She knew what it was like to find Christmas hard. A hundred little things had brought tears to her eyes this year—even while she was trying to ignore them. The smell of her gran’s favourite perfume. The type of biscuit she’d most enjoyed at Christmas. Even the TV listing magazine where she used to circle everything she wanted to watch. But none of that—none of that—compared to the pain of a man who’d lost his wife.
Her gran had led a good and long life. His wife? She could only imagine how young she must have been. No wonder he was angry. No wonder he was upset.
She squeezed her eyes closed. She hadn’t managed to find someone she’d made that special connection with yet. Someone she truly loved with her whole heart. Imagine finding them only to have them ripped away. How unfair must that feel?
The shivering was getting worse. Thick flakes of snow started to land on her face. She stared out across London. The views from the penthouse were already spectacular. But from the roof? They were something else entirely.
It was darker now and if she spun around she could see the whole of Chelsea spread out in front of her. The Armstrong’s roof was the highest point around. The streets below looked like something from a Christmas card. Warm glowing yellow lights from the windows of the white Georgian houses, with roofs topped with snow. There were a few tiny figures moving below. People getting excited for Christmas.
The tears flowed harder. Battersea Power Station glowed in the distance. The four distinctive chimneys were usually lit up with white lights. But this time of year, the white lights were interspersed with red—to give a seasonal effect.
Every single bit of Christmas spirit she’d ever had had just disintegrated all around her.
Perfect Christmas. No job. No family. A mother on the other side of the world who couldn’t care less. And probably pneumonia.
Perfect.
* * *
The realisation hit him like a boxer’s right hook.
What had he just done?
There was a roaring in his ears. He didn’t behave like this. He would never behave like this. What on earth had possessed him?
All thoughts of eating, pulling the blinds and collapsing into bed vanished in an instant.
He rushed out into the hall. Where had she gone? Her chambermaid cart was abandoned in the hall. His eyes went to the panel above the elevator. But no, it wasn’t moving. It was still on this floor.
Something cut into the palm of his hand. He looked down. The plastic identity card. Of course. He’d taken it from her. She couldn’t use the elevator.
He strode back into his room and picked up the phone. He hadn’t recognised the new receptionist. Officially—he hadn’t even checked in.
The phone answered after one ring. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Armstrong?’
‘Frank? Who are the Maids in Chelsea?’
There was a second of silence. The question obviously caught the concierge unaware.
He could almost picture the way Frank sucked the air through his teeth when he was thinking—he could certainly hear it.
‘Staff from the Maids in Chelsea company have been working here for the last four months, Mr Armstrong. There were some...issues with some of our chambermaids and Mr Speirs decided to take a recommendation from a fellow hotel.’ Frank paused and then continued, ‘We’ve had no problems. The girls are excellent. Mrs Archer, in particular, really loves Grace and asks for her whenever she’s on duty.’
He cut right to the chase. ‘What were the issues, Frank?’
The sucking sound echoed in his ear. He would have expected Rob Speirs to tell him of any major changes in the way his prestigious hotel was run. But Speirs was currently in hospital after an emergency appendectomy. That was part of the reason that he was here at short notice.
‘There were some minor thefts. The turnover of staff was quite high. It was difficult to know where the problem lay.’
‘And Rob—where did he get the recommendation?’
‘From Ailsa Hillier. The Maids in Chelsea came highly recommended and we’ve had no problems at all.’ There was another hesitation. ‘Mr Armstrong, just to let you know, I have something for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s from Mrs Archer. She left something with me to pass on.’
Now he was curious. ‘What is it, Frank?’
‘It’s a Christmas present.’
Frank was silent for a few seconds. Just as well really. Every hair on Finlay’s body stood on end. Of course, he’d received Christmas presents over the last few years. His parents and sister always sent something. But Mrs Archer? This was a first.
Frank cleared his throat again. ‘Mr Armstrong, is there anything I can help you with?’
This time it was Finlay that paused. He liked Frank. He’d always liked Frank. The guy knew everything that happened in his hotel—including the fact that his manager had used a company recommended by their rivals at the Corminster—interesting.
‘Keep a hold of the present, I’ll get it from you later, Frank.’ It wouldn’t be good to seem ungracious. Then he asked what he really wanted to know. ‘Have you seen Grace Ellis in the last five minutes?’
‘Grace? What’s wrong with Grace?’
Finlay really didn’t want to get into this. He could already hear the protectiveness in Frank’s voice. He should have guessed it would be there. ‘Nothing’s wrong, but have you seen her?’
‘No, sir. Not in the last hour at least.’
Finlay put down the phone. She could easily have run out but he had the strangest feeling that she hadn’t.
He walked back outside, leaving the penthouse door open behind him and heading towards the stairs. When he pushed the door open he felt a rush of cold air around him.
The roof. She’d gone to the roof.
He ran up the stairs, two at a time, pausing when he reached the top.
She was standing at the end of the roof, staring out over London. She wasn’t thinking of...
No. She couldn’t be. But the fleeting thought made him reluctant to shout her back in.
He crossed the roof towards her. As he neared he could see she was shivering—shivering badly.
He reached out and touched her shoulder and she jumped.
‘Grace? What are you doing out here? You’ll freeze.’
She must have recognised his voice but she didn’t turn towards him. Her arms were folded across her chest and more wisps of her hair had escaped from the bun.
He walked around slowly, until he was in front of her, blocking her view.
Her lips were tinged with blue and her face streaked with tears.
Guilt washed over him like a tidal wave.
Him. He’d caused this. He’d made this girl cry.
Why? After five years he’d thought he was just about ready to move on. But Christmas was always the hardest time for him. He was frustrated with the rest of the world for enjoying Christmas when it only brought back what he had lost.
Thank goodness he still had his coat on. He undid the buttons and shrugged it off, slipping it around her shoulders.
She still hadn’t spoken to him. She was just looking at him with those huge brown eyes. The ones that had caught his attention in the first place. The ones that had sparked the reaction he should never