The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 21

"Close your eyes, Megs."

I felt his breath warmly tickle my ear and his firm body press against my back.

"They're closed, I swear." The giggle bubbled in my throat.

Brandon tutted but mirrored my laughter with his own, that deep rich chuckle that always made my stomach flutter to hear it. "You're peeking, I can tell." Reaching up, he placed his palms over my eyes, plunging me into darkness with the warmth of his hands.

He'd been right. I had been peeking. It was just too much to keep my eyes closed; I never could resist the temptation.

Manoeuvring me forward down the hallway, he removed one hand momentarily to push on the kitchen door - yes, I was still peeking - and we shuffled together into the room, where he stopped me just inside the doorway.

"Okay," he said softly. "Now you can look."

His hands drifted to my shoulders and I opened my eyes, my mouth curling up immediately as I surveyed the scene before me.

The table was set for two, with perfectly laid out leather place mats, our wedding china, Veuve Clicquot on ice, candles emitting a soft light around the room. A large bouquet of red roses decorated the crystal vase on the worktop and by its side, the iPod unit crooned out the subtle tones of John Legend, a mutual favourite of ours.

"Oh Bran," I breathed, touching a hand to his cheek as he leaned down and pressed his lips against my neck.

"Would Madame like me to show her to her table?" he said in mock-maître-de style, taking my arm and escorting me to my seat.

"Why, thank you, sir." I curtsied coquettishly before sitting down, watching admiringly as he walked over to the fridge before returning with the entrée. I raised an eyebrow as he placed the papaya and avocado salad in front of me. "You made this?"

"Of course," he said innocently as he sat down opposite me, but I saw the smirk pulling on the corners of his mouth as he arranged the napkin on his lap. "Champagne?"

"Bran...." I narrowed my eyes.

He poured the champagne, still maintaining that look of pure innocence before he could hold it no longer, the grin breaking through the veneer easily. "Okay, okay, I admit. I had a little help."

"Philippe?" Philippe was a friend of ours who owned a cute French brasserie in North London. When I first met him, he had just given up his place as a rising hot shot lawyer at Walter and Noble in a bid to live out his dream setting up his own restaurant. Brandon had been the only Walter and Noble colleague to stick by him and sometimes, when dining in Le Loup Rouge I noticed the way he surveyed Philippe, who moved about the restaurant like he'd been born to be there, so natural, so comfortable, so happy and I would see a tinge of darkness in Brandon's eyes, something that rippled under the surface that he would suppress with a grin whenever my questioning gaze met his.

Brandon nodded. "Yeah, Philippe. But he didn't do it all, I swear. His role was purely supervisory." He glanced at me, his brow crinkling with anxiety as I picked up my fork and swallowed a mouthful.

"Well, I have to say, you did a pretty damn amazing job, babe. It's delicious."

"Really?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"I hope not, especially not where papaya and avocado salad is concerned. That's serious business, you know." He raised an eyebrow as he took a sip of champagne.

"Well, in this case, I swear that everything I say will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth," I grinned mischievously. "Of course, if you're still in doubt, you could always cross-examine me."