London Falling (2 page)

She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the edge of his desk. “Look, I just need a job until I earn enough money to buy a plane ticket home. It’s only short-term, and you clearly need some help. No one will ever know.”

“I can’t hire you.” He held up his hand when she started to speak. “My family’s bank is this close to getting the royal family’s business. We’ve been trying to win the royals’ business for four hundred years, ever since Coutt’s stole King George the Third out from under us. Hiring an illegal worker is not going to win the business for me. The royals do not want another scandal associated with them, so everyone at the bank, including me, is being vetted for suitability. Crikey, I’ve even got the competition staking out my house to see if they can catch me in some hidden indiscretion. I can’t afford to cock-up now.” His words were like iron, strong and unbendable. “Everyone I hire–including you–must have a work permit.”

“But the Embassy said they can’t get me a permit for two weeks.”

“Can’t you simply call the airline and have them re-issue your ticket?”

She pressed her fingers so tight around the coin, she wouldn’t have been surprised if Queen Elizabeth’s face were forever imprinted on her index finger. “I didn’t have a ticket. I had a voucher for a ticket home. And vouchers are non-refundable.”

“Why don’t you call someone at home and have them wire you the money?”

“There isn’t anyone.”

“Parents?”

She shook her head.

“Brothers or sisters?” She shook her head again. “Grandparents? Aunts, uncles, cousins? Haven’t you got someone you can ring?”

“Does ‘there isn’t anyone’ mean something different in England than in the States?”

“Friends?”

If only she could curl into a ball and sleep for the next month or two. “No one I know has that kind of money.”

“But–”

“And even if they did, I wouldn’t ask them because I wouldn’t be able to pay them back.”

He picked up a paper clip from his desk and pulled the metal apart.

“Have you rung your credit card company to report the theft?”

“I didn’t bring my credit cards. Besides, they’re maxed out.” And if she didn’t get back to Seattle in two weeks, all that debt would be wasted.

He shook his head in disapproval at her spending habits, which shouldn’t have been a surprise, given he was a banker.

She sat up. “You could give me a loan.”

His brief laugh let her know exactly how he felt about that idea. “And just ignore the fact that you’ve already maxed out your credit? Clearly you don’t have the money to repay a loan. Unless you have any assets you are willing to use as collateral?”

Aimee shook her head. She didn’t even own a bicycle, let alone anything of value.

“I thought not. Ruleford’s would never approve a loan.”

“A personal loan then? Clearly you can afford it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I see. I write you a check and then you have proof that I hired an illegal worker.”

“No! I wouldn’t do that.”

“Frankly, I’m still not certain you aren’t working for my competition.

How can I be certain you aren’t framing me?”

“Please.” Aimee tried to keep the fear out of her voice. “I’m telling you the truth.”

He flipped the paperclip over and over in his hand, tapping the desk after each turn. Tap. Tap. “Please understand that I sympathize with your situation. If it’s true.” Tap. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. “I’ll provide directions to the homeless shelter and money for food, but that’s all I can do. At least you can’t prove that I gave you the cash.”

He rifled through his wallet. “All I’ve got is a twenty.” He held it out to her.

The twenty-pound note suffocated her. Her hands started shaking, and the smell of stale pizza turned her empty stomach. How could she take charity from a virtual stranger?

Her mind flashed back to another time and another man holding out a ten dollar bill so she could afford to buy food for her and her mom. “Don’t be so prudish! Come here and thank me like a good girl.” She’d had to hide out for weeks to avoid him. But how could she not take it now?

She stood, not sure what she was planning to do, but then she caught the look in his eyes. No. She’d vowed she would never see that look ever again.

Mom wasn’t storming into middle school, high as a kite and taking her God knows where, and the neighbors weren’t asking her when she would have time to relax and have fun like a normal teenager. Gram’s lawyer wasn’t patting her hand in pity after the funeral.

But now this guy stood in his high-priced home with that same look in his eyes. She hated him! Hated him for putting her in this position. Hated him for making her beg. She didn’t want anyone to see her this low, least of all him.

Damn it, she wasn’t a charity case. For most of her twenty-eight years, she’d taken care of herself and done a pretty good job, considering. She wanted to rip the money into shreds and throw it right back at him.

Instead, she whipped around and ran out the study door and down the stairs to the front hall, where she tripped on a stack of papers, sending them flying. She had to get out of here! Her stilettos smacked the floor as she tried to keep her balance. After catching herself, she snatched open the front door, only to find herself whipped in the face by the stinging rain.

She stared out at the park, where the trees sagged under the heavy downpour. She had nowhere to go. Nowhere! And she’d dropped that damn pound somewhere in his study. She pressed her hand to her stomach, knowing she had to take his money.

A loud thud sounded above and then several smaller thumps that sounded like things falling to the ground.

“Bugger,” he said from upstairs.

She couldn’t let him see her looking like a pitiful wretch. No. She needed to convince him, but not like this. After brushing the tears from her cheeks and slamming the front door shut, she escaped to the bathroom across the hall.

She leaned her hands against the counter, suddenly so weak she couldn’t even summon the energy to shut the bathroom door or turn the light on. His footsteps echoed down the hall and stopped outside the room.

Please, she needed a few minutes to compose herself.

A few more steps and the front door closed–she must not have closed the front door completely–and then his footsteps retreated down the hall and up the stairs.

She slumped to the floor. What was she going to do? All of the shelters were full because of the weather. Didn’t he think she’d tried that first? And everything else was closing for the holidays. A single woman alone on the streets. She was going to freeze to death in this weather. Or be raped. Or killed. Or all three.

She leaned her head against the wall behind her. Leave it to her to find the one man in all of London who couldn’t hire her. But if charity was her only option–no, she wouldn’t let it be her only option. Somehow she had to convince him to hire her.

From a distance, Simon’s voice intruded into her thoughts. “Sorry I got held up …” His voice came closer. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you on the way to Father’s I know, but I’ll get us there on time I’ll be round in a few.”

Once again his steps paused outside the bathroom. She sought a Kleenex or even a piece of toilet paper to wipe her nose, but the roll was empty. If ever anyone needed a housekeeper, it was this man. In desperation, she wiped her face with her sleeve, rolling up the used part so it didn’t face outward.

A beep sounded from the hall, followed by the front door opening and closing. And then silence.

He didn’t. He couldn’t have. Could he?

Grasping the edge of the counter for balance, she heaved herself into a standing position and stepped into the hall. It was empty. Even the bag was gone. Next to the door, an alarm system marked the number of seconds until activation.

Ten.

Maybe he just went to put his bag in the car while he waited for her?

Nine.

And turned the alarm on?

Eight.

He must have thought she’d left.

Seven.

Did she dare?

Six.

She had no place to go.

Five.

She watched as the alarm system counted down her remaining chance to leave the house without getting arrested for breaking and leaving.

Four. Three. Two. One.

When the final beep sounded, she collapsed on the floor in relief.

“You’re hired,” she said. The words echoed down the empty hall.

Simon dropped both his bag and Lucy’s Louis Vuitton in the hall before entering the drawing room. Although his father sat in his usual chair next to the fireplace and Aunt Dot sat across from him on the sofa, the room still felt empty, as if someone had nicked a major piece of art and the space hadn’t yet been filled. His uncle’s death still surprised him, even a year later.

“I apologize. It’s my fault we’re late,” he said.

“Be thankful we’re both here in one piece,” his sister said, as she snuck into the room behind him. “I think I left nail marks in the armrest.”

Simon shrugged. “I gained a good twenty minutes.”

“It would be bad press for you to be caught speeding.” His father cleared his throat. “Again. We’ve got to be extremely cautious right now.”

As if Simon didn’t know. Sometimes he wondered if his father realized he was a thirty-year-old man, rather than the rebellious teenager who fell out of a tree trying to sneak out of the house late at night.

Simon turned toward Aunt Dot, whose thick polo-neck jumper and corduroy skirt made her look like a country grandmother. He leaned in for a kiss, but she grabbed his shoulders in a warm hug, forcing him to balance his weight on the arm of the couch so he wouldn’t fall over. The scent on her clothes reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite place it. She held him in a death grip as she swayed back and forth and clucked her tongue.

When he extricated himself, he got a good look at her face. Her glassy eyes and half-smile revealed the source of her odd scent.

Aunt Dot was stoned!

Aunt Dot, who never did anything to rock the boat, had smoked wacky backy at his father’s house. He clenched his teeth to hide his grin. Did his father know? Surely he wouldn’t recognize the smell of pot. If not for some hard-partying friends, Simon wouldn’t have recognized the smell either.

He turned to his father. “I’ve decided to loan the money to Porter Scales.”

“What’s that?” Lucy asked.

His father rolled his eyes. “Another one of Simon’s unpromising causes.

He forgets that we run a business, not a charity.”

So much for a nice relaxing weekend at home. “It’s not a charity case. It’s a profitable business decision, despite the fact that we would be helping everyone involved.” Simon turned to Lucy. “Porter Scales is the largest employer in their small village, and they’ve been making scales since the 1800s, but with the shift in technology, their equipment is quickly becoming outdated. If they’re forced to close, the entire town will suffer.”

“That’s terrible,” Lucy said. “We have got to do something to help.”

Their father shook his head. “How have I raised two children with such bleeding hearts?”

Simon slowly counted to five. “Lasers are the next wave in scale technology. Being able to size a unit is just as important as weighing it, especially for retailers. With an influx of capital, Porter will be able to get in at the beginning and carve out a leadership position.” Hadn’t his father heard the same presentation? They were both in the same room for it.

“It’s a risk.”

Simon crossed his arms. “You put me in charge of the Small Business Division for a reason. Have I ever let you down?”

“There was–”

“One time,” Simon interrupted his father. “One time out of hundreds.

And I’ve increased our turnover by eleven percent this year. There are always risks, but I think my track record speaks for itself.”

“Would you be willing to bet your bonus on it?”

Simon gave a curt nod. Over the years, he’d bet his bonus ten times over –and he still hadn’t lost. It seemed that all he ever did was prove himself, and then his father asked for a little more, then a little more, and a little more. But if he got the princes’ business, he’d have accomplished something that his father had never been able to do. As long as he didn’t muck things up.

“Would anyone care for a drink?” he asked, before walking over to the bar.

“White wine please.” Lucy sank onto the couch next to Aunt Dot. “After that ride, I need a drink. I don’t know why I agreed to drive up here with Simon. I should have got the train.”

“Don’t say you need a drink. It’s not attractive,” his father said.

Simon poured more wine into Lucy’s glass.

“You know how Simon drives, like he’s trying to win the Monaco Grand Prix.” She turned to Simon. “How did we come out of the same gene pool?”

A female snorted, and Simon had a pretty clear idea who, since his sister had never done one inelegant thing in her life. He took his time mixing his gin and tonic. How could he explain his driving when he didn’t understand it himself? It was reckless and stupid, but every time he got in the car, he acted like a rubber band that had been snapped and released. A squirt of lime shot into his eye, cutting his guilt short. He blinked, picked up both glasses, and handed Lucy her wine.

Next to her, Aunt Dot had her arms crossed and her eyes almost closed.

Lucy mouthed, “She’s high,” and pointed her finger.

As if she knew she was being talked about, Aunt Dot chose that moment to open her eyes. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Lucy said in a voice three octaves higher than usual.

Simon winked at Lucy, who covered her mouth with her hand and turned away to hide her mirth.

“How’s the benefit coming along?” their father asked after Simon seated himself on the couch across from Lucy.

Simon picked at a loose thread on the brocade-covered arm. “Are you sure we still want to go the benefit route?” It was his father’s idea, and Simon still thought it was the wrong way to go, but he didn’t own the bank. His father did.

Over the rim of his glass, his father stared at him. “Somehow, we’ve got to show that you do more than have dinner with Katherine Knightly and Cinnamon Spice.”