Raindrops And Roses

AINDROPS

OSES

…I don’t believe in insta-love or what some call love at first sight.

But sometimes the chemistry  between two people  is so strong and so
compelling  it’s  overwhelming.  A  time  when  normal  commonsense
takes  a  vacation  and  anything  approaching  rational  thinking  goes
along with it for the ride.

For me, this was one of those times. And I knew he felt it, too.

That’s why we continued to sit here, staring at one another like we
were under a spell or something.

“Can I buy you a cup of tea?” he asked.
“Umm…” I tried to break eye contact and failed. I knew I was in

trouble. If I had any sense, I’d make up an excuse and go, now, while I
still had the chance. And do what? Wonder what if, wish I’d acted
differently and then come back in the hope he was still here?

The waitress placed a pot of tea and a bowl of soup in front of

Michael. “Your sandwich will be up in a minute,” she said before
turning to me. “And what can I get for you, sir?”

“I…er…I don’t know. I…” I glanced around for inspiration, a

menu, wishing I didn’t feel so unsure, so vulnerable, so completely
unlike my normal self. I gripped the edge of the table in an effort to
get my thoughts back on track. I don’t do flustered. I’m the calm, cool,
collected type. The guy people turn to when things get out of hand and
panic sets in.

“Bring him the same as what I’m having,” Michael interjected

smoothly. “Thanks, Sara.”

The waitress left, and he reached under the table and laid a hand on

my knee. “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay.” I forced a grin. “Just a tad discombobulated, as they

say…”

LSO

HRISTIANE

RANCE

And The Cat Came Back

Anything You Can Do

Blues In The Night
Chance Encounter

The Club At Cool Harbor

The Cop And The Drifter

Crossing The Line

French Twist

The Gallery On Main Street

I’m Sorry

The Impossible Dream

Independence Day I & II

It Happened In Las Vegas

Les Hommes, Vols. I & II

Love Matters

Missing Presumed Dead

Oh, George

On Days Like These

Once Upon A Secret

Reincarnation

Some Place Only We Know

Strangers In The Night

A Taste Of Honey

This Time For Keeps

Wishing On The Moon

RAINDROPS

AND ROSES

CHRISTIANE FRANCE

MBER

UILL

RESS

LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

ITLE

MBER

UILL

RESS

OOK

This book is a work of fiction.

All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the

author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales,

or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

No portion of this book may be transmitted or

reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in

writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief

excerpts used for the purposes of review.

ISBN 978-1-61124-356-7

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

London, September 30

I’ve always found something infinitely sad about a wet day,

and watching the raindrops slide down the window of my London
hotel  room  only  made  it  worse.  For  me,  rain  goes  hand-in-hand
with  sad  events  like  funerals,  lost  chances  and  empty  dreams.
Today,  it  signified  the  end  of  a  brief  affair  I  wished  could  last  a
lifetime.  A  cosmic  cleaning  service  to  wash  away  the  memories
and drown out any  hope that, just  maybe, tomorrow things would
be better.

Except tomorrow won’t be any better. Or the day after that, or

the next one, or any other day in the next hundred years.

If…

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

If I hadn’t been between projects at work, I wouldn’t even be

here.  And  if  I  hadn’t  decided  to  check  out  that  cute  basement
teashop,  I  wouldn’t  have  tripped  on  my  way  down  the  stairs.  Of
course,  if  I  hadn’t  tripped,  I  wouldn’t  have  been  saved  from
possible  injury  and  certain  embarrassment  by  a  stranger’s  quick
thinking and outstretched arms. And if none of that had happened,
I wouldn’t be standing here now feeling as if my life was over.

I’d known the moment Michael touched me and our eyes met I

was  heading  for  heartbreak  rather  than  love  everlasting.  My
assignment in London had finished yesterday and today I would be
leaving. All that was left for me to do was finish my packing and
get  through  the  last  few  hours.  Knowing  that,  I  should  have
thanked  him  politely  and  made  a  quick  escape.  Instead,  I’d
lingered. We’d had lunch together and chatted the afternoon away.
I have  no  idea what we talked about, just meaningless chitchat to
hold onto the  moment. Then, when the teashop closed,  instead of
going  our  separate  ways,  we’d  gone  to  his  place  and  listened  to
music.

Later, we walked to Soho and dined at a tiny, very romantic

Italian restaurant he knew about. We ordered the house special,
spaghetti Bolognese, or spag-bol as Michael called it, and a bottle
of Chianti, then spent last night together.

By this morning, I was in so deep I didn’t want to leave.
“Hey, Drew, what time did you say your flight goes?” Michael

gave me a hug, along with another unnecessary and painful
reminder our time together was all but over. “Is it two or two-
thirty?”

“Two-thirty.” Another hour, and I’ll call the front desk to have

someone collect my luggage and find us a cab.

We’d agreed not to make stupid promises to keep in touch. If

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

we were meant to be, then it would happen. But we both knew a
long distance affair would never work; we lived too far apart. And
I shouldn’t have prolonged the agony by agreeing to let Michael
see me off, but he’d insisted, and I hadn’t had the heart to say no.

Goodbyes are a total bitch and I could already see this one

playing out in my mind: After I check in with the airline, the two
of us will have a drink or two at the bar. Then, like the characters
in an old black-and-white movie, we’ll rehash the past twenty-four
hours and get to feeling more and more miserable while we watch
the minutes and seconds tick away, until the time finally comes to
say our last farewells.

Already my throat feels tight, but I’ll do my best not to cry and

make  an  idiot  of  myself.  If  I  do, I  can  see  it  now…  Michael,  his
expressive  gray  eyes  dark  with  pain,  will  try  to  comfort  me  by
saying  something  trite  like,  “Too  bad  you  don’t  live  here.”  Or
maybe, “Too bad we didn’t meet the day you arrived.” For one last
time,  he’ll  hold  me,  pressed  tight  against  his  hard  body.  And  for
one  last,  wonderful,  but  agonizing  moment,  I’ll  smell  his  special
scent and feel his mouth on mine. He’ll walk with me as far as the
security  check,  where  we’ll  hesitate.  And  then,  before  I  continue
on and he turns away to retrace his steps, he’ll hand me the single
red rose he bought on our way back from breakfast and tucked in
his  buttonhole  for  safety.  We’ll  smile  and  blow  each  other  one
final kiss. I’ll take a deep breath, blank my mind, and walk away.

With a little luck, this time tomorrow, Michael Dawson,

England, and the past twenty-four hours will be nothing more than
a memory.

I moved away from the window to give the room a final check,

make sure I hadn’t left anything behind. I don’t dare look at
Michael, or—

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

The phone rang.

* * *

London, two weeks earlier

I deplaned at London’s Heathrow to what one of the flight

attendants announced were clear blue skies, a gentle breeze and
warm September sunshine. It sounded like a nice welcome after
the high winds and torrential downpour I’d left behind in Toronto.

I looked around at my sleepy-eyed fellow passengers as we

made our way through the airport. I’m not crazy about overnight
flights. For me, it’s like being pulled out of my comfort zone and
dropped off in unknown territory. I was tired, irritable, and having
trouble believing I was even here. But the company had needed a
body to solve a problem, and I’d happened to be available.

I glanced at my watch. A few minutes after six in the morning

British time, and passenger traffic was a mere trickle compared to
the crowd scene I’d expected. I didn’t know if it was due to flight
delays from elsewhere or if I’d just been lucky and hit a temporary
lull.  Whatever  the  reason,  I  wasn’t  about to  complain.  Instead  of
standing  for hours  in  long  line-ups that moved at a snail’s pace, I
cleared  passport  control,  claimed  my  luggage  and  was  through
customs  inspection  in  record  time.  As  I  exited  through  the  door
into Arrivals, I scanned the waiting crowd until I caught sight of a
uniformed  limo  driver  holding  up  a  sign  marked  Drew  McEvoy,
Falton  International.  I  beckoned  the  man  forward  and  introduced
myself.

I hadn’t slept on the plane and I hoped to catch a couple of

hours once I checked into the hotel. But by the time we made it out

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

of airport parking and onto the highway, I knew that wasn’t likely
to  happen.  Traffic  into  the  city  was  the  complete  opposite  of  my
trip  through  the  airport—morning  rush  hour,  which  translated  to
one  huge  traffic  jam,  or  tailback  as  the  Brits  call  it.  Resigning
myself  to  the  joys  of  stop  and  go  for  the  entire  journey,  I
swallowed  a  yawn,  leaned  back  against  the  soft  upholstery  and
closed my eyes.

I’d been with Falton International since graduating college. The

company  specializes  in  the  renovation  and  restoration  of  old
buildings  and  has  completed  jobs  all  over  the  world.  When  I
started,  like  every  other  new  employee,  I’d  begun  at  the  bottom
doing a  little bit of everything, slowly  moving up as I learned the
business  until  I  reached  my  present  position  as  a  senior  project
manager.

The company CEO, Grey Falton, is one of those hands-on, has-

to-do-it-all-himself  types.  The  kind  who  keeps  a  close  check  on
every  aspect  of  the  company’s  business  and  its  employees,  and
insists on daily status reports for each and every job on the books.
When  Grey  intercepted  me  on  my  way  into  the  office  yesterday
morning, I’d had no idea what he wanted, but he’d cut straight to
the chase.

He said he’d quoted on a couple of jobs in England he figured

he  hadn’t  a  hope  in  hell  of  getting,  but  a  few  days  ago,  the
unexpected had happened. The company he’d expected to succeed
had withdrawn due to what were rumored to be financial problems,
and  Falton  was  declared  the  lowest  bidder.  This  put  us  in
possession  of  what  promised  to  be  two  very  lucrative  contracts:
one  to  restore  an  abandoned,  old-money  family  estate  on  the
outskirts  of  London  into  habitable  condition;  and  the  second  to
restore the building, but modernize the kitchens and bathrooms of

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

a once-famous but outdated hotel property on the south coast with
a view to it regaining its former popularity.

He said work was scheduled to start over the next few months.

Office space had been leased in London and a skeleton staff hired
to set things up. What he needed now was someone to provide a
stabilizing head office presence in London while he found the right
person to act as general manager to oversee both projects.

While he was thrilled to get the work, the fact remained that

thanks to the lousy economy, all the big international corporations
were  under  constant  scrutiny  by  the  media.  Exhibit  the  slightest
problem or expose the  smallest crack and our public  image could
suffer. To reduce the risk of anything like this happening to Falton,
he  needed  to  send  someone  over  to  hold  the  fort.  And  if  I  hadn’t
already guessed, that’s where I came in. He needed someone in the
London  office  for  two  weeks,  absolute  max.  I  was  between  jobs
and  if  I  would  kindly  get  my  ass  on  the  first  available  flight  for
London the problem would be solved.

For now, any and all preliminary work related to the contracts

was  being  handled  from  Toronto.  All  I  would  be  required  to  do
was  look  busy,  push  some  papers  around,  answer  any  questions
from the media with the standard line that everything was on track,
smile  for  the  cameras  and  leave  it  at  that.  In  other  words,  he
wanted  someone  to  act  as  interim  window-dressing  and  make  it
clear  to  all  interested  parties  that  Falton  International  was  up  for
the job.

Privately, I thought he was paranoid, or at the very least

worrying for nothing, but I kept the thoughts to myself. The ink on
the  contract  was  barely  dry,  and  good  faith  had  been  shown  by
opening  and  staffing  a  London  office.  What  more  did  the  media
hounds want? They  had to know Falton getting the work was the

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

result  of  another  bidder’s  misfortune.  Juicy  stuff  like  that  is
impossible to keep under wraps. But I knew Grey was right about
the  media’s penchant  for sniffing out the slightest hint of trouble
and making it sound like a double-dipped major disaster instead of
a  minor  glitch.  And  that  being  the  case,  I  couldn’t  fault  him  for
taking precautions.

If a hotshot reporter found out Falton was still for looking for

someone to take overall charge of the projects, the situation would
be blown out of all proportion. No allowances would be made and
no excuses given. The report would be slanted just enough to stir
things up, make the company look incompetent, and encourage the
public to ask stupid but provocative questions.

The driver slammed on his brakes, jerking me out of my

reverie. I opened my eyes and glanced out the window. I saw
nothing I recognized, just a depressing view of post-WWII
housing, neglected patches of garden and what I figured were old,
abandoned buildings awaiting either a buyer with money to spend
or demolition.

The last time I was in England was the summer after I

graduated  from  college.  A  group  consisting  of  five  friends  and
myself spent three months backpacking through Europe, hitting the
must-see  spots  like  London,  Paris  and  Rome,  but  that  was  a
lifetime  ago.  We  were  young,  on  our  own,  free  from  authority
figures,  and  desperate  for  new  experiences.  As  a  result,  we’d
pushed  the  limits  and  done  everything  to  excess.  When  I  thought
back  now  to  all  the  crazy  fun  we’d  had,  it  seemed  more  like
something  I’d  dreamed  about  after  a  hard  night’s  partying  than
something that had actually happened.

We’d hung out in town squares and sung for our supper. We’d

slept on the beaches when our money ran short. And there were the

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

times  we’d  attached  ourselves  to  bus  tours  and  visited  museums
and  other  tourist  attractions  for  free,  just  to  prove  we  could  get
away  with  it.  Most  of  what  we  got  up  to  was  innocent  fun,  but
there had been a few things that were not. Such as running out on a
restaurant check we knew we couldn’t afford before we sat down,
and  snagging  beer  and  smokes  while  the  store owner’s  back  was
turned. Then there was the time one of the guys in our group tried
getting  friendly  with  a  local  girl,  and  she’d  responded  by  yelling
for the cops and screaming rape. Lucky for him, the girl was drunk
and known to the cops for making false accusations. They let him
go  with  a  warning,  but  it  was  a  nasty  few  hours  and  a  salutary
lesson  for  us  all.  We  hadn’t  needed  a  second  reminder  to
understand there’s nothing fun or romantic about a foreign jail, or
that getting thrown into one can be a whole lot easier than getting
out.

The traffic was, at last, beginning to pick up speed. I noticed

Marble  Arch a short distance ahead, but then we turned off at the
next set of  lights. After what seemed  like a crazy switchback ride
through  a  series  of  narrow  streets,  the  limo  came  to  a  velvet-
smooth stop in front of what the driver announced was my hotel.

I’d checked Jasper’s out on the Internet while waiting for my

flight. The location is great. It’s near Oxford Street, London’s main
shopping district, and occupies a fabulous, newly renovated, multi-
story, centuries’ old, red brick building. It’s one of the new, super
trendy, upscale boutique hotels, no doubt expensive as hell as no
prices were mentioned, and it was Grey Falton’s choice rather than
mine. Which was fine with me since he was the one picking up the
tab.

Grey said there were several reasons why he preferred Jasper’s

to the big chain hotels: it was quiet, comfortable, no more than a

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

five-minute  walk  from  our  new  London  office,  and  with  the
property being owned by an old friend, he’d been able to negotiate
an  attractive  corporate  rate.  On  top  of  that,  Jasper’s  served  the
most  delicious  full  English  breakfasts,  and  I  was  to  be  sure  to
check  out  the  wonderful  French  bistro  across  the  street—Chez
Moustique, where the cuisine, in Grey’s opinion, was unequaled in
all of London.

I tipped the driver, took possession of my luggage, and walked

through the open door into Jasper’s lobby. If the boss wanted me to
have what amounted to a paid overseas vacation, I’d do my best
not to disappoint.

* * *

The guest rooms at Jasper’s were all individually named and

decorated.  I  was  in  the  Robin  Hood  room  on  the  top  floor.  The
décor was hunter green and white with touches of gold, heavy dark
wood furniture and the wall art a mixture of old-fashioned hunting
scenes set in bosky dells and sunny woodland glades. Too fussy for
my taste, but I didn’t have to live with it, just put up with it for  a
week  or  two.  The  bathroom  was  a  whole  different  story,  like
something  out  of  a  magazine—the  epitome  of  luxury,  complete
with  a  shower  massage,  a  whirlpool  tub,  plus  a  stack  of  thick,
white, fluffy towels and a basketful of expensive toiletries.

After I finished unpacking, I took a quick shower and dressed

to impress in a charcoal business suit, a plain white shirt and a
discreetly patterned tie. Window dressing or not, I was the face of
the company for the time being and I needed to look the part.

The office was located on the main floor of another older

building not far from Jasper’s. The door was wide open, so I went

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in  and  introduced  myself  to  the  skeleton  staff  I’d  been  told  was
composed of Rose, the receptionist-cum-secretary for now, and Ari
and Vineet, a pair of IT technicians who were busy unpacking and
installing computers. I explained that I was  in charge temporarily
while a few last minute details were worked out back at head office
and they  finished getting things  set up here  in London. Once that
was all that done, someone else would take over from me and more
staff would  be  hired. In the  meantime, any questions or problems
should be directed my way.

I’d picked up a coffee and a newspaper on my way and, with

introductions out of the way, I snagged the only  office that had a
desk, chair and computer, went inside and closed the door. I sipped
the coffee, glanced at the headlines, then leaned back in what was
an  amazingly  comfortable  chair.  I  didn’t  expect  to  receive  any
phone calls or interruptions  and I wasn’t disappointed. What I got
instead was almost three hours of deep, refreshing sleep.

I awoke starving, not too surprising since I don’t like airplane

food and my last meal was the burger and fries I’d eaten while
waiting for my flight in Toronto.

I told Rose I was going for lunch, then headed farther down the

street to a pub I’d noticed on the  next corner. I ordered the daily
special,  which  happened  to  be  a  favorite—fish  and  chips  with
mushy peas. I could tell  it was a  frozen entree rather than  freshly
made, but washed down with half a pint of light ale, it tasted fine.

When I was through with lunch, I went back to the office, read

the rest of the newspaper, did the crossword and played computer
solitaire for a while. I stared at the phone a few times, willing it to
ring, but of course nothing happened. Just before five, I said
goodnight and see you tomorrow to Rose and the two IT guys and
left.

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

Holding the fort in London for a couple of weeks had sounded

great. But my days were normally spent trying to beat the clock
rather than watch it, and after one day of doing nothing, I was
bored.

Tomorrow, instead of twiddling my thumbs, I’d spend the time

surfing the Net—check out the clubs, the theaters, and the
restaurants and make a list of things to see and do while I was here.
One weekend I could rent a car and drive down to Brighton or one
of the other resort towns on the south coast. Or maybe find one of
those picturesque old inns where I could spend a day or two
exploring the countryside.

There were fors and againsts being alone in a strange city—the

fors meant not having to consider anyone but myself. The biggest
against was the loneliness factor, which was easily dealt with by
keeping busy.

With that thought in mind, rather than return to the hotel and

spend the evening watching TV or staring at the walls, I went for a
stroll along Oxford Street. After a couple of hours walking and
window shopping, I went into one of the better hotels for dinner,
ordered roast beef with all the trimmings and half a bottle of good
red wine.

I hate eating alone in a classy restaurant; it’s the pits. Linger

too long and who knows what the waiter might think or what ideas
some  of  the  other  lone  diners  might  get.  I’d  already  noticed  an
older  guy  shooting  speculative  glances  my  way.  Maybe  I  was
reading  him  wrong,  but  rather  than  let  him  think  I  might  be
interested, I finished my wine, paid the tab and got the hell out of
there.  I  thought  about  checking  out  a  movie  or  a  bar,  just  for
something to do, but I wasn’t in the mood. Between jetlag and all
the walking I’d done, I was beat. I had two whole weeks in which

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

to sightsee and go clubbing, plenty of time in which to do it all.

* * *

London, September 29

After two weeks of mild temperatures and glorious sunshine,

the  perfect  weather  for  sightseeing,  I  awoke  to  dark  skies  and  a
hint  of  rain.  By  noon,  the  hint  had  developed  into  a  full-blown
downpour. Since arriving in London, I’d found a number of ways
to help fill in the hours between nine and five. One was going for a
walk  each  day  before  finding  somewhere  to  have  lunch.  Today,
with  no umbrella and a walk out of the question, I stopped at the
first place I came to—the basement teashop in the next block that
advertised homemade soups and hot snacks. I’d been intending to
check it out several times before and this was my last chance.

Yesterday, I’d received the call I’d been expecting every day

since  I  arrived:  someone  had  been  hired  to take  over  the  London
operation, and I’d been assigned a project I desperately wanted—
restoring a burned-out hotel in old Montreal. My  return flight had
been  arranged  and  this  time  tomorrow,  I  would  be  back  with  my
family,  friends  and  the  people  I  knew.  My  time  in  London  had
been  fun  in  many  ways  and  I’d  met  some  nice  people.  But  after
two weeks on  my own, I could  hardly  wait to get  on that plane. I
was ready to go home.

Partway down the basement steps, my feet went out from under

me. Suddenly, I was in free-fall with arms flailing and hands
grabbing. But instead of landing on my ass or my face, I was saved
by a pair of outstretched arms attached to a deliciously firm body.

“Holy—”

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

“Hey. Steady on there.” The speaker was male, dark-haired,

several inches taller and a few pounds heavier than me. As I
regained my balance, he relaxed his hold, and I found myself
captured by a quizzical smile and beautiful, soft grey eyes.

I tried to look away, but something in his gaze held me

prisoner. I blinked a couple of times and rubbed a hand over my
face. “What happened?”

“I have no idea. Come sit down. Catch your breath.” He

returned to his table and pulled out a chair, indicating I should join
him.

I glanced back at the steps, then sat and checked the bottoms of

my shoes. Nothing! “It felt like I slipped on something.”

“Easy enough to do on a wet day like this.”
“I guess. I was in a rush to get out of the rain.”
A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “You’re an American,

right?”

I returned his smile. “Right continent, wrong country. I’m

Canadian.”

“Oops!”
“No problem. We’re the ones who say ‘eh’ rather than ‘gee

whiz,’ or so I’ve been told.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” He laughed and held out a hand.

“I’m Michael Dawson.”

“Drew McEvoy.” His handshake was firm, dry and lingered

about two seconds too long.

I don’t believe in insta-love or what some call love at first

sight. But sometimes the chemistry between two people is so
strong and so compelling it’s overwhelming. A time when normal
commonsense takes a vacation and anything approaching rational
thinking goes along with it for the ride.

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

For me, this was one of those times. And I knew he felt it, too.

That’s why we continued to sit here, staring at one another like we
were under a spell or something.

“Can I buy you a cup of tea?” he asked.
“Umm…” I tried to break eye contact and failed. I knew I was

in trouble. If I had any sense, I’d make up an excuse and go, now,
while I still had the chance. And do what? Wonder what if, wish
I’d acted differently and then come back in the hope he was still
here?

The waitress placed a pot of tea and a bowl of soup in front of

Michael. “Your sandwich will be up in a minute,” she said before
turning to me. “And what can I get for you, sir?”

“I…er…I don’t know. I…” I glanced around for inspiration, a

menu, wishing I didn’t feel so unsure, so vulnerable, so completely
unlike my normal self. I gripped the edge of the table in an effort
to get my thoughts back on track. I don’t do flustered. I’m the
calm, cool, collected type. The guy people turn to when things get
out of hand and panic sets in.

“Bring him the same as what I’m having,” Michael interjected

smoothly. “Thanks, Sara.”

The waitress left, and he reached under the table and laid a

hand on my knee. “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay.” I forced a grin. “Just a tad discombobulated, as

they say.”

“Falling down a flight of stairs can do that,” Michael said.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“No, but for a moment or two it throws the whole world out of

whack and leaves one quivering like a newborn left unattended on
a street corner.”

“You think?”

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“I know so. It’s happened to me. You’ll feel better once you’ve

had a cup of tea and something to eat.”

He’d summed up exactly how I felt, but I didn’t see how tea

could help. And I wasn’t sure I liked a virtual stranger being able
to read me like an open book.

“I’m sorry. I should go.”
Before I could put my words into action, Michael gripped my

hand tightly, a flicker of something approaching panic in his grey
eyes. “No, please don’t go.” He hesitated. “At least stay and have
your lunch.”

As he slackened his grip, my need to run dissipated and I began

to  feel  more  like  my  normal  self.  The  self  that  reminded  me
meeting  someone  as  attractive  as  Michael  was  a  rare  occurrence.
That  I  should  go  with  the  flow  and  see  what  happened,  even
though it was my last day here. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t.
After all, what did I have to lose? This time tomorrow I’d be at the
airport, waiting for my flight home.

Michael’s sandwich and my order arrived together. I’m not a

huge  fan  of  cream  of  celery  soup or  cucumber  sandwiches,  but  it
could  have  been  a  mixture  of  snails  and  puppy  dog tails  on  toast
for  all  I  cared.  And  while  I  almost  never  drink  tea, once  I  took  a
sip, I realized the hot, strong brew was exactly what I needed.

“Are you over here on vacation?” Michael asked.
“No. It’s a work-related thing. The company I’m with is in the

process of opening a London office. I’ve been helping set things
up.”

“So the position is temporary?”
“Until our head office finds a permanent general manager to

take over. What about you? You work somewhere close by?”

“I’m an acquisitions editor for a publisher. Their offices are

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across the street, but I mostly work from home. Once or twice a
week I come into the office, drop off whatever I’ve finished
working on and pick up the latest crop of unsolicited manuscripts.”

“Have you ever found any bestsellers?”
“Only in my dreams.” His smile changed to a sigh. “Most of

the time, I despair of finding anything that’s even readable, never
mind publishable.”

I tasted the soup. It was better than I’d expected and definitely

not from a can. I reached for the sandwich and took a bite.
Mmm…I closed my eyes and sighed with pleasure. The bread also
tasted homemade, like it came straight from my grandma’s
kitchen. “This is so good.”

“I know. I’ve been coming here for years. Everything’s

homemade and they don’t charge a bomb.” He finished his tea,
then beckoned the waitress over and ordered a fresh pot. “And you
can also bring us a couple of your lovely scones with lashings of
strawberry jam and clotted cream,” he added. “I want to give my
friend here a real English treat.”

While we ate, we talked about everything and nothing. We

discovered  we  had  a  lot  in  common—we  both  loved  visiting
faraway places, detective stories, black-and-white movies and jazz,
and  that  neither  of  us  had  any  interest  in  heavy  metal  bands  or
anything  tagged  as  sci-fi.  Long  after  we’d  finished  lunch  we
continued to sit and talk, until Michael suddenly said, “Good grief,
is that the time?”

I followed his glance to the clock on the wall, surprised to see

the afternoon had disappeared and it was a few minutes after five
o’clock. The office had my cell number. If I’d been needed for any
reason, Rose would have called. I took out my phone and checked
for messages. Nothing!

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“Was there somewhere you needed to be?” I asked, hoping the

reverse to be true.

“No. What about you?”
The only items on my desk awaiting attention were a half-read

newspaper,  a  magazine  I’d  found  in  my  hotel  room,  and  an
unfinished  crossword  puzzle.  In  fact,  meeting  Michael  had  saved
me  from  what  would  have  otherwise  been  my  last  afternoon  of
complete and utter boredom. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

* * *

When we left the teashop, the rain had stopped, the sun was out

and the pavements were dry.

I hadn’t wanted to leave. I wanted to forget this was my last

day. I wanted to spend forever inside that magic bubble gazing into
Michael’s grey eyes, but the place closed at five so we were given
no choice.

It was put up or shut up time, and I didn’t have a clue what to

say  or  do.  I’d  thought  we  were  on  the  same  wavelength,  but
Michael hadn’t said anything. Now I was afraid the first corner we
came to, he’d go his way, I’d go mine and that would be it. Maybe
I’d read him all wrong and he wasn’t interested. Maybe he already
had someone in his life. Maybe he was straight. No, I knew I was
wrong  on  all  three  counts.  If  even  one  of  them  were  true,  after
saving  me  from  breaking  my  neck,  he  wouldn’t  have  lingered.
Once  I  regained  my  balance,  he  would  have  gone  about  his
business. He wouldn’t have treated me to lunch and stayed with me
the whole afternoon.

So, was he waiting for me to say something?
As we walked, I juggled a few ideas in my mind. I didn’t want

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to come on too strong and scare him off, but I didn’t want him to
just disappear. I thought about suggesting a movie, or if he
preferred, we could stop somewhere for a drink. Or what about
meeting up later for dinner?

We reached the corner. My nerves tightened; my mouth was

dry. I could barely breathe. This was it. Now or never. The traffic
lights were in our favor, but instead of crossing over the street,
Michael hesitated. “Do you have any plans for this evening?”

My breath escaped in a soft whoosh, and my heart skipped a

beat. Yes! “No. Why? You have something in mind?” I asked,
careful to keep my voice casual.

Just from the way he smiled, I figured he knew what I’d been

thinking. “I have to go home and drop this off.” He indicated his
bulging briefcase. “Would you care to come with me? It’s only a
ten-minute walk from here. We can listen to some music, have a
drink or two, and then later go out somewhere for dinner. What do
you say?”

“Sounds like a great idea to me.”

* * *

Michael’s home was above a bookstore some distance from my

hotel. Like Jasper’s, the building was probably several hundred
years’ old. But instead of fresh paint and flowers, all I could smell
as we ascended the stairs was “old building” and damp, along with
the lingering odors of food overlaid with a pine-scented floor
cleaner.

At the top of the stairs, Michael unlocked a door and preceded

me inside. He was immediately greeted by an orange-and-white cat
rubbing against his legs. The kitty looked up at Michael, then at

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me, then back to Michael. “Meoow?”

“Hello, Marmalade. I want you to meet my new friend, Drew.

Drew,  this  is  my  flat-mate.  I  found  him  last  winter  while  he  was
still  a  kitten.  It  was  freezing  cold,  snowing  like  mad,  and  he  was
outside on the steps, trying to get his tiny mouth around a piece of
moldy  toast  he’d  found.  Between  that  and  his  color,  I  figured
Marmalade was the perfect name. Poor little chap was so thin you
could  feel  his  bones, and so weak I didn’t expect him to survive.
But now…”

Michael lead the way into the living room where he put down

his briefcase, picked up the cat and snuggled him against his face.
Both of them were clearly enjoying the contact and I had to admit
to feeling a trifle left out, even jealous. “We’re doing quite nicely,
thank you very much.”

I reached out to pet the animal. To my surprise, he pushed his

nose hard against my hand.

Michael laughed. “Well, look at this. He’s usually shy around

strangers, but he’s obviously taken to you.”

“He must sense that I like cats. We always had a couple at

home when I was growing up. I’ve often thought about getting one
of my own, but for one reason or another, it’s never happened.”

Marmalade jumped out of Michael’s arms onto a nearby chair,

then looked back and forward between the two of us as if to say,
Okay, guys, what’s the holdup? I want my dinner.

“Make yourself comfortable and please excuse the mess.”

Michael retrieved his briefcase from the floor and dumped it on an
already cluttered dining room table. “Give me a minute to feed His
Majesty, and I’ll find us something to drink.” He took off down the
hallway to what I assumed was the kitchen, with the cat in hot
pursuit.

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I sat on the sofa and glanced around the room. What Michael

seemed to think constituted a mess gave the room a warm, lived-in
feeling.  The  furniture  looked  like  thrift  shop  specials,  books  and
papers littered the table, a navy sweater was draped over the back
of one of the chairs, and there were a couple of catnip mice on the
floor. Except for the cat and  his toys,  it was pretty  much  like  my
place in Toronto. I rented the upper half of an old house just off the
Danforth that was  in  constant need of repair. But  it had character
and the owner was retired and liked fixing things, so I had no plans
to move anytime soon.

Michael returned with glasses and a bottle of wine on a tray.
“I hope you like dry red.” He sat down and uncorked the bottle.

After half-filling each of the two glasses, he handed one of them to
me. “Cheers!”

I returned the toast and took a sip—dry without being tart,

smooth as velvet and delicious in every way. “Hey, this is really
good.” I picked up the bottle. French, from Provence, but not a
label I’d seen before. “Is this available in a wine store?”

“My sister is married to a Frenchman whose family owns

vineyards near Avignon. This is one of their private labels.
Intended for friends and family only.

“Nice! Thanks for including me. I feel honored.”
“Actually, I should have said for special friends.” He lifted his

glass, leaned back in his chair and ran his tongue slowly over his
upper lip, then he smiled and drank some of the wine.

A slow trickle of need slid down my spine and settled in my

dick. I moved my butt a little to ease the sudden tightness in my
pants. “Special friend, huh? That’s even nicer. Guess I should feel
doubly honored.” I knew Michael was flirting with me and I loved
the subtle way he was doing it. I also knew we’d end up in his bed

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before  the  night  was  over.  My  only  question  was:  would  it  be
before  we  went  out  for  dinner,  in  which  case  I  suspected  we’d
forget  about  dinner,  or  would  we  stretch  out  the  anticipation  by
waiting until we came back?

Michael put down his glass and turned his attention to a stack

of CDs on a side table. After sorting through them, he slipped one
of the discs into a small, portable player and pressed play.

The haunting notes of Acker Bilk’s clarinet playing “Stranger

On The Shore,” filled the room, heightening my need and making
me wish Michael and I had more than a few hours together.

He returned to his chair and once again captured my gaze. My

mind raced with  ideas. I could call the office, tell them  about the
fall,  make  it  sound  more serious and  ask to delay  my return  for a
few days. Maybe take some of  my unused  vacation time. I had at
least a month coming to me. Or I could call and say I’d decided to
stay here in London.

And do what?
I was forty-two, not twenty-two. Chances were better than

good I’d have trouble finding anything even approaching a decent
job.

Getting swept off my feet with feelings this sudden and this

intense hadn’t happened to me in years, not since high school. I’d
fallen hot and hard for a classmate. Less than a week later, the
brief affair was over and done with, and I never understood why
I’d been attracted in the first place. I hadn’t even liked the guy.

Unless I was willing to risk history repeating itself, I needed to

take a step back and think. What if the way I felt about Michael
didn’t last? What then?

The cat, Marmalade, reappeared and jumped onto Michael’s

lap, turning around and around before finally settling down. He

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looked so damn comfy and cozy I wanted to push him off and bury
my face in that exact same spot. I wanted to feel Michael’s
warmth, assure myself of his need, and inhale his own unique
scent.

Michael began petting the animal, scratching him under his

chin and stroking his head. Marmalade responded by stretching,
then rolling onto his back, demanding a tummy rub. Michael
complied, and I looked away, fast.

What had started as a twinge of jealousy now burned both hot

and strong. I wanted to smack Michael’s hand away. I wanted to
tell Marmalade to get down and get lost, that Michael was mine.

God! I rubbed a hand over my face and quickly downed the rest

of my wine. I couldn’t believe I was jealous of a cat.

The last track on the CD faded away. Michael finished his wine

and put the glass on the tray. “Would you like more wine? Or shall
we go out and find somewhere to have dinner before it gets dark?”

“No more wine, but dinner sounds good.” I put my empty glass

beside his on the tray. The room was warm. It felt as if everything
was closing in on me. I needed to get outside in the fresh air where
I could breathe. “You have somewhere in mind?”

“You like Italian?”
“I love it.”
“Good. There’s this little place in Soho I know that makes the

best spag-bol.”

“And that is?”
“Spaghetti Bolognese. Pasta with meat sauce.”
Michael picked up his keys, and I followed him down the hall.

Just before we reached the door, he hesitated, then turned and gave
me a hug. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

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He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. You were looking a

little tense and introspective. I thought maybe you were having
second thoughts.”

“About what?”
“The two of us spending the evening together. If you don’t

want it to go beyond dinner and conversation, I promise not to
push.”

* * *

It was almost dark when we reached the flashing neon lights of

Soho  with  its  clubs,  pubs,  sex  shops,  clip  joints,  bars  and
restaurants. The  night  was  cool,  but the  sidewalks  were  crowded.
Snatches  of  music  and  laughter  erupted,  then  vanished  as  people
went in and out of the various establishments.

Soho is the center of London nightlife. Whether you’re looking

for a quiet drink, a meal, a little company, or something more
exotic, you’ll probably find it here within the square mile bounded
by Oxford Street, Regent Street, Leicester Square and Charing
Cross Road.

I’d been here several times over the past two weeks, checking

out the action at some of the eateries and bars. However, I hadn’t
noticed Lisetta’s until Michael turned off Greek Street into a
narrow alleyway and I saw the name in flaking gold script on a
window.

From the outside, the restaurant looked a little shabby and

rundown.  But  once  Michael  opened  the  door  and  I  followed  him
inside,  I  knew  this  was  my  kind  of  place.  It  was  small,  crowded,
noisy, and the enticing smells of garlic and roasting  meat  nothing
short of my idea of pure heaven, gastronomically speaking.

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The waiter showed us to a table for two and then, at Michael’s

request, left and returned a moment later with a bottle of Chianti
and a menu.

“We have two specials tonight,” the man informed us after

Michael tasted the wine and he’d poured some into each of our
glasses. “Roast leg of lamb and Spaghetti Bolognese. The soup is
minestrone.”

“I’ll have the Bolognese and the minestrone,” Michael said.

“Drew?”

I took a sip of the Chianti. The menu was handwritten and

virtually indecipherable. Rather than try to figure it out, I gave up
and handed it back. “I’ll have the same, but I’d like a small green
salad in place of the soup.”

While we were eating, Michael told me about a recent vacation

he’d spent in France and the town of Arles where his sister lived.

As he talked, I found myself wondering if I should mention this

was my last night in London, then decided there was no point.
Michael already knew my job here was temporary. If he’d wanted
to know more, he would have asked.

I finished my wine and refilled the glass to just below the

halfway mark. Between what I’d drunk at Michael’s place and now
this, my head was feeling a bit fuzzy. I needed to slow down.

Michael sprinkled on extra cheese, then twirled a few strands

of the spaghetti around his fork. “My sister took me to an
exhibition of everything Van Gogh while I was there. I found it
totally fascinating. Did you know Van Gogh used to live in Arles?”

“So I’ve heard. Apparently that’s where he did some of his

finest work.”

“And also chopped off part of his ear.” He stopped playing

with his food and put down his fork. “Are you interested in art?”

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“Me? No, not especially. I’m just a guy who knows what he

likes.”

“Yes. Me, too.” The way he suddenly narrowed his eyes and

looked at me made my blood run hot and my cock started to
stiffen. I knew we were no longer talking about art even before he
reached under the table and laid his hand on my thigh.

The only thing that mattered was the here and the now. We

both knew what we wanted and that we would be making love
before the night was over. Everything else was irrelevant. The only
question was where and when?

Michael removed his hand and went back to talking about his

trip, while I did my best to relax. But the tension between us was
rapidly tightening to the point it needed some relief.

I was ready to go as soon as we finished our entrees, but then

the  waiter  came  by  with  coffee  and  a  plate  of  complimentary
aniseed  cookies.  It  delayed  our  departure  by  no  more  than  a  few
minutes,  yet  to  me  it  felt  like  hours.  When  he  returned  with  the
check, I handed him a couple of bills, waved away the change and
pushed back my chair.

“Where to now?” I asked after we left the restaurant and were

back on Greek Street.

Michael shrugged. “You want to go somewhere for a drink?

Maybe check out one of the clubs?”

“Not really. You?”
“No.” He took my hand and pulled me into the privacy

afforded by a dark doorway. “What I want is…” His soft lips
touched my mouth in the very briefest of kisses, then he pressed a
hand against my cock and laughed. “You know damn well what I
want. But not here.”

“Where? Your place or my hotel?”

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“My place is closer.”
This was what I wanted, too. I wanted to hold him, touch him,

taste him and never let go. The hard part would come later when it
was time for me to turn my back and walk away.

* * *

When we got back to Michael’s flat, Marmalade was asleep on

one the chairs. The cat opened one eye, then closed it again,
stretched, and returned to his kitty dreams.

Michael smiled at his pet’s reaction, then he collected the bottle

of wine he’d opened earlier, fetched two clean glasses from the
kitchen and led the way to his bedroom.

I watched as he set the bottle and glasses on the nightstand,

turned on the lamp, removed his jacket and shoes and stretched out
on the bed.

He changed position onto his side, then looked up at me and

smiled. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

“Just enjoying the view.” I swallowed the sudden lump in my

throat as I slipped off my own shoes and dropped my jacket on a
chair.

For some reason, I felt more nervous than I had all those years

ago  the  first  time  I  slept  with  another  man.  I  was  shaky,
uncoordinated,  and  my  hard-on  of  a  moment  ago  had  vanished.  I
took  a  deep  breath  and  released  it  slowly.  If  I  didn’t  get  my
emotions  under  control,  I’d  be  useless  and  that  was  the  absolute
last thing I wanted to happen.

Michael got off the bed, poured a little wine into each of the

two glasses and gave one to me. “Here. A little Dutch courage.”

“You think I need it?” I took a sip, but my hand trembled and I

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put the glass on the bureau. “God! I feel like an idiot.”

He took my face in his hands, kissing me gently on the mouth

and putting his arms around me. “Hey, it’s all right.” He started
rubbing my back, digging deep to loosen the tight muscles, then
moving lower to squeeze my butt cheeks. “This isn’t the first time
for you, is it?”

“No. It’s…” I forced what passed for a laugh. “It’s nothing.

Just over-excited, I guess.”

“The result of too much anticipation?”
“Something like that.”
“It happens. Take off your shirt and pants and lie face down on

the bed. Maybe a massage will do the trick.”

I did as he asked, then said, “I should warn you a massage

usually puts me to sleep.”

He rimmed my ear with the tip of his tongue. “This one won’t.

And that’s a promise. Give me a minute to get my supplies.”

I figured he gone to fetch some kind of oil. When he returned

and I saw the other items he placed on the nightstand along with
the massage oil, I felt a quick thrill of excitement. This was our
first time, so I’d figured it wouldn’t go further than a little mutual
relief. Maybe a blow job, if I was lucky.

But if the container of lube, the handful of condoms and the

interesting strip of leather were anything to go by, Michael liked it
hot and a little kinky.

He straddled my body and poured a trickle of oil on my back.

As he began the massage, I wondered about the leather strip.
Would he use it to tie my hands? To inflict punishment? Or was its
presence supposed to tease and titillate the viewer? If so, between
Michael’s clever fingers and my thoughts, it was working. By the
time he got to my waist, my balls had developed a pleasant ache

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and my shaft was hard as a rock.

“Can you lift up a bit? Your boxers are in the way.”
He moved his weight off my legs, and I lifted my body enough

for him to slide them off. The loss of my shorts made me totally
vulnerable to his demands, but instead of being scared, it doubled
my feelings of arousal.

“I want you to get up on your knees and lift your butt high,

okay?”

Again, I complied, and again I began to tremble, this time with

excitement.

“That’s good. Just hold the position.”
I shoved the knuckle of my right forefinger between my teeth

and bit down, hard. I heard the rustle of clothing as he
disrobed…and then a soft curse as he struggled to open a condom
package

Please, please hurry!
He moved in behind me, and I felt his hot breath against my

ass. As he slid a finger down my crack, I almost lost it. Then his
tongue was everywhere, licking my back and teasing my balls,
while his fingers played with my dick.

I was so wound up, about to come, when he suddenly backed

off. I whimpered my disappointment at the loss of contact.

He laughed softly and bit my ear. “You ready for me to fuck

you now?”

I’d never been more ready for anything in my life. “You have

to ask?”

“I just wanted to be sure. Not everyone is happy about doing it

this way.”

I felt the shock of cold lube against my hole. Michael inserted a

finger, then a second, gradually working the muscle until it

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loosened.

Finally, the moment I was waiting for happened. He spread my

ass cheeks, positioned the head of his cock against my anus,
wrapped his arms around me and pushed.

The sensation of him sliding all the way inside me like that

made me sigh with pleasure. He pulled partway out, but before
going back in, he took possession of my penis. As he coordinated
his strokes, I rocked back against him, urging him on. We were
both too excited for anything slow and easy. We needed relief and
we needed it now.

Finally, that special moment arrived when everything felt

suspended, like a glass bubble hanging in space. I held my breath,
knowing it was about to happen, but wanting to savor every micro-
second. But then the glass shattered, the moment was over and we
collapsed in a heap of tangled sheets and limbs.

“Wow!” Michael pressed kisses against my back and neck.

“That was great, but over a whole lot too fast.”

“Give me a minute to catch my breath, and we’ll try for an

encore.”

“In your dreams, love.” Michael sighed. “I’m forty-five. These

days, I’m lucky if I can get it up once a week. Twice in one night is
out of the question.”

“Am I allowed to try?”
“Certainly you may. But first I need to pay a visit to the head.”
I went to the bathroom after Michael returned. I couldn’t have

been in there more than a couple of minutes, but when I got back,
he was already fast asleep.

I switched off the lamp, lifted the covers and got in behind him.

Then, wrapping an arm around his body, I found myself marveling
at what could happen in so short a time. Last night, I didn’t even

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know Michael existed. Tomorrow night— I pushed the thought
away. I needed to concentrate on the here and the now and enjoy
what little time we had.

* * *

When I awoke sometime later, the light was on and Michael

was lying on his side, staring at me.

I frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just watching you sleep.”
“Doesn’t sound too exciting.”
“You’d be surprised.” He smiled, then reached out and stroked

my face. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

“What did I say?”
“Actually, you mutter. About what, though, I don’t have a

clue.”

He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. “What

would you say to a trip to the country this next weekend? My
parents have a house on the river near Henley, and Sunday is my
mother’s birthday. She’ll be expecting me, so I’d love you to come
as well.”

The invitation caught me by surprise. “Sorry. I can’t.”
“Why not?” He laughed and poked me in the ribs. “A hot date

you don’t want to break?”

I considered making up an excuse, such as… Such as what? I

was having tea with the queen? “No.” The least Michael deserved
was the truth. “I won’t be here.” I got out of the bed and walked
over to the window. “This is my last day in London. I fly home
tomorrow afternoon.”

“But I thought…”

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“I know what I let you think. I realize I should’ve said

something, but I didn’t and I’m sorry.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”
“The sudden attraction I felt for you, the chemistry between us,

call it what you will. I wanted to hold onto the magical feeling as
long as possible. Stretch it out to the very last drop.”

“And you think if you’d told me it was your last day I’d have

cut lunch short and walked away?”

“I don’t know. Would you have?”
“I don’t know either. The chemistry was mutual, Drew. The

instant I touched you, it was like being sandbagged. I knew I was
in trouble. I wanted to hang on tight and never let go.”

“Me, too. That’s why I didn’t spell it out. There was no point. I

knew the most we could have was a few hours together, so I
figured why not enjoy them.”

“And you think that excuses you lying to me? You could have

told me and let me make up my own mind.”

“I didn’t lie.”
“Maybe not, but you deliberately misled me and that’s just as

bad in my book.”

“When we met in the teashop, I knew the attraction was there,

but most times things like that go nowhere. After lunch, I figured
you’d go your way and I’d go mine. Why would you care where
I’d be tomorrow or next week?”

“You could have mentioned it in passing.”
“Why would I?”
“Okay, so maybe not then, but why didn’t you say something

later? Like when I invited you over here and suggested us going
out to dinner.”

“Because by then it was too late. I was afraid if you knew

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you’d walk away. I would have sold my soul to stop that from
happening.”

“In other words, you were only thinking about yourself. Thanks

a lot. If it wasn’t four in the morning, I’d ask you to leave.”
Michael got out of bed, pulled on a robe and left the room,
slamming the door hard on his way out.

I wanted to yell at him to come back. I wanted to insist he put

himself  in  my place. Try to understand there are times  in this  life
when all you get is one tiny taste, not the whole fucking pie. Most
of all, I wanted him to forgive me. My  eyes burned and I pressed
my forehead against the wall, hating myself for screwing up what
had  been  the  best  thing  to  happen  to  me  in  years.  Michael  had
every right to be angry. I’d  hurt him  by  letting  him  believe what
we had was the start of something, when I knew damn well all we
had was one night. If he hated me for not making that clear, then it
was no more than what I deserved.

I collected my clothes from the chair and started to dress.

Anything I said or did could only make things worse, and I didn’t
want that. I needed to leave now. It didn’t matter it was dark
outside or that I didn’t have a clue how to get back to Jasper’s. I’d
figure it out.

As I sat on the edge of the bed to put my shoes on, the door

opened and Michael came back into the room. I knew he’d been
crying and that made me feel even worse.

He came over to the bed, then went down on his knees and

threw his arms around me, holding me so tight I could barely
breathe. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that for
something that was my own fault.”

“How do you figure it’s your fault?”
“When I asked, you said your job here was temporary. I could

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

also have asked what that meant, but I didn’t because…

“You didn’t think it was any of your business?”
“Not even that. I just didn’t want to know. It’s not often two

people  connect  the  way  we  did.  I  wasn’t  about  to  spoil  the
wonderful  feeling  by  thinking  about  practical  stuff,  such  as
tomorrow  or  next  week  or  the  fact  you  didn’t  live  here.  All  I
wanted  to  think  about  was  now.  If  our  positions  were  reversed,  I
doubt  I  could  have  rained  on  our  parade  either.  We  live  too  far
apart  to  run  back  and  forth  on  weekends,  or  make  promises  we
probably wouldn’t keep.” He hesitated and rubbed his eyes. “I’m a
great  believer  in  Fate.  What’s  meant  to  be  will  be  and  all  that.
Maybe  all  you  and  I  were  meant  to  have  was  these  few  hours.
What time is your flight?”

“Two-thirty this afternoon.”
He lifted his head and the look on his face almost broke my

heart. Despite the tear tracks on his cheeks and the way his lips
trembled, his beautiful smile was firmly back in place. “Good. We
still have a few hours left. Let’s not waste them. I’m truly sorry for
what I said. Please, don’t go, Drew.”

“I’m sorry, too.”
I urged him down on the bed beside me and pulled up the

covers. I would have liked for us to make love one more time, but
if all we could have was these last few hours locked in one
another’s arms, I would be satisfied.

* * *

London, September 30
Drew’s Hotel Room

RAINDROPS AND ROSES

When the phone rang, I picked up, expecting it to be the front

desk wanting to know if I was ready for them to send the porter to
collect my luggage.

Instead, I was surprised to hear Grey Falton’s voice.
“Drew? That you?”
“Yes. What’s up?”
“What time’s your flight back?”
“Two-thirty out of Heathrow. I’ll be leaving here shortly.”
“Then thank God I caught you before you did. I was a little

worried there for a minute, trying to figure out the time difference.
Anyway, long story short, that guy I hired to take charge of the
London office changed his mind. I spent yesterday calling some of
the other applicants and then late last night it struck me.”

“What did?”
“You did. How would you like to spend the next year, year-

and-a-half over there? You’re well qualified for the job and you
have no ties here that I’m aware of. I realize it’s very short notice
and I’ll understand if you say no. But…what do you think, Drew?
Will you do it?”

“I, err…umm…” I didn’t know what to think or what to say.

My head was spinning and my legs felt weak and wobbly.
Something this wonderful didn’t happen in real life, only in
dreams. “Can you give me a minute?”

“You want to call me back?”
“No, it’s okay, just hang on for a moment.”
I pressed a hand over the phone and looked at Michael.

“You’re not going to believe this. No way. I’m not sure I believe it
myself.”

“So tell me.”
“It’s my boss on the phone. He wants to know if I’d like to stay

HRISTIANE

RANCE

Christiane  truly  believes  that  love  makes  the  world  go  round,  so
she  likes  stories  with  both  happy  and  bittersweet  endings.
Christiane has been writing romance for the past twenty years and
lives  near  Niagara  Falls  with  her  husband  and  The  Boys—two
black and white Persian cats.

* * *

Don’t miss Blues In The Night

by Christiane France,

available at AmberAllure.com!

To  celebrate  their  reunion  after  a  six-month  work-related
separation, Alain and his partner James have  planned to  meet  up
for the perfect dream vacation. When James calls with what Alain
expects  to  be  details  of  his  arrival  time  at  the  first  stop  on  their
itinerary, James says he won’t be joining him. He’s met someone
new,  the  temporary  assignment  has  turned  into  a  permanent  job,
and sorry, but their relationship is over.

Alain leaves the hotel, hoping the sights and sounds of the city will
help distract him from the shock of James’ desertion, maybe stop
him from trying to figure out ways of changing the unchangeable.
As evening turns to night, he continues walking, up one street and
down  the  next  until  music  drifting  up  from  a  basement  nightclub

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