by Beth Good
Lapsing into silence, Shantelle gave a helpless shrug, then brightened again as Ebba clicked her car key and the limousine lit up like a Christmas tree, lights flashing as it unlocked with an elegant beep. The chauffeur opened the back door and stood holding it while first Rose, and then Shantelle, slid inside the plush interior. The seats were expensive cream leather and smelt gorgeous.
‘Is that aftershave I can smell?’ Shantelle whispered, looking about herself in awe. The back of the limousine was huge, with vast deep cushions more like beds than seats, and for added privacy there was a smoky glass panel between them and the front of the car. ‘I bet His Nibbs was in here last.’
Rose sniffed the air. She recognised the aftershave at once, and nodded grimly. ‘Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised.’
Along with the aftershave was a faint whiff of cigar smoke that was not too unpleasant. But she doubted it had come from Nick Grimsby. She had an unerring nose, and when they’d met before, he had not smelt to her like a man who smoked. Not even Cuban cigars to clinch a big deal, she thought drily, and settled back against the leather upholstery.
My God, it was comfortable.
‘I could get used to this,’ she said with a laugh, and then caught Shantelle’s wide-eyed look. ‘But I won’t, of course,’ she added, and sat up more stiffly. ‘That horrid man,’ she whispered to her assistant. ‘He thinks he can seduce me into agreeing to sell up. That’s what all this is about.’
Shantelle gripped her arm. ‘You think he’s going to try S. E. X?’
‘What?’
‘To get you into bed?’
Rose abruptly understood what she meant, and gasped. ‘No, no, I meant … All this luxury, it’s very … seductive. Not actual … seduction.’
‘Oh, right.’ Shantelle made a face. ‘Though he’s not too bad, is he? As a looker. Even with that scar. Actually, maybe that scar makes him even more of a looker.’
Rose decided not to comment.
Ebba had got into the driver’s seat, and started the engine, pressing a button that made the smoky glass panel between them slide silently back.
‘Have you got everything you need, Miss Mistletoe?’ she asked politely.
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘There’s a phone on the console to your right, and a television in the central panel. If you’d like a drink, there’s a small selection of chilled drinks available below the television.’
Shantelle, who had immediately turned on the television at these words, now flung open the narrow door below its high-spec screen to display several bottles of champagne, wine, and various spirits with mixers.
‘Oh my gawd!’ she gasped, and make a grab for the champagne.
‘Put that back at once!’ Then she said more loudly, for Ebba’s benefit, ‘We’re fine, thank you very much. We’d just like to go home.’
‘Of course, madam.’
The glass panel slid shut again, and soft classical music filled the air as the limousine pulled gently away from the kerb and slid purring into the traffic queue.
‘No champers?’ Shantelle asked, almost in a moan.
‘Seduction, remember? Don’t give in to it,’ Rose hissed in her ear, and was relieved when her assistant released the bottle, albeit reluctantly, and sat back beside her. ‘Besides, it’s not a long enough journey for us to gulp down an entire bottle of champagne! And I don’t intend turning up drunk to this business dinner.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The front door was open when she ran up the path to find her dad sitting in the doorway in his wheelchair. He stared past her at the black limo, still purring by the curb, much to the astonishment of her passing neighbours. There was a huge grin on his face.
'Very nice,’ Dad said, giving her a cheeky wink. 'Very nice indeed.' Then he wheeled briskly backwards to let her into the narrow doorway. ‘No wonder you took your time getting home.’
'Evening, dad,' she said dryly, and was glad they had dropped Shantelle off two minutes before outside her mum’s house. This way, she could not see Rose’s embarrassment over this exaggerated reception.
He was still grinning as she closed the door, aware of a curtain twitching in one of the houses opposite. 'I always knew you'd make the big time. I just didn't know it will be so soon.'
'That's Nick Grimsby's car,' she said, bending to kiss him on the cheek, 'as you know perfectly well, dad.'
'Still suits you though.'
‘You’ll get your own chance to ride in it soon. The driver’s waiting to take us to dinner.’ Rose frowned, suddenly noticing his old Christmas jumper and his tatty jeans. 'You're not in your suit yet. Don’t tell me Sally’s running late today, of all days?'
Sally was one of her dad's home helpers, a service paid for partly by them and partly by the council. She’d been due to call at five o'clock and help him get dressed in his glad rags for dinner, and was normally quite punctual over special arrangements like that. His suit and tie had been unearthed early this morning, before Rose left for work. Once her dad was up and in his wheelchair, aided by Constance, his morning helper, she had laid his suit carefully on his bed. That way, she reasoned, he could not pretend later that he hadn’t seen it.
Her dad preferred to do most things himself if possible, but had agreed rather gruffly that squeezing into his old suit – which looked a bit on the tight side now – might have proved tricky on his own.
She checked her phone. The evening traffic had been heavier than usual on the way home, and it was already six forty-five.
'If she doesn't turn up soon, I'll have to help you get dressed myself. Is that okay?'
Dad made a face.
‘I know, sorry.’ She knew her father hated her taking on the role of a carer. But sometimes it was necessary, especially during the night. And she didn't mind at all. He was her dad, for goodness’ sake. She was happy to help him, even if it embarrassed him a little. 'But Ebba – that’s the limo driver – says we need to leave here by seven-thirty, ideally. It’s a pain, I know. But I thought Sally would have helped you dress by now.'
'Ebba, eh? That’s an exotic name. And she’s quite a stunner too, by the look of her.' Her dad winked at her again, and now she realised what that broad grin had been for. Not the limousine, but the woman behind its steering wheel. 'I saw the driver get out and open the door for you. Amazing legs!’
Rose shook her head in disbelief. ‘Are you crushing on my limo driver, Dad?’
He merely kept smiling.
‘I told her not to bother opening the door,’ she continued, shooting him a disapproving look. ‘I said that I could get out under my own steam. But she insisted. Apparently Mr Grimsby wants us to have the full VIP treatment tonight.’
‘You and me, VIPs?’ Dad scratched his head in mock puzzlement. ‘Very Irritating Pests? Or perhaps Viciously Ignorant Protesters?’
‘I expect that’s what his lawyers call us behind closed doors.’ Rose laughed, then studied him again. ‘Seriously though, Dad, you can’t go like that. Much as I love your old clobber, I think this looks like being quite a posh dinner. And although Nick Grimsby is the enemy, I’d rather not give him a reason to look down on us.’
‘Is Paul going too?’
She nodded. ‘I thought it was best to have our legal representative there. He had an appointment last thing, so he’s meeting us there.’
‘Then why do you need me?’
She stared, suddenly recognising the stubborn look on his face, the defiant tilt of his chin, and realised with a shock why he wasn’t wearing his suit.
‘Dad, what are you saying?’
He shrugged, but she was not deceived by his casual air. He had thought this through. Probably been brooding about it all day while she was out.
‘Look,’ he said roughly, ‘I told Sally not to bother coming round to help me with the suit. It was a nice idea, but … She was just like you, moaning on at me down the phone, saying I had to go. But honestly, love, I don’t feel like it.’
‘But why
? Are you … unwell?’ She was instantly concerned, bending to check his pulse with the ease of long practice. It was regular and strong, and only slightly faster than usual. ‘You seem okay. What’s the matter?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ he said, gently pulling his hand away. ‘If you must know, I just don’t want to meet this guy, or let him buy me dinner. This Grimsby character and his posh flunkies.’ He shook his head. ‘No, don’t go on at me, Rose. The high life … It’s not for me. I’d have to be polite, and eat with the right fork, and it would be awkward.’
‘Dad, I need you there. I can’t go to this dinner without you.’ She slumped down in a kitchen chair opposite him, suddenly despairing, and pulled off her boots. The kitchen lino felt cold through her tights but she ignored that. Her whole attention was focussed on her dad as she pleaded with him, ‘In fact, I won’t go tonight if you don’t. And that’s final.’
‘Rose … ’ He shook his head sadly.
‘Dad!’
‘You’ll be fine.’ He rolled forward a few inches, and patted her on the knee. ‘You’re a capable young professional, and you’ve got this.’
‘I so have not,’ she wailed. ‘He’s a … a flipping billionaire, for goodness’ sake. Rolling in filthy lucre. Who am I in comparison with Nick Grimsby? I’m nothing, I’m nobody. He and his corporation … They’re huge. And they’re going to crush me underfoot like just another bug.’
‘Rose Mistletoe, you are not nobody. Your mother and I brought you up to consider yourself equal to anyone, whoever they are. Now sit up straight, and have a little self-belief.’ He met her eyes, serious for once. ‘Trust me, kid, you can deal with this schmuck.’
She sat up, exhaling slowly. ‘Can I?’
‘Every day of the week and twice on Sundays.’ He pinched her leg playfully. ‘Now get upstairs and change into your party frock.’
‘But Dad … ’
‘Hurry up now,’ he said sternly, ‘before that long-legged blonde knocks at the door and sends my blood pressure shooting through the ceiling.’
Shaky and rather distressed that her dad would not be at her side tonight, Rose ran upstairs and dragged off her work clothes, then slipped into the shower for a quick hose-down, taking care not to wet her hair which she had already washed that morning. She would not have time now to blow-dry it anyway. Padding back into her bedroom, she checked out of the window, but the limousine was still parked outside, taking up all of the parking spot usually reserved for her dad’s visiting helpers, and the next space along. She could imagine her neighbour’s fury when he got home. But with any luck, they would be gone before then, as he worked late shifts.
Still suffering from wobbly nerves, but starting to buzz with a curious adrenalin, Rose put on fresh underwear, figure-hugging skin-tone tights to keep her somewhat generous hips and tummy under restraint, and then did her make-up as quickly as possible. Soft brown eye shadow, plum lipstick so as not to clash with her red hair, and a touch of blusher. No time to do her nails, so Grimsby would just have to put up with her blunt-nailed, florists’ paws. At least they were clean, which was not usually the case.
Upside-down went her head as she brushed out her hair with brisk, vigorous strokes. Once she looked vaguely presentable, she stepped hurriedly into her chosen dress, pulled it up over her shoulders and fumbled with the zip. It was a tight silver-blue dress with a flared hem mid-thigh, and much cheaper than it appeared, because she’d picked it up at a jumble sale in the summer. Steep black heels completed the picture, as they were the only pair of heels she owned, apart from boots – which would have looked odd with such a posh dress.
Turning to check herself in the wardrobe door mirror, Rose gasped, ‘Oh my God!’ and took a quick step back
She looked almost … sexy.
No, that couldn’t be right. She was Rose the florist. More usually to be seen in jeans and a woolly festive jumper, often with a knitted hat on her head, and even fluffy ear-mufflers when the weather required it.
It was hard to take in, she thought, staring at herself, wide-eyed. But she might not look out of place among the rich and famous tonight.
Unless she managed to squirt tomato ketchup over her large chest …
No, that was silly. Top London restaurants didn’t hand out bottles of ketchup to their clientele. They probably wouldn’t even have chips on the menu.
Or would they?
‘Rose?’ Her dad was calling for her up the stairs. ‘The driver’s at the door. She says you need to leave.’
‘Right, okay,’ she called back uncertainly, ‘I’ll be down in … in a minute.’ She grabbed her evening bag, which contained only her phone, house keys, wallet, and lipstick, and ran down the stairs. Her dad was waiting at the bottom, his eyes like saucers as he looked her up and down. She felt hot and embarrassed. ‘Don’t say a word!’
‘But you look so … ’
‘Hush!’
‘I was only going to say,’ he continued gently, ‘that you look just like your mother. When I first met her.’
‘Oh, Dad.’ Her eyes filled with tears, which was the last thing she wanted, though luckily she had eschewed mascara, so there was no danger of her looking like a giant panda. She bent to kiss him on the cheek, and gave him a tight squeeze while she was there. ‘Are you sure you won’t come?’
‘One hundred percent. Out with you, and make sure you have a great time tonight, ogre or no ogre.’ He was looking a bit teary too, she noticed. But he was smiling. He headed for the front door, and dragged it open. ‘Your carriage awaits, my lady.’
‘I’ll see you later. For bedtime.’
‘I’ve asked Sally to come round at ten, so don’t hurry back on my account.’ She hesitated on the threshold, looking at the sleek dark limousine under the street lights, and he gave her a nudge. Then winked outrageously. ‘You could even stay out all night if required.’
‘Dad!’
Shooting him a quelling look, Rose grabbed her black coat off the hook and then plunged into the night. But, of course, she ought to have known that disaster was only one step ahead. She promptly stumbled, falling sideways into the hedge, having forgotten that she was wearing ridiculous heels that would not cope well with the cracks in their garden path.
Especially not at that speed!
Landing on her bottom on the damp patch of grass that passed for their front lawn, she glared back at her dad, who was snorting with laughter, and then sensed a shadow behind her. Turning her head, Rose found herself looking up into Ebba’s puzzled face.
‘Can I help you to your feet, madam?’ the driver asked politely, and held out a perfectly manicured hand.
Oh, bloody bloody bloody …
CHAPTER NINE
The first fifteen minutes of the journey were spent checking herself for random bits of icy mud and grass stuck to her shoes, tights and dress. Then she scrolled through news reports for anything new about the planned acquisition – there wasn’t – and the Christmas Parade owners’ Facebook group – set to private so nobody could snoop on their plans – to see if there were any fresh posts on the wall or direct messages in her box. But all seemed quiet. Even the hashtag they had been using recently on Twitter had gone quiet. No doubt everyone was laying low before the big protest, in case Thimblerig Holdings got wind of what they were planning.
She was so busy with all that nonsense, it was only after the limousine had been driving steadily for some twenty-five minutes that Rose checked the time, and frowned out at the gloomy, lamplit streets and thinning traffic.
There did not seem to be as many traffic jams as usual on the route into central London, she thought. In fact, now that she was paying proper attention to where they were going, the limousine appeared to be heading out of London, not further into the centre.
Confused, she fumbled in the dark for the button marked Intercom, that would allow her to communicate with the driver, and pressed it.
‘Ebba?’
The reply came straight away, w
hich reassured her a little. ‘Yes, madam?’
'We seem to be taking an awfully long time to get to this restaurant. I’m worried we’ll be very late.’ She paused, not wishing to offend the woman. ‘And, erm, aren't you going the wrong way?’
'Not at all, madam.' Ebba sounded perfectly calm. She opened the smoky glass panel between her and Rose, and glanced round at her briefly before looking back at the road. 'I am following Mr Grimsby's instructions.'
'And what were they?'
'I am not at liberty to discuss my instructions with you, madam.'
A sign flashed past overhead for the motorway, clearly visible through the gap left by the glass panel. Rose stared out at the other road signs, her eyes widening.
'Hold on, was that a sign for … for the M25? Where on earth are we going?'
'Please make yourself comfortable, madam. I'm sure Mr Grimsby will explain everything when we arrive.'
‘Arrive? Arrive where?’
But the smoky glass panel slid shut, cutting off any further chance of conversation.
Rose sat further forward, perched as precariously on the edge of the leather seat as a toddler, her mind in turmoil. Now she could not even see the driver’s face. She had never felt so alone. But she was determined not to show how concerned she was. Though ‘concerned’ was a British euphemism, of course, for bloody terrified.
She jabbed her finger on the intercom again. 'Ebba, what’s going on? Are you … ’ She tried not to sound too alarmed. ‘Is it possible that you’re kidnapping me?'
But the driver did not reply.
‘Ebba?’
She thumped the intercom button violently a few times.
‘Ebba?’ she said as loudly as possible without actually yelling. ‘Ebba, this isn’t funny. I demand that you answer me.’
Silence.
‘EBBA?’
Now she really was yelling. But it still had no effect. Ebba said nothing.
Bloody hell.
She was being kidnapped. Or certainly taken somewhere against her will. But where, and why? And how far away from London – and her dad – were they going?