearing and snarling.
Two things happened at once. Carol Emmett, blue eyes blazing, hurled the icepack like a missile at the boyfriend’s head. It missed, but only because Damon, using his height and speed advantage, had his assailant in a deftly imposed arm-lock. The violent boyfriend was on his knees, his left arm twisted high behind his back, his right arm anchored to the floor with Damon’s shoe pressed down hard on his hand.
“You’re dead, mate.” The boyfriend made the threat, straining unsuccessfully to free himself.
“Gosh, I won’t sleep at night.” Damon got a grip on the guy’s shirt collar before heaving him up into a chair which the enterprising Ms Emmett pushed into position.
“This is called instant bonding.” She met his eyes, her lovely mouth upturned in a smile.
“You’re shaping up as a pretty good offsider. I’m your new solicitor, by the way. I’m quite prepared to act for Tracey. This is the guy who assaulted her?”
A denial came on a burst of genuine outrage. “Come on! I just smacked her around a little. She likes it.”
Tracey didn’t say anything, but Carol Emmett exploded. “It’s a good thing I got here when I did.” She looked directly at Damon, her face filled with disgust. “God knows what might have happened. This isn’t the first time, is it, Tarik?” she said with searing contempt.
“You’re no pal of Tracey’s,” he yelled over his shoulder, clenching every muscle. “This is all your fault! Why don’t you mind your own business? I’ll get square. Don’t you worry about that.”
Angered by the threat, Damon exerted ever-increasing pressure.
“You’ll break my bloody arm, mate.” Tarik, the abuser, was full of self-pity.
“It is possible,” Damon said, the voice of dispassion, knowing the point to stop. “Call the police, Carol.” He looked to her, not absolutely sure she wasn’t planning to hit the boyfriend with the glass paperweight near to hand.
“No, no!” Tracey finally found her voice. The note in her voice sent a shiver down Damon’s spine. Hadn’t he heard that note before?
Carol rounded on her friend, looking dismayed. “What’s wrong with you, Trace? Can’t you see what this guy’s capable of?”
“Why don’t you sit down, Ms Emmett?” Damon advised, trying to steer the situation into calmer waters. “Let me ask the questions.”
She raised her brows. “Go right