Excerpt of City Cinderella by Catherine George

THE wind from the Thames came whistling up the cobbled street as he paid off the taxi. Aching in every bone, he hurried into the building and leaned against the wall in the lift, cursing the virus that had finally caught up with him. On the top floor he heaved himself upright when the doors opened, and with a groan of relief at the prospect of warmth let himself into the loft apartment he called home. He shrugged off his overcoat, dumped his briefcase on the pile of mail on the military chest in the hall, and, desperate for hot coffee with a slug of Scotch in it, opened the kitchen door. And stood rooted to the spot.

The kitchen's stainless steel and granite was immaculate, as expected. But it was occupied. A young woman he'd never seen in his life sat on one of the retro-style stools at his breakfast bar, tapping away at a laptop, her concentration so intense she had no idea he was there.

Before he could demand an explanation his sudden, hacking cough brought the stranger's head swivelling round, her eyes wide in utter dismay as she slid to her feet to face him.

"Mr Tennent?" she said at last, in a surprisingly deep, husky voice for someone only an inch or so over five feet. "I do apologise. This is the very first time, I swear."

Lucas Tennent remained standing in the doorway, staring at her blankly, his thought processes blunted by the dull pounding in his head. "The first time for what? Who the devil are you?" 'I'm your cleaner."

He blinked. "My cleaner?"

She nodded, flushing. "Thank you for the cheque you left for me today — unless you'd like it back now."

"Why the hell should I want it back?" he said irritably, grappling with the fact that this was the E Warner who kept his flat in mint condition. Not elderly and aproned, but young, in jeans and skimpy sweatshirt, with soot-black curling hair skewered up in an untidy knot.

"Mr Tennent," she said after a moment, eyeing him closely. "You don't look at all well."

"I feel bloody awful," he snapped. "But keep to the point. Explain about the laptop."

"I was using my batteries, not your electricity," she said defensively.

"My sole interest, of course," he said with blighting sarcasm. "Tell me what you were doing."

Her jaw set. "I'd rather not do that." 'Tell me just the same," he said relentlessly. "Nothing criminal, Mr Tennent," she said with hauteur. "I'm — doing a correspondence course."

"So where do you normally work on it?" 'In my room. But this week it's half-term. At the moment peace and quiet are in short supply where I live. So I did some work here today. But only after I finished your cleaning," she assured him.

"Sorry I came home early to spoil your fun —" he began, the rest of his words engulfed in a sudden spasm of coughing. To his surprise, he was gently taken by the arm and led towards the breakfast bar.

"Sit there for a moment, Mr Tennent," she said with sympathy. "Do you have any medication?"

He shook his head, gasping for breath as he subsided on a stool. "No. I just need coffee. Make me some and I'll double your money."

She gave him a withering look and turned on her heel, presenting a back view rigid with offence while she dealt with the machine guaranteed to turn beans into coffee at top speed. Lucas sat silent, chin on hands, diverted from the thumping in his head by the sight of E Warner tugging her sweatshirt down to cover an inch of bare midriff as she put her laptop to sleep and closed it before pouring the coffee.

"When I came in I thought I was hallucinating, Ms Warner," he remarked eventually, as the scent of his best Blue Mountain filled the air. "But a laptop seemed an unlikely accessory for housebreaking." He took a relishing gulp of the strong, steaming liquid she set in front of him. "Thank you. I think you just saved my life."

She shook her head, frowning. "Not really, Mr Tennent. You should be in bed."

"I will be shortly." He raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you having any coffee?"

Her smile activated a dimple near the corner of her mouth. Which was a very enticing feature, he noticed — unpainted, full-lipped, and eminently kissable. The curves outlined by the sweatshirt were equally enticing… And the fever was obviously affecting his brain, he thought in swift disgust, hoping she couldn't read his mind.

"It seemed best to wait until invited," she said ruefully. Lucas nodded, then winced when the movement made his headache worse. "Do please join me, Ms Warner," he said formally. "Or are you Mrs?"

"Miss." 'What does the E stand for?" 'Emily." She eyed him, frowning. "Mr Tennent, do you mind if I touch your forehead?"

"Not at all." He submitted to a cool hand laid briefly on his brow, and sat back. "Diagnosis?"

"High temperature. You've got flu, hopefully." "Hopefully?" "I meant rather than anything worse." She hesitated, then bent to search in a backpack on the floor and came up with a packet of paracetamol. "Will you take these? Two now and two tonight, and drink plenty of fluids."

He stared at her in surprise. "That's very kind of you, Emily, or do you prefer Ms Warner?"

"You pay my wages, Mr Tennent. Your choice." She looked at her watch, then stowed her laptop in the backpack. "I won't have any coffee, thank you. Time I was off. I'm taking the twins to the cinema."

His eyebrows rose. "Twins?" 'The children on half-term. Their father's my landlord, and I'm taking them off his hands for a couple of hours," she explained. "I did your shopping on the way in, so there's plenty of orange juice and fruit. Goodbye, Mr Tennent. I'll be in on Monday as usual." She eyed him with concern. "Is there someone who can look after you?"

"I wouldn't ask my worst enemy to risk this blasted bug. Which you could be doing right now," he added suddenly.

Her shake of the head dislodged another hank of hair. "I've already had flu this winter."

"What did you do to get over it?" 'Went home to my parents to be cosseted." 'My mother's asthmatic, so that's out of the question." He shrugged. "And otherwise I prefer to wallow alone in my misery."

She pulled on her jacket and thrust her arms through the straps of her backpack. "There's no point in calling a doctor if it's flu, of course. Not unless you develop something else, like bronchitis. But please take the pills — eight a day max — and drink lots of water. A good thing it's Friday, Mr Tennent. You'll have the weekend to get over it."

"If I live that long," he said morosely, and saw her to the door.

"Mr Tennent," she said diffidently as he opened it. "Yes?" 'I'm sorry." His bloodshot eyes narrowed to an unsettling gleam. "Because I feel like death, or because you were caught in the act?"

Her chin lifted. "Both. Please accept the coffee-making for free by way of recompense," she added, and stepped into the lift.

Her mind occupied with Lucas Tennent, for once Emily Warner had no eyes for the view of the Thames as she crossed Tower Bridge. Up to now, the man she worked for had just been one of her four employers. He left a cheque every week for her wages, and owned a flat she'd give her eye-teeth to live in. But now she could put a face and body to the name the situation was different. He'd given her the shock of her life by catching her redhanded, of course. But her first startled glimpse of Lucas Tennent was rubber-stamped on her brain, partly because he'd looked so ghastly she'd been afraid he was about to pass out on her.

Oblivious of traffic noise and passers-by, Emily hurried back to Spitalfields, her mind busy with the physical details of the employer she'd never actually met before.

There were no photographs of him in his apartment, but because he did something in the banking world she'd visualised brains as well as brawn. In the flesh, Lucas Tennent was well over six feet tall, his windblown hair black as her own, possibly eyes to match, when they weren't too bloodshot to tell. His intelligence was self- evident, but it came combined with dark, smouldering good looks undiminished by even his current deathly pallor. And his Savile Row suit was no disguise for the musculature she would have expected, since it was part of her job to dust the rowing machine and treadmill up in the gallery. Emily sighed enviously. All that space for just one man. If she lived there she could work on her laptop to her heart's content under the gallery's pitched glass roof, which not only boasted sunblinds controlled electronically by temperature, but led on to a roof terrace overlooking the Thames. Perfect. And in total contrast to her solitary room on the second floor of a house owned by one of her brother's friends.

But it was a pretty room, and she was lucky to have it, she reminded herself as she reached the familiar cobbled street. Built originally for refugee Huguenot silk weavers in the seventeen hundreds, most of the houses in this part of Spitalfields had been painstakingly restored, including the one owned by her landlord. Nat Sedley was an architect with a London firm and a home in the Cotswolds. Originally he had bought the house in Spitalfields as a city base. But he now lived in it permanently, with only his two tenants for company, while his children remained with his estranged wife in the house in the country.

When Emily reached the railings which flanked the front door it flew open to reveal two excited six-year-olds lying in wait in the hall, ready and raring to go. "They've been dressed for ages," said their father, grinning in apology. "I warned them you might want tea first but it fell on deaf ears."

"I'll just dump my things and we're away," Emily assured them, rewarded at once by beams from two faces so unalike it was hard to believe that Thomas and Lucy were brother and sister, let alone twins.

"I'll have supper waiting when you get back," said Nat, as he saw them into a taxi. "Now be good, you two, and maybe we can coax Emily to share it with us."

By the time she'd brought the jubilant twins back to Spitalfields Nat Sedley had the promised supper waiting, and Emily not only enjoyed a family meal, but surrendered to pleas to stay afterwards until the twins were ready for bed.

"Thanks a lot, Em," said Nat gratefully, as she made for the stairs later. "You're a life-saver."

She chuckled. "That's the second time I've heard that today."

Nat demanded details, amused when he heard she'd been caught red-handed at her laptop. "But I'm sorry you were driven out to find quiet to work. I should have put your room out of bounds to the twins from the first. By way of a peace offering, fancy coming down later this evening for a drink?"

She smiled. "Thanks, I'd like that very much." In the quiet of her room, Emily collapsed into a chair, suddenly weary. The outing with the twins had been great fun, but after a morning spent cleaning two apartments, followed by a couple of hours' solid slog on her laptop, the confrontation with Lucas Tennent had rather knocked the stuffing out of her. He'd had every right to sack her on the spot, too, which would have done serious damage to her finances. Lucky for her he'd been feeling so rough, otherwise he might not have taken her trespass nearly so well. She'd felt like Goldilocks caught by the bear. Emily chuckled. Wrong hair, wrong fairy tale. There were no fireplaces in Lucas Tennent's flat, but her role was Cinderella just the same. And she'd done no harm, other than just being there in his kitchen, where she wasn't supposed to be on a Friday afternoon.

But from now on her activities in Mr Lucas Tennent's flat would be restricted to the cleaning duties he paid her for. Emily frowned, wondering how he was feeling. He'd looked so ill she'd been a bit reluctant to leave him to fend for himself. Which was nonsense. If she hadn't stayed on for an extra hour or two she wouldn't have met him, nor known about his flu.

Emily took a reviving shower, dried her hair and treated her hands and face to some extra care, grateful to Nat for asking her down for a drink. Much as she despised herself for it, Friday evenings were still hard to get used to on her own. And to add to her pleasure, when she arrived in Nat's small, panelled drawing-room her fellow tenant, Mark Cooper, gave her a hug and shepherded her to the sofa to join his girlfriend, Bryony Talbot.