Harper's Fate

by F. C. Clark

  HARPER’S

  FATE

  Eat Me...

  F. C. Clark

  Copyright © 2018 F. C. Clark

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  ISBN 9781789012347

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Dad

  This is for you.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Acknowledgments

  I have so many people to thank for helping me through the hardest journey. Firstly, my best friend and mentor – my husband. The day I told him that I wanted to write was the beginning of his relentless encouragement – thank you my darling. My mum and my late dad who helped me with so many details that will stay with me forever, and not forgetting my three babies – my world – as well as Emma, Kira, Hannah and Tawne. Jackie, my best-girl tonic and Lorraine, my toughest critic and pillar of strength. EKC – I am indebted to you girls forever. FMC – thank you and sorry! Lastly, Jane Hammett, who has helped me more than she realises.

  FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE

  80 KILOMETRES EAST OF ST PETERSBURG

  I slowly raise my head. An intense pain at my temples commands my body to wake. My eyes attempt to blink, but can’t. I’m in complete darkness. I try to speak, but no sound passes my lips. Panic and fear begin to swirl within me. The feelings increase when I try to move my arms. They remain tightly locked at my side, and my legs are restrained at the ankles. Holy shit, I’m tied to something. All I can move is the tips of my fingers. I’m tied to a chair…

  Tears start to fall as I realise I have placed myself in grave danger. Why would he do this? I struggle to believe that my father would want to cause me pain. My thoughts are interrupted by a muffled bang. My heart frantically beats against my chest as I hear the door open…

  1

  SIX WEEKS EARLIER...

  BURLINGTON GARDENS, LONDON, W1

  ‘Oh, crap.’ I hold the two forgotten white shirts.

  ‘Is there a problem, Miss Harper?’

  Evidently, my words were louder than I thought. I turn my head in the direction of Mr Jones, as he peers at me with raised brows, deftly manipulating fabric around a mannequin.

  ‘I would say a situation – definitely not a problem.’

  I continue to make our three o’clock tea. Within seconds, Mr Jones arrives at the cutting table. Undeniably, he’s a creature of habit and a man of exquisite refinement. I often wonder if this is due to his age; I guess he’s in his early sixties. Jones Tailors is an established family business located in a side street just off Savile Row, providing handmade suits and shirts for a list of private clientele.

  ‘So the situation is under control?’ Mr Jones removes his glasses, and passes me my cup and saucer.

  ‘Yes… Trust me, I would never let you down.’ I offer him a mock salute.

  ‘Are you leaving me with a calamity, Kate?’ He looks at me whilst drinking his tea.

  ‘Me – never.’ I place my hand over my heart and laugh, although we’re both aware that disasters – or calamities, as he refers to them – do occasionally follow me. ‘Actually, I’ve realised that two white shirts were missed off the delivery. They’re both for Sutton Global Industries.’ I glance at the order form. ‘The postcode is SW6. It can’t be that far from Pete’s Bar. I’ll make a detour and drop them off later.’

  Mr Jones sits silently absorbing my words. Even though our time together has been relatively short, he’s grown accustomed to my overactive mouth – one of my many negative traits.

  ‘Kate, I trust you. I have no fear that you will leave me without any outstanding problems.’ He continues to drink his tea and consume my homemade fruitcake.

  ‘So, tomorrow is D-day … are you ready for me to leave? I can’t believe it’s been six months. I hope maternity leave hasn’t affected Sam; I do have standards for her to live up to.’ I laugh.

  ‘Kate, your standards are unreachable.’ As ever, his gaze is humorous and warm.

  ‘You always have the perfect answer. I’m going to miss you.’ The warm tea reaches my lips, alleviating the tightening sensation in my throat.

  I place my elbows on the table and savour our penultimate afternoon together, ensuring I store the moment in my memory box.

  * * *

  I change from black-heeled court shoes into white Converse trainers. On this occasion comfort wins over style. I glance in the mirror. It now reflects a mishmash outfit. A knee-length white cotton dress and black fitted blazer – even with the change of footwear, it works. I run my fingers through my long blonde hair, trying to loosen the matted strands; a futile exercise as it needs a wash. My dark, tired eyes and pale complexion stare back at me. I sigh, mentally counting down the days until I go to France with the girls.

  * * *

  The early-evening London streets are crowded with people trying to get home. Traffic is terrible. I rest my back against the shop window whilst typing in the address of Sutton Global to my satnav. The dot bleeps. Apparently I have a twenty-five-minute walk ahead of me.

  After a long walk, my phone tells me I’m close to my destination; however, it fails to inform me of the imminent downpour. From nowhere, the weather changes from sunshine to grey and overcast, and the heavens open. I’m totally unprepared. Note to self: buy a bloody umbrella. Knowing that I’m on the right road and only a few feet from my destination, I place my phone in the side pocket of my bag, lock my arms protectively round the shirt box, and speed up.

  Stopping at the kerb, I raise my head and view the colossal glass tower opposite. Rainwater trickles down my cheeks, which is truly testing my waterproof make-up. Checking for traffic, I dart across the road. From the corner of my eye I view a car heading towards me. I leap towards the kerb but, not being an Olympic athlete, I fall. My knees make contact with the hard road and I receive a dousing of water from the speeding car. Shocked, I stand and regain my balance. ‘You fucking idiot!’ I try to straighten my white dress, which is soaked and clings to my body. ‘This is not my bloody day.’

  Heading towards the large revolving doors, I try once again to readjust m
y dress, which is pointless, as the cotton sticks to my legs. Looking around the modern building I appear to be invisible, which pleases me. I scan the area and head for the reception. The man seated at the desk has his head bowed. I clear my throat. Eventually the man makes eye contact.

  ‘Hi… I wonder if you could help me. I have a parcel for Sutton Global Industries.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Roberts. I trust you are well?’

  I hear a calm, yet authoritative, voice from directly behind me. Warm breath glides across the back of my neck.

  ‘We appear to be heading in the same direction. Please allow me to show this young lady the way.’ He speaks again.

  The husky baritone voice causes goose bumps to cover my skin. Crap – I hope he hasn’t noticed. Why does my body give out signals I can’t control, even if I want to?

  The security guard nods. ‘Please write your name on this badge and return it when you exit the building.’ He hands me an entry pass. I write my name on the badge and clip it to the lapel of my wet blazer.

  I run my hands through my hair. At no point does this help re-style my wet, dirty hair. Inhaling and blowing out through pursed lips, I turn, holding my damp box tightly. Immediately I’m met by a man, the man with the heart-stopping voice, who is now holding a gate open next to a security turnstile.

  Wow… You have to be kidding me. Is this really happening? In front of me stands the most drop-dead handsome man I have ever seen. Oh, great. Just what I need today, of all days. I remain still, absorbing the view, for far too long. My head pleads with my body: move, goddamn it, you’re making yourself look ridiculous. Suddenly I realise where I am. I begin to move in the direction of the opened gate and the stranger.

  ‘Thank you.’ Amazingly, I speak and walk. It’s a miracle that two of my motor skills work. I walk past the man, my head low, eyes forward.

  ‘Follow me. We need the top floor,’ he says, his strong, sexy baritone voice filtering through my body like a shockwave. A voice like his, plus looks like that; it can only cause the female species to melt. Clearly, I prove this to be an accurate theory.

  I follow him towards the lift, not wanting to look at his face, and yet I raise my eyes slightly as he presses the button, allowing me to see his incredible hands, which are very manly and I’m sure very useful – Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? Note to self: I need a boyfriend.

  I feel the need to speak. Silence is not usually an option for me.

  ‘I hope I’m not putting you to any trouble?’ I manage a few words and catch a glimpse of his eyes, which scan me from head to toe. Holy shit, they knock me off balance. Perhaps keeping quiet and keeping my eyes down is the best course of action.

  With no time to offer any further interaction, the lift arrives and the doors open. We both stand aside, allowing people to exit. He places his hand tentatively on my lower back, gesturing with his other hand for me to enter. His touch makes me jolt. Agitated, I swiftly move to the far corner of the lift, gaining some much-needed space. Holy shit, what is wrong with me?

  I watch him closely for the first time as he presses the lift button. He must be in his early thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, with short dark hair that matches his black suit perfectly. The top button of his crisp white shirt is undone, revealing a small amount of tanned skin – just enough to increase my heart rate.

  I try to refrain from staring as he turns to face me, but I can’t tear myself away. Jesus H. Christ, this man is stunning. His facial structure is chiselled and defined. If you could draw a perfect man, I’m sure this would be it. He has dark, enigmatic eyes that bore straight through me, causing a flow of sensations to my groin – bloody hell, I need some self-discipline. I know I’m blushing.

  ‘You look extremely wet,’ he says, his eyes fixed on mine. This doesn’t help me gain composure. I watch him as he reads the security badge attached to my lapel.

  ‘Is it OK to call you Miss Harper?’ He makes eye contact, wearing a smirk or a grin, I’m not sure which. Is this the face of a man who knows the effect he has on women?

  ‘Yes, that would be the rain – it makes you wet,’ I respond in a cutting tone. ‘Also, I had the pleasure of encountering a very large puddle.’ I’m fully aware that sarcasm escapes my mouth far too often; another function I can’t control. My list of malfunctions appears to be growing.

  He tilts his head to one side. I’m guessing he’s not amused by my response. He continues to stare, which unnerves me.

  ‘Oh, and call me Kate.’ This time I smile, not wanting to appear rude.

  ‘You can call me Luke,’ he responds in a mocking tone. ‘You seem to have cut your knee.’ His eyes fall towards my leg, whilst his hand slips inside his black suit jacket, retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Please, take this.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I take the unexpected offering from his hand. ‘I managed to hit the kerb with my knee whilst trying to avoid the idiot that soaked me.’ I look down and notice blood running down my leg. Yet again, I’m looking shit-hot in front of a man who could be a model. Great – my day just keeps getting better.

  I manage to soak up most of the blood on his beautiful white hanky. Thankfully, the lift comes to a stop and the doors open. He gestures for me to exit.

  ‘This way – follow me. What delivery do you have?’

  ‘Oh – shirts from Jones Tailors.’

  ‘Personal service?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  We arrive at a large reception area with huge silver lettering: SUTTON GLOBAL INDUSTRIES. The office is spacious, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of London. We reach an empty desk, maybe a secretary’s desk. Beyond that is a set of double doors. Once again he holds the door open and gestures for me to enter. I’m now beginning to wonder if he’s actually a door attendant – albeit a very hot door attendant.

  The office we enter is beautiful and vast, with rich dark wood furniture, masculine slate flooring and stone-coloured walls covered with monitors. I can’t imagine why one person would need that amount of technology. Mind you, I’ve barely mastered the iPhone.

  He walks around a large desk and sits in a chair. Oh shit, he’s obviously the MD or someone important.

  ‘I believe you have a box of shirts for me.’

  Without a doubt, he understands the effect he has; not only the effect of his brooding good looks, but also the sexual aura he exudes. I sense an air of arrogance. He picks up the phone on his desk.

  ‘I need the first aid box and two coffees.’ His request is delivered without a please or a thank you. He continues to glare at me. ‘I believe your knee is in need of medical attention.’

  ‘I’m fine – thank you.’ I scowl at him.

  Contemplatively, he rubs his jaw. ‘I do have an ulterior motive.’

  He stands and saunters around the table to join me, removing the box from my arms, placing it on the desk. My eyes follow him as he moves towards the large sofas. The view is breathtaking; not only the view of London, but also the view of his sexy body.

  ‘Come… sit down.’ Once again, he gestures.

  ‘I need to leave.’

  ‘Nonsense, you have blood on your leg. I did say I have an ulterior motive.’

  I make my way towards the large sofa, concerned that my dress is soaking. Clearly, I have officially entered the Miss Wet T-shirt competition, only I’m in a white dress. I perch on the edge of the sofa, not getting too close, for my own sanity – distance is my only form of defence.

  He sits, one leg resting on the other, with his hands relaxed on his lap.

  ‘I do have a confession.’ Bloody hell, he’s very self-assured.

  A knock on the door disrupts his confession. What does he have to confess? Unless there’s a problem with the delivery…

  ‘Enter.’ He speaks whilst keeping his eyes unnervingly locked on me.

 
An attractive dark-haired woman enters the office with a tray, two cups of coffee and a first aid box. She places it on the table directly in front of us.

  He nods at his employee. ‘That will be all, Tanya.’ She exits sharply.

  He returns his gaze to me. ‘Milk, sugar?’

  ‘Oh, just milk, please. Honestly, my knee is fine – there’s no need to go to any trouble. I really should be going; I have to get to work.’ I don’t make eye contact, frightened that I will melt once again, which is bloody ridiculous. Christ, I feel pathetic…

  ‘Nonsense.’ He places my cup close to me.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If I may continue with my confession,’ he says, opening the first aid box and removing an antiseptic wipe and a plaster, ‘I’m the fucking idiot who got you wet, as you so eloquently shouted in the street.’ His dark eyes sparkle; he is clearly pleased with his declaration. ‘That is not entirely true: my driver is the fucking idiot.’ Once again, he produces a smile that sends a shockwave through my body.

  He continues to wipe my knee and leg with the antiseptic wipe. I flinch from the sting – and his touch.

  Although my body and mind appear paralysed, I give myself a kick up the arse, urging my voice to resume. ‘You have good hearing.’

  ‘I do believe you shouted very loudly. As yet, my hearing has not failed me.’ He smirks. Wow, this man radiates confidence. Why am I allowing him to intimidate me in a sexual game in which he appears to have the upper hand?

  ‘I was cross! As you can see, I’m very wet… from the rain.’ I offer him my pissed-off look, whilst trying to hold on to some self-preservation. ‘The puddle incident merely added to my most enjoyable afternoon.’ My scary trait rears its ugly head; I sense babbling about to commence. ‘I wasn’t swearing at you, more at the situation, and I’m one hundred per cent sure your behaviour wouldn’t have been any different from mine.’ I tell myself to stop and breathe. ‘And, more to the point, your driver is employed by you, driving you to work, therefore I think it was your fault.’ I fold my arms; I believe I have made a valid point.