London Tides Page 9

  By the time he handed her out of the cab in front of Asha’s building, she felt as jittery as a schoolgirl anticipating her first kiss.

  “Don’t you need it to wait?”

  “Tube’s still running. Or I can walk. I’m close by.”

  “In the rain? I doubt you live that close.”

  “I own a flat on Gloucester Road.”

  “Of course you do.” Grace felt a little silly to have thought he was still living in his second floor flat in Islington.

  “Here, allow me.” Ian gently took her key and opened the door, making her realize she’d been staring at him like an idiot on the building’s stoop.

  As she climbed the stairs, her heart thudded harder than the exertion warranted. Outside the flat, she took back her keys and flipped through the ring with a tremor in her normally steady hands.

  He closed his hand over hers to stop her fumbling with the lock. “Wait.”

  She froze, suddenly aware of the small space that separated them, the kindling warmth in his eyes, and realized there was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to kiss him. Which was a spectacularly bad idea when the way his gaze skimmed her face shot her pulse into overdrive.

  Then again, she’d always had an affinity for bad ideas. She stepped into him and lifted her face to his.

  It was all the invitation he needed. His hand went to her waist automatically, but he didn’t pull her closer. Instead, he limited the touch to the merest brush of lips, the mingling of breath. She lifted her hand to his neck to caress the bit of skin that showed above the collar of his coat, her thumb tracing the edge of his jaw.

  His fingers tightened on her waist just before he pulled away. “Good night, Grace.”

  “Good night, Ian.”

  He paused at the top of the stairs while she fitted the key to the lock and let herself in with a crack of warped wood. She fastened the latch and chain and took a long moment to catch her breath with her forehead pressed against the door.

  Heavens have mercy. If she’d had any doubt whether their chemistry had survived a decade apart, it was long gone. He’d cast a spell around her all night long, and that was even before the kiss.

  She needed to be realistic, though. Just because they had one date—a magical, sensual date—didn’t mean anything had changed. She had to remember that. As soon as she managed to wipe the stupid smile off her face.

  After the previous morning’s blunder, Grace purposely stayed in bed so she wouldn’t wake Asha. When she finally pried her eyes open to a brightly lit reception room, she was met with the unmistakable crackle and aroma of bacon frying.

  “Am I hallucinating, or are you actually making breakfast?” Grace blinked sleepily from the doorway, aware of the irony in this role reversal.

  Asha picked up a crispy piece of bacon draining on the plate next to the hob and took a bite. “I’m not making breakfast. I’m frying bacon. There’s a difference.”

  Grace laughed and nudged Asha out of the way. “Go get the eggs for me. If you’re going to bait me with bacon grease, you could at least make my tea.”

  “On it.” Asha pulled a mug from the cupboard. “So . . .”

  “So what?”

  “The date? How was it?”

  Grace felt it coming, tried to stop it . . . but no, the stupid smile came right back to her face. She’d done so well putting her expectations in line last night, only to have her hopes flare right back to life. “It was good.”

  “Just good?”

  Grace bit her lip. “Fine. It was amazing. Incredibly romantic.”

  Asha squealed and hoisted herself up on the counter, looking far more like a giggly coed than a thirty-seven-year-old doctor. “Tell me everything.”

  “Tea?” Grace prompted.

  “Right. Here. Now, you go.”

  “Well, he took me to a pop-up restaurant called Seek. I’m not really allowed to give details because they swear you to secrecy when you leave.”

  “That’s no fair. How can I live vicariously if you won’t tell?”

  Grace smiled at the recollection. “Let’s say it re-created a romantic moment in our past.”

  “That’s a good sign,” Asha said. “Should the eggs be smoking?”

  “Blast.” Grace twisted down the heat, then flipped the eggs over in the pan. A little brown but not scorched. “It’s eggs over-well this morning, Ash.”

  “Completely worth it. Did he kiss you?”

  The smile came back.

  “He did.” Asha sighed. “This is really good, Grace. Is it bad if I’m a little jealous?”

  “Not as long as you don’t let Jake hear you say it.”

  Asha chuckled. “Jake has nothing to fear. You realize this proves my theory all along.”

  “Which is?”

  “That he was waiting for you. None of those other women had a chance with him. He went through the motions until you showed up. Do you think he’s put anything like that together for anyone else?”

  He had called in a fairly significant favor, thanks to his connections. But reading into it too much would only set her up for disappointment. She changed the subject. “So what are you planning for today?”

  “Meeting Jake this afternoon. I’m on at six tomorrow, so it will be an early night. You could come along, you know. He’d love to see you again.”

  “Some other time. I’m not going to barge into your Sunday afternoon plans. Besides, three’s a crowd.”

  “Then invite Ian.” Asha’s sweet smile hid a hint of the devil.

  Grace laughed. “I don’t think we’re at double-date status yet, but thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. I think you might be surprised at the time he could free up if you rang him.”

  Grace grinned and put their plates on the table. She managed to divert the subject from her and Ian until they finished breakfast and Asha was out the door. She even managed to keep him out of her thoughts while she booted her laptop and opened the folder that contained her raw files still to be processed. She paused at one of the mist-shrouded bridge shots she’d taken that first morning she had found him at his rowing club and had to press down the anticipation that welled up inside her.

  That had been some date. And brief as it was, the kiss hadn’t been half-bad either.

  She chewed her lip against the smile that once more surfaced unbidden. The amount of effort Ian had put into surprising her seemed to express his feelings pretty clearly . . . or at least his willingness to give them a shot.

  Grace plugged her earphones into her mobile and scrolled through her usual choices—the Rolling Stones, the Kinks, the Clash—but none of them suited her mood. She finally landed on the Beatles and smiled. Abbey Road. Perfect. She and Ian had listened to it endlessly on road trips to his regattas, sharing one set of earphones like teenagers. She couldn’t deny the lift in her spirits when “Come Together” blasted out. The perfect blend of nostalgia and energy.

  Inspired by her musical choices, she plowed through her editing in record time, uploading files to her portfolio, then checking her e-mail.

  The phone cut off George Harrison singing “Something,” and she jerked it up with her heart in her throat before she noticed it was not Ian’s name on the screen, but Melvin’s. “Hello, Melvin. Let me guess. The first prints are done?”

  “That they are. Are you busy?”

  She glanced at the clock—3:23. Asha was out with Jake. Grace checked her phone for text messages or voice mail. Nothing on the status bar. “No. Just finishing up for the day. Shall I come over?”

  “Please do. I can’t wait for you to see these.”

  It was better than passing the time hoping Ian might call and waffling over whether she should call him. She grabbed her camera bag out of reflex, stuffed the phone in her pocket, and headed out the door.

  Half an hour later, she entered the gallery to find Melvin speaking with an elegantly dressed couple before a large abstract oil painting. Without missing a beat of his pitch, he gave her a littl
e tilt of his head to indicate she should go back to his office.

  Several minutes later, Melvin entered. “Grace, beautiful.” He kissed both cheeks, then held her back at arm’s length. “My. You look pleased with yourself. Finding London to your liking?”

  “Something like that.” She shrugged, but the bloom of heat up her neck gave her away faster than any words could.

  “Ah, must be a man. Don’t worry, I’m not going to grill you about it. Come on back and see what I’ve got so far.”

  Melvin led her down the hall to a space adjacent to his darkroom, humming to himself in a way that made her think he wasn’t about to drop the subject completely. A twelve-by-eighteen had been affixed to the whiteboard. Grace moved closer to take in the details of the print from inches away. It was the best of a series of shots she’d taken in a Sudanese village, witnessing the rebuilding that was taking place after its destruction years before. She’d impulsively switched from her Canon to the Leica to capture the image of a farmer squatting in his field, his hands cupping new growth springing from the ground.

  “You burned this area round the seedling,” she said. The highlighting drew the eye to the sprout, emphasizing the detail’s symbolism.

  “I think this is one of my favorites.”

  “Mine too.” She still remembered the conversation she’d had with the farmer through an interpreter. The farmer had lost most of his family and yet he stayed, saying he wouldn’t give anyone the power to force him from his rightful place. She had promised she would come back to see his progress the next time she passed through Sudan.

  That would probably never happen now.

  “Grace?”

  She lifted her head and realized she’d been staring blankly at the photo for some time. “It’s perfect.”

  “Harder to leave behind than you thought?”

  She drew in a long, deep breath before she could answer. “How can you hate and love something simultaneously?”

  “Because hate and love are flip sides of the same coin. It would be impossible for you to feel indifferent. Have you thought any more about the job?”

  Kenneth DeVries’s business card was in the outer pocket of her gear bag, but she’d not yet decided whether she was going to call. “I have. I’m still not sure an office job is for me. I’ve spent ten years in the field, Melvin. Settling down feels like—”

  “Settling.” He favored her with a sympathetic smile. “You’re not the only one who has had to go through this. Everyone comes to a turning point in their lives eventually, especially people like us. We have to decide what’s more important: work or the people we love. For me, the most important thing was saving my marriage and seeing my children grow up. I finally realized that there would always be another story, another emergency demanding my attention. But there might not ever be another chance at this life.”

  Their perspectives might be slightly different from opposite sides of the same editorial desk, but she felt the truth of his words. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have the heart of a romantic.”

  “Just don’t tell my wife. She’ll expect roses when I get home tonight.” Melvin rose from his perch on the edge of the table. “Come, we have three more prints to review. I’ll have another batch by Wednesday, I think.”

  “Thank you, Melvin.”

  “Hey, I’m as invested in making this show a success as you are.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Melvin squeezed her shoulder as he brushed by. “I know.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHAT NOW?

  Ian tapped his pen on the edge of his desk, stealing a look at his mobile before he shoved it into his drawer. Ten o’clock on Monday morning. Not even thirty-six hours since he’d left Grace at the door of Asha’s flat. It was too early to call her for another date, wasn’t it?

  He was rubbish with these kinds of rules.

  It wasn’t as if he and Grace had ever gone in for tradition, anyway. They’d sped from first date to inseparable to living together in the space of two months, and after that, they had spent every waking nonworking moment together. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder if it had been that mad rush to intimacy, that break with tradition, that had left their relationship on such a shaky foundation that she could justify disappearing without a word. He wasn’t willing to make the same mistake a second time.

  Even if he was fairly certain the only thing that could get her out of his head was a lobotomy.

  He pulled his mind back to the computer, where an in-box full of e-mails still demanded attention before his first appointment. Eva hadn’t lasted a week, and not having an assistant had gone from annoying to concerning. A small business it might be—at least in terms of employees—but the sheer volume of paperwork necessitated a full-time position. He hoped that a capable replacement was waiting somewhere in today’s interview schedule.

  Instead of tackling the steadily building in-box, though, he found himself thinking about how much he had missed the feel of Grace in his arms. How that kiss good night had been much too brief—

  “Ian, your ten o’clock is here.”

  Ian jerked his head up. Jamie’s assistant stood in the doorway in all her tweed-suited glory, a young woman standing uncertainly behind her. “Yes, thank you, Bridget. Ms. Marusic, please come in.”

  The candidate smiled shyly and took a seat in front of his desk. She was younger than he’d thought from her CV: perhaps only twenty-five. Brown hair in a no-nonsense ponytail, dark-brown eyes, a suit every bit as conservative as Bridget’s. In fact, were he to choose a word to describe her, brown would be the only logical answer.

  He shuffled papers until he found her CV. “You have worked for two very large corporations since you graduated university four years ago. Tell me why you want to work for us.” Ian always asked this question, more for his own amusement than any real insight he gained. Mostly it was a way to filter those without enough common sense to keep their mouths shut.

  “I’m an excellent assistant. You need an assistant.”

  “Fair enough. You type sixty words per minute; you’re proficient in all the software we use. Are you comfortable setting up conference calls and taking notes in meetings?”

  A single nod. “Of course.”

  Well, she wouldn’t be bothering him with useless chatter, at least. He quizzed her on the rest of her qualifications, which she answered quietly and succinctly. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Do you conduct random drug testing?”

  Ian blinked at her and then rose smoothly to his feet. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Marusic. We’ll be in touch.”

  His day’s other interviews weren’t much better. Either the candidates didn’t have the skills, or they had odd requirements like the inability to work every other Wednesday or the need to bring their puppy to the office. A headache began to throb behind Ian’s left eye, joining the increasing pain in his muscles from this morning’s punishing outing in his single scull. By four o’clock, his in-box was still piled high, and he was no closer to finding an assistant than he had been that morning. Fortunately, he only had to suffer through one more disaster.

  He was clearing his desk, shoving paperwork into his briefcase, when a light knock sounded on the glass partition door. He glanced up to find a petite, black-haired woman standing in the doorway. Dressed in a conservative navy skirt suit with an ivory silk blouse and low-heeled shoes, she looked every inch the corporate assistant. His hopes lifted. “Ms. Grey, I presume?”

  “And you would be Mr. MacDonald,” she answered in a pronounced Scottish accent. Her eyes flicked over his desk and the half-packed state of his briefcase. “Did I come at a bad time? I’d be happy to reschedule.”

  “No, not at all.” He held out a hand to the chair across from the desk and seated himself again. “You’re Scottish.”

  “I am.” Her mouth turned up slightly. “As are you.”

  Ian chuckled, sifted through the remaining paperwork, and found her CV. “
Based on your schooling, I’d expected you to be American. You did your undergrad work at Yale and then completed a master’s degree in financial economics at Oxford.”

  “I hope that won’t be a problem for you. Cambridge man and all.”

  So she’d done her homework as well, even if her slight smile said she was teasing. “Not unless you happened to be on the men’s rowing team.” He returned to her qualifications. “You’ve held positions at some of the largest consulting firms in England, where most likely you hired your own assistants. So tell me, what are you doing here, Ms. Grey?”

  “I have all the requisite skills. I’m capable of handling multiple projects simultaneously, but I don’t find ordering your lunch or picking up your dry cleaning beneath me. I speak fluent French and German, which may come in useful as the company expands—and I expect it will, given the aggressive rate of growth the corporation’s restaurant side has shown in the last several years.”

  “That’s not what I was asking.”

  “I understand that.” Ms. Grey swallowed, the first break in her confidence since her arrival. “I’m in need of a job, Mr. MacDonald. I left my last position for personal reasons, and all my employers but that one will give me glowing references.”

  “Ms. Grey, you are overqualified for this position.”

  “I understand that as well.”

  Ian sighed. He would regret this. He knew better than to hire someone who would want to move on to bigger and better things. Then again, his last several hires hadn’t worked out so well. “Well, I have no doubt you’re capable of handling the job. I have several more interviews to conduct this week, and then I’ll make a decision. Are your references attached?”

  “They are.” Ms. Grey rose and gathered her handbag. “Thank you, Mr. MacDonald.”

  “Please, call me Ian.”

  Her smile froze. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d prefer to call you Mr. MacDonald.”

  “Very well, Ms. Grey. I’ll be in touch.” He watched her walk precisely out the door, handbag tucked under her arm. She might not be willing to admit it, but he had an idea why Ms. Grey had left her last job.