For nontherapeutic reasons, she was looking forward to the week ahead. She’d been to the U.K. on a school trip in high school, a ten-day whirlwind around Scotland, Wales, Ireland and England. She’d been entranced by two places: the Lake District—she’d been deep into her Wordsworth stage—and all of Scotland. Wales had fared well in her memory, a late night at a pub in the wilderness, but it was Scotland that always came to mind when she thought back. The barren green-and-brown hills, the rocky crags, the lochs, nestled valleylike into the surrounding mountains, misty and fittingly mysterious, like they held the answer to a millennia of secrets. No wonder the legend of Loch Ness persevered. It was easy to believe that the still waters were a part of the land that time forgot.

Memphis had warned her that he wouldn’t be able to stay long. He’d been assigned to the case he mentioned: three missing girls. He could do some work from the estate, but the brass was the brass, which meant he would only be able to sneak away from London for a bit.

Taylor nursed a tiny bit of jealousy after hearing the stress in his voice. She never felt so alive as when she was working a breaking case. She could hear the worry and excitement in his words, feel his distraction, his desire to solve the mystery. She loved that feeling. She missed it.

The champagne had dulled the headache, but she took a pain pill just in case. She let her eyes close. One thing she knew for sure—she was going to be very careful around Memphis Highsmythe.

Taylor woke as the plane landed, the jolt and reek of the tires immediate in her nose. She was shocked at how rested she felt. Even just a couple of hours of shut-eye could rejuvenate her completely. She fluffed her hair, over the scar, allowing it to hang over her shoulders, then gathered her bags and wandered off the plane, stretching and yawning. Customs was bogged down, the line winding around the building in serpentine circles, sleepy, unkempt people being herded into their pens. It was going to take her forever to circumnavigate.

“Welcome to England!”

Taylor jumped a mile. Memphis was standing three feet away, his face partially hidden behind a massive bouquet of fat roses. White ones, not red. Red would have been too inappropriate. He was waiting for her.

She smiled wide and waved. She went to Memphis, accepted the beautiful cabbage roses, and let him kiss her on both cheeks. He smelled good, like wind and rain and man. She felt that familiar tick in her heart that she’d thought she was done with, which made her mad. She scowled, and Memphis looked hurt. She stepped back from him, confused.

“My schedule shifted and I thought I’d walk you through customs, free up some time for you. The weather may turn and interrupt our travels. You don’t mind, do you?”

She shook her head. Pointed at her throat, a reminder that she couldn’t talk.

“Ah, well. I’d hoped seeing me would bring it all rushing back.”

Memphis picked up her bag, started off toward the customs sign. He looked good, blond and tight, strolling through Heathrow. Women turned to look at him, but he was unaware of the attention. Completely oblivious to his effect. Baldwin was like that. Only had eyes for her. She couldn’t help the comparisons—Baldwin, dark and tall and lean and chiseled, Memphis shorter, more compact, but just as pretty. Two very pretty men.

They were two sides of a coin. Both good, she had no doubts about that. But there the similarities stopped. Baldwin was rational, whereas Memphis was unreasonable. Violence hid just underneath his polished surface. Memphis didn’t look like a brawler, more like a cobra swaying in the breeze. His whole countenance sent off distinct signals—you knew to leave well enough alone or get bitten.

Both smart, both educated, both in love with her. She stopped herself. Comparing them wasn’t smart.

Memphis looked back over his shoulder and winked at her. No, all would be well. She had a feeling Baldwin may have had a chat with Memphis, told him to behave. She didn’t blame him. Memphis wasn’t good at playing with his own toys. And just in case it became necessary, Taylor had written up a stern letter explaining the ground rules. She was hoping it wouldn’t be needed, but she found it entirely impossible to predict Memphis’s behavior. He could swing between Lothario and Lancelot at a moment’s notice. And she, fickle beast, seemed to get caught in his ebb and flow as if he were the moon and she the tides. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that sensation.

Memphis was prattling on as he led her to the front of the line, making small talk.

“I hope you won’t be too jet-lagged, but I’ve set up a breakfast meeting tomorrow with Madeira James, the doctor friend that I mentioned. I believe you’ll enjoy her company, Taylor. She is a smart, lovely woman. She’s taken good care of me since…well, you know.”

Since Evan died. I know, Memphis. I know. No one should have to go through losing a spouse. And a child.

“Yes,” Taylor said, the word nearly guttural.

Memphis pulled up short. “Oh, my. That sounds like it hurts. Can you do more?”

She shook her head. It wasn’t the pain that stopped her from talking, just the memories. Now that she was starting to be able to vocalize again, she was suddenly shy, every word measured for worth, for impact. She hoped that would go away before too long as well.

They were up to the customs agent now, who asked them business or pleasure in a bored voice.

Memphis answered for her.

“Both.”

The man stamped her passport and handed it back. And just like that, she was free.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was chilly outside the terminal, low gray skies and a lingering threat of rain. Taylor pulled her shearling jacket close around her, adjusted her scarf. She breathed deeply, the grit of canned plane air replaced by brisk, cool city smog. It smelled wonderful.

Memphis had a car waiting, low and sleek and black, with a driver who held the door. Taylor raised an eyebrow at him. He just smiled and bowed with a flourish.

“My father sends his best wishes to the lady.”

She slid onto the smooth leather, smelling the tiniest hint of cigar smoke wafting up from the seats. Many a deal had been done in the back of this car. She could feel that immediately. Memphis sat across from her, riding backward. The car slid from the curb.

Taylor pulled out her notebook.

Tell him thank you. This is lovely.

Memphis winced at seeing her having to write rather than speak, but covered his dismay quickly. “I thought I could do a quick drive through town for you, give you a taste of London. It’s been a while since you were here last, correct?”

She nodded.

“Good. Then we can head to King’s Cross. I’ve booked us seats on the noon train. We could have flown, but it’s only three hours, and the countryside is pretty. I thought it would give you a chance to catch up on your rest.”

“Thank you, Mmmmemphis,” Taylor whispered, then put her hand on her throat. The plane’s dry, recirculated air had made it tight and itchy, she was better off not talking. She needed some cough drops. When she wasn’t speaking, her throat hadn’t hurt at all.

“Oh, goodness, apologies. You must be thirsty. I’ve got a bit of tea. Would that help?”

She nodded, and he produced a stainless steel thermos and poured her a cup. Earl Grey, with milk and sugar, just the way she liked it. Already prepared, ready to go. She couldn’t help but see the quiet smirk on his face. She narrowed her eyes at him but he avoided her gaze, started pointing out landmarks.

London was overwhelming. The sheer size of it, for starters. Taylor was shocked by how much it had changed since she’d been there as a teenager—she remembered Old World architecture and history brimming from the cups on every corner. This new London was spread and steel and glass and fast. It lacked the romanticism she remembered.