he bids start to slow, but we remain engaged in a battle of wills; this is a fight I cannot afford

description was particularly vague, and the only thing that stood out was the need for a background in rare books. Well, that fits me to a tee. I had just spent the last ten years working as a curator of rare books at the London Museum and,

hundred years, luck was not on their side, and much of their wealth dwindled as a result of bad investments and sheer stupidity, as Charles told me in a long-winded monologue about his family's less than illustrious past. To maintain their livelihood and to remain in their family ancestral pile, Charles's ancestors began s

e muscles working in his jaw as he maintains his concentration. Just then, I feel the soft vibration of my phone in my pocket. There is only one reason that my phone would be ringing at a time like this and my stomach drops. The world spins as I try to catch my breath, my vision tunnelling as I attempt to pull out my phone with shaking fingers.

I see him glance at me before heading out of his nearest exit. Great, I think to myself as I try to push through the crowd. I finally make it into the cor

height; at five-five I am pretty much always towered over, but this guy is well over six foot. His broad shoulders are encased in a beautifully tailored charcoal suit that seems to be moulded to his body, but the messy, just-too

. "Excuse me, sir, I repeat, and at the word "sir," a strange expression crosses his face.

and a little harsh, as he r

mfort zone. I have always been one to fade into the background, waiting for opportunities to present themselves rather than grabbing what I want with both hands. I have heard myself described as passive, but my ba

nt Aussie accent, but the delivery is as cold as ice, and I feel like I am five years old, being told off by my mum. Still, I get the weirdest feeling tha

need that manuscript..." I trail off, my mind spinning as I try to school my thought

ke I have been slapped. I have never been talked to like this and part of me wants to tell this arrogant arsehole to go fu

ches into his pocket and draws out a small card. He quickly writes something out on it and then hands it across to me. "Meet me at the address on

d in dark grey. I turn it over and see '1 Lombard Street' written in bold scri

requesting that I pay it straight away. I close my eyes knowing that there is no way I can pay the bill, and since I have not managed to secure the manuscript, there won't be any more money coming in until next month. I had been banking on my finder's fee from Charles to pay the bill, and now the only way I can see myself getting out of t