Claiming Cleo (Masters Club 2)

“No,” Jack replied, but his mind was racing. “Or, yes. If she shows up here and I’m not back yet, please text me right away.”

“Of course, sir.”

Jack stepped outside, looking to the right and left. Where would she go? By her own admission, there was no one in particular in London she wanted to see. He tried to put himself in her shoes. Clearly upset, she’d packed her things and taken off. She might be heading to a hotel, or to stay with an old friend.

But more than likely, she was heading to the airport.

Jack hailed a cab, relieved when it pulled promptly to the curb. “Heathrow,” he said as he slid into the backseat. “There’s an extra twenty quid if you can get there fast.”

“You got it. Once we get past this bit of traffic and onto M4 proper, I’ll show you what this baby can do.” The cabbie gave Jack a broad, crooked-toothed grin.

Jack tried to control his impatience as the car inched down the busy street toward the traffic light. He reached for his phone with a mind to look up the outgoing flights to New York.

As they stopped at the light, a commotion just outside the cab made him look up. Two cars appeared to be trying to maneuver into the same parking spot, which didn’t look large enough to accommodate either one.

As he counted the seconds, willing the light to change, Jack looked past the scene to the café on the corner. His eyes widened, his body stiffening as he regarded the young woman seated alone by the window, her head in her hands, her silky brown hair spilling over her shoulders.

“Cleo,” he whispered, not quite trusting his eyes.

The taxi started to move forward. All at once, Jack cried, “Stop the car. I need to get out here.”

The driver twisted back to regard Jack. “We’re nowhere near Heathrow, guv,” he said with a quizzical look.

“I know. Change of plans. Stop the car. Let me out here.”

With a shrug, the cabbie pulled over and double parked, cutting off the cars behind him. In New York, there would have been a cacophony of outraged honking, but the Brits were far too polite to protest.

Grabbing a wad of bills from his jacket, Jack tossed them over the front seat, aware he was being rude, but in too much of a hurry to care. “Thanks,” he managed as he wrenched the door open and leaped out.

He rushed to the door of the café and swung it open, stepping inside. He waved away the hostess who moved toward him, his eye on Cleo, for it was she, still huddled at the small table, a cup of tea in front of her.

Heart smashing in his chest, Jack slid into the empty seat across from her.

“Cleo,” he said softly.

With a start, she lifted her head, her mouth falling open in surprise. Her eyes were red, her sweet face streaked with tears. “Jack?” she asked, as if not quite believing her eyes. There was a moment of such pure, raw longing in her eyes that it took Jack’s breath away. The look was replaced so quickly by a scowl that he wondered if he’d only imagined what he wanted to see.

“How did you know I was here?”she demanded, looking around the small café as if the answer might be there.

“I didn’t,” he replied, trying to keep his voice calm. It took everything he had not to leap up and pull her into his arms. “I was actually heading to Heathrow to look for you. Pure luck that I happened to turn my head at the traffic light.”

He reached across the table, taking her hand in his. ”What happened, Cleo? Why did you run away?”

She yanked her hand away, the scowl deepening. “Like you don’t know,” she whispered furiously. She stood abruptly, her chair nearly toppling back in the process.

People around them were now openly staring, some with pursed lips, a few murmuring with evident disapproval. Ignoring their spectators, Jack, too, jumped to his feet.

“Cleo. Wait. I don’t know what happened to get you so upset, but whatever it is, let’s talk this through.”

She dropped a crumpled bill on the table and reached for the handle of her suitcase. “No idea, huh? Oh, that’s rich.” She met his eye, her gaze at once defiant and heartbreakingly vulnerable.“How about this? It’s not you. It’s me. Isn’t that the old line? It’s me—I’m the idiot who doesn’t know how to choose a man. I go for the liars, every time.”Tears filled her eyes as she turned away.

Jack frowned, disconcerted and confused. “What? I’m a lot of things, not all of them admirable. But I’m no liar.”

Cleo glanced around, apparently noticing the spectacle they were causing in a land where “fuss” was to be avoided at all costs.