London Bound (A Heart of the City romance Book 3)

by C. J. Duggan

  ‘Can you spot the red crystal?’ Jack’s voice was smooth against my neck, causing me to startle a little.

  ‘The what?’

  Jack pointed. ‘A fitting heart to such a beautiful display, don’t you think?’

  I spotted it then, one singular red crystal glowing among the bright masses; it was a wonder I had missed it before.

  ‘Are you going to show me lots of things tonight, Jack Baker?’

  ‘So many things.’ A wolfish smile spread across his handsome face. To a bystander, he looked so innocent, but I could see the wicked sparkle in his eyes, a promise of things to come, and I could feel the butterflies dance in my tummy at the thought.

  Jack led me through the lobby lounge, a perfect, elegant setting for traditional British afternoon tea; it was a tragedy that we wouldn’t have the chance to try it on our visit. The baskets of fresh strawberries, beautiful delicate cakes and chilled bottles of Laurent Perrier champagne looked enticing, but the real clincher came from Jack.

  ‘I’ve heard that the scones served here are some of London’s best.’

  My mouth instantly watered and I shook my head. ‘You are such a tease, Jack Baker.’

  Jack laughed, far too loudly for such a refined space. ‘You have no idea.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I had built up in my mind what I thought a typical fundraising ball might be. A small dance floor, helium balloons, spinning charity wheel to win a frozen chook maybe, but walking into the grand ballroom of the Corinthea was something else. With its Victorian splendour fit for aristocrats, debutantes and the bejewelled crowns of Europe, this was not like any ball I could have possibly imagined. With my arm hooked in Jack’s and my gown swishing against the gold and magenta swirls of the floor, I struggled to take in the beauty of the high ceilings, towering columns and mirrored walls that reflected sparkling chandeliers.

  Jack leant into me. ‘You’re going to have a sore neck by the end of the night if you keep looking up like that.’

  Leaning into him, I said, ‘I’m used to all manners of aches and pains after a night with you, Mr Baker.’

  Something hot flashed in Jack’s eyes and I loved that I put it there.

  ‘Come on, I see a nice table of well-behaved ladies who have no chance of corrupting you any further.’

  ‘What if I corrupt them?’

  ‘Behave yourself, Lady Katherine.’

  I giggled, letting him lead me to the table in question and pull out a chair for me, smiling at the apparently abandoned wives and girlfriends seated there.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ Jack whispered, kissing the top of my head, causing me to turn in alarm.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Ah, secret men’s business, won’t be long,’ he said, and if it wasn’t for that cheeky wink I might have been annoyed. I turned slowly to see all eyes were on me, roaming my dress, their over-manicured brows curved as they turned their attentions away from me. If Jack had planned to sit me at the bitchy table of isolation, then well done, he’d succeeded.

  Forty minutes after our arrival, I sat slumped with my head leaning on my hand, opening one eye, closing the other, making the wine bottle move from side to side on the table like a kid’s magic trick. I sighed, rolling my neck, bored out of my mind. I caught the eye of one of the socialites, who was staring pointedly at my elbow on the table; my reply was to place my other elbow on the table top with a loud thud, in a silent ‘fuck you’. I was all but ready to round up a search party for a Mr Jack Baker when he suddenly appeared, as if conjured by my imagination.

  ‘Ah, excuse me, ladies, I am under strict orders to show Miss Brown a good time, and I’m afraid I have been failing rather miserably.’ Jack reached over and took my hand, rescuing me from the judging looks and bitchy whispers of the miserable wallflowers. He led me through the crowd, weaving around the tables and leading me out to the dance floor.

  ‘Oh, Jack, no, I’m really not in the mood to—’

  ‘Come on, Kate, time to tear up this dance floor. There are far too many sad sacks here – you’re not going to be one of them.’

  And without taking no for an answer, Jack swung me around on the dance floor, clearing a bigger space for us in the middle as Hozier’s ‘Someone New’ started up. Jack took me into his arms, surprising me by knowing all of the lyrics as he swung me around the floor, taking great delight in dipping me and making me squeal. By the end of the song, we were the only two left on the dance floor and the spotlight was on us for all the wrong reasons but I didn’t care. Jack had a way of making me embrace the moment and by the next song, I was dancing with complete abandon, turning and spinning and returning into his arms, accidentally stepping on his toes and trying not to laugh as he went cross-eyed from the pain. By the third song we had settled down a bit, and I linked my hands around the back of his neck and looked into his eyes, into him.

  ‘I really like you, Jack,’ I said, not knowing where exactly that came from but feeling it nonetheless. Jack smiled; the dimple in his left cheek appearing to let me know he was pleased.

  ‘And what if I told you I really, really like you?’

  ‘Well then, I would say, I really, really, really like you.’

  ‘Well then, I really like you, times infinity … no returns.’

  ‘No returns?’

  ‘Well, maybe a little.’

  I giggled, resting my head against his chest.

  ‘Hey, Kate.’ I felt his lips press against the top of my head.

  ‘Yes, Jack?’

  ‘There’s something I want to tell you.’

  Before I could speak, the piercing wail of feedback through the PA system got everyone’s attention.

  ‘Apologies, ladies and gentlemen, that’ll teach me to get too close to the speaker. Presentations and entrées are about to commence, if you would please be seated,’ said a stocky, well-dressed man, reading off a card with his glasses at the edge of his nose.

  I turned back to Jack, panicked. ‘Do you think I have time to go to the restroom before it starts?’ I hadn’t exactly worked out the logistics of my impossibly tight bodice and floor-sweeping train when it came to toilet breaks.

  Jack looked equally worried. ‘You’ll have time, but before you do …’

  ‘Jack, I really have to go,’ I said, kissing him on the cheek and gathering up my skirt to make a run for it. I felt kind of bad abandoning him on the dance floor, but, hey, that would teach him for abandoning me earlier. Weaving through chairs and leaving the echoes of the PA system behind, I had never been so happy to see the ladies’ toilets, and without a queue, no less! Pure class, all the way down to the lavs. After relieving myself, I made my way to the basin to wash and primp, touching up my red lipstick then pouting at my reflection and dropping the lipstick into my clutch. I stepped back for one last inspection before making my way to the door, only to stop dead in my tracks at the sight of a very familiar someone.

  It couldn’t be.

  My eyes trailed up the long-legged Amazonian brunette, the same woman I had seen walking into Jack’s terrace. Stranger still, she looked back at me curiously.

  ‘Kate?’

  She knew my name?

  ‘You’re Kate Brown?’

  All I could do was nod. ‘Um, yes … I—’

  The Amazonian thrust her long, slender hand out to me. ‘I am so happy to meet you. I’m Charlotte, Charlotte Whitakers.’

  I took her hand; my handshake was woefully limp as the reality of the situation washed over me.

  Charlotte Whitakers?

  ‘Jack has told me so much about you! Is he coming on Monday for our meeting, do you know?’

  ‘I, um, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh well, just us girls then,’ she said, smiling. ‘Well, I won’t fangirl over you tonight, but I just adore your blog. You have an amazing space there and I just love your voice and vibe. I can’t wait to learn more,’ she said, sidestepping to the marble vanity.

  I blinked
, confused, trying to piece it together, but hoping against hope that I was wrong.

  ‘Sorry, Charlotte, just out of interest, how did you find out about the blog?’

  Charlotte shrugged, turning from her reflection in the mirror. ‘Jack told me, said he had a sure thing. He wasn’t wrong,’ she said, smiling confidently and turning her attention back to the mirror.

  I wandered dazedly back into the ballroom amongst the commotion of guests rushing to their seats for the presentations, finding myself back at the table but unable to recall how I got there. Avoiding Jack’s eyes I sat in my seat, brushing the crinkles out of my skirt and reaching for the napkin, readying myself for my entrée to be delivered.

  ‘Kate.’ Jack’s voice seemed even more urgent now and I couldn’t help but turn to him, looking directly into his dark, seemingly honest eyes.

  ‘Yes, Jack, you had something to tell me?’ I said. He swallowed hard, readying himself to speak. Just as he did, a voice came over the PA system again, the same irritating man drowning out Jack’s words.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I would like to call on the opening speaker, someone who is not only one of London’s leading entrepreneurs, bringing his energy and boldness to every facet of his long and impressive career, but whom also devotes his time to worthy causes within and outside our community, including being a tremendous supporter of our own Brighter Futures charity since 2014. It is my great pleasure to welcome back a true icon of the industry, the founder and CEO of one of London’s largest fashion institutions, London Bound magazine. Please give a warm welcome to Mr Jack Baker.’

  And there it was: the truth played out with an audience and the soundtrack of deafening applause. The white noise surrounded us, and the spotlight shone over us to capture us in our moment of discovery, a moment that should have been explained in private well before now. We simply stared at one another, Jack’s eyes locked with mine even while he slowly stood. Who was this man who had occupied my mind for these last few weeks, who I had let into my bed, into my heart? He was a stranger to me now.

  ‘You’re the founder of London Bound magazine?’

  Jack’s jaw clenched. ‘Yes.’

  I didn’t know what else to say. I continued staring at him, the only person in the room not clapping. Pain flashed across Jack’s face, torn between wanting to explain and having to fulfil his CEO duties, finally walking regretfully toward the stage. I suppose it was my chance to finally learn about this man, the man who had given so much of his time to help me achieve my dream but shared nothing of his true self. Perhaps I should have listened to Jack’s speech, heard about all the wonderful things that he had accomplished in his working life, and what he still hoped to achieve. But I couldn’t stay, couldn’t sit there looking up at someone I had felt so close to and now didn’t know at all.

  I stared down at the tablecloth, trying to remember how to breathe, trying not to let the tears that threatened fall down my cheeks. I focused on the glossy cream-coloured card that sat on the table near Jack’s wine glass. The key to the room Jack had booked. I stared at it, my eyes shifting from the key to Jack, flawlessly commanding the stage; had I not felt so numb I might have been impressed. I looked back to the card, then calmly opened my clutch purse and placed it inside. Smiling at the gentleman next to me, I stood up, pushed my chair out and started toward the exit without so much as a backward glance.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The word ‘room’ was misleading. In a room you might expect a queen-size bed, built-in desk, a bathroom with a spa if it was really luxurious, free wifi if you were lucky. And while the Corinthea was no roadside motel, when I swiped the keycard against the door sensor, I didn’t expect to be greeted with the bloody Taj Mahal of suites.

  The Royal Penthouse was set in the curve of the hotel, spread over two floors, and had spectacular river views. Exploring every inch of the 500-square-metre space and marvelling at the expanse, I felt like royalty. There was a private spa suite and hidden den, as well as a butler’s pantry and walk-in wine cellar, the surfaces a mix of panelled walls, leather-lined shelves and oak parquet floors. Each piece gleamed with opulence, from the dining table of highly polished Makassar ebony to the bed frames of walnut with leather detailing to the marble honey onyx bathrooms that were bigger than Nana’s back garden. I walked from room to room, deciding against the private lift and instead using the grand staircase, the satin of my dress swishing as I walked. Lost in the beauty of my surroundings, I stepped out onto the roof terrace, my emotions shifting from awe to sadness as I took in the vista before me.

  I knew the moment I stepped outside why Jack had chosen this penthouse; the roof terrace had the most breathtaking panoramic view of London, stretching as far as St Paul’s Cathedral all the way to the Millennium Wheel. Champagne rested on ice in a fluted metal bucket, and a richly textured white card sat folded in front of it on the table. I tentatively lifted the card, hoping against hope that it contained directions for the TV or maybe the password for the wifi. No such luck.

  First London – then the world.

  Jack x

  P.S. Now this is what I call a balcony party.

  I felt like my heart was breaking all over again.

  I closed my eyes, the wind brushing against my face and the hot tears burning under my lids. How had my life come to this? I had achieved all of my goals: living in London; dream career; dream man; standing in couture; champagne at the ready with the most spectacular views of London. But it all felt wrong, I was living a lie: I was dating a man I barely knew and enjoying success that I hadn’t earned, a success that had been created by my boyfriend’s connections and my nana’s wardrobe. Never had I felt more alone, more miserable.

  I read the note over and over, lifting my eyes to the city. Bugger this – I’d spent too much of my time in London unhappy, and I wasn’t going to waste a magical evening in a vintage gown because of some lying lad.

  I needed some answers.

  I took a deep swig of champagne straight from the bottle, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, every bit the lady I was.

  ‘Okay, Kate, let’s go see what Mr Live-in-the-Moment has to say for himself.’

  I let the anger fuel my steps, though Lord knows running in a ball gown was no easy feat – no wonder Cinderella had lost her bloody shoe. I nearly fell on my face a number of times. It seemed that every possible obstacle was in my path, threatening to take me down. I was a blue streak of lightning, flashing through the hotel halls, an elegant but rage-filled vision slicing its way through the opulence, causing raised brows and annoyed tuts as I whizzed past.

  The ballroom was in full party-mode now, most guests had abandoned their tables and were mingling, networking, dancing and drinking up a storm. I weaved through the tables, searching all the faces, praying that he hadn’t left, that he was above all a business man and would be disciplined enough to stay at the ball and see out his duties. I spotted the statuesque line of Charlotte Whitakers’ back and made a determined path toward her. I felt so completely out of place; wisps of blonde hair had fallen out of my intricate hairstyle, my cheeks were flushed and a light sheen of perspiration sat on my skin. I didn’t feel worthy of her presence, and utterly embarrassed to be interrupting her conversation.

  ‘Sorry, Charlotte, have you got a minute?’

  Charlotte’s green eyes turned to me, so bright and intoxicating up close that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed them before.

  ‘Kate, is everything all right?’

  She was far too polite to tell me I looked a sight and I was grateful for that. I offered an apologetic smile to the beautifully dressed couple opposite her, who examined me critically. I stepped aside and Charlotte excused herself from the couple, coming to stand beside me.

  ‘Have you seen Jack?’

  Charlotte smiled sympathetically. ‘Bad night?’

  I laughed, because if I didn’t I would cry. ‘Not great.’

  ‘I saw you leave during Jack’s spee
ch.’

  ‘Yes, not my finest moment,’ I said, retrieving the security card for the penthouse. ‘Can you do me a favour and give this to him if you see him?’

  She took the card from me, her perfectly made-up face expressing her surprise. ‘Wow, the royal penthouse, he must really like you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, probably not anymore.’

  ‘I tell you what, how about you give this to him, instead,’ she said, handing it back to me.

  ‘If I were Jack Baker, where would I be?’ I spoke mainly to myself. The truth was I had no idea because, at the crux of it, I didn’t really know who Jack Baker was.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Charlotte, lifting up the edge of her gown and sashaying toward the stage, smiling and laughing with people along the way in a far more dignified display than I could ever hope for. I watched, confused, as she walked onto the stage, confidently picking up the microphone.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Sorry to interrupt your night but if anyone could point me in the direction of Mr Jack Baker, I would greatly appreciate it – he has left the lights on in that beautiful car of his.’

  Charlotte didn’t have to wait long before a slurred voice yelled out, ‘He’s in the Bassoon Bar.’

  Charlotte leant into the microphone, flashing a blinding smile. ‘Thank you, Graham.’

  Graham saluted her with his glass. ‘It’s a bloody good bar, that one.’

  Charlotte looked at me and winked.

  I mouthed, ‘thank you.’ Outrageously beautiful and kind, Charlotte really did have it all. Wondering at the biological lottery she had won, I made a determined path to the exit, my destination set for the Bassoon Bar, wherever that may be.

  The Bassoon Bar was the perfect moody setting for Jack Baker, who sat casually at the bar. He stared into a tumbler of a whiskey, his bow tie unravelled, his hair dishevelled by the weary fingers he continued to run through its thick locks. Despite the sight, I smiled, relief overriding my anger as I walked into the bar. I nearly reached him without detection, but then he lifted his eyes and stilled and it was enough to make me want to stop in my tracks. I drew in a much-needed breath and urged myself to keep walking, to ignore the frightened, vulnerable side of me that whispered to run home. I stood beside him, placing the keycard on the bar and sliding it across to him.