by Beth Good
Ebba was driving quite fast and smoothly now that they were leaving the outskirts of the city. She sat there, staring out of the tinted side windows at the passing traffic, and wondered if she could leap out while the car was still moving without hurting herself. Maybe when Ebba had to stop for a red light or a junction …
Warily, one eye on the smoky glass panel, she tried the door handle nearest to her. It did not budge.
Good grief. She had been locked in.
Just as she was genuinely starting to panic, Rose heard a repetitive buzzing sound from her bottom. For a few seconds, she was not sure what on earth was happening down there. Then she belatedly recalled that her mobile phone was in her evening bag, which was currently lodged beside her, nestling against one buttock cheek.
Frantically, she grabbed up the bag and retrieved the phone, which to her relief was still ringing.
Paul’s name was lit up on the screen.
She answered it with trembling fingers. ‘Hello?' Her voice came out high and squeaky, and she took a deep breath, trying to get her nerves under control. 'Paul, where are you?'
'Funnily enough, that's just what I was about to ask you.'
She thought Paul sounded tense, perhaps even angry, which was not much of a comfort to her. In the background, she could hear the clink of glasses, and knives and forks, and the noisy hum of conversation.
'I'm at the restaurant as planned,’ he told her, a note of disapproval in his voice, ‘though the maître d’ had no record of a reservation for us. Where the hell is Grimsby? And where are you and your dad? I’m all on my own here.’ He hesitated, and a note of concern crept into his voice. ‘Are you and Henry okay? Has something gone wrong?'
God, where to begin explaining this one?
'I have no idea where I am,' she said truthfully, then dropped the phone as Ebba swung off a winding slip road onto the motorway, instantly accelerating to a high speed.
Good grief, Rose thought, what on earth is going on?
She released her belt and leant forward, scrabbling for the phone on the floor. Having retrieved it, she sat back again, flushed and with her hair in her eyes, clipped on her seatbelt again, and then clung grimly with one hand to the padded wall of the limo.
'Listen, Paul?’ She kept her voice down, unsure if the driver could still hear her. ‘This is urgent. You may need to call the police. I know it sounds bizarre, but I think I've been kidnapped.'
There was no reply.
Crunch… Crunch… Crunch……
‘Paul? You’re breaking up. I didn’t hear what you just said.’ She took the phone away from her ear, stared at it blankly, and then listened again. 'Paul? Can you hear me?’ She frowned. ‘Are you still there?’
His voice came back as a distant crackle, breaking up intermittently, as they raced along under the orange flicker of motorway lights. 'Sorry … I didn’t … a word … ’
‘Oh flipping fantastic,’ she muttered, pressing the phone to her ear and raising her voice, ‘Paul? Hello? Can you hear me?’
But it was no use.
Beep … Beep … Beep …
The phone had gone dead at the other end.
Hurriedly, she texted him instead.
Think I’ve been kidnapped by Grimsby’s driver. On the M25 now. Call my dad.
She sent him the text, then slumped back in her seat, totally bewildered. What on earth was going on? Staring down at the phone, she considered contacting her dad herself. But he never turned his mobile on at home, and if she rang him and the phone cut out again, he would go crazy with worry. Besides, it was more useful to keep an eye on where they were going.
Some time passed, during which the limousine came off the motorway and began eating up the miles on a smaller country road. She could not see any sign of where she was, passing only a few fuel stations and housing estates along the way, with no major landmarks visible in the frosty night.
As they moved further into the dark heart of the countryside, she and Paul exchanged several more texts, none of which helped to advance her cause and only made her feel worse.
Kidnapped? Is this some kind of joke?
No, she typed back to him, a little tetchily. Was he kidding? Why on earth would she make something like that up?
Is Grimsby with you?
No, she typed again, shaking her head in disbelief. Was that all he had to say to the staggering revelation that she was being kidnapped? Some crack lawyer he was!
Where’s your dad?
At home.
What do you want me to do?
Call my dad and …
She hesitated, finger hovering over the text keyboard, suddenly rethinking the whole ‘Call Dad’ strategy.
Perhaps it was best not to upset her dad with news of what had happened. What could Dad do, after all, except sit at home and fret over what he could not control? And blame himself for not going with her, she suspected.
Should she ask Paul to call the police instead?
Was that wise?
Perhaps this was simply some annoying trick on Grimsby’s part, and calling the police would make her look absurd and over-reactive. Nick Grimsby struck her as a man who never made a move without thinking everything out in advance. He’d probably be a superb chess-player. She, on the other hand, tended to react from the heart without thinking things through, which had got her into serious trouble more than once in her life.
Meanwhile, what to do next? She was no strategist, and found it hard to second-guess his next move. Except that it involved dinner. She hoped so anyway, as she’d skipped lunch and was now utterly starving.
Rose? What’s happening?
She stared down at Paul’s text message, her own still unsent. But before she could decide what to reply, the limousine turned off the road they had been travelling on, and began to slow down. There were dazzling lights ahead, and a high wire fence that stretched a long way into the dark, and large signs saying, Private Property. Keep Out.
At first she thought this must be some property belonging to Nick Grimsby, and that he had brought her here to have dinner with him alone.
Then she saw the small plane, sitting on what was clearly a runway.
Rose stuffed her phone back into her bag, and released her seatbelt with a snap. Unable to believe what she was seeing, she rubbed the cold limousine window, and then sat forward, practically rubbing her nose against the glass as she studied the plane in astonishment.
Without warning, the car came to an abrupt halt.
Rose was jerked sideways onto the limousine floor, hair flopping over her face, one leg waving helpless in the air as she struggled to turn over onto all fours. Then her evening bag slipped off the seat on top of her, landing on her head.
‘Ouch!’
At that moment, the door opened.
She looked backwards through a tangle of red hair, hot-cheeked and thoroughly annoyed, expecting to see Ebba.
‘Good evening, Miss Mistletoe,’ came a deep, male voice. ‘Decided to take a nap, did you? I can assure you the seats are much more comfortable than the floor.’
Nick Grimsby.
How bloody delightful, she thought crossly, glaring up at him through a gap in her hair. My kidnapper. And he’s probably looking at my bottom …
A hand stretched down to help her up, and she slapped it away, biting back a swear word as she scuttled round on all fours. ‘I can get up on my own, thank you very much,’ Rose said through her teeth.
She then did precisely that, only with less finesse than she would have liked, clambering out of the car with her dress wrapped horribly around the top of her thighs, a ladder in her new tights, and one shoe lost. It was freezing, and she grabbed her black coat about herself, wishing it was a little longer.
She hobbled a few steps and stopped, looking round for the driver. The limousine was empty now, so where had Ebba gone?
‘Allow me,’ Nick Grimsby said in that infuriating drawl, and bent into the car to retrieve her heel, politely holding
it out while she hopped about on one heeled foot in the icy air. ‘This is yours, I believe.’
Wordlessly, she seized the black high heel, and clung onto his shoulder while she forced it back onto her frozen foot.
He grimaced as she dug her fingers deliberately hard into his shoulder. Bloody man. Wait till she told the police what he’d done. She tried to ignore how handsome he looked in his tuxedo, an expensive black jacket and white shirt with a plain black dickie bow and cummerbund across his flat abs. But it was very, very difficult. As she was sure he knew, from the way his mouth twitched as he met her angry stare.
He murmured, ‘I trust you had an easy journey out of London, Rose.’ She noticed he had dropped the formal Miss Mistletoe business, which instantly reminded her of that tongue-twister quip and made her cheeks flood with heat again. His gaze narrowed astutely on her face as he added, ‘Not too much traffic? And you had everything you needed?’
‘You can c-cut the small talk, Mr Grimsby,’ she said hotly, and was dismayed to hear herself stammering, something she had not done in years. ‘You’ve b-bloody well kidnapped me.’
‘Hardly.’ He sunk his hands into the pockets of his elegant black suit trousers. ‘I asked you to have dinner with me tonight, and that’s exactly what’s going to happen.’
‘This is not the restaurant.’
‘Yes, sorry, slight change of plan.’ He made a face, clearly only pretending to be contrite, as there was a devil laughing behind his eyes. ‘Hope you don’t mind. I’ve asked the maître d’ to explain to your … friend. I wouldn’t want him to sit there all evening, waiting for us to arrive.’
‘Paul will be furious. He’s going to call the police.’
‘Oh, I doubt that.’ He withdrew a phone from his pocket and waved it gently. ‘Ebba let me know that you’d been on the phone to him. So I rang his boss, explained the whole situation. We play golf together sometimes. I’m sure he’ll have a word with Paul, help him see sense.’
She gaped, then shut her mouth, seeing his amusement.
‘Okay, so where are we, Mr Grimsby?’ she demanded, and then swivelled, both feet firmly shod at last, and jabbed an accusing finger towards the plane on the runway. ‘And what the hell is that? A flying restaurant?’
‘That’s my private plane, and it’s going to take us to dinner,’ he said calmly, and then continued, ignoring her gasp of disbelief, ‘And if you’d like to discuss our acquisition, and your plan to save the Mistletoe Flower Shop, you’d be wise to step aboard.’
CHAPTER TEN
Curiosity trumped common sense, and soon she found herself on board his private plane, seated by a window, gazing down at the winking lights of London in the distance. She had only been on a plane a couple of times in her life, and never one so small. Her fingers dug into the deep leather of her seat as the plane banked abruptly left, and continued to rise in the darkness. What on earth was she doing? She had basically allowed this man to kidnap her, and instead of screaming bloody murder as soon as she got out of his limousine, she had instead meekly stepped aboard his plane and strapped herself in, like she was off to Benidorm for a fortnight rather than being abducted.
From the seat opposite, Nick Grimsby, looking quite at his ease in his gorgeous tuxedo, crossed one muscular leg over the other and regarded her something akin to amusement. ‘Comfortable?’
'More importantly, where are we going?' she asked him for about the fifth time since he had led her across the frosty tarmac to the plane’s steps. 'If this is a business meeting, as you keep claiming, then what's with all this secrecy?' She forced herself to study his marvellous physique in the tightfitting black tuxedo. It was hard not to let her attraction for him show, but she added with as much sang-froid as she could manage, 'And why the penguin suit? Do you have a James Bond complex?'
He laughed. 'Perhaps I do. And on that note…'
Rose turned her head, startled as someone appeared beside her in the generous aisle. So they were not alone except for the pilot, she thought, a little comforted by that thought. At first, she did not recognise the tall, elegant blonde in a smart green uniform, holding out a bottle of champagne.
But then Ebba spoke, asking her in that distinctive accent, 'Would you care for a glass of champagne, madame?'
On the table between her and Nick Grimsby were two cut-crystal champagne flutes, a bowl of peanuts, and some document files. When she nodded mutely, Ebba glanced at Nick for permission first, and then poured them both a glass of sparkling bubbly.
As she turned, Nick said quietly, ‘Leave the bottle, please.’
Ebba placed the champagne bottle on the table with a smile before disappearing back into the other compartment without another word.
His gaze followed her until the door closed with a click, and Rose suddenly wondered if he was sleeping with his … Well, she had been going to call Ebba a chauffeur. But since she was also his flight attendant tonight, maybe her role in his company was more flexible than that. Just how flexible though? she pondered, trying not to imagine those two in bed together. They would make a stunning power couple though: Nick with his fit, toned body and drop-dead gorgeous looks, and Ebba with that cool Nordic beauty.
He was looking at her now, his lips curved in a crooked smile as though reading the contents of her head. If he could do that though, she considered drily, he’d have to sort through the jumble for quite a while to find anything coherent.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
He raised his champagne flute in a toast. ‘To a spirit of cooperation between us,’ he said, and took a sip.
‘Sod that,’ she said, and saw his eyebrows shoot up. He put down his glass, watching her warily as she went on, ‘Look, stop treating this like it’s a normal night out for you. Is this an abduction? What’s going on here? And where the hell are you taking me?’ She hesitated, a sudden thought almost snatching her breath away. ‘We’re not … not leaving the country, are we?’
He shook his head. ‘No need to worry, Rose. Scotland is our destination.’
‘Scotland?’
‘I have a place up there,’ he said unrevealingly, and then gestured to her champagne. ‘Try some. It’s perfectly crisp and dry. And chilled to exactly the right temperature.’
She drank numbly, trying to process what he had told her. The plane was going to Scotland. She tried to imagine what her dad would say when she failed to return from the restaurant. And Paul …
Almost spilling her champagne, she set the glass down abruptly and rummaged through her evening bag for her phone. ‘I need to call my dad. And Paul. They’ll be so worried.’
‘I told you, Paul is taken care of. And as for your father …’ Nick smiled, that odd laughter back in his eyes. ‘Once I explained the situation, he was only too happy to stay home tonight instead of accompanying you to dinner.’
She did not understand at first. Then her mouth gaped in a somewhat ludicrous way as she pieced it together. ‘You m-mean … my father knew what you were planning? Is that why he refused to come with me tonight? He let me get into your limo when he knew perfectly well hat you were planning to kidnap me?’ She shook her head, her voice high and unsteady. ‘No, I don’t believe you. Dad would never do that.’
‘Nonetheless, he did.’
‘Prove it.’
He nodded to her mobile phone. ‘I doubt you’ll get a signal on that, but when we get to my place, you can phone him. Check for yourself.’
‘I can’t go to Scotland. I can’t leave him for so long.’ She was panicking. ‘I’ll be gone overnight, surely? And he’s all alone – ’
‘It’s been taken care of.’
She stared. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve arranged for him to have some company tonight.’ Nick shrugged when she shook her head and made a disbelieving sound under her breath. ‘Trust me, he’ll be fine. But as I say, you can ring your father when we land. I’d rather you were relaxed and not worrying about him all through dinner, anyway.’
Turb
ulence hit them abruptly, tossing the small plane up and down. Rose, in the act of picking up her champagne flute, inadvertently jerked her hand up and forwards, a gesture rather like making a toast, only more violent. The champagne flew out of her glass with astonishing velocity, splashing Nick Grimsby full in the face.
'Oh my God, I'm so sorry,' she said, hurriedly putting down her glass.
He sat motionless for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only about ten seconds, champagne dripping down his nose and stubble-free chin. Then slowly, he took a white linen handkerchief from an inner pocket, and wiped his face with a few economical movements. He did not seem amused. In fact, he seemed very far from amused.
'Sorry,' she repeated in a small voice.
His dark gaze met hers silently.
A drip he had missed sparkled on the tip of his nose. Exactly in the same instant that she noticed it, he became aware of it to, and put a finger to the drop. Too late, alas. It fell into his lap and was lost in the folds of his expensive suit trousers. His groin, to be precise.
Rose clamped a preventative hand to her mouth, suddenly seized by a semi-hysterical impulse to laugh. His gaze narrowed on that gesture, then lifted, seeking her eyes. His mouth, previously a hard line, twitched. She stifled a snort, and saw his lips jerk again. Then he gave a lopsided smile, which was just enough to tip her over the edge into full-blown, schoolgirl giggles.
'Thank you for that impromptu shower,' he said. 'Though next time you'd like to see me bathing in champagne, let me know first, so I can at least take my clothes off.'
'I really am very sorry,' she said again, rocking slightly as she sought to restrain her laughter.
'Of course you are,' Nick agreed smoothly, then dropped the damp handkerchief onto the table beside his champagne glass. 'Just as I'm sure you're sorry about your plan to picket my London headquarters.'
Her laughter stopped, and Rose stared at him in sudden, terrible apprehension.
She knew that he was aware of the protest group. It had been reported in the press several times over the past month, with prominent members like herself named, along with a few details of their decisions.
