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Copyright

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014

Copyright Â© Nikki Moore 2014

Cover images Â© Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design Â© HarperCollâinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Nikki Moore asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition Â© December 2014 ISBN: 9780008127220

Version: 2017-10-10

Dedication

To Mark, for taking me to The Ritz and The Savoyâ¦but making me feel like a princess no matter where we go or what we do.

To my editor, Charlotte, for sharing cocktails at The Ritz with me just after offering me my first contract and making my dreams come true.

To my readers; Happy New Year â here's to a brilliant 2015.

Nb. While the very glamorous setting for this book is real, the events are not, and some elements of the story contain necessary poetic licence

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

#LoveLondon Series

New Year at The Ritz

Also by Nikki Moore

Nikki Moore

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

#LoveLondon Series

Skating at Somerset House

New Year at the Ritz

Valentineâs on Primrose Hill

Cocktails in Chelsea

Strawberries at Wimbledon

Picnics in Hyde Park

New Year at The Ritz

'Oh, balls!' Frankie Taylor stared at the mirror in dismay. She touched a hand to the back of her neck, where she used to have hair, and glared at her hairdresser in their shared reflection.

'You don't like it?' Davey asked, freezing with comb and scissors in mid-air against the backdrop of the heavy chrome and red leather salon. 'You said you wanted something different, a fresh start.'

'Yes, I wanted a change, because everyone keeps on at me to move on, and a new haircut is easier than bowing to pressure and getting a boyfriend.' She yanked on the ends of her glossy black hair, which were now only a few inches from her scalp, rather than shoulder length. 'By something different, I didn't mean half-bald!' The amount of hair on the floor was truly disturbing. 'So much for treating myself to a nice post-Christmas present,â she muttered.

'Oh, loveâ¦I really thought you wanted something radical and besides, I've always thought short hair would suit you.' Putting scissors and comb down, he gently extracted her fingers from the newly blunt-cut locks and shaped the side-fringe across her forehead. 'It shows off those gorgeous almond-shaped violet eyes to perfection. And look at those cheekbones! You look a bit like Frankie from The Saturdays.â

'So now I share my name and a haircut with her.â She stroked her exposed neck, feeling oddly naked with nothing covering her nape or tops of her ears. 'I'm going to be freezing â it's mid-winter!' Shaking her head, she watched the strands fall back into place. 'Okay, I guess it's not that bad,' she conceded. She wouldn't look so pale with make-up on. It'd hardly been worth applying any today, given she lived three doors down from the hairdressers above a kebab shop and was off work until 5 January.

'No?' Davey heaved a relieved sigh.

'No. And you're right, it really shows off that stone I've lost since the break-up,' she said self-mockingly. 'Plus, we can hardly stick it back on, can we?' Wrinkling her nose, 'So what's the point in being upset?' She'd learnt the hard way there were some things you had to let go, some things you couldn't control.

'You said it,' he drawled, picking up the scissors again.

'Hold it! You're not taking any more off are you?'

'Just neatening up, my love,' he assured, sticking his tongue out at her. 'Relax.'

'I'll be relaxed,' she grumbled, 'if (a) you donât scalp me (b) Dad doesn't ring every five minutes to check on me (c) my friends stop insisting it's time to find a new man and give up plastering my profile all over dating sites, and (d) when my boss stops giving me funny looks because she thinks being single is unnatural.' She paused as Davey used the hair-dryer to get rid of the stray bits of hair that inevitably got into everything, picking up the conversation once he'd switched it off. She met his amused blue eyes in the mirror, 'I've only been single for just over a year which really isn't that long, and I'm happy being selfish for now, doing what suits me, thanks very much.'

'Hmmm.' Davey whipped off the cape he'd covered her jeans and jumper with and spun her around in the chair. 'The problem with that, my lovely, is it would be really easy to stay like that for too long. Don't get used to it, or you'll never want to be with anyone ag-'

'Pfftt!' she interrupted, sitting up straight and raising an eyebrow. 'You're just saying that because you move from one relationship to another with the speed Superman flies at. Being alone isn't what you do.'

Grabbing her by a belt loop, he yanked her from the chair. 'Hey, watch it!' She giggled as he spun her around the shop. He grinned naughtily, 'I could be alone if I wanted to. I just don't want to. And if you're comparing me to HC's Superman, I'll take that compliment gladly.' He released her, arms dropping.

'Oh god,' she groaned, 'you are so obsessed with Henry Cavill!'

'Don't try and pretend you're not.'

'I- oh, okay, I won't. That black hair, those baby blue eyes,' they both let out a sigh of appreciation, âhe's so hot it's obscene.'

'That bit on the ship in The Tudorsâ¦' Daveyâs face took on a dreamy, faraway expression. 'No wonder it was difficult for you to break up with Christian. I mean, he does bear a passing resemblance to Lord HC. Hey, d'you remember that time I called in at The Superflat,' his name for the multi-million pound apartment on the Thames she and Christian had shared, 'and he was getting out of the shower? All he had on was that teeny, tiny towel-'

'Oi! Snap out of it,' she clicked her fingers in front of his glazed eyes. 'We're not going there, okay? It's over.'

'Sorry.' Grabbing her cropped, battered leather jacket from a hanger, he helped her into it. 'In all seriousness though,' he turned her to face him, looking uncharacteâristically solemn, 'everyone needs love. It's a fact of life. It's biology.'

'Whatever,' she shrugged, straightening the collar of his patterned shirt, 'personally I think it's just sex. That's life. That's biology. Speaking of which, where are we going out on New Year's Eve?'

'Not sure yet. There's The Crown and Roses,' he mentioned their local, and she groaned, 'or maybe something in the city. I did hear about this party-'

'Oh no, what are you going to get me into?'

'I've got to find out the details, so you'll see. Now, get lost.' Giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, he propelled her toward the door. âEnjoy your trip home. See you in a couple of days.â

She stopped in the doorway. 'What about the money for the haircut?'

'You want to pay me for scalping you?' he joked.

'Or making me look like a super-model?' she answered hopefully.

He pulled a face. 'You know I love you, but no. Anyway, call it a late Christmas prezzie and if anyone asks who gave you such a divine style, point them in my direction. And don't forget what I said. Everyone needs love.'

'I'll hurl them in your direction, never mind point them,' she retorted, and was rewarded with a playful smack on the bum as she skipped out the door.

The conversation with Davey was spinning through her head as Frankie walked into her pokey flat at midnight a few days later. Dumping her rucksack in the hallway, she picked up a thick pile of post which included a ridiculous amount of takeaway menus.

The train journey from Southampton to London hadn't been too bad, considering the time of year. It was the tube ride from Waterloo that'd been a royal pain in the arse. She'd left it really late to head back but had wanted to maximise her time with her dad. There wasn't enough money to make it home very often. And now he was alone, it was even more important to spend as much time with him as possible. He was the only parent she had left.

Everyone needs love. Davey's words resounded in her head.

He might be right - but there was more than romantic love in the world. Love for friends, love for family. Which reminded her; pulling her phone from her pocket, she tapped out a quick text to her dad.

Home safe, thanks for a lovely couple of days. Will come down & see you again as soon as I can. F xx

Traipsing into her lounge, she groaned. 'Oh, bloody hell!'

She'd left a window open while she'd been gone. The scent of frying food was forever escaping from a vent on front of the kebab shop below and wafting into her flat. Now the place stank of meaty kebab, raw onions, crisp jalapeno peppers and oily chips. Nice. Flinging her coat off, and chucking the post on the sofa, she slammed the window and picked up one of the numerous cans of air freshener crowding the low bookcase, spraying it so heavily around the room it sent her into a coughing fit. Crouching down, she turned on the plug-in air freshener and cast her eyes over the damp, peeling ceiling, before giving up and storming out of the lounge.

Was she ever going to climb out of this hole?

No, it was too late for that kind of thinking. She had her health, an okay job in a department store, a loving father and good friends. And right now, thank god - she rubbed her temples tiredly while stumbling into her tiny bedroom - she also had a comfortable bed, one of the few luxuries she'd budgeted for when taking up the tenancy.

Falling face down onto the duvet, she kicked off her ankle boots and let sleep claim her.

Frankie felt much chirpier the next morning. It might have had something to do with the massive lie-in until gone eleven, the bucketful of milky coffee she'd drunk and the hot water she'd managed to coax out of the decrepit boiler for a steamy shower. Or it might be that for the first time since her trip to the salon, she'd managed to tame her hair into something resembling an actual style. Alternatively it could be that she finally fit back into her black jeans, the ones she'd had before meeting Christian. Teaming them with the fashionable soft peach jumper her dad had bought her for Christmas, she felt comfy but a little glam too.

Whatever it was that explained her good mood, she felt better than she had in weeks. Not quite ready for 2015, but getting there.

Curling up on the sofa, she picked up the pile of post.

Sifting through it, she rolled her eyes. Takeaway leaflet, fast food menu, ironing services, window cleaning. Bill, bill, bill, and what a shocker, bill. Then another b- hang on. She gazed at the plain white envelope, her name written in bold script on the front, no stamp, no postmark, meaning itâd been hand-delivered.

Open on 31 December was inscribed in the top left hand corner. Not Daveyâs hand-writing, or anybody elseâs she knew for that matter. Weird. But it was New Year's Eve, so she ripped into the envelope, apprehension and excitement mixing in her belly.

Pulling out an A4 sheet of paper, she breathed in deeply and frowned. She recognised the smell; her favourite perfume. Anyone who knew her knew that she wasn't the pink flowers and hearts type, so plain stationery and her favourite scent was a good compromise. But was it also a little creepy? They knew where she lived, and what perfume she wore. Stalker alert?

Unfolding the note, her eyes widened. No, I'm watching you, I long to stroke your hair while you sleep stalker type of message. It looked like a rhyme, or a puzzle.

A New Year's surprise, the path to your heart,

Main Knightsbridge station, that's where you start.

Follow the clues across London, see where they lead,

this object meets the need for speed.

Look in the window, see it revolve,

the road to the next clue you will then solve.

? x

p.s. Set off at 4.00 p.m â and try not to be late!

Reading the letter a second and then a third time, she rested her head against the back of the sofa, blowing out a long breath. It was cool and scary and intriguing all at the same time. Someone had gone to quite a bit of trouble for her. She itched to know who was behind it and what the end game was. But she wasn't sure. The path to her heart? She wasn't sure she had one left after her mum, and Christian, and had told Davey only a few days ago she wasn't interested in having a boyfriend at the moment. So was there any point in doing this, this game, whatever it was? Wouldn't it be better to stick to her plans, go out partying with Davey and the rest of the gang, instead of short-changing some poor bugger by turning up and saying thanks for all the effort, but no thanks.

No, she wouldn't go. It was the best thing.

Tapping her fingers on her knees, she sat up and studied the bookcase stuffed with sci-fi books, overflowing wall shelves stacked with photography magazines, the scarred wooden coffee table positioned on a rich, multi-coloured Indian rug brought back from the post-uni travelling she was still struggling to pay off. Her eyes lingered on the wooden family of elephants lined up on the floor by the TV, walking in a row, trunks holding tails to link them together. She didnât have much but it was hers, and she wasnât ready to share it with anyone.

Standing up, she strode across the room and stuffed the mystery letter in between two ancient, dog-eared Isaac Asimov books she and her dad had discovered on a stall in a musty indoor market one day, when she'd been about twelve. If she pulled one of the paperbacks off the shelf and opened it the smell would take her back to her childhood; to overflowing bookcases and Sunday afternoons spent wandering around car-boot sales and markets, a cheap and cheerful way of feeding her parents' reading addiction.

Slinking back to the sofa, she threw herself down and picked up the TV remote, flicking restlessly through the channels. She'd just veg out until it was time to get ready for the New Year festivities, whatever they might be. Davey hadn't messaged yet, but he would. He always came through with a plan.

She put the remote down and checked her phone. No messages. Nothing interesting on Twitter. Not much doing on Facebook, apart from various posts about how excited people were about their New Years' Eve plans. She sighed, picking up the remote again and eventually settling on an Eastenders omnibus. By the looks of it, someone was dead. It was probably another dramatic shooting. She liked the programme, the writing could be brilliant, but she had to have the appetite for it otherwise it was a bit depressing.

Her gaze was drawn to the shelf where she'd hidden the letter. What was that first clue referring to? Need for speed. Road. Some sort of transport then. No. Her decision was made. She was not going on some mad scavenger hunt. Today she was relaxing, given how tired she'd felt recently and how her ribs had been aching. It would be criminal not to make the most of being one of the lucky few people in the store with the whole Christmas and New Year period off. At interview she'd asked for her pre-booked holiday to be honoured if she was offered a job. At the time of applying, the role had been a symbol of independence, perhaps even rebellion. But after the break-up it had quickly become a necessity, a way to pay the rent.

So she would definitely not think about the fact she was supposed to be in Bali right now. Must not dwell on the idea of lying on a sun-drenched beach in a designer bikini, with a warm breeze stirring the tropical palm trees and a chilled cocktail in her hand. It was fine. She didn't need any of that stuff. She could lie on the sofa in her warm flat - thanks to hitting the radiator with a spanner a few times to crank it into life â and please herself. Relax. Chill. Revive.

Perfect.

Three hours later and she was seriously bored. She'd read a photography mag, got out her favourite old-style Nikon camera and cleaned the lenses and painted her nails in seasonal gold glitter varnish. Sheâd also tweezed her eyebrows, sorted out her wardrobe and even resorted to scrubbing the bathroom for entertainment.

Her phone pinged and she snatched it up.

Hey love, the city party has fallen through and after a vote we're going to the C&R. See you there at 8ish, don't forget there's a tenner charge on the door. Will save you a seat if you're late!

D x

She groaned. She loved going to the local with her friends but was there practically every week, so it was hardly somewhere special to celebrate the New Year. Although she guessed beggars couldn't be choosers and all that. It wasn't like she had any better offers.

Her eyes strayed to the Isaac Asimov books, or rather, what was hidden between them. She could see what it was all about, couldn't she, and be back to the pub for eight? It was only just past four now. If she left soon she could fit it in.

She stood up. Sat down. Bit her lip. But how involved was this going to be, and who was behind it? What did they want, or expect from her? No, maybe it was better not to poke the bear.

Opening the text from Davey, she re-read it. Perhaps she should phone him, ask his advice? She knew his response would be go for it though, follow the clues. Everyone needs love.

Tapping her hands on her knees, she stared at the walls. She needed to talk to someone level-headed, sensible. Someone lovely who would advise what was best for her, not get swept away in romantic notions. She'd consider phoning Zoe, one of her best friends from uni, but Zoe was in the States at the moment so the call would cost a fortune. Besides, she was completely loved up with Greg, engaged to be married, so she was hardly going to be objective about the whole thing. She was as worried about Frankie's single status as everyone else. If she was over in the UK now, she'd be one of the let's put Frankie on every dating website going brigade. What was so wrong with being single, though? She was barely past her mid-twenties, and had loads of time to settle down if she wanted to.

The other option was Rayne, another uni friend, the third part of the triangle she and Zoe formed. Vivacious and a little rebellious, Rayne was fantastic for a night out, but Frankie hardly ever saw her nowadays. Journalism was consuming her friend at the moment; she always seemed to be chasing down a story. Personally, Frankie thought it was all about getting over her first love, Adam, but had never said that to her. Rayne could be pretty forthright, if not scary. That was definitely a conversation to be had over several bottles of wine.

So, who to call? What was that saying; the old ones are the best? Yep, that was it. She picked up her mobile, going to the favourites menu.

'Kate, it's me. Have you got a minute?' Her childhood friend might be happily in love with her long-term boyfriend, a strapping South African, but was still fab at offering clear, non-soppy advice.

'Sure, Hun,' Kate's warm tones filled her ear, and Frankie could picture her sparkling eyes, shoulder length chestnut hair and massive grin so clearly it was like they were sat next to each other. 'I've just taken the dogs for a walk,â Kate said. âHang on while I sort them out.'

Frankie waited, listening to the sounds of her friend talking soothingly to her two beloved dogs, finger clicking, doors opening and closing, footsteps padding nearer, rustling and then a sigh. 'Okay, I'm back. What's up?'

'So, I've got a bit of a dilemma.' Putting her phone on speaker, Frankie propped it on the arm of the sofa and lay back against the purple patterned cushions. She pictured Kate in her comfy lounge, blue jeans on, with wellies, anoraks, leads and dog collars filling the long hallway.

'Go on.' Kate's voice filled the room.

Frankie closed her eyes, wishing her friend was here instead of in a small leafy village just outside Milton Keynes. 'I got home from seeing dad yesterday, and-'

'He still being a bit overprotective?'

'Yep. It's driving me mad.'

'Ah, bless. Well, you can see why, Hun. I mean, after your mum, then what happened to you-'

'It's been a tough year,' Frankie cleared her throat, 'anyway, I got this letter and it's a clue, I'm supposed to go to Knightsbridge-'

'What? Who's it from? Read it to me.'

Frankie grabbed the letter and did so, adding in the bit about lack of postmark and scented paper. 'So what do you think?'

'Well, it sounds cool, but who do you think is behind it?' Kate's voice was cautious and Frankie was reminded of their teenage years in Southampton, the mornings they'd sit in the back of Kate's mum's people carrier, Kate's younger brothers chattering away while the girls talked about school and boys and Kate's mum would add in dry, no-nonsense comments. They were fond memories and sometimes Frankie missed those years, when life had been simpler, though they hadnât known it back then. As teens, everything had felt intense and dramatic and like the world would implode if the boy they had a crush on didnât like them back or the Topshop dress they were after wasnât in stock, or if they got a C grade for an essay instead of an A.

âYou still there?â Kate asked.

'Yes, sorry. I don't know who it is.' Frankie frowned, opening her eyes.

'Oh, come on! It'll be someone you know, it has to be. Delivered to your home address, your favourite perfume? And that donât be late comment.'

'What do you mean?'

'Come on Frankie, you're late for everything. Whoever sent it knows you.' Pausing. 'D'you think the letter could be from Christian?'

Frankie's short square gold nails dug into her palms. 'Unlikely. I haven't heard from him since we broke up. Even when I went to get my stuff once I was up to it, he wasnât around. He wasnât interested in seeing me. I think he took me ending it with him pretty badly. So I doubt it very much. Besides, he's in Bali at the moment.'

'Oh, yes. You missed out there on the holiday in paradise. But then again, money isnât everything.'

'Yes, thatâs what I keep telling myself.' Frankie muttered, scowling at the peeling ceiling above her head.

'Whatâs that? Is everything okay?â

Yeah, just hunky-dory. I live in a rough part of London, have no money, a job I can barely tolerate, debts coming out of my ears, and will probably end up with severe pneumonia because of the insane damp climbing my walls. But apart from that, itâs all good.

âFrankie?â Kateâs voice was strained, âYouâre worrying me.â

Self-pity is not attractive! Frankie gave herself a proverbial kick up the arse. You have your health back, your independence and the freedom to make choices. More than some people have. She made her voice breezy. âIgnore me, everything is fine.â

âOkay. If you say so.â Kate said dubiously, but let Frankie off the hook. âIf itâs not Christian, who else could it be?â

âI donât know. Davey?â

âI thought he was gay?â

'Oh, he totally is, but it could be his idea of a joke.â She sucked in her cheeks, considering the options. âOr maybe a way to remind me romance isnât dead?â

âSounds a bit mean to me. Or a bit extreme, sending you on what could be a wild chase across the city. Do you really think heâd do that?â

âI- hmmm, maybe not. I donât know. The hand-writing doesnât look like his though.â Her side was aching, so she repositioned the cushion behind her head and crossed her ankles, resting them on the opposite arm of the sofa.

âAny other likely suspects?' Kate quizzed.

âNo, I-,â she hesitated.

âWhat?'

'There is a guy at work. Butâ¦no.â

âWho? And why not?â

âZack. He started a few months ago. Heâs a sweetheart and we get on really well. But there isnât a spark, and Iâm not sure if the letter is his style.' Shaking her head, âNah, I canât see it. We're just friends and Iâve not given him any reason to think otherwise. Besides, itâs too soon.â

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