London Dynasty (The Dynasties #1) - Geneva Lee Page 0,4

streaking through the blackout curtains I’d failed to close in my drunken haze. It took a minute for me to process that the pounding wasn’t just in my head. I heard Eliza yell something, her voice muffled by the walls between us. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and checked the time, groaning when I saw it was only a quarter to nine. Meanwhile, the pounding continued. I had no idea what wanker showed up to beat down a door on a Sunday morning, but I knew they either had a poor sense of timing or a keen sense of torture. Untangling my legs from the sheets, I pushed myself up a bit too fast, which earned me a brain-splitting slice of pain behind my eyes.

“I’m coming,” I yelled to the unwanted guest at the door.

This had better be good.

Chapter Three

As soon as my fingers closed over the lock, I hesitated. Whoever was pounding this loudly was both pissed and strong. After a moment, I turned the lock but not the chain. I opened the door as far as the chain would allow and peeked outside. Two dark eyes stared back at me, glaring through the crack.

“Can I help you?” I asked, coating the words with as much rudeness as possible.

He cleared his throat with obvious annoyance. “Do you work at the Hare & Hound?”

“I’m sorry. What is this about?” I asked. If he was going to answer my question with a question, I would do the same. I had no idea what had brought him to my door, but he was in no posi

tion to act like he was the frustrated one. The stranger stepped back, allowing me to get a better look at him. He was dressed in an expensive suit, the kind men bought on the High Street in one of London’s ritzier neighborhoods. The kind that was far too expensive for him to be a police officer coming round to ask questions. His salt and pepper hair, coupled with the lines creasing his forehead and eyes, only made him look more distinguished. He didn’t belong in Bexby. He didn’t even belong in this postcode. So, why was he here nearly breaking down the door to my flat?

“I’m looking for a woman who works at that pub,” he said flatly, craning his head to get a better look at me through the chained door. He slid his hand into his breast pocket, and I fought the urge to slam the door in his face. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps he was a police officer with good taste, and he was simply reaching for his badge. He drew out a phone, and I relaxed. “This woman.”

He held the phone screen out so I could see it. It was a picture of me from the pub. I looked flustered, and the angle was terrible. It was the photo the jerks had snapped of me yesterday without asking permission.

“Why do you want to talk to her?” I asked, hoping he couldn’t see much of me through the opening. My heart began to race, and I wished Eliza had answered the door. She would have known how to handle a strange man showing up on our doorstep.

“I need her help,” he said curtly.

A brilliant idea occurred to me. Something told me I needed to get him out of here and fast. I needed to distract him long enough to figure out what to do. Eliza had an ex-boyfriend who might provide some backup muscle. I just needed to get rid of the stranger long enough to call him. “Maybe you should try the pub.”

“The pub is closed today, and I need to return to London as soon as possible. If you know this woman, I would be very grateful for any information. In fact, allow me to show you how much.” His hand reached into his pocket again and drew out a billfold. A moment later, three crisp 100-pound notes were in his hand. “Do you know her?”

“Just a moment,” I stammered. Closing the door, I leaned against it and tried to breathe. It was a remarkably stupid idea to open the door to a man, no matter what he was offering. He was probably a murderer who sought out women who lived in shabby flats, knowing they’d open the door for the right price. The smart thing would be to lock the door, call the police, and hope he went away.

I didn’t move from the spot.

But three hundred pounds