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PERVADE LONDON Copyright © 2019 Vanessa Fewings
PERVADE MONTEGO BAY Copyright © 2019 Vanessa Fewings
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author. This story is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Cover created by: Najla Qamber Designs
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Formatted by: Champagne Book Design
Book edited by: Debbie Kuhn
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Pervade London
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Pervade Montego Bay
Epigraph
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Also from Vanessa Fewings
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“Silence is the ultimate weapon of power.”
—Charles de Gaulle
Present Day
The Savoy
“You can’t go in there.” The tall, very blonde maître d’ blocked the entrance, preventing me from passing. I didn’t like the way she looked down her elitist nose at me either.
“But…I saw my boyfriend go in.”
This was The Savoy’s posh restaurant Simpson’s in the Strand, and I knew I looked classy enough for it in my expensive Lily Charis mini-dress layered in twinkling crystals.
Her attitude made no sense. The way I dressed hid my past. I liked it that way. During those desolate years, I’d garnered the kind of wisdom that meant I never talked down to anyone the way she’d done to me. I remembered where I came from, and it was a far cry from the high-and-mighty Strand in the heart of London.
These cocktail-laced self-reflections continued as I watched her close the door to the restaurant in a final act of authority.
Seeing my fiancé had been a chance occurrence. I’d left my best friend Kitty with our other girlfriends sitting at the bar sipping Cosmos while laughing raucously. A rare Wednesday night out because it was her birthday. And, trust me—Kitty Adair could look out for herself.
One cocktail in and we’d “left the station” as far as common sense was concerned, but I wasn’t so drunk I’d misidentify my man.
Leaving my drink at the bar, I’d gotten lost looking for the loo and seconds later caught sight of him strolling nonchalantly through the hotel.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
The restaurant’s heavy door loomed ahead, and I weighed my options. I could go back and rejoin the others. Pretend I’d not seen him. Ask him about it later when we both got home and hope he shared the truth.
Admitting that Xander Rothschild was out of my league was not a fault-line in my confidence…not at all. Even if his Cambridge education ensured he knew the difference between Beluga and Osetra—caviar to us lesser mortals. Even if he drew a twisted pleasure from dragging me up to his elite standards, I loved him deeply. Xander was always reminding me I was the only woman who truly understood him, which was to say I was the only one who respected his foibles.
Take for example his passion for chess. Okay, it was more of an obsession. The first time I visited his place on Baker Street, I’d walked into his tastefully decorated bachelor pad and gawped at what I saw. Placed sporadically around his living room were ten chessboards set up with games going at the same time. Even now he liked to stroll from board to board moving the pieces as he challenged anonymous players online. He found it relaxing, apparently.
Tolerating this obsession and other quirks that showcased his brilliance was the price I paid to live with this extraordinary thirty-two-year-old man. As I was twenty-three, he constantly liked to remind me that he knew best—about everything. His worldliness was a reminder of how little I’d traveled and how little I’d seen. Personally, I believed he loved me because my background was the opposite of his, since he’d had a silver spoon stuck up his ass for most of his life.
We were opposites in appearances as well. Born to a Norwegian mum and a highbrow British diplomat father, neither of whom I’d met, Xander had inherited seductive looks—dark blonde hair and a sun-kissed complexion that never faded, not even during one of England’s harsh winters. In contrast, I had porcelain skin that stood out against my brunette locks and green irises.
Intellectually, Xander was a match for anyone who crossed his path. He had a thing for manipulating a conversation to prove he was always right. He would throw in one of his drop-dead gorgeous smiles r
ight before finishing off his victim during an argument, using a quip to deliver the final blow.
With me, he was just as insistent on getting his own way. When we fought, which was rare, he had no qualms about delivering an arrogant tongue-lashing. Though after he’d shown me what else he could do with that mouth I’d fallen head over heels for him.
Xander Rothschild was simply mesmerizing.
And tonight he was meant to be at home where I’d left him, sitting on the sofa reading The Outline of History by H. G. Wells…again. My man was a sci-fi buff, always walking around with his head in a book by the likes of Ray Bradbury, Frank Herbert or Jules Verne, to name but a few. I loved that about him. Hell, I loved everything about him and the thought of Xander not being in my life was unbearable.
Which was why my stomach was tied up in knots.
Until now, I’d never doubted his loyalty. The sobering thought of losing him to someone else made my palms sweat and my heart race.
Fuck it.
It’s better to know.
With a Bombay Sapphire Martini onboard to lend panache to my grand entry into London’s most famous restaurant, I shoved the door open and dodged the maître d’.
The interior’s opulent superiority was quickly apparent. Beneath an ornate stucco ceiling, dark wood framed walls added to the grandness. Neatly stationed tables were adorned with cream-colored tablecloths and matching high-back chairs. Here and there were extravagant lush plants rising out of swanky pots, harkening back to that “old world” colonial style.
I looked around, bracing myself in case I saw Xander with another woman.
The quiet place was nearly empty.
Ten or so striking men sat around a corner table, all wearing elegant suits and each nursing a glass of bourbon as they chatted. The empty bottle of liquor sat in the middle of the table.
And there he was…my Xander in his tailored-to-perfection Savile Row ensemble that included a pair of highly polished Oxfords. He lifted an ice-filled glass to his lips and finished off his drink in one gulp.
I saw him set his tumbler down, as though sensing me behind him.
Feeling embarrassed over gate-crashing such a formal elitist gathering, I spun around to bolt and nearly ran into the maître d’.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, capturing everyone’s attention.
I cringed inwardly, facing them with a wave. “Hey.”
Surprised disappointment flashed across Xander’s face as his crystal blue gaze narrowed, and I saw dread reflected in those dazzling eyes. A chill slithered up my spine, my forearms prickling.
Xander threw a look of concern over to one of the men.
I followed his line of sight, blinking at the striking vision of the thirty-something man staring back. Complex emotions bubbled up inside me, a sense of my rising insignificance in contrast to the man’s profoundness. I snapped my attention away from the glare of his raw beauty.
Then, daring to look back, I let his chestnut eyes capture mine and lost myself in what seemed like a multitude of worlds, all touched by privilege.
His hypnotic stare held me transfixed as the room and everyone around us disappeared. I studied his perfect features, his regal nose and full sensuous mouth. Raven-black hair framed his devastatingly chiseled features.
His intense scrutiny took my breath away.
He pushed to his feet with a deadly grace. He was tall, a couple of inches more than Xander’s six-foot-two. Versace-clad broad shoulders made him stand out and when he tilted his head with intrigue, he held the silence hostage, commanding the room.
The way the other men deferred to him with reverence confirmed he had the authority. He was the only one not wearing a tie and his shirt collar fell open casually. For some reason that made him look all the more powerful…
He stood there, exuding power while looking my way, his voice deep and penetrating. “This must be Emily.”
Six Months Ago
“Are you okay?” I gave the man a nudge to wake him.
He rubbed sleepiness from his eyes. “I’m fine.”
No, he wasn’t. I’d just found him curled up in a ball on the filthy tiled floor in a corner of the Piccadilly Circus Tube station, half-hidden behind a pillar. His fancy Burberry coat looked creased and a three-day scruff shadowed his face, matching his dark blonde hair.
Meandering tourists and evening commuters strolled by him without a glance—like he was garbage and not a person who’d fallen on hard times. Goodness knows how long he’d lain there breathing stale air while people rushed by.
It had only been when foot traffic had slowed that I’d caught sight of him from where I’d been busking. For over half an hour, I’d been playing my violin to passers-by trying to make some extra cash to supplement my student grant. Glancing over at where’d I’d been playing, I checked to make sure no one had touched my tip jar.
Turning my attention back on him, I studied his dazzling features and guessed he was probably in his early thirties. His pale blue irises were a stark contrast to his grubby face. I found his Norwegian attributes quite beautiful.
“What time is it?” His accent was pure Surrey…or close. A friendly tone balanced out his posh accent, a contrast to mine.
“It’s just after nine,” I told him.
“Morning or evening?”
“Evening. What’s your name?”
He mulled that over. “Xander.”
“Can you sit up?” I helped him, and he leaned back against the grubby tile and blinked as though re-orientating himself.
“Here.” I handed him a bottle of Smart Water I’d carried over with me.
He eyed it suspiciously before accepting it. “You’re a sucker for advertising, then?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean…thank you.”
“Much better.” I smiled approvingly.
He mirrored my smile while unscrewing the cap. After taking a gulp, he offered it back.
“Keep it.”
Xander chuckled. We both knew I wasn’t drinking that now.
He searched his wrist for a watch that wasn’t there, and then banged his head back against the wall in frustration.
“Were you mugged?”
He touched his scalp with elegant fingers. “They can be a little overbearing.”
“Who? The muggers? We can go to the police.”
“Is that your real eye color?”
An odd question. “Yes.”
“It’s the Tyndall effect, a scattering of light in the stroma.”
“Excuse me?”
“They’re an unusual green. I thought you were wearing contacts for a second.”
“I thought the same about you. Are you an ophthalmologist?”
“Hardly.” His eyes crinkled as he offered me a gorgeous smile, which faded as he looked down at his dirty clothes. “I don’t usually sleep in Tube stations.”
“What happened?”
His bright eyes roamed over my face. “Why did you do that?”
“You were out cold. I was worried about you.”
“No, I mean why did you get your nose pierced?”
Brushing my nose ring self-consciously, I gave him a pass. Homeless people were very often broken people and he didn’t need the hassle of me arguing over my vanity.
His hands disappeared inside his coat. “Shit.”
“Did they take your wallet?”
“They like to make a statement.”
“Who?”
He shook his head, refusing to elaborate.
“Are you out of money?”
He looked concerned. “You’ll miss your train.”
“I’m busking over there.” I gestured at the adjacent corner, expecting to see my instrument.
Ice-cold fear surged through my veins. My violin was gone, the case empty.
My legs felt like they were moving in slow motion as I pushed to my feet and scurried over to where I’d been busking.
“My violin!” I screeched. “Did anyone
see anything?”
My flesh chilled as I glanced around to see if anyone had it. There were too many people, hundreds of commuters hurrying by, and I was being spectacularly ignored by everyone.
I bolted toward the exit and took two steps at a time to the street level, spilling out into the cold air and into a sea of people. Scanning the hands of pedestrians, I fought waves of lightheadedness, ready to bolt after someone as soon as I saw it. There was no way I could lose my precious instrument.
This isn’t happening.
“Can I help?”
Xander joined me on the pavement.
“Do you see anyone carrying a violin?” I zeroed in on the pedestrians again, glancing left and right. Time was slipping away. “Maybe they caught the Tube?” I tried to stay focused, fearing my legs were about to crumble.
“It’s my fault,” he said. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“No, this had nothing to do with you.” It was me who’d turned my attention away from where I’d set up to play. Regret made my head spin.
“Did you see the person who took it?” he asked.
“Oh, God, it’s gone.”
“Have faith.” Xander reached into his pocket. “The fuckers didn’t take my phone.” He stared at it, swiping the screen.
“Are you calling the police?” I turned away to continue studying the pedestrians. There were too many people in the crowd. Too many cars lined up in rush-hour traffic, the sound of their deafening horns heightening the tension.
Heat rose from the Tube station, making the air feel oppressive.
A streak of sweat snaked down my spine. “What am I going to do?”
Xander’s focus was still on his phone. I felt I was wasting time I didn’t have.
“The thief got into a black cab.” He raised his eyes from the screen and peered left. “Traffic’s slow. I can catch him.”
“You saw him? Which way did he go?”
“It’s too dangerous for you.”
I glared at him. “Tell me.”
“I’ll get it back for you if you promise to buy me a meal.”
I groaned in frustration.
“I was joking. But I am pretty hungry.”
The Pervade Duet Page 1