WET 2: London: A Steamy Holiday Romance

by Maggie Carpenter

  Leaning forward, he studied the artist's name.

  "F. Benoit. Let's see if there's any information about you and this lovely creature you painted."

  Retrieving his laptop, he settled back into his easy chair, and typed in the artist's name. There were many results, but he clicked on the headline that read, Francois Benoit, Biography and Best Known Works.

  Francois Benoit - 1853-1892.

  Though famous for his depictions of life in the French countryside, in later years Benoit turned to painting portraits of the French nobility, most especially, the love of his life, Babetta Babineaux. Their relationship was reportedly tempestuous, but nonetheless, he went to his grave calling her, fille Précieuse.

  "Fille Précieuse? That's precious girl!" Duncan breathed, a sudden chill pricking his skin.

  He thought back to the night before, how she had thrust out her bottom for the flogger and cried out her euphoria. For years he had hoped to find a woman who would respond as she had, and who would touch his heart.

  "I miss you," he murmured under his breath. "This house feels empty without you."

  Reaching for his phone, he opened up her message.

  Not much fun, is it, being led on a merry dance that takes you nowhere? The gig is up, you bastard. I saw you and Jane. I'd wish you and your future bride a happy life, but I'm not that forgiving. God help that poor woman. You missed your calling. You should be an actor. You gave me an Oscar winning performance!

  Something wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on what was bothering him. Going through it again, the answer continued to elude him, and he decided to read it out loud.

  "Not much fun, is it, being led on a merry dance that takes you nowhere? The gig is up, you bastard. I saw you and Jane. I saw—Jane!" he exclaimed. "How did you know her name was Jane? I've never mentioned the name Jane."

  Suddenly sober, he jumped from his chair and began to pace.

  "How, Brittany? How did you know her name? I need to clear my head. A shower. I'll take a shower, then eat. The answer is right in front of me, I can feel it."

  Grabbing the portrait, he carried it up the stairs and into his bedroom and placed it on the chair near the window. With one last look, he moved into his wardrobe to undress, but opening his top drawer to clear out his pockets, he saw the photograph. Picking it up, he turned it over and read the scribble.

  V'day, love you, Jane

  "Oh, for pity's sake. You saw this and assumed she was, or is, my girlfriend. Dammit, Brittany, I want to hug you and kiss you and spank you all at the same time. But how did you know I was meeting her for lunch, or did you just follow me out of curiosity? Regardless, I have to find you. I don't know how, but I must."

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Perched on a stool inside the dimly lit Fumoir bar, Brittany was on her third Kir Royal Champagne Cocktail. Flirting with Keith, the handsome bartender, had helped to distract her, but she'd read Duncan's message yet again. With a frustrated sigh, she placed her phone on top of the bar, trying to decide if she should call him.

  "I think I need one more of these," she mumbled, pushing her glass towards the barman.

  "I'm pleased to make it for you, but may I suggest you have a bite to eat?"

  "A bite to eat," she repeated. "I haven't had anything to eat all day. Wait, that's not true, I had a piece of toast and marmalade this morning."

  "Toast and marmalade? That's it? All day?"

  "Yep, that's it, all day, and it's been the worst day of my entire life. I don't want to talk about it, any of it, but may I ask you something?"

  "Be my guest."

  "Do you have a girlfriend?"

  He laughed out loud, then nodded his head with a grin.

  "Yes, I'm spoken for, but thank you. I'm immensely flattered."

  "Oh, no, I didn't mean that," she sputtered. "I was asking as a general question."

  "My apologies. Yes, I do. Her name is Priscilla."

  "Okay, great, perfect. If you were somewhere you shouldn't be, and saw Priscilla doing something horribly wrong, and she told you later she could explain, what would you do? Did that make any sense?"

  "I think so. Would I give her the chance to explain what I thought I saw, even though I was somewhere I wasn't supposed to be? Is that what you're asking me?"

  "Yes, that's it exactly."

  "Definitely. Do you know how many people are convicted for crimes they didn't commit?"

  "Huh, I hadn't thought about that. Maybe I should call him."

  "It's usually a good idea to give people the benefit of the doubt. Aren't we innocent until proven guilty?"

  "This is just one big mess," she said, throwing up her hands. "I don't know what to do."

  "Have some dinner. I'm sure it will help to clear your head."

  "Your friendly bartender is probably right."

  The comment came from behind her, the voice mature and upper-crust. Turning around she found a dapper, grey-haired man with a neatly trimmed mustache and glasses, wearing an elegantly tailored three piece suit.

  "Hello, I'm Charles Rutherford," the man said with a smile. "I don't have anyone to dine with this evening either. It's not much fun having dinner by one's self."

  "Are you staying here?" Brittany asked, wondering if he was someone important. He looked and acted like an upper-crust English gentleman.

  "I am."

  "Me too. Nice to meet you—Charles? That's what you said, right? Sorry, but I'm just the tiniest bit buzzed."

  "Yes, Charles, like our Prince. No apology necessary. May I ask your name?"

  "Brittany."

  "Nice to meet you too, Brittany. I don't suppose you'd care to join me for dinner, would you? No strings, of course. Just two ships passing over a dining table. We can chat about your dilemma, whatever it might be."

  "I don't want to chat about it."

  He paused, then said,

  "Chat about what?"

  For a moment she was confused, then abruptly understood the joke.

  "Ha! Very good," she said with a giggle, and slipping off the barstool, she reached for her bag. "I'd love to have some company. Thank you. Bye, Keith. Maybe I'll come back for a nightcap."

  "I'll be here."

  "That's a large purse you have," Charles remarked as they ambled off.

  "I carry it everywhere. I like to have it with me so nothing happens to it. I don't trust safes in hotel rooms."

  "Very wise."

  Feeling lightheaded as they moved through the foyer, she looped her arm through his elbow.

  "I hope you don't mind. I'm not myself tonight."

  "I don't mind at all. I take it you're visiting from America."

  "South Carolina, and I feel as if I've been gone for ages, but it's only been a couple of weeks."

  "Brittany, I've just had a thought. There's a charming little French place around the corner. The food is simply marvelous. What do you say?"

  "That's a splendid idea. Isn't that what you say here? Splendid?"

  "It is," he said with a chuckle, guiding her through the lobby towards the doors.

  "I might need my coat."

  "It's only two minutes away, not even that, and I have my brolly if the wet stuff starts up. Are you game?"

  "Absolutely," she exclaimed as they stepped outside. "This cool air feels so good."

  "I agree, but we should walk a little faster so you don't get chilled."

  "This is fun. I'm so glad I ran into you. Does this restaurant have sole? I love Sole Almondine."

  "They do, but if you're at loose ends tonight, does that mean you're staying at Claridges by yourself?"

  "Sadly, yes. I was on a cruise and met the most wonderful man, but it's become complicated. I thought I'd made a terrible mistake, but now I'm wondering if it was me who made a terrible mistake! Wait, what did I just say? That came out all wrong. My head is all fuzzy. I'm not feeling very well. Are we almost there?"

  "Yes
, but it will be faster if we go through this alley," he said, quickening his pace and turning off the main street. "I know the owners. We can enter through the kitchen and I'll introduce you to the chef. He's a friend of mine."

  "I hope it's not far. I'm starting to feel really cold."

  "No, it's not far. You'll soon be eating that Sole Almondine. The kitchen entrance is just around here."

  They turned a second time, but they'd reached a dead end.

  "Where is—?"

  A blinding pain suddenly sliced through the side of her head. Tumbling to the ground, she hit rough, wet concrete.

  "Charles, help me."

  But her whimpered cry received no response. Bewildered and overcome, it took her a few minutes before she struggled to sit up, and gingerly touching her head, she knew before she studied her fingers they were wet from blood.

  "Charles…?"

  But she was in cold, empty darkness. Fighting panic as she scrambled unsteadily to her feet, she staggered to peek around the corner. Though the alley was empty and foreboding, like a beacon of hope, she could see the busy street. Darting her eyes to the ground, she searched for her bag, then realized the man had lured her down the dark lane to rob her. Shaking from cold and fear, tears cascading down her cheeks, she stumbled through the alley, her hands scraping against the rough side of the building as she grabbed at it for support. Finally reaching the street, she lurched towards the hotel wondering if she'd make it, but the alert doorman recognized her immediately and rushed down the street to help her.

  "My goodness," he said urgently, removing his coat and placing it around her shoulders.

  "He hit m-my head," she managed. "He hit m-my head and t-took my b-bag."

  . "You're safe now. I've got you," he continued, placing an arm around her waist. "We'll take care of you. Don't worry."

  "I'm so g-glad you s-saw me," she mumbled, shivering and sobbing as she leaned against him. "C-can you f-find Harry G-Guilford?"

  "I certainly can," the doorman replied, moving her through the lobby and into an office. "He's still on duty. I'll get him here right away."

  He sat her on a couch, and as she wrapped her arms around herself, she heard him call Harry and order a pot of tea.

  "That silver-haired man you left with, did he do this?" the doorman asked, sitting next to her.

  "Yes. M-my b-bag. It has m-my money, p-passport, everything."

  "What's happened?" Harry asked, bursting through the door.

  "She was attacked," the doorman replied, rising to his feet. "I've got tea on the way."

  "Thank you, Thomas. Good man. Ring the doctor and the police, and fetch a blanket. Don't worry, Miss Carter," Harry continued, sitting next to her. "A cup of tea is on its way. My goodness, what a state you're in."

  "Tea, it f-fixes everything," she blubbered. "That's what you s-say here, right?"

  "We do, and it does," he said warmly. "Is there someone you can call? Do you have any friends here?"

  "M-my phone. I just remembered, I left it on the counter in the bar. The Fumoir. There is someone. A f-friend, he's a b-barrister."

  "I'll fetch it for you," the doorman said, handing Harry a blanket and taking back his jacket still around Brittany's shoulders.

  As he headed out the door, a young woman arrived with a pot of tea and a plate of pastries.

  "I'm so terribly sorry this happened to you," Harry said softly. "We do our best to keep our eye out for predators, but they can slip past."

  "It's not your fault. It's me. I'm so stupid sometimes."

  "Here, have a sip of hot, sweet tea, it will help," he said tenderly, pouring her a cup. "It's a medicine unto itself."

  Hands shaking, Brittany took the cup, and sipping the comforting drink, her thoughts were consumed with Duncan. She didn't care about Jane, or the explanation, or anything. She just needed him to be there with his arms wrapped around her.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Sitting at his kitchen island, Duncan had just finished a bowl of tomato-basil soup and a toasted cheese sandwich when his phone rang. Staring at the screen, his heart skipped.

  "Brittany, I'm so glad to hear from you."

  "Uh, excuse me, is this Mr. Rhys-Davies?"

  "Yes," Duncan replied, his heart leaping a second time. "Why are you on Brittany's phone? What's happened?"

  "My name is Harry Guilford. I'm an assistant manager at Claridges. I'm calling for Miss Carter. She's all right, but she's been the victim of an assault and is asking for you. Can you—?"

  "I'm on my way."

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hastily rummaging through the contents of Brittany's bag, Bert Willis, aka Charles Rutherford, couldn't believe his luck. Not only did he find a wad of travelers checks and a slew of credit cards, he discovered an envelope containing a piece of paper with a high-end address, along with a key, and what was obviously an alarm code. Starting up his 1994 Volvo sedan, he headed off, but knowing where it was he had two concerns. Parking, and making his score before the girl reported her assault to the police. As soon as that happened, the alarm code and locks would be changed.

  But lady luck smiled on him a second time.

  As he cruised past the house, an Audi backed out of the garage and sped away. It appeared the home would be ripe for the picking, then reaching the end of the block, someone left a parking space on the opposite side of the street. His tires squealed as he spun his car around, and quickly slipping into the tight spot, he let out a grateful sigh.

  "This was meant to be, but I've gotta hoof it. Fifteen minutes and I'm out."

  Realizing he had nothing to carry any ill-gotten gains, his eyes fell on Brittany's bag. Tipping it upside down and shaking out the contents, he jumped from his car and walked swiftly to Duncan's front door. The key slid easily into the lock, and moving inside he saw the alarm box, but it wasn't beeping.

  "In too much of a hurry to set it? Ha!"

  Seeing the living room on his right, the stairway in front of him, and a closed door to his left, he chose the door. Walking in and flicking on the light, his eyes fell on the antique Wooten desk. He let out a whistle.

  "I've gotta get some boys and come back for this!" he declared, then immediately began rifling through the many shelves, alcoves and drawers, pocketing a Mont Blanc pen, a sterling silver letter opener, and a check book. Looking around the room to make sure he hadn't missed anything, he noticed a cricket bat mounted in a glass case on the wall.

  "What have we got here?" he murmured, stepping closer. "Ha! Jackpot time. This I've gotta have."

  The bat carried the autographs of celebrated players from the sixties, and as he read the names he shook his head in disbelief.

  "Frank Misson, Dennis Amiss, Ian Redpath, blow me down. Does that say Butch White?"

  Running his fingers along the bottom of the glass case he found a latch. Pressing it gently, it popped open. Lifting the bat from its holders, he carried it to the door and rested it against the wall ready to pick up on his way out, then swiftly made his way up the stairs. The double doors at the end of the hallway beckoned. Hurrying forward and entering the bedroom, his eyes fell upon a stunning portrait of a beautiful young woman. He paused. She looked remarkably like Brittany, but it couldn't be her. The painting was clearly an antique.

  "Too big and awkward to move, but I'lI come back for that one day. Now where's the bloody wardrobe?" he grunted, scanning the room. Walking quickly into the bathroom, he spied a fluffy mat at the base of a door. Striding across and pushing it open, he broke into a grin. "I knew it!"

  Moving inside and stepping up to the square, wooden island, he slid open the top drawer and stuffed his pockets with the loose change, bank notes, and a gold money clip, but as he closed it, he spotted the cabinet with the three locks.

  "Well, well, look at this. What a joke. My six-year old nephew could pick those."

  Reaching into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, he pulled out an item he carried
with him at all times. A zippered leather wallet containing the tools of his trade. Selecting a long, thin, steel rod, he played with the top lock.

  "You beauty," he said with a chuckle as the lock clicked open.

  The second was equally cooperative. He checked his watch.

  "One to go, then I have to sling my hook, but I know there's stuff in here, and I'm not leaving until I get my hands on it."

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Doing his best not to panic, Duncan swerved through the London traffic, coming to an abrupt stop in the front of the hotel. Anticipating his arrival, Thomas had kept the area clear, and quickly escorted Duncan through the foyer to the office where Brittany was waiting. Duncan had to swallow back his shock. Totally disheveled, pale and traumatized, she was giving her statement to a police officer, and a doctor was closing his bag.

  "Duncan! Thank God you're here," she whimpered, her eyes brimming with fresh tears.

  "I'm Harry Guilford," Harry announced, stepping up to meet him.

  "Thank you for everything you've done," Duncan said, quickly shaking his hand, then moving to sit next to Brittany. "My poor girl," he murmured, putting his arm around her shoulders. "You're shaking."

  "Excuse me, sir," the police officer said politely. "If you could just give me another minute, I'm almost finished."

  "Yes, of course, my apologies."

  "Miss Carter," the policeman continued, "how tall was he?"

  "Not overly tall. Probably five-eleven."

  "Is there anything else you can tell me about this man? Anything at all?"

  "One thing did just occur to me. He smelled like I do when I leave a salon. The scent wasn't cologne. It was more like hair spray."

  "Thank you, Miss Carter. I'm going to speak with the bartender. If you think of anything else please call the station," he said, offering her a card. "I have your mobile number. I'll be in touch when we have something to report."