beyond belief. He’d made it look like…
She knew what it looked like. He was re-fastening his belt clumsily. She was sprawled, stunned, in the armchair, her pyjamas only just decent. She was flushed and dazed and her mouth felt bruised.
She felt—and she looked, she suspected—thoroughly, totally kissed.
She couldn’t help it. She raised her hand to her lips and Hugo’s smile deepened. He winked—the toe-rag winked!—before turning back to the men at the door.
It was Henry and the conductor from her carriage.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, urbane and polite. But his annoyance was unmistakable for all that. ‘How can I help?’
The scene was being played out to a nicety, Amy thought, unable to move. No one could doubt what had been happening in this room. No one could doubt why it had taken Hugo so long to answer the door.
‘I’m so sorry…’ Henry started, but the conductor behind him was made of sterner stuff. Maybe he wasn’t quite as intimidated by the Thurston billions.
‘The girl you’re with,’ he growled, and pointed to Amy. ‘That woman. We have reason to believe she’s carrying a dog.’
‘A dog?’ If they’d announced life on Mars, Hugo could hardly have sounded more stunned. ‘Amy has a dog?’
‘Miss Cotton,’ the conductor snapped. ‘She’s budget class.’
Hugo froze.
Once upon a time Amy had seen a frail, elderly Sir James Thurston escort his wife through a crowd of post-ballet revellers. A photographer had suddenly emerged from the throng and shoved his camera so close to Dame Maud that she’d spilled her drink.
Frail, elderly Sir James had suddenly been frail and elderly no longer. If there was ever any proof needed about the power needed to make the billions, it was there in that moment, when one blustering photographer was reduced to a whimpering puddle of humiliation.
And here it was again: the Thurston power. The stance of the man. The single glance, cold as flint.
‘Budget class,’ Hugo repeated, and the two words could have cut glass.
‘That’s… that’s where she’s from,’ the conductor managed. ‘I’ve searched her compartment and when I couldn’t find the dog…’
‘You searched my Amy’s compartment?’
My Amy. She should be pleased, Amy thought. Here he was, her hero, defending her. Instead… My Amy. She felt like standing up and saying Oi!
But now was not a time for feminist principles. Somehow she managed to subside. Her job was to sit and look kissed.
That wasn’t hard. She was kissed.
‘She’s brought the dog here,’ the conductor said, but instead of sounding sure, he was now sounding sulky and defensive. Henry the butler was glancing at him as if he suspected he’d lost his mind.
Woman coming to billionaire’s bedroom at dead of night—understandable. Woman smuggling dog to billionaire’s bed… Not so much.
But the conductor knew his job and was intent on carrying it out. ‘It’s in there,’ he said, and pointed straight at Amy’s purse. He darted forward—and then he hesitated. ‘Does it bite?’
‘Does what bite?’ Hugo demanded, still at his autocratic coldest.
‘The dog.’
‘You’re saying a dog’s in Miss Cotton’s purse.’
‘Yes.’
Hugo closed his eyes. He visibly counted to ten, and then he opened them again.
He looked at Henry and hauteur gave way to sympathy. ‘Are you okay with this?’
‘Please…’ said the miserable Henry. ‘If you could just open the purse we could all just go back to…’ he glanced at Amy ‘…to whatever we were doing.’
Indulge the lunatic and you’ll be left alone, his tone said, and Hugo sighed and nodded.
‘Okay. Let’s do this. No, it won’t bite,’ he assured the conductor, and a commander approaching a shell-shocked soldier couldn’t have achieved a more sympathetic tone. ‘But let’s make absolutely sure. Miss Cotton, would you open your purse for us?’
But Amy didn’t move, or not instantly. Things were happening too fast—and she wasn’t helped at all when, instead of handing her the purse, Hugo stooped and kissed her again, hard, fast, on the mouth.
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