by Heidi Rice
‘But if I sell I’ll be closing a community institution that’s been going since 1988 and all my staff will be out of a job?’
She sounded so forlorn, all he could do was nod. ‘Yeah.’
He dug his business card out of his pocket, then scribbled down his cell number on the back. ‘You can reach me on that number if you want to discuss the details.’
Not that there was really anything left to discuss.
She seemed to get that, taking the card with trembling fingers.
He shoved the pen in his back pocket. ‘Do you think it’s safe for me to get out of here now?’
She trapped her bottom lip under her teeth, still staring at his card, then looked up. ‘There’s a fire escape at the end of the corridor,’ she said, pointing down the hallway. ‘It’s probably safest to slip out that way.’
He nodded. He needed to get out of here. But his stomach twisted into a pretzel again at the sight of her in her gingham dress and white blouse, her thick French braids tied with blue ribbons and her round green eyes mistier than Judy Garland’s as she sang about rainbows and lemon drops.
‘I’m not flying back to Manhattan until late Monday night, if you want to speak to me in person,’ he said.
‘Thank you …’ Her face flushed and she smiled – and he realised he’d made a tactical error. He didn’t want to give her false hope.
He dismissed the ripple of unease as he made his way down the hall. If she contacted him on Monday he could screen the call – and let his assistant Gwen handle it.
He’d given the situation to her straight; those were the facts.
He hadn’t created this situation – an undiagnosed heart condition and bad financial planning had done that. So why should he feel responsible? If his uncle had been any kind of a businessman, or had the foresight to plan ahead, he could have found more tax efficient ways to borrow against his business, or found an investor instead of bankrolling the place with loans. But the guy hadn’t expected to die in his fifties. So they were gonna have to suck it up, lay the blame for this crummy situation at fate’s door and deal with it.
But as he headed down a hallway lined with framed film posters – none of them featuring Falcone, thank Christ – and photographs of Ruby and the guy she had loved, he heard the faint sound of gulping sobs behind him.
The pretzel in his stomach rose up to press against his larynx.
She’ll get over it.
He climbed out the window and down the fire escape, then jumped into the alleyway behind the theatre. Once Ruby Graham had a cool two million plus in her pocket and no ties or responsibilities to worry about, she’d be able to see the other side of this rainbow. Surely.
Chapter 3
‘I can’t believe he’s so heartless. How can he be Falcone’s son?’ Jacie rubbed Ruby’s back as they sat hunched together on the sofa in Matty’s flat.
Somehow or other, Ruby had managed to get through the weekend without freaking out completely over what Devlin had told her after The Wizard of Oz screening.
But when Jacie had appeared ten minutes ago with a bottle of Prosecco to toast finishing the schedule for Matty’s Classics’ season they’d put together, Ruby had blurted out the whole sorry mess to her assistant manager – on pain of death if she repeated it to anyone. And Jacie had begun pouring the Prosecco. Because what else was there to do?
‘I’m not sure how his genetic make-up has anything to do with it,’ Ruby murmured, taking a judicious sip. After her lemon-tini binge at the wake and one too many Emerald-aritas on Friday night she had been avoiding alcohol … but she needed something to lift her spirits. And drown the terror which had been lurking in her gut ever since Luke Devlin had disappeared down her corridor after delivering his death blow to The Royale.
‘But Falcone did emo so well, his empathy bleeds off the screen,’ Jacie said, knocking back her own glass and refilling it. ‘His son seems to have had a heart by-pass.’
That was acting, Jace.
Ruby bit back the retort, because it wasn’t Jacie’s fault they had to find two million pounds plus in three months.
She burped. But surely all was not lost … yet?
‘He was pragmatic about our financial situation, but he wasn’t completely heartless,’ she said, clutching at straws. ‘He told me I could call him, perhaps he just needs to be persuaded this is a good investment?’
Okay, that was a bit of a stretch, even for Ruby’s usually boundless optimism.
From the look on his face after he’d told her he would be in London until tonight, she suspected he’d instantly regretted the olive branch.
‘You think?’ Jacie asked, lifting an eyebrow almost as sceptical as Devlin’s. ‘I wasn’t getting the impression he could be persuaded during the screening. He didn’t even join in any of the songs.’
‘Yes, but maybe he’s just not the singalong type,’ Ruby said. ‘He seemed fine about the flying monkeys at least.’
‘Why wouldn’t he be fine about the flying monkeys?’ Jacie’s eyebrow arched even higher.
‘Apparently they freaked him out as a kid.’
‘So he’s been a dick for a while,’ Jacie said, her disillusionment making her grimace. ‘He so does not deserve that beautiful face.’
From the way Devlin had glanced once at the Boy Blue poster then avoided eye contact with it, Ruby didn’t think he considered having his father’s beautiful face to be much of an asset, but she decided against pointing that out to Jacie.
There was a story there, she was sure of it. But she didn’t think he’d appreciate her asking him what it was. And anyway, she did not have the time to get side-tracked. She had a two million-plus pound hole to fill in The Royale’s finances or Luke Devlin was going to sell the theatre out from under them.
‘It’s nearly five o’clock. Are you still planning to scatter Matty tonight?’ Jacie asked.
Crap!
Ruby’s gaze shot to the plastic urn on the bookshelf she’d picked up from the undertaker’s that morning. How could she have forgotten about Matty’s ashes.
I’m so sorry, Matty.
Guilty heat worked its way up her neck.
If only forgetting about fulfilling Matty’s request to scatter his ashes after the park closed was the sum total of how she was about to fail him. Somehow, presiding over the destruction of the community institution he’d created and watching it get converted into six or possibly eight rental units would be so much worse.
‘Yes …’ She walked to the urn and lifted it off the mantel. It felt far too light.
How could such a robust, larger-than-life person be reduced to something so small and insubstantial?
‘What time does it get dark tonight?’ she asked.
Jacie checked her weather app. ‘Sunset’s at six twenty-six. So you’ll probably want to wait until seven to be sure the park police don’t stop you.’
‘Good thinking,’ she said.
Was that why Matty had requested she scatter his ashes on the Serpentine after dark? After all, he’d always told her she needed to live more on the edge.
Don’t be so tediously law-abiding all the time, snookums. Imagine how dull Louise would have been if she hadn’t blown up that trucker’s rig? And Thelma if she hadn’t robbed that convenience store? Just for starters, Thelma wouldn’t have gotten to shag Brad Pitt.
She had pointed out that Brad had stolen all of their money and Thelma and Lou had ended up driving off a cliff. But tonight, perhaps Matty was right.
Sneaking into the park and scattering his ashes seemed like the perfect way to say goodbye to him. She very much doubted it would actually be illegal, but she almost wished it were. A little danger – coupled with a little Prosecco – could only help take the edge off all of her other worries.
She stuffed the urn into her backpack. ‘I should probably get going. Matty was fairly specific it had to be done no less than two hours after sunset.’ What that was about she had no clue, she’d racked her brains for th
e possible film reference but hadn’t been able to come up with one.
Jacie stood. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Matty had been specific about that, too. No one but her and Luke Devlin were supposed to be in attendance.
She tugged on her jacket. ‘Could you cash out the box office?’ she said. ‘After the evening screening starts? I should be back to lock up before the final curtain.’
Luckily she had tons of time, because tonight’s film was The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, which lasted well over three hours thanks to its twenty-five endings.
‘Sure thing, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Jacie handed her the Prosecco bottle. ‘Here, finish the Dutch courage.’
Ruby chugged the final sip from the bottle.
‘And don’t worry, we’ll figure out something,’ Jacie added.
‘Yes, we will,’ Ruby said, buoyed by her mission and the Prosecco. Not necessarily in that order.
***
It was only after she’d left the theatre though and made her way towards the tube that she had a realisation worthy of Donald Duck and his light bulb.
Bollocks. Matty had wanted Luke Devlin there, too. Probably all part of the in-joke she didn’t get. But if Matty wanted him there, she had to at least try to get him there. She’d planned to suggest it on Friday, but she’d never gotten the chance.
He’d given her his number even if he didn’t want her to use it. And maybe, just maybe, the chance to see him again would shake something lose – like his squishy side, or a fabulous investment plan to save The Royale.
After trying his number twice though, and getting switched to his voicemail her plan had begun to unravel. As she headed to Ladbroke Grove station, the name of the hotel on Park Lane he had given Ryker over a week ago echoed in her head in his deep voice.
The Grant.
Turning from the tube station, she hopped on a bus heading to Marble Arch. Why she had remembered the name of the hotel he was staying at a week and a half ago she was not going to examine too closely. Plus he might not be staying there on this trip.
Frankly, guilting Luke Devlin into coming with her to scatter his uncle’s ashes tonight was almost certain to be another failure. But she was going to give fulfilling this dying wish her best shot.
Not least because there was the distinct possibility she might be forced to deny Matty the one dying wish he would have wanted the most – to keep The Royale open.
***
‘Could you let Mr Luke Devlin know I’m here?’ Ruby asked the receptionist in the lobby of The Grant, attempting to sound authoritative. The hotel’s steel and glass interior design was everything Ruby would have expected of a high-end Mayfair watering hole for billionaire businessmen – sleek, soulless and defiantly impersonal.
Intimidating much?
‘Certainly.’ The receptionist sent her a benign smile and picked up the in-house phone. ‘Who should I say is calling?’
He’s actually here. Perhaps this is a sign.
‘Um, Ruby Graham,’ Ruby replied, a tickle of anxiety working its way past her Prosecco buzz.
The woman nodded, keyed in a number and then spoke into the phone.
‘Mr Devlin, Ruby Graham is in the lobby and wishes to see you.’ The woman smiled beatifically at Ruby obviously listening on the other end. ‘Yes, Mr Devlin, she’s here in front of me.’ The woman frowned. ‘Um, yes, sir, she can hear me talking to you.’
As the conversation continued for a moment, Ruby realized she’d been right. His offer to talk to her had been fake news back at The Royale.
The receptionist covered the handset’s mouthpiece. ‘Mr Devlin would like to know if you could contact him tomorrow?’
What? After he’s checked out? I don’t think so.
‘Could you tell him it’s super urgent and involves his uncle’s ashes,’ she said. She reached into the backpack and pulled out the plastic urn to punctuate the surprise reveal. ‘I have them with me.’
‘Oh, I see,’ the receptionist replied, a light flush appearing through her expertly applied make-up. Clearly, having human remains brandished at her wasn’t a regular occurrence.
The receptionist relayed the information. There was a long pause and then she nodded.
‘He’s in the penthouse suite on the sixteenth floor. Room 1601.’ She directed Ruby to the bank of elevators on the other side of the reception area. ‘He said to go right up,’ she added chirpily.
I’ll just bet he did.
‘Okay, thanks.’ Hefting her backpack, Ruby headed to the elevators, her Prosecco buzz now no more than a discordant hum.
He’d tried to give her the brush-off. That moment of connection back at the flat had all been in her imagination. Devlin was as mercenary as she’d tried not to assume. No way in hell was she going to be able to persuade him to change his mind about investing in the theatre – which made her mission here somewhat redundant.
The weight of the urn in her backpack became heavier.
She patted the pack. ‘It’s okay, Matty. I’ll ask him if he’ll come tonight. If he says no, at least we tried. Right?’
He’s going to say no, so there’s no point in getting stressed.
But she was stressed, as she got to the end of the corridor on the sixteenth floor and tapped on the door marked Penthouse Suite.
The door opened a few seconds later. And there he was, in all of his glory. His dark wavy hair mussed, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. That devastating gaze locked on her.
‘Hello, Ruby,’ he said, sending her a quizzical look. ‘What’s this about my uncle’s ashes?’
The last of her wishful thinking evaporated under his inscrutable gaze. So he hadn’t been listening at Ryker’s office when this dying wish had been mentioned? She had to admit a lot of what had been said that day had gone over her head, too, but it wasn’t really an excuse, given that he hadn’t been poleaxed by grief at the time like she had.
‘I … I need to ask you to do something.’ She cleared her throat which was now drier than a Groucho Marx one-liner. ‘With Matty’s ashes.’
He frowned, the suspicion clear in his gaze. ‘Right, okay, but I need to pack.’ He directed her into the suite. ‘Come in, we can talk in the bedroom.’
A few seconds later, she stood in the middle of a palatial bedroom with a staggering view over Hyde Park. She could even see the corner of the Serpentine Lake in the distance. It wasn’t quite dark yet, the orange and red of the sunset made all the more resplendent by the pollution haze that hung over the park.
But it wasn’t the stunning view that was getting all of her attention.
Don’t look at the bed.
The only problem was that meant looking at Devlin himself, who was busy wedging a neat stack of – crap, were those boxer briefs – into an expensive leather hold-all. He had his toiletry bag on the bed, next to a ream of papers, and a laptop, which he proceeded to stuff into the hold-all, too.
Why was she not surprised the man packed his luggage the way he did everything else? With ruthless efficiency.
He wasn’t wearing any shoes and dark wool socks peeped out from under the hem of his jeans.
Ruby gulped. Why did this whole scene feel stupidly intimate?
‘So, what do you need?’ he said, still packing.
The impatience in the tone snapped Ruby out of her sock-induced coma, a forceful reminder that Luke Devlin was all business, even if she had caught him packing his smalls.
‘In his will, Matty requested I scatter his ashes on the Serpentine; you can see it from here.’ She pointed to the body of water in question, disconcerted when he stopped packing and gave her his full attention. She patted her backpack. ‘I’ve got them with me now. He wanted you to come, too.’
‘Are you serious?’ he said.
Anxiety turned to annoyance in the pit of her stomach. Did he think she’d made it up? Why would she do that? Unless … Her mind stalled. Did he think
she was coming on to him? The arrogant … She took a steadying breath.
Don’t lose it. Stay focused. And as unemotional as he is.
‘You possibly missed that part of the will reading when you walked out to go to your very important meeting in Canary Wharf,’ she said, not quite able to keep the hint of bitterness out of her tone.
His gaze flattened and she knew he hadn’t missed the implication. That he’d been more interested in his business meeting than the final wishes of a dead man. But he didn’t seem remotely phased – or guilty. Just more proof, if she needed it, that Jacie was right – he had had a heart by-pass.
‘Are you sure that’s legal?’ he said at last.
‘What?’ she asked, confused.
‘Scattering human remains on public land?’ he said. ‘At the very least my guess would be you’d need a permit.’
Ruby stared at his formidable frown for two very long seconds, completely nonplussed. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘Of course I’m serious, have you researched it?’ he replied, as if she were a person with severe learning difficulties.
‘No, I haven’t researched it,’ she said slowly, so he would understand the significance of what she was doing here.
‘Then there you are,’ he said, and turned to zip up his hold-all.
‘I don’t need to research it,’ she continued, the buzzing in her ears turning into a maelstrom. ‘It was Matty’s dying wish. I couldn’t give a toss if you need a permit or not. Or whether or not it’s legal. I’m doing it tonight because that’s what Matty wanted. I stopped by to invite you along because for some unknown reason you mattered to Matty and he obviously wanted you to be part of his final farewell.’ Although that impulse was looking increasingly bonkers. The man appeared to have about as much empathy as the Wicked Witch of the West or one of her flying monkeys. Something Matty must have been wholly unaware of, or he would never have left his nephew half The Royale, or put her in this impossible situation.
