by Lynda Renham
‘He’s not the type to wear a Where’s Wally scarf,’ adds Sylvie. She’s quite right of course. I pull into a parking space and the Fiesta judders.
‘I hope you’re buying a new car,’ she says over the squeak of the opening door. ‘So what flat are we looking at?’
‘No 62 Woodlands Park, this must be the guy from the estate agent.’
‘Miss Brown?’ he says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it so tight I almost squeal. ‘I’m Justin, pleased to meet you.’
‘This is my friend Sylvie,’ I say. He grabs her hand too and I can tell by her wince he’s giving her the squeeze as well.
‘I’m so sorry to tell you that 62, Woodlands Park went about an hour ago,’ he informs me.
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘You don’t have her phone number?’ says Sylvie accusingly.
The guy blinks and says,
‘There is a nice one in Rommel Mansions; I thought you might like to see that one. It has all the same amenities as Woodlands Park, in fact in my opinion …’
‘Rommel Mansions?’ repeats Sylvie. ‘But I thought that was with Masons’ estate agents.’ A cold shudder runs down my spine. Rommel Mansions was the property on the estate agent’s letter we found at the murder flat.
‘It’s also with us,’ he says, clearly affronted. ‘But obviously if you’ve booked an appointment with Masons …’ He stops, allowing the full extent of our shame to hit us.
‘We haven’t booked anything through Masons,’ I say. I don’t add because we think the murderer may work for them.
His face brightens.
‘Oh well then, shall we look at that one after the two you are viewing in Newton Street?’
‘Absolutely,’ says Sylvie brightly, unable to hide her excitement. ‘We might find some clues.’
We get back into the Fiesta and follow Justin. I really don’t want to go to Rommel Mansions and I certainly don’t want to live there.
‘We’re closing in,’ says Sylvie, transforming into Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison.
I’m actually quite taken with the flat in Rommel Mansions. It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for. The previous two were a bit grim compared to this.
‘Better than Woodlands Park don’t you think? Nice properties but the area is a bit, how shall I say? Not an area a woman of your means would be accustomed to, whereas this is more fitting to your requirements.’
He sounds like a character out of a Dickens’ novel.
‘Only last week I was at Woodlands showing someone around and a tranquiliser dart just missed me. Ambulance sirens going off everywhere, it was pretty frightening. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an ideal area for a single woman such as yourself if you don’t mind the odd protest. It is just for yourself is it? Not moving in with a boyfriend or anything?’
Sylvie and I stare at him.
‘Or anything?’ Sylvie repeats. ‘Do you mean like a cuddly toy?’ He flusters and blinks rapidly.
‘I’m not keen on being tranquilised every time I visit her,’ says Sylvie, strolling into the main bedroom, ‘so I’ll encourage her not to take one near Woodlands Park. Beside this one has a garage doesn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, perfect for a car,’ he says, following her into the bedroom.
‘Well, we weren’t thinking of putting a bus in there,’ she says, rolling her eyes.
‘Room for a six foot in here,’ he says.
‘I’m presuming you mean a bed and not a bus?’ quips Sylvie. I can’t take her anywhere.
‘This is a good buy. Came back on the market a week or so ago I believe.’
I look at Sylvie.
‘Oh really. And why did it come off the market?’ I ask nervously.
‘It had a buyer but they dropped out.’
Or dropped dead.
‘Really, I wonder why?’ says Sylvie, putting on her Columbo hat.
‘It was through Masons,’ he says, trying to hide the venom from his voice. ‘So I really couldn’t tell you.’
‘It’s perfect Rox. The shops are just up the road and the chippy is just around the corner and it’s upmarket for when you bring you know who,’ she says lowering her voice.
I somehow think I’d need to be a lot more upmarket than this to impress Ark Morgan. But it’s a hundred times better than 106A Braden Mansions, and it will take a six-foot bed. What more could you want? There is one small problem in that the victim was going to buy it, which means the murderer knows of it, and if he knows of me too then I’m a sitting duck at a shooting range aren’t I?
Chapter Thirty-Two
He looks so gorgeous. He’s standing relaxed and self-assured outside Knightsbridge station. All I want to do is take him back to my new flat and shag him senseless on my six-foot bed, except I don’t have a flat or a bed to shag him on yet. But I have made an offer for the Rommel Mansions flat. He rushes over as I pay the cab driver. I couldn’t pull up in my Fiesta could I?
‘I’ll get this,’ he says, giving me his heart-stopping smile. ‘You’re a few minutes late Miss Brown.’
‘Sorry,’ I whisper, wishing my heart would stop beating so fast.
‘I’ll let you off this time,’ he says, grinning wickedly at me. He pays the driver and slides his arm around my waist and leads me to a waiting limousine.
‘You smell glorious,’ he says, opening the door for me. I slide along the sweet-smelling upholstery. He slips in beside me and I shyly avoid looking at him. I’d chosen a simple blue button up dress with a silk pashmina. I’d splashed out on some Jo Malone body lotion and look as gorgeous as I possibly can. Ark places his hand on mine and strokes it rhythmically with his thumb.
‘I hope you like French cuisine,’ he says in that soft but firm voice of his.
I’m flying so high. As for my hormones, well, they don’t know if they’re coming or going. They’ve sniffed the perfect daddy material and are completely out of control. It’s all I can do not to jump him in the back seat of the limo and rip off his perfectly ironed jeans.
‘It’s my favourite,’ he smiles, leaning forward to push a button. I imagine he’s run out of mine. He’s pushed just about every button I have.
A minibar slides towards us.
‘I hope it’s yours too,’ he says huskily.
I’ve never had proper French food before, not unless you count French fries from McDonalds.
‘It’s not something I’ve had much of,’ I say truthfully.
‘What have you had much of, Miss Brown?’ he says, turning laughing eyes on me. I blush. ‘Or will I need to teach you everything?’
Ooh yes please.
‘Martini or champagne, you choose. I find a drink before flying calms me.’
Flying? He didn’t say we were flying. Can he drink and fly? Did Christian Grey drink before flying his helicopter …? I think not.
‘We’re flying somewhere?’ The chauffeur catches my eye in the rear-view mirror and winks.
‘Where better to enjoy a French meal than in France,’ smiles Ark as he clinks his glass against mine. ‘We’re flying to Paris.’
I fight back a gasp. Poise and confidence at all times I remind myself. Jennifer Aniston wouldn’t gasp would she? Then again maybe she would if Justin Theroux was half pissed before he flew their helicopter.
‘Paris?’ I repeat. I’ve got to be at work in the morning. I can’t even swallow my champagne, I’m that nervous. And it doesn’t help when I see him refill his glass. I know in theory dying in a private helicopter with a millionaire by your side is as romantic as it gets but I’m just not ready to go yet.
We drive into the underground car park of the Mercier Hotel, Ark’s biggest and best. I’ve never cleaned this one. He gently takes my glass and strokes my hand.
‘Follow me Miss Brown,’ he says, leading me from the car to the lift. My legs turn to jelly.
‘It’s Rox … Roxanne.’ I say.
‘We’re taking off from the helipad on the roof,’ he smiles. The lift doors close behind us and he t
urns to face me.
‘I’m so glad you came Roxanne,’ he whispers, my name sounding so sexy on his lips. He’s not as glad as I am, although I admit I would be just a little more ecstatic if we were going to a restaurant in London. The lift doors open and waiting on the rooftop is the helicopter.
‘Come on,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘We can have another drink on board.’
Another drink? My God, hasn’t he had enough already? Surely there are rules about drinking and flying. He opens the door of the helicopter and gestures for me to get in. I hesitate. I can’t get into a helicopter with a drunken pilot can I? He’ll most likely fly us over Iraq and get us shot down.
‘The thing is …’
‘You don’t like flying do you?’ he smiles, the wind blowing through his hair. He looks dead sexy when windswept.’
The truth is I don’t like flying when the pilot’s half pissed, but I can’t say that can I?
‘No, it’s just …’
‘I’m terrified of flying too. So that makes two of us. We’ll have another drink. These help too,’ he says, pulling out a foil of Valium, ‘makes all the difference.’
All the difference between flying into the dome of St Paul’s and not flying into the dome of St Paul’s does he mean? Jesus Christ, he’ll be comatose over the controls at this rate. Christian Grey is never afraid.
‘We could get the Euro Tunnel?’ I say dumbly. He laughs wickedly.
‘Miss Brown, afraid or not I am forcing you into the helicopter so I can take you for a French meal.’
For goodness’ sake, there must be hundreds of French restaurants in London. At least in a car in London we’re not likely to get shot down by terrorists, or even shot at as terrorists. Either way, it’s not appealing. After all, it’s not acceptable to crash into a London landmark even if your name is Ark Morgan.
‘Into the helicopter Miss Brown, if I can do it then so can you.’
But I’m not flying the bloody thing am I?
‘I assure you Bernie will take good care of us. He’s an excellent pilot. I only use the best.’
‘You’re not flying it?’ I ask.
He laughs.
‘Me, fly a helicopter? I’m terrified of heights.’
‘Oh,’ I say. Christian Grey isn’t afraid of heights. Christian Grey isn’t afraid of anything.
‘You don’t go gliding then?’ I ask.
He looks at me like I’ve grown horns.
‘Are you insane, why would I want to go in one of those? Come on Miss Brown, in you go.’
‘Brandy Mr Morgan, and for the lady?’ Bernie asks, handing a glass to Ark.
‘I’m fine thank you,’ I say. I really think I need to keep a clear head, especially if contracts are produced. I want to be careful what I consent to. Although knowing me, I’ll sign up for everything. I never was good at reading the small print, but I really don’t want to get my soft and hard limits muddled up do I?
Moments later we are in the air and the lights and sights of London are beneath us. I see St Paul’s and am grateful that we fly over its dome.
‘It’s a beautiful sight isn’t it? Paris is even more remarkable from the air,’ says Bernie.
I look at Ark as he sits uncomfortably in his seat. He takes a gulp of brandy. My mind wanders to Sam Lockwood and I remember his arrival on the Harley Davidson. I feel quite sure he wouldn’t be afraid of flying. In fact, I feel quite sure that Sam Lockwood wouldn’t be afraid of anything. And why would you be thinking of Sam Lockwood when you’ve got the hunk Ark Morgan sitting beside you? scolds my inner goddess.
My phone bleeps with a text and I look nervously at Ark.
‘I forgot to turn it off,’ I say apologetically.
‘That’s fine Miss Brown. I hope it’s not a love rival, I would be very jealous.’
I check my phone. It’s a That Night message from Felix.
Great news, we managed to get DNA from the scarf. Sylvie is excelling herself. All we have to do now is see if they match the DNA from the hair. If it does then we’ll know our guy was at the yacht party and then we’ll know if you were living it up with the murderer. What a breakthrough don’t you think?
Holy shit. I bite my lip and give Ark a sideways glance. I remember Sylvie’s words about the handwriting analysis. The writer is confident, successful, and most likely a risk taker. He likes a challenge and enjoys danger.
I look again at Ark and he smiles at me while rigid in his seat. Ark Morgan is not the murderer. Of that I can be certain.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Paris in springtime is truly beautiful, and it is the most romantic place to be in the world. Not that I know of many other places but right now this seems like the most romantic place ever as I walk arm in arm with Ark Morgan. We stroll along the Champs-Élysées, our eyes feasting on the sunset. Heads turn as Ark passes them and I feel so proud to be on his arm. We stop at the entrance to a restaurant.
‘Le Taillevent, the best in Paris. After you Miss Brown,’ he says as the doorman greets us. Ark pushes me forward, his hand lingering on my hip and feeling like a red-hot poker.
‘Bonsoir Monsieur Morgan, a pleasure as always’ says the waiter greeting us at the door.
‘Bonsoir Pascal, may I present Mademoiselle Brown,’ Ark says in perfect French. I shiver as Ark slides my pashmina from my shoulders, his hand caressing them as he does so.
‘I think you’ll be warm enough,’ he says softly.
‘Your table is ready monsieur, this way.’
The restaurant is buzzing with people. Traditional French music plays in the background and I have an overwhelming urge to run. I should tell Ark that I’d made an awful mistake and that I’m just a simple chambermaid from Clapham, but we’re now in Paris and I’m just a little bit stuck aren’t I? After all, one doesn’t hail a plane in the same way as one hails a cab. And you’re complaining? whispers my inner goddess. Some women would give their Boots Protect and Perfect to be where you are right now.
We’re led to the back of the restaurant and the waiter pulls aside red satin curtains to reveal our private dining area. For a moment I thought he was leading us to the red room of pain. I’m not sure if I’m happy or sad. The table is laid for two and in the corner of the room is a huge bouquet of roses.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he says simply.
His sultry eyes meet mine and I melt under his stare.
‘I hope you don’t mind this,’ he says, waving his arm to show me the room. ‘I didn’t want to be public with you. Selfish of me I know.’
He looks innocent and boyish, but still as sexy as hell. The waiter pulls back a velvet covered chair for me and drapes a napkin across my lap.
‘I shall send your waiter to you immediately. May I get drinks Monsieur Morgan?’
‘Merci Pascal, we’ll have a bottle of Château d’Yquem, as we’ll both be having the chicken.’
Ooh Christian always ordered for Ana Steele. He also discussed the contract over dinner. Is that what Ark is planning to do now?
‘I take it you’re happy if I order,’ he smiles, reaching into his jacket pocket.
This is it, this is the contract … But instead he produces a pair of black-rimmed glasses, which he puts on to study the menu. He looks a bit like Colin Firth in A Single Man. Less gay of course, and far sexier, but glasses … Ark Morgan is not quite the Christian Grey that I imagined him to be for as he bends over the menu I see the bald patch on the top of his head, and this time it isn’t a trick of the light. Still, it could be worse couldn’t it? He could have zits all over his face. But then again he has got one. I glance at the bouquet in the corner. Darren never bought me flowers until today, let alone a huge bouquet. Although in all fairness I don’t suppose he could afford it.
‘Food is very important Miss Brown,’ Ark says, looking at me seriously. ‘If you’re not happy with my choice then please say. Open your menu,’ he instructs.
I glance at the menu and feel my breath catch in my throat. My maths ne
ver was that great but even I can work out that, with wine, the meal is going to cost around eight hundred euros. How can I justify eating that when there are people starving in developing countries? But then Ark does give a lot to charity so I suppose that makes things okay. All the same, I’d much prefer Prezzo. They do a great carbonara at a fraction of the price. A man doesn’t spend that on dinner without expecting something in return, barks my subconscious. My breasts ache at the thought.
‘I thought we’d have the Crab with Remoulade Sauce and Dill fleurette cream with lemon for entrées. And for main I’ve chosen Chicken from Bresse Country on the Spit, Mushrooms and Jura Wine Butter under the skin. Pudding, Miss Brown, is a delectable feast which I shall tease you with throughout dinner.’
I’m sure he can tease me with better things than a dessert. The waiter returns with the wine and uncorks it while Ark sits silently studying me. He samples the wine expertly. Once the waiter leaves Ark leans his elbows on the table and looks at me over his clasped hands.
I sip my wine.
‘There’s something I want to ask you Miss Brown.’
‘Roxanne,’ I whisper.
‘Roxanne,’ he says sexily. ‘How well do you know Sam Lockwood?’
‘Sam Lockwood?’ I repeat. Is that the something he wanted to ask me?
‘How long have you known him?’
‘I don’t really know him. I met him at the Fun Palace and bumped into him a few times since.’
‘That’s it?’ he asks, his eyes piercing into mine. ‘Didn’t you go to one of his boxing matches?’
I gasp.
‘How do you know that?’ He’s just like Christian Grey. He knows everything I do and everywhere I go.
‘He mentioned it on the yacht,’ he smiles.
I nod nervously.
‘Oh,’ I mumble. ‘I just bumped into him when with a friend and he invited us.’
He nods.
‘And that’s it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ he says after a few moments. He relaxes in his chair. ‘He’s bad news. I hope if he tells you anything that may affect me or my business you would tell me?’
