Stranger in the Wharf
Page 1
Stranger in the Wharf
H. A. Nicola
Austin Macauley Publishers
Stranger in the Wharf
About the Author
About the Book
Dedication
Copyright Information ©
Acknowledgement
Chapter 122 March 2017
Chapter 2The Start
Chapter 3
Chapter 4Rules of Engagement
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 27Intercontinental Hotel
Park Lane
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37March 2017
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
About the Author
H. A. Nicola is an author whose work is infused and inspired by real life events and observations written with her unique unapologetic and humorous insight.
About the Book
Set in Canary Wharf, Cayenne Richards is an attractive mother of three who happens to be a single parent and a woman of colour.
Kenneth Halpern-Smith is a single-ish professional father of none. He is a Caucasian and a successful accountant for a large international finance company.
One day during the hectic lunch period in Canary Wharf, the capital’s business centre, these two entities collide…
The fusion is explosive.
Once Kenneth has his first taste of her seasoned caramel succulence, he is forever changed… his suburban existence pales into pallid insignificance.
Will his corporate resolve be softened by her cultural impudence?
Once Cayenne tastes the simplicity of his acquired milk and experiences for the first time his uncomplicated jejune flavour, it opens her eyes to the notion that less can indeed be more…
Will he help her see that he may well be the perfect condiment?
The outcome is a decadent combination. Like a caressing swirl of cream atop a satisfying hot cocoa, one infuses the other to create a deliciously potent blend.
Dedication
This work is dedicated to all who are on the same mission.
Copyright Information ©
H. A. Nicola (2019)
The right of H. A. Nicola to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 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 the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528926171 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528964586 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgement
To Peach Ri and Pepa
Chapter 1
22 March 2017
An explosive situation is unravelling on the streets of Westminster, Central London—the seat of British Parliament—culminating into a frenetically charged atmosphere. Running, shouting, bloodcurdling screams.
High above the commotion, way up on the 13th floor of the Westminster Park Plaza Hotel erupts a torrent of raised voices, more gut-wrenching, high-pitched howls, hands outstretched and deep-seated groans.
Below, Big Ben chimes aloud, stating his authority over the capital, calling for it to stand to attention in an attempt to detain the pandemonium, countering the confusion with its regal stance, shortly followed by a weighted solemnity in the air.
Up above, a combination of commandeering directions and bated breath resume, pushing and shoving, and forceful impact can be heard from beyond the presidential suite walls. Uncertainty fills the air; the atmosphere is clouded with sensual anxiety. Backs are pressed against the wall, arms are arrested and legs bound.
Below… sudden screeches as a vehicle is thrust to a complete stop. A hive of erratic activity follows. Frenzy and mayhem ensue.
Unaware of the travesty outside as they continue their own euphoric ascent, hands are groping aggressively behind heads, pushing down and forcefully demanding surrender.
The energy builds; the tension is almost unbearable.
Loud sirens. Emergency sirens, everywhere. The city is in the grip of abject fear.
Finally… it shoots… powerfully. The acceleration is Herculean; the substance emitted—substantial—splattering against the wall, the bed, the sheets and her.
Suddenly their phones begin to ring incessantly, punctuated with the sounds of constant notifications, competing for attention to form a continual symphony.
He picks up his phone and edges towards the corner of the room; his broad white undefined back, dotted with liver spots, facing her. He listens and then spins around—his face ashen. He strides quickly toward the window and looks down onto the streets, eyes darting, taking in whatever was unfolding—getting paler by the second. The accustomed rose pink of his complexion fading to a patchy oatmeal.
He reaches for the hotel remote on the large, ornate oak desk and switches on the flat-screen television hanging from the facing wall and sits down on the edge of the bed; his naked buttocks still damp with orgasmic perspiration.
The reporter on the screen looks tense with apprehension as she faces the nation with the dreaded news—the imposing structure of Westminster forming the formidable backdrop.
"You are watching a BBC news special. Reports are coming in of a shooting at the Palace of Westminster outside the House of Commons.
A policeman has been stabbed, and his apparent attacker shot by police officers in what is developing into a major security breach outside the Houses of Parliament. These live pictures are of Westminster Bridge, where eyewitnesses say a car mowed down several pedestrians. The indication is that there are as many as 12 people injured. The car was then said to have driven into the railings of the Palace of Westminster. Many people are being treated at the scene, as you can see from these pictures…"
He reduces the volume of the television, sighs, runs his fingers through his hair and turns back to look at her. She sits huddled, like a chocolate whirl, still wrapped in the sex-sodden sheets, eyes wide, dazed and in shock.
He crawls across the bed and pulls her to him as they try to take in more of the events unfolding, both on the screen and on the streets below the scene of their torrid encounter.
His phone rings again. He is reassuring someone that he is okay, but that he can’t talk, and he will ring them when he gets the chance.
Her phone buzzes loudly. She clasps it to her ear just as a vehement voice bellows. She could hear the combination of fearful anticipation and relief in her son’s voice as he demands to know why she hasn’t been responding to his calls.
“Oh … I’m sorry, son … It must have been the signal. I didn’t hear it ring. Yes, I’m okay. I’m okay…”
They both place their phones down and embrace each other again, needing each other’s reassurance.
Their hearts are thundering in their chests as they pull apart just enough to glance into each other’s eyes. His gaze softens as he sees the fear and immediately moves to strengthen his hold. Their lips clasp together, as though they could not be separated. He tenderly places her back into the imprint of her body still visible on the bed. He couldn’t begin to explain why, even now, at a moment like this, he feels consumed with wanting. His private parts testify of his intention.
The condom had been long since discarded. She couldn’t quite pinpoint when, but it had been somewhere between the heavy petting and the fumbling. The built-up suspense was too great, for she had chided and teased that he was missing out, and that he needed to experience her fully—unprohibited by a thin rubber sheath. He too needed little convincing that he must observe closely the soft folds inside her, first hand. To feel them hug his manhood in a warm embrace as he pushes them open to stretch and mould them around him.
He is compelled to find the origin of her intoxicating wetness, to see the response on her face to the sensitivity of his touch.
He reproaches any hindrance to him finding her G-spot, wanting to pervade her clitoris, to infuse and embody the organs that he had thus far only tasted of.
She had promised to allow him to feel her vice-like grip from the contracting of her vagina. She had taunted him that he would not have experienced it in quite the same way before. The dangerous excitement had been untenable.
Yet still, he needed more of her, but just managed to resist the compulsion to press himself against the entrance to her rectum.
Just as he senses her euphoria mounting, he pulls out and waits for the tension to dribble out of his body and soil the sheets for the second time.
They lie still for a moment until their awareness of where they are slowly returns. Conscious that he is lying heavily upon her, he lifts his torso away, panting and dripping, totally spent.
She lies motionless, lost in her own delirium, eyes soft and blurred.
She hears the volume of the television rising again as the reporter continues her horrific account.
"… A car, likened to a Hyundai Tucson, was witnessed to accelerate over Westminster Bridge at approximately 2:40 p.m. before suddenly and deliberately veering to the opposing lane, mounting the pavement and ploughing into several pedestrians, leaving 12 people injured. Eyewitnesses confirm that one man was seen to jump off the bridge into the River Thames to avoid the impact.
Emergency services are arriving as bodies lay strewn on the streets. The vehicle was then said to have crashed into the railings outside New Palace Yard, where the assailant was seen heading through the Carriage Gates entrance, presumably undetected by armed patrol. Shortly, thereafter, he was confronted by an armed officer who, it has been confirmed, later died from fatal stab wounds…"
He switches the television off abruptly—angrily. His face contorted with concern and guilt. He takes her hand whilst avoiding her eyes and leads her out to the large terrace of their suite, high above the aftermath of the massacre and wraps his arms around her from behind, as if to protect her from the late-afternoon chill. Adorned with their hotel bathrobes, the cool concrete beneath their feet rapidly reducing the balmy temperature of their bodies, they gaze out at the flashing lights and the chaotic scenes below. He presses her head into his chest, shielding her from the full impact of the horrific scenes unfurling. Kissing her forehead gently, bewildered, as he tries to absorb the fact that at the exact moment terrorists plotted outside, they had been lost in their own bubble, intricately uniting their own diverse nations and navigating a harmonious collision.
Chapter 2
The Start
The winter lights in London were some of the most spectacular and innovative in the world, as far as Cayenne was concerned, and the weeks and months leading up to Christmas wouldn’t be the same without them. She loved how they made the trees twinkle, and how they filled up seemingly every household window with a welcoming glow; and she couldn’t fail to be in awe of how they set the famous streets alight with Christmas spirit. Just when you thought the streets of the capital couldn’t get any busier, the ushering in of festivities brought with it hordes of visitors, eager to sample the dazzling spectacles and elaborate installations.
Cayenne happened to have first-hand knowledge of this, having been fortunate enough to see the festive lights across the globe from New York to Sydney, from Tokyo to Paris whilst travelling the world with British Airways during her cabin-crew days. So enchanted was she with this festive tradition, that she made a point of ensuring she was always on shift over the Christmas period which inevitably made her popular with her fellow crew members, most of whom longed to be home with their families; and they were only too pleased to swap their work pattern with hers. She was there several times when New York was magnificently transformed into a sparkling winter wonderland immediately after Thanksgiving. She had witnessed more than once, the City of Cape Town’s festive lights switch on, on the Grand Parade, to the acoustic sounds of an array of local musicians. How could she forget the kaleidoscopic light overload at the Cascades in the south of Sydney, and the singing Santas, polar bears and frosty snowmen in neighbouring Karne Street. When she closed her eyes, she could still recall the smell of the garden inside Roppongi Hills in Tokyo, remembering gazing up at the huge glistening tree and meandering around what seemed like thousands of lights strewn over the grounds.
What she especially loved about living in Canary Wharf was that the lighting stayed on all year ’round, even the trees shone at night all year long, which inspired many late-night walks with her children.
Years later, she still had the treasured mementoes from these captured exploits in a photo album at home; and from time to time, she sought them out to recapture the magic. Perhaps what she loved most about the season was the fact that it seemed to not only bring families together but whole communities. Whatever country she found herself in at the time, she could scarcely remember being surrounded by just the local natives, but she would find herself linking arms with French travellers in Tokyo, a family from South Carolina in Sydney, a newly engaged couple from the UK on a beach in Bangkok, all joining together to bid farewell to the old year and usher in the new, singing Auld Lang Syne beneath a multi-coloured explosion in the sky.
But by far, her favourite illuminations were that of the London offering—the beautiful balloon bulbs on Oxford Street which looked like flames behind frosted glass, or the drop-shaped bulb lights on Regents Street which had tiny little dancing fairies inside. The Café de Paris for the last two years had a climbing Santa Claus scurrying up to a makeshift chimney with his sack of goods on his shoulder. Ever since she had moved from Torquay to Canary Wharf with her three children, she had become enchanted with the perennial lights in the business district. She was fascinated by the way fresh installations popped up every year and enjoyed the charmed open ice rink where couples often skated around looking romantically into each other’s eyes. It drew crowds from many other boroughs which made her feel all the more fortunate. There was a unique buzzing energy that characterised the place she now had the good fortune to call home.
Not only had her eldest son Diego wanted to experience the big city after leaving school in the Midlands, but her second son Ocean, who had been diagnosed with severe learning difficulties from an early age, had previously been in an unsuitable school that catered for a wide v
ariety of generic needs, both physical and psychological. Cayenne felt very strongly that Ocean required a facility that catered for his specific needs and felt that London would provide him with better opportunities for a higher standard of specialised education.
So she had urgently set to work to make it happen. She had always been a determined woman. The kind of go-getter that not only expressed her wishes but made them manifest with a confidence and determination that many would covet. She often considered that the advantage of growing up under a critical West-Indian eye was that it developed in her a resolutely thick skin and a steely determination to forge her own path.
Now here they were, with only one of their two original cats, as Tokyo—the male of the duo—had decided that a move wasn’t for him and had promptly jumped out of the removal van and straight over the neighbour’s fence, whereas Temple clearly sensed their excitement and stayed put, though whether the fact that she had four babies inside her influenced her decision was debatable. The boys were settled—Diego in college, and Ocean in one of the top special needs schools in London—and little Sugar, her only daughter, slowly ingratiating herself into her new class at the local junior school. Cayenne was relieved that her outwardly shy daughter had acclimatised quicker than expected, given her tendency to withdraw within herself whenever she encountered a new environment, to such an extent that the parent-teacher meetings would consist of Cayenne listening to a version of her daughter that was largely unrecognisable from the astute, determined, stubborn child that she lived with. She would smile within herself, remembering that she too had been the quiet girl in her formative years. Unsure of herself and feeling that she had little to contribute, which was an image far removed from the epitome of confidence that she saw reflected in her image today. Once she had settled the children and done her best to cosmetically update their apartment, situated a stone throw from South Quay, just across the bridge from the centre of the hubbub, she had determined that it was now her time to find fulfilment. But what would that look like? What did she see herself doing? What new direction was beckoning? Was she ready for a long-term relationship, or was it time to finally explore sexual freedom and diversity, having seemingly missed out on this part of her early adulthood? She wasn’t sure. Fortunately, her children were in total agreement that their mother, who was still considered relevant considering her advanced years and had kept herself in good condition, should by all means come out from her self-induced hibernation and begin to experience life in the big city.