With Love from London(9)

Out of breath and embarrassed, I looked up at his kind face and into his warm, wise brown eyes. “I…told you I don’t do well with ladders.”

He glanced up at the balcony. “But look, you might have just learned to fly.”

I grinned as he set me down on my feet.

“A successful escape.”

“Yes,” I said, smoothing my dress. “Thank you…” I paused. “You know, I don’t think I got your name.”

He held out his hand. “Edward,” he said. “Edward Sinclair.”

“Well,” I replied, slipping off his jacket. “It was…lovely to meet you, Mr. Sinclair. I’d…better be going.”

He shook his head, slipping the jacket back onto my shoulders. “We were in the middle of a conversation,” he said. “One that I hope will continue. If you leave now, how will I find you again?”

I listened, hardly believing what I was hearing.

“Meet me here, tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. I know a quiet spot where the drinks are divine and no one unsavory will be lurking about.”

“All right,” I said with a smile.

Together we walked to a back door on the lower level and followed the dimly lit staircase to a hallway that deposited us near the foyer.

“Well,” he said. “I should probably be going.”

I smiled. “I’ll see myself home.”

“Until tomorrow,” he said, bowing deeply.

I watched him walk ahead, disappearing to the right, presumably to the dining room to conclude his awkward date—like a gentleman. I couldn’t help but wish I were the woman he was returning to.

“Will you be needing a car, ma’am?” the doorman asked, tipping his cap at me, at the base of the staircase.

I looked out the window and up at the clear night sky. I wasn’t ready to go home, not yet. I wanted to linger in this dreamy part of London a little longer. “No, thanks,” I said, shifting my gaze to the sidewalk, when suddenly someone collided into me from behind.

“Please forgive me,” a man said in a familiar American accent.

I smiled to myself—the cowboy.

He placed his large hand on my forearm, his tan face awash with concern, and sudden recognition. “Eloise?”

“Frank?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I…was meeting a…friend,” I stammered, choosing my words carefully and rubbing my side, where his tall frame had plowed into mine. I forced a smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I had a meeting with some investors, you know, the ones I told you about the other night,” he continued, eyeing my face for any sign of recollection, though the memory of our conversation was hazy.

“Oh yes,” I said quickly. “How did it go?”

“Great. I think we sealed the deal. It’s a huge contract.”

Though he’d explained his work to me on more than one occasion, I still understood very little, just that he was employed by a large manufacturing corporation in Los Angeles. His ill-fitting suits detracted from the truth: Frank was wealthy, very wealthy. Maybe even a millionaire. “That’s…wonderful,” I said, distractedly glancing back to the entrance to the club, Edward’s face still fresh in my eyes.

“Whose jacket is this?” For a moment, his boyish smile shifted, and I detected a tinge of jealousy, distrust, even.

“I…left my coat on the tube,” I said, covering my tracks. “A kind older gentleman lent me his.”

Frank’s smile returned in an instant, as he slipped out of his own rumpled suit jacket. “Please wear mine. I insist.”

I shook my head. “No, no, it’s okay. It’s cold. You should keep yours on. I’ll…return it to the club…on my way to work tomorrow.”

He nodded, momentarily satisfied as a dark car pulled up and idled beside us. “That’s mine,” he said. “May I…take you out?”

“Thank you, but…I really should—”

“Just one drink,” he said, grinning, the glow of the streetlights reflecting his pale green eyes and revealing his receding hairline. True, he didn’t have Roger Williams’s swagger or Edward Sinclair’s refined way, but Frank did look at me—the real me—as if I were a goddess and that felt…nice.

“I know a little place not too far from here. They serve a mean cocktail, and if we’re lucky”—he paused to glance at his gold wristwatch—“we might be able to catch the comedy act. What do you say?”

I wanted to say no. I should have said no, but Frank’s eager smile was infectious, and without my permission, the corners of my mouth crept upward.

“So, it’s a yes, then?”

I glanced over my shoulder self-consciously, as if the very walls of the Royal Automobile Club might be keeping tabs on me.

“Okay,” I finally said. “But just one drink.”

“Just one drink,” he said, helping me into the car. I held my dress in place as I inched across the seat before he slid in beside me.

“You’d love California,” Frank began as the driver started the engine and signaled into traffic.

Maybe I would, I thought, half-listening as he rambled on about his beloved state—the palm trees, the ocean, the sun. All I knew of America was from television, but it all sounded lovely, in a far-off, postcard sort of way.