Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
I almost suggested it. Well, I thought about suggesting it, which isn’t quite the same, because he was watching me like he could see into my head. For a moment, it had seemed like a suitable distraction. Something I could own before disappearing into the abyss.
Ridiculous notion.
Ridiculous woman.
Not that the silent admonishment stops me shivering as I pull the sides of my coat closer and turn in the opposite direction of The Cadogan Hotel. I am meeting members of the criminal underworld in a hotel, just not this one. Turning the corner, I’m blasted by an almost arctic wind as I step up to the curb and hail a London black cab.
“The Ritz, please,” I direct the cabby, clicking the seat belt into place.
I suppose if I’m going to be sold into slavery, at least my last breakfast will be in style.
It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m not sitting in some Docklands warehouse waiting to be shoved into a shipping container to God knows where. Instead, I’m soaking in the rosy ambience of one of the most opulent restaurants in the world. While I can’t physically stomach the thought of a final meal, this would be the place I’d dine pre-gallows.
My grandmother used to bring me here as a child for our London outings. She’d be decked in pearls and diamonds, the legacy that was mine but somehow never came to me, and I’d be dressed like Mary from The Secret Garden, gussied up in a velvet frock, my socks pearly white and my Mary Janes polished and shiny. I didn’t care that I looked like I’d just fallen out of the Victorian era. I would’ve worn a clown outfit to get a grown-up to pay attention to me.
But here I sit again, all dressed up, pretending to be someone I’m not, sipping Darjeeling from dainty cup as I turn a freshly baked croissant into pile of flaky crumbs.
Lord, please help me through this, I silently plead, tipping my gaze heavenward, as though He might be looking down at me from beyond the frescoed ceiling. But I didn’t just choose this place out of fondness for the décor or for the sake of history. It’s more the fact that I can’t imagine anyone daring to speak above a murmur in this hallowed hall, never mind drag me kicking and screaming from here.
I glance around the restaurant that is a monument to fine dining and all that’s proper. Conversations carrying on around me at a volume scarcely above a hum, the white gloved staff are unobtrusively sure footed amongst a sea of crisp linens, fine bone China, and shining silverware. My gaze snags on a man seated at the table opposite as he absently adjusts his tie. They might turn up in trackpants and running shoes, covered in tattoos, and draped in heavy gold chains, unaware of the dress code where gentlemen must wear a jacket and a tie.
They’d be turned away! And I’d live to fight another day!
Not that it would make the problem go away. But why do today what you can put off until you move home from the outer regions of Papua New Guinea at the ripe old age of ninety-three? I wonder what the schooling is like in Micronesia.
“Lady Isla.” I almost jump three feet at the sound of a deep voice. In some other less strange realm, I might’ve thought he were Niko. English undercut with the hint of something other. But I’m not so lucky as a man around my age takes my hand, almost bowing over it. Dark haired and elegantly dressed, he’s on the quiet side of good looking and dressed like a banker or perhaps a CEO of some company.
Perhaps he is. CEO of a criminal concern.
“Forgive my tardiness.” He pauses, waiting, I realize, for an invitation to sit.
No, go away—
“Please.” I gesture to the seat opposite, noting the breadth of his shoulders in the Edwardian mirror behind him. His suit is well made but off the rack. Hugo Boss or Armani, but not bespoke. But the thing on his wrist is less timepiece and more statement piece. A gold Patek Phillippe.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today.”
“I didn’t realize I had a choice.” My response sounds sharper than I’d intended. “I’d like to think my ex-husband has told you I have no money. That I have nothing to do with his business, or—”
The man holds up his hands. “I’m aware.” His eyes crease in the outer corners, dark eyes shining pleasantly but lingering too long, like a handshake where the other person won’t let go.
“Then I’m not sure why we’re here, Mr. …” Go on, fill in the blanks for me.
“Aslanov. But, please, call me Anatoli.”
“I’m not sure why we’re here, Mr. Aslanov.”
“Just Anatoli.” He smiles as though I’m adorable, rather than annoyed, and the server arrives to take his order.