On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(59)

The same way that adjustable rate mortgage would eventually go back down before the bank foreclosed.

Cursing under his breath, Blake massaged his stiff neck. Maybe what he needed was a damned therapist. Or a drink. Or a therapist who served booze. Something to get his mind off Jason and back in the real world where smart men didn’t fly halfway around the world to profess their love to someone who was in it for the money.

He couldn’t hold that against Jason. That had been the deal, after all. Those were the terms and conditions they’d agreed upon from the start, and he could hardly begrudge Jason for backing away when Blake tried to add a clause he wanted nothing to do with.

Well. Whatever.

It was over. In a few hours, he’d be on his way back to the States, and maybe he could put more effort into convincing his British clients to handle their meetings via Skype from now on.

The cab picked up speed, moving from one of London’s narrow side streets onto the British equivalent of a freeway. The city faded behind them, and the signs started pointing toward Heathrow.

Good. For once in his life, he was going the right way.

To kill time, he took out his phone to check his email.

And the instant his inbox opened, his eyes darted to the third message on the list.

Jason.

Blake’s heart jumped into his throat. It had been sent a few hours ago. Around three in the morning. He couldn’t imagine Jason being awake at that hour unless he’d been on his way home from seeing a client.

That thought made him flinch. Why the hell would Jason email him after he’d been with a client? To rub it in? Warn him against showing his face at Market Garden?

His thumb hovered over the message.

Read it? Delete it? Read it? Delete it?

Oh what the hell. He opened the email, and found a single line of text:

Are you still in London?

There was no guarantee Jason was on his email, so Blake texted him instead.

Still in town.

Within seconds, Jason started typing, sending Blake’s heart rate skyward.

Can we talk?

Blake pursed his lips. What was left to talk about?

He glanced up as a sign for Heathrow—Terminal 2 whipped past.

When? I’m on my way to Heathrow.

Typing. Typing. Typing.

The exit was coming up fast. Come on, Jason . . .

Then: Meet me at West Kensington Station? I can be there in 20.

Blake chewed his lip. He was due to arrive at the airport much earlier than he needed to, with time to check in, get through security, and have a leisurely lunch. If he went back into London now, he could still make his flight, depending on how long it took Jason to say his piece, but he’d be cutting it close. If they needed more than the few minutes they’d spent in the alley last night, he’d miss his plane for sure.

But flights could be rescheduled. This conversation with Jason might be a one-shot deal. And he did want to settle this now. They could make peace, maybe even be friends. At the very least, he’d sleep a lot better knowing they’d put this thing to bed once and for all.

And if he was honest with himself, this whole thing had exhausted him. He was done. Time to face each other, say whatever needed to be said, make a clean break, and move on. From Jason. From Market Garden. It was definitely time to have that conversation with his clients about Skype.

To the driver, he said, “On second thought, could you take me back into the city? To West Kensington Station? I’m happy to pay.” In theory, he could have the guy drop him at any train station, especially since he knew the Underground like the back of his hand, but he was too exhausted and distracted to trust himself to get to the right station this time.

The driver shrugged and switched on the meter. He got off the expressway, got back on going the other way, and headed to London.



The Underground symbol had become as familiar as glowing Texaco stars and Golden Arches, but this time, it made his heart speed up.

He paid the cabbie for the Heathrow flat rate plus what was on the meter, and tipped him generously. Then he walked inside. Every station was different, and somehow the same. Constantly moving. Dizzying. People funneling through the turnstiles, which beeped as each harried commuter touched their Oyster card to the scanner. A crackling voice over the loudspeaker made an announcement that was mostly lost in the noise, and the steady barrage of rushed footsteps sounded like soldiers marching through. There were screens and a dingy Underground map and some handwritten whiteboards announcing delays and—

And it was all suddenly blurry, the background reduced to a near-silent buzz and the crowd almost transparent, as his focus was pulled to the familiar face beside the dirty white wall.

For a second, Blake forgot where he was, and halted, but a grumbling Londoner quickly reminded him—shoulder first—that you always kept moving in a place like this.

He found his footing again, and made his way around the crowd to Jason.

And just like that, there they were, with only an arm’s length between them like last night, but somehow further apart than they’d been when they were strangers that first time at Market Garden. Jason appeared as tired as Blake felt—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders bunched beneath his leather jacket, a dusting of stubble along his sharp jaw—and he struggled as much as Blake did to hold eye contact.

Blake moistened his lips. “You wanted to talk?”

Jason’s eyes darted toward the bag on Blake’s shoulder. Then he nodded. “Why don’t we go back to my flat?” He pushed himself off the wall. “I’d prefer not to talk about this in public.”