by Mary Lyons
However, as her eyes now flicked over his dark head, Norma couldn’t help recalling a phrase often used in her favourite romantic novels. ‘Tall, dark and handsome’ was a description which might have been coined for the new chairman. Not only was he much taller than most men, there was something powerful and decidedly dangerous about the way he moved. Beneath the exquisitely cut, handtailored suit his body was lean and hard, with broad, muscular shoulders and narrow hips. His thick, dark hair swept down over his well-shaped head, clinging seductively to the nape of his neck, while his hard, tanned features and firm chin were those of a man to be reckoned with. It was an impression reinforced by the glittering grey eyes set beneath heavy eyelids, which even her middle-aged heart found profoundly disturbing.
And so did a lot of other women, Norma acknowledged wryly. A single multimillionaire of thirty-six, living in a small penthouse apartment overlooking Hyde Park, was bound to have a full social life. And Mr Cunningham was clearly no exception. Every day there seemed to be one glamorous female after another on the telephone—while his astronomically large bills for bouquets of flowers must surely be keeping the local florist in business!
Luke closed the file, leaning back in his leather chair for a moment, gazing at the shafts of brilliant sunlight streaming in through the large plate-glass window at the far end of the room.
‘OK, Norma—tell Richards I’ll see him tomorrow morning,’ he said, before rising to his feet and walking slowly across the thick beige carpet.
Staring down through the window at the tall trees in a nearby churchyard, whose, fresh green leaves were dancing in the light breeze, Luke was suddenly swept by an almost overwhelming urge to quit this modern, multi-storey building of glass and steel. And why not? It was far too nice a day to be cooped up inside a stuffy office block.
Ten minutes later, Luke had left the large building. Relishing the rare opportunity to stretch his legs and enjoy the bright sunshine of a warm June afternoon, he walked slowly down Bishopsgate, one of the main thoroughfares of the busy City of London.
Always fascinated by the history and ancient customs of the city in which he worked, he decided to stroll in the direction of the Thames, from whose docks and wharfs had flowed the wealth responsible for making London the heart of a world-wide trading empire. Striding through Leadenhall market with its ornate, glass-roofed arcade and on past the Monument, he crossed over London Bridge.
But when, some time later, he was slowly retracing his steps over the dark waters of the Thames, the sight of a young couple walking hand in hand reminded him it really was about time he came to a firm decision about Eleanor.
The senior partner of a prestigious accountancy firm, Eleanor Nicholson was a clever, forceful and sophisticated woman who’d made no secret of the fact that she wished to marry him. And he was quite sure that Eleanor would make a perfect wife. She was cool, calm and collected, and there was very little that was capable of disturbing her unruffled composure. She was always beautifully dressed, cooked like a dream and was a marvellous hostess. As one of his oldest male friends had pointed out the other day, what more could he possibly want?
He certainly wasn’t looking for ‘true love’, Luke told himself with a wry, sardonic grin. Both he and Eleanor were in complete agreement on that score, neither of them having any time for such an untidy, juvenile emotion. It had been very different when he was younger, of course. Looking back at his callow youth, it seemed to Luke as if he’d been violently infatuated with one totally unsuitable woman after another! But now that he’d reached a reasonably sober age in life—without ever having permanently lost his head or his heart to any woman—it was clearly time that he settled down to a life of quiet, calm domesticity. And, since he was taking Eleanor out to dinner at Le Gavroche tomorrow night, that was obviously the ideal time and place for a proposal of marriage.
Pleased to have come to a firm decision regarding his future, Luke’s attention was drawn to an odd assortment of people standing around the base of the Monument. They appeared to be listening to an extraordinary-looking girl, who was pointing at the tall column behind her.
Despite telling himself that she was undoubtedly a crazy, left-wing rabble-rouser, Luke was intrigued by the way the girl was dressed—and the sight of her long and straight ash-blonde hair, shimmering and sparkling in the bright sunlight. A moment later, he found himself stepping off the pavement and walking slowly across the road.
‘And now we come to a very important point in the history of the city of London—the Great Fire of 1666,’ Angelica told the group standing in front of her.
Considering that she’d never done this particular tour before, she was pleased at just how well things had been going over the past half-hour. In fact, although she was carrying a clipboard, holding a map of the route and a few hastily scribbled notes, she’d hardly had to use it.
Of course, she was less than thrilled at having to wear these awful clothes, but they were the only garments she’d been able to find which hadn’t been soaked by last night’s rainstorm. Luckily, none of her group seemed at all perturbed by the weird ensemble of tight black and white striped leggings, topped by a gentleman’s crimson silk waistcoat over a fine white lawn shirt edged with heavy lace ruffles at her neck and wrists. So who cared if she looked like the principal boy in a pantomime? All that mattered was the fact that, despite the narrow city streets which made it difficult to keep track of the numbers in her party, everyone still seemed to be with her—and really interested in what she had to say.
Proceeding to tell her audience of young backpacking Australians, some bored housewifes, two inscrutable Japanese businessmen and several elderly American tourists all about the Great Fire which had destroyed over eighty per cent of London, Angelica found that even she herself was becoming caught up in the drama of the story.
‘The fire raged through the city for four days and nights, devastating over thirteen thousand houses and businesses, before it was finally put out. This column is known as the Monument.’ She turned to put her hand on the tall stone edifice behind her. ‘It was erected to commemorate the Great Fire, and—’
‘No, I’m afraid that’s not right.’
The sound of the deep voice, cutting across her flow of words, threw her into momentary confusion.
‘Um—-er—’ She blinked, her wide blue eyes
quickly scanning the group. However, since no one seemed disposed to say anything further, she decided to press on. ‘As I was saying, this column was built to commemorate the Great Fire of 1666, and—’
‘No! That piece of information is definitely not correct.’
The disembodied voice sounded much louder this time, causing her audience to swivel around to face a tall man standing at the back of the group.
‘Now, just a minute!’ she said sharply. It wasn’t the first time some clever Dick had tried to disrupt a tour, and she knew that it was fatal to allow them to get away with it.
‘I can assure you that the information I’ve just given you is quite correct,’ she informed the group firmly. ‘There was a Great Fire. It did destroy much of London. And this column commemorates that fact.’
‘I hope our charming guide will forgive me for correcting her…?’ the man drawled, raising a quizzical dark eyebrow as he walked slowly through the group towards her. ‘However, I’ve always understood that the Monument was erected to commemorate the rebuilding of the city—not the fire itself.’
‘That is nothing but a mere technicality,’ Angelica muttered, her face flaming with embarrassment as she realised that the irritating man was quite right.
All the same…she was sure that this man, whose deep voice was tinged with a faint American accent, hadn’t been with them from the start of the tour. Surely she wouldn’t have overlooked such a tall and obviously commanding figure? And what was he doing on a tour like this, anyway? Now that he was standing only a few feet away, it was obvious that from the top of his handsome dark head, right down to those expensi
ve, hand-made shoes, he clearly belonged to a world of wealth and privilege. In fact, clothed in that deathly smart, dark city suit, he stood out from the other members of the tour like a sleek raven amid a crowd of dusty sparrows.
It was, of course, an occupational hazard of the business that the tours, passing through crowded streets, were apt to attract the attention of passersby. And if the guides didn’t keep their wits about them, people would often take part without paying a fee.
Unfortunately she’d been so tired from having been up all night—and so nervous about following an unfamiliar route—that Angelica couldn’t remember whether or not this man had been on their tour from the beginning.
Just as she was about to challenge his right to join them, Angelica was diverted by one of the Australian students. Noticing a door at the base of the Monument, he wondered if it were possible to climb up to the top.
‘Yes, it is,’ she told him. ‘Unfortunately, we can’t spare the time to do so today,’ she added quickly.
‘Oh, well, I guess I’ll have to come back some other time and have a go. By the way, how many steps are there?’
Angelica stared at him, her mind a complete blank. The only thing was to make a guess at the number and hope for the best. ‘Well—um—’
‘There are three hundred and eleven steps,’ a deep voice replied from just behind her shoulder, causing her to spin around to discover that the tall man was now standing just beside her.
‘But it’s a very tight spiral staircase—with definitely no room for a backpack!’ he told the young Aussie with a grin. ‘So if you want a good bird’seye view of London, I’d recommend the Stone Gallery in St Paul’s Cathedral.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘Do you mind?’ she snapped at the tall stranger. ‘I’m the one who is supposed to be leading the tour!’
‘Oh, really?’ he drawled sardonically, his eyes gleaming with amusement. ‘Then why haven’t you mentioned the name of the architect who designed this column?’
‘I was just getting around to that!’ She scowled up at him. ‘It was Sir Christopher Wren, of course.’
‘Well done!’ he murmured sarcastically. ‘And now maybe you can tell us the height of the Monument?’
Angelica gritted her teeth. Why on earth would anyone want to know that piece of completely useless information?
‘No, as it happens, I’m afraid that I can’t quite— um—can’t quite recall the exact figure…’ she muttered, her face flaming as he gave a low, cynical laugh.
‘Oh, dear!’ he drawled, before turning towards the other members of the group. ‘It would seem that our guide is suffering from temporary amnesia. She appears to have forgotten that the column is two hundred and two feet high.’
‘Goodness me—isn’t that interesting?’ she exclaimed, determined to stop this man in his tracks, before he became any more of a flaming nuisance than he was already. ‘I’m sure that we’re all very grateful for that really fascinating piece of information,’ she added grimly. ‘And now I think we’d better get on with our tour, so…’
‘But you haven’t yet told us exactly why the column was built to that precise measurement.’
Simmering with fury, Angelica was swept by an almost overwhelming urge to slap that patronising, supercilious smile off the rotten man’s handsome face. In fact, it was only the group of people—all clearly waiting for an answer—which prevented her from doing so.
‘OK—you win. I’ll admit that I don’t know the answer,’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘But, since you obviously think you’re so smart, why don’t you tell everyone? In fact,’ she yelled, suddenly losing her temper as his grin widened, ‘why don’t you take over this entire tour? I’m sure that you think you can do a better job than I can. Right?’
‘I certainly couldn’t do any worse!’ he agreed with a bark of cynical laughter. ‘However, the answer is that it’s exactly two hundred and two feet from this spot to where the fire originally started, in the baker’s shop in Pudding Lane.’
‘Oh, wow—big deal!’ she ground out. ‘So—who cares, anyway?’
‘Aw, come on, honey…!’ An elderly American woman patted the girl’s arm. ‘We all reckon you’re doing a good job. But you’ve got to admit that those sort of facts are kinda interesting.’
‘Yes, well, I suppose so…’ Angelica sighed before taking a deep breath and trying to simmer down.
Determinedly ignoring the tall, dark stranger, she gathered the other members of the party together, warning them that they must hurry since the tour was now running behind schedule. However, as she led the group down Lower Thames Street towards the Tower of London, she couldn’t help wishing that they could be transported back to Tudor times.
What wouldn’t she give to see that truly awful man kneeling at the block on Tower Green—and an executioner with a deadly sharp axe standing by, ready to chop off his handsome head!
CHAPTER TWO
BY the time she was nearing the end of the walk, and approaching St Helen’s Church in Bishopsgate, Angelica was almost foaming at the mouth with overwhelming rage and fury.
There was absolutely no doubt in her mind. She knew—with total certainty—that she’d never hated anyone as much as she did this truly awful man, who’d somehow managed to hijack her tour.
Every time she’d pointed out some interesting facts about the streets and buildings they’d passed, he had either flatly contradicted her small store of knowledge, or he’d produced some far more entertaining or unusual information. When she, for instance, had taken them into Trinity Square Gardens, to view the Merchant Navy memorial to the ships and men lost in the two World Wars, the group had barely listened to what she had to say. They’d been far more interested in hearing from Mr Know-it-all that they were standing on the official site of bloody public executions, which had been carried out there until the seventeenth century.
Nor had the group cared a jot about Seething Lane, which had once held the Navy Office in which the famous diarist Samuel Pepys had worked, not when the dreadful man had loudly complained that the tour was boring, before leading everyone across the road to St Olave’s church. And then, adding insult to injury, the group had completely ignored her as he’d not only showed them around the churchyard where Pepys and his wife were buried!, but also told them that the gateway of this church— with its macabre decoration of skulls—had featured in one of Charles Dickens’s famous novels.
And so it had gone on. At practically every step along their route, the tall stranger had succeeded in making her look like a complete idiot. Goodness knew, that was bad enough—but what made it ten times worse was that he’d clearly been enjoying every minute of heir discomfiture! He also seemed to have taken a delight in asking her questions which he knew that she couldn’t answer. Quite honestly, she could quite cheerfully have throttled the man!
As she waited for the stragglers of the group to join the others inside St Helen’s church, which dated back to at least the twelfth century, Angelica knew that she must try to do something about the situation. But what?
Cudgelling her brains to try and think of some way in which to regain control of the final part of the tour, Angelica noticed that the loathsome man had moved away from the group, and was apparently absorbed in studying a beautifully carved Jacobean pulpit. Quickly realising that she might not have another opportunity to catch him on his own, she moved swiftly down one of the two wide aisles towards his tall figure.
‘Hey—I want a word with you, sunshine!’ she hissed, tapping him sharply on the shoulder, before leading the way around the side of the pulpit to a dark corner well out of sight of the group. Spinning around, she waited impatiently as he hesitated for a moment before moving slowly towards her.
‘I don’t know what you think you’ve been doing, you damned man!’ she ground out through clenched teeth. ‘But it’s going to stop—right now!’
For a moment he stared at her in complete astonishment, as if stunned that anyone could
have the sheer effrontery to swear at him in public. Well, if so, that was just his tough luck! Because, by the time she’d finished with this man, Angelica promised herself grimly, he was going to be well and truly cut down to size!
‘Well, Miss…?’ He paused, but when she kept her mouth firmly closed he gave a casual shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, yes, you are! As far as I’m concerned, you’ve been nothing but a rotten pain in the neck ever since you joined this group.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes—really!’ she snapped, infuriated by the note of sardonic amusement in his deep voice.
Despite the lack of clear daylight within the large old church, Angelica had no trouble in seeing that, having swiftly recovered from her first attack, the man’s grey eyes were now gleaming with ironic laughter beneath their heavy lids. A fact which only served to increase her rage and fury.
‘Don’t you dare laugh at me!’ she spat through gritted teeth. ‘Because, to start with, I know that you didn’t pay to join this walking tour.’
‘Didn’t I?’ he murmured, leaning casually against the wooden pulpit, his lips twitching with amusement as he surveyed the furiously angry, trembling figure of the girl before him.
‘No, you damn well didn’t!’
“Tut, tut!’ He shook his dark head in mock-sorrow. ‘I’m shocked to hear a young girl swearing like this—and in church, too.’
For the first and only time in her life, Angelica had an almost overpowering urge to resort to real physical violence, a deep longing to vigorously slap that cynical, amused expression off the man’s handsome face. However, after a fierce internal struggle, she took a deep breath and managed to pull herself together.
‘OK… let me explain the situation in words of one syllable,’ she ground out. “If you haven’t paid to join this tour, you’ve got no right to be here with us.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that…’ he drawled slowly. ‘You clearly have very little knowledge about the City of London. In fact, since I’ve been doing your job for the past half-hour, maybe you should pay me, hmm?’ he murmured, moving closer to the rigidly angry figure.
