Blood in the Water: A DCI Keane Scottish Crime Thriller by Oliver Davies (read full novel txt) 📗

to think my surprised, dismayed expression was hilarious. “And you two have nice, quiet dinner. You ruined all of Mads’ delicious menu plans too.”

Well, that was hardly fair. It wasn’t my fault if he’d had to make some last-minute changes.

“I only got his invitation an hour ago. And he didn’t know if I’d be able to accept it either.” Maybe I should just bail, but that would be rather rude at this stage, wouldn’t it?

“So? If you say no, he cook for us.” Gioia was looking at me like I was crazy. “No waste. Now, he cook for us tomorrow instead. You should try his meat. It’s the best.”

I choked back a nervous laugh. I knew she’d been referring to his cooking skills, but it was still funny.

“Gioia! Shame on you! Nobody’s going to bully my guest into trying anything he doesn’t want to.” Mads, looking down at us, seemed to be having a little trouble keeping a straight face himself. He must have come out when he heard our voices. “Please, do come on up, Mr Keane.” The students were already walking off in a cheerful little group, so I went up the little gangway and joined him on the stern deck. “Don’t pay any attention to their awful, nonsensical English. Please, do come on in.”

There were some promising smells coming from the galley area at the far end of the main deck salon. After taking my jacket from me and hanging it in a handy little cloakroom, Mads gestured for me to head over to the breakfast bar, and I settled onto a high backed stool while he walked around to the business side of it.

“I know I said cocktails and dinner, but the cocktails are optional. What may I offer you to drink?”

“What are you having?” He lifted an open bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and filled two flutes before handing me one. I raised it. “Skål.”

“Skål.” Our glasses rang together lightly, and he sipped appreciatively before putting his aside and picking up his chopping knife again. The bubbly was rather nice when I tasted it. I examined the little dishes of dips and things he’d placed on the bar for me and picked up an olive to nibble at.

“I must admit, I was a bit surprised to receive your invitation, Herre Nielsen,” I told him, watching his knifework. That, at least, was of a professional standard. “I thought I’d made my position quite clear concerning your generous job offer.” He paused to give me a reproving look.

“Mads, please. I hope we need not be formal. Your given name is Shay, yes?” Right, he’d seen the hotel register. I nodded. “I do not know why you would be surprised. People travel thousands of miles to see breathtaking natural wonders all the time. Inviting one to come and dine, to admire in comfort, is far less arduous, I think.”

I grinned, amused. That was pretty smooth.

“Would you mind?” he asked, gesturing at my glasses. “I would very much like to see those extraordinary eyes again.” He may as well have been asking to see an original painting that I’d stashed away in a private collection.

Well, why not? I placed them on the bar top and pushed my fringe back. He took his time examining me.

“Yes, truly remarkable!” he concluded, satisfied and tipped his chopped onion and tomatoes into the already half full salad bowl. His performance was very impressive, but he wasn’t quite as good at controlling his expressions as he thought he was. “Does anyone else in your family share that amazing colouration?”

“My mother and grandmother both did.”

“Ah, my condolences on your losses. You are a vegetarian, not a vegan, yes? Cheese is acceptable to you?”

“Cheese is fine.”

“Excellent!” He seasoned, dressed and tossed the salad and moved over to the grill where the delicious aroma was coming from. “Another minute for the starters. Please, Shay, make yourself comfortable at the dining table.”

I finished off my champagne and popped another olive into my mouth before crossing over to the table. Mads had set just two places, one at the head of the table and the other just to its right, which I settled into. I poured myself a tumbler of chilled water from the decanter, noting the two bottles of a rather pricey Cabernet Sauvignon breathing open on the table.

Mads didn’t keep me waiting long. He soon came over and slid a warmed china plate in front of me before putting his own down and seating himself. The aroma wafting up at me was making me salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs hearing the dinner bell ringing. Mads poured us a glass of wine each and threw me an anticipatory smile.

“Bon appétit,” he encouraged and picked up his own outermost knife and fork encouragingly.

Bloody hell! His stuffed mushrooms were outstandingly good! The accompanying, decorative salad was dressed to perfection too. Eschewing the wine, for now, I sipped at my water instead, not wishing to confound the flavours. I wasn’t a big fan of overly fruity wines.

“Let me guess,” I said, when I’d finally and thoroughly cleared my plate. “You’re secretly a Michelin star chef?” He’d been beaming with pleasure as he watched me eat, but now he actually laughed.

“Hardly. But I have taken a few lessons from some of them. I’m so pleased you liked it. What is it the English like to say, ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’ yes?”

“That’s so anatomically inaccurate. You want to get the knife up under the ribs, just about here, and apply a hell of a lot of pressure.” That just made him laugh again as he got up to whisk our plates away. “Can I help with anything?” I asked, twisting around.

“No, certainly not. You just stay where you are and let me be a good host.”

Well, if he insisted. I sipped my wine and found it was much fruitier than I preferred, lots of berry flavours in there. No, I wouldn’t be able to