crowd to the shelters, he caught a glimpse of Miss Gillian Browning.
His breath caught in his throat. She was absolutely stunning. The lady spy was slightly above average height, willowy, and her picture did not do her justice. One advantage of his superior senses is he could see clearly in the dark, and with the lights going out all around him, he could still make out the luminescence of her skin. The dark red shade of lipstick she wore suited her coloring. Her wool coat had seen better days and it was hard to establish if she possessed any curves, but her legs were long and shapely. Her hair was as golden as a setting sun, her eyes as blue as the ocean. Miss Browning—Gillian—must have been heading toward her flat, but now did an about-face and followed the crowd.
Luke fell in step behind her, far enough back to remain inconspicuous, but close enough to keep an eye on her. He tilted his chin slightly and inhaled. Chanel No. 5. Was it she who wore the alluring scent? It was not easy to acquire expensive French perfumes, perhaps a gift from her German lover?
Strangely, she did not enter the public shelters set up in the basements of buildings. Ah. She was heading for the St. James Park Tube Station. The London Underground still ran when it could despite delays the past couple of years due to the war. Acting as de facto shelters, tube stations came in handy during air raids such as this. Some of them were designated as permanent shelters. Air Raid Precaution wardens directed people in an orderly manner toward the various shelters. Luke stayed with Gillian, entering St. James Park and heading down the stairs with the rest of the crowd. Damn, he’d left his gas mask in the car, but since the Blitz ended, few Londoners carried them.
Stale, smoky air slammed his nostrils as Luke descended the stairs which had him wishing he did bring the mask. It would also conceal his face, though in this dim light, not many would see him anyway. He pulled up the collar of his trench coat as he scurried along. On the platform, people wandered about, holding a thermos of tea or clutching family heirlooms. Some took this in stride, others looked utterly frightened.
Gillian found an empty folding chair and sat, clutching her purse tight. Luke stayed in shadow, watching her closely. More people filed in carrying blankets and pillows, and they quickly staked out a section of the platform in case they would have to stay the entire night. The lighting below was dim with certain sections darker than others. Where they were located, it was shadowy enough he could remain hidden.
How stoic the lady spy looked, sitting ramrod straight on the chair. Luke wouldn’t describe her outward demeanor as cold or standoffish, more like guarded. God, he was completely transfixed by her beauty. Even her wariness and caution caught his interest. An old woman shuffled past. Gillian immediately stood and offered her chair.
“Bless your heart, dearie. My old bones need a rest and no mistake.” The woman grunted as she sat, then reached in her bag and pulled out some knitting. The needles clicked at a fast pace. Apparently she didn’t need any light to accomplish her task.
Should he make himself known? Why not? They would be introduced tomorrow anyway. Luke glanced around, located another folding chair, and carried it toward Gillian and the old lady. “Please, take this chair, miss.”
Chapter 3
Gillian turned toward the source of the husky, masculine voice. Heavens. A tall man wearing a trench coat stood in shadow. Due to the muted lighting, she couldn’t make out much else, except his profile was absolute perfection. In fact, he reminded her of the American film actor Robert Taylor, though this man didn’t have a moustache as far as she could tell. Yes, she’d seen the movie Waterloo Bridge at the cinema. He flipped the chair open and placed it next to her. She sat. Looking up at him she murmured, “Thank you.”
“You are quite welcome.”
His voice was cultured and smooth. The soft gruffness of it sent prickles of awareness through her. Everything feminine about her sprang back to life. Her heart pounded, and her eyelashes fluttered as her breath quickened. Gillian had not been affected by a man in years. She turned away from him as she had no business finding any man attractive.
“May I fetch mugs of hot tea for you ladies?” he asked politely.
“Ooo, luv. I’d murder for a hot cuppa. What a gentleman.” The old lady smiled.
“Thank you, most kind,” Gillian replied. He touched the brim of his hat and headed toward the canteen.
The old woman poked her with her elbow. “Cor, he be a tall one. And those shoulders. Too bad we can’t see his face, though with that build, in the dark who’d care?” The woman cackled. “His posh voice is like a pot of honey simmerin’ on the cooker. Sweet and full of heat. Ah, if only I were thirty years younger, eh, dearie?”
Gillian’s face flushed hot with embarrassment. The woman was not quiet. Did the stranger hear what she said? How mortifying.
“My name is Muriel Green, and yours, luv?”
Gillian did not need or want a chatty old lady yammering in her ear. She should’ve moved away as soon as she gave up her chair. “Gill O’Keefe.”
“Take my advice, when Mr. Tall and Broad Shoulders comes back, find out his name and chat him up. He’s considerate, a real plus. I didn’t see any of the lugs standin’ nearby offerin’ to fetch us hot tea as he did. Besides, more than one romance has started in air raid shelters, I’ll be bound.”
Oh, lord. Gillian rolled her eyes. The man returned and passed the enamel mugs to them, and Gillian observed his left hand was covered with a black leather glove while his right was not.
“Cheers, luv. Many thanks. My name is Mrs. Muriel Green and this here young lady is Miss Gill O’Keefe.”
He bowed slightly, but Gillian still could not see his face clearly. “Pleased to meet you. I am Luke Newman. At your service.”
Someone began to play the violin. The crowd hushed. Whoever was playing was extremely skilled. Oh, drat. What was the piece? It was obviously classical…
Mr. Newman leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D major,” Oh. Again, his voice caused her heart to stutter. It was if he read her mind.
Gillian pasted an indifferent look on her face in case he could see it. Even though her insides tightened in sensual awareness at having such a virile male in close proximity, she refused to show it outwardly. “Thank you, Mr. Newman,” she replied coolly. She turned her attention toward the mournful music. It continued for close to fifteen minutes and when the musician concluded, he received enthusiastic applause from everyone on the platform.
Mrs. Green dabbed at her eyes with a tattered handkerchief. “Blimey, that were beautiful. I feel as if I were at a concert at the Royal Albert Hall.”
“Considering the talent and ability, I am sure the musician is from the Royal Albert Hall since it is not far from here. Can I refresh your tea? Fetch you both some sandwiches perhaps? The canteen does have cheese and pickle or ham if you wish,” Mr. Newman said.
Why was this man paying such attention? Gillian’s inner alarm pealed. “No thank you I…”
“Steady on, dearie. I’ll not say no to a cheese and pickle butty. I’m gaspin’ for a bite. Cheers, Mr. Newman. You truly are a fine gentleman. I am much obliged for your kindness I’m sure.”
Because of Mrs. Green’s sincere speech, Gillian suddenly felt ungrateful. “You
