CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS nine-thirty at night. This was dark, unfamiliar territory and even inside the taxi it was freezing cold. Outside, with the wind rustling wrappers and paper along the street, the detritus of people who couldnât be bothered to find the nearest bin in which they could deposit their rubbish, it would be an icebox. A menacing, littered icebox. All that was needed now were a couple of howling, rabid dogs and some dustballs to complete the happy scene.
This had better be good.
âYou sure you got the address right, lady?â The taxi-driverâs eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror. âSomebody meeting you at the other end?â Cos this ainât the most savoury part of London.â
âOh, somebodyâs meeting me all right,â Melissa muttered grimly under her breath. She crossed her slender legs and stared with mounting exasperation out of the window.
Even for him, this was too much. To give her forty minutesâ notice, to drag her from the cosy warmth of her little flat not to mention the tantalising prospect of a ready-made meal curled up in front of the television, on the pretext that he needed to have a meeting with her urgently, didnât bear thinking about.
In the three years that she had been working for him, Robert Downeâs utter disregard for convention had seen her working until three in the morning, taking notes at meetings conducted in the most unlikely places, being whisked off on his private jet an hour after she had stepped foot through the office door, but when she was home, her time had always been her own.
He demanded total commitment from everyone who worked for him, and from her he expected not only that, but a ready, obliging and preferably thrilled smile on her face to accompany his occasionally outrageous demands. But, as he had airily informed her at her interview, fair was fair. The minute she left the office, she would be absolutely free to shed her working clothes and indulge in whatever took her fancy, without fear that he would invade her privacy with unwanted work requests.
What he had omitted to mention was quite how thoroughly her well-paid, invigorating job would eat into so many hours of the day that the notion of having any sort of coherent, stable, routine private life was almost out of the question.
Her brilliant, temperamental, utterly dedicated boss didnât possess a nine-to-five mind and he was frankly bewildered by anyone who didnât share his lack of respect for clocks, watches and anything else that attempted to impose restrictions on the working day.
âHere we go, lady. Big Alâs. Been in there a couple of times myself.â There was wistful nostalgia in the cab driverâs voice as he harked back to what was undoubtedly his bad old days, judging from the unappealing sight that greeted her eyes. âLooks worse on the outside than it is on the inside. And donât mind them blokes on the bikes. Gentle as lambs, they are.â
The herd of gentle lambs, some ten of them, began revving their motorbikes. One of them spat forcefully into the gutter, said something in a loud voice and there was a wave of raucous laughter.
Iâll kill him, she thought to herself, even if it means saying goodbye to the best job Iâm ever likely to have. How could he have brought me here?
âWant me to wait for you, just in case your mate ainât inside?â
âNo.â Melissa sighed and handed over the fare, including a generous tip just in case she needed him sooner than she thought.
âLike hanging out with the rough sort, do you?â The taxi-driver caught her eye in the mirror and winked knowingly, a seedy gesture to which Melissa could find no response that came anywhere near the realms of politeness. Instead of answering, she opened the car door and swung her body outside.
The freezing cold attacked her like a vengeful lover that has been kept waiting for too long, and she pulled her coat tightly around her, shoving her hands into the pockets and walking quickly towards the bar, head down to protect herself from the biting wind. Outside the bar, a couple of loiterers were arguing over something. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them pause in mid-flow to look at her and although her face registered no fear whatsoever, a thread of clammy apprehension uncurled inside her in sickening waves.
She pushed open the door and was greeted by a blast of wailing country music, a fog of smoke and the deafening babble of voices. In the middle of the room, a circular bar held sway, and around it was draped a collection of abnormally hairy men, largely dressed in faded denim. Sprinkled in between these flowers of shy beauty was a selection of blondes, mostly drinking out of bottles. Melissa had to steel herself against making an involuntary moue of distaste.