Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Silence. He has no comeback for that.
“Look, I’ve got to go.”
“No, Amelia, wait.”
A woman catches my shoulder as she rounds the corner into the Tube station, knocking me into the wall. “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry,” she splutters, taking my arm to steady me. “I didn’t see you.”
I blink, looking at my mobile in my hand.
“Amelia?” he says. “Amelia, talk to me.”
I hang up and catch my breath.
“Are you okay?” the woman asks, prompting me to force a smile and reassure her I’m fine. And grateful. I was a heartbeat away from caving. “So sorry,” she says again, before getting on her way.
I take a moment to realign and remind myself of where I’m going. Not just today, but in my career. My life. I hurry down the stairs to the Tube, my throat tight, unexpected and unwanted anger getting the better of me.
Not today.
Today, I need to be focused.
Chapter 11
“It’s hardly accessible, is it?” Clark says as he weaves the country roads to Arlington Hall. “Whose idea was it to move the conference here?”
“The Hilton double-booked, apparently. This was a last resort.” I lift my shades and look at the clear blue sky, inhaling the countryside air through the slightly open window of Clark’s Range Rover Sport. I got absolutely zero work done on the train as intended, only adding to my restlessness. “It just smells so clean, doesn’t it?”
“It smells like horseshit to me.”
“You couldn’t live in the country?”
“Fuck no. Look.” Clark points to his dashboard, in particular the bars on his network service. “One bar.”
I lower my shades and check my own phone. I don’t have any bars. I scrunch my nose, but then gasp when one bar appears. And quickly disappears again. I drop it back into my bag.
“So explain the new hairdo,” he says, looking across at me, smiling.
Uncomfortable, I reach for my long hair and comb through the ashy blond waves. “It’s not new.”
“It’s down.”
“And?”
“And you never wear your hair down for work.”
“It gets in my way.” Stiff. I squirm.
“Jesus, these roads are narrow,” Clark grumbles, slowing to a crawl on a corner. “Fuck!” An alarm on the car starts beeping, and Clark slams on the brakes, making my hand shoot out and grab the dashboard.
“Jesus, get me there alive, won’t you?” I breathe.
“If I can get you there at all. How the hell am I supposed to get past that monster?”
I spot what he’s talking about and frown. A huge yellow tractor, as wide as the road is, the gigantic wheels creeping onto the verge on each side. And it just keeps coming at us. “I think he wants you to back up.”
Clark looks in the rearview mirror, assessing what’s behind us. “I didn’t see any passing bays, did you?”
“I wasn’t looking.” The tractor keeps coming. “Hasn’t he noticed us?”
“Shit.” Clark knocks the car into reverse and starts backing up the road, and my neck cranes, looking up into the tractor’s cab. The old boy behind the wheel looks straight over the Range Rover, and I question whether he’s actually seen us.
“He’s chewing a wheat sheaf,” I say. “And wearing a bucket hat. How country.”
“Wonderful,” Clark mutters, eventually making it to a small lay-by and pulling in. The tractor chugs past, the farmer’s attention never faltering from the road ahead. “You’re welcome,” Clark says in disbelief. “Ignorant fuckwit.” He pulls back out and puts his foot down, and we’re soon pulling through the gold gates of Arlington Hall. “Fucking hell,” he murmurs.
“I know.” I shift in my seat, admiring the crystal-clear stream stretching into the distance.
“You know?”
“This is where I came for my spa day with the girls.”
“Of course,” Clark breathes, pulling to a stop at the gatehouse. “I thought I’d heard of it when we got the change-of-venue email.” Letting down his window, he smiles at the man on the gate—the same man who let Abbie through last week. I read the name on his badge. Nelson. “Clark Lazenby and Amelia Lazenby. Here for the conference.”
“Yes, of course.” He gestures down the driveway. “Please, there’s staff at the entrance who will direct you to the car park.”
“Thanks.” The barrier lifts and Clark drives through, continuing to ooh and ahh at the plush grounds of Arlington Hall. “Fuck, there’s a helicopter pad. I wonder who owns this place? Now that would be a client to bag.”
“Her name was Evelyn Harrison,” I say. “She died. I don’t know who owns it now.”
“I’ll soon find out.” Clark hits me with a cheeky grin, pulling up around the fountain. “My God, that’s a Jaguar E-Type Roadster.”
“What?”
He points to a silver vintage car, practically drooling. “It’s my dream car.”
“I thought this was your dream car?”
“It was. Shit, a 1961?” He gets out of his Range Rover and walks the length of the car, admiring the shiny paintwork. “Do you know how rare these are? And, fuck, it’s in mint condition. It must be worth a small fortune.”