working on Thursday itself. She was owed several days’ extra vacation, and she planned to use one of them pampering herself at a health spa with every beauty treatment known to the mind of woman.
And in accordance with his request—or was it a demand?—she’d bought herself something glamorous: a housecoat in heavy black silk, long-sleeved, floor-length and full-skirted, fastened by a long row of tiny buttons that began at the deep V of the neckline and ended at mid-thigh.
She was folding it in tissue and placing it in her overnight bag on Wednesday evening when the doorbell rang.
Cat froze, sending herself a horrified glance in the mirror. Oh, no, she besought any passing fate, he can’t have caught me again, with wet hair and wearing the comfort blanket.
She opened the door carefully, using the chain, and peeped round the edge. A young man was standing there in leathers, carrying a crash helmet under his arm and holding a padded envelope.
‘Miss Adamson? I’ve been asked to deliver this, and wait for an answer if needed.’
He passed the yellow envelope through the gap to Cat, who tore it open. Three keys on a ring with a metal tag slid into the palm of her hand. The attached label read ‘Flat 2, 53 Wynsbroke Gardens’. And, scrawled underneath the address in Liam’s distinctive writing, ‘In case I’m late.’ She stared down at it. So, she thought, this was to be the meeting place he’d arranged—not the anonymous hotel room she’d expected, but a flat in one of London’s most expensive areas. Serious stuff.
She swallowed convulsively. My God, she told herself. It’s coming true. It’s really happening. I don’t think I believed it until this moment.
Yet here was the incontrovertible truth. Liam had meant everything he said. Her hand closed round the keys so tightly that the metal dug into her hand as she stared unseeingly in front of her.
I’m scared, she realised in bewilderment. I’m actually scared. And how pathetic is that?
‘Is there an answer, miss?’ The messenger’s voice reached her from the passage outside.
I’m being offered another choice, she thought. Another chance to do the wise thing. All I have to do is hand back the keys, say there’s been some mistake, and I’m out of it for good. He won’t try again. And I’ll be safe. Safe…
The word echoed longingly in her head.
She took a deep breath. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘But there’s no reply.’
My decision, she thought as she closed the door, is made.
‘You’re very tense,’ the masseuse said disapprovingly, her hands working essential oils into Cat’s neck and shoulders.
‘I have a lot on my mind,’ Cat returned wryly.
She’d had a wonderful facial, she’d been manicured, pedicured, and taken a sauna. By this time she should have been totally relaxed and floating, her mind free, looking forward to a night of pleasure. Instead she was as taut as a guitar string, and almost ready to snap.
I’m heading for disaster, she thought, biting her lip.
In many ways it might have been more sensible to have spent a normal day at work. At least she would have been forced to concentrate her mind on something apart from the evening ahead.
Yet here she was, being waxed, plucked, smoothed and scented as if her life depended on it.
I feel, she thought moodily, like some harem girl who’s been summoned by the Sultan. And I wonder what the Sultan would have said if the harem had started summoning him instead. Probably had the lot of them tied up in sacks and chucked into the Bosphorus. Where, of course, they would have sunk without trace.
And that’s what I’m risking too. That sooner or later, when all passion’s spent, I’ll be left alone and floundering. And how will I bear it?
But I mustn’t think like that. It’s the beginning of the affair, not the end. I’m getting what I want, and I should be happy about it.
‘You’re clearly under a lot of stress,’ the masseuse told her as they parted. ‘Maybe you should consider having regular treatments.’
I hope I won’t need them, Cat returned silently, murmuring something non-committal. As she was putting her credit card away, after paying the bill, she heard the clink of the keys in the bottom of her bag. Flat 2, 53 Wynsbroke Gardens, she repeated silently, as she’d been doing all day. As if there was any real chance of her forgetting.
She’d planned to go straight home, of course. Told herself that bringing the keys with her had been some kind of mild aberration and was of no importance. But that didn’t explain why she found herself turning right instead of left at the traffic lights, and heading straight for Notting Hill.
She found Wynsbroke Gardens without difficulty, and managed to squeeze into a parking space some two hundred yards away round the nearest corner.
She walked back slowly, counting the numbers on the houses until she reached number 53. She simply wanted to look at it, that was all, she told herself in self-justification. Just to see where Liam had chosen for this strange tryst. She hadn’t the slightest intention of going in, of course.
Number 53 turned out to be a tall house, part of a terrace, with a flight of stone steps leading up to a pillared portico, and narrower stairs going down to a basement.
There was an entry system by the front door, but there was no name beside the buzzer for Flat 2.
I’ll try one key, Cat thought. And if it doesn’t fit I’ll walk away. Wait until tonight.
But the key did fit, and she stepped forward into a tiled hallway. The entrance to the ground floor flat was on her left, and there was another door straight ahead bearing a brass number two on its gleaming surface.
Once inside, a flight of carpeted stairs led up to yet another door.
I’m beginning to feel like Bluebeard’s wife, Cat mocked herself, fitting the third key into the lock. Beyond lay a passage with pastel walls and seagrass flooring.
Cat hesitated momentarily, then turned right, opening the door at the end. She found herself in a large sunlit room, with long windows and a balcony overlooking the communal gardens below.
The floorboards had been stripped and waxed, and the walls were painted a pale cream. Two deeply cushioned sofas upholstered in dark green flanked a marble fireplace, and a dining area with a table, four chairs and a small sideboard had been created in an alcove at the far end of the room.
The whole place had that pristine just-decorated look. It was also curiously vacant. Apart from a tray of bottles with some crystal tumblers on the sideboard, there was nothing there. Not a picture on any of the walls, or an ornament on one of the surfaces. Not even a clock on the mantelpiece. Even the furniture looked brand-new, as if no one had ever sat on one of those cushions or eaten a meal at the polished table.
It was undeniably a beautiful room, Cat thought, yet the effect was almost soulless.
The main bedroom opened out of the living room. The wide bed had already been made up, Cat realised, her heart missing a beat, and the tailored blue coverlet
