them wanted to give up their liaison with Monica, but neither could they afford to miss something vital, because completion of this task—quickly and successfully—was crucial to Owen’s career.
* * * *
Monica sat in the back seat of the big black London cab, peering through the rain-streaked windows at the passing sights. The West End of London glittered on through the rain, as ever, but it looked different tonight. That was because she was on her way back to Cumbernauld’s—back to Owen and Alec. She had popped home to feed her goldfish, but Owen had only let her go if she promised to be back by eight-thirty. Nothing had really changed in this part of the world and yet everything she looked at seemed brighter and more dazzling. It’s because I am living. Really living.
Anticipation had her body thrumming. That was a change in itself, and the fact she was truly living her life was bound to have a knock-on effect. She needed her anchors, and yet she was being set adrift from them. She took a deep, steadying breath. Had she lost all
70
her carefully built self-defence mechanisms? It was a question that had passed though her thoughts constantly throughout the day. If things were altering she should be afraid, and she still was. A little. I’m having fun, living for the moment, that’s all it is.
Was it an excuse? Hell, yes. But she kept telling herself she could enjoy it for as long as it lasted then pull back and return to normal. As her taxi dodged the traffic and doubts assailed her, she considered how realistic that plan was. No, her life would never be the same after they’d gone from it. A day and a half around them had assured her of that.
Fundamentally, things were the same as they had been before, the hotel and her part in it.
She had stepped off the path, strayed even, but her safe routine was still there and she could step right back up to it.
The one thing that really got to her was the nagging feeling that she was betraying her boss by having a private liaison with the men who had come to figure out what was going on under his roof. The truth had come out that afternoon. There was more to it. Their investigation had a trigger. That was worrying in itself. Fraud? Misappropriation of funds?
And was she under investigation, too? She had been, she could see that now. In telling them her secret she had shown them she had bigger things to worry about than stealing from the company who gave her security.
Owen had assured her he wanted her to carry on as before, acting as their guide. But now she watched what went on in a different way, and—more worryingly—she wanted to help them.
As the taxi pulled in at the entrance to Cumbernauld’s and the doorman stepped over to open the car door, the worries began to wisp away on the rainy night air. All she could feel was excitement, curiosity and desire for the rendezvous ahead. Tomorrow, I’ll think about it tomorrow.
“Good evening, Ms Evans.” The doorman said, with obvious surprise.
“Evening, George. Thank you.” Monica indicated the taxi driver keep the change, and slung her bag over her shoulder.
“Working late tonight?”
“Yes indeed. We have bods in from Headquarters and I’m the designated go-to person.”
“Oh yes. I hear they want to have a chat with everyone, is that right?” George looked concerned. Word had got about. “It’s not about job cuts is it, Ms Evans?”
71
“No, no I don’t think so. It’s about promotional ideas.” It was curious that the staff thought there might be more to it. And now she’d lied, to cover for them. Each time she tried to push it away someone was sure to remind her, which was no bad thing.
Once she’d made her way through the familiar reception area with its black and white tiled floor, marble pillars and clever lighting, she felt a bit more focused. The hotel always felt different at night, the ambiance less business-like and more leisurely. It wasn’t often
* * * *
Monica sat in the back seat of the big black London cab, peering through the rain-streaked windows at the passing sights. The West End of London glittered on through the rain, as ever, but it looked different tonight. That was because she was on her way back to Cumbernauld’s—back to Owen and Alec. She had popped home to feed her goldfish, but Owen had only let her go if she promised to be back by eight-thirty. Nothing had really changed in this part of the world and yet everything she looked at seemed brighter and more dazzling. It’s because I am living. Really living.
Anticipation had her body thrumming. That was a change in itself, and the fact she was truly living her life was bound to have a knock-on effect. She needed her anchors, and yet she was being set adrift from them. She took a deep, steadying breath. Had she lost all
70
her carefully built self-defence mechanisms? It was a question that had passed though her thoughts constantly throughout the day. If things were altering she should be afraid, and she still was. A little. I’m having fun, living for the moment, that’s all it is.
Was it an excuse? Hell, yes. But she kept telling herself she could enjoy it for as long as it lasted then pull back and return to normal. As her taxi dodged the traffic and doubts assailed her, she considered how realistic that plan was. No, her life would never be the same after they’d gone from it. A day and a half around them had assured her of that.
Fundamentally, things were the same as they had been before, the hotel and her part in it.
She had stepped off the path, strayed even, but her safe routine was still there and she could step right back up to it.
The one thing that really got to her was the nagging feeling that she was betraying her boss by having a private liaison with the men who had come to figure out what was going on under his roof. The truth had come out that afternoon. There was more to it. Their investigation had a trigger. That was worrying in itself. Fraud? Misappropriation of funds?
And was she under investigation, too? She had been, she could see that now. In telling them her secret she had shown them she had bigger things to worry about than stealing from the company who gave her security.
Owen had assured her he wanted her to carry on as before, acting as their guide. But now she watched what went on in a different way, and—more worryingly—she wanted to help them.
As the taxi pulled in at the entrance to Cumbernauld’s and the doorman stepped over to open the car door, the worries began to wisp away on the rainy night air. All she could feel was excitement, curiosity and desire for the rendezvous ahead. Tomorrow, I’ll think about it tomorrow.
“Good evening, Ms Evans.” The doorman said, with obvious surprise.
“Evening, George. Thank you.” Monica indicated the taxi driver keep the change, and slung her bag over her shoulder.
“Working late tonight?”
“Yes indeed. We have bods in from Headquarters and I’m the designated go-to person.”
“Oh yes. I hear they want to have a chat with everyone, is that right?” George looked concerned. Word had got about. “It’s not about job cuts is it, Ms Evans?”
71
“No, no I don’t think so. It’s about promotional ideas.” It was curious that the staff thought there might be more to it. And now she’d lied, to cover for them. Each time she tried to push it away someone was sure to remind her, which was no bad thing.
Once she’d made her way through the familiar reception area with its black and white tiled floor, marble pillars and clever lighting, she felt a bit more focused. The hotel always felt different at night, the ambiance less business-like and more leisurely. It wasn’t often
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