Page 38 of Heart of The Night

‘Least I can do. Anyway, I won’t take any more of your time. Don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything else.’

‘Likewise. Until then.’

With our conversation concluded, I set my phone on my desk. I leaned back into the comfortable embrace of my chair, my deep sigh echoing through the quiet of my study. Images of Cara swirled in my mind, kindling a longing that was as tempting as it was untimely. As exciting as it would have been to have her next to me, duty served as a compelling antidote to the thought.

Straightening my posture, I fired up my desktop computer, prepared to dive into the web of Jian’s allegations. While my computer booted up, I picked up my phone again, and there it was – a notification from Francesca. My chest tightened with apprehension as I opened her text.

In London, yeah, but no time to grab the dress today. Catching a flight early tomorrow morning. Not sure when I’ll be back.

I frowned, her response triggering a wave of annoyance. She didn’t seem particularly interested in resolving this matter anytime soon; she didn’t propose any feasible solutions. But I had grown weary of having her dress around. It was an unwanted reminder, a lingering connection to her that I was eager to sever.

I quickly typed back, my impatience seeping into my words: Where are you staying? A hotel? That was her usual choice of accommodation whenever she was in London. I can drop it off at the reception later today. Or just give me an address. Can post it to you. The sooner it was out of my possession, the better.

As I slid my phone aside, the knot of irritation lingered, further tightened by her delayed response.

Come to Crystal Palace Hotel in Paddington. 8 p.m. Room number 441.

I read her text several times, its implications sinking in. The expectation of a face-to-face handover was all but spelled out, an expectation I had no plans to fulfil. Why did she want to meet me in person when it could easily be avoided? It kindled a suspicion in me that she might be seeing this as an opportunity to shift the status quo between us. But my mind was made up. The dress would be left with the receptionist, a move that might come across as cold, but given the nature of her reply, I considered it necessary. A clear boundary, a message that I had no intention of changing my stance about us.

Thanks, I’ll leave it with reception. Safe travels.

The finality of my response was deliberate. This chapter needed to be closed, once and for all.

§ § §

The Crystal Palace Hotel loomed grandiosely in Paddington’s evening glow. I walked through the revolving door, stepping into the lobby’s opulence. The murmur of muted conversations punctuated the soft strains of piano music floating in the air.

A young man presided over the reception desk, his polished charm evident in the easy grace with which he managed the comings and goings of the hotel’s guests. As I approached, he offered me a well-rehearsed smile, the picture of professional amiability.

‘Good evening, sir,’ he greeted, his voice smooth and welcoming. ‘How may I assist you?’

I eased the paper bag – the one that held Francesca’s silk dress – onto the desk. ‘Good evening. I’d like you to store this for a guest,’ I said. ‘Miss Francesca Strafford, room 441.’

‘I see. One moment, sir.’ His eyes darted to the computer screen before him, his fingers deftly dancing across the keyboard before he met my gaze again. ‘May I have your name, please, sir?’

‘William Night – that’s without a K.’ An error people typically made.

‘Thank you.’ His eyes flickered back to his screen, a ripple of recognition passing over his features. ‘Mr Night, normally I’d be more than happy to fulfil your request. However, Miss Strafford contacted the reception earlier. She specifically asked that you personally deliver this item to her room.’

Her audacious move took me aback, jolting me out of my calm demeanour. Anger ignited in my veins, a potent cocktail of incredulity and annoyance. My immediate impulse was to lash out, to threaten the disposal of the dress if my initial request wasn’t met. I chafed at the blatant disregard for my clearly expressed wishes, viewing her tactic as both disrespectful and immature.

However, the receptionist was an innocent party in this play. It would be unseemly to thrust him into the middle of a private matter. Moreover, I was a grown man, fully capable of handling her, even if the notion of tossing her dress into the nearest bin – a symbolic retort to her manoeuvre – held a certain spiteful appeal. So I would face her, meet this provocation with steady resolve. Should she dare to cross the line, my rejection would be unequivocal and unflinching.

I summoned my good graces, forcing my expression into a mask of neutrality. ‘I see. Could you point me to the lifts?’ I asked, struggling to keep the sharp edge of my irritation from colouring my words.

‘Of course. If you’d follow me, please.’

With his lead, we wove our way around a corner and soon stood before the metallic gates of the two lifts. A brief press of a button and the doors parted, revealing a pristine cage bathed in soothing light. He swiped his security card against a panel, the fourth-floor button lighting up. We began our ascent, the silent glide of the lift drifting through the air until a soft chime announced our arrival.

He gestured me forward. ‘Miss Strafford’s room is at the very end of the corridor,’ he said, his tone maintaining its affable inflexion.

As the lift doors whispered shut behind me, I found myself alone in the hushed solitude of the hotel’s upper levels. I began to walk, my footfalls muted by the thick pile of the russet carpet. Uniform white doors lined the corridor on either side, each with a gilded bell that mirrored the last.

Pausing before room 441, I stared at the doorbell. I could, in theory, leave the bag right there on the patterned carpet, sound the bell, and be gone. Such a simple act of petulant rebellion sparked a moment’s satisfaction in my mind. But there was a part of me – perhaps the lawyer in me, perhaps the man – that yearned for closure, for the concrete finality of a confrontation. This part urged me to face her, to make it abundantly clear we were done.

So, quelling the small voice that craved evasion, I rang the bell. Its chime filled the silent corridor, seeming to linger in the air long after the noise had ceased. As the door unlocked, the familiar drumming of anxiety in my chest echoed through my body.

Francesca appeared in the doorway, draped in a black satin robe that cascaded down to her knees. I forced my gaze upward, refusing to let it be ensnared by the suggestive outline the garment sketched beneath its silky surface. I resented the idea that she might have planned this outfit, calculated to tantalise. A suggestion of sensuality through subtlety, a weapon she used with reckless abandon.

---