A Proper Cuppa Tea
Page 1
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Table of Contents
Cover
Synopsis
Title Page
Copyright Page
Other Books by KG MacGregor
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Bella Books
Synopsis
A disastrous office affair has left Channing Hughes unemployed and (very bloody) cynical. What better time to leave Boston for her native England, where her late grandfather has named her sole heir of the Hughes fortune, along with the centuries-old manor house that’s been in the family for generations. Only one problem with that plan—there is no Hughes fortune. The only way out from under the hefty tax bill is to sell the manor as quickly as possible or find a high-level job to support it.
If anyone deserves to be cynical about life, it’s Dr. Lark Latimer. She overcame a dysfunctional upbringing in East Boston only to lose both her college sweetheart and a promising medical career when her Ma fell critically ill. Determined to bounce back, Lark signs on with a pharmaceutical company, a job that takes her abroad to investigate a drug trial gone sideways. She finds an English countryside that’s bursting with charm—including the dry-witted, sophisticated Channing, who may be just what the doctor ordered.
Neither woman imagined the spark they shared on their transatlantic flight would lead them to life-changing decisions. Will Channing give up a future with Lark to save her home? Or will Lark persuade her to sell the manor and return to Boston?
Their time clock is ticking.
Copyright © 2018 by KG MacGregor
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events 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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
First Bella Books Edition 2018
eBook released 2018
Editor: Katherine V. Forrest
Cover Designer: Judith Fellows
ISBN: 978-1-59493-607-4
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Other Bella Books by KG MacGregor
Anyone But You
Etched in Shadows
The House on Sandstone
Just This Once
Life After Love
Malicious Pursuit
Moment of Weakness
Mulligan
Out of Love
Photographs of Claudia
Playing with Fuego
Rhapsody
Sea Legs
Secrets So Deep
Sumter Point
T-Minus Two
The Touch of a Woman
Trial by Fury
Undercover Tales
West of Nowhere
Worth Every Step
Shaken Series
Without Warning
Aftershock
Small Packages
Mother Load
Acknowledgments
Fifteen years ago, I wrote a novella called Shaken and posted it online for the Xena fan fiction community. Within days, my inbox exploded with hundreds of notes from readers all over the world sharing their thoughts on the characters and the story. Most of it was flattering; all of it was engaging. Seeking to repeat that head-swelling experience, I wrote another…and another…and more. Operant conditioning, that’s called.
And now A Proper Cuppa Tea is my 25th book! It was so much fun to write, especially the research trip last spring to Cambridge to study the setting. I love my job!
This may sound trite, but it’s certainly true that I wouldn’t be writing today if not for the ongoing encouragement I get from readers, whether through notes, reviews, social media or book events. Not only does it create a marvelous sense of community with other authors and fans of lesbian fiction, it’s an ever present reminder of the names and faces on the other end of my books. I write with confidence knowing you’re there.
Thanks as always to my editor, Katherine V. Forrest, whose encouraging voice has spurred me through the last fifteen books. Not only did she sharpen my prose on this one, she drew a big red circle around a plot hole in my first draft. You’d be cursing me over that. You can rest easy knowing Katherine approaches every editing job as your advocate.
I’m not usually one for beta readers, but some books need a special eye so they won’t land sideways on a discerning reader who knows way more about the subject matter than I do. My biggest concern with this book was British-isms. Longtime reader Jac Hills, resident of Devon UK, was kind enough to check all my “bloody’s” and “blimey’s,” and to steer me clear of clichés.
My partner Jenny gets a mountain of appreciation just for putting up with me while I write. She also put the finishing touches on this manuscript in her hunt for dropped words, extra words, basically anything she could find to question. She loves her job too.
Finally, a big thanks to the professionals at Bella Books for pulling this all together in such a great package, and for all you do to help books and readers find each other. Let’s go do some more of these.
About the Author
KG MacGregor is the author of twenty-five books, including the romance saga, The Shaken Series. Her works feature strong, career-minded lesbians, and blend romance with intrigue, adventure and dramatic events. She has been honored with eight Golden Crown Awards, a prestigious Lambda Literary Award, and the Alice B. Medal for career achievement. She served as president of the board of trustees for Lambda Literary, the world’s premier organization for LGBT literature. A native of the Blue Ridge Mountains, she now makes her home in Nashville, TN. Visit her on the web at www.kgmacgregor.com
Chapter One
“Hundred bucks says her tits aren’t real.”
From a quiet corner of the British Airways lounge, Lark Latimer glared in the direction of the paunchy, middle-aged businessman who’d uttered his sexist slur loud enough for several others to overhear. It was a singular brand of catcall, the sort hurled by a loser who knew when a woman was out of his league.
; She too had noticed the woman in black. Her breasts appeared perfectly natural, raised to form a gentle cleavage by what probably was an ordinary push-up bra. What stood out to Lark was the way she walked in murderous three-inch stilettos. The rhythmic tap of her steel-tipped heels on the marble floor was like a techno-soundtrack to her sensual glide. Hip…shoulder…hip…shoulder. Chest high, chin out. And an unflappable steely gaze.
The brash man’s two companions added wolf whistles and a shouted invitation to join them, their flattery dripping with contempt. To call it adolescent was an insult to teenagers.
“G and T, please. Sapphire if you have it,” the woman said to the bartender, her melodic British accent adding charm to an already alluring persona. She took her drink to a bar table by the window, beyond which a Boeing 747 loomed like a beluga whale.
Unfortunately, Lark noted, the woman’s snub of the businessmen did nothing to dampen their lewd behavior. A pack of dickheads performing for one another. The loud one squeezed his crotch and grumbled to his companions, “Think she’d like to use my stir-stick?”
“You’re sick, Fred.”
And repulsive too, Lark thought. She’d scrupulously watched the three over the past hour as they grew louder and more vulgar with each trip to the self-service beer cooler. Making matters worse was the near certainty that Fred and his pals, like the forty-odd others scattered in various alcoves and work carrels throughout the lounge, were on Lark’s late-night flight to London.
Fred continued to sneer, as if personally wounded by the woman’s indifference. “Go over there, Jimbo. Check out them tits.”
The younger man he prodded had baby-smooth cheeks already splotchy from alcohol. Jimbo, as he was called, hardly seemed the sort to approach a strange woman, let alone inquire as to the authenticity of her breasts. He kicked at the third man. “You do it, Vic. You’re better at this than I am.”
With a sleazy chuckle, Vic replied, “Just tell her you’re TSA and you need to check her for liquids.”
Lark cleared her throat and gave them a scolding look. Deplorable, all three of them.
Fred shot her a contemptuous glance as he drew a crisp Ben Franklin from his wallet and crumpled it to make sure it wasn’t stuck to another. “Go on, Jimbo. A hundred bucks just for asking her. That’ll get you a blowjob in Soho.”
Sitting with her back to the room, the elegant woman nursed her cocktail and scrolled through her phone, oblivious to their loathsome scheme. It occurred to Lark to hurry over and strike up a conversation—safety in numbers—but before she could collect her belongings, Jimbo rose to make his move.
The two who stayed behind chortled, gleefully anticipating her impending humiliation. Jimbo perched on the adjacent stool at her table, red-faced and grinning, furtively glancing back to his buddies as he plied her with fatuous chitchat. His words were inaudible from across the room, but there was no mistaking the moment he let fly his ill-advised inquiry—it was answered by the sudden dousing of his lap with her cocktail. The stain spread quickly on his tan slacks, even down his leg. To the casual observer, he’d pissed himself.
“London passenger Latimer, please see the agent.”
Lark had been waiting for word on an upgrade to business class but she hesitated now to leave the lounge in case Jimbo lost his temper. Her dilemma was solved when the woman picked up her shoulder bag and relocated to another section without fanfare, leaving the men to guffaw at their buddy’s sullied state.
“I’m Dr. Latimer,” she said at the desk.
“I’m so sorry. I was unable to accommodate your upgrade request. But I snagged you a seat in the first row of World Traveler, and I’ll bump you up to the second boarding group as a courtesy.”
World Traveler was British Airways-speak for economy class. Tiny seats that reclined an inch or two at best. At least in the first row she wouldn’t have to deal with someone leaning back into her lap. “I don’t suppose there’s anything open in first class?”
This was Penny from Plymouth UK, according to her name tag. She clacked away on her keyboard. “I could issue a new ticket for an additional…thirty-eight hundred. That’s US dollars.”
Ouch! “That’s what I get for missing my flight. Lesson learned. Thanks for the bulkhead.”
“We always do our best to accommodate Silver Executive customers. We just received word from the crew. They’ll begin boarding at any moment.”
Jimbo waddled by toward the restroom holding his wet pants out from his crotch.
“Penny, I hate to make trouble but I probably should give you a heads-up about a certain situation. Three men in the back room by the bar—I assume they’re on this flight too—they’ve been drinking for a couple of hours at least. They’ve gotten out of hand, harassing a woman because she wouldn’t talk to them.” She jerked her thumb toward the men’s room. “That guy who just walked by said something nasty to her and she dumped her drink on him.”
“Oh, dear. I know exactly the men you’re talking about. They’re regulars on this route.” Penny crinkled her nose and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Our beverage manager says they drink all the Harvey’s Ale. Did you happen to notice who the woman was?”
“Really pretty. Kind of tall, reddish-brown hair down to here.” She drew an imaginary line at her shoulder to indicate the length. “She got up and moved away from them. I think she’s sitting just around the corner now. Black jumpsuit…spiked heels.”
“Oh right…Miss Hughes. I checked her in.”
Miss Hughes. Lark jotted that down in her mental black book. “Just to be on the safe side, you might want to have a look at the seating chart and make sure she’s not sitting next to one of those sleazebags on the plane. That could be trouble.”
Penny waved her off. “She’s in our first-class cabin. Once aboard, they won’t even see her again until they get to London.”
Of course, first class. That should have been obvious. There was little about Miss Hughes that said business traveler. “That’s good. Let’s hope she taught them a lesson.”
“I’ll inform our club manager and get word to Jeremy on board to cut them off. Thank you for letting us know.”
A nice feature of the British Airways lounge at Boston’s Logan Airport was its priority boarding and departure gate with a private Jetway, saving club members the trouble of returning to the concourse to line up with the mob. An agent had already propped open the door in preparation for the call to first class.
Boarding pass in hand, Lark located the object of her concern and took a seat a few feet away in the opposite row. From this new vantage point, she had an unfettered view. Miss Hughes was about her age—late twenties, early thirties—with blue-green eyes so bright they popped against her smooth peach complexion. Her sculpted nails were painted light coral, the same shade as her lipstick, and a dazzling sapphire ring decorated her left hand. The epitome of chic.
More remarkable than her features was her expression. Where Lark had expected to see aloofness or irritation after being so brazenly harassed, there was surprising vulnerability. Her vacant gaze and furrowed brow suggested faraway, sorrowful thoughts. That she might be anguished made Lark even more furious at the men who’d so boorishly pestered her.
The announcement for first class passengers to board created a stir throughout the lounge as travelers gathered their luggage and moved closer to the gate in anticipation. Moments after Miss Hughes proceeded down the jet bridge, angry voices erupted around the corner in the reception area. One of those voices was unmistakably Fred’s, the Dickhead in Chief who’d bribed Jimbo to act on his insult. “Christ Almighty! You can’t even tell a woman she’s pretty without her yelling sexual assault.”
Penny’s manager had wasted no time in confronting the men over her complaint. Lark anxiously heeded the call for Group Two, hoping to be well gone before they realized she was the one who’d reported them.
A flight attendant greeted her as she stepped aboard. “Welcome to British Airways. I’m Jeremy.” After
checking her boarding pass, he leaned in and added, “Penny says I’m to look after you, luv. You’ll let me know if there’s anything you need?”
“Of course, thank you.” Walking past, she craned her neck for one last peek at Miss Hughes, but a gauzy blue curtain had been drawn to obscure the view of the forward cabin. For an obscene number of frequent flyer miles, Lark could have wrangled first class. She was too stingy for her own good.
After trudging longingly through business class, she located her seat on the aisle in the center section, quite a good location if one had to fly in coach. The biggest downside was the view forward, where she’d have to watch with envy as business travelers dined on a gourmet meal before folding their seats flat to sleep. If only she’d made her earlier flight…
She lifted her small wheeled suitcase to the overhead bin and stooped over to see if there was room for her backpack beneath the seat. A pair of feet came to a stop only inches from her head.
“It was you.”
“I beg your pardon?” She rose to find Vic looming over her, his beer breath fouling the air. Apparently his seat was in the back row of business class, barely three feet in front of hers.
“You had to go and tattle like some femi-nazi social warrior bitch. I hope you’re satisfied—you got Fred and Jimbo kicked off the plane.”
“Hunh…how about that? I am satisfied. Thanks for letting me know.”
“You cow…I bet you’re a lousy fuck.”
“Not what your wife says,” she replied, preening with a brush of her nails against her lapel. His befuddled expression was priceless.
Jeremy appeared suddenly and wedged all hundred-thirty pounds of himself in front of Vic. “Is there a problem here? Because I can sort it with one call to security.”
Vic’s eyes smoldered with drunken fury but he smartly bit his tongue.
“That’s what I thought.” Over his shoulder, he said to Lark, “Where’s your bag, luv? I have another seat for you.”