‘Leave it with me.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’m dying to know why you’re postponing Jason Thorne—it must be something very important!’
He glanced at Mia then turned to watch the view unfolding through the window of the luxury saloon. Trude never stopped trying to prise him open but it wouldn’t work; he was a clam. ‘Let me know how you get on with Thorne, okay?’
‘Okay, Theo. Bye for now.’
He slipped his phone into his pocket. Disruptions usually annoyed him, but instead he was caught somewhere between admiration and bemusement. That Mia had gone out on a limb to help her brother resonated with him deeply. She was clearly the kind of person who couldn’t sit on the sidelines if she could do something to help, and he understood that impulse all too well. He felt the dark stirrings of a memory... His father... His older brother, Bram... Hard fists... Purple bruises... He’d learned at an early age the intolerable frustration of powerlessness.
Perhaps Mia’s fighting spirit on its own would have persuaded him to reschedule his afternoon appointments and head across London to meet Ash Boelens, but there’d been something else too: the way she’d looked at him; that glimmer of vulnerability woven through the steely threads of her determination. She’d had him from the start, and he wasn’t used to being had. He didn’t know what to make of it.
He turned to catch her eye, but she was gazing out of the window. Her shoulders were rigid, her chin lifted. Tenderness bloomed in his chest. She was only pretending to be confident...
‘I just want to help my brother.’
He sighed softly and studied the back of her head. Her light-brown hair was wound up chaotically, speared with a pointy thing, and there were strands hanging loose against the side of her smooth neck. He pictured her face—the clear, brown eyes, the constellation of tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose, the perfect fullness of her lips.
He dropped his gaze. Her outfit was rather boho: black patent shoes, loose grey trousers, a battered military jacket. At the hotel he’d glimpsed a slogan on her black tee-shirt, but he didn’t know what it said because he hadn’t wanted to stare at her chest.
She turned suddenly, sensing him, perhaps. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to cancel your next meeting. I didn’t think things th—’
‘It’s okay. It can be fixed.’
She was fingering the strap of her bag and then her eyes widened. ‘At least the traffic’s not too bad.’
The driver braked suddenly and they pitched forward in perfect unison. She caught his eye, started to giggle and then he was chuckling too. He motioned through the window. ‘We’d have been quicker on bicycles.’
She pulled a face. ‘I’d never cycle in London—it’s far too dangerous!’
‘So many stationary cars! Very dangerous!’
She mock-scowled. ‘It is dangerous. They’re putting in cycle lanes but London’s a long way behind Amsterdam.’
She was right about that. She was obviously familiar with his city. He shifted in his seat. ‘So... I’m intrigued! You have a Dutch name but no trace of an accent...’
‘Ash and I grew up in London.’
‘Where’s your family from, originally?’ He checked himself. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, that is.’
‘My father’s family is from Texel.’
‘I have a beach house there...’ His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to share that, or the story about his childhood visit to the planetarium at Franeker, but there was something about her that drew him in, made words fall from his mouth. He’d have to be more careful.
‘We used to spend our summers there.’ Her smile was a little wistful. ‘It’s a lovely place.’
‘And your mother’s family—where are they from?’
‘England.’ She faltered. ‘Actually, I wonder if talking about my family is altogether appropriate.’ She pressed her lips together, blushed a little. ‘You’re about to go into a business meeting with my brother.’
He cursed silently. He hadn’t meant to make her feel uncomfortable. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I was only making conversation.’
She dropped her gaze to her hands, twisting the ring she wore on her thumb. Loose strands of hair grazed the soft hollows beneath her cheekbones. She was undeniably lovely. Looking at her face, seeing the way the light danced in her eyes when she was talking, was so much better than staring out of the window.
‘Can I ask you about yourself, then?’
She looked up and shot him a little smile. ‘What do you want to know...?’
‘I’m wondering what you do when you’re not running diplomatic errands.’
Her eyes clouded momentarily and then her expression settled. ‘I’m a writer.’
A muscle in his jaw twitched involuntarily. She didn’t seem to have the sharp elbows of a newshound, but he’d have to be careful—for Bram’s sake. He drew a steadying breath and managed an interested smile. ‘Of books? Or are you a journalist?’
‘I write magazine articles and features. Blog posts. A bit of copywriting.’ She smiled. ‘There’s no sign of a book yet...’
He pressed a finger to his temple. ‘What sort of features?’
‘A mixture.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘Popular culture, art, design, interiors...that kind of thing.’
Relief loosened his joints. The arts were a million miles from the gutter where the paparazzi and their cronies hung about. ‘So, what are you working on at the moment?’
She angled herself towards him on the seat, pulling one leg up under the other. ‘Have you heard of Dilly and Daisy?’
Her eyes were wide and full of light. It was hard not to get lost in them.
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Okay, well, the D&D brand is all about sustainable fashion; it’s how they made their name. But now they’re moving into homeware—so that’s furnishing fabrics, cushions, cookware...’
‘Wow!’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘I had no idea that’s what homeware was...’
Her eyes narrowed momentarily, and then she burst out laughing, rocking forward, hands over her mouth, and it was as if all the tiny tensions orbiting around them had suddenly vanished. Then he was laughing too, right from the bottom of his belly; he couldn’t remember laughing
