LITMIR.BIZ

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even remotely in the same league as her dreary temporary flat in Clerkenwell. Lara had hoped to do better but she couldn’t. London was more expensive than Chicago, even more expensive than New York, that was all there was to it, and you didn’t get much for the money. The cramped flat had only two windows and one overlooked an alley filled with marauding cats. They were experts at knocking over garbage cans, when they weren’t frantically mating, yowling with feline glee.

      Her landlady had let her know that there was to be no cooking after 9 P.M. because, she’d whispered, of them narsty smells. Fine with Lara, who wasn’t exactly a card-carrying member of the Pots and Pans Club. She hated the cleaning up afterward and she always got the measurements confused.

      “I’ll go talk to Penelope.”

      “Is she still here? I thought she went shopping.”

      “She usually comes back and then she goes home when I do.”

      “Oh.”

      Adam got up and headed to wherever it was that his beautiful Chinese assistant hung out.

      “Might be a few minutes,” he said when he popped his head back in. “Can’t find her.”

      “Okay.” Lara needed something to do in the meantime so she eased her laptop out of her purse. Good thing that the laptop was small and the purse was ridiculously big. Jason Pratt III hadn’t been willing to spring for a BlackBerry for her, and she hadn’t bought one on her own, realizing how easy it would be for him to drive her crazy if she did have one. So her smallish laptop became her personal digital assistant or whatever it was that PDA stood for.

      In a couple of minutes, Lara was able to check her e-mail. There were goofy I-yam-so-jellus-yr-in-the-Big-Gooseberry-and-I-yam-not messages from friends, one from her mom, and one from a former boyfriend in Chicago wondering if she wanted to go out and get fucked up and listen to blues at the Sun Club.

      She told him she was in London, then answered the one from her mom.

      Bing. In came a new one. A message from Gemma.

      Found out anything about our boy?

      Lara frowned and rested her fingers on the edge of the keyboard. What should she say? The answer drifted to the surface of her wandering mind.

      Adam is totally hot, Gemma. I wish I could get him on webcam for you. She waited for a reply. She could practically hear Gemma panting.

      Me too, Lara. Me too.

      Me first, Lara answered mentally. She wasn’t going to let Gemma get her claws into Adam. She added a smiley face, guessing that Gemma detested them.

      She did. How immature of you to use an emoticon. Cease and desist.

      Yes, ma’am. Sorry, Lara typed. She deleted the little grinning dot.

      Jason can wait, I suppose. Go back to Clerkenwell, Lara. Enjoy your teeny-tiny flat. So snug.

      Lara replied with a frowny face emoticon and signed off.

      Gemma was easy to irritate, which didn’t mean that she wasn’t dangerous. But she was brilliant in her way and a stickler for accurate information. Running an investment firm like hers kept Gemma right in the middle of London’s wealthy and famous upper crust. She knew everything about everybody, and had a fact-checker on her staff to find out, among other things, who was fucking whom. She had filled in Lara on Adam’s resume—curriculum vitae, she called it—and even his love life. Her acerbic comments were memorable.

      “As far as I know,” Gemma had said, “Adam Bowlin is a one-woman man.” On being asked how she knew that, Gemma had gone on at length. “It’s not top secret, mind you, but the info is completely reliable. I confirmed it on the Bitch Vine—my gossip group, darling. We meet online to vent, snoop, complain, rank London’s leading bachelors and the married men too, of course, and start scurrilous rumors if there isn’t enough mud to sling.

      “But Adam has a sterling reputation. He’s never cheated, not given anyone an STD, not ever got a girl preggers—nothing! Very odd, that. And yes, he’s thoroughly heterosexual and apparently monogamous to the max. He was in a long relationship with a woman he adored—she left him for someone else, the fool—and he hasn’t found someone new. So a little Yankette like you could get lucky. He likes gals with moxie. Ha ha. Do forgive the slang. Is it up to date? Or have I been watching too many old American movies starring hard-jawed detectives? Probably. Not as if I have a lover. Or anything else to look forward to on Saturday night…” Lara’s attention had begun to wander at that point.

      Adam came back into the room just as she was shutting down her laptop.

      “Everything’s set. I should have paid more attention to the time. Do you prefer vegetarian?”

      “No.”

      He looked relieved. “We can get a decent meal at the Blackthorne Grille. And we can get your shoe fixed on the way. What do you say?”

      Adam seemed to want to take care of her. It was an interesting feeling, very interesting. “Let’s go,” she said cheerfully.

      She gathered up her things and they reversed their journey to the lobby. Financial businesses never really shut down. She could hear the hum of electronics permeating the quiet air. They walked past a different security guard, who was reading a tabloid newspaper with lurid headlines. Royal Alien Baby Born. Dorsetshire Vicar Worships Giant Jugs. See The Beast of Buckingham Palace—Photos Inside! The guard flipped the pages and yawned, then looked up briefly and nodded to Adam.

      Adam nodded back as Lara tagged after him. He continued to lead the way to the building’s garage, stopping at a big black car.

      She gazed at her reflection in its side. Want a ride, little girl? Yes, she did.

      Nonchalantly, Adam used the key remote to pop the trunk and stow her purse and laptop before he opened her door for her.

      She settled in, providing him with a peek at her upper thighs as she shifted in the seat. Might as well make the most of the magic while she had a chance.

      “Thanks. You’re a gentleman.”

      “I try.”

      They stopped around the corner and he double-parked. She waited in the car while he took the shoes in. The cobbler, an ancient, whiskery man who seemed to be straight out of a Charles Dickens novel, didn’t even glance outside the old-fashioned bow window.

      The Blackthorne Restaurant was the height of understated elegance. She ordered steak, done medium well, and he ordered a pint and something called bangers and mash. She didn’t even want to ask.

      But when their order arrived it turned out to be sausages and gobs of mashed potatoes, and a foam-topped glass of ale. She liked a man who ate plain food. Once Chicago stockbrokers and traders made their first five million, they tended to eat expense-account chow and boast about it endlessly.

      “How about a bottle of wine?”

      “A glass will do me.”

      He ordered the best they had by the glass. Lara felt it soon enough.

      “So where are you from exactly?” he asked, not looking at the check the waitress brought. “You never did say. Chicago proper or the Chicago area? America is so damn big.”

      Small talk. Yay. Evidently he wanted to know more about her. Lara was pleased.

      “A small town outside Chicago. Way, way outside. Prairie dog territory. You probably never heard of it.”

      “Sounds exotic.”

      She thought for a few seconds. “Well, it isn’t. The biggest social event is the annual Beer Pong competition.”

      Adam nodded thoughtfully and folded his arms on the cleared table. “Did you ever win?”

      “Hell, no,” she said indignantly. “I did try when I was fifteen, but I threw up first.”

      He laughed.

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