Read Fire After Dark for Free Online Page B

to the National Gallery and then walk down to Westminster Abbey, but somehow the morning slips away. At lunchtime, I make a sandwich and grab an apple and decide to find a way into the gardens down below and eat my lunch there.
    The porter is friendly and tells me how to get through the back door to the gardens. The only way in is through the apartment building so the gardens are exclusive to the people who live there. I head out, walking along the shadowed gravel walkway, my gaze flicking up to where Celia’s flat is, and across to where Mr R lives, but soon I’m out in the sunshine. The building widens out around the large green space that has been made into a magnificent garden, like a miniature park. There’s a well-tended area with flower beds and plants laid out with benches and a fountain, and then a stretch of grass that’s been allowed to grow a little long and hazy, like a lazily tended lawn that’s on the brink of becoming a meadow. Beyond that is a pair of tennis courts, well kept and evidently often used. A couple of ladies are gently knocking a ball back and forth to one another.
    I take my rug, found in Celia’s hall cupboard, and put it down on the cool grass near the tennis courts. The thwack of the ball on the strings and the occasional shout of ‘sorry!’ is rather comforting, and I settle down to my lunch and my book as the sun blazes down, the light moving slowly across the lawn, dousing first my toes and then my calves in sunshine. By the time it reaches my thighs, I’ve finished my lunch and am lying sleepily on my rug, half reading my book and half dosing. I’m only vaguely aware that the ladies have gone and that their gentle ping-ponging of the ball has been replaced by a different, forceful hitting, and masculine grunts and shouts.
    ‘Good – follow that forehand through. Come in to the net! Volley, volley, volley!  . . . Excellent, good work.’
    It’s a tennis coach shouting instructions at his pupil. The voice floats over my consciousness. I’m mostly aware of the brightness of light on my closed lids and the heat of the sunshine, and don’t even notice when the voices and the shots stop. The first I know of it is when the light on my eyes darkens and I feel the slight coolness of a shadow falling upon me. I open my eyes, blinking, and realise that someone is standing over me. It takes a second or two before I can focus: whoever it is glowing like an angel and I realise that it’s because they’re wearing white. Tennis whites.
    Oh my God. It’s him. Mr R.
    Before I can do much more than stare upwards at him, noticing that his dark hair is pushed damply back and that his nose is glistening with beads of sweat – he’s even more breath-taking like this – and that he’s staring straight at me, he speaks.
    ‘Hello again,’ he says, and smiles.
    ‘Hi,’ I say, breathless, as though I’m the one who’s been playing tennis, not him.
    ‘You’re the girl I saw yesterday, aren’t you?’
    I struggle up into a sitting position, not wanting to talk to him while lying flat, but I still feel at a distinct disadvantage as he towers over me. ‘Yes,’ I manage.
    He comes down to my level, crouching beside me. Now I can see close up those amazing eyes under the strong black brows, and he seems to be taking in everything about me. I feel very vulnerable to his gaze. He says, ‘And you’re staying in Celia’s flat. I’ve made the connection now, I saw you there a couple of nights ago.’ His smile fades and his expression becomes concerned. ‘What’s happened to Celia? Is she okay?’
    His voice is low and musical and in that smart, well-educated accent, I can catch a slight foreign intonation but I can’t place it. Maybe that explains his dark looks. As he moves, I get a wave of warmth from his body heat. It’s sweet and salty with his exertions at the same time.
    ‘Yes, she’s fine. She’s gone away for a while and I’m looking after her flat.’
    ‘Oh, okay.’ His