| BOOK FOUR | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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Nate had to run errands today, so a youngish, unidentified man deputised for his absence. He hasn't said two words to me since arriving at the Manor. He did, however, on the drive to Inseparable Youths, proffer chewing gum and flavoured water. Nameless Suit's spiky yet modern cut hairstyle twined medium blond highlights, and his skin fade flaunted what reminded me of unartistic prison tattoos. His dark liquid eyes and full beard made him look somewhat older, but no amount of facial coverage can hide his fresh-looking innocence.
I wore old gym clothes to work, seamless leggings, a knot-hem tee and athletic trainers, not that I plan to run or exercise. The last time I went for an early morning sprint, I almost keeled over and died. I elected myself to paint the foyer, so discardable togs surpassed the emulsion spattered designer.
Matthew offered to gloss the doors once Andrew arrived, which should have been forty-eight minutes ago.
Thanks to Andrew, the unpunctual disappointment conveniently late for work, Matthew is held up in the function room with foul-mouthed teenagers, and Logan, who promised to whitewash the ceiling via text message, has yet to make an appearance.
I climbed down the ladder, rested the wet paintbrush on strewn plastic and crept to the staffroom for a sneaky coffee break.
Trudy's on the two-seater sofa, a cup of tea in hand, reading gossip magazines. Her downcast eyes bounced between Closer and Heat articles. "How's it going?" she asked, turning the page. "I made macarons if you want to try one."
Presented on the granite effect countertops, trays of multicoloured macarons dried on baking sheets. "You made these yourself?"
Where do I go wrong?
If I attempted to produce such irresistible edibles, I'd either burn them to a crisp or set the kitchen on fire.
"Oh, it's a simple recipe," she said, not giving herself enough credit. "I will make miniature lemon meringue pies next time." A small v formed between her brows. "Or perhaps key lime pie. I haven't decided yet. I can pretty much knock anything together."
Alright, braggart. I got the picture.
You are the next Mary Berry.
I am the worst chef on the planet.
Popping the kettle on, I grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge and prepared coffee. "Would you like another cuppa?"
"No." She glimpsed at her wristwatch. "I should get back to work. Jesminder has me on kitchen duties with Tricia and Dave before I play tennis with the girls." Her eyes rolled heavenward. "Wish me luck."
"Good luck." Pouring hot water into the mug, I waited for Trudy to leave the staffroom, dried my hands in a tea towel and selected a dusty lilac macaron. I snapped the confection to examine the emulsified ganache. "I will master you." Talking to the delicate cookie before sampling its sweet-tasting delicacies, I moaned in approval. "Why must it taste so good?"
