2.Netta hadn’t read it, which meant nobody had.
3.It was better to have it in his hands than hidden under a house on the other side of the world.
The traffic lurched forward with the green light and, ready for a distraction, Mo flicked the radio on. He was rewarded with Faith No More’s version of ‘Easy’, one of his top five favourites. He wasn’t a superstitious person, not by any measure, but even so, as Mike Patton’s unmistakable voice cruised through the speakers, the thought crossed his mind that the song could be a sign that everything was going to be just fine.Easy. Fingers crossed, anyway.
Mo passed the gelati-coloured terraces of Portobello Road and parked as close as he could to the hotel, which was thankfully located on the tail end of the street, several blocks from the buzzing market. Rhona, in her wisdom, had pre-arranged his visit with the manager, Xavier, who’d promised to offer as much privacy as possible. Mo unclicked his seatbelt, double-checked his phone was set to private and called the number Rhona had given him.
A glassy male voice answered. ‘Welcome to The Royal Crown, this is Xavier. How may I help?’
‘Hello, Xavier,’ said Mo. ‘I believe my manager, Rhona van der Wilden, has spoken to you?’
Xavier’s accent shed its clipped edges. ‘Is that you, Mr Maplestone?’
‘I’m a bit earlier than we discussed, sorry, mate.’
‘No problem at all, Mr Maplestone. The lobby’s clear. Our guests have all left the hotel for the morning. I’ll meet you at the door.’
Mo grabbed his beanie and pulled it down past his eyebrows, slid on his sunglasses and checked the street. The market was heaving in the distance and there were a few people browsing the shops across the road, but he was close enough to the hotel that if he made it quick, he should be able to get in without being spotted. He slid out of the Jeep, head down, and quickly cleared the distance between the car and the entrance, where Xavier was waiting for him at the door.
‘Hi, mate,’ said Mo as he went inside. ‘Thanks for doing this. Really appreciate it.’
‘No problem,’ said Xavier, closing the door behind them. ‘Your friend was lucky to get a room at such short notice. Last-minute cancellation.’
Mo followed Xavier over dark herringbone floorboards, past frame-filled walls to the bottom of a narrow staircase.
‘The Queen is the suite on the very top floor. No lift, I’m afraid, just the stairs. Old buildings, what can you do?’ said Xavier. ‘You okay to go on your own or would you like me to walk you up?’
‘Nah, I’ve got it,’ said Mo. The adrenalin fizzing through his veins was picking up pace, gathering in his chest. He cleared his throat. ‘I won’t be long. I just have to collect something and then I’m out.’
Xavier nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ He vanished and Mo took a steeling breath, inhaling the heady scent that hung in the air. Cinnamon and vanilla. Maybe. Whatever it was, it smelled expensive. Decadent. Comforting. He took the stairs quietly, two at a time, until he reached the top floor. He glanced at his watch—10:55am. He was only a little early. He strode along the dimly lit hallway to find Netta’s suite.
As he neared the door, his pace involuntarily slowed and his heart rate quickened. The moment had finally come. His past was about to catch up with him.
He came to a halt, raised his hand and knocked.
Chapter Thirteen
NETTA
An irritating banging tugged Netta from the depths of a delicious dream. Eyes still closed, she groggily registered her surroundings: the warmth of a cocoon of blankets, a divine cinnamony scent in the air and the distant sound of people chatting on the street outside. Sleep slipped further away and Netta pushed her sleeping mask up, momentarily confused by her surroundings. Elegantly panelled walls painted in soft duck-egg blue. Art Deco pendant lights hanging in a tiered trio beside the bed. A black-and-white striped blind pulled down over a tall window. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place as she recalled arriving at the hotel late the night before. The polished woman who’d greeted them at reception and the handsome young porter. Rhona walking her up the narrow staircase to her room and her hushed mention of the room allegedly only being available because Luke Evans had cancelled his booking at the last minute. Collapsing into bed, exhausted from the sleepless flight.
The banging started up again.
‘Oh, fuckoff,’ mumbled Netta into her pillow.
‘Netta?’ called a male voice. ‘It’s Morrison.’
Shit!Netta wrenched her head off the pillow and grabbed at her phone—10:55am. She’d slept through her alarm and now, the two hours she’d allocated for the task of Getting Ready To Meet Morrison Maplestone were gone. She sat up abruptly and kicked the blanket off. ‘Um, just a minute!’
She dashed to the bathroom. The mirror was not her friend. Mad hair. Pillow creases scarring her left cheek. Chapped lips. Postmortem pallor. She needed a hell of a lot more than a chirpy ‘just a minute!’ to feel ready for this encounter. She dragged her hair up into a top knot and slipped a fluffy hotel robe over her pyjamas. Internal fortitude would have to do the rest.
‘Coming,’ she squeaked. She gripped the door handle and took a steadying breath. Behind the door was a man who belonged to a world she’d been burned by. No—scorched. Charred, even, to an emotionally damaged crisp. He was a portal she couldn’t let herself get sucked in by.
Boundaries, Netta. Boundaries. Give him the diary, get him the hell out, and forget it ever happened.
Heart hammering, she opened the door. Exasperatingly, he was somehow even more magnetic in real life. He wore a beanie pulled down over his forehead to his eyebrows, worn-in jeans and a soft, knitted jumper that showed just a glimpse of a tattoo curling over his collarbone, jet black against lightly tanned skin.
Netta cleared her throat to find her voice. ‘Hello.’
