If It Drives (Market Garden, #7)(11)

“Callum,” he said with a slight nod.

“Sir.”

Their eyes met. James was all businessman bravado tonight, but that wavered just a little as the eye contact lingered. He lowered his gaze and cleared his throat.

“I have an appointment in London. Seven thirty, probably ending around midnight.”

Cal nodded. He pulled open the car door. The long meetings didn’t bother him. He kept a notebook in the car and could spend the evening writing. On the clock, no less.

James glanced at the open door, but didn’t move. “Uh, about last night . . .”

Fuck. Here we go.

Cal resisted the urge to let his nerves show. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m, um . . .” James cleared his throat again. “I wanted to apologise for keeping you past your shift for, uh, inappropriate . . .”

“It’s all right, sir. Water under the bridge.” He gestured at the car. “Your meeting?”

James still didn’t move. He slid his hand into his coat. As he withdrew a white envelope, Cal gulped. His walking papers? Severance pay? Oh f*ck, he really was getting fired.

“I didn’t feel it was right to keep you so late without compensation.” He held out the envelope. “This should cover it.”

“Oh. Uh.” Uncertain what else to do, Cal took the envelope. “Thank you, sir.”

“Right.” James gave a sharp nod, and then slid into the car.

Cal closed the door, and for a second, just stared at the envelope. He could see through the semitransparent white paper and made out the shapes of a few bank notes. More than one, judging by the thickness. Hush money? No, that couldn’t be it. Who would possibly care? Unless James didn’t want his ex-wife finding out he had a thing for men, hired or otherwise; he barely saw his kids as it was, and she didn’t need any ammunition to get his visitation reduced.

Shaking his head, he went around to the driver’s side and got in the car. He put his cap on his notebook on the passenger seat, and tossed the envelope on top. As he drove away from the house, thankful the privacy screen was still up, he glanced at the envelope a couple of times.

Was it hush money? It couldn’t really be compensation for his time.

Well, you’ll still be paid for the same hours, James had said last night.

After all, Cal had been on the clock. He’d already been scheduled to be on duty until late last night because he’d taken James to—

Cal’s heart stopped.

His gaze slid towards the envelope again before he quickly shifted it back to the road.

He’d been on duty. Already fully compensated for an evening that included taking James to Market f*cking Garden. Had he just been paid . . . for sex?

Cal gripped the wheel tighter, a weird feeling coiling in his gut. Holy shit. He couldn’t interpret it any other way: James had just paid him for being a substitute for one of the rentboys who usually took care of his needs.

Oh my God. Did he just pay me to be his whore?

He quickly glanced at the privacy screen and wished he could see James and demand an answer to that question.

Breathe, Cal. Getting upset about this won’t get him safely where he has to go.

He focused on the traffic, though people around him usually drove extra carefully. He suspected they were worried they couldn’t afford what it would cost to fix the limo—but there were pushy cabbies and of course the occasional oblivious cyclist with a death wish, especially in London, and the financial district had a number of dangerous spots. Hell, hadn’t Goldman Sachs recently closed down a road because a number of cyclists had ended up dead there? He’d read something like that in the papers.

Talking of papers—James had carried his briefcase, so he was likely working. Distracting the financial wizard before a meeting important enough to be held on the weekend? Hell no. Whatever had happened between them, and whatever the cash-stuffed envelope actually meant, Cal would not be unprofessional about it.

The address was a posh French restaurant in Kensington, and after dropping James off, Cal busied himself with searching for a parking place. He found one several streets away from the restaurant. It wasn’t as close as he’d have preferred, but he had four-and-a-half hours to prowl closer. He spent the evening scribbling in the notebook propped against the wheel and looking for a better position every now and then, dashing out of his parking space when he saw an opening, and fending off other hopeful parkers trying to take it.

By midnight, he was just twenty meters away from the restaurant. He was checking his watch now, and keeping an eye on his phone, too, but the meeting was clearly overrunning. He didn’t like that at all. It happened on occasion and always made him nervous. Cal told himself this had to be important if James allowed them to keep him, but late dinner meetings usually meant less dining and more drinking, which meant a good possibility of Cal pouring James into bed at the end of the night. Or at least, that would be what was expected of him. Tonight, he had a mind to leave James on his own. If that meant letting him pass out in the living room and rumple his expensive suit? Fine.

He put the notebook away and kept looking at the restaurant’s entrance.

Ten past.

Fifteen past.

He looked at the envelope again, weighed it. Felt like maybe five, six bills? A hundred quid? It was a nice round sum. Fifty or so, if it was tenners. Damn. He opened the envelope; it wasn’t closed properly anyway, just the flap tucked in.