As the driver shut the car door, returned to his place and began to steer the car smoothly towards the west, she rested
her
head against the cool window pane, wondering how she could dampen down the heat inside her. It was all she could do not to lift her skirts right there on the back seat and bring herself to another shuddering climax.
Rocco, her bodyguard, sat in the front seat beside the driver and she glanced at his broad back, wondering for a moment if she dared ask him to perform quite another kind of service for her. She needed a man, and she needed one soon.
Damn this frustration! It’s killing me!
Back at the Notting Hill apartment she went quickly up the steps, Rocco following her as usual while the driver took the car away.
Inside, she brushed away enquiries from the housekeeper as to whether she needed anything. ‘No, no, I’m fine. I need to be alone.’ She hurried to her bedroom and from there to her bathroom, turning on the bath taps and letting the hot water gush out at full speed. She added a splash of costly bath oil and then got out of her dress, abandoning thousands of pounds worth of silk chiffon in a heap on the floor.
She unclipped her bra and tossed it on to the bed, then stood in front of her full-length chiffonier glass wearing only her silver high-heeled Jimmy Choo sandals, staring at her naked body. She ran her hand over her small, dark-rose-nippled breasts and then down to the strip of brown fur between her legs. She ran her fingers through its softness for a moment or two, then shivered and sighed, wishing she had the man from the party here with her now.
Not much longer, she reminded herself. Things were going well – damn it, they were going brilliantly! Everything was in place. Her business today had gone exactly as she’d hoped …
She went through to the bathroom. Perhaps a hot bath would help to douse her lust.
When she emerged an hour later, wrapped in a fluffy towel, she felt better: the fire had burned down to a kind of languour. She rubbed at her damp hair and wondered if she felt like something to eat.
Just then there was a knock at the door. She opened it to see her housekeeper outside, holding a large brown envelope.
‘Yes?’ Romily said.
‘This was just delivered for you, madam.’ The housekeeper held out the envelope, looking worried. ‘The courier said I was to hand it to you without delay.’
Romily took it. ‘Thank you. Oh, and could you send supper to my room, please? Something light.’
‘Yes, madam.’
Romily took the envelope over to her bed and sat down. She opened it and pulled out a clear case full of photographs, large black and white prints like something taken for a newspaper. The first showed her walking through Heathrow as she had done only recently, dark glasses on, her luggage being pushed on a trolley beside her, Rocco at her side.
The next showed her getting into her car at the airport. She flicked faster and faster. Each photograph showed her in the recent past: coming and going from the apartment, entering shops, getting into the car or out of it. The last thing in the file was a piece of paper with printed letters in a large font that read:
YOU ARE BEING WATCHED. BEWARE
.
Romily felt herself turn cold all over, the warmth of the bath quite gone.
Oh, God
, she thought.
What the hell is this?
Ten minutes later she came out of her room, dressed in jeans, a white shirt and navy cashmere jumper, and a pair of
Prada
patent boots. With her, she had a small overnight bag and a briefcase. She had packed as quickly as possible; she had to get away, then she would make contact. As she dashed out, she almost collided with her housekeeper who was carrying a tray with a dish of smoked haddock and poached egg arranged on it.
‘Madam!’ gasped the housekeeper, keeping her balance with difficulty. ‘What is it?’
‘Get my guard for me,’ Romily ordered abruptly. ‘Tell him to be up and ready to leave immediately. And call the car.’
‘Your supper …?’
‘Don’t worry about that now. Just do as I say.’
She went into the sitting room and over to the sash window. She looked down at the Notting Hill street, quiet in this area at this time of night, only the odd figure passing by, illuminated by the nearest streetlight.
Is he out there right now, with his camera trained on my house? What the hell does he want with me, whoever he is?
A moment later Rocco came bursting into the room, pulling on a sweater over his T-shirt. ‘What is it, madam? You want to leave?’
‘Yes, Rocco. Look at these.’ She pulled the photographs out of her bag and thrust them at him. ‘I’m being watched. Stalked.’
He flicked through them quickly, taking in every detail. ‘Yes,’ he said roughly. ‘Your every move for the last week is here. They must be expert at remaining hidden.’
‘We’re leaving right away.’
The guard frowned. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere safe. I can’t stay here, you must see that. We’ve got to get away as soon as we can. I know where we can go.’
‘But where?’
‘I don’t want to say,’ Romily said quietly. ‘But we’ll be welcome there.’
The bodyguard looked agitated. ‘For your own safety, you must keep me informed,
signora
. I can’t do my job if you don’t.’
‘Just get your things – and don’t forget your passport. We’ll be safe soon enough.’
Rocco went out as ordered, as the housekeeper came back in. ‘I’ve summoned the driver,’ she said. ‘He’s bringing the car round now.’
‘Good.’ Romily went back to her vigil at the window.
Moments later she was climbing into the car, Rocco on high alert, his hand hovering near the gun in his armpit, his gaze flicking about, looking for trouble.
‘We’re going to Chelsea,’ she instructed the driver. ‘I’ll tell you exactly where when we’re closer.’ Once she was in and the car was pulling away, she sighed with relief. Taking out her phone she tapped out a text:
I’m on my way to see you. Will explain when I arrive
. Then she leant back and watched the night-time city glide past the window.
Romily didn’t know London well but she knew enough to be sure that they weren’t heading for Chelsea as she’d instructed. From Notting Hill it was a quick journey down towards High Street Kensington and from there into the heart of Chelsea. Twenty minutes, perhaps, if the traffic was average. A little more if they were unlucky and caught all the red lights. But before long, she was sure that they’d veered off somehow and the next minute they were crossing one of the bridges and heading south.
She pressed the button that allowed her to communicate with the driver. ‘Where are we going? This isn’t Chelsea. We’ve crossed the river.’
Rocco’s voice came back. ‘I think we’re being followed,
signora
. Trust me, we’re taking a long route to lose them.’
She looked out of the back window: some cars and
motorbikes
were behind them but she couldn’t see anyone specifically tailing them.
That’s because I’m not SAS-trained, I suppose, and Rocco is
. But as they went ever further south without turning back for Chelsea, she became anxious.
‘I want to go back,’ she commanded. ‘I don’t care if we are being followed. They’ll give up when they realise where we’re going.’
‘Very well,’ Rocco said in reply. ‘We’ll turn around now.’
The car pulled smoothly to a halt at the side of the road and he got out. Romily turned to watch him, wondering what he was doing. He opened her door and climbed quickly in next to her. Just as she was opening her mouth to speak, he pulled a cloth out his pocket and pressed it over her face in one rapid movement. She tried to scream and struggle but it was impossible to make a sound with his hand pushing her face into the suffocating cloth. She couldn’t help it: she had to take a breath. Then another. As soon as she did, she felt herself begin to float away. She felt her eyes rolling back and, even though she fought it, unconsciousness possessed her.
Chapter 57
DRIVING BACK TO
London along the M3, Allegra felt happy with progress at Astor House.
Fuck it, I’m more than happy. I’m totally bloody ecstatic! It’s slow but it’s just right. There’s no point in hurrying and getting it wrong. We’re still on course to open next Easter, when the countryside will look fantastic
.
She and Adam had spent a happy two days at the site. The house was now completely gutted, stripped back to bare brick in places, and they were conserving and repairing the original features, including intricate plasterwork.
‘I never realised there was so much to know about bloody plaster,’ Allegra had said, her yellow hard hat on. ‘But this place has it all: egg and dart cornicing with columns, fluted this, drop-swagged that, and don’t get me started on ceiling roses, corbels and panel mouldings.’
‘The perils of Grade One listing.’ Adam smiled at her.
‘The bloody
price
of Grade One listing,’ she grumbled, pushing her hands in the pockets of her protective overcoat. ‘English Heritage seem to think we’re made of money and have nothing better to do than source original roof tiles of the precise size, age and colour of the ones on the roof already.’
‘David would approve.’
‘Oh my God, he would!’ Allegra laughed. ‘He’s such a perfectionist, he’d get on really well with the Heritage guy.
But
he’s going to be
so
excited when he sees this place. When it’s nearly finished, I’m looking forward to going on a fantastic shopping trip with him, sourcing some magnificent Regency antiques for the hotel.’
Adam looked round. ‘I can see it now. It’s going to be an amazing blend of old and new: the speed and convenience of modern life, and the comfort and luxury of days gone by.’
‘Exactly.’ Allegra nodded. ‘And service … that’s the key. Such wonderful, personal service you’ll feel utterly cosseted and cared for. Along with the finest of everything, from the bed linen to the water glasses. Come on, let’s go and look at the spa.’
They went out to the old coach house that was being converted into the health and beauty area.
‘Did I tell you I’ve decided to franchise this out?’ she said. ‘My cousin Jemima runs a perfume house with her sisters and they’ve recently developed a range of fantastic spa and beauty treatments. In fact, she’s opened a very successful spa at her own house in Dorset. I went to see it recently. Jemima says she’d love to take over here, stock it with Trevellyan products and offer their treatments.’
‘It’s not like you to hand over control to someone else,’ remarked Adam, studying the old building with its sagging beams and dirty floor.
‘I trust her and her brand,’ Allegra said with a smile. ‘It fits with the McCorquodale ethos of quality and luxury, the best of the best.’
‘I’d like to meet her.’
‘I’m sure you will. Now, let’s visit the vegetable garden. It’s going to supply the hotel and maybe even the London clubs if I can get enough production going here. Come on.’
She was pleased that Adam seemed so impressed with the progress so far. It was important that he respected her business ability as well as her body – though she didn’t mind
him
showing his appreciation of that as well … She’d left him on-site to oversee some work and liaise with the site manager while she headed back to London. As she was driving back in on the M3, her phone went. She switched on her hands-free.
‘It’s your uncle,’ Tyra said when she’d answered the call. ‘He’s asked if you can go straight round to see him at home.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No. Just that he’d like you to get there as soon as you can.’
‘OK. Can you ring him and tell him I’m just approaching Richmond? I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes.’
‘Will do,’ Tyra said, and rang off.
Odd
, thought Allegra as she drove on.
I wonder why he didn’t call me himself
.
The traffic wasn’t too heavy. Within thirty-five minutes she was heading up Kensington High Street towards Knightsbridge. She parked outside David’s house and ran up the steps to the front door. His housekeeper answered and showed her in to the drawing room.
She wandered about, looking at David’s pictures. She never grew tired of the many and varied paintings he had hung close together all over the walls. Her favourite was a portrait of an aristocratic young man with a lazy yet wicked glint in his eye.
There was a sound behind her. She turned to see her uncle coming in through the door, his face serious, a pile of papers clamped under his arm.
‘Hello, David,’ she said cheerfully. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m well, very well. Sit down, Allegra, please.’
She sat down, telling him about her latest trip to Astor House while he settled himself opposite, spreading out some of the papers he’d been carrying on the low table. He seemed to be listening with only half an ear, grunting a response from time to time.
‘Now,’ he said suddenly, cutting her off, ‘I went round to the office today and collected the details of last night’s takings. And the night before’s. In fact, I got the whole week’s worth.’
‘Yes?’ Allegra sat forward to see what was on the papers, but he snatched them away from her.
‘I’m very concerned,’ he said, fixing her with a cold gaze.
‘Why? Is something wrong?’
‘Yes, I believe it is. I believe there are significant sums missing. There seems to be a shortfall amounting to almost two hundred thousand pounds.’
‘What?’ cried Allegra, dismayed. ‘Where? How?’
‘That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me.’
‘Well, I’ve no idea.’ She was baffled. She kept a tight rein on the accounts. There was no way such a large amount could vanish without her noticing. ‘I’m sure I would have noticed a sum like that disappearing. After all, it’s almost a quarter of our profits on sales for last year.’
‘I’ve asked my own man to look into it. I also want some explanation of the spending on Astor House. It’s astronomical.’ He gave her a cold look. ‘Don’t you understand the climate we’re all working in?’
‘Of course I do, but we both agreed we couldn’t stop trying to expand just because times are hard. We need to make sure we’re prepared for a better future. We agreed that.’ She was bewildered by his hostility. Why was he being like this? She’d always been careful to get his agreement to anything she did.