The Love Letter by Fiona Walker Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fiona Walker
Park, hence we were able to discuss this today,
in a vague attempt at protecting her personal life.
He replied as they were packing up the last of their picnic:
Golden cock stands on one leg; white stork spreads wings. Draw bow to shoot tiger. GL
‘What’s that all about?’ Conrad read it over her shoulder in alarm.
‘I think they’re Tai Chi moves.’
He laughed, drawing her close and looking into her face in that way that once again made her bra feel set to ping open spontaneously. ‘Good girl. He likes you. He needs his daily Leg-Up.’
‘His PA keeps telling me off for distracting him.’
‘Kelly.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Protects Gordon’s interests with admirable ferocity, don’t you find? We need a forthright character like that on the team.’
Professional and personal jealousy prickled at her temples. ‘Must be a saint to put up with a boss like him,’ she said begrudgingly, having admired Kelly’s clucky pragmatism, but still feeling that an attention-seeking, solitary genius like Gordon would thrive with more understanding, like Ptolemy, who had evolved from quarrelsome introvert to brave boy warrior through five books with the support of his amazing, intuitive sidekick Purple.
Conrad started to kiss cake crumbs from her lips. ‘And you should know all about putting up with a bastard of a boss.’ He still had the ability to melt her pelvis to softest putty and tie her intestines in knots.
The breeze had dropped, making the heat of the sun glow on her skin along with the sexual charge that now coursed through her, and she felt as though she was wearing a bodysuit spun from caressing fingers and electric kisses.
Soon Legs no longer cared about the impish, white-haired sorcerer and his reclusive creator. By the time Conrad found the biscuit fragments lodged by her collarbone, she had vanquishedthoughts of Ptolemy Finch, Gordon Lapis and even Francis from her mind.
Sneaking into the basement flat past Ros with several bulging Browns bags wasn’t easy, especially as her sister had spotted that the wedding dress was missing and clearly suspected it was in the bags, possibly in several sections, like a dismembered corpse.
‘There’ve been three bids on it on eBay already,’ she reported from the balcony. ‘Is it still in your flat?’
‘Yes! I’ll bring it up later.’
‘Coming for supper?’
‘Sure! Just got to – er – check emails and stuff first. Make some calls. Have a bath.’ Fetch your wedding dress out of the garden shed, she added with silent trepidation.
Safely locked behind her front door, she hurried to turn on her laptop, and groaned as she saw that bidding for the dress had already reached several hundred pounds. Did people have no taste?
Gordon had left yet more research queries in her inbox about Julie Ocean’s character:
Do you add salt to food? What do you watch on television? What are your secret vices? How would you react to being held hostage?
Legs sent cursory replies:
No salt, reality rubbish, buying wedding dresses on eBay, I’d crack bad jokes for a week and then crack up.
Then she turned her focus to rescuing the Ditchley dress.
There was no door directly linking the basement flat to the garden because its level was so much lower. Like an SAS commando, Legs unlocked the security grille and silently rolled it back before wriggling out through her bathroom window into the rosebed and shuffling around the garden out of sight until she reached the shed. Just a few feet away, Ros’s kitchen windows were wide open, wafts of frying onions and garlic accompanied by the soothing sound of vespers on Radio 3.
The dress already smelled of weedkiller and compost. Even inthe dim light of the shed window, Legs could see that the hem was grubby and tattered from her run around Ealing, and the bodice lace ripped, with several pearl-encrusted embroidery flowers now missing. The secateurs had left the stays cut to tufty shreds. She swallowed guiltily and carefully
in a vague attempt at protecting her personal life.
He replied as they were packing up the last of their picnic:
Golden cock stands on one leg; white stork spreads wings. Draw bow to shoot tiger. GL
‘What’s that all about?’ Conrad read it over her shoulder in alarm.
‘I think they’re Tai Chi moves.’
He laughed, drawing her close and looking into her face in that way that once again made her bra feel set to ping open spontaneously. ‘Good girl. He likes you. He needs his daily Leg-Up.’
‘His PA keeps telling me off for distracting him.’
‘Kelly.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Protects Gordon’s interests with admirable ferocity, don’t you find? We need a forthright character like that on the team.’
Professional and personal jealousy prickled at her temples. ‘Must be a saint to put up with a boss like him,’ she said begrudgingly, having admired Kelly’s clucky pragmatism, but still feeling that an attention-seeking, solitary genius like Gordon would thrive with more understanding, like Ptolemy, who had evolved from quarrelsome introvert to brave boy warrior through five books with the support of his amazing, intuitive sidekick Purple.
Conrad started to kiss cake crumbs from her lips. ‘And you should know all about putting up with a bastard of a boss.’ He still had the ability to melt her pelvis to softest putty and tie her intestines in knots.
The breeze had dropped, making the heat of the sun glow on her skin along with the sexual charge that now coursed through her, and she felt as though she was wearing a bodysuit spun from caressing fingers and electric kisses.
Soon Legs no longer cared about the impish, white-haired sorcerer and his reclusive creator. By the time Conrad found the biscuit fragments lodged by her collarbone, she had vanquishedthoughts of Ptolemy Finch, Gordon Lapis and even Francis from her mind.
Sneaking into the basement flat past Ros with several bulging Browns bags wasn’t easy, especially as her sister had spotted that the wedding dress was missing and clearly suspected it was in the bags, possibly in several sections, like a dismembered corpse.
‘There’ve been three bids on it on eBay already,’ she reported from the balcony. ‘Is it still in your flat?’
‘Yes! I’ll bring it up later.’
‘Coming for supper?’
‘Sure! Just got to – er – check emails and stuff first. Make some calls. Have a bath.’ Fetch your wedding dress out of the garden shed, she added with silent trepidation.
Safely locked behind her front door, she hurried to turn on her laptop, and groaned as she saw that bidding for the dress had already reached several hundred pounds. Did people have no taste?
Gordon had left yet more research queries in her inbox about Julie Ocean’s character:
Do you add salt to food? What do you watch on television? What are your secret vices? How would you react to being held hostage?
Legs sent cursory replies:
No salt, reality rubbish, buying wedding dresses on eBay, I’d crack bad jokes for a week and then crack up.
Then she turned her focus to rescuing the Ditchley dress.
There was no door directly linking the basement flat to the garden because its level was so much lower. Like an SAS commando, Legs unlocked the security grille and silently rolled it back before wriggling out through her bathroom window into the rosebed and shuffling around the garden out of sight until she reached the shed. Just a few feet away, Ros’s kitchen windows were wide open, wafts of frying onions and garlic accompanied by the soothing sound of vespers on Radio 3.
The dress already smelled of weedkiller and compost. Even inthe dim light of the shed window, Legs could see that the hem was grubby and tattered from her run around Ealing, and the bodice lace ripped, with several pearl-encrusted embroidery flowers now missing. The secateurs had left the stays cut to tufty shreds. She swallowed guiltily and carefully