| BOOK SIX | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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The spectacular grade two listed Victorian hotel in Doncaster, South Yorkshire, is set in the background of picturesque expansiveness, with over two hundred and fifty acres of clear blue skies, alpine pasture, cedar thickets, rural ponds and historical architecture.
A hidden gem.
An impermanent home.
I was aflutter with excitement, and great enthusiasm and eagerness were not limited to the long overdue pampering session. The international fashion conference enticed the fashionista in me. I might get the first refusal of the industry's newest collections and style trends.
Positively blissful.
• Armani shorts for the sauna.
• Versace sunglasses for the rooftop.
• Cesare Attolini's suit for the bar.
• Macallan whiskey for the balcony.
• Massage oil for the masseuse.
I was organised for every possible event.
Nothing can go wrong.
Not one setback.
As I could not find a space in the hotel's adjacent car park of bumper-to-bumper vehicles—the story of my life—I drove further afield for the exploratory visit, reversed the Bentley onto a small, grassy knoll next to the lakeside Staff House and tapped Josh on the cheek to wake him up, not that he awakened from the land of the dead. He was out for a count in the arms of Morpheus.
"Joslynn." I clicked the digital handbrake button to deactivate the system, then powered down the engine. "We are here."
Josh, with long, sinewy arms crossed under the chin, snored softly, not even a flutter of the eyelashes or muscle movements. He is the worst travel buddy. Thanks to the bone-idle mute, I spent four and a half hours of motorway driving with only my thoughts to contend with.
"Sleeping Beauty." My hand tap to his face was slightly more aggressive. "Get up and bounce. I have a hot date with the masseuse."
He did not budge, but when I curled my finger and flicked him clean in the nose, he jolted upright with a choked snort. His watery, nerve-stricken eyes reopened. A death stare. Bloody fuming.
"Good afternoon." I cachinnated with mirth. I am, after all, the syndicate's quipster. "We have reached our final destination."
"Brad," he croaked, fingers checking for invisible blood on the schnoz. "I think you broke my nose."
No broken bones. His nose was perfectly intact.
Josh groused pitifully. "Why are you like this?"
I put the car key in my trouser pocket. "Like what?"
"Incurable!" He unfastened the seatbelt, throwing the extendable strap to the side so forcefully the steel buckle chinked on the window. "A gentle, sensory input next time, Brad."
