No Smoke Without Fire

  Also by Claire S. Lewis

  She’s Mine

  NO SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE

  Claire S. Lewis

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Claire S. Lewis, 2020

  The moral right of Claire S. Lewis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 9781789541946

  Cover design: Charlotte Abrams-Simpson

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  Dedication

  For Graham, Christine and Nigel with love

  Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

  Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

  ‘Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard’, Thomas Gray

  Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;

  Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;

  Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.

  What is it else? A madness most discreet,

  A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

  ‘Romeo and Juliet’, William Shakespeare

  Prologue

  The dog strains on the leash, tugging his handler across the wet grass.

  Morning sunlight hits the Norman tower, crenellated in black against the shining backdrop of luminous sky. The promise of mid-summer heat shimmers in the air. But the graveyard is still shrouded in the shadow of the church – misty and grey.

  A shoe is half buried in a mound of grass cuttings and dead flowers heaped beyond the headstones next to the dry-stone wall. The dog detects it first. He barks and bats his tail before thrusting his muzzle into the steamy, rotting pile and retrieving the shoe in his soft jaws. He’s young and eager to please – unfamiliar with the rules.

  It’s a lightweight ladies’ trainer, the top brand, lightly worn, UK size five, in black breathable fabric, still tightly laced and tied in a double bow. But the dog doesn’t notice these details. All he cares about is the smell – a smell that promises patting and praise and a tasty reward.

  Though glistening with dew and encrusted with blades of grass and faded rose petals, the homely smell of her warm foot lingers in the shoe. It smells of something else too – no less appealing to the dog – salty and sweet.

  It smells of blood.

  PRESENT

  1

  I love it when You wear red. God knows, I love You in any colour. But You wore red that night at Heavana – a red dress that slipped off your shoulders and clung to your hips.

  Of course, I had seen You before. We were in the same class. But I’d never really looked at You properly. And I didn’t know what it meant to be a man until that moment when I watched You sipping Cuban cocktails and laughing with your girlfriends at the bar. You triggered something deep in my core that night. I understood right then that everything had changed.

  You’ve only got yourself to blame. Your profile was so perfect, lit in that red glow. Then You turned. Your eyes were on fire. Your lips were slightly open. You looked right past me at some other man.

  And it felt like a stab in the chest.

  That’s when it started. So now every time I see You, I see red. And every time I see red, I think of You and how I felt that night – a red sunset, a red rose, a red drop of blood – I see You and I know You are mine.

  *

  ‘We should do this more often,’ said Celeste.

  Breathless and damp from dancing, the girls were leaning across the counter, flirting shamelessly with the Australian barman who had just taken their order for mojitos and was giving them all his attention, to the irritation of other customers jostling to be served. The cocktails were outrageously expensive, but Celeste didn’t care. She was celebrating her twenty-fourth birthday, the actual date of which had fallen earlier in the week, with her two best girlfriends. Having at first resisted the idea of a big night out at Heavana Republica (dreading the inevitable grim hangover at work the following morning), now that she was here, she was determined to get drunk and have a good time.

  It was Anya who had persuaded Celeste to ditch their usual venue for a girls’ night – an authentic little Italian restaurant tucked away on one of the quiet streets in the Pimlico grid. Anya had ducked out of a client meeting at her law firm to email a screen shot of Heavana’s web page to Celeste.

  ‘Grit and glamour fuse together to create a cool and contemporary Cuban backdrop: enter the club through our rum shop to an eclectic interior shaped by exposed brickwork, graffiti-splashed walls, jazz club ceiling fans and vintage decor. Capture the exuberance and colour of Cuba on the dance floor. If it’s a chilled-out vibe you’re looking for, relax under the stars at our rooftop bar where you’ll discover the finest selection of exotic cocktails and rum this side of Havana!’

  The club was holding a red-themed ‘night before Valentine’s’ in place of their usual Thursday DJ club night.

  ‘Just the thing to shake off your February blues,’ Anya had commented at the bottom of her text, ‘#paint-the-town-red.’

  Celeste had put the phone down on the stone worktop to finish tying the roses she’d been preparing for an order when the message had flashed up on her screen. She’d caught her hand on a thorn as she trimmed the
stems. She’d licked the droplet of blood from her finger and dipped her face into the blooms to inhale their delicate fragrance before wrapping the bouquet in a length of cellophane, ready for collection by the customer.

  Why not? she’d thought. I deserve a bit of fun.

  *

  From the instant Celeste had escaped into the club, leaving behind a frozen grey townscape on a shabby stretch of the King’s Road, she had felt released from the tension of her long day’s work at the florist’s. She had mingled with the crowd of pulsating bodies on the dance floor, giving up her own body and mind to the hot, intoxicating assault of live Cuban music. Her senses were overcome by the coloured lights that swirled overhead and the pungent waves of cigar smoke, pot, sweat, perfume, aftershave and Havana Club rum as she moved among the dancers.

  Now she watched the Australian barman, her eyes drawn irresistibly to the muscles flexing in his upper arms and chest as he flicked the cocktail shaker and expertly scooped crushed ice into tall glasses and sliced the limes into quarters with a sharp knife. It might have been the alcohol she had already consumed but there was something extraordinarily sensual in the way he poured the syrup of brown sugar and rum into her glass, before topping it up with soda water and teasing sprigs of mint to the bottom with a long spoon while at the same time gently lifting the syrup and segments of lime to the surface.

  ‘This one’s on the house,’ he said sliding it across to Celeste. ‘Happy birthday to the lady in red.’ She was cashing in on the attention even though it wasn’t strictly her birthday. His eyes lingered on the curve of her shoulder.

  Two more bartenders got in on the act, pouring out shot glasses, which they distributed riotously to Celeste and her friends before helping themselves and toasting the birthday girl. It was a long time since Celeste had felt so carefree – and sexy. Generally, these days she didn’t bother much with cosmetics but she had made a special effort for this evening. She had straightened her dark blonde hair and meticulously applied her make-up, complementing highlighters and bronzers with smoky colours round her eyes to make them pop and dramatic red lipstick to match her dress. She’d ordered a new dress online especially for the occasion. It was fitted and accentuated her cleavage and bare neck. She wore no jewellery except for rows and rows of bracelets that glittered in the spotlights as she raised the glass to her lips. She was bored with the ‘ice-maiden’ label that her friends teased her with, telling her that guys were intimidated by her reserve and her Disney-princess demeanour. Well tonight she was throwing caution to the wind, putting herself out there as a vamp!

  It was true that she hadn’t had a boyfriend since she was seventeen years old. And even then, he wasn’t a proper boyfriend. God, she’d been single for almost seven years but that didn’t mean she was short of admirers. She hadn’t exactly shut herself away in an ivory tower. She just hadn’t found anyone she could get close to.

  ‘Another year older and still single. It’s not as if I haven’t put myself out there,’ she said.

  She’d been out on a couple of dates but nothing serious. In a moment of weakness a few months earlier, she’d even given in to pressure from Jessica who worked in advertising and was into that kind of thing, to sign herself up on Tinder. But she rarely got beyond the first messages, let alone the first date. Anytime anyone got too interested, she shut him down. That was the beauty of online dating – you could press ‘delete’.

  ‘You’ll never find the man of your dreams if you never give anyone a chance,’ lectured Anya.

  Celeste didn’t care. She wasn’t in any hurry to give anyone access to her personal space.

  I’d rather be alone than with a loser like Miles, she thought secretly. Anya’s new boyfriend was a back-office computer support executive (whatever that meant) whose idea of a good night out was six pints at the local pub followed by a take-away curry. In Celeste’s opinion he was definitely punching above his weight. Anya was so intelligent and really quite attractive in her own sophisticated way.

  After the third shot, Celeste’s head throbbed, and the bar swayed up and down as if she were on a cruise ship in a storm. She stood up and gripped the counter to steady herself. Her friends would write her off as a lightweight for bailing, but she didn’t care. Her mood had changed. She’d had enough of all the banter. She decided to go and splash some water on her face to freshen up. The sense of being out of control unnerved her and she didn’t like the way the Australian bartender, who by now had introduced himself as ‘Brett’, was crossing the line, touching her forearm and undressing her with his eyes. She looked away and tugged at the neckline of her dress, which had slipped down revealing an inch or two of black lace.

  Turning her back on the bar, by force of habit she scanned the room from left to right, preparing to navigate her way across the dance floor to the cloakrooms. Confronted by the crowd of strangers, she switched to her default mode of high alert.

  As she peered into the tangle of dancers, her face froze. Like an animal, her body reacted, even before her brain processed the thought. She remained fixed to the spot, open-mouthed, while her heart pumped so hard that she could feel the pulse in the veins of her neck. The silhouette of a man across the dance floor had captured her attention. At first, she thought her mind was playing tricks on her. Perhaps the alcohol was messing with her head? But the more she stared the more certain she became. That shadow from her past, but standing taller, and broader – yet with the same brazen swagger, the same easy smile. He was here in this club – only metres away. Her fists tightened and her legs began to shake… How dare he come here! He was supposed to be on the other side of the Atlantic, an ocean away. This was her patch. But it had to be him… right here, escorting a scantily clad waitress through the crowd.

  For a fleeting second, she caught his eyes and despite the changes she had made to her appearance, she saw a flicker of recognition ignite his features before he turned away.

  Her cheeks burning, she watched him go, clearing the bodies, chest thrown back, a Champagne glass held high in each hand, the magnum-bearing waitress in tow, until he stopped at a VIP cubicle where a woman with a long sweep of platinum-blonde hair sat facing the brick wall.

  PRESENT

  2

  You think you’ve given me the slip. But I am too quick for You. I feel sorry for You standing there in the rain, waving your arms above your head like a person drowning. You are so desperate to hail a cab and make your getaway that You don’t see me slowly wheeling my motorbike out onto the street. You don’t even turn your head when I accelerate past You, riding so close to the kerb that I can almost touch You. In my rear-view mirror, I see You stumble backwards, startled by the spray of water splashing up against your legs.

  You should be more careful with your things – and your settings. It takes me all of thirty seconds to find out your name and where You live. I race You home, weaving in and out of the bus lanes to dodge the late-night buses, jumping the lights at the crossroads. By the time the headlights of your taxi come into sight my bike is tucked behind a skip and I am between the hedge and the bins waiting for You.

  I watch You handing money to the driver and turning on your heels. I watch You clicking up the steps and crouching down to rummage through your handbag. You look over your shoulder as you turn the key. You look so sad and lonely.

  From now on, You have nothing to fear – I’m your ‘someone’.

  I’ll be watching over you.

  *

  Celeste slammed and locked the door of the apartment. She leaned back against the smooth wood, took a deep breath and snapped on all the lights in the hallway. Instead of re-joining her girlfriends at the bar, she had taken one look at her stricken reflection in the toilet mirror, collected her coat and bag from the cloakroom and fled through the emergency exit of the club out to a backstreet where she’d hailed the first passing black cab.

  Now home at last her head was spinning and her legs were like putty. She always hated coming home alone to an empty flat. A
fter the shock of seeing him, it was even worse. She pulled off her heels and padded around the flat in her stockinged feet, peering into cupboards and behind doors, turning on the lights in the sitting room and the bathroom, glancing into the shadows of each bedroom before pulling the door firmly shut. Everything was normal. Everything was in its place. Though she knew it was irrational, this was her routine whenever she came home alone. It was impossible to relax until she was certain that no intruder had broken into the flat in her absence. Now the intruder who had stalked her imagination these last seven years was back in flesh and blood.

  ‘Damn him, damn him,’ she said bitterly. ‘Tonight, of all nights!’ She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, gripping the china basin to stop herself smashing her fists against the glass. ‘Why did that bastard have to ruin my birthday celebration?’ Her rage was as hot and as red as the day after the fire. But it wasn’t just anger that flooded her veins and mottled her skin. No. It was shame – a flush of shame and self-hatred that flowed through her entire body like molten lava until she wished she could melt away into the cracks of the bathroom tiles and disappear.

  ‘What’s he doing back here?’ She wiped away her make-up then ripped off her dress and the bracelets that hid the scars on her wrists and stepped into the steaming jet of water in the shower to scrub away the smell of the club that lingered on her skin and in her hair – the nauseating stench of alcohol, tobacco and weed that after seeing him now rekindled horrific scenes from that night almost seven years ago.

  *

  Feeling cleansed at last, wrapped in Jessi’s bathrobe, her skin tingling and perfumed with Anya’s bath oils, she began to regain control. Now that her head was clearer, she noticed she was starving and had a sudden urge for comfort food to calm her nerves. She’d skipped supper to make herself look super-skinny in her bodycon. She made herself a cup of tea and put a pizza in the oven. She would take a couple of slices. No doubt Jessi and Anya would polish it off when they got back from Heavana later on.