Promises After Dark (After Dark Book 3) (6 page)

I hold my breath and hear footsteps inside approaching the door. I’m filled with wild happiness.
He’s here, I can speak to him, tell him everything, make him listen to me . . .

The door opens.

‘Dominic, thank God— oh.’ I’m not looking at the face I long to see so much but into a pair of dark brown eyes that belong to a lady in domestic overalls holding a polishing rag.

‘Yes?’ she says.

‘Is Mr Stone in?’ I ask weakly but I can already guess the answer.

She shakes her head and says in a strong foreign accent, ‘No one here. I’m cleaning but no one here.’

‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

‘Uh uh,’ she says, still shaking her head.

‘Can I come in for a moment?’

She lets me in reluctantly and I walk into the apartment, not sure what I think I’ll find here. I just want to feel close to Dominic, but as I go into the elegant sitting room I feel further away from him than ever. This place is full of his absence. It doesn’t feel as though he’s just popped out but as though he’s packed up and left, not intending to be back for a while.

I walk around the room, looking at familiar objects and remembering the time I’ve spent here with Dominic. The spanking chair is gone, the one where I saw Vanessa paddling a man I thought was Dominic. I wonder where he’s put it.

I notice that on the table is a brochure, a glossy piece of corporate cardboard. I pick it up. It reads
Finlay Venture Capital
and under some stock photographs of smiling businessmen in a smart boardroom, there’s some blurb about how this company likes to invest in the future and discover amazing new ways to make money. The contact details are printed at the bottom, somewhere in the City where most big-money business is based.

‘Can I help you?’ asks the cleaning lady. She’s come in and is watching me, obviously uncomfortable that she’s let me in.

I put the brochure down. ‘No . . . no. Thank you. I’m leaving now. Thanks for your help.’

This is crazy. What the hell am I doing?

I hailed a taxi on South Audley Street that’s now threading its way through Mayfair and heading east. As we roar along, I realise that London has become very Christmassy. Lights are up everywhere, and all the shop windows are decorated with snowflakes and themed displays. Christmas is only a few weeks away now. I haven’t decided what I’m doing, but I can’t imagine anything other than going home to be with my family. I yearn for them as soon as I think of them all. I can’t wait to be there, waking up in my old room, with a stocking stiff and knobbly at the end of my bedpost. Mum still makes sure we all get a stocking when we’re home even though we’re grown up.

I stare out of the window as the taxi takes short cuts and back ways and gets us up to New Oxford Street, and onto the main road heading east. We pass Holborn and then suddenly we’re in the skyscraper part of town, where big business is conducted in steel-and-glass penthouses hundreds of floors up, where gambles are made on trading floors, and huge law firms rake in money by supervising and tying together the thousands of deals made every week.

We don’t stop in front of any of the great modern edifices, or the venerable old stone buildings. Instead the taxi driver guides the cab down incredibly narrow streets and into a small cobbled square where some red-brick Victorian buildings have been converted into funky-looking offices.

The driver looks over his shoulder at me. ‘Here you are, miss! Tanner Square.’

‘Thank you.’

I pay him and get out. I’m wondering now more than ever what the hell I’m doing here. But what have I got to lose? I shake out my shoulders and walk purposefully towards the offices at number 11.

Inside there is a glossy white reception desk with bright blue lettering on the front of it that reads ‘Finlay Venture Capital’. A receptionist looks up at me. ‘Yes, can I help you?’

I stare at her, not knowing what to say. I should have planned this before I came in but it’s a bit late now.

The receptionist frowns. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘I . . . I . . . Not exactly.’

‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to leave if you don’t have an appointment to see someone.’ Her voice is turning frosty.

‘No, please, I really need to see someone – anyone, really, someone in charge . . .’

‘What seems to be the trouble?’ It’s a deep male voice coming from my left. I turn to see a young man with glasses and a dark brown beard standing there. He’s casual in jeans and an open-necked shirt with a jumper. ‘Can I help you with anything?’

His eyes are friendly enough and I make the sudden decision to trust him. ‘Yes – I hope so. I’m looking for Dominic Stone and I wondered if he might be here.’

The man looks surprised. ‘Dominic? That’s strange. He was just here. He left about twenty minutes ago.’

‘Oh no!’ I can’t help crying out in frustration. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

He gives me a puzzled look. ‘What’s this about? I can’t just give you his whereabouts. I’ve no idea who you are.’

I stare at him pleadingly. I can’t begin to explain out here in public and, to my relief, he seems to grasp this, as he suddenly beckons me into his office.

‘Look, come in here.’

I follow him into a small office full of modern gadgetry and sit down in the chair the man gestures to while he takes a seat behind the desk.

He says, ‘I’m Tom Finlay, by the way. Who are you?’

‘I’m Beth Villiers and I’m Dominic’s friend.’

‘Hmm.’ He gives me an amused look over the top of his glasses. ‘His special friend?’

I flush. ‘Well . . . it’s complicated. But yes, we’re involved. I really need to see him, to explain something. I made a mistake, and I have to put it right.’

‘Well, well.’ Tom Finlay smiles at me. ‘I’m glad to hear it’s romance and not some business disaster, considering I’ve just agreed to invest a sizeable sum in Dominic’s company.’

‘His company is up and running already?’ I say, surprised.

Tom nods. ‘It sounds like it was all up and ready to go. He was just waiting for release from his old employment and the cash injection he needed to get started. He’s hitting the ground at a sprint.’

I smile. That sounds like Dominic. I’m seized with a longing to be with him. Perhaps it shows on my face because Tom says, ‘Look, I wouldn’t normally give out any information about a client or business partner, but you look pretty desperate.’

‘I am!’ I say quickly. ‘He’s not returning my calls or emails.’

‘Oh?’ He frowns. ‘Have you thought about the possibility that maybe he’s not interested?’

I see with a touch of panic that I’ve given him the idea that maybe Dominic doesn’t want anything to do with me and that I’m a troublesome stalker. ‘No, no, he doesn’t know what I have to tell him. He’ll want to know, I promise! I’m not crazy. Please tell me what you know about where he is.’

Tom considers.

I make myself sound calm. ‘Honestly, you’ll be doing Dominic a favour. And me.’

He sits back in his chair and smiles. ‘You know what? You seem like a sane person to me. Dominic’s big enough to look after himself.’ Tom picks up a pen and twiddles it absent-mindedly as he speaks. ‘He’s finding investors for his company. He’s got some great ideas and he’s looking for five or six people to come in with him, each one putting in a sizeable amount of money. He’s off to Paris today to meet a very big fish who lives there, to see if he can hook him.’

‘Paris?’

Tom nods. ‘That’s right.’ He looks at his watch. ‘In fact I think he said he was catching the two o’clock train from St Pancras. If you hurry, you might catch him there.’

I had thought that the day couldn’t get any crazier but here I am in another taxi, heading north-west this time. My new driver doesn’t seem to be quite as keen on racing along buzzy little back routes as the last cabbie was, and we crawl along the road towards Old Street, making sure that we hit every red light and give way to every bus and pedestrian that shows even the slightest desire to pass in front of us. I’m nearly biting my knuckles with frustration. I stare at my watch, trying to work out the times. The train departs at two, so Dominic will need to check in at least thirty minutes beforehand. But he left Finlay twenty minutes before I arrived, so he would have possibly already got to St Pancras before I left Tanner Square. He’s bound to have checked in. He’s probably going business class, which means he’ll be able to use the business lounge so that’s where he’ll be – unless for some reason, he’s hanging around outside and I can catch him before he goes through the gate. I have to get there before one thirty at the latest and it’s ten past one now.

We finally get around the Old Street roundabout and head towards King’s Cross, but we’re still stopping at every traffic light along the way. We can’t seem to hit a green. I’m almost bouncing up and down on my seat with a frantic desire to get the taxi moving faster. At last I can see the huge King’s Cross terminus and the imposing Gothic facade of the St Pancras hotel. It’s nearly twenty past one. Just over ten minutes to go. It’s agonising as we wait to make the right turn down to the Eurostar entrance but at last we’re pulling to a halt in front of it. I rummage in my purse for the money to pay the fare and then jump out of the cab and race inside.

The entrance to the Eurostar is crowded with people. There’s a train to Brussels leaving in an hour and the bulk of passengers are checking in. I scan the crowd urgently for Dominic but there’s no sign of him. Why would he wait in this scrum when he could be in the quiet and peace of the business lounge? Why did I ever think anything else? I glance up hastily and see on the departure screen that the train to Paris is boarding. There are only a few minutes left. Any minute now he’ll be leaving London and I’ll have lost him. I open my bag and check the inner compartment. Yes, there it is. My passport. I haven’t removed it since returning from Russia. I run to the ticket machines behind me and start tapping at the screen, making lightning decisions. I pull out my credit card and press in the numbers with clumsy fingers that have gone all stiff and disobedient.

‘Come on, come on!’ I mutter, trying not to shout. ‘Come on . . . please!’

And then the transaction goes through. The machine starts to whirr as it prints my ticket and spits it out into the dispenser. I scrabble for it and then race over to the ticket barrier. I don’t bother with the ticket reader but hand my ticket straight to the inspector standing there so he can open the gate for me to race through. I can see there’s a queue at the baggage inspection ahead – will I still be in time to make the train? After all, I don’t have any luggage except for my handbag. The inspector takes my ticket, looks at it and then at the screen. He silently gestures to it and I look up. The screen for the two o’clock train reads ‘Check-in closed’.

‘You’re too late,’ he says mournfully.

‘Please, please let me through!’ I beg. ‘Please, it’s only one minute!’

He shakes his head. ‘I can’t. Against the rules. Let in one, you have to let in them all. If one minute, why not two or three? Nope. Sorry.’

I stare aghast at the ticket in my hand. It’s useless. I’ve just spent three hundred pounds on this bit of cardboard.

The inspector looks at me sympathetically. ‘Listen, I saw you buy the ticket. You take it to the main office around the corner there, and tell them I sent you. You missed the train by one minute. Ask them to change the ticket to the next train. You can still get to Paris.’

But will I have come to my senses by three o’clock?

I look at the ticket again. One way to the Gare du Nord. It’s eating me up that the train hasn’t departed yet, that Dominic is still in the station but I can’t get near him.

What the hell? What have I got to lose?

I look up at the inspector. ‘Where did you say I can find the main ticket office?’

Once on the Eurostar with my newly changed ticket, I settle into my seat and look about me. The train is filling up quickly. It’s that time of year, I suppose. Christmas seems to be a good excuse for people to nip over to a foreign city for shopping or a treat. I can see couples, some of them older, perhaps celebrating an anniversary or going for a special jaunt to Paris, the city of romance. People in suits, clearly travelling for work, are already opening up laptops or looking at their tablets. There are plenty of French people returning home and others who will be going onwards into Europe. A young family sits near me, the mother taking out plastic tubs filled with grapes and rice cakes for her small children.

I take out my mobile and call Caroline. She doesn’t answer, so I leave a message explaining that I’m going to be away from the office this afternoon and I’ll call later to see how Mark is. Then I call Laura at her office.

‘You’re
where
?’ she says disbelievingly when I tell her what I’m doing.

‘On the Eurostar at St Pancras, about to leave for Paris.’

‘Are you totally insane? Why?’

‘Because Dominic is in Paris. He left on the train before this one. He’s probably under the Channel right about now.’

‘And you think you’re going to find him?’ Laura’s voice is completely incredulous. ‘Just stumble across him? In the whole of Paris, you’re going to go straight to him? Beth, get off the train now and chalk it down to a moment of madness.’