Not that she was about to raise any objections. She’d lived in worse areas with her mother and, although the hotel looked down-market, too, Eastwich’s budget didn’t usually stretch to much better.
It was Lucas Ryecart who said, ‘Don’t bother getting out,’ when she made a move to do so. ‘You’re not staying in this dump.’
‘It’s probably nicer inside.’
‘It would have to be.’ He pulled a face. ‘See that guy who’s just walked into the joint? Russian Mafia, I’d say, if I didn’t think they could afford better.’
Tory had seen the gentleman. Leather-coated with an upturned collar, he’d had a lean, mean unshaven face and suspicious air, but was probably an innocent foreign tourist.
‘Well, if he is,’ she suggested, ‘think of the story I could write for Toi: Russian Mafia plan gold bullion robbery from royally named hotel. That would give the magazine much-needed edge, at any rate.’
‘May I remind you, you work for Eastwich, not Toi?’ he threw back. ‘And that if you write bad things about the Mafia, they don’t settle for complaining to the Press Complaints Commission. Let’s go.’
‘Where?’ she asked as he pulled away.
‘You can have my room tonight,’ he replied and, anticipating any objection, added, ‘Have, I said, not share.’
‘What will you do?’ Tory was still not convinced by the assurance.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ he dismissed. ‘I’m having dinner with a friend who can probably put me up for the night.’
Friend? Male or female? The question crept into Tory’s head, and, when she opted for the answer female, she felt a pang of jealousy, pure and simple. But why? She didn’t want to get involved with him, did she?
Every shred of sense said no, but that didn’t diminish her attraction to him. It wasn’t merely his looks. The sound of his voice stirred something in her, too, and the way he moved, and his directness, though it was often disconcerting.
‘In fact,’ he resumed, ‘when I come to think of it, this friend could probably help you—or, at least, his wife might.’
His wife. A moment’s relief was quickly followed by denial. She hadn’t really been concerned, had she?
‘In what way?’ she queried.
‘She used to work for a woman’s glossy before the kids came along,’ he explained. ‘She could give you the low-down on what a features editor does on a day-to-day basis.’
‘That would certainly be useful.’ Tory seriously doubted her ability to bluff through four working days before the adventure weekend.
‘Okay, come to dinner, and you can pick her brains.’ It was a fairly casual invitation.
Tory still hesitated. ‘Won’t they mind—you turning up with a total stranger?’
‘Why should they?’ He shrugged. ‘Unless you become a major embarrassment after a glass or two of wine.’
‘Not as far as I know,’ she stated heavily.
‘That’s all right, then,’ he replied, and, turning into the parking space in front of one of the biggest hotels in London, announced, ‘We’re here.’
A doorman appeared to open the passenger door while Lucas climbed out and opened the boot. He indicated her case and his overnight bag to the hovering porter before handing over his car keys so the vehicle could be parked somewhere.
‘I’m going to leave the car here,’ he explained as they went through the revolving door into the lobby, ‘and retrieve it in the morning rather than search South Kensington for a parking space.’
She nodded at this information but wondered why he’d let the porter take his bag. Did he imagine she could be persuaded to let him share the room? If so, he was in for a disappointment.
‘Reservation in the name of Ryecart,’ he announced as they approached the desk, and, when it was located, informed them, ‘A Miss Lloyd will actually be using the room. Is it possible to extend the booking from one night to four?’
Four nights? Did he mean for her? It seemed so.
When he’d finished business with the desk clerk, he said, ‘You might as well stay here for the duration. Save the bother of finding somewhere else.’
‘But surely it’s too…’ She pulled a face rather than say the word expensive in front of the porter.
‘It’s on Eastwich,’ he said as if that made the money irrelevant.
She supposed it was his decision. After all, he was Eastwich in a sense. But hadn’t he been griping about budgets to Alex just that morning?
Lucas checked his luggage into the porter’s office to be picked up later. ‘Why don’t you freshen up before we go to my friends for dinner?’ he suggested to Tory. ‘Take your time. I have some calls to make, then I’ll wait in the cocktail bar.’
Tory didn’t actually remember agreeing to this dinner date, but wasn’t given much chance to object as he turned on his heel and walked off towards the hotel lounges. She was left in the care of the porter who guided her to her room on the fifth floor.
The room was every bit as luxurious as she’d expected and, after the porter had departed, tip in hand, she spent a little while looking across the London skyline. Then, still debating the wisdom of going with Lucas on any date, however innocuous it seemed, she showered, changed into a pale lilac shift dress and spent at least twenty minutes trying to sweep her unruly hair into a sophisticated style before giving up and letting it fall back into a mass of curls.
It wasn’t a proper date, of course. It was more in the nature of work. That was what she told herself, even as she checked once more how she looked in the mirror, before draping a cream pashmina round her arms and venturing out to find him.
As it was early evening, the cocktail lounge wasn’t crowded. From the doorway Tory noticed him at the bar, talking to a stunning brunette of supermodel proportions. She was considering retreat when he spotted her in turn. He made some final remark to the brunette before crossing to greet Tory.
He noted her change of outfit with a smiling, ‘You look lovely.’
Tory replied with a less gracious, ‘Humph,’ and followed it up by muttering, ‘We can pass on dinner, if you prefer.’
‘And do what?’ He arched an interested brow.
He’d misunderstood so Tory glanced pointedly towards the brunette. ‘You could pursue new interests.’
He followed her gaze, then laughed dryly as he curled a hand round Tory’s elbow to guide her to the front lobby.
‘You’re not jealous, are you?’ he added in amused tones.
She gave him a repressive glance, claiming, ‘Not even remotely.’
‘Shame.’ He pulled a doleful face. ‘No need, anyway. Pros like her don’t do it for me.’
Tory assumed he meant professional women and threw back, ‘Too challenging, are they? Women in executive positions?’
He looked puzzled for a moment, then gave another laugh. ‘I think we may have lost something in the translation. When I say “pro“, I mean, well, to put it politely, a lady of the night.’
‘Lady of the…’ The penny finally dropped with Tory and left her round-eyed with disbelief. ‘That girl…she was…no, she couldn’t be.’
He nodded before switching subjects to say, ‘I’ll need your room key.’
‘What for?’ she queried.
‘My overnight bag,’ he reminded her slowly and indicated the porter’s lodge tucked into a corner of the lobby. ‘They’ll have it stored under room number.’
‘Oh.’ She just had to stop reacting with suspicion to everything he said. ‘Here.’
She produced it out of her clutch purse and waited while he retrieved his case.
They emerged from the hotel to find it still light and sunny on this summer’s evening.
The liveried doorman assumed they’d want a taxi and was already signalling for one from the rank alongside the entrance.
Once they were installed in the back, curiosity had Tory resuming their earlier conversation. ‘Did she ask you for money, then? The woman in the bar.’
‘Not up front,’ he told her. ‘She’d be thrown out of the hotel if she went around doing that.’
‘Then how did you know?’ she pursued.
He smiled a little as he asked, ‘Do you think I’m irresistible?’
‘No!’
‘Well, neither do I. So, when some stunning-looking dame comes up to me in a bar, sits down, uninvited, and asks me if I’m in need of company, I can guess everything’s not quite on the level.’
‘She might just have fancied you,’ Tory argued. ‘You’re not that bad-looking.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ he said at this grudging admission, ‘but, no, I don’t think it was love at first sight.’
‘What else did she say?’
‘She asked me if I was in London on business. She then said she was doing business, should I be interested. I told her I was waiting for a friend and she was just offering to find a friend for my friend when you came to my rescue,’ he finished in wry tones.
Tory made a slight face. This man didn’t need her help to get out of such a situation. He was obviously a man of the world.
‘You weren’t tempted,’ she challenged, ‘stunning as she was?’
‘Not even remotely,’ he echoed her earlier words. ‘Paying to have a woman tell me how great I am in bed has never held appeal.’
Tory felt herself actually blushing.
And that was before he leaned closer to murmur, ‘Eliciting such information for real, now, that’s a different matter.’
For once there was no amusement in his low deep drawl. It was Tory who forced a laugh.
‘You don’t believe I can?’ he added. ‘Or was that an invitation to prove it?’
It hadn’t been, of course, but he still lifted a hand to her cheek and, when she didn’t immediately pull away, turned her face towards his.
He stared at her so long Tory assumed that was all he was going to do. Then he kissed her. Not deeply or intimately. His lips barely touched against the corner of her mouth while a hand lightly pushed back the curls framing her face.
It was over almost before it was begun. He drew away and leaned back against the taxi leather.
Tory was left confused and somewhat irrationally annoyed. If he was going to kiss her, he should do it properly or not at all.
‘An ominous silence followed,’ he commented as if writing a novel, ‘but still he counted himself lucky—at least she hadn’t slapped him.’
‘Yet,’ Tory warned darkly.
But too late. A quick glance confirmed that the amused smile was back in place.
‘I’m not sure I want to go to dinner with you,’ she added in haughty tones.
‘Well, it’s too late for a rain check,’ he countered. ‘We’re here.’
Here being a splendid row of Georgian terraced houses. Rich friends, obviously.
‘Do they know I’m coming too?’ she asked as he selected cash from his wallet to pay the taxi.
He nodded and, paying the driver, helped her out of the taxi before answering, ‘Caro does, anyway. In fact, she’s looking forward to giving you the low-down on being a features editor. A trip down memory lane, she called it.’
‘What does she do now?’
‘Stays at home with the children.’
‘How old?’
‘The twins are about three, the baby is just a few months old… You like children?’ he added as they walked up the steps.
‘Boiled or fried?’ she quipped.
He smiled at the small joke before pursuing, ‘Seriously?’
‘I like them well enough,’ she finally replied. ‘Just as long as I can hand them back.’
‘I used to feel like that, too,’ he agreed. ‘Then one day you find yourself thinking it wouldn’t be so bad, having your own.’
The admission was unexpected, so much so that Tory stared at him, testing if he was quite serious.
‘With the right person, of course.’ Blue eyes met hers, half intent, half amused.
Flirting, that was what he was doing. Tory knew that. Yet it seemed important to make a statement.
‘I’ll never have children.’ She was unequivocal about it.
He smiled a little. ‘How can you be so certain?’
Tory did not smile back. He obviously thought she was making a lifestyle choice.
‘I just am.’ She didn’t feel like going into reasons.
She had told him. That was enough.
He shook his head, as if he still didn’t believe her.
His problem, she decided.
It was only later she wished she’d told him it all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LUCAS studied Tory for a moment longer, then said, ‘You’ll see, one day,’ before turning to press on the doorbell.
It was answered by a woman wearing a frog apron on top of a smart summer dress. She was slightly older than Tory with a pretty freckled face and red hair escaping from a band at the neck. She looked a little flustered but her face was transformed at the sight of Lucas.
‘Luc, lovely to see you.’ She gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek before turning to Tory. ‘And you must be the features editor to be. Pleased to meet you. Come through, but mind the toys.’
She led the way down a wide hall, which was strewn with the pieces of a wooden train set, calling out, ‘Boys, Uncle Luc is here.’
The effect was immediate as two identical pyjama-clad figures came hurtling out of a room to throw themselves at Lucas Ryecart’s legs. Without hesitation, he stooped down and heaved one up in each arm, much to the boys’ delight.
‘Play trains,’ demanded one.
‘Build a tent,’ demanded the other.
‘Pillow fight!’ added the first.
‘Do the swingy thing,’ chimed the second.
And so it went on as the twins began to list endless possibilities now opened up to them at the appearance of ‘Uncle Luc’.
‘Boys!’ their mother eventually called over the excited gabbling. ‘Uncle Luc is having dinner. You are going to bed.’
This elicited a joint protest of ‘Aw’ and crestfallen little faces.
‘You heard your mother.’ Lucas put them both back on the ground. ‘But if you’re up those stairs by the time I count five, I may just tell you the really scary thing that happened to my friends, Al and Bill, the time they got lost in a jungle in South America.’
‘A real jungle?’
‘Honestly?’
The boys’ eyes were round with anticipation before Lucas began, ‘One…two…’
Then there was a mad scramble as the two made for the stairs and rushed up as quickly as their legs would allow.
‘You don’t have to,’ Caro said as he reached five.
‘I’d like to.’ He raised a brow in Tory’s direction. ‘You don’t mind?’
Tory shook her head. Caro seemed friendly enough.
‘It’ll give us a chance to have a girl talk.’ Caro grinned wickedly.
‘About magazine work, I hope,’ Lucas added.
‘Of course. What else?’ Caro feigned innocence, even as the gleam in her eye suggested he would also be a topic under discussion.
Then one of the twins appeared at the top of the stairs to shout, ‘Is it five yet?’
‘Shh, the baby’s asleep!’ his mother called back.
While Lucas promised, ‘I’m coming, Jack,’ and took the stairs two at a time.
‘I don’t know how he does it—’ Caro gazed after him in puzzled admiration ‘—but he always gets their names right. Not even their grandmothers can do that.’
Tory wouldn’t have managed it either. The boys had looked like clones of each other. ‘Does he see them often?’
‘He tries to—’ Caro pulled a forgiving face ‘—but he has such a busy schedule. Still, the boys always love it when Uncle Luc comes. He’s their godfather.’
‘Really?’ Tory assumed that was why he was called ‘Uncle Luc’.
‘Well, one of them,’ Caro continued before glancing towards the back of
the house. ‘Look, do you mind if we chat in the kitchen while I get on with dinner?’
Tory shook her head, offering, ‘I’d be happy to help. I’m not much of a cook but I can peel vegetables with the best of them.’
‘It’s all right.’ Carol smiled, leading the way through. ‘Most of it’s done. I just have to keep watch over various pots and pans. Poached salmon—I hope you like it.’
‘Sounds delicious.’ Tory meant it. ‘A welcome change from chicken salad or tuna pasta, the heights of my own culinary achievements.’
Caro laughed. ‘Oh, you’re definitely one up on me. I used to live on a diet of sandwiches and yoghurt in my single career-girl days. Life always seemed too short to cook.’
‘Quite.’ Tory gave the other woman a complicit smile.
‘Of course, it’s such an irony,’ Caro ran on. ‘There I was, doing features for this lifestyle magazine, full of cordon bleu recipes and articles on minimalist decor, and going home to cook beans on toast in a girl-sharing flat in Clapham with enough clutter to fill a builder’s skip.’
Tory laughed at the image, before casting an appreciative glance round her present surrounds. The kitchen was large and light and airy, with up to date units and flooring in polished beech-wood.
‘You have a lovely place now,’ complimented Tory.
‘Money,’ Caro replied as she stirred a simmering pot. ‘My husband’s family have it.’
‘Right.’ Tory wasn’t sure how to respond to such frankness.
Caro shrugged, dismissing it as an importance, before continuing, ‘Anyway, I understand from Luc that you’re also about to enter the bitch-eat-bitch world of the women’s glossy.’
‘I’ve already been through the initiation ceremony.’ Grimacing, Tory relayed her brief meeting with the editorial board.
Caro’s expression was sympathetic but hardly surprised. It seemed Amanda Villiers, the senior editor, was notorious in the business for savaging female staff.
Tory listened while Caro went through what her job had entailed when working for a very similar magazine to Toi. Obviously she couldn’t teach Tory how to do the job. That required years of experience as well as talent. But she gave her enough pointers on how to seem to be doing the job to maintain her cover for a few days.
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