"Thanks, Gav. I'll keep that in mind. Promise."
She mulled over his words as she walked the short distance from the clinic to her flat in Powis Square. Of course she knew where to draw the line; of course she realized she couldn't help every animal. But was she taking on more than she could manage, both emotionally and financially? And how much was she motivated by an unacknowledged desire to impress Marc Mitchell?
They'd become good friends in the past few months, she and Marc, often meeting for dinner or a coffee. But he'd never displayed what Bryony could really interpret as romantic intentions, and she thought she'd convinced herself that she didn't mind. Marc, unlike Gavin, had not learned to draw the line between work and home. His work was his life: Bryony suspected there was no room left for anything more demanding than friendship.
The pang of disappointment that thought caused her was so intense that she shied away from it. She just wanted to help the animals, that was all, and if it so happened that it brought her a bit closer to Marc, so be it.
Inspector Gemma James left the Notting Hill Police Station at six o'clock on the dot, an occurrence unusual enough to cause the desk sergeant to raise his eyebrows.
"What's up, guv?" he asked. "Got a hot date?"
"As a matter of fact, I have," she replied, grinning. "And for once I'm determined not to be late."
Kincaid had rung her from the Yard an hour ago and asked her to meet him at an address a few blocks from the station. He'd given her no explanation, only insisted that she be prompt, and that alone had been enough to arouse her curiosity. A superintendent leading Scotland Yard's murder inquiries, Duncan's schedule was as demanding as hers, if not more so, and they were both accustomed to working long hours.
Of course she had been trying to cut back, due to what Kincaid only half-teasingly referred to as her "delicate condition," but without much success. She had no intention of announcing her pregnancy to her superiors until she absolutely had to, and then she'd be even less inclined to beg off work.
And if an unplanned pregnancy weren't disastrous enough for the career prospects of a newly promoted detective inspector, Gemma suspected her unmarried state would garner even less favor with her superiors. At least when Toby had come along she'd been married to his dad.
Checking the address she'd scribbled on a scrap of paper, she walked down Ladbroke Grove until she reached St. John's Gardens, then turned left. The old church stood sentinel on the summit of Notting Hill, and even on such a dreary evening Gemma loved the calm of the place. But Kincaid's directions sent her onwards, down the hill to the west, and after a few blocks she began checking the house numbers.
She saw his MG first, its top buttoned up tight against the damp, and then across the street the address he had given her. It was the end house of a terrace, but faced on St. John's rather than the cross street. Porch light and street lamp illuminated dark brown brick set off by gleaming white trim, and a front door the vivid color of cherries. Through the trees that grew between the house and the pavement, she glimpsed a small balcony on the second floor.
Duncan opened the door before she could ring. "What, are you clairvoyant?" she demanded, laughing, as he kissed her cheek.
"Among my many talents." He took her damp jacket and hung it on an iron coat rack in the hall.
"What's this all about? Are we meeting someone here?"
"Not exactly," he answered. His grin made her think of her four-year-old son concealing a surprise. "Let's have a look round, shall we?"
The kitchen lay to the left, a cheerful, yellow room with a scrubbed pine table and a dark blue, oil-fired cooker. Gemma's heart contracted in a spasm of envy. It was perfect, just the sort of kitchen she had always longed for. She gave a lingering look back as Kincaid urged her into the hall.
The dining and sitting rooms had been opened into one long space with deep windows and French doors that Gemma presumed must lead to a garden. The dining furniture had an air of Provençal; in the sitting room, a comfortably worn sofa and two armchairs faced a gas fire, and bookcases climbed to the ceiling. In her imagination, she saw the shelves filled with books, the fire lit.
"Nice, yes?" Kincaid queried.
Gemma glanced up at him, her suspicions growing. "Mmmm."
Undeterred, he continued his tour. "And here, tucked in behind the kitchen, a little loo." When she had dutifully admired the facilities, he took her into the last room on the left, a small study or library. But there were no books on these shelves, just as there had been no dishes in the kitchen, no personal possessions or photographs in the dining and sitting area.
"I'd put the telly here, wouldn't you?" he went on cheerfully. "So as not to spoil the atmosphere of the sitting room."
Gemma turned to face him. " Duncan, are you giving up policing for estate agenting? I'm not going a step further until you tell me what this is all about!"
"First, tell me if you like it, love. Do you think you could live here?"
"Of course I like it! But you know what property values are like in this area- there's no way we could afford something like this even if we pooled our salaries-"
"Just wait before you make a judgment. See the rest of the house."
"But-"
"Trust me."
Following him up the stairs to the first floor, she mulled over her situation. She must make a change, she knew that. The garage flat she rented was much too small for another child, and Kincaid's Hampstead flat was no more suitable- especially since it looked as though his twelve-year-old son would be moving in with him over the holidays.
Since she had told Kincaid about the baby, they had talked about living together, combining families, but Gemma had found herself unwilling to face the prospect of such momentous change just yet.
"Two good-sized bedrooms and a bath on this floor." Kincaid was opening doors and turning on lights for her inspection. They were children's rooms, obviously, but again the walls bore pale patches where pictures and posters had been removed.
"Now for the pièce de résistance." Taking her hand, he led her up to the top floor.
Gemma stood riveted in the doorway. The entire top floor had been converted to a master suite, open and airy, with the balcony she'd seen from the street at the front.
"There's more." Kincaid opened another set of French doors and Gemma stepped out onto a small roof garden that overlooked the treetops. "That's a communal garden beyond the back garden. You can walk right into it."
Gemma breathed out a sigh of delight. "Oh, the boys would love it. But it can't be possible… can it?"
"It very well might be- at least for five years. This house belongs to the guv's sister-"
"Chief Superintendent Childs?" Denis Childs was Kincaid's superior at the Yard, and Gemma's former boss as well.
"-whose husband has just accepted a five-year contract in Singapore, some sort of high-tech firm. They don't want to sell the house, but they do want it well looked after, and who better than two police officers vouched for by the Chief Super himself?"
"But we still couldn't afford-"
"It's a reasonable rent."
"But what about your flat?"
"I'd lease it for a good deal more than the mortgage, I imagine."
"What about child-minding for Toby? Without Hazel-"
"There's a good infant school just down the road from the station. And a good comprehensive for Kit not too far away. Now, any other objections?" He grasped her shoulders and looked down into her eyes.
"No… it's just… it seems too good to be true."
"You can't hold the future at bay forever, love. And we won't disappoint you. I promise."
Perhaps he was right… No! She knew he was right. When Toby's father had left her, alone with a new infant and no support, she had resolved never to depend on anyone again. But Kincaid had never failed her in any way- why should she not trust him in this, as well? Gemma let herself relax into his arms.