Little Bird (Anna Series Book 2)

by Lee Alan

  They were soon done with customs, and the final leg of their journey began. They passed a bustling mix of yachts while cruising through the dockland area next to the airport. The functional tugs used to keep the busy operation running sat side by side with the play–things of the rich. The surrounding quay heaved with crowds of tourists, and giant cranes dotted the water line, presumably for unloading the larger vessels. It was hard to tell whether they were a figment of London’s past or still in operation.

  They continued toward the white dome of the O2, but as they drew closer, even this huge construction was dwarfed by the surrounding buildings. The names of the corporate sponsors occupying them emblazoned the silent towers: banks, for the most part, she noticed.

  “Canary Wharf, the finance district,” Corey explained, with a note of contempt in his voice. “Bunch of tight–fisted parasites.”

  One of Corey’s favorite gripes involved the big finance houses’ inability to invest in new ideas. Ignoring his comment, Anna cocked her head upward to stare at one glimmering tower of steel and glass topped by a pyramid–like roof. “The buildings are beautiful, though,” she said.

  “Sorry, hon—I keep forgetting this is your first time here. You’re right; I just wish someone more worthy occupied them.”

  “Someone a bit more like you?” she asked, turning to look at him with one eyebrow raised.

  “Well, er, not necessarily.” His face reddened.

  She laughed and turned back to discover the city in which they would wed. Ever present to their left ran the mighty River Thames. It snaked through the city, like the pulsing artery of some giant creature. The contrast from the arid barrenness of Arizona couldn’t have been greater—this place was alive with water. Unlike the dock, tourist river boats dominated this section, and they passed a bright yellow truck labelled the River Duck. She watched as it ambled to the edge of the river before plunging into it. Anna nearly called out in alarm, but instead of sinking, it bobbed about and then powered into the current, much to the delight of its passengers.

  A grand, Victorian–age bridge came into view ahead, spanning the length of the river with awesome arrogance. Two decorated towers stood at either end, tied together at the upper level by two horizontal walkways.

  “Is that the London Bridge?” she asked.

  “A lot of people assume so,” Corey replied. “It’s actually called Tower Bridge. London Bridge is further upstream.” He followed this up in a whisper, “The new London Bridge actually looks a bit dull.”

  “Oh.”

  “Guess where the original is?”

  Anna rolled her eyes, feeling too tired for more lectures. “Tell me.”

  “Lake Havasu City.”

  “What? Arizona?”

  “Yup. They sold it to us evil Yanks. Put that in yer learnin’ pipe and smoke it, lady.”

  “You really are a smartass, Corey.”

  As they rolled closer to Tower Bridge, she noticed the traffic had stopped at each end. The reason soon became clear when the central span rose into the air. With a small thrill, Anna watched as a high–rigged sailing boat passed underneath the mighty construction. The whole process took about twenty minutes to complete. When both ends had lowered into place, the winding backlog of traffic flowed once again.

  While they passed over the now–solid bridge, her attention turned to the ancient walls of a castle on the bank of the river. It wasn’t some Disney fairy tale castle, but a grim–looking fortress topped by interlocking walls. At its center stood a white tower thrusting into the cloudy sky, and a dim memory from high school came back to her.

  “It’s the Tower of London!”

  “It certainly is,” Corey agreed. “It’s hard to believe now, but it used to be Hell for some poor souls.”

  She remembered something about a king of England who had six wives; he’d executed two of them at the tower. A cold shiver of sympathy ran down Anna’s spine, and suddenly the battlements took on a sinister aura. Even here, surrounded by one of the world’s great cities, stood a lasting reminder of the power men could exercise over women.

  She shuddered and focused her attention on the road ahead. They’d turned left onto a major thoroughfare running parallel to the river. On the opposite bank, she saw a colossal building dwarfing even those they’d passed at Canary Wharf. It looked like an enormous icicle rising into the sky, with a green light winking on its pinnacle to ward off low–flying air traffic.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.

  “The Shard,” Corey said with a hint of pride in his voice. “The tallest building in Europe. Guess who’s got an office there?”

  Anna sensed the opportunity to bring him down a peg or two. “Someone compensating for a small dick?”

  Corey roared with laughter and gave her an exploratory tickle, which also sent her off. To their embarrassed surprise, a suppressed guffaw drifted from the driver. She’d assumed the divider separating them would prevent such awkward moments. Corey adopted his “doh” expression and mouthed the word “intercom” to her.

  “I know now, dumbass,” she whispered.

  A blur of sights followed over the next twenty minutes. The sensory input became almost overwhelming for the tired bride to–be.

  And there is the small matter of the wedding, kiddo. She thought. The weight of this heavy realization made her mentally pause and consider the implications. Am I ready to commit? Her inner paranoia piped up, It won’t work out, in the long run. He’ll become distant—wrapped up in his work—and you? Do you honestly think you’re good enough for him? A waitress? You should stop this madness.

  Fuck that, came her reply. I’ve earned his love.

  “Did you hear from Claire?” Corey interrupted her thoughts, perhaps sensing her changing mood.

  “Yep. She dropped a text to say they’ve landed at Heathrow.”

  “What I’d give to be a kid flying for the first time, again,” Corey said with a wistful cast to his eye.

  The limo turned away from the Thames and drove past the length of what she recognized as the British Parliament building. Shortly after, they glided along a wide, tree–lined avenue with a park on either side. Ahead, a grand palace came into view. Its grounds had been ringed by imposing, black gates topped with gold paint. Outside the main gates and directly in their path sat a marble monument topped by a beautiful, winged messenger painted in gold.

  “Is that the Nightingale Hotel?” she asked, her feelings of awe rising to new heights.

  “No,” Corey chuckled. “Buckingham Palace, remember? – where the Queen lives.”

  “Oh, wow. I wonder what she’s like.”

  “I met her at a dinner once. Very polite—a tad formal, though. Of course, you’d kinda expect that from royalty.”

  She turned to face him, eyebrow raised. “You’re showing off again.”

  “Sorry. It’s annoying,” he apologized. “I’m just happy to share all of this with you.”

  “I know, honey,” she said, patting him on the leg before pointing out a red–coated soldier, wearing a large, uncomfortable–looking fur helmet, marching behind the gates surrounding the palace. A large group of sight–seers photographed him as he stomped by.

  They drove around the monument at the center of the road before leaving the Queen’s residence behind. After passing through the Palace gardens, they stopped outside an impressive, colonnaded building. The words “Nightingale Hotel” could be seen displayed against the royal blue canopy above its high, arched entrance. Short stone steps led up to its polished wooden doors, which stood invitingly open. A uniformed doorman standing on the threshold tipped his hat toward them as they arrived. The opulent display spoke of a venue beyond the standards of any ordinary hotel.

  “Welcome to the Nightingale,” the driver said. “The footman will escort you from here.”

  With practiced efficiency, the waiting attendant opened the car door and invited her to step onto yet another red carpet running up the stone stairway. An
na took his offered hand and stepped out while her heart skipped a beat.

  Upon entering, Anna felt as if she’d been transported to another age. Light dazzled off a thousand crystal fittings, while a polished, marble floor led through gilded archways. Beyond those lay the large, brightly lit plaza of the main lobby. Immaculate art nouveau décor ran throughout to a level of grandeur she’d only ever seen in movies, like Titanic. It captured the pre–war style of the last century on a scale that took her breath away.

  Two smiling bell hops wearing traditional, brimless hats stood on either side of the arch. At the other end of the plaza, a suited reception manager stood behind a hardwood desk. The pleasant aroma of flowers permeated through the air from the orchids surrounding them.

  It was almost more than Anna could take: first the flight, the city, and now this. She began to wonder if Corey’s attempts to impress his bride would have the unintended consequence of giving her a stroke.

  “Welcome to the Nightingale, Mr. Young and Miss Price,” the mustached reception desk clerk greeted them. His tailored appearance spoke of old world taste. “My name is Lionel Torrance, and it’s my job to ensure your every comfort.” His accent was the height of English posh. “May I be the first to congratulate you on choosing one of our Platinum rooms, sir—they really are something special—and welcome to you, madam. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look stunning in that wonderful dress.”

  “Thank you, Lionel. It’s good to be here,” Corey replied with a chirpiness she didn’t share. It was all she could do not to collapse into the well–dressed man’s arms and beg for sleep. Despite her bone tiredness, she beamed at him. It was a nice compliment, after all.

  “Please, allow me to escort you to the King George suite,” he said, indicating for them to follow him. Anna wondered if she would be able to go anywhere in this country without being escorted.

  Perhaps sensing his guest’s fatigue, and much to Anna’s relief, Mr. Torrance didn’t provide a grand tour. Instead, he pointed out the many beautiful facilities in passing. After what felt like a stroll through the set of an Agatha Christie novel, they came to a stop outside another set of elaborate, gilded doors.

  “Originally built in 1770 as an informal residence for his majesty, King George III, may I present,” Lionel began, before pushing both doors inward, “the King suite.”

  What lay before her was a staggering display of an older, even grander style. The walls were high and covered from floor to ceiling with superb frescoes featuring scenes from mythology. Anna stared in wonder as winged soldiers stormed across a clouded landscape in chariots, beside a muscled figure hurling a thunderbolt from a golden throne. Three sashed windows overlooked a view of the Green Park, ending with Buckingham Palace in the distance. Anna found herself speechless.

  “Is it to your liking, madam?” the manager asked with a note of worry in his tone.

  “I…” the sentence froze in her throat. Instead of answering, she turned and threw her arms around Corey. She clung to him, overwhelmed with gratitude and fatigue. When her future husband had first offered to help organize their special day, she’d rejected the idea, having always imagined it to be her role. Corey agreed, not wishing to overshadow her wishes. When she’d begun to investigate, however, she’d soon found herself lost in the scale of it, particularly due to the long distance nature of the preparations.

  The first problem had been the revelation that Corey wanted to invite two hundred or so “intimate” guests—only a few of which were relatives. Most came from the politics surrounding his expanding business interests.

  The responsibility had brought her close to being ill. She simply didn’t have the experience to organize such a prestigious event. Finally, the situation had reached a crisis point when, with less than a month to go, Corey had found her crying over Claire’s shoulder. The ironic icing on the situation had followed a failed search for a cake definitely not containing nuts. Corey had tactfully asked if she would like some help.

  “Go fuck yourself!” had been her equally polite response.

  After the stormy bridezilla moment had passed—not for the first time in recent weeks—she’d finally conceded to the logic of his offer. “I get final say on everything. Got that, smartass?” had been her final verdict, delivered with an apologetic kiss on the cheek.

  From that point forward, the decisions had come thick and fast, but not so much the promise to consult with her. In typical Corey style, the sneaky shit had used his position in the driving seat to somehow keep half the arrangements a complete secret from her. It was no doubt another well–intentioned, yet frustrating effort to surprise her. The result had been one freaked out Anna. But what her man didn’t know, was that she had an even bigger secret of her own.

  “Ahem,” the manager politely interrupted her prolonged handling of the groom. She stepped away, blushing.

  A seemingly never–ending procession of cases and wrapped garments were paraded into the waiting room by a small army of bell boys—all done under the eagle–eyed direction of a portly gentleman whose sole job seemed to be overseeing the arrangement of baggage. With typical British precision, they’d soon placed the collection throughout the palatial suite. After completing their task, and with a final bow from the baggage master, the huge doors of the apartment closed together with a click, and they were alone.

  Corey went to the doors, produced an ornate key from his shirt pocket, and locked them before turning to face Anna. The mischievous look on his face told its own story.

  “About those three S’s,” he said.

  “Oh, you got a bad tummy, hon?” she teased.

  “I was about to say you’re definitely in need of a shave,” he countered.

  “Do you need a shower?” she asked.

  “Do you need a sausage?” his grin widened.

  “How ’bout a bit of both?”

  ***

  The shower room turned out to be more of a washroom annex complete with swimming pool and a silver bath big enough to accommodate a small football team. Like the main apartment, a fresco dominated the décor in the circular–domed water world. The theme, this time, was of ancient sea gods. In the center of his underwater realm stood the mighty figure of Neptune holding a trident in his life–like, blue hands. The god stared on with an inappropriately serious expression at the naked couple beneath him as they clung together in the pool.

  “I feel like he’s watching us,” Anna said as she arched back while Corey kissed her neck.

  “He’s just jealous,” he murmured, moving further down.

  “Hope you can hold your breath, fella,” she breathed.

  He replied by lifting her from the warm water and carrying her to the pool’s edge. She lifted her arms and placed them on his cheeks, and he responded by gripping her under the buttocks while squeezing and pulling up at the same time. A second later, he was inside, his lust giving him a vigor that soon transferred to her. She gripped the back of Corey’s head while he sucked and kissed her wet, steaming breasts. They climaxed together with a passion that left her uncaring of what some crusty old sea monster thought.

  Chapter 13

  Detective Raymond received the call just as he was about to break an eight month vow not to smoke. He’d even cleared his schedule for the afternoon just so he could savor the moment of surrender. Sure, the operation to remove a malignant tumour from his armpit had been a success, but after a year from Hell, his resolve had eroded to the point that a little good old–fashioned self–destruction was overdue—preferably away from the prying eyes of his wife and colleagues, who would suck the fun out of his foolish mission.

  After twenty years of service, man’s capacity to inflict cruelty on others still never failed to hurt him. Since summer, he’d been on the scene of no less than two mass shootings. Both had been tragedies perpetrated by seemingly upstanding citizens. In reality, each man had been just a rifle away from unleashing their lurking demons.

  He’d gone through the motions
of providing reassurance, of course, but inside he felt just as helpless as the average Joe in the face of such pointless slaughter. What could the law do when a psycho could buy an assault rifle in a city awash with illegal firearms and then stroll over to a preschool to kill a dozen toddlers? What could anyone do when a whole country became gripped by homicidal madness?

  The persistent ringing from his cell phone refused to go away. It was the kind that said, “If you don’t pick me up, you’re gonna regret it.” The unlit cigarette sat in his mouth, tantalizing his tongue. He could almost feel the creamy smoke filling his lungs. The match remained poised. All he needed to do was ignore the call and bring the flame a few more inches toward the end of the blessed cancer stick.

  The cell phone continued to ring. “You total mother f…” he muttered as he flicked the match out and threw it across the darkened room of his tiny city apartment. He refused to rush his movements, as he strolled over to the still–buzzing phone, already resenting the son of a bitch who’d just stopped him from making one of the stupidest mistakes of his life.

  “Raymond,” he said, answering the call from a number he didn’t recognize.

  The voice on the other end spoke for almost five minutes while his expression became concerned. After the urgent conversation concluded, he agreed to investigate. His thoughts turned to the Price case and the frail, blonde woman he’d interviewed all those months ago.

  “Poor kid’s been through enough already,” he said, determined to head off whatever sick mischief Eckerman had conjured.

  ***

  Anna woke to soft morning light streaming through the beautiful sashed windows. Tiny dust motes danced before her in the air as she left the dark recesses of sleep behind to return to a reality even better than her dreams. She felt a momentary sense of weightlessness, as if floating on a cloud.