London Falling (7 page)

“I truly dislike you,” she said, although there was no venom in her voice.

“But why? I, for one, have been waiting my entire life for a crazy Yank to take me hostage and threaten to derail my future with one simple ring of the tabloids. I’m finally happy.”

“Ah, sarcasm. You do have a sense of humor.”

“It makes you like me more, doesn’t it?” He coughed.

“You need to go back to bed.”

“Does this mean you’ll agree to a truce?”

She nodded. “I have no choice.”

Thank God he could finally go back to bed. Now, if only he could get up.

He heaved himself into a standing position, swaying with the effort. A soft hand reached out to steady him. He pulled away, not wanting to reveal his frailty to this woman.

“You need to eat something,” she said, as he staggered to the bed.

“Stop mothering me.” His comment sneaked out before he could control it. Her face tightened in response, and he immediately wanted to take the comment back.

Damn, his emotions were swinging wildly from side to side. One moment he wanted to drag her down the steps and toss her on the street, and the next he wanted to hold her and tell her everything would be all right. What was this woman doing to him?

“I apologize. It’s just that I haven’t got an appetite.”

“You need liquids. You’re probably dehydrated.”

“Okay, Nurse Ratched. If I drink something will you leave me in peace to sleep?”

She handed him the bowl of chicken broth. “If I’m Nurse Ratched, that means you’re crazy.”

“Touché.” He mock-saluted her with the spoon. The broth was lukewarm at best, and his entire digestive system rebelled at the liquid attack, but he somehow forced it down. “If I have to eat this rubbish, you’ve got to answer a few questions for me.”

She immediately looked towards the door. Of course, she had to be wishing she were anywhere but in here, but if he was going to suffer her presence in his house, she was going to suffer his presence now.

“Sit.” He motioned to the chair she most recently vacated.

She harrumphed like an old lady as she sprawled in the chair. The Scottie immediately tried to hop into her lap, but he was too small to make the leap.

She dissuaded the puppy by poking her index finger at his chest. The way she snatched her hand back and moved her foot when the puppy laid his head on her sock made it seem like she wasn’t comfortable around dogs.

“How did your Scottie enter the picture?”

She looked at the puppy as though she’d never seen it before. “I already told you.”

“If you remember correctly, I was two seconds from losing my entire Christmas dinner. I wasn’t exactly paying close attention to you.”

“Gross.” She peered down at the puppy again. “How do you know it’s a Scottie? It looks like one of those retriever dogs to me.”

“A Lab?” She nodded. “No. He’s definitely a Scottie.”

“How do you know?”

“Our gardener bred Scotties.”

“Your gardener bred Scotties. Of course.” She clenched her teeth together and spoke with the worst British accent he’d ever heard in his life. “Because whose gardener doesn’t breed Scotties?”

“Do I detect a note of defensiveness?”

Her smile disappeared. Ah yes, he was on to her.

She eyed the dog with ill-concealed skepticism. The Scottie, now aware of her attention, hopped to his feet, prepared for any move she might make.

“How do you know it’s a he?”

Was she really asking that question? “Most evidently because he’s got a willy.”

She reacted quite oddly to his comment, looking like she wanted to disappear through the floor until she had got over the embarrassment of it.

Interesting. Why would this tough-as-nails, ‘I can handle anything’ woman react that way?

“You don’t like dogs, do you?” he asked.

“Of course I like dogs. Who doesn’t like dogs? You’d have to pretty cold-hearted to not like dogs.”

Very clearly, she didn’t like dogs. “They make you uncomfortable, then.”

“I don’t think they make me uncomfortable. I’m just not used to them.”

She moved her foot another two inches from the puppy. “They’re slobbery, and smelly, and they could bite.”

“You were bitten by a dog?”

“Yes. A pack of wild beagles attacked me when I was quite young and, ever since then, I’ve had a giant fear of dogs. Not to mention a bionic aim where the largest beagle bit my real aim off.”

Good God this woman had a chip on her shoulder the size of England.

“You do remember that I hold all the cards in this situation? And I’m ill.

You’d do best not to annoy me and to get on my good side.”

“I believe I hold one or two cards, too. Do you have a good side?”

He gave her what he hoped was a menacing look, but he coughed and ruined the effect.

She sighed. “I was never bitten by a dog. And I’m definitely not afraid of them. They’re just a little too dirty for a neat-freak like me.”

She wasn’t just uncomfortable around dogs, but afraid of them–and not willing to admit it for some reason. “So what are you doing with a–” he cleared his throat, “male Scottish Terrier?”

“There was a hole under the wall in back. My guess is that he dug the hole, got trapped in the back yard, and somehow made it to the window well of the room where I was sleeping. I was afraid he would be trapped in the well and freeze to death, so I brought him inside.”

Her story was almost unbelievable, although her reaction to the dog and its curled-up presence in his room right now proved her story true. If she could face up to her fears like that, she must have nerves of steel. He did not want to admire this woman.

“And where has this puppy been doing his business while you were trapped inside the house?”

“In the window well, at least until you got home, and then I let him into the back garden.”

“Please tell me that you cleaned up after it?” He pictured himself out in the freezing cold picking up dog excrement after she left. Not exactly the image of a banking scion.

She scrunched up her face in distaste as she nodded.

He set the half-empty bowl on the table and yawned. The soup wasn’t sitting too well in his stomach.

“Great.” She stood. She patted her hair down, but the curls sprang back to life immediately, like a cat had got into the yarn basket. “Are we done here?”

Such a hurry to get away. She clearly did not want to spend one second more than necessary in his presence, although she’d sparked his curiosity.

She was a strange combination of pride, strength and compassion, but there was something lurking underneath that he couldn’t put his finger on. “We’re done for now. But I have more questions, so prepare yourself.”

“I can’t wait,” she said, as she cleared his empty dishes.

“And Aimee?”

She sighed in response.

“Whatever you do, don’t clean.”

“I live to serve,” she said, before sashaying out the door.

He didn’t know whether to puke or throw something after her.

Dottie dropped the remaining joints in the loo, flushed, and then sighed in relief. She’d wanted to experience life, not hide from it, and getting high wasn’t all she’d imagined it to be. She caught the corner of her mouth in a grin. Driving down to the inner city and purchasing the drugs–now that was an adrenaline high. If only Gordy had been alive to see it, he’d have died on the spot.

Still, it wasn’t for her.

She turned towards the bedroom and caught a glance of herself in the mirror above the sink. Turning around, she stood on her tip-toes so she could get a better look at her backside in her new lycra yoga pants. Her fifty-two-year-old hips bulged out at the side, and her bottom was anything but perky.

Hideous. She pulled the material out from her behind, still not sure she believed the saleswoman when she’d said that you weren’t supposed to wear knickers underneath. Maybe if she tied something around her waist, she wouldn’t feel so much like she was a prostitute. She missed sweatpants.

Intent on finding something to cover up her enormous behind before her first ever yoga class, she headed into the bedroom but was distracted from her task by the ring at the door. She walked over to the window and peered outside to see who could possibly be dropping by at this time of the year. All of her friends were on holiday or else spending their time with their children and grand-children. She didn’t recognize the dark blue Mercedes with London plates parked in the driveway.

The door rang again.

She looked down at her yoga pants and shrugged her shoulders. Anyone who was rude enough to stop by unannounced could blooming well see her looking like a prostitute. A slightly bigger and older prostitute.

She hurried down the stairs and peeked through the peep-hole and was so startled to see William Elkington she gasped in surprise.

“Dottie?” he asked, his voice muffled through the thick wood of the door.

Fudgies. He’d heard her. Now she’d have to talk to that pompous, boring asshole. What was he doing here anyway? He’d always hated her. And she’d always hated him.

“William,” she said, opening the door. “What a surprise.”

He looked every inch the distinguished gentleman, with his perfectly groomed silver hair, still peppered with the black strands of his youth, and a custom-tailored pin-striped suit and red tie. Gordy’s best friend looked perfectly perfect, and she had a sudden urge to smear tomato sauce on his pristine white shirt. He reminded her of all the things she hated about her former life. And the one thing she missed.

“How are you, Dottie?” he asked, his voice still strong and deep, even after all these years.

“Well, you can see I’m fine,” she said. She didn’t return the question, even though she knew it was expected. The sooner they dispensed with the polite chit chat, the sooner he would get out of here.

“Yes, I can see that you’re well,” he said, his gaze taking in her U-2 t-shirt and black yoga pants. He bit back a grin. Or maybe it was just her imagination.

Damn salesgirl.

“I was visiting the kids for Christmas and thought I’d stop by on my way back to London. See how you were holding up, especially this time of year.”

He’d never stopped by before, so what was this about? “This time of year?”

“Well, I know Gordy’s only been gone for a year, and this time of year is always tough to get through on your own. I know it was for me after I lost Gwen.”

There it was again, that giant vortex of grief that had threatened to consume her for the better part of a year. She thought she’d got over that.

Why couldn’t people just leave it alone? She was so tired of all this talk about death and how sad she must be feeling and oh how tough her life must be now that Gordy was gone. She was finally moving on, and she was sick of all the people who kept trying to keep the past alive. This was her chance to live her life the way she wanted, whatever way that turned out to be. She only knew it didn’t include anything about her former life with Gordy.

“I’m fine. Actually, I’m running late for my yoga class, so…”

He leaned his tall frame against the door jamb as though he had a million years to sit and chat. “Yoga, eh?”

“Yes, yoga. What about it.”

“Nothing. I just never pictured you as the yoga type.”

Of course he never pictured her as the yoga type. He probably pictured her as the darning type. Maybe she should tell him that she’d spent all of Christmas higher than John Lennon at a peace rally.

He cleared his throat and straightened his already straight tie. He cleared his throat again. If she hadn’t known any better, she’d have thought he was nervous. “I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner with me sometime this week.”

What? She must have said it out loud, because he repeated his question.

“I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner with me sometime.”

Was he joking? He’d never wanted to spend time with her when she’d been married to Gordy. He was single now, but…oh. He wanted someone to replace Gwen. Someone perfect and respectable and able to assume hostess duties for him whenever he held dinners for his business associates. That was Dottie. The perfect hostess.

No way. No how. She wasn’t going back to that life ever again. “I don’t think–”

“Just dinner. You can pick the spot.”

“I can pick the spot?” Hmm, maybe she could use this situation to her advantage. She couldn’t stand him, but she was sick and tired of staying home every Saturday night. “How about Crave?” It was the hippest new restaurant in London, and Hugh Grant and Stella McCartney ate there, or at least that’s what the tabloids said. And you couldn’t go someplace like that alone. There was no way William would ever want to eat someplace like Crave.

“Crave, eh?” His mouth curled into a grin, but she couldn’t tell if she or her choice of restaurant amused him. She supposed it didn’t matter. “How about Friday. Nine o’clock?”

She was usually in bed with a good book by nine o’clock, but she’d be damned if she’d tell him. He was far too nonplussed about her choice of venue. Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to dine in London with him, but now she had no choice. “Fine.”

“Shall I pick you up at the town home?”

“No. I sold it last month.” For once, she had the satisfaction of seeing surprise light up his face. She was lightening her load, in more ways than one.

“I’ll be at my nephew’s house in Kensington.” Simon wouldn’t mind, she was sure of it, and maybe he’d take her out to some hip Hollywood party that he was always attending with his clients. She’d maneuvered William and the situation perfectly.

“Great. I’ll ring you tomorrow to get directions.” His attitude as he waved goodbye was entirely too cheerful for someone who’d just been snookered into going somewhere he wouldn’t be caught dead at.

And Dottie suddenly wondered who’d been trapped. William?

Or her?

Aimee pushed her hair back from her face and surveyed the array of workout equipment in the converted attic space. The chrome gleamed from her efforts, the weights were neatly stacked in their stand, and the used towels were piled near the door, ready to be washed, dried, and returned to the shelves near the door. Judging from the darkness outside, it had to be around seven or eight at night, but she wasn’t sure.