200 Harley Street: American Surgeon in London. Lynne Marshall

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      She curved into the night, feeling like a kid again. Soon he joined her on another swing and they quietly went about the business of letting down their hair in the cool evening breeze.

      “This is great,” she said, having pumped her feet enough to take her to the hilt on the swing. “Haven’t done this since I don’t know when.”

      “Then I’d say you’re overdue. Hey, for someone with a fear of heights, you’re awfully high.”

      “That’s ’cause I’m in control.”

      “Ah, a lady who likes to be in control. How refreshing.”

      She’d play along with his teasing jab about pushy women. “Watch it, buddy.” With that she jumped out of her swing in midair, feeling daring, and more like a kid trying to impress an older boy than a thirty-two-year-old reconstructive surgeon.

      He applauded then used his feet to stop his swing the old-fashioned way. “Want to go down the slide?” He looked directly at her in the darkness of the playground, daring her to take his challenge.

      She sputtered a laugh. “In this dress?”

      “You climbed the fence and dove out of the swing, didn’t you?”

      “True,” she said, dusting off her hands. “But I really don’t want to ruin my dress on a slide.” She ignored his dare and walked farther on. “You’re probably renting that tuxedo, and don’t care what happens to it,” she said, one last attempt to save face.

      “How about the monkey bars, then?”

      “Who’s there?” came a gruff voice from over the fence. A high-beamed flashlight danced around the vicinity of the swings. She fought the urge to hide sideways behind a pole. “No trespassing.”

      “We were just leaving, Officer.” Mitch stepped up and offered a hand to Grace. Her heart pounded from the swinging, and now for getting into trouble for it.

      She grinned to make up for her nerves and decided to go the teasing route. “That’s what I get for going off with a strange man on an adventure. Next I’ll be thrown in jail and I’ve barely been in town twenty-four hours.”

      The security officer noticed the fact that Mitch wore a tuxedo and she was in an evening dress, and he beetled his brows and tugged his earlobe. “You’re not dressed for the playground, are you?”

      “No, sir, we’re escapees from the Hunter Clinic charity function at London Eye tonight,” Mitch said.

      The man’s expression brightened. “The Hunter Clinic helped my niece when she’d burned her face on a campfire. Wonderful place, that clinic on Harley Street. Now if you’ll just run along, I’ll let you off with a stern warning.”

      “Thank you!” Grace called out, walking briskly toward the exit.

      The officer stood by and watched with one brow raised as they jumped back over the fence, Mitch helping Grace up and over. Then Mitch shook the man’s hand and the officer bid them good-night. They all walked away, the officer one direction, they in another.

      “I’m starving. How about you?” Mitch asked, grinning like a kid who’d just gotten away with mischief.

      Besides the salmon puff she really hadn’t eaten anything today, not yet having had time to stock food in her new kitchen. “Come to think of it, I am, too.”

      “I know a great place about ten minutes away. You okay to walk in those shoes?” He nodded toward the shoes dangling from her fingers.

      “I made it here, didn’t I?” She brushed off her skirt with the palm of her free hand and worried about how messed up her hair must look.

      He smiled and his white teeth gleamed in the night. It wasn’t fair he was that gorgeous. “That’s the spirit.”

      Fifteen minutes later they wound up past the Hunger-ford Bridge on the third floor of the Royal Festival Hall in an upscale restaurant overlooking the South Bank. They sat at the huge modern wraparound bar with a distinct 1950s-influenced design. The view was gorgeous, and Grace ordered a Cabernet Sauvignon and gnocchi. Mitch ordered a mixed drink and steak.

      Up close, in the brighter-than-average lit bar, his eyes were green, more sea-green blue, and she realized she’d gotten lost gazing into them. He must have noticed and lifted the corner of his mouth in an angled smile.

      “For someone from the sunny state of Arizona, you have a really creamy complexion,” he said.

      “I own stock in sunscreen.” Feeling flattered he’d noticed something about her, she smiled.

      He smiled back, and added a light laugh. Maybe she hadn’t lost her touch with social conversation after all, or he was going out of his way to be polite.

      It was easy to make him chuckle, and their evening went on in free-flowing banter. No topic scratched below the surface. Somehow they’d made a pact not to really get to know each other. Yet she picked things up, like the fact he hated onions and separated them out of his dinner salad, and even after cavorting in the park he smelled fresh and trendy. The scent probably cost an arm and leg from some designer store. He owned his own tux and he knew where to take children to play.

      The nagging question returned. Did he have a wife and family? And if so, who looked after them while he gallivanted around at charity events with strange women? Maybe he was one of the wealthy Hunter donors and could afford to live a double life.

      She really needed to quit trying to figure him out and just enjoy his company. After tonight she’d never see him again anyway.

      Her gnocchi was delicious and she forced herself to eat slowly. The cabernet warmed her brain and for her first night in London she had to admit she would never have come up with this scenario in her wildest dreams. Thank you, Leo, for inviting me to the Eye.

      By half past midnight, rather than get to know each other, they’d discussed half a dozen couples from the bar, sizing them up and guessing their circumstances. Then, after making up far-fetched stories about secret agents and international spies along with who the couples must be, they pondered what other people might surmise about them.

      “Maybe they think we’re two famous doctors out to save the world,” Mitch said, hitting very close to home in Grace’s situation.

      “How about a rich American actress and her best friend’s husband,” said Grace, raising her brows, wanting to throw him off track. She must have done a good job as his expression faltered for a millisecond. Oh, no, she’d pushed the game too far. Had she hit a nerve?

      The next few moments ticked by in silence, and he seemed to have lost interest in playing the game.

      Mitch finished his drink and looked at his watch. “I should get you home.”

      Okay, she’d definitely hit a nerve, and now she’d ruined their evening. “Yes,” she said, suddenly feeling awkward for the first time that night. “I imagine you’ve got to get home, too.” To your wife and family.

      “I’m divorced, in case you’re wondering.” His СКАЧАТЬ