A fascinating tale of modern-day romantic suspense
"Drawing on her real-life expertise as a dealer in British antiques, Cheryl Bolen pens a fast-paced, fascinating tale of modern-day romantic suspense."
—Colleen Thompson, Rita finalist romantic suspense
* * *
Protecting Britannia. . .
Antiques dealer 1Britannia Hensley's first day back in London after a seven-year absence seems like an audition for a Survivor in the City episode. Her plane arrives two hours late; she sloshes through blinding rain without an umbrella; her purse is snatched; her hotel room ransacked; some slimeball jabs a gun into her back and tries to abduct her; and every bobby in London's after her for a murder she didn't commit. What's a girl to do when she has no passport, no money, no means of getting any money, and no one she can call? Well, actually there is someone . . . but surely after all these years a handsome guy like Graham's been snatched up by some lucky girl.
E-books available from award-winning author Cheryl Bolen
Romantic Suspense:
A Cry In The Night (Texas Heroines in Peril)
Murder at Veranda House (Texas Heroines in Peril)
Regency Historical Romance:
A Lady by Chance*
The Brides of Bath Series
The Bride Wore Blue*
With His Ring*
A Fallen Woman*
To Take This Lord (previously titled An Improper Proposal)*
My Lord Wicked
Lady Sophia's Rescue
The Earl's Bargain
With His Lady's Assistance
Christmas at Farley Manor
A Duke Deceived*
World War II Romance:
It Had to Be You (Previously titled Nisei)
* Previously published in paperback
Protecting Britannia
(Texas Heroines in Peril, Book 1)
Cheryl Bolen
Published by Cheryl Bolen at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 by Cheryl Bolen
Table of Contents
Prologue
To observe Geoffrey Atchison prancing through his flat in silk pajamas, one would not be aware that he was in a hurry. No matter how fast his slender legs churned, his graceful gait conveyed no sense of great urgency. Geoffrey teetered to an abrupt halt in front of a walnut cabinet that towered over him. He threw open one of its glass doors and with a shaking hand removed a foot-high pottery milkmaid. His thumb feathered over the crazing on the statuette as he sped back to his office.
Only the lazy trickle of sweat down his brow gave testament to the raw fear that slammed into him.
After fetching a corrugated shipping box, Geoffrey wrapped the figurine in bubble wrap and placed it in the box. Then he taped the box shut and went to his desk to address a red-bordered shipping label. On it, he wrote the destination in a flourishing script. To Britannia Hensley, care of the Kensington Palace Hotel.
Next, he phoned his delivery service and told them he had urgent need of a pickup with same-day delivery.
By the time he had finished dressing, his intercom rang. He hurried down the steep wooden stairway to the ground-floor warehouse entrance and thrust the parcel into the carrier's hands. As Geoffrey climbed back up the stairs, he carefully folded the receipt and tucked it into his pants pocket.
When he got back to his flat, the intercom rang again. His heart thumped. Footsteps--more than one set--began to mount the stairs. They hadn't waited for Geoffrey to let them in. His chest grew tight, his mouth dry. He watched with escalating fear as the doorknob to his flat smoothly turned. Why hadn't he locked it?
Before he had time to talk his way out of this, Geoffrey faced the three of them. Like bookends, the menacing Ollie and Habib stood at either side of Geoffrey's partner in crime. The man Geoffrey had helped to make a tidy fortune lifted his well tailored arm and aimed a revolver at him. Geoffrey's mouth opened as the man's finger closed around the trigger.
Then there was the deafening sound of an explosion in his head as everything went black, and he slumped to the floor.
Chapter 1
Britannia was too late to get the bargains. She hastened to keep up with the warmly bundled pedestrians funneling toward the wooden signs that pointed to Portobello Road. Was this trip jinxed from the get-go, or what? Her Houston take-off had been delayed two hours. Heathrow customs set her back another hour. By the time she dropped off her bags at the hotel, got her tube pass, and made it here to the Notting Hill stop, it was almost noon. W-a-a-y too late to get the bargains.
An arrowed sign pointed toward where two streets slanted into a vee. Funny, nine years ago she wouldn't have had to look at the signs. She and Graham easily found their way here in the pre-dawn darkness. At the thought of Graham, her stomach did an odd flip. Damn. If every street in London was going to remind her of him, she may as well turn tail and get on that plane back to Texas. Biting her lip, she sped ahead. Graham is history. Ancient history. She was here to acquire treasures. Period.
Within minutes she viewed canopied vendors that lined both sides of the Portobello Road antiques mecca. As it always had and always would, her heart began to pump and her step quickened with the excitement of the hunt. Without a falter in her stride, she passed rows of brilliantly polished sterling silver on beds of black velvet. Sterling wasn't her thing.
A little farther down she eyed a crooked line of tables crammed with boxes of antique prints. She stopped. There was one box for botanical prints, another for hunting scenes. She edged farther down until a box marked London Scenes perked her interest. She began to flip through the mounted prints wrapped in shiny cellophane. St. James Palace. Whitehall. All the London Squares--Berkeley, Grosvenor, Russell, Hanover, Manchester, Cavendish--were represented as they had appeared in the nineteenth century. A label on each cellophane wrapper guaranteed that print to be a hundred years old.
Britannia lifted out the print of Manchester Square and stared at it. Her throat went dry. A hollowness gnawed at her stomach. She used to meet Graham for lunch at a little sandwich shop just around the corner from Manchester Square.
Her heart constricted. Graham was the only guy she had ever dated who loved antiques. Her parents had been dealers, his collectors. A painful expression on her face, she tightly shut her eyes. They had shared so much more than their love of antiques. They each loved living in London and attending comedies in the West End. They both enjoyed jogging on frigid mornings. And they had a thing about sixties movies, U2, and--oddly-- Frank Sinatra. More than anything, they had liked being together. Liked. Past tense.
She had been alone for so long now she had almost forgotten what it was to be so close to someone that makeup was optional and bank accounts were shared. But that's how it had been with Graham and her. He had been her other half, she his.
And she missed him like hell. She swallowed over the lump in her throat and held up the print of Manchester Square. "How much?"
The tweed-coated old gentleman who stood behind the table spoke in a cultured voice. "Eighteen pounds."
She slipped the brown leather purse from her shoulder and fished through it until she came up with two ten-pound notes. He took her money and gave her back two pounds change, which she tossed into her coat pocket. They'd come in handy later for tips.
Clutching her first "find," she shoved the wallet back in her purse and continued to walk up Portobello Road. She wouldn't see half the goods today. By two o'clock most vendors would be leaving and wouldn't return here until next Saturday.
As always, her dream was to find an ignorant junk dealer selling nineteenth-century majolica for a fiver or a Staffordshire tureen for twenty quid.
Well, a girl could dream.
* * *
He shadowed her from a good twenty paces, had since she had left the hotel. She was damned attractive. Beautiful, in fact. Sophisticated looking. A little taller than average, she had the slim, long-legged body of a model. Not one of those rail thin models, but one who could fill out a swim suit. Her hair was blond with whitish highlights, straight and thick and shoulder length, and it went well with her tan skin. She looked like a California girl in New York clothes. No Marks & Spenser togs for this babe, but well tailored pants and coat of top-quality wool with soft leather shoes, probably Italian.
This job was going to be a piece of cake. Ollie couldn't ask for better cover than thousands of intent shoppers shoulder-to-shoulder on the pedestrians-only street. He held the mobile phone up to his ear.
"After you get the purse, come back to her hotel room," his boss said.
"Will do."
* * *
Muslim merchants in Western clothes who spoke perfect English with British accents sold their goods alongside shabby genteel English dealers. The Muslims were selling new wares, many of them reproductions. Britannia sped past these, then spotted an alleyway of permanent stalls. Just what she wished to investigate.
Each stall measured no more than six feet square. Shelves stretching to ten-foot heights lined three sides of the cubicles and displayed some of England's finest potters. Her glance fanned over ornately gilded porcelain cups and saucers, teapots, and cabinet plates. She spied delicately fluted pieces of old Minton and Coalport porcelain, but it was an exquisite pair of eighteen-inch tall barley-twist candlesticks that drew her attention.
Britannia eyed the young Asian girl who manned the stall. With her coat pulled tightly about her, the girl sat close to a plug-in heater. Britannia pulled her own coat together tighter, then reached for one of the candlesticks. The mellow patina of the old oak could only come with age. She fingered the curly edged brass fittings on the top. A lovely find. "How much?" Britannia asked.
"Ninety pounds for the pair," the girl said in an utterly British accent.
About a hundred-forty dollars. Not a bad price. They'd bring three hundred at her shop back in Houston. Britannia met the girl's hopeful gaze. "I'll give you eighty."
The slim girl shrugged. "All right. It's been a rather slow day." She pronounced rather as roth-ah.
Britannia gave the girl ninety pounds in crisp new bills. "The extra's for shipping. I need these sent to me at the Kensington Palace Hotel. Here's my card so you'll know how to spell my name."
She wrote the hotel name on one of her Houston business cards. "I always have the non-breakables shipped so I can free my hands to carry the breakables myself." She trusted no one to transport--or pack--her breakables. That was pretty much why she had come to London. To pack the Royal Crown Derby.
After getting a receipt from the girl as well as her business card, Britannia left the stalls and re-entered Portobello Road. She didn't remember it being this crowded ten years ago. She paused and examined some china spread out on a table in front of one of the street-facing shops, but didn't find anything that was very old.
In the next group of stalls, Britannia happened on an unbelievable find. The Staffordshire dinner plate was made in England to commemorate the Mexican-American War. What made the plate unique was the fact the Texian soldiers were mistakenly depicted like Napoleon with enormous, sweeping hats that had fallen from fashion years before the 1848 war. Texas collectors would count themselves blessed to pay mega bucks for this rare piece. And it was a steal at fifty pounds. She picked it up and ran her index finger along the unbroken rim of the plate. No cracks or chips.
Deciding not to barter, Britannia put the plate down and reached for her purse--and her stomach did a free fall. Her purse was gone! Her eyes wide with fear, she jerked around and saw no one who looked even remotely suspicious. Her hands shook and her heart beat like a steel drum. "I . . . my purse has been stolen," Britannia managed in a shaky voice. "It's got all my money, my passport . . . " Tears pooled in her eyes.
The well padded woman in a snug-fitting thick wool sweater shot her a sympathetic look. "Pickpockets are a bit of a problem here."
Yeah, and Jack the Ripper's a tad naughty. Damn, her British money and her ATM and American Express cards were in the missing purse, too. In a shaky voice she apologized to the woman then began to retrace her steps, her eyes riveted to the ground where she hoped to see her discarded purse.
Well, a girl could dream.
If she could just get back her ATM card and passport, the damned thief could keep her money.
Between the permanent stalls and the prints table, there was no sign of her purse. She asked the tweed-coated man who had sold her the print if he had found a purse. He sadly shook his head.
Then she realized the purse had not been stolen there, anyway. She had it when she paid for the candlesticks. The theft must have muddled her thinking. She'd had the purse for the second purchase, too. All of a sudden she remembered setting it on the table while she examined some china on the table back on Portobello. She sped back and queried the dealer there.
"No pocketbooks have been turned in," the woman answered. "You've got to watch them around here."
It was her own damned fault! She had carelessly laid down her purse, then even more carelessly walked off without it. No doubt, she'd made some thief's day. Of course, most of the things in her purse would be useless to a pickpocket . . . which meant that he would be sure to discard her purse as soon as he got out the cash. Surely her purse had been shoved into a trash can.
For the next hour, Britannia poked her head into every trash can on Portobello Road. Never mind the foul smells, the pitying glances, or the steady drizzle that plastered her hair to her head. She was a woman on a mission, and she would not leave this street until she found her purse.
By the time the drizzle turned to rain and she realized she was the only person on Portobello Road without an umbrella, she was ready to admit defeat. Begrudgingly, she began to trudge back up the street. At the next corner a tall, lean bobby flashed Britannia a sympathetic glance. A good five years younger than her thirty-one years, the policeman looked more like the boy back in Houston who cut her grass than one of London's finest.
"Sir, Officer," she said, "has anyone turned in a brown leather ladies' purse?"
He solemnly shook his head, his brows lowered. "Someone steal it, love?"
She nodded.
"Ye might find it in the waste bins," he offered.
She shrugged. "I've already looked. If you should find it, I'm staying at the Kensington Palace."
His eyes rounded.
"The hotel, not the palace," she explained. "The Kensington Palace Hotel."
He nodded, his lips folding into a perfectly straight line. "Sorry."
By the time she reached the tube stop, a chill had settled into her bones. She reached into her coat pocket, withdrew the tube pass and fed it into the stile, then followed the crowds to the underground trains, her freezing hands plunged deep in her coat pockets.
When she got off the subway, the rain had intensified. What an idiot she had been not to bring an umbrella. She walked briskly along Hyde Park and was completely drenched when she got to her hotel and dramatically collapsed against the counter and sighed. "Any idea where the American Express office is?" She drew a breath. "Some lowlife stole my purse."
"Here?" the fortyish desk clerk asked, his brows lowered.
"No. On Portobello Road."
"I am sorry, I have been here for only a short time." He spoke with a German--or some kind of Teutonic--accent.
"Well, do me a favor. You probably don't remember from when you checked me in, but my name's----"
"Britannia," he said. "I've never heard of a person named Britannia before."
She smiled. "Anything addressed to me here at the hotel please hold all until the end of my stay."
The clerk nodded, then wrote her instructions in a memo.
She scrutinized every word he wrote. "Also, I'll need another key."
As she walked through the lobby, she had a clear view of the adjacent coffee shop. For a second, she thought she was witnessing a scene from a British spy movie. One of the two men talking at a table there looked remarkably like Harry Palmer. Or, to be more accurate, a young Michael Caine--in horned-rimmed glasses--portraying Harry Palmer. This middle-aged man even possessed a head of wavy golden hair threaded with gray.
When he looked up, his eyes caught hers for the briefest of seconds. Then he looked away. Inexplicably, his abbreviated gawk made her feel uncomfortable. Men's stares were commonplace and never caused her concern.
But this stare was somehow different.
Shaking off her ill feelings, Britannia crossed the lobby and took the elevator to the third floor.
She didn't know what she was going to do next, beyond getting a warm bath in one of those luxuriously deep European tubs. That ought to boil the god-awful chill from her bones. After exiting the elevator, she walked a short distance to the right, then mounted three steps, went through the first set of fire doors and found Room 314. At last. She opened the door, stepped into the room--and screamed.
Her suitcases gaped open. Her clothes and underclothes littered the carpet. Toiletries were dumped on the bed. Contents of jars spilled out. Her stomach plummeted, her pulse raced.
With the door--and her mouth--wide open, she crossed the room and with a trembling hand picked up the phone.
"Operator! My room's been broken into. I'd like to report it to the police--or to a house detective."
"You're in luck," the operator said. "There's a detective from Scotland Yard in the hotel right now. I'll send him up."
The room spooked Britannia. She waited in the hall.
A moment later she was face to face with the other man from the coffee shop. The man who had been in an intense conversations with the Harry Palmer ringer. For some vague reason, his presence made her uncomfortable.
"I'm Inspector Godwin," he said, offering her his hand. "I've come to investigate the theft."
With a sweeping wave of her arm she indicated for him to enter her room. She followed him, but didn't close the door. No way did she want to be with him with the door closed.
He strolled into the room, his bent head surveying the plundering. "Someone did a num-bah on you," he said, shaking his shiny bald head. "What's missing?"
"I . . . I don't know. I called before I checked, though I don't have anything of value except my laptop, and it's still here." She shrugged.
He looked up at her, his steel blue eyes narrowed.
The jerk doesn't believe me!
"I shall take down the details and you can ring me back once you determine what's missing," he said. He moved to close the door to the hallway.
"No!" she protested, moving toward the door. "I'd rather it not be closed."
His eyes flared. "As you wish, miss."
"Actually, I'd feel better if you'd check the closets and under the bed."
He smiled as he walked into the bathroom, then the closet. Finally, he dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. As he pulled himself to a standing position, he assured her the culprit had fled. Then he withdrew a small leather notebook and pen from his breast pocket. "Your name?"
She gave him her name, home address, and reported that her purse had been stolen on Portobello Road.
His brows drew together. "Today?"
"Yes." A chill spiked down her spine. "The two have to be connected." A stalker. That's what it had to be. Some deranged man had followed her from the airport. Her heart stampeded.
The inspector gave a little chuckle. "Not likely." He finished writing down what she had told him, then looked back up at her. "Did you see anyone suspicious when you were on Portobello Road?"
She glared at him. "No. But from now on, you can bet your sweet boots I'll be watching."
He put the notebook back in his pocket. "Call me at Scotland Yard if you come up with additional information."
As he left, she nodded solemnly and watched him until he got into the elevator. Now, she would close the door to her room. She locked and bolted it, then collapsed onto her bed. Tears began to prick at her eyes. It was more than a body could stand. Here she was thousands of miles from home, with no money, every deranged crook in London seemingly after her, and there was no one she could call.
Well, actually there was someone. Of course, a good looking man like Graham had probably remarried by now. After all, it had been six years. But still . . . He had been her husband.
She picked up the phone.
Chapter 2
Shoeless in baggy chinos, Graham stretched out his long legs on the striped silk brocade sofa in his Georgian library. Bloody glad he was to be ensconced within his warm, dry home on this dreary day. The incessant rain drizzled on his windows, the fire crackled in his hearth. Thank god for weekends. Not that his workload particularly diminished because the stock market was closed. He picked up a hefty stack of printed pages and began to peruse them. A report on technology companies. He never invested his or his clients' money in a business he had not thoroughly investigated.
Before he was half way into the first page, the ring of his phone jolted him. No one ever called him on the weekend. His social life was zilch.
He sat up and answered the phone. "Hello?"
"Graham . . ."
It was Britannia--and she was crying. In less than a split second his heart and mind and stomach zapped through the whole spectrum of emotions. Worry. Fear. Happiness. Love. Britannia could do that to him.
She went on. "You were the only one I could call. They've stolen my purse and ransacked my room . . ." She sniffed.
"Who's they?"
"I have no idea. I'm so miserable and scared. Could you. . . Could you come here?"
He sprang to his feet and began to pace nervously across his antique Persian carpet. "I'll do anything I can, but how can my flying to Texas help? Can't I just wire you some money?"
"I'm here."
"Here?" His stomach plummeted.
"In London. I got here this morning and went straight to Portobello Road. That's where my purse was taken. Then when I came back to my hotel, I discovered someone had broken into my room, opened my luggage, gone through all my things--" Her voice had that little hitch in it that told him she was about to cry again.
Bloody hell! Britannia was here in London after all this time, and she had gone first to Portobello Road, not to him. He could not dwell on his battered pride, though. All that mattered at this moment was her safety. "Where are you now, Britannia?" he asked firmly.
"In my hotel room."
Fear bolted through him. "What hotel?"
"The Kensington Palace. On the west side of Hyde Park."
"Get the hell out of there! Now! Listen to me, go to the hotel's coffee shop and wait for me there. I won't be more than ten minutes."
# # #
From behind the wheel of his BMW, Graham sped past the ivy shrouded houses on his sleepy little Hampstead street. He had jammed his feet into the first pair of shoes he found and grabbed his overcoat on the way out his door. Traffic was rather backed up on the main street of Hampstead. It seemed everybody in London flocked to this picturesque borough on the weekends. For the heath.
From Hampstead on into the West End, traffic flowed far more smoothly than it did on weekdays. Of course this was still London, still bloody crowded, he lamented. During the ten minutes it took him to get to Hyde Park, he thought of Britannia. His pulse raced at the prospect of actually coming face to face with her after all this time. How long had it been since he'd heard her voice? He thought back and realized he hadn't talked to her in six years. That's when he had finally filed for divorce. That's when she had made Her Choice. Even after so many years, the final break still hurt like hell.
It was hard to believe six years had passed since he last saw her. Six years, two months. And now one phone call erased the gap of those years. He could almost forget she had trampled his heart. She needed him now, and by God, that was all that mattered in his world. A deep moroseness swept over him. He and Britannia had once been each other's world. Before that last, fateful trip she took to Texas.
He remembered the first time he'd met her. She had been upset then, too . . .
Before his classes at the University of London Graham jogged over the streets of Bloomsbury, often admiring the beautiful long-legged blonde who jogged around Russell Square. That day they finally met he noticed she wasn't jogging though she wore the baggy sweats she normally ran in. She was walking slowly, very slowly, her vision directed at the ground.
As he got closer, he saw that her eyes misted. "Are you all right?" he asked, coming to a complete stop almost in front of her.
She stopped, too. And shrugged.
She looked so waif-like at that moment, he was overwhelmed with a rush of protectiveness. The poor girl obviously fought back tears.
He moved to her side and closed his arm around her slender shoulder. "Come, sit on the bench for a minute."
They sat there under winter's barren trees, and she shared her woes with him. "It's my mother's locket. She'd had it since she was a little girl in Leeds. I've lost it . . ." her voice cracked, and she sniffed.
He was surprised to discover the girl spoke with an American accent. A Southern accent. Sexy as hell. He was equally as surprised to learn her mother was from Leeds. Obviously an English woman. "Are you sure you were wearing it?" he asked sympathetically.
"I've never taken it off since my mother gave it to me when I was fifteen." She sighed deeply. "Just before she died. She said by wearing it, she'd always be close to me. I've worn it every day now for six years."
Unconsciously, he did the math. She was twenty-one--the same age as he. "You're relatively certain you had it on when you left your flat this morning?"
She nodded. "Positive. And I've covered the short distance from my flat to Russell Square dozens of times now, but I haven't found it."
He offered her his handkerchief, then stood up. "Come on, I'll help you search. I promise not to give up until we find it."
She stood, and though she was tall, the tip of her head came just to the bottom of his chin.
Then she smiled.
And he was hooked.
He took the north and east side of the square, she the south and west. He would miss his first class, but he'd given her his word. Ten minutes stretched to twenty, then thirty and still no sign of the locket. Bloody hell, he might miss his second class, too. He was beginning to doubt the girl's credibility when he spotted a metallic glint just beyond the edge of the sidewalk. He stooped and discovered it was, indeed, a locket. Even though it was none of his business, he opened it. On one side was a small oval photograph of a teenage girl--the American, obviously taken some years back--and on the other side a photo of a much older woman, a woman who looked more like the girl's grandmother than her mother.
He snapped it shut and took it to the girl. "I believe I've found it." He held it out to her. "It appears the loop at the top must have worn through."
She examined it, then her large brown eyes solemnly met his. "How can I ever thank you?"
A grin slid across his face. As he faced her, awareness of her blatant beauty rushed over him with the force of a tidal wave. He had known she was good looking and had a great lithe, athletic body, but he hadn't been prepared for the Helen-of-Troy perfection of her face. Long dark lashes fringed eyes as dark as rich coffee beans that--along with her smoothly arched dark brows--should have been at odds with her honey and silver-white hair, but they weren't. All her tawny shades of caramel skin and honeyed hair and brown eyes feathered together as flawlessly as a da Vinci painting. And then there was the bright, bright white of her stunning teeth.
He was completely captivated.
"I can think of two ways," he said with a confidence he was far from feeling.
She eyed him warily.
"First, tell me your name."
"Britannia."
He laughed. "Your name's Britannia?"
She nodded.
"But you're obviously from the States."
She bestowed that dazzling smile on him. "But my mom was a died-in-the-wool homesick Brit who married a Texan."
"So you're from Texas."
"It's kinda hard to hide the fact when I open my mouth."
"Speaking of opening your very attractive mouth, will you allow me to buy you breakfast?"
# # #
Britannia slammed the phone down and stood still for a few paralyzing seconds in the eerily quiet hotel room. Graham was right. She had to get out of there. Suddenly alarmed, she stepped over one of her blazers that was strewn on the floor and quickly entered the hotel's hallway, passed the fire doors, then walked down three steps and stood in front of the elevator, pushing the down button.
A moment later the elevator doors opened and she was face to face with the Harry Palmer/Michael Caine look-alike. He made a move to leave the elevator, looked up at Britannia, then stepped back in. "I mistook this for the lobby," he said apologetically in a voice much more cultured than Michael Caine's.
A common mistake. Britannia had done it herself a number of times. The two rode in silence three more floors to the ground level.
When the elevator doors glided open, she was stunned over how dark the skies had turned. Good lord, it wasn't even four in the afternoon yet. She was glad she didn't have to go out in that. She turned toward the coffee shop. Because it was so brightly lit, the coffee shop looked most inviting--though not nearly as inviting as the prospect of seeing Graham again. Her heart accelerated as her hand flew to her hair. Damn, but she wished she had that tube of lipstick that was in her purse! Anyway, a nice hot drink ought to perk her up. She would order hot cocoa to revive her on this dreary, dank afternoon. No, on second thought, she was in England. Tea was what was called for.
Someone slammed into her. Hard. She went to whirl toward the person, but he imprisoned her in his fierce grasp. His head melded into the side of hers. A corner of his horned-rimmed glasses jabbed her cheekbone. He shoved something hard into her ribs. Her mouth dropped open, but--oddly--the yelp she had intended came only as a gasp.
"Keep quiet and I won't use this gun on you," he rasped into her ear, his voice now guttural.
That took care of her first instinct, which was to holler as loud as she could. Gripped by fear, she stopped dead still. He shoved her forward. She looked to see if anyone was watching. Near the entrance a youthful bellmen laughed with the doorman. Neither of them looked in her direction. Only one person sat in the lobby, a middle-aged woman massaging her sock-clad feet, her Nikes tossed aside. Britannia was too nearsighted to see if anyone stood at the hotel desk, which was located at the opposite end of the lobby. Best she could tell, no one noticed the young blonde being accosted by a bespectacled man.
"Come on, Miss Hensley, we're going for a little ride."
The horrible man knew her name! With his arm clamped around her, she couldn't not follow him. They inched toward the revolving doors. If she screamed or if she failed to obey him, a bullet would get her. But once she was away from the busy hotel, chances of intercession dwindled to nonexistent. God, this was terrible! Her minutes were probably numbered. Reluctantly, her legs carried her forward. "How do you know my name?" she demanded.
Not answering, he opted for the hinged brass and glass door next to the revolving ones and, pulling her closer, hauled her through the door with him.
The late afternoon's bone-chilling dampness bit into her. And, damn, it was still raining. They sloshed along the sidewalk, rain pelting her like a cold shower. She looked up and down the street hoping to see Graham--not that she wanted to endanger him. But she didn't want to die. Since he was nowhere in sight, she would have to rely on her own cunning. Ha! Like she had a clue what to do.
Unfortunately, no good Samaritan candidates had braved this afternoon's cold, wet dreariness. At least not on this sidewalk.
Curly jammed that hard thing into her ribs. "Where's the diamonds?"
Diamonds? What was the slimeball talking about? God, she didn't even own a diamond! Did he have her mixed up with someone else? She skidded to a stop and faced him. "You've got the wrong person." Was that her teeth chattering? "I don't have any diamonds. I don't have anything of value. At least, not with me here in London. You'll just have to believe me."
He laughed without mirth.
So he wasn't the trusting type. Back to her cunning. This might be her only chance to get away from him.
She gave him a shove, dove forward, and sprinted away from him. But she slipped on the wet pavement and her legs collapsed beneath her. Her palms stung where she caught herself on the rough sidewalk, and her mouth went dry. Icy fear numbed her when his hand closed tightly around her arm as he jerked her to her feet.
Chapter 3
Where in the hell was the hotel? Graham's wipers couldn't swipe the rain from his windshield fast enough to allow him to read the signs. To his left, Hyde Park ate up all the land; to his right, commercial establishments blurred. Then, mercifully, he saw the green neon. Kensington Palace Hotel. Thank God the sign's sensor was triggered by the darkened skies.
On the sidewalk just beyond the hotel, he saw a blond woman, her hair the same distinct blond as Britannia's. Golden with whitish highlights. He damn near forgot he was driving on one of London's busiest streets. His car veered into the next lane. A blaring honk jolted him back into his own lane as his glance returned to the blonde. At first he thought it couldn't be Britannia because the woman was with a man, but as he got closer he knew with certainty it was.
A bespectacled man drew her close. Fear shone in her eyes. Graham's breath shortened as Britannia lunged forward and fell to the wet sidewalk. The man savagely brought her up and slammed her into a small green car, then forced her inside.
It all happened so quickly Graham had no time to react. His first instinct was to leave his car in the middle of Kensington Road and tear off after the man--and tear into him.
Then he noticed the gun.
As the man circled the green car to the driver's side, he made sure Britannia could see the gun's cold metal protruding from the opening of his trench coat.
Graham let up on the accelerator and watched in white-hot fear as the man got in the driver's side of the green car. With no time for thoughtful premeditation, Graham swung his own car into the oncoming traffic, barely avoiding a collision with a black taxi. He ignored the taxi's bleating horn as he directed his BMW toward the green car. He could see the wavy blondish-gray hair on the gunman's head, but Graham couldn't see the gun.
He prayed it wouldn't go off.
Graham braked his car slightly before the impact. In a flash of a second he knew he wanted only to disable the curly-haired man--not to injure Britannia.
His car plowed into the driver's side of the green car. Glass shattered. Metal crunched and ripped. Shaking, Graham turned off his ignition, threw open his door, and ran to the green car.
He swung open Britannia's door. She looked up at him with a dazed expression on her lovely face.
"Are you all right?"
She nodded.
He shot a glance to the driver's seat. At first Graham thought the curly haired man--a bleeding gash on his slumped head--was unconscious.
Until the gun moved.
Graham knocked it to the floor of the car. No way Graham could get to it before the driver. "C'mon!" he yelled at Britannia.
She leapt to her feet. Graham took her hand, and they ran to the BMW.
Horns blared all around them. Graham prayed the crash hadn't rendered his car undriveable. It looked as if he had managed to deliver most of the impact with his bumper, though the front right fender had sustained damage. He slammed the car into gear. The steering was off, but otherwise it drove fine. Bless that good old German engineering.
He accelerated and took the first corner at a blazing clip. After several quick turns through South Kensington's residential streets, they were headed northward toward Hampstead. He needed to get this car into his garage and get Britannia safely into his house. Then they could ring up the police.
Once he was assured they weren't being followed, Graham took his eyes off the snarled traffic and gazed at her. A knot the size of an egg had popped out on her left temple. Damn! He hadn't meant to hurt her in the crash. "I need to get you to a hospital."
"It's just a bump," she protested, gently fingering her swollen forehead. "I'm fine."
He didn't have to look at her again to assure himself she was as gorgeous as ever, despite the goose egg on her lovely, lovely forehead. What was different about her was that now she seemed less in control than the capable Britannia Hensley who had told him she didn't need anybody. Now she looked vulnerable. And dependent. And, God, but he wanted to take her in his arms and hold her tightly.
Even if she had once betrayed him.
"What in the hell have you gotten yourself into, Britannia?" he asked, keeping his hands on the wheel and forcing his eyes on the intersection ahead.
Her voice choked. "I wish I knew. That awful man kept asking me where the diamonds were, and I have absolutely no idea what he was talking about."
"Do you think he's got you mixed up with someone else?"
"I don't know what to think." She sounded weary. And scared. "I just barely escaped death."
"You're going to be safe now. I'm taking you to my place. No one will find us there. Then we can ring up the police."
# # #
Thousands of miles had separated Graham and Britannia when he had bought the Hampstead house that was to have been their home. Because they had discussed it countless times via long distance phone calls, Britannia didn't have to approve it before the purchase. They had agreed on every aspect of their home. In fact, it perfectly fit the list of wants they had drawn up. It had to be a little cottage on a lush plot of land with a requisite garden. A hearth must warm every room, and the kitchen had to be big and old-fashioned. The library had to be suitably dark with aged wood. And the house would have a garage with room for two cars, even though Britannia had never learned to drive on the "wrong" side of the street.
Though Britannia felt she could draw the house from memory, she had never seen their house. Graham's house now, she thought bitterly, swallowing hard. She wondered if it would be devoid of her influence. After all, six years had passed since they filed for divorce.
As Graham steered the car, weaving in and out of the congested traffic, she watched him. Her heart double pumped. What had she been thinking six years ago? "Sorry about your car."
He shrugged. "It'll fix."
"You could have injured yourself, you know."
"It seemed worth the risk. He might have shot you."
So Graham was willing to risk his life for a woman who had dumped him? Her pulse accelerated.
At first she had not realized they had reached Hampstead since there was no real dividing line between any of London's boroughs. But suddenly she realized they were on Hampstead's main street. The traffic barely moved. Its trendy shops and restaurants drew a good many well-bundled people enjoying their weekend despite the miserable weather. Her heart beat quicker when she realized their house was only a stone's throw from here. She had to quit thinking of it as their house. It was Graham's. And it was all her fault it wasn't theirs.
He shot her a concerned glance. "How's the head?"
"Okay."
"We'll be there in a minute."
"I know," she said softly.
"But you've--" He stopped himself, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
When he turned onto a residential street, she said, "Let me pick it out."
The words were barely out of her mouth when she knew with certainty the fourth house from the corner had to be it. It was a two-story cottage-looking house with creamy plastered walls and a slate roof. A shoulder-high hedge fenced the front of the property, which was bisected by a curved-top wooden gate that opened onto a cobbled path. A garage with a pair of dark green wood doors stood in front of the property, to the side.
"It's the house on the right. The one with the curved wooden gate," she said.
His face tightened, then he nodded before turning onto the drive in front of the green garage doors. He depressed his pocket-sized garage door opener and drove into the garage.
As Graham turned off the ignition, a terrible thought sliced at her heart. What if Graham had remarried? Could anything possibly be worse? She cleared her throat. "You . . . you haven't remarried, have you?" Her stomach sank to her knees at the thought of Graham loving someone else.
"No. You?" He went to open his car door. He had not looked at her.
"No."
He hit the garage door closer, got out and came around to open her door. She followed him through the side door of the garage and across the lawn, and her eye was drawn to the red geraniums nestled in dark green window boxes.
She entered the house through an arched front door that repeated the curve of the gate. The entry hall was exactly what they had planned together. Persian rugs of reds and blues and russets scattered over gleaming wood floors that were darkened by age. A walnut side table stood below a gilded trumeau mirror. With bittersweet realization, she recognized the mirror. It was the French empire mirror Graham had bought to celebrate their engagement. They had picked it out at the Chelsea Antique Show and Sale.
Her eyes moistening, she glimpsed the modest staircase. Its banister was painted white, with a mahogany railing, just as she and Graham had discussed. Graham had first thought to have all brown wood in the Tudor mode, but she'd managed to sway him toward something lighter, more graceful.
He closed and locked the door. "You like it?"
Her misty eyes met his and she nodded. She was determined not to cry in front of him.
"I know it's been a wretched day for you," he said gently, "but you're safe now." He set his hands on her shoulders and spoke as if he were talking to a child. "I promise I won't let anything happen to you."
God, it was so much like the day they had met. I promise I won't leave until we find the locket. She could depend upon Graham's solidness. He never made idle promises, never reneged on his word. When Graham gave his word, he also gave an irrevocable part of himself. And, God, but she needed that part of him right now.
Just being here with Graham, standing so close to him, awakened her every sense and every feeling to him. And her heart bled. He was no longer hers. And it was all her fault.
She could not remove her gaze from him. God, he was so damned good looking. From his long, lean trunk and his sun burnished skin she could tell he still jogged every day. His waist was as slim as it had been when she'd met him ten years ago. The breadth in his shoulders and chest indicated he must have added weight training to his daily workout.
He was more handsome than ever, and she didn't like it one little bit. What woman could resist him with his to-die-for body and that sexy face with its smoldering amber eyes and devilish grin tucked over the cleft in his chin?
He opened a door to an opulent powder room. "Why don't you just pop in here and remove those wet clothes while I fetch a robe for you?"
She nodded. A warm, dry robe sounded pretty good.
After closing the powder room door, she peeled off the soggy clothes then stood completely naked--and even more chilled in the tiny marble water closet.
A knock sounded at the door. It seemed so strange that a door now had to separate her from the man who had once known her body so intimately.
She eased open the door and stuck out an arm, which he draped in a black velour man's robe.
She was relieved it wasn't a woman's robe.
A moment later Graham helped gather up her wet clothes. He put her wool coat on a hanger and hung it from a post on the banister. "I'll toss the rest in the dryer," he said, "But first I wish to get you situated."
She followed him into the library. Even though she was now safe, she could not stop trembling.
"I've already got a fire going here. Come lie on the sofa while I prepare the tea."
As she dropped onto the sofa she noticed he had removed his coat. He moved to her and began to study the swollen bruise on her forehead. "Allow me to get some ice for that."