himself to explain his business, especially such sensitive business, in such circumstances.
Sighing impatiently, Cameron tried to stretch his legs out in front of him, only to knock his knees against the door of the wooden box. If he had been able to think of another way to proceed, any other way at all, he would not be here. He hadn’t even heard of the woman until two days ago. Max had assured him that everything said of her was true, that her reputation was well-deserved, but Max had also refused to divulge a single detail of his own involvement with her, save to say, primly, that the matter had been resolved satisfactorily.
Cameron trusted Max, and his problem was urgent, becoming more urgent with every day that passed.
How long had he been sitting here? The blasted woman had been so precise about his own arrival she could at least have had the decency to be punctual herself. On the brink of breaking another of her list of instructions by peering out of the confessional into the church, he heard the tapping of heels on the aisle. Was it her? He listened, ears straining, as the footsteps approached. Stopped. And the door on the other side of the confessional was opened. There was a faint settling, the rustle of fabric as The Procurer sat down—assuming it was she and not a priest come to hear his confession.
The curtain on the other side was drawn back. It made little difference. Cameron could see nothing through the tiny holes in the pierced metal grille save a vague outline. But he could hear her breathing. And he could smell the damp on her clothes and the faint trace of perfume, not sickly attar of roses or lavender water, but a more exotic scent. Jasmine? Vanilla? What kind of woman was The Procurer? Max hadn’t even told him whether she was young or old.
‘Mr Dunbar?’
Her voice was low, barely more than a whisper. Cameron leaned into the grille and the shadow on the other side immediately pulled back. ‘I am Cameron Dunbar,’ he said. ‘May I assume I’m addressing The Procurer?’
‘You may.’
Again, she spoke softly. He could hear the swishing of her gown, as if she too was having difficulty in getting comfortable in the box. The situation was preposterous. Confessional or no, he wasn’t about to spill his guts to a complete stranger whose face he wasn’t even permitted to see.
‘Listen to me, Madam Procurer,’ Cameron said. ‘I don’t know what your usual format for these meetings is, but it does not suit me at all. Can we not talk face-to-face, like adults? This absurd situation hardly encourages trust, especially if I am to be your client.’
‘No!’ The single word came through the grille as a hiss, making him jerk his head away. ‘I made the terms of this meeting very clear in my note, Mr Dunbar. If you break them—’
‘Then you will not consider my case,’ he snapped. Cameron was not used to being in a negotiation where he did not have the upper hand. But this situation was in every way unique. ‘Very well,’ he conceded stiffly, ‘we will continue on your terms, madam.’
Silence. Then her face moved closer to the grille. ‘You must first tell me a little about yourself, Mr Dunbar.’
Though he must know nothing of her, it seemed. It stuck in his craw, but he could not risk alienating her. She would not, he sensed, give him a second chance, and if there was any possibility that she really was as good as Max averred, then he had no option but to play the game her way.
‘If you’re concerned that I can’t afford your fee,’ Cameron said dryly, ‘then let me put your mind at rest. Whatever it is—and I’ve heard that it is anything from a small fortune to a king’s ransom—then I have ample means.’
‘A king’s ransom?’ the woman on the other side of the grille whispered. ‘Now, that is an interesting proposition. What would you pay, Mr Cameron, to release the current King from his incarceration?’
‘A deal more than I’d pay for his son were it he who were locked away. I’d much prefer a madman on the throne to a profligate popinjay. Though the truth is I doubt I’d put up a penny for either.’
‘You are a republican, then, Mr Dunbar, like our friends in America?’
‘I’m a pragmatist and a businessman, and I’m wondering what relevance my politics can possibly have to the matter under discussion?’
His question caused her to pause. When she spoke again, her tone was conciliatory. ‘I take many factors into consideration before agreeing to take on a new client. I was merely trying to establish what sort of man I would be dealing with.’
‘An honest one. A desperate one, as you must know,’ Cameron replied tersely. ‘Else I would not have sought you out.’
‘You have told no one about this meeting? Not even your wife…’
‘I have no wife. I have spoken to no one,’ Cameron replied, becoming impatient. ‘You are not the only one who desires the utmost discretion.’
‘You may trust in mine, Mr Dunbar.’
‘So I’ve heard. You must not take it amiss if I tell you that I prefer to make my own mind up about that.’
‘You are perfectly at liberty to do so. Though I would remind you that you came to me for help, not the other way around.’
‘As a last resort. I am not a man who trusts anyone but himself with his affairs, but I cannot see a way to resolve this matter on my own. I desperately need your help.’
Her silence spoke for her. He must abandon his reservations, must throw caution to the wind and confide in this woman, no matter how much it went against the grain, else he would fail. The consequences of failure could not be contemplated.
‘You must believe me when I tell you I do not exaggerate,’ Cameron said. ‘This could well be a matter of life and death.’
* * *
Many of the people who sought The Procurer’s help thought the same, but there was a raw emotion in Cameron Dunbar’s voice that gave Kirstin pause. Hearing his voice, knowing that the man who had quite literally changed the course of her life was just inches away, had been more overwhelming than she could ever have imagined.
The urge to throw back the door of the confessional, to confront him face-to-face, was almost irresistible. She had not expected the visceral reaction of her body to his voice, as if her skin and her muscles remembered him, and the memory triggered a longing to know him again.
She was frustrated by the grille which kept her identity concealed, for it kept him safe too, from her scrutiny. Images flashed into her mind when he spoke, vivid, shocking images of that night that brought colour flooding to her cheeks, for the woman in those images was a wanton who bore no relation to the woman she was now. This had been a mistake. She could not help Cameron Dunbar, yet she could not force herself to walk away.
‘I will listen,’ she found herself saying. ‘Though I make no promises, I will hear you out.’
And so she did, with a growing sense of horror, as Cameron Dunbar told his story.
When he came to the end of it, Kirstin spoke without hesitation. ‘I will find someone suitable who will assist you. Tell me where you may be reached.’
