THE OCEAN CALLED to Melina, its sharp scent and steady roar beckoning. She lay curled in the back of the van, head resting on her silky pillow, and thought of slipping out of the van and walking along the rocky shore she’d glimpsed through the trees. Lying here in the dark with no one to talk to wasn’t very relaxing. She kept thinking of her father and his anguish when he discovered she was gone again, and how much worse it would get when he realized he wasn’t going to find her this time. She kept thinking of the new life she was going to make for herself. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of guilt and excitement. And, she had to admit, a little anxiety.
A walk along the coast, surely, would quiet those troublesome thoughts.
She doubted she could get away without waking Ash. Every time she rustled around, his deep breathing stopped and she could almost sense him tensing, waiting to see what she had in mind. He slept like a cat, with one ear alert.
What kind of man could sleep that way? What kind of man knew how to hot-wire cars and break into dress shops?
What kind of man made love to you, then took off in the night without a word of explanation?
Who was Ash Thorndyke, anyway?
That mystery had haunted her for months.
He’d been a mystery from the moment they met. But she’d been naive enough to find that intriguing, alluring, downright exciting.
They met on her first day in London. Despite the constant cold drizzle, Melina had been almost giddy with her freedom. She had managed to elude her father’s people through northern France, then taken the Chunnel to England. Surely in a city the size of London, one could simply vanish.
She had next-to-no money and even less experience. All she possessed was the small valise she’d had at her side when she escaped, containing a few changes of clothes, some toiletries—and her mother’s diamond wedding choker. She was standing at the entrance to the Underground, London’s subway, studying the map that was a confusing maze of colored lines. She had the address of a pawnshop and no clue how to translate the map on the wall.
The voice over her shoulder was friendly and American. “You look like a damsel in distress.”
The voice alone would have been enough to make her fall in love with him instantly. An American. She could barely catch her breath as she turned toward the voice.
“Yes, I guess you could say that’s what I am.”
“Ash Thorndyke.” He’d tipped forward slightly, almost an old-fashioned bow. “At your service.”
His face was kind and his dress impeccable. And his gold-on-green eyes held just a hint of the rogue in them. Oh, yes, she might just be in love. “Mr. Thorndyke, how very kind of you.”
He moved a little closer then, looking over her shoulder at the address she’d written on a slip of paper. He was tall, too. An all-American hero. No doubt about it. Melina’s heart tripped wildly.
“A pawnshop, Miss...?”
Melina opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. Oh, my. What now? The last thing she’d counted on was meeting someone.
Not someone.
Her all-American hero.
How could you be incognito when your all-American hero walked up?
“Mel,” she said. “S-Summersby. Mel Summersby.”
“Mel?”
“Mmm, yes. Melinda, actually. But I’m much more the Mel type, don’t you think?”
His eyes had roamed her up and down. Melina felt the caress of his eyes clear from her toes to the roots of her hair.
“Mel suits you quite well,” he said, smiling. “What doesn’t suit you is a pawnshop, I’m afraid.”
Melina felt herself flush. She lowered her eyes. “Oh. Well, I have this...item. And I’d very much like to be rid of it.” She had to think fast. Wouldn’t do to have him think of her as destitute. “Bad associations, you know.”
“An...item?”
“A bauble, really. It would... It would give me satisfaction to simply be rid of it.”
“Well, then, we’re off to the pawnshop.”
“Oh, really. I couldn’t—”
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t dream of sending you off to such a place on your own.” He took her by the elbow. “But please, allow me to treat us to a taxicab.”
“Oh, no, please. I’d really like to ride the tube. I’ve never ridden the tube, you see. It’s part of the adventure, don’t you think?”
“Adventure is precisely the word I might have chosen, Mel Summersby.”
He’d guided her through the maze of the London underground, teaching her the etiquette of standing to the left on the long, steep escalators so those in a rush could pass on the right. He taught her how to hang on to a pole and plant her feet before the train left the station so she didn’t lurch against others or land on her backside when the train screeched to a halt at the next station. He explained the map to her during the ride and signaled her when it was time to get off.
By the time they reached their destination, Melina was quite hopelessly in love with American Ash Thorndyke.
At his urging, she allowed him to guide her to a different establishment than the one whose name she had been drawn to in the telephone listings. The narrow lane, it turned out, was awash in pawnshops, and Melina felt a thrill at the slightly shabby row of businesses.
She also allowed her new American friend to handle the bartering with the gentleman who operated the place. The negotiations sounded quite civil to Melina, but she could tell that Ash was happier than the elderly shopkeeper when the bargaining was completed.
Melina, too, was quite happy with the neat stack of pound notes he pressed upon her at the end of the transaction.
“Thank you ever so much,” she said. “I would have been hopeless without your help.”
“My pleasure. It would also be my pleasure to have your company for dinner.”
“Oh, that would be lovely. My treat.” She saw him ready to protest. “At a pub. Oh, please say yes. I’ve never been in a pub, you see.”
They found an authentic-looking pub in the neighborhood and ducked in out of the drizzle, which was growing colder still as the sun sank out of sight behind the dingy gray buildings. The bar was dark, infused with the mingled scents of ale and damp umbrellas. They chose a table near the fireplace, where the embers glowed and flickered. He ordered two pints of dark ale and she chose their dinner—shepherd’s pie.
“Tell me this, Mel Summersby,” he said, touching the rim of his mug to hers when the lukewarm ale arrived. “How does it happen that a young woman who’s never ridden the tube or eaten in a pub is running around London alone looking for pawnshops?”
She sniffed the ale and took a tentative sip, buying time. She had the foolish urge to confide in him. He had the face of an honest man, and he had certainly proven himself trustworthy. But she was clearheaded enough to know that she had to be careful. The wrong word from her and she could wind up back with her father, confined to a life that was nothing more than a prison.
Besides, she wanted to know if a man like Ash Thorndyke could possibly like her for herself, and not because she was heiress to one of the world’s largest fortunes. She tamped down the bitter thought that her father would probably attach strings to his will, keeping his ironclad hold on her even from the grave. She would probably inherit only if she took a vow to be a lonely, celibate recluse in Siberia for the rest of her life.
No, she couldn’t tell Ash the truth yet. She wanted nothing to spoil this time, however short