London Bound (A Heart of the City romance Book 3) Read online

  ALSO BY C.J. DUGGAN

  Summer series

  The Boys of Summer

  Stan

  An Endless Summer

  Max

  That One Summer

  Ringer

  Forever Summer

  Paradise series

  Paradise City

  Paradise Road

  Heart of the City series

  Paris Lights

  New York Nights

  London Bound

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also By C.J. Duggan

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  Preview of Paris Lights

  Preview of New York Nights

  About the Author

  Hachette Australia

  Copyright

  For all those who were afraid …

  but did it anyway.

  Chapter One

  I thought life would be one giant tea party.

  Lawn croquet and cucumber sandwiches, men with monocles and ladies with lacy parasols. I thought the grass would be green and the sunshine eternal in the summer I came to London. Instead, I sat with crossed legs, indenting the puffy marshmallow cover of my bedspread, my long blonde hair tucked behind my ears as I scowled at my laptop. The blank screen scowled right back. I wearily rubbed the crease on my brow, wondering how my brain could be so devoid of inspiration, yet so full of despair. I looked out into the dull, grey light through the large window of my room. It was raining sideways again, icy splinters hitting the glass discordantly. I tried to convince myself that I was glad to be in here, away from the miserable weather.

  Sure, keep telling yourself that, Kate.

  ‘Katherine Elizabeth!’

  Bang-bang.

  I hated my name. Hated it with a burning passion. The very sound of it, though muffled by the space that divided my floor from the one below, and punctuated by the tapping of walking stick on floorboards, caused me to hide behind my screen and sink deeper into my mattress.

  ‘Shut up, you old bag,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Katherine Elizabeth Brown!’

  Bang-bang-bang.

  Like the caller, that name, and that sound, were getting old – very, very old.

  I sighed, slamming my laptop shut and chucking it aside.

  ‘Coming!’ I called out in the best upbeat, breezy voice I could manage, despite my dread at facing what lay on the other side of my door. Twisting the gold handle and stepping out into the hall meant two things: I was free from my prison, but about to enter another. The dreaded lower level.

  Now don’t be misled by all the beautiful old furniture, the impressive sweeping staircase or the sparkling chandelier that reflects off classic oil paintings from a bygone era. Nor by the impressive displays of silverware and china that would give any buck-toothed, tweed-covered Antiques Roadshow host heart palpitations. Make no mistake: beyond the impressive façade of this grand old terrace in South Kensington’s Onslow Gardens lies a very tastefully decorated hell and, despite appearances, there’s not a skerrick of Jane Austen-esque wit or drama to be found. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders; my posture was under constant scrutiny these days.

  Before the next series of thuds came, I twisted the handle, pushing open the final barrier between my world and hers with a silent prayer.

  Plastering on a well-intentioned smile, my gaze moved from her usual spot by the fireplace to the overstuffed lounge near the picture window on the other side of the room.

  She had moved? She must crave the sun … like a lizard.

  Next to the window I saw the silhouette of a distinguished elderly lady, her stark white hair coiffed in an elegant high bun, her bony frame dressed in her usual Chanel and finished with antique double-strand pearls. She was the vision of grace, class and noble breeding. Her delicately arched brow kinked as she turned impossibly bright blue eyes on me, before they dimmed and her seemingly pleasant disposition fell away like the sun behind a cloud.

  ‘Oh, Katherine, are you deliberately trying to look unattractive today?’

  My shoulders slumped; my posture wasn’t on the agenda today so I might as well rest them.

  ‘No, Nana Joy, not deliberately.’ I tried to keep my voice even, a little amazed that even after a month of enduring casual putdowns her comments still stung.

  I also tried to stop myself from looking over my attire to see what exactly was wrong with what I was wearing. How could a knee-length grey skirt and cream-coloured cardigan be so offensive? I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing my self-inspection. I was sure she gained power from my paranoia like the emotional vampire she was.

  ‘Tea, Nana?’ I asked, placing the empty china back onto the tray I had carried in earlier, glancing at the mantel clock and wishing away the time until Vera, Nana Joy’s carer called in for her daily duties.

  Dear Saint Vera.

  ‘No, I’ll wait for Vera. Vera makes a nice cup of tea,’ she said, waving me away.

  My curious eyes roamed over the empty teacup and saucer, a little smirk lining my lips. She could say what she liked, when it came to making tea, I knew I rocked it.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Nana Joy whined like a petulant child, which wasn’t so far from the truth.

  If I were a responsible human being I would have argued that a tray of shortbread (Nana’s favourite) was not a good idea lest she spoil her appetite. But if it meant it kept her quiet, if not happy, then I would give it to her. In fact, I’d be willing to sacrifice a goat in her honour, if it kept her from calling me by my full birth name. I had tried in vain the first few days to insist she call me ‘Kate’ but there would be none of that. The irony of my nana’s name being Joy was not lost on me either, because despite the cheery blue china and sugary afternoon snacks, Joy Ellingham was a nightmare. And, for now, she was my nightmare.

  I smiled brightly. ‘I’ll fix you something,’ I said, manoeuvring the tray through the door and trying to avoid Joy’s scoff, as she clasped her bony hands over her blanket and glared out the window at a poor passer-by. Come winter, if I had managed to survive that long, I planned to wheel her outside and put that glower to work: she could melt the snow from the pavement; sometimes evil can be useful.

  I sighed, clinking my way down the hall to the kitchen, another cheery room flooded with natural light from the adjoining sunroom. Through the glass door, a beautiful rose garden lay in a private courtyard that was small but still a pleasant way to grab some sunshine if it decided to appear.
I placed the tray on the sink and ran the hot water. Rinsing the delicate china always made me nervous and depressed.

  So this was my life now. Cook and washerwoman to the devil.

  The vivid memory of Mum warning me against my plans echoed through my mind again. What could I say? I had been blinded by the sparkling promise of travel, proximity to European fashion and, perhaps the greatest prize of all, free accommodation! And in, of all places, the very affluent South Kensington, where the streets were not paved with gold but as far as real estate went, they might as well have been. Known as ‘Paris’s 21st arrondissement’, I knew I’d be surrounded by culture and glamour; perfect inspiration for my blog.

  My mum was never close to Nana Joy. I had put it down to her being more of a daddy’s girl; she had adored Lionel Ellingham, and it was sad that I had no memory of the man so revered by my mother. The image Mum painted of Joy, however, was akin to a skull-and-cross-bone warning label. Highly corrosive – do not touch. But I hadn’t listened. I may not have seen her since I was a small girl but how could I not love my own grandmother?

  Landing on the doorstep of my nana’s opulent home felt like the ancestral equivalent of discovering a treasure trove; such grandeur was unlike anything I’d seen back home in the ’burbs of Australia where your wealth was measured by how big your flatscreen TV was or whether or not you had an ensuite bathroom. I was on the cusp of a grand adventure. I had visions of bonding trips to Harrods for a spot of shopping, afternoon tea at the Ritz, strolls through Kensington Gardens, and that was just in the time we would spend together. Other days I would explore on my own: day trips to the countryside, York maybe, Stonehenge, further afield to Edinburgh. The world was my oyster … or so I had thought.

  In the three-and-a-half weeks I had been in London I had seen nothing beyond Gloucester Road, the main strip a block away from our curved row of stark-white terraces. As I placed the fingers of shortbread on a dainty china dessert plate, I realised this was as close to high tea as it would get for me. There would be no bonding, no expeditions, no gallivanting of any kind.

  A small degree of relief came in the sound of the front door opening.

  Vera! Thank God.

  I eagerly met her in the hall and helped her with her bags, bombarding her with big smiles and cheer. Vera was my daily dose of adult conversation; anyone would think she was my carer.

  ‘Hello, Miss Kate, how are we today?’ she puffed, handing me her cargo with red-faced appreciation.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Vera.’

  Vera smiled; her packet-dyed red hair was almost as bright as her sparkly blue eyes. She never asked why I was so happy to welcome her. We had a silent understanding about the creature that lurked beyond the parlour door.

  She laughed. ‘I’ll take it from here, Kate.’

  My eyes lit up; they were by far the most magical words I had ever heard.

  ‘The rain has cleared out, why not enjoy the sun while it lasts? I won’t tell.’

  No, I was wrong – those were the most magical words I had ever heard. I went straight to my bag on the hallstand.

  ‘Kettle’s boiled and there’s shortbread on the go in the kitchen for the three o’clock munchies,’ I said, sneaking to unlatch the front door and wincing when it creaked. I really didn’t want to be bombarded with a million questions about where I was going and how long I would be. Going out for bread and milk was hard enough, let alone any ‘me’ time, which was seen as frivolous and selfish. But with Vera finally here I was allowed a small window of freedom, though I always rushed, making sure to return before Nana realised I had gone. It was exhausting, nothing like the free-spirited fun I had envisioned. Some days I swear it felt like I was in a sleeper hold, the lack of oxygen to my brain was no doubt going to cause me permanent damage; I was already concerned over my psychological state, and the sugar-laced cups of tea and shortbread were no doubt rotting my teeth while the lack of stimulation rotted my mind.

  I winked at Vera and made my way out the heavy, black-glossed front door. It was these stolen moments that kept me sane, that gave me hope. Stepping outside, I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sky, breathing in the alluring scent of rain in the air. The sky was a paler shade of grey now, things were definitely looking …

  Oh no.

  I always heard him before I saw him – the distant revs of his V8 could be heard from streets away. The sound made me instantly recoil behind the pillar of Nana’s terrace as I looked down the road. A new sense of dread hit me in the pit of my stomach.

  Why did this keep happening to me?

  The sound of screeching tyres heralded the arrival of the rain-beaded, navy blue Aston Martin. The first few times I saw the car I held my breath, thinking there was no way he was going to pull up in time, no way he could slide into that narrow little parking space at such a speed. I have since had the misfortune of seeing the driver pull off the exact same stunt several times a week for the last three weeks.

  The driver was our neighbour, a man I couldn’t stand, a man who was sliding out of his car in front of me, all suave and swagger as he pulled his perfectly tailored jacket together, wearing ridiculously expensive sunglasses that protected him from the invisible English sun. His hair was thick and dark and a little unruly; I guessed that he was the kind of man who drove with the window down. He wanted to be seen, and he certainly moved to be watched. It was almost as if he walked in slow motion, like he was on the set of a GQ fashion shoot or something. Just because I didn’t like him didn’t mean I was completely ignorant of his pretty face and equally impressive physique, but it was offset by his infuriating arrogance. Yes, hating Jack Baker was oh so easy, I felt it whenever that high-wattage smile and those ridiculous dimples were in my presence. Like right now, his square-tipped leather shoes stepping along the pavement as he slowly peeled off his sunglasses, looking up at me on my doorstep. My arms were folded, my brows narrowed. My usual reaction whenever our paths crossed.

  Jack stopped short of my steps, his gaze wandering over my attire as if intrigued, like he didn’t often come across a creature who wasn’t dressed in a brand name. Sure, I wasn’t exactly Oxford Street fashionable, but I liked the finer things, I just couldn’t afford them; my experience of high fashion was through the oft-thumbed pages of my treasured Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar magazines.

  I hated the way he looked at me; even standing above him I always felt so incredibly small and insignificant. My scowl deepened (usually I would just simply give him the middle finger, which always thrilled him no end, but I was trying to exercise restraint). He tucked his sunglasses inside his coat pocket, a little smirk pinching the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Stop flirting with me, Kate,’ he said, pressing the security button to his car without taking his eyes off me.

  ‘Is that supposed to impress me?’ I deadpanned, determined to stand strong on today’s staring competition, a battle of the wills. I always seemed to win, mainly because Jack Baker rarely took anything seriously. His lazy one-shoulder shrug really ticked me off.

  ‘Been waiting for me for long, have you?’ he said, cocking his brow as he went to his door. I rolled my eyes, finally putting my feet into motion and leaving the safety of the terrace.

  I blinked sweetly. ‘All my life.’

  Jack leant against his doorway, folding his arms. ‘I sense … sarcasm.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Little bit,’ he said, measuring it with his thumb and forefinger.

  I readjusted the strap of my bag, ready to leave this riveting exchange.

  ‘You know I can’t help but think we started off on the wrong foot,’ he said.

  I stopped wrestling with my handbag, walking back up to the edge of his wrought-iron gate, barely believing what I was hearing. ‘Ah, ya think?’

  Jack rubbed the edge of his jawline. ‘Was it something that I said?’

  Said? SAID? Was he joking?

  I watched his genuinely blank expression, feeling my blood boil under
the surface of my skin.

  ‘YOU NEARLY FUCKING HIT ME WITH YOUR CAR!’ I screamed.

  Jack broke into a smile. ‘Oh yeah, wow, that was when we first met.’

  Oh, it was the first time we had met all right, a day I would have given anything to forget. I had been trying to escape from being Nana’s human wool-holder while she knitted an ill-shaped tangerine scarf and scoffed about the ‘myth’ of global warming. My bid for freedom had been quickly derailed when Jack Baker appeared in his shiny blue death-mobile, slamming on his brakes. My scream had rung through the air as his car skidded along the rain-soaked street right before me, so close that the bumper touched my thighs and my hands anchored themselves to the bonnet. My eyes wild and wide, my heart thumping against my chest, I had looked through the windshield to an ashen face that mirrored my own: eyes big, brown and horrified. Jack had wrestled with his seatbelt before opening up the driver’s side door with lightning speed to stand next to me.

  ‘Bloody hell, are you all right?’

  And my mortifying answer?

  I had burst into tears. Yes, Jack Baker had seen me cry, and it was a something I would always regret. The fact he had forgotten the most traumatising event of my London experience (well, apart from living with Nana) made me even angrier.

  ‘You are unbelievable,’ I said.

  He rolled his eyes, actually rolled his eyes.

  ‘You didn’t even say you were sorry.’

  ‘Me, sorry?’ Jack pointed to his chest.

  ‘Yes, it’s what usually happens when you nearly hit someone with your car.’

  I glanced at the offending vehicle, a beautiful James Bond-esque piece of machinery. I mean, if you’re going to be taken out, being hit by an Aston Martin on the streets of South Kensington would at least sound impressive in the papers. It still struck me as odd that Jack was the owner of such a car; he couldn’t be much older than me. Looking over him again, in his beautifully tailored shirt, Rolex flashing from his wrist, I figured he was born into money. You could tell by the way he held himself. He wouldn’t be the kind to dream over Vogue, he would simply have ordered from it.

  ‘Are you quite done?’

  My attention snapped back up to his face. Oh shit, had I been staring?