what to do. He should stay where he was. Whoever he’d arranged to meet might be held up somewhere, but she’d get there somehow. No woman would stand this man up.
He was smiling again.
Olivia smiled back. The first time, she'd been afraid he wasn’t smiling at her at all; then she’d have felt a fool. But he was smiling at her—a conspiratorial smile because they were both waiting and both feeling undecided about their next moves.
Whew, he had the kind of smile a woman might see in her dreams. She looked away and checked that her passport and tickets were safe. There hadn’t been time to change any pounds into dollars, but that couldn’t be difficult to do.
Why did this country feel more foreign than, say, France, or Italy? It did, very foreign.
If she stayed where she was, how long would it be before someone noticed?
Oh, no, she’d forgotten her own flower. Now look at it. She had taken a daisy from a vase at home and when it had started to droop on the plane, she’d wrapped it in a damp tissue and put it in her bag. Now, since she’d forgotten it was there, it was mangled, rusty-looking, and missing most of its petals.
She managed to pull the stem through the buttonhole on her lapel. Not that it mattered anymore.
The thing to do was find a hotel that wasn’t too dear and spend the night there. For a fee she’d be able to change the date on her return ticket. She hadn’t known how long to plan on staying, so she’d finally chosen two weeks.
There would be an information desk somewhere.
He was still there, she could feel him, and see his shoes and the bottoms of his trousers when she glanced in that direction. Poor man.
Once on her feet and as organized as she was ever going to be, she caught his eye again and smiled—and stood still. He had a rose in his buttonhole.
If he was Sam, he’d have said something by now.
“Olivia?”
Six
T he shop bell chimed, and Rupert Fish gripped the handle tightly. He eased the door open slowly and entered on tiptoe, hoping Winston might be too engrossed in whatever to notice that his partner had finally returned to Bloomsbury.
Winston Moody had noticed. Over the tops of rimless halflenses, his watery blue eyes sought out Rupert. Reproach. Yes, Winston invariably attacked passively—silently—at first, and with baleful, “how could you do this to me?” stares.
Rupert salivated. He could taste the satisfaction of squeezing Winston’s fat neck u n til those rheumy eyes popped out. But Rupert must continue to wait.
In the fifteen years they had been in business together running Moody and Fish Antiques, first in less salubrious quarters in Shepherd’s Bush, and for the past ten years, in London’s exclusive Bloomsbury, Museum Street to be exact, Rupert had learned to dislike Winston more with each day. But Winston had the upper hand and he knew it. He owned the controlling share of the business and had uncomfortable knowledge about Rupert’s humble beginnings—and about a lucrative endeavor that went wrong. By handing over certain papers to the authorities, Winston could send Rupert to jail for a long, long time. Rupert knew a thing o r two about Winston, too—Winston had unusual sexual preferences—but Rupert didn’t have the kind of solid evidence he needed to turn the tables.
Fortunately a tiny, blue-haired woman stood before Winston and gestured extravagantly while she discussed a Michel-Robert Hallet snuff box in a heavy French accent. The box was a valuable gold and enamelled piece and nothing, not even the opportunity to torment Rupert, would divert Winston if he got the whiff of a pending sale.
“Preposterous,” Winston told the woman. “A third? You insult me, madam.”
“I offer you ’alf then,” she said. “We both know this is not one of ’is best pieces. I only consider it at all because I ’ave so many better examples and this is a curiosity.”
Rupert smiled. This could continue for some time,
He was smiling again.
Olivia smiled back. The first time, she'd been afraid he wasn’t smiling at her at all; then she’d have felt a fool. But he was smiling at her—a conspiratorial smile because they were both waiting and both feeling undecided about their next moves.
Whew, he had the kind of smile a woman might see in her dreams. She looked away and checked that her passport and tickets were safe. There hadn’t been time to change any pounds into dollars, but that couldn’t be difficult to do.
Why did this country feel more foreign than, say, France, or Italy? It did, very foreign.
If she stayed where she was, how long would it be before someone noticed?
Oh, no, she’d forgotten her own flower. Now look at it. She had taken a daisy from a vase at home and when it had started to droop on the plane, she’d wrapped it in a damp tissue and put it in her bag. Now, since she’d forgotten it was there, it was mangled, rusty-looking, and missing most of its petals.
She managed to pull the stem through the buttonhole on her lapel. Not that it mattered anymore.
The thing to do was find a hotel that wasn’t too dear and spend the night there. For a fee she’d be able to change the date on her return ticket. She hadn’t known how long to plan on staying, so she’d finally chosen two weeks.
There would be an information desk somewhere.
He was still there, she could feel him, and see his shoes and the bottoms of his trousers when she glanced in that direction. Poor man.
Once on her feet and as organized as she was ever going to be, she caught his eye again and smiled—and stood still. He had a rose in his buttonhole.
If he was Sam, he’d have said something by now.
“Olivia?”
Six
T he shop bell chimed, and Rupert Fish gripped the handle tightly. He eased the door open slowly and entered on tiptoe, hoping Winston might be too engrossed in whatever to notice that his partner had finally returned to Bloomsbury.
Winston Moody had noticed. Over the tops of rimless halflenses, his watery blue eyes sought out Rupert. Reproach. Yes, Winston invariably attacked passively—silently—at first, and with baleful, “how could you do this to me?” stares.
Rupert salivated. He could taste the satisfaction of squeezing Winston’s fat neck u n til those rheumy eyes popped out. But Rupert must continue to wait.
In the fifteen years they had been in business together running Moody and Fish Antiques, first in less salubrious quarters in Shepherd’s Bush, and for the past ten years, in London’s exclusive Bloomsbury, Museum Street to be exact, Rupert had learned to dislike Winston more with each day. But Winston had the upper hand and he knew it. He owned the controlling share of the business and had uncomfortable knowledge about Rupert’s humble beginnings—and about a lucrative endeavor that went wrong. By handing over certain papers to the authorities, Winston could send Rupert to jail for a long, long time. Rupert knew a thing o r two about Winston, too—Winston had unusual sexual preferences—but Rupert didn’t have the kind of solid evidence he needed to turn the tables.
Fortunately a tiny, blue-haired woman stood before Winston and gestured extravagantly while she discussed a Michel-Robert Hallet snuff box in a heavy French accent. The box was a valuable gold and enamelled piece and nothing, not even the opportunity to torment Rupert, would divert Winston if he got the whiff of a pending sale.
“Preposterous,” Winston told the woman. “A third? You insult me, madam.”
“I offer you ’alf then,” she said. “We both know this is not one of ’is best pieces. I only consider it at all because I ’ave so many better examples and this is a curiosity.”
Rupert smiled. This could continue for some time,
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