CHAPTER TWO
Rose dived round the next corner as quickly as possible. She ducked into the first darkened doorway she found, a sandwich bar she often frequented during the day but which was shut now. Flattening herself against the cold glass door, she listened to the footsteps slow, and then stop on the corner.
An uncomfortable silence followed.
It wasn’t hard to guess what was happening. Her pursuer had reached the corner, and was no doubt wondering where on earth she had gone.
Perhaps it had not been such a good idea to hide rather than keep walking. She was only a short distance from the pub where she had agreed to meet Paul, yes. But she still had one main road to cross, and now she was trapped.
A little shaky, she took out her phone and silently texted Paul again.
Sheila’s Sandwich Bar. Being followed. Help!
Almost immediately, the phone beeped loudly with a reply, and the screen lit up in the darkness.
On my way.
She grimaced, pushing the phone back inside her pocket. But it was too late. The damage was done.
Her pursuer cleared his throat, and began to walk again.
This time straight towards her hiding-place.
Unable to contain her indignation a moment longer, she leapt out of hiding to confront the spy. ‘Why are you following me?’ she demanded hotly, and sucked in a breath when she saw who it was. The man who had come to the shop after closing time. The man with the scar. Annoyance clogged her throat, then she managed to say, ‘You again! I knew you were a journalist.’
He had stopped in surprise when she jumped out at him, visibly retreating a step. Now his eyebrows rose. ‘I’m not a journalist, Miss Mistletoe.’
‘Ha!’ She jabbed a finger at him. ‘Then how do you know my name? Explain that, if you please.’
‘Everyone knows Rose Mistletoe round here.’
His tone was a touch too languid for her liking, and what was worse, he showed no discomfort at having been found out.
‘Nonsense!’
‘It’s not nonsense,’ he said mildly. ‘You’re quite famous. Didn’t you know that?’ When she merely glared, he sighed, and continued, ‘I saw a newspaper article about you the other day. There was a photo of you outside the Mistletoe Flower Shop, with your assistant. You run the place. Your father’s Henry Mistletoe, the owner. I don’t need to be a journalist to be able to glean all that from a newspaper report.’
She folded her arms, still not quite satisfied. ‘And who exactly are you?’ He opened his mouth to reply, but a deafening beep was all she heard. ‘Sorry?’
Then she realised the loud beep had come from a car, braking violently to avoid a man racing across the road towards them.
It was Paul.
The young driver beeped again, then flashed his lights before driving off at speed, his tyres screeching, followed by the other cars who had all been forced to stop.
Paul reached them, leaping breathlessly onto the icy pavement and positioning himself between her and the stranger. For a heavy-set man, he was surprisingly agile, she thought, unable to suppress a flicker of admiration. But he was still crazy.
‘Good grief, Paul,’ she said crossly, ‘you nearly got yourself killed, you madman.’
He did not seem to hear her. ‘Is this him? Is this the guy who’s been following you?’ he demanded, still trying to catch his breath as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the other man.
She nodded.
Paul swung to face the stranger, legs apart and fists up as though challenging the man to a boxing match. Right in the middle of a London street, passers-by staring at them with undisguised curiosity.
Rose did not know whether to laugh, or intervene before Paul got himself in trouble with the police. As a lawyer, a public brawl could be damaging to his career.
‘Get lost, do you hear me?’ The contempt in his voice was unmistakable. ‘You pervert.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me, you … you psycho!’
The stranger had been smiling, as though vaguely amused by this intervention. But now his smile faded, and he slipped a hand inside his jacket.
‘Watch out, he might have a gun,’ a man said helpfully from an upper floor window, who had been watching this altercation with interest.
Rose craned her neck to glare at him. ‘Mind your own business.’ He appeared to be naked, she realised, her eyes widening. ‘And put some clothes on!’
‘Just trying to be helpful.’ But the man pulled his head in, like a turtle retreating into his shell, and slammed the window shut.
Paul took another aggressive step towards the man with the scar. ‘Come on, then, what have you got in your jacket?’ he demanded, fists still up.
The man met her gaze ironically, then slowly, very slowly, withdrew a wallet.
Rose let go of the breath she had been holding.
Paul lowered his fists slightly. But he was not backing down, his voice sharp as he continued, ‘You can’t pay me off, you know. So don’t bother. I’m a lawyer.’
‘Remind me not to hire your services,’ the stranger drawled, then flipped open his wallet and withdrew not money, but a white business card. ‘I’m Nick Grimsby, CEO of Thimblerig Holdings.’
Rose stared at him in shock, feeling as though someone had skewered her insides. ‘You … You’re Nick Grimsby?’
He held out the card.
Paul took it gingerly, examined it under the nearby street light, and then handed the card over his shoulder to Rose.
‘Looks real enough to me.’
She could not believe it. She had been shown Nick Grimsby’s photograph several times over the past few months, and this man did not look much like him. For a start, Nick Grimsby had long hair swept up in a ponytail. And she did not remember that scar from the pictures she’d seen …
‘You don’t look anything like Nick Grimsby,’ she said coldly, dumping the card in her handbag without even looking at it.
He made a face, putting a hand to the short dark hair at his temple. ‘I was growing my hair for charity. But the fund-raiser finished, so I got it cut. You don’t like it?’
‘That’s not the only difference.’
His eyes narrowed on her face, suddenly intent. ‘The scar?’
‘The scar.’
‘Thanks for the gentle reminder.’ He touched his cheekbone, tracing a fingertip lightly across the ridge of roughened skin. ‘I only got this beauty about six months ago. You’ve probably seen one of my publicity shots. Taken four or five years back, as I recall. I’m afraid I didn’t see much point in updating my publicity package just so strangers could recognise me in the street.’ His hand fell away from his face, his mouth twisting with derision. ‘Not now I’m such a great looker.’
Rose looked away, embarrassed by his obvious sarcasm.
It had been rude of her to mention his scar. She knew that.
But Nick Grimsby was well-known as an unpleasant character, so she had not expected him to take her comment so personally. Grim by name, grim by nature, that was the media take on the reclusive business tycoon. She’d seen a few memes on social media using that slogan. But he was also a notoriously private person, almost never snapped in public by the paparazzi, hence the lack of recent photos.
But all that would change soon, she realised.
‘Well, if you are Nick Grimsby, I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to have visited my shop earlier. Some people might see that as intimidation. And why decide to follow me tonight?’
‘I wanted to give you a private message.’
‘Don’t you have lackeys to deliver your messages for you?’
‘Of course.’ Again, his mouth quirked. ‘But it’s my lackeys’ day off. So I was forced to come myself.’
She did not find him amusing. ‘So what did you want to say that couldn’t be said in an email? Or via my lawyer?’
His gaze flicked to Paul. ‘You mean, this guy?’
‘Yes, I am Miss Mistletoe’s lawyer,’ Paul said with cold dislike, clearly taking offence at his tone. ‘But I’m also her friend.’
‘Oh, friends? Is that what you’re calling it?’ Nick Grimsby looked them both up and down. ‘Hardly professional of you, but we’ll let that pass.’
‘Excuse me?’ Rose was furious at the implication.
‘Pay no attention, he’s just trying to get a rise out of us.’ Paul took her aside though, turning his back quite deliberately on the businessman. His expression was grave. ‘Look, has Grimsby been bothering you?’ he asked in a low voice, bending his head to hers. ‘Did he touch you at all before I arrived? Because we could probably get him for assault if he did.’ His serious blue gaze met hers. ‘Do you want me to call the police?’
‘No, I’m fine, honestly,’ she said, though nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to see Nick Grimsby dragged away and thrown in the cells. She smiled up at him. ‘But thank you for rescuing me.’
‘My pleasure.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we get on to the pub, then? We must have missed most of the quiz by now, but we could still grab a drink.’
Rose took his arm. ‘Yes, why not?’
She shot Nick Grimsby a fulminating glance as she and Paul headed back towards the pedestrian crossing.
‘Stop following me, Mr Grimsby,’ she told him tartly. ‘And please don’t come to my shop again. If you genuinely have something to say to me, you can do so through official channels.’
Nick Grimsby said nothing, but watched them go with his hands in his pockets. He seemed almost nonchalant about the situation, Rose thought with some surprise, dragging her gaze away from that scarred face. She got the feeling he was not the kind of man to give up easily though.
‘What a strange man,’ she murmured as they crossed the road together. ‘I wonder what he wanted to say to me.’
Paul’s face was grim. ‘I expect he wanted to raise the individual offer on your shop. You and Mrs Patel are the only ones left who’ve refused his buy-out. No doubt if that’s the case, I’ll hear from his lawyer soon enough.’ He hesitated. ‘Which could put you in a dangerous position.’
‘How so?’
‘Hard to predict the future,’ he said cryptically. ‘However, if you reject this new offer, don’t be surprised if someone puts a brick through your window in the next few days.’
Rose was astonished. ‘Who would do something like that?’
‘I’m guessing, obviously. But I don’t like the way things are going. Once the other business owners in the block realise it’s only you and Mrs Patel standing between them and a very lucrative offer from Thimblerig Holdings, you may find they become less than friendly.’
‘But I know them all. I grew up here, for God’s sake, like you did. Played with most of their kids. Those people are my friends.’
Paul squeezed her arm as they entered the bright, noisy warmth of the pub, smiling down at her. ‘I love how idealistic you are, Rose. You’re a light in a dark world. You always have been, ever since our school days. But you can be incredibly naïve at times too, and that could land you in trouble.’ He sighed. ‘I know how passionate you are about keeping the Mistletoe shop. But promise me you’ll be careful over this business, okay?’
‘I promise,’ she agreed.
But she kept her fingers firmly crossed while she spoke. That meant it didn’t count as a real promise, didn’t it?