CHAPTER NINE
The first fifteen minutes of the journey were spent checking herself for random bits of icy mud and grass stuck to her shoes, tights and dress. Then she scrolled through news reports for anything new about the planned acquisition – there wasn’t – and the Christmas Parade owners’ Facebook group – set to private so nobody could snoop on their plans – to see if there were any fresh posts on the wall or direct messages in her box. But all seemed quiet. Even the hashtag they had been using recently on Twitter had gone quiet. No doubt everyone was laying low before the big protest, in case Thimblerig Holdings got wind of what they were planning.
She was so busy with all that nonsense, it was only after the limousine had been driving steadily for some twenty-five minutes that Rose checked the time, and frowned out at the gloomy, lamplit streets and thinning traffic.
There did not seem to be as many traffic jams as usual on the route into central London, she thought. In fact, now that she was paying proper attention to where they were going, the limousine appeared to be heading out of London, not further into the centre.
Confused, she fumbled in the dark for the button marked Intercom, that would allow her to communicate with the driver, and pressed it.
‘Ebba?’
The reply came straight away, which reassured her a little. ‘Yes, madam?’
'We seem to be taking an awfully long time to get to this restaurant. I’m worried we’ll be very late.’ She paused, not wishing to offend the woman. ‘And, erm, aren't you going the wrong way?’
'Not at all, madam.' Ebba sounded perfectly calm. She opened the smoky glass panel between her and Rose, and glanced round at her briefly before looking back at the road. 'I am following Mr Grimsby's instructions.'
'And what were they?'
'I am not at liberty to discuss my instructions with you, madam.'
A sign flashed past overhead for the motorway, clearly visible through the gap left by the glass panel. Rose stared out at the other road signs, her eyes widening.
'Hold on, was that a sign for … for the M25? Where on earth are we going?'
'Please make yourself comfortable, madam. I'm sure Mr Grimsby will explain everything when we arrive.'
‘Arrive? Arrive where?’
But the smoky glass panel slid shut, cutting off any further chance of conversation.
Rose sat further forward, perched as precariously on the edge of the leather seat as a toddler, her mind in turmoil. Now she could not even see the driver’s face. She had never felt so alone. But she was determined not to show how concerned she was. Though ‘concerned’ was a British euphemism, of course, for bloody terrified.
She jabbed her finger on the intercom again. 'Ebba, what’s going on? Are you … ’ She tried not to sound too alarmed. ‘Is it possible that you’re kidnapping me?'
But the driver did not reply.
‘Ebba?’
She thumped the intercom button violently a few times.
‘Ebba?’ she said as loudly as possible without actually yelling. ‘Ebba, this isn’t funny. I demand that you answer me.’
Silence.
‘EBBA?’
Now she really was yelling. But it still had no effect. Ebba said nothing.
Bloody hell.
She was being kidnapped. Or certainly taken somewhere against her will. But where, and why? And how far away from London – and her dad – were they going?
Ebba was driving quite fast and smoothly now that they were leaving the outskirts of the city. She sat there, staring out of the tinted side windows at the passing traffic, and wondered if she could leap out while the car was still moving without hurting herself. Maybe when Ebba had to stop for a red light or a junction …
Warily, one eye on the smoky glass panel, she tried the door handle nearest to her. It did not budge.
Good grief. She had been locked in.
Just as she was genuinely starting to panic, Rose heard a repetitive buzzing sound from her bottom. For a few seconds, she was not sure what on earth was happening down there. Then she belatedly recalled that her mobile phone was in her evening bag, which was currently lodged beside her, nestling against one buttock cheek.
Frantically, she grabbed up the bag and retrieved the phone, which to her relief was still ringing.
Paul’s name was lit up on the screen.
She answered it with trembling fingers. ‘Hello?' Her voice came out high and squeaky, and she took a deep breath, trying to get her nerves under control. 'Paul, where are you?'
'Funnily enough, that's just what I was about to ask you.'
She thought Paul sounded tense, perhaps even angry, which was not much of a comfort to her. In the background, she could hear the clink of glasses, and knives and forks, and the noisy hum of conversation.
'I'm at the restaurant as planned,’ he told her, a note of disapproval in his voice, ‘though the maître d’ had no record of a reservation for us. Where the hell is Grimsby? And where are you and your dad? I’m all on my own here.’ He hesitated, and a note of concern crept into his voice. ‘Are you and Henry okay? Has something gone wrong?'
God, where to begin explaining this one?
'I have no idea where I am,' she said truthfully, then dropped the phone as Ebba swung off a winding slip road onto the motorway, instantly accelerating to a high speed.
Good grief, Rose thought, what on earth is going on?
She released her belt and leant forward, scrabbling for the phone on the floor. Having retrieved it, she sat back again, flushed and with her hair in her eyes, clipped on her seatbelt again, and then clung grimly with one hand to the padded wall of the limo.
'Listen, Paul?’ She kept her voice down, unsure if the driver could still hear her. ‘This is urgent. You may need to call the police. I know it sounds bizarre, but I think I've been kidnapped.'
There was no reply.
Crunch… Crunch… Crunch……
‘Paul? You’re breaking up. I didn’t hear what you just said.’ She took the phone away from her ear, stared at it blankly, and then listened again. 'Paul? Can you hear me?’ She frowned. ‘Are you still there?’
His voice came back as a distant crackle, breaking up intermittently, as they raced along under the orange flicker of motorway lights. 'Sorry … I didn’t … a word … ’
‘Oh flipping fantastic,’ she muttered, pressing the phone to her ear and raising her voice, ‘Paul? Hello? Can you hear me?’
But it was no use.
Beep … Beep … Beep …
The phone had gone dead at the other end.
Hurriedly, she texted him instead.
Think I’ve been kidnapped by Grimsby’s driver. On the M25 now. Call my dad.
She sent him the text, then slumped back in her seat, totally bewildered. What on earth was going on? Staring down at the phone, she considered contacting her dad herself. But he never turned his mobile on at home, and if she rang him and the phone cut out again, he would go crazy with worry. Besides, it was more useful to keep an eye on where they were going.
Some time passed, during which the limousine came off the motorway and began eating up the miles on a smaller country road. She could not see any sign of where she was, passing only a few fuel stations and housing estates along the way, with no major landmarks visible in the frosty night.
As they moved further into the dark heart of the countryside, she and Paul exchanged several more texts, none of which helped to advance her cause and only made her feel worse.
Kidnapped? Is this some kind of joke?
No, she typed back to him, a little tetchily. Was he kidding? Why on earth would she make something like that up?
Is Grimsby with you?
No, she typed again, shaking her head in disbelief. Was that all he had to say to the staggering revelation that she was being kidnapped? Some crack lawyer he was!
Where’s your dad?
At home.
What do you want me to do?
Call my dad and …
She hesitated, finger hovering over the text keyboard, suddenly rethinking the whole ‘Call Dad’ strategy.
Perhaps it was best not to upset her dad with news of what had happened. What could Dad do, after all, except sit at home and fret over what he could not control? And blame himself for not going with her, she suspected.
Should she ask Paul to call the police instead?
Was that wise?
Perhaps this was simply some annoying trick on Grimsby’s part, and calling the police would make her look absurd and over-reactive. Nick Grimsby struck her as a man who never made a move without thinking everything out in advance. He’d probably be a superb chess-player. She, on the other hand, tended to react from the heart without thinking things through, which had got her into serious trouble more than once in her life.
Meanwhile, what to do next? She was no strategist, and found it hard to second-guess his next move. Except that it involved dinner. She hoped so anyway, as she’d skipped lunch and was now utterly starving.
Rose? What’s happening?
She stared down at Paul’s text message, her own still unsent. But before she could decide what to reply, the limousine turned off the road they had been travelling on, and began to slow down. There were dazzling lights ahead, and a high wire fence that stretched a long way into the dark, and large signs saying, Private Property. Keep Out.
At first she thought this must be some property belonging to Nick Grimsby, and that he had brought her here to have dinner with him alone.
Then she saw the small plane, sitting on what was clearly a runway.
Rose stuffed her phone back into her bag, and released her seatbelt with a snap. Unable to believe what she was seeing, she rubbed the cold limousine window, and then sat forward, practically rubbing her nose against the glass as she studied the plane in astonishment.
Without warning, the car came to an abrupt halt.
Rose was jerked sideways onto the limousine floor, hair flopping over her face, one leg waving helpless in the air as she struggled to turn over onto all fours. Then her evening bag slipped off the seat on top of her, landing on her head.
‘Ouch!’
At that moment, the door opened.
She looked backwards through a tangle of red hair, hot-cheeked and thoroughly annoyed, expecting to see Ebba.
‘Good evening, Miss Mistletoe,’ came a deep, male voice. ‘Decided to take a nap, did you? I can assure you the seats are much more comfortable than the floor.’
Nick Grimsby.
How bloody delightful, she thought crossly, glaring up at him through a gap in her hair. My kidnapper. And he’s probably looking at my bottom …
A hand stretched down to help her up, and she slapped it away, biting back a swear word as she scuttled round on all fours. ‘I can get up on my own, thank you very much,’ Rose said through her teeth.
She then did precisely that, only with less finesse than she would have liked, clambering out of the car with her dress wrapped horribly around the top of her thighs, a ladder in her new tights, and one shoe lost. It was freezing, and she grabbed her black coat about herself, wishing it was a little longer.
She hobbled a few steps and stopped, looking round for the driver. The limousine was empty now, so where had Ebba gone?
‘Allow me,’ Nick Grimsby said in that infuriating drawl, and bent into the car to retrieve her heel, politely holding it out while she hopped about on one heeled foot in the icy air. ‘This is yours, I believe.’
Wordlessly, she seized the black high heel, and clung onto his shoulder while she forced it back onto her frozen foot.
He grimaced as she dug her fingers deliberately hard into his shoulder. Bloody man. Wait till she told the police what he’d done. She tried to ignore how handsome he looked in his tuxedo, an expensive black jacket and white shirt with a plain black dickie bow and cummerbund across his flat abs. But it was very, very difficult. As she was sure he knew, from the way his mouth twitched as he met her angry stare.
He murmured, ‘I trust you had an easy journey out of London, Rose.’ She noticed he had dropped the formal Miss Mistletoe business, which instantly reminded her of that tongue-twister quip and made her cheeks flood with heat again. His gaze narrowed astutely on her face as he added, ‘Not too much traffic? And you had everything you needed?’
‘You can c-cut the small talk, Mr Grimsby,’ she said hotly, and was dismayed to hear herself stammering, something she had not done in years. ‘You’ve b-bloody well kidnapped me.’
‘Hardly.’ He sunk his hands into the pockets of his elegant black suit trousers. ‘I asked you to have dinner with me tonight, and that’s exactly what’s going to happen.’
‘This is not the restaurant.’
‘Yes, sorry, slight change of plan.’ He made a face, clearly only pretending to be contrite, as there was a devil laughing behind his eyes. ‘Hope you don’t mind. I’ve asked the maître d’ to explain to your … friend. I wouldn’t want him to sit there all evening, waiting for us to arrive.’
‘Paul will be furious. He’s going to call the police.’
‘Oh, I doubt that.’ He withdrew a phone from his pocket and waved it gently. ‘Ebba let me know that you’d been on the phone to him. So I rang his boss, explained the whole situation. We play golf together sometimes. I’m sure he’ll have a word with Paul, help him see sense.’
She gaped, then shut her mouth, seeing his amusement.
‘Okay, so where are we, Mr Grimsby?’ she demanded, and then swivelled, both feet firmly shod at last, and jabbed an accusing finger towards the plane on the runway. ‘And what the hell is that? A flying restaurant?’
‘That’s my private plane, and it’s going to take us to dinner,’ he said calmly, and then continued, ignoring her gasp of disbelief, ‘And if you’d like to discuss our acquisition, and your plan to save the Mistletoe Flower Shop, you’d be wise to step aboard.’