Fiona Harper Read online

  One side of her mouth worked in a cheeky little smile. ‘I like the way you think, Adams.’

  ‘There is way more to like about me than that, Chambers.’

  Was he flirting with her? With Fern? He thought he just might be. And, much to his surprise, it seemed to be working. She hadn’t scowled or backed away. The fact she was standing there, a mischievous glint in her eye, made his blood heat by a few degrees.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ he said. Quickly, he added silently. Before the whole flirting-with-Fern thing pushed the plan straight out of his brain.

  They walked calmly back through the ticket barriers, trying to look as if they were trying to look nonchalant, all the time aware of the other team’s piercing looks. Kate wasn’t smiling at him now. Good. He didn’t want her to.

  Then, just as they neared the top of the escalators, prompted by a tiny signal, more a feeling than a gesture, they started to run. When he was halfway down he glanced back and spotted Kate pointing in their direction and muttering angrily to her brother. A split second later they were on the top step of the escalator, running down towards them.

  ‘It’s working!’

  Fern didn’t answer. She was too busy trying to slide past the people queued up on the right side of the escalator. Just near the bottom she stopped, her path blocked by a pair of studenty-looking types and their hefty rucksacks.

  ‘Excuse me!’ she said loudly enough to be heard. They turned and stared blankly at her. Obviously from out of town.

  The thumping footsteps behind them on the escalator were getting louder. They didn’t have time for this.

  ‘Move!’ he yelled, jumping past Fern. Now they got the picture. The escalator steps had flattened out and the pair of tourists scurried away, dragging their backpacks after them.

  Kate and Aidan were hot on their heels now. He and Fern made a break to the left, aiming for the Central line. Holborn station was a maze of little tunnels, full of steps, that curved and criss-crossed. It was a blessing in disguise that they’d spent the better part of twenty minutes exploring it earlier, looking for the connection to Aldwych.

  They ran on to the Central line platform and immediately dashed out of the exit and circled back to take the main escalators up to ground level. They didn’t stop running until they were fifty feet away from the station entrance.

  ‘Can you see them?’ Fern could hardly talk. The words were coming out as little breathy squeaks.

  He shook his head and swallowed in an effort to moisten his mouth. ‘No. I think we lost them.’

  She collapsed against the wall of the nearest building, but he tugged her to stand again. ‘Come on, it won’t take them long to get back on track.’

  They jogged down Kingsway and into Aldwych as fast as their pounding hearts and aching lungs would allow them. And there, where Aldwych joined The Strand, they found what they were looking for.

  At eye level it was identical to many other abandoned buildings. A grille covered part of the entrance and a chipboard door, secured with a cheap padlock, the other part. If they stepped back and looked above the first storey, its true identity became apparent. Its broad arched façade and its browny-red tiles were identical to many other turn-of-the-century underground stations. And yet hundreds of people probably bustled past this building every day, never appreciating its true beauty. Even mouldering away, not realising its potential and cluttered with the debris of years, it was a stunning piece of architecture.

  Fern rattled the grille and peered through into the darkness. ‘Perhaps there’s another entrance.’

  He didn’t answer, too caught in a moment of revelation about the woman standing in front of him. He’d been just as blinkered, just as guilty of not appreciating the beauty of the familiar. Because she was beautiful, and not just because of her fine bone structure and blonde hair. She was brave. She had an ability to sit tight and stick out situations that he would have run from.

  All those years, letting her parents mollycoddle her because she understood how painful it had been for them to lose one child and how scared they were of losing another. It couldn’t have been easy. Practically impossible if it’d been him. More than a few days at a time on the same island where Ryan had died made his feet itchy. The thoughts and memories were definitely easier to ignore a few thousand miles away.

  Silently he followed Fern round the corner into Surrey Street. He hardly noticed the beaming Secret London marshal who welcomed them and gave them their next clue.

  ‘This is where you’ll be staying tonight,’ the woman said, ‘carrying on the subterranean theme of the day, but first you have a couple more stops to make.’

  Inwardly he groaned. The enforced closeness of the underground was starting to suffocate him. He needed air, open spaces. He needed to be able to move, to run. Most of all, he needed to put more than half an inch between himself and Fern before they ended up in a situation one or both of them would regret.

  ‘Find London’s original fish market for a true taste of the city.’

  Fern inspected every word of the clue with care. They’d made the mistake of glossing over the wording of one yesterday and, if she had one thing going for her, it was that she learned from her mistakes.

  ‘Fish market. That would be Billingsgate. Even I know that,’ Josh said, picking up his backpack and getting ready to go.

  She held up a hand, palm outwards, to delay him. ‘It says original. I think they mean the old market building, not the current one. It moved a while back to the Isle of Dogs.’

  He leaned in to look over her shoulder and just his breath touching the skin of her neck made her feel hot all over. The fact that the bright summer morning had turned into a muggy, overcast afternoon did not help.

  ‘Is it close?’

  No, she answered silently, but you are. Too close. Or maybe just not close enough…

  ‘I’ll check the map.’ She handed him the clue and got out the guidebook they’d bought yesterday. It had been very helpful in finding local landmarks and attractions as well as roads and stations. ‘If we go to Monument, it’s only four stops.’

  The light went out of his eyes. ‘Couldn’t we take the bus or walk?’

  ‘We could, but the underground is by far the quickest way.’

  He rubbed his face with his hand. ‘I’m starting to feel like a rat in a tunnel.’

  For the first time since the start of the treasure hunt he seemed tired, and not just physically tired. That worried her. Josh was usually bursting with energy and enthusiasm for everything he did. She looked up at the darkening sky, ugly with yellow-tinged clouds.

  ‘We’ll stay dry that way. I think it’s going to rain.’

  The air was certainly thick with the promise of…something.

  The large red bucket on the floor was full of grey slippery things, endlessly twisting and turning. Fern’s stomach rolled over. Eels had always looked repulsive to her. She looked back at the old-fashioned East End fish stall parked out the back of Customs House, next to where Old Billingsgate Fish Market used to be.

  ‘What’s it going to be, Fern? You choose and I’ll pick from what’s left. You know me—I’ll eat anything.’

  At the front of the stall, lined up in squat polystyrene cups, were a choice of winkles, whelks, oysters and jellied eels. Each team member had to eat one cup to fulfil the challenge. True taste of the city, indeed! She’d bet the treasure hunt organisers were laughing their socks off about this one. What about pie and mash, or fish and chips?

  Absolutely none of the options appealed to her. Maybe the oysters. They were slimy but not nearly as revolting as the dark, muddy-looking winkles. She reached for the cup but, as her fingers made contact with the textured outer surface, she pulled her hand back again and reached for another cup.

  Josh gripped her shoulder. ‘Jellied eels? Are you sure?’

  She nodded, even though the thick grey and white lumps in the bottom of the cup were starting to make her insides swirl.

  ‘Li
quor?’ the stallholder asked, offering her a jug full of dark green liquid.

  ‘What’s in it?’ Her voice came out faint and shaky.

  Josh put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘The green colour comes from the parsley. It’s just like gravy, isn’t it?’

  The stallholder nodded. ‘Although, sometimes the stock is made from—’

  Fern held up a warning hand and turned her head away. ‘You know what? I think I’d rather not know.’

  Josh reached forward and picked up the cup of oysters. Fern held her cup up so the man could pour some ‘liquor’ in it. Something warm and wet might make it slide down more quickly. Okay. She picked up a plastic fork. Here goes…

  Ten seconds later she was still staring at the contents of the cup, the only sound in her ears the bumping of the live eels as they writhed in the bucket. She was sure the panini from lunch was about to make a return visit.

  She closed her eyes. Come on, you can do this! It might not taste nice, but it’s not going to kill you. Just remember that.

  Keeping her eyes shut, she brought the fork to her mouth and popped the first bit of eel inside, careful to keep it away from her tongue. The plan was to chew it as little as possible and take a swig of the green gravy to wash it down. Despite the urge to propel it out of her mouth with her tongue, she managed it. And then another piece, and another.

  Eventually she opened her eyes. One last piece of soggy-looking eel was sitting in the bottom of her cup. Almost there. She threw it into her mouth, but tried to swallow too quickly and it lodged in the back of her throat. She gagged and the whole lot threatened to come back up again.

  The urge to be sick bent her forward. One of her hands pressed against her stomach, the other covered her mouth. She got a great view of the red bucket as she leaned over, its contents whipping around in a frenzy.

  Oh, Lord…

  A warm, strong hand rubbed her back. And she heard his voice, whispering words of encouragement, just as he’d done on top of the crane. The rising tide of nausea swelled, then subsided.

  She swallowed hard and the muscles of her oesophagus contracted, pushing the lump of eel down inside her. She stood upright and held on to Josh while she waited for her stomach to stop protesting. It couldn’t have churned more if it had been live eels thrashing around inside her.

  ‘Let’s get some air.’ Josh’s arm came round her and he led her to the railing at the river’s edge. Now, the Thames wasn’t the most fragrant of rivers but, compared to the overpowering wafts from the fish stall, it seemed like fresh mountain air. She sucked it into her lungs in great gasps.

  ‘Better?’ There was such a look of tender compassion in his eyes that she was very tempted to cry.

  She nodded. ‘A little.’ Resting her elbows on the thin black railing, she bowed her head.

  ‘You were incredible just then,’ he said in a far-away voice.

  She shook her head, still looking at her feet. ‘I almost threw up. Hardly impressive.’

  ‘Look at me.’ He pulled her gently until she was standing, his hands on her shoulders, and he was looking deeply into her eyes. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, okay? I know how hard that was for you. Believe me, I never thought I’d live to see the day when you ate eel. You’re stronger than you realise. In fact, you’re stronger than we all realised—especially me.’

  She didn’t know what to say to that. Everything faded away—the sound of the river lapping against the embankment, the low golden sun on the horizon peeking under the gathering storm clouds and warming the riverside buildings—all of it.

  Josh’s eyes flicked downwards. He was looking at her mouth, her lips. Her stomach rolled again, but this time it was a pleasant fluttery sensation. She’d been here before. She knew that look on his face. He was going to kiss her and, heaven help her, she desperately wanted him to.

  A passing barge hooted its horn and suddenly the rest of the world came rushing back in. Josh stepped away and looked back at the stall. ‘I should eat those oysters. Here—’ he fetched a bottle of mineral water and thrust it towards her ‘—you might want this.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled. Josh, about to kiss her? Yeah, right. Not when she probably tasted of eels. She shuddered and gulped down half the bottle of water in one go. Then she rummaged in her backpack for some mints, only really satisfied when the water was gone and the air in her mouth was cold and sharp.

  Josh finished his oysters with the minimum of fuss, of course. Fern stood and waited for him as far away from the red bucket and the fish stall as possible. A treasure hunt marshal standing close by offered her the next clue.

  ‘Well done. You’re only the second team to have arrived here.’

  Fern just nodded and her fingers folded round the envelope. She wanted to kiss Josh. It was all she could think about at the moment. The treasure hunt faded into insignificance.

  The only problem was that kissing him would get her nowhere. They’d kissed before and he’d disappeared from her life for almost a year, leaving her aching, yearning for more. It would be the same this time. The pattern would repeat itself.

  If she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit that she’d been aching for him quietly, in the background of her life, for the last fifteen years. She didn’t want to ache for him any more. It took too much strength, too much energy, to ignore. Yet…she still wanted to kiss him.

  A rumble of thunder rolled around in the distance. Fern sucked in a breath and contemplated a new and frightening idea.

  Holding back, waiting for Josh, hadn’t worked, had it? She might have been able to deaden her feelings for him in the intervening years, shoring herself up with protective barriers, but it had only taken a short time with him for all those dormant feelings to painfully rise to the surface. She hadn’t stopped loving him. She’d just numbed herself to a point where she had been able to bury those feelings. Well, no more.

  He was joking with the stallholder while he sipped his bottle of water now, his easy charm winning the old Cockney over instantly. She smiled.

  She loved Josh.

  There. She’d admitted it to herself. She’d always loved him, ever since she’d been old enough to notice that maybe boys weren’t yucky after all. Over the years that love had changed, matured, deepened into an intense ball of feelings that threatened to overwhelm her.

  She ought to feel frightened but somehow she wasn’t. She was floating, light and free, as the evening sun warmed her face and a gust of breeze lifted the fine hair that had fallen out of her ponytail.

  Josh bounded over to her. ‘What next?’

  Exactly. What next? Where did she go from here?

  ‘Fern? What does the clue say?’

  ‘Oh!’ She stared at the envelope gripped lightly between her fingers. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet.’

  The thunder growled and there was a faint flash of lightning on the other side of the river. Fern was doing her best to follow Josh’s long strides up the lane from Billingsgate Market to St Dunstan’s Church, their next destination.

  The square tower and pointed spire poked above the surrounding buildings. Tucked away in an alleyway, they found the arched doorway which gave them entrance. Fern ran through it and stopped.

  ‘Wow!’

  Instead of the musty air and vaulted ceiling of a centuries-old church, it was as if she’d stumbled into a corner of Eden. The ancient stone walls were still in place, with their ornate arched window frames, but where the pews should have been was a garden—stone paths, drooping shrubs and a riot of colour and a softly gurgling fountain. Another world amidst the pollution-stained buildings and grimy streets.

  The roof was long gone and the heavy grey clouds overhead made it seem like twilight. The setting sun sent lancing rays to bathe the foliage in orange light.

  Josh’s hand laced through hers and she felt him tug her forwards. ‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘We’re looking for the east wall. The next clue has to be hidden there somewhere.’

&n
bsp; Her feet dragged as he pulled her along. This place was a real treasure, somewhere she would never have known about if not for Josh and his hare-brained idea to take part in the treasure hunt.

  He was slightly in front of her, totally focused on searching the shrubbery for an envelope. There were so many things she wouldn’t have experienced if not for this man. She smiled. Salsa dancing in Covent Garden, juggling in a fruit market, the sheer rush of adrenaline and feeling of triumph, knowing they were doing well in the race to the next clue. Still smiling, she winced. Oh, yes, and the revolting eels. But she’d done it; she’d survived.

  And he’d brought her much more than that: friendship, faith in her abilities when she had none, love—even though he didn’t know it. She wasn’t ready to let go of this yet, wasn’t ready to let him walk out of her life and disappear again without greedily grabbing for more.