One in the 55 Portobello Road Series - Through the seasons of a year the residents of one block of London flats come to terms with the obstacles that have kept each of them from finding what makes life most precious— true love.
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They say opposites attract. Lou's an American cabbie in London who definitely disapproves anything resembling animal cruelty. When she meets a Huntsman as fare, he seems an intriguing mix of California and Britain in spite of his line of work. Will his invitation to a romantic Valentine's dinner turn to tragedy or is it he that poses the real danger?
The landline rang. Reticent, she moved from her spot to pick up the receiver. "Hello."
Damn. They wanted her to come in. Some sort of convention in town and too many cabbies called in sick. Bending the corner of the page down, she slid her book to the table and headed for the shower.
Lou's least favorite place to pick up fares. But this is an occasion that could bring her extra cash, extra tips. Drag hunting or some such convention. Not something of which she had any penchant or knowledge for that matter, but she knew it to be a sport of the wealthy, so surely any fares called out to ferry them from airport to town would not only be profitable distance wise, but beg a handsome tip.
Down the curb just emerging from baggage reclaim stepped an unlikely vision. Tommy Bahama shirt, putty colored knee length shorts and a smile; the tall golden haired man now headed for the cab queue, looked about as likely as an Eskimo in Miami.
He had a rucksack with a California Houndsman Association emblem emblazoned on it. "Damn." She peered into her rear view mirror, smooshing her lips together to smear what remained of glossy balm over too-dry lips. She'd never have bothered with a dress-down yank otherwise. Her countrymen might be many things, but generous tippers was not generally on the short list of positives, but if this guy were going to participate in the sport of the rich—well. Flat hand raised to brow, he jumped noticeably as his gaze caught her advert doused cab. Hers was not the classic black cab, she'd been forced to borrow one from a mate while hers was in the shop. Seems a stuck door took a bit more than ten minutes fix.
He waved at her with more gusto than the chilly day or relative sparseness of clients required. Pulling to the curb, she sighed and opened her window.
"That's me." He hoisted the bag to his shoulder and reached for the door.
Was that a Brit twist she'd heard?
"Sutherland Hotel, please." Lord. He was a Brit.
"Houndsman Convention?" She stared into his gold-flecked green eyes.