A Matter of Trust: London Calling Book One (27 page)

She cupped his face. “Thank you. Thank you for loving me enough to find me.”

“Devon, I would have searched for you until the day I died. You’re the one for me.” He kissed her forehead, pulling her up to stand. “From the very beginning, it was you. There could be no other.”

 
Later, as they walked through the old Savannah cemetery, Devon pointed out favorite grave markers and statues to Bennett. One of the last had cherubs looking upward, stretching to eternity while their hands twined, forever linked. He paused to touch it, pulling a bloom from the bouquet she carried.
 

Shaking his head at Devon’s puzzled look, he laid the red rose on the granite. Below it, the inscription read:

Love Everlasting

Taking Devon’s hand, he walked with her to the exit. A new beginning and the rest of their lives awaited.

***

Devon stretched, comfortably ensconced in first class next to Bennett. As the plane glided over the Atlantic, she watched him sleep. His face was relaxed, the grooves he’d acquired in the weeks before smoothing out.

He loosely held her hand, even in slumber. He’d barely let her out of his sight for the past week.

With enough time, he’d accept that she’d never leave him. Not ever again.

She raised her other hand to admire her engagement ring in the faint light of the cabin.
 

I have Bennett Sterling. And he has me.

When she’d thought all was lost, he’d come for her. He always would.
 

They’d failed each other, forgetting themselves in the ordeal of Dominic’s scheme. But in losing what they had, they’d emerged stronger. Truer.

Her lips curved in a small, secret smile. She shouldn’t have doubted them.

After all, Devon Sinclair never failed a test.

And apparently, neither did Bennett Sterling.

Hey wait!

Keep reading for a sneak peak of
 

Losing Angeline, London Calling Book Two

Available now!

S
UMMER
, 1995

A
NGELINE
D
UBOIS
S
INCLAIR
was a runner.
 

She wasn’t any longer, but had been for most of her life. Now, standing absolutely still, she waited on the rectangular porch of Telfair Academy, the oldest public museum of art in the southern United States. With a surreptitious movement, she checked the thin gold Cartier tank watch on her wrist.

The city commissioner was late.

She eyed the large Corinthian columns that flanked her, tempted by their sturdy assurance of a place to lean. She fought the urge to fan herself with her hands. Across the street, Telfair Square beckoned with its heavy oaks and dripping moss along brick paved pathways. Iron park benches summoned her with their promise of cool relief, a place for her to slip off her high-heeled pumps and relax.
 

She remained where she was, standing straight and motionless.
 

Angeline was a woman of cool poise, undisturbed by tardy politicians or sultry heat shimmering from the concrete and asphalt streets of downtown Savannah. After all, she was supposed to be a woman born and bred to the South. Unaffected by blazing summers, and unfazed by the slower pace the brutal temperatures and humidity dictated.
 

After so many years, she could almost convince herself she was a native. The barest smile tilted the corners of her lips.
 

A portly man bustled up to the porch, interrupting her thoughts. Clutching a linen handkerchief, he busily mopped the sweat from his forehead before pocketing it in his seersucker suit.
 

A wide smile blossomed across Angeline’s face as she offered her hand, steadfastly ignoring the moisture still clinging to the commissioner’s palm. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fremont. I appreciate your time.”

He stared, keeping her hand tucked in his for a beat longer than was strictly polite. Angeline allowed it, used to the response she provoked in men.
 

The commissioner cleared his throat. “Ms. Sinclair. It’s very nice to finally meet with you. I’m so glad Savannah has hired one of its own to help preserve and promote our cultural art scene.”

She didn’t correct him. Since moving to the area, she’d subtly altered her accent from a Louisiana drawl to one more distinct to Georgia’s native cadence. Her husband, John Sinclair, hadn’t even noticed.

Of course, he’d never noticed her New Orleans dialect wasn’t original either. She was confident enough to believe he never would. After all, there would be no purpose to informing him of her deception at this point. They were married with a small daughter they cherished. She wouldn’t do anything to risk the security she’d worked so hard to achieve.

Turning to the commissioner, she motioned for him to lead the way into the gallery. Picking up the thread of his earlier comment, she answered in kind. “I’m very pleased to be part of Savannah’s historic art community.” She paused as he held the door for her. “We must preserve what is special and magical in Savannah, while carefully selecting new pieces for the public’s enjoyment. I’m very happy to hear about the riverfront exhibition this evening.” She glanced over her shoulder to catch him ogling her legs. “After all, art isn’t stagnant. And neither are Georgians, Mr. Fremont.” She deliberately continued to address him formally, a reminder that her interest was solely professional. She’d learned the aptitude of men to assume more where there was less.

He flushed, obviously embarrassed at being caught staring. She led him into her office, clearly marked with her name and title of assistant curator. Reveling in the flash of pride she felt reading it, she decided to exercise a little mercy. Taking her seat across from him, she smiled gently. He beamed in return, as she’d known he would.
 

She would be kind, she decided. Relax a little. She lived in Savannah, a treasure of a city she’d read about as a young woman. She was beautiful and smart, with a gorgeous and talented husband. Her daughter was exceptional, a wellspring of love and joy.
 

Her life was everything she’d never dared to hope it could be.

***

John Sinclair poured a measure of single malt Scotch into a cut crystal glass. He took a moment to appreciate its amber richness reflecting under the dimmed light of an overhead chandelier before tipping it to his lips. The smoked peaty flavor exploded over his tongue to scorch a path down his throat. Without fail, he was nostalgically reminded of his father, an immigrant who’d compensated for homesickness by spinning vivid, colorful tales of the land he’d left behind.

Taking a seat in a large, overstuffed leather chair in the study, John made himself comfortable. He and Angeline were due to attend an art exhibition in less than an hour. It was an exclusive event, one they’d missed out on getting tickets to. Apparently, she’d charmed a city councilman earlier in the day. He’d offered his two tickets so they could attend.

It had been a late change, but John and Angeline loved spontaneity. Of course, she’d promised to leave work early so they could enjoy an aperitif before departure. She liked the formality of Southern traditions, like drinks before dinner, even though they rarely succeeded in carrying them out.

After all, Angeline was always late.

He smiled to himself, thinking of the woman who’d become his wife seven years ago. She’d been working at a gallery in New Orleans when he’d ambled in to escape the incessant, pervasive heat of the city. He’d known it would be an oasis of cool air and humidity controlled relief as people protected art in the same ways they protected other fine things—like wine and Scotch.

Seeing her the first time, he’d sworn the priceless art surrounding her was merely a foil, a background to complement her exquisite beauty. Standing tall and regal, she’d been wearing a sheath dress the color of forest moss. Her feet were clad in high-heeled black pumps. Glossy chestnut hair was coiled into a perfect chignon.
 

John moved quietly through his world, soundlessly entering spaces where a piece of information—or opportunity—might be found.
 

So, it was no surprise that Angeline Dubois failed to hear him come in that day. And John Sinclair was forever grateful for that as it allowed a glimpse into a personality she rarely showed others.

“Tell me
exactly
what you were thinking when you thought you could steal these.” She raised both her hands, each holding antique crystal salt cellars from the eighteenth century. A young woman stood in front of her, shoulders stooped and eyes fixed to the floor. “Don’t stand there mute, Courtney. Tell me what you thought you’d accomplish. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Silence greeted her in response.
 

Carefully placing the cellars on a nearby table, she approached the girl. In a gesture at war with the confused anger in her voice, she lightly placed her hands on the girl’s upper arms. Almost too softly for him to hear, Angeline repeated herself. “
Tell me
.”

John was surprised when he saw the girl crumple, sobbing, into Angeline’s arms. She welcomed her with an embrace, allowing her to cry out her troubles on the lovely silk faille of her dress.

Just as John was about to announce his presence, the girl spoke.
 

“I needed the money. And that little antique shop on Jones Street is looking to buy these for a collector.”

Angeline pushed the girl’s shoulders back so she could look her in the eye. “Courtney, I don’t understand. You come from a wealthy family. Why do you think you need money?”

The girl averted her eyes, staring at the floor again. “Because I want to leave.” She raised tear-drenched eyes back to Angeline. “I
need
to leave. My family, it’s not what it seems. I can’t be there anymore.”

Angeline pulled the girl back into her arms for a hard hug. “Listen to me. I’ll help you, do you understand? We’ll go into my office and you will tell me everything. And we’ll get you out of whatever situation from which you think you need to escape.”
 

The girl’s face filled with cautious hope. “Do you mean it, Ms. Dubois? Really?”

“Yes, I mean it. You could have come to me, Courtney. But now I know. And I will help you, but on one condition.” She looked at the girl expectantly, waiting for Courtney’s answering nod in agreement. “You will not continue stealing. I’ll give you what you need. But you will conduct your life in the future with honesty and integrity. Agreed?”

The girl nodded again with a watery smile. “I promise. I give you my word, Ms. Dubois.”

“Good. Now, go into my office and wait for me. I’ll be there in a moment.”

After Courtney left, Angeline turned to see John standing across the room near the doorway. She hesitated briefly before walking toward him, fixing a bright smile of inquiry on her face.
 

“Welcome. Can I help you find anything or would you prefer to browse?”

Up close, John couldn’t help but stare into the warm glow of Angeline’s striking eyes. They were intense, mysterious, yet warmly inviting. He dropped his guard and baldly asked, “Are you really going to help that girl or were you just telling her that?”

Angeline opened her mouth slightly then shut it before firming her lips. She crossed her arms in front of her. “That’s none of your business.”

“Tell me.”

“Yes,” she blurted. “I’m going to help her. She needs me.”
 

John was sure she hadn’t meant to say that as a rosy blush climbed its way into her cheeks. “Good. Then to answer your question, I’ve found what I wanted.” He took out a business card, scribbling a message on the back before handing it over to her.

Someday, you’re going to marry me. In the meantime, meet me at Envie Espresso Bar tomorrow morning at 7 am.

He took the opportunity to briskly walk away before she was finished reading. A confident man by nature, he only admitted to himself later that he was afraid of her reaction.
 

As he reached the exit, he heard her ripple of muffled laughter. A smile creased his face because he knew, even then, that he’d won her.

***

Angeline was precisely twenty-three minutes late when she breezed into the Italianate townhouse she shared with her husband. She found him relaxing in his office, nurturing the final sips of what she guessed to be his best Scotch. He sat with the crystal glass loosely clasped between his hands, head lolled back against the overstuffed leather of his favorite chair. Even though his eyes were closed, she knew he was awake, waiting for her to join him in a flirtatious game they loved to play.

“Hello, Mr. Sinclair. Am I late?”

He smirked, opening his eyes a crack to reveal pale gray irises that never failed to take her breath. She’d never seen anyone with eyes like John’s—not in real life and not in any of the paintings she’d viewed in her career.
 

He carefully set his glass on a side table and reached out, inviting her closer. As Angeline neared, he grasped her hand and swung her onto his lap in a teasing embrace. “C’mere, Lean.”