Storm of Bells

03. I am Dope!

Bored?

At his last word, I choked back a fit of laughter. 'Trust me, there are a few things that have worried me when considering the idea of spending the rest of my life with you—but being bored was never one of them.'

Leaning forward, he captured my face between both of his hands. 'Good to know. Tell me—if not boredom, what is it that you are worried about?'

His eyes were swirling, storm-coloured pools of darkness. A girl could drown in those eyes.

'Losing myself,' I whispered before I could stop myself.

His grip tightened. 'A valid concern. But don't worry.'

'No?'

'No. If you ever do, I'll find you again.'

And he kissed me.

In broad daylight. Out in the street, in the middle of London. Holy Moly!

Holy hell! Yes, the cover of the chaise is up, but someone could see us anyway! Maybe we shouldn't...maybe...we...

Or maybe I should. Yes. Yes, upon reconsideration, and consultation with my lips, I definitely should.

'Ehem...Sahib?'

Was someone talking?

'Sahib!'

'What is it Karim?' Mr Ambrose growled.

'We have arrived, Sahib.'

It was only then that I realized the chaise had come to a stop. By the time I had recovered from my surprise, Mr Ambrose was already out of my arms and out of the chaise.

'Well, what are you waiting for, Mr Linton? Knowledge is power is time is money!'

Throwing Karim a dirty look, I followed Mr Ambrose and made a mental note to have my dressmaker prepare a flower girl dress in size XXL.

The building Mr Ambrose and I were approaching was by no means as big as Empire House, yet it still was an impressive behemoth. Three stories high, it had an elegantly painted façade, with cheerful flowerbeds stretching in front of the entrance, and a fountain tinkling in the front yard. A doorman in a shiny blue-and-gold uniform stood at the front door.

I threw Mr Ambrose a look.

'Are you sure this is one of your offices?'

A muscle in his cheek twitched. 'My advertising directors assured me it was vital to project a positive image.'

'And a costly one?'

'Let's just say that I will not be pleased if they do not deliver on their promises of success.'

We strode towards the doorman. Stepping in our way, the man let his eyes drift haughtily over the thinner spots in Mr Ambrose's ten-year-old mint-condition tailcoat.

'You seem to have lost your way, Sir. Can I help you?'

'Yes. You can get out of my way.'

'I'm afraid I cannot do that, Sir.'

Oh dear. R.I.P., dear doorman.

'Indeed?' Two dark, ice-cold eyes wandered over the doorman's figure. 'I'm sure Mr Humphreys and Mr Byrd would have something to say about that.'

'Mr Humphreys? Mr Byrd?' The doorman's Adam's apple bobbled. 'How do you know the names of the directors of—'

Mr Ambrose didn't say a thing. He just reached into his pocket, pulled out his card and handed it to the doorman. The poor fellow took one look at the thing, blanched and jumped aside.