London Falling by Emma Carr Page A

the threat of the police over her head. Besides, he no longer believed that she had any relationship with his competition, although he did believe she’d go to them if he threw her out.
    That was the solution. He had it. A bartering agreement.
    She would still miss the first few weeks of class, however, waiting for her friend to return from India. But he had no other options that wouldn’t destroy his future in exchange for hers. He would need all of his resources to convince her that this was the best solution.
    Plus, a little donation to that school of hers in exchange for leeway on her absences could solve both of their problems, as long as Aimee never found out. She’d probably quit school before she let him donate money in her name.
    He’d have to figure out the best way to go about it.
    In the meantime, he had to make sure his little bout with the lurgy hadn’t caused any problems to go unanswered. Even though it was the Christmas holiday, government never slept. Or rather, men and women with royal ambitions never slept.
    After glancing out the window to see if the private detective was still stationed outside the house–still there, but in a black VW now–he turned to the bed. Where was his mobile? It hadn’t turned up earlier when he removed the sheets, but he flipped the stack of clean sheets to double check. Although she’d thrown it pretty hard, he could have sworn it landed on the bed. He checked the floor under the bed, the nightstand, the armoire, everywhere. No mobile. He searched his study, slamming old magazines back onto the credenza when the phone didn’t reveal itself.
    Bollocks! She’d filched his mobile again. He turned his eyes to the ceiling.
    That woman was shameless.
    He chuckled, and then almost choked on the sound. The woman had stolen his phone for a second time, and he laughed. He laughed! It had to be Stockholm Syndrome. Otherwise, he was right balmy, and he refused to believe that his hold on reality had completely left him.
    Now where would that woman hide his mobile?
    Her room. Of course. That way she could keep an eye on it at all times.
    He shook his head at her brazenness and braced himself for another confrontation. He was almost looking forward to it.
    Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of chocolate and sugar. His mouth watered, but he ignored the call of the fairy cakes and continued down the hall to the housekeeper’s quarters. Since he never had a housekeeper to spend time in the so-called housekeeper’s quarters, he hadn’t been in these rooms for months. He valued his privacy way too much to have someone here all the time, snooping through his business, especially given how interested the tabloids had become in his life over the past decade. Ironic, because he rarely did anything that could be considered tabloid fodder. Nevertheless, they seemed to find things to write about.
    The hallway was dark, so he turned on a light. Her door was closed, and there was no sound coming from behind the thick wood. He needed his mobile, but he didn’t want to disturb her if she was asleep.
    He mentally kicked himself. Another sign he was suffering from Stockholm-syndrome.
    He raised his hand to knock, but hesitated. If he woke her, she might try to keep the mobile from him, and he didn’t fancy a wrestling match with her.
    Perhaps he would take a peek and see if his phone was immediately visible.
    As he cracked the door open, he knew he shouldn’t be entering her room without permission, but he ignored his conscience. It was her fault for nicking his phone in the first place.
    The room was dark and silent, except for a half-growl from the Scottie that wasn’t even loud enough to scare a little old lady. Some watchdog.
    He opened the door further and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The Scottie–he refused to call him Cupcake–lay at the foot of her bed. Lifting his head to see who was at the door, the Scottie gave another half growl and flopped back on the bed. Aimee lay