Page 65 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
He took the seat next to Robyn, and Kate the one next to Amy. She smiled across the table at him. “I’ve tried a new recipe for these — I hope you like them.”
“Can I have one, Nanna?” Amy asked politely.
“Of course. Do you want one, Robyn?”
“Yes please.”
“Help yourselves then. How are you getting on with your letters?”
“Do you think I should tell Santa that my Daddy’s getting married, and we’re coming to visit him on our honeymoon?” Robyn asked, a lilt of excitement in her voice.
Kate nodded. “That would be nice.”
Her small blonde head bent over her paper, deep in concentration. “How do you spell married?”
Kate watched as Mike patiently spelled out the letters for her, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “And what are you going to ask Santa to give you for Christmas?”
“I want a Skip Ball,” Amy said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s got a ball and a hoop and you put the hoop round your ankle and jump over the ball as it goes round.”
“Oh . . . right.”
“It’s not as complicated as it sounds,” Kate assured him.
“Ah. And what about you, Robyn?”
“I want a Singing Sammy and a jungle animals set. But that isn’t what I want most of all.”
“Oh? What do you want most of all?”
She cupped her hands to her mouth and leaned up to whisper in his ear — though loud enough for Kate to hear. “A baby sister.”
He was struggling to contain his laughter. “Well, um . . . I expect your Daddy and Auntie Cassie will have a good think about that.”
The little girl frowned. “Is that how you make babies?” she asked, wide-eyed. “With a good think?”
“Well, you certainly need to have a good think about it,” Kate chipped in, rescuing him. “Do you like your mince pie?”
“Yes! They’re scrummy!”
“Good.”
Across the table Mike’s smile was filled with warmth and humour, and she felt her heart skip. It was so nice sitting here with him, with the children. He was so easy and natural with them — he would have made a lovely grandpa.
Chapter Twenty
Alex had been to London before, several times, but never to the financial district east of St Paul’s Cathedral. He had expected it to be similar to downtown Toronto, all high-rise glass towers, and indeed there were plenty of those.
But there were also many dignified old buildings still preserved — the imposing Royal Exchange, with its frontage that looked more like a Greek temple, the neo-classical facades along Cornhill and Leadenhall Street.
His taxi dropped him outside the offices of Lytcott Capital Management, a discreet building in the shadow of the weirdly shaped glass edifice appropriately nicknamed the Gherkin.
He pressed the buzzer beside the anonymous black door and gave his name. A disembodied voice invited him to step inside and take the lift to the fourth floor.
The lift doors opened onto a reception area, subtly lit and decorated in muted shades of grey, with several modish armchairs arranged around a low glass table that held an enormous arrangement of silk flowers.
