Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 02 - London Broil by Barbara Silkstone Read Free Book Online Page A

Knightsbridge?”
    As I leaned in the passenger side window to negotiate the rate I was hit with the smell of incense and stinky bodies. The cabbie was a swarthy looking fellow with Rastafarian dreadlocks, crooked teeth, and dark sunglasses. The little hairs on the back of my neck did a jig, but I was desperate. It was a long hike to the hotel. Plus I was getting the creepy feeling someone might be tailing me. Maybe that Algy Green guy.
    “That will be thirty-two pounds,” the cabbie said.
    “What? That’s robbery.” I guessed the fanciness of my destination dictated the price.
    “My mistake, mum… forty-two pounds.”
    As I didn’t have another option, I agreed. I opened the back door and shoved my designer trash bag onto the seat and followed it in. Disgusting, creepy, ick. I tried to wedge my short dress between my thighs and the battered, germy, leather seat.
    The driver did a wheelie and headed into traffic in the opposite direction from Hyde Park.
    “Going the wrong way, fella!”
    He ignored me.
    “Stop!” I yelled.
    We made eye contact in his rearview mirror. He was licking his lips.
    “What do I have ‘kidnap me’ stamped on my frigging forehead? Let me out!” I demanded as he accelerated through the light and round a corner.
    “Ain’t gonna happen!” I yelled.
    He was forced to slow down and fall in line behind a row of cars. I judged his speed to be not quite fatal. I decided to jump.
    Grabbing my trash-bag luggage and my purse with my right hand, I yanked the handle with my left and battered my shoulder against the door. Had he locked it? I choked on the sandalwood sweat-scented air as panic kicked in. The door squeaked in protest as it grudgingly opened. I rolled from the seat and fell cleanly away from the taxi, scraping my knee on the road and getting blood on my pretty tea dress. Blood. That would be impossible to remove.
    The vehicle screeched to a stop. For a second, I thought the cabbie might run after me. Curious pedestrians stared at us, which must have scared him off. He pulled into traffic and disappeared. No one offered to help, they just cast half-glances my way. What is this, New York? I adjusted my clothes and stepped onto the sidewalk. I was in the middle of a sticky mixture of the antique air of London and diesel exhaust.
    Slogging a few more blocks, carrying my bag, my purse, and an attitude from hell, I made it to the green of Westminster Bridge. I scurried across like a rat with a bleeding knee. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. My Cole Hahn jewel-toe ballerina flats were slipping off my feet from the sweat. My eyeballs were spinning and my heart was pounding. I looked like a typical American tourist.
    I leaped a zebra crossing, thinking briefly of Benny’s skins and … where was Benny? Where was Samuel? Was that really blood in the kitchen?
    I ignored the startled look from the doorman at the Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park Hotel and limped into the air-conditioned lobby. It was probably eighty degrees inside but it felt good. I adjusted my grip on my trash-bag luggage and staggered to the reception desk. Roger was standing there.
    “Like your luggage,” he said.
    “Shut up. This is no way to tote designer clothes and Gucci sandals. I grabbed a tissue from my purse and blotted my knee. “You still have impeccable timing. By the way, Benny’s disappeared.”
    “You were supposed to check in here.”
    “I didn’t have any choice.”
    He reached for my trash bag. “Let me get that.”
    I handed him my bag. “Let’s go find Benny. He might be in trouble.” I told him about the bloody knife on the floor and how I escaped from the second floor.
    “The heat’s gone to your head. You’ve embarrassed me in front of my client by scuttling out his window. Is that a Miami-thing? One simple task and you blow it out of proportion.”
    The smoke coming out of my ears had nothing to do with the heat. Mr. Know-It-All was refusing to listen. I hate when he does that.