Risking It All: London Calling Book Three (4 page)

He smiled, pocketing his phone. She’d received his gift. It was odd, but even though they’d never officially met, he knew his generosity would be tough for her to accept.
 

Too bad.

He had disappointed her. Worse still, his investigations into her life hurt her despite his best intentions. He suppressed the voice in the back of his head reminding him he hadn’t had intentions at all, really. Just bored curiosity.
 

But what else would an Internet security expert do?

They arrived at a little pub five blocks from where Bennett lived. Devon turned to Dom, cheeks rosy. “This is it. Prepare yourself for a blast from the past.”

They sat in a beat-up navy leather booth. The seats were lumpy, the lighting atrocious, and the tabletop bore the carvings and engravings of customers past. Dominic loved it.

He pulled a lighter out of his jacket and lit the votive candle pushed to the wall inside the booth. As he looked around he saw nothing but old wood, old flags, and battered tapestries. The interior was so sooty it looked like it personally housed the Industrial Revolution. Sniffing, Dominic rather doubted they enforced the smoking ban with anything approaching diligence.

Devon sat across from him, grinning. “What do you think?”

“So far so good, Devvie. But is the food any good?”

“It’s a far sight better than what you’d be getting from me,” she joked. Both were well aware of their culinary deficiencies. Devon often stated, with absolute conviction, that she’d rather eat cat food than cook. “That aside,” she continued, “you’re going to love it here. Pure Southern barbecue, Dommie.”

He grabbed a menu that sat propped against the wall, alarmingly close to the small lit candle. “No way.” His eyes perused the typed page, noticing several blacked-out items. Most were replaced with hand-written entries, the ink smeared by time and fingerprints. He looked up at Devon, who bounced in her seat with suppressed excitement.
 

“You really miss American food, don’t you, Dev?”

“You know it. And this place actually gets it right. They have a
smoker
.” She emphasized the word with the appropriate reverence of a true barbecue apostle.
 

Dom grinned. “Recommendations?”

Immediately, she shifted forward and tapped the worn page. “Brisket. Ribs if you must, but do the spares. No baby backs, Dom.” She eyed him sternly. “And no chicken, for God’s sake.”

“Done. What do you want to drink? I’ll go over and order.” It wasn’t the kind of place that sported serving staff or table service. Dominic was surprised to feel at home, despite his usual haunts in Chicago with white tablecloths and sparkling crystal. He missed this sort of thing almost as much as Devon.

“Hard cider. You should do the same, if you can tear yourself away from your usual.” She winked, knowing Dom’s preference for Irish stouts.

“Thank God our fathers can’t hear you,” he said. John Sinclair and Patrick Martin’s Friday routine included stops at their favorite pub for pints. Dominic adopted Guinness as soon as he was old enough to drink.

Well. Sooner, if he was honest.

He placed their order then carried the drinks back to the table, ignoring the beep of another incoming text. He sat down and took out his phone to switch it to silent. The message was from Moneypenny.

“Girlfriend?” Devon asked.
 

He frowned. “No,” he answered, short. There hadn’t been anyone since Natalie.
 

“Hmm,” Devon mused.
 

“What?”

“Well, that’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean by that?” He knew his tone was defensive but couldn’t seem to stop.

Devon leaned back against the booth, brows raised. Dominic stared back silently until she uttered one word.

“Natalie.”
 

Dominic crossed and uncrossed his arms. Strumming his fingers on the tabletop, he looked around the bar, thinking he should have noticed the place was a barbecue joint from the mouthwatering smells of smoked meat wafting from the back. He brought his gaze back to Devon and saw she was still watching him, head tilted and smirking.

He sighed and rubbed a hand underneath his collar. “Yes,” he murmured.
 

“I’m sorry, what was that?”
 

Loudly, “Yes. Yes, it’s Natalie. I can’t get her out of my mind. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Devon opened her mouth then shut it again without speaking.
 

“It’s okay. Say what you’re thinking, Dev.”

She smiled, her eyes softening. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You’ll figure it out, Dommie. All in good time.”

Puzzled, he watched a small smile tilt her lips. Her foggy eyes danced with mystery and mirth, but he was damned if he could figure out the message. The bartender called and Dom rose to retrieve the wax paper-lined baskets holding their food.
 

Sometimes a man just needed to eat.

***

Natalie walked up the neatly landscaped path to the cottage’s front door. Herbs and colorful flowers were situated in various clay pots, some small, others larger. A white trellis was attempting to train roses up the stone facade to drape over the arched red door. Overall, the result was an eclectic and artful arrangement denoting someone with a flair for creativity. Before she could raise her hand to knock, the door opened to reveal a petite woman with ashy blond hair cut into an angled bob. A chunky pink agate necklace cascaded down the front of her denim tunic. Black leggings and blush leather ballet flats completed her ensemble.

Natalie was a tad jealous of her mother’s effortless sense of bohemian style. Somehow Rebecca Enfeld carried it off, year after year, despite the fact she’d turned fifty a few years back. No matter, she could have passed as Natalie’s older sister rather than mother.
 

Natalie stepped into her mother’s outstretched arms and inhaled her signature spicy perfume. She hugged her tight, squeezing the other woman before pulling away with a too-quick smile.

“Hi Mum.”

Her mother stared, matching blue eyes searching Natalie’s face.
 

Dropping her gaze, Natalie waved toward the cottage’s front door. “May I?”

Her mother shuffled to the side. “Of course, darling, of course. Come in and I’ll put on some tea. I wasn’t exactly sure what time you’d be here, so I waited.” The words emerged in rapid succession. Nervous hands patted Natalie’s back as she walked through the doorway.

“Mum, it’s okay.” She turned to face her mother, hating the awkwardness between them. At one time, they’d been an inseparable duo, more friends than mother and daughter. Their relationship had changed, but Natalie would be hard-pressed to say when. She only knew she’d been the cause of it. Reaching into her jacket pocket, she brought out a small box. “Here. Sebastian sent a gift.”

The diversion worked. Her mother’s eyes lit up as she reached for the small token. Opening the lid, she revealed a pair of silver earrings with tiny cascading blocks. “Oh, these are lovely.”
 

Her boss had a better handle on her mother’s taste than she did. “He brought them back from his recent trip to Moscow,” Natalie explained.
 

“Mr. Payne has excellent taste.” Her mother moved toward the kitchen area and Natalie followed. Her mother opened the cupboard and pulled out a square navy tin with a silver ribbon tied around it. A small card was tucked beneath the bow. It read,
SP.

Natalie cocked a brow. “Is that for Sebastian?” When they met several months prior, her employer and mother hit it off straight away. Their friendship was a source of amazement to Nat, as she considered them polar opposites. Since their first introduction, Sebastian sent small tokens along with Natalie when he knew she’d be visiting. It appeared her mother had decided to return the favor.

“Yes, it’s toffee.” Her mother beamed. “He mentioned he rarely gets anything homemade anymore, since he eats out in London so often.”

A memory echoed—warm sunlight, rumpled sheets, and Dominic sprawled out, telling funny stories about his childhood in the Southern United States.
 

Toff
, he called her.

She blinked, snapping her mind shut on the recollection. Her mother was looking at her, a puzzled smile curving her lips.
 

“Nat, are you okay?” Her mother’s hand fluttered then fell back at her side.

Natalie cleared her throat. “Yes, Mum. Sorry, I was a million miles away for a second.” The electric teapot was furiously boiling on the countertop. “Let me make the tea.”

With the ease of practice and familiar surroundings, she reached for the jar containing her mother’s favorite blend. She scooped out several teaspoons into a steel mesh filter before pouring the boiling water over it into an earthenware teapot. She picked up the rounded egg timer that sat beside the Aga stove and twisted it to the desired time.

Four minutes.
How could they have reached the point where waiting four minutes seemed like a lifetime? Natalie searched her brain for something to say.
 

Something like pity flashed in her mother’s expression. Walking over to the small breakfast nook, she gestured for Natalie to follow. “Natalie, please sit down.”
 

Natalie swallowed. Her mother rarely addressed her by her full name. Always it had been
darling
,
honey
, or simply
Nat.
By distancing herself, she cut herself off from her mother’s natural warmth. The damage was done, but she missed their bond. As Natalie was growing up, they’d forged a strong connection living on their own. Just the two of them, they were a team.

And that was the heart of her problem.

Years ago, after she moved to London and made a respectable place for herself, she looked up her father. He never lived with them, but she remembered the regular frequency of his visits. Since her parents never wedded, she carried her mother’s surname. Years passed and his visits became shorter and less often. All the while, Natalie tried harder and harder to convince him to stay. She dressed prettily, practiced her manners, and doted on his every word. All in the hope she could convince him to make them a proper family.

The kind of family where parents married and shared a home.
 

By the time he left them, never to return, Natalie blamed her mother. Her mother was weak, unable to thrive without her lover’s influence or assistance. She settled for the crumbs he tossed to her, financially and emotionally. After his desertion, he spitefully stopped paying for their home. Within a year, they moved to a soulless, subsidized block of housing units on the outskirts of London.
 

And when Natalie found him, eager to re-establish a family connection, he laughed at her without an ounce of humor.
 

“I have a family.” Turns out, he married another woman weeks after leaving. By the time Natalie showed up again, he had three sons.
 

As she stood before him on that long ago day, he’d looked her up and down.
 

“You have the look of your mother. As far as I can see, there’s nothing of me in you.” He’d turned his back, walking away before they had a chance to be seated at the outdoor café she’d picked for the meeting.
 

Stunned, she’d accepted a seat for herself. It began raining and she’d huddled beneath the table’s umbrella, unbelieving her father could dismiss her so totally. She could recall the astringent gin cocktail the waiter brought and how she’d thought it tasted exactly like medicine.

She supposed that’s what it was—an oral inoculation to protect her against the carelessness of unworthy men.

Ever since that day, she interrupted when her mother spoke of him. The words, the love-steeped tone, the latent adulation of such a critically flawed man made Natalie’s stomach twist. She vowed to never, ever be like her mother and care for someone so weak and undeserving.

She would be better than that.

“Nat? Natalie?”

Her mother interrupted her reverie, holding out a cup of tea. Shaking off the past, she forced a smile. “Thanks, Mum.”

“You were
a million miles away.”
 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.” Spending time with her mother was hard enough without revisiting their past. Without a single sip, Natalie set the cup down. “I should go.”

For a second, her mother seemed to sag into her seat. Then, she took a deep breath and met Natalie’s gaze straight on. “I’m sure you’re very busy. Thanks for stopping by.”

The distant formality of her mother’s tone nearly stopped her. Instead, Natalie rose, gathering her jacket, scarf, and the gift for Sebastian. She fixed her eyes on the chunky necklace her mother wore. “I’ll see you soon, Mum.”

Turning, she nearly missed the look that passed over her mother’s face, same as before.
 

Pity.

***

Dominic took a cab from his hotel, a small boutique inn located in Chelsea. Frank, the new driver he’d hired under pressure from Bennett, had the early hours of the evening off. Alighting from the taxi, he casually took in the historic Georgian townhouse with its curved bays, gray stone balustrades and wrought iron balconies. Separate terraces bumped out from the second and third floors, with the lower one extending to overlook what appeared to be a walled garden next to the property.

Dominic shook his head, impressed with the preserved but vibrant history. It was easy to forget how young America was in the bigger scheme of the world. He straightened his cuffs and approached the formally attired doorman to the very private, very exclusive Club Hobart.
 

The man stood, stone-faced in his navy blue morning suit with tails and burgundy-piped trim. As Dominic grew closer, the man reached out a hand in greeting. It was the polite way of asking for the required credentials to enter. Luckily, Dominic took care of those details earlier in the secluded privacy of his hotel suite.

He extended his passport and waited while the other man pulled a phone from his pocket and verified his membership. While it was within his means, Dominic found the astronomical fees associated with admission to such a club unpalatable. On a normal day, he steered clear of places that demanded wealth or status for access in an effort to exclude.