Page 1 of Pervade London
Present Day
The Savoy
“You can’t go in there.” The tall, very blonde maître d’ blocked the entrance, preventing me from passing. I didn’t like the way she looked down her elitist nose at me either.
“But…I saw my boyfriend go in.”
This was The Savoy’s posh restaurant Simpson’s in the Strand, and I knew I looked classy enough for it in my expensive Lily Charis mini-dress layered in twinkling crystals.
Her attitude made no sense. The way I dressed hid my past. I liked it that way. During those desolate years, I’d garnered the kind of wisdom that meant I never talked down to anyone the way she’d done to me. I remembered where I came from, and it was a far cry from the high-and-mighty Strand in the heart of London.
These cocktail-laced self-reflections continued as I watched her close the door to the restaurant in a final act of authority.
Seeing my fiancé had been a chance occurrence. I’d left my best friend Kitty with our other girlfriends sitting at the bar sipping Cosmos while laughing raucously. A rare Wednesday night out because it was her birthday. And, trust me—Kitty Adair could look out for herself.
One cocktail in and we’d “left the station” as far as common sense was concerned, but I wasn’t so drunk I’d misidentify my man.
Leaving my drink at the bar, I’d gotten lost looking for the loo and seconds later caught sight of him strolling nonchalantly through the hotel.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
The restaurant’s heavy door loomed ahead, and I weighed my options. I could go back and rejoin the others. Pretend I’d not seen him. Ask him about it later when we both got home and hope he shared the truth.
Admitting that Xander Rothschild was out of my league was not a fault-line in my confidence…not at all. Even if his Cambridge education ensured he knew the difference between Beluga and Osetra—caviar to us lesser mortals. Even if he drew a twisted pleasure from dragging me up to his elite standards, I loved him deeply. Xander was always reminding me I was the only woman who truly understood him, which was to say I was the only one who respected his foibles.
Take for example his passion for chess. Okay, it was more of an obsession. The first time I visited his place on Baker Street, I’d walked into his tastefully decorated bachelor pad and gawped at what I saw. Placed sporadically around his living room weretenchessboards set up with games goingat the same time. Even now he liked to stroll from board to board moving the pieces as he challenged anonymous players online. He found it relaxing, apparently.
Tolerating this obsession and other quirks that showcased his brilliance was the price I paid to live with this extraordinary thirty-two-year-old man. As I was twenty-three, he constantly liked to remind me that he knew best—about everything. His worldliness was a reminder of how little I’d traveled and how little I’d seen. Personally, I believed he loved me because my background was the opposite of his, since he’d had a silver spoon stuck up his ass for most of his life.
We were opposites in appearances as well. Born to a Norwegian mum and a highbrow British diplomat father, neither of whom I’d met, Xander had inherited seductive looks—dark blonde hair and a sun-kissed complexion that never faded, not even during one of England’s harsh winters. In contrast, I had porcelain skin that stood out against my brunette locks and green irises.
Intellectually, Xander was a match for anyone who crossed his path. He had a thing for manipulating a conversation to prove he was always right. He would throw in one of his drop-dead gorgeous smiles right before finishing off his victim during an argument, using a quip to deliver the final blow.
With me, he was just as insistent on getting his own way. When we fought, which was rare, he had no qualms about delivering an arrogant tongue-lashing. Though after he’d shown me what else he could do with that mouth I’d fallen head over heels for him.
Xander Rothschild was simply mesmerizing.
And tonight he was meant to be at home where I’d left him, sitting on the sofa readingThe Outline of Historyby H. G. Wells…again.My man was a sci-fi buff, always walking around with his head in a book by the likes of Ray Bradbury, Frank Herbert or Jules Verne, to name but a few. I loved that about him.Hell,I loved everything about him and the thought of Xander not being in my life was unbearable.
Which was why my stomach was tied up in knots.
Until now, I’d never doubted his loyalty. The sobering thought of losing him to someone else made my palms sweat and my heart race.
Fuck it.
It’s better to know.
With a Bombay Sapphire Martini onboard to lend panache to my grand entry into London’s most famous restaurant, I shoved the door open and dodged the maître d’.
The interior’s opulent superiority was quickly apparent. Beneath an ornate stucco ceiling, dark wood framed walls added to the grandness. Neatly stationed tables were adorned with cream-colored tablecloths and matching high-back chairs. Here and there were extravagant lush plants rising out of swanky pots, harkening back to that “old world” colonial style.
I looked around, bracing myself in case I saw Xander with another woman.
The quiet place was nearly empty.
Ten or so striking men sat around a corner table, all wearing elegant suits and each nursing a glass of bourbon as they chatted. The empty bottle of liquor sat in the middle of the table.
And there he was…my Xander in his tailored-to-perfection Savile Row ensemble that included a pair of highly polished Oxfords. He lifted an ice-filled glass to his lips and finished off his drink in one gulp.
