A London Christmas
Coupled by Christmas, Volume 4
Roxanne Rustand
Published by Roxanne Rustand, 2020.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
A LONDON CHRISTMAS
First edition. November 4, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Roxanne Rustand.
ISBN: 978-1393670032
Written by Roxanne Rustand.
Also by Roxanne Rustand
Coupled by Christmas
The Mistletoe Puppy
A Montana Christmas
An Irish Christmas Blessing (Coming Soon)
A London Christmas (Coming Soon)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Roxanne Rustand
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
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Also By Roxanne Rustand
CHAPTER ONE
Cait Walker stepped out of the cab in front of the pub and stared at the gold-lettered sign over the door. Smythe & Killigan's. Established 1743.
This had to be the place, though she could hardly believe she was actually here.
Just a few blocks from Buckingham Palace, the building was built of rough stones, the glass in the mullioned windows deeply rippled with age. An Irish tune wafted out into the snowy night, ending a little shiver down her back. After waiting three long months for this, she was finally in London—excited and nervous and even a little scared. What if she didn't measure up to Derek's expectations? What if he took one look at her and backed out?
She knew she was hardly the stuff of anyone's dreams—she'd lost her job a few months ago, when the company folded, and would soon start working in a lab at the University of Minnesota by day. By night she wrote poetry and short stories that no one else would ever see. She was just an ordinary woman leading an ordinary, quiet life with her cat Murphy, who was now vacationing at her mom's retirement village in Minnetonka.
But she'd never stretched the truth while filling out the dating website application. Her photo was more or less the same person she saw in the mirror every day, so it had been hard to believe that someone like Derek Worthington III had actually fallen for her. Her.
At the age of thirty-four, she had no longer dreamed of white knights and fairytales, or the possibility of finding true love.
And yet...there he was, in that first glorious email. Charming and dashing and handsome, he'd been emailing her for months now, and they'd even talked on the phone twice. And oh, that lovely accent and deep voice...Downton Abbey and Jane Austen's heroes, all wrapped in one delicious package and tied with a perfect bow. For her.
After they'd had some time to talk for a while this evening—the first time ever, without thousands of miles between them—he was taking her to meet his family for Christmas Eve. And after Christmas Day, they would have three incredibly romantic weeks, traveling to his favorite—favourite —places in England while they planned what the future would bring.
She shivered with anticipation, knowing that her life was about to change in ways she'd never even dreamed of.
Dusting the snow from her shoulders, she smoothed a loose tendril of hair into the knot on the top of her head, took a deep breath, and dragged her carry-on luggage into the pub, her heart hammering. This was it. This was really, truly going to be the most memorable day of her life.
The heavy door was beautifully carved and felt ancient beneath her fingertips. Was it rosewood? An image of the generations of people who had touched this same door over the centuries flashed through her thoughts, the rich sense of history filling her with delight.
The long mirror behind the bar was framed in the same dark, rich, ornately carved wood as the door. It glowed under the dim amber light of the tall lamps sitting at either end of the bar, and the randomly placed stained glass lamps that hung from the ceiling.
Most of the small tables inside were occupied by couples sitting intimately close, talking over glasses of wine or those tall, trademark Guinness beer glasses with the engraved harp on the back.
She glanced at her watch and felt a flicker of alarm.
The only men sitting alone were a hefty older man who was fidgeting with his keys and scowling while he talked on his cell phone and a scruffy guy—possibly in his mid-thirties. This second fellow gave Cait a cursory glance, then turned his attention back to his fish and chips.
The young woman sitting across from him abruptly stood, slammed her hand on the table, and flounced out the door. He didn’t spare her another look.
Though Cait couldn't make out his features beneath the bill of his blue and red Chicago Cubs ball cap, his hair was much too dark and shaggy. Definitely not Derek.
Derek certainly wouldn't have been with another woman. And he wouldn't have been so dismissive at seeing Cait arrive, because of course, he had seen her photograph and even kept it on his bedside table. He was all that was thoughtful, charming, and kind, and his emails had proved it.
She took another glance around the room. Was she late? Early? Had she misunderstood? Oh, Lord—was she in the wrong place?
Of course, he could have been delayed at his research facility. The roads were snow-covered and slick, and the snow falling outside was growing heavier. Dear heavens—could he have been in an accident? Worry nipped at her as she settled down at a table near the door so she could watch for any newcomers.
The minutes ticked by, each lasting an hour.
Couples came and went. A few business-types.
She glanced at her watch again. Finally, her stomach growling, she flagged down the solitary waitress and ordered fish and chips and an ice water.
The door creaked, letting in a blast of cold air. Someone hesitated in the door and then cast a shadow over her table. Her heart tripped, her hands grew clammy.
"You're Catriona Walker?"
This was the deep voice she'd heard on the phone, with a wonderful British accent. Her heart took a tiny leap of anticipation as she slowly turned. But when she looked up, a sense of disorientation swept through her.
Her Derek was tall and broad-shouldered, with sharply cut, patrician features and thick blond hair swept straight back, revealing a high, forehead, sweeping eyebrows, and piercing blue eyes. One of his photos on the dating website showed him in a beautifully cut suit, leaning against a sports car with a sexy half-smile on his lean face.
This man was decades older—probably as old as her dad—with a heavy belly, thick jowls, and thinning dishwater blond hair coiffed into an ornate comb-over that did nothing to camouflage his shiny scalp. He was eyeing her with a calculating look that made her skin crawl.
He had to be a messenger, sent to explain Derek's delay. Her rising tension eased. "Y-yes, yes, I am. And you are...?"
He had the audacity to look affronted. "Derek."
CHAPTER TWO
Derek eyed her purse sitting on the chair across from her, and carelessly dropped it on top of her carry-on suitcase, its shoulder strap draped over the upright handle.
Settling his bulk onto the chair, it creaked under his weight as he twisted around to snap his fingers at the waitress. He ordered a double Chivas Regal 18, neat.
He turned back to face her, his expression emotionless. "Good flight?"
"Uh...yes," she whispered faintly. "But I—I don't understand. Not any of this."
When the double Scotch arrived, he tossed it back and ordered anothe
r. He shrugged. "You're not quite what you look like on that website, but don't worry. I don't mind. We'll have a good time anyway."
A good time? He thought she didn't measure up? Revulsion tightened her stomach as she eyed him closely. His thick, callused fingers and meaty palms were those of a laborer, his complexion roughened and ruddy, like that of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.
When the second Scotch came, he downed it as fast as the first. Just watching made her own eyes burn.
If he was head researcher in a private cancer research lab, she was Ansel Adams.
She dredged up an adoring smile despite threads of fear and confusion coiling through her insides. "I'm just thrilled about your progress with that new cancer drug, by the way. What was it again? Salicylic acid and something else I don't recall. Sodium chloride?"
Rather than laughing at her nonsensical question, he looked at her blankly, then his eyes narrowed. His gaze flicked to a spot over her shoulder. "Can't discuss that here. Trade secret."
Of course he couldn't. He clearly knew nothing about chemistry or he would've laughed at her reference to simple aspirin and table salt. He'd probably Googled all sorts of scientific tidbits to drop into his emails, and she'd been a complete fool, wanting to believe him.
Seething, she rose to her feet. "I believe this has been a big mistake, so if you'll ex—"
Behind her, a scuffle broke out. The sound of a fist connecting with flesh. A chair crashing against the wall.
The bartender shouted a warning, and the other patrons fled.
She pivoted, frantically checking for an escape route when someone careened into her, shoving her to the floor.
Pain shot through her as her cheekbone hit something hard. She scrambled away from the melee on her hands and knees, her heart racing.
A rush of heavy boots ran toward the exit. The door slammed. And the pub fell eerily silent.
A strong, firm hand gently rested on her shoulder, its owner still sitting in his chair. "You all right?"
From this angle she was face to face with a pristine white cast that started below knee and disappeared into a thick gray sock, but appeared to end at the ball of his foot. His jeans had been haphazardly cut off at the knee on that side.
She staggered to her feet, hastily pulling her hair back into its tight, neat twist. "W-what happened here?"
The owner of the cast was the scruffy stranger, who was studying her with a measure of disdain. He was an American.
"Your friends left. Better catch up."
All of the pub patrons had fled—including Derek—and now the bartender was shouting into a cell phone. The waitress was gingerly picking up broken glass.
"You and your friends are going to pay for this," the bartender growled after he disconnected the phone call. "And you owe a hefty bar tab. The police are in their way."
"M-my friends? I just flew in from the States. I don't have any friends here." She bit her lower lip. "I mean, I thought I did."
"Right. The guy you were sitting with and his friends—the ones who started the fight? Looked like a cozy group to me."
"I-I've a copy of Derek's last email—giving me directions here. He told me what to do and everything." She searched the scarred wooden floor for her purse. "I can show you. Only...now I'm not even sure if that's his right name."
The bartender and the American at the table exchanged glances.
The waitress glared at her. "I hope you've got the money for that food you ordered. It's coming right up. You won't be following your friends 'til you do."
Horror dawned as she frantically searched the floor around her table. "Oh, my Lord. My suitcase is gone. My purse. Everything was in my purse—my passport, driver's license, and all the cash I brought from home to cover the next three weeks."
She'd even seen the man casually loop her purse strap over the suitcase handle before he sat down, but she hadn't thought twice. Now she knew he'd been planning his fast escape.
"Cash?" The waitress's eyebrows rose. "By any chance, did your friend tell you to bring cash?"
"Of course. He said it was much safer than..." Cait fell silent and closed her eyes, feeling sick. "Safer than credit cards. Safer for him, I guess."
It was what came of hope-filled dreams and a sheltered life, where travel to Duluth for a weekend—less than four hours away—had once seemed like a big deal.
She hadn't felt this ignorant since back in her early grad school days, when a car mechanic convinced her that she needed a new transmission when all the car needed was a tune-up. If a friend hadn't caught it, she would have owed several thousand dollars she couldn't afford.
The man with a cast waved her toward a seat at his table. "Sam Holden. Might as well sit down until the cops arrive."
She sank weakly into the chair and propped her forehead against her upraised palm. "He didn't look at all like his photos on the website. I should've been suspicious when he claimed he couldn't Skype."
"Yep. That probably would've blown his cover."
"C-could I ask you for a small favor?"
He lifted a shoulder. "If it involves a plane ticket back to the States, that would be out of my league. I'm a little strapped myself."
"No. I've got a return ticket in three weeks—if I can last that long." She gave him a tentative smile. "I just wondered if I could show you something on a website."
He hesitated, then pulled an iPhone from his pocket and tossed it to her.
In a few seconds, she'd logged into the dating site, found Derek's profile, and held out the phone. "This is who I thought I was meeting. We must have exchanged dozens of emails since summer."
The bartender and waitress had been hovering nearby, shamelessly eavesdropping, and now they both leaned in close to see the screen. As one, they started laughing with Sam.
"What's so funny?" Cait demanded, looking between them. "I think he looks quite...debonair."
"Yep. Your 'boyfriend' is definitely a man about town."
Confused, she stared back at him. "What?"
Sam looked over his shoulder at the waitress. "Tilly, do you have any copies of the Telegraph or the Times handy?"
"Three days' worth, at least. Should be plenty." She brought a stack of folded newspapers over and divvied them into three piles, handing some to Sam and the bartender and saving the rest for herself.
The three of them began flipping through the newspapers, turning down random corners as they went.
"I've got three," Tilly announced.
"Two for me," Sam muttered. "There must be more, but this is enough. Bob?"
The bartender held up two fingers.
They spread the papers out on the table and then stepped back, all eyes on Cait.
"See anyone you know?" Tilly gave her a sympathetic smile. "I can see why you liked him—I've always thought he was a hot guy, too."
Cait blinked away sudden tears as she looked down into "Derek's" face in advertisements for bespoke men's suits. Expensive Scotch. Vintage British sports cars. "I was so gullible," she whispered. "Completely, utterly stupid."
"Your buddy must have taken photocopies of ads and edited them. Close-up photographs of the ads in glossy magazines would have given him sharper images than this newsprint."
"I'll bet this isn't the first time he has conned someone," Bob muttered. "If his face shows up on our surveillance video, maybe he'll be caught."
"And then I could get everything back?" Cait's flash of hope faded. "Ridiculous thought. I can't identify the cash, and if he's a pro, he's probably already passed all the rest of my property on to a partner...or hocked it."
A couple of customers walked in and settled at a table, followed by a few more.
"Back to work," Tilly said, giving Cait a quick one-arm hug. "Let me know if there's anything I can do."
"Need a dishwasher?" Cait asked meekly. "Extra waitress?"
Bob shook his head. "Not without a work visa, and getting one would take far longer than you'll be here. I can't have you h
ere and pay you under the table, either. Not worth my license. I could be ruined."
"I've been renting a small room upstairs for the last couple days," Sam said slowly. He looked up at Bob. "Is the room up in the eaves still open? At least she'd have a roof over her head until she gets herself sorted."
Bob shook his head. "It's small, drafty, and there's no heat. This is December. She wouldn't want—"
"Yes, I would," Cait said firmly. "I'll be grateful for anything better than a park bench. I need to contact my bank and get some money wired, and then I can pay you. Promise."
He shrugged, disappeared into an office at the far end of the bar, and brought back a key. "Suit yourself. But if you don't like it, don't feel obligated. It looks more like a vampire's lair than anything I've ever seen."
CHAPTER THREE
When Cait came back downstairs, the pub was busy and a different waitress was circulating through the room. Sam was still at his table though, she realized with a sigh of relief.
"So how was it?" he asked when she sat down to join him.
"It's perfectly fine. I couldn't have gone anywhere else without money and an ID. I appreciate the suggestion."
His eyes were warm brown with gold flecks, like the color of root beer. For all that she'd longed for an adventure of a lifetime with her British boyfriend, sitting here with Sam and listening to his American accent made her feel safer.
"Did you really pack just a carry-on for this trip?"
"That and my purse. I roll everything really tight, so I can fit in four or five days’ worth of clothing, a pair of sneakers, and a few travel-size toiletries. Derek said I wouldn't want to be waiting around for a big suitcase in baggage claim on my way to customs. He said it was much safer to keep everything in just one bag..." She floundered to stop, realizing that after her overnight flight and no sleep, she was babbling. "I guess he just figured it would be easier to run off with my loot that way."
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