Page 2 of The Last Kiss Goodbye

‘Why not?’ she pouted, pulling back.

‘Because we shouldn’t.’

Isabella took a moment to compose herself, knowing that she was not going to get her own way. Not this time.

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘I’m sure,’ he nodded.

‘Then I’d better get back,’ she said, her beautiful mouth pursing. ‘You know how Gerald misses me.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ he replied with genuine affection.

Her expression softened and she kissed her finger and pressed it against his lips.

‘Goodbye, Dominic,’ she said, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the warm, suggestive touch, knowing that this was the last time he would feel it.

He watched her leave, her slim silhouette retreating into the light and noise of the party, and then lit a cigarette.

Pushing back a heavy green velvet curtain, he opened the French doors, enjoying the cold air slapping against his

face, and blew a long, twisting grey smoke ring.

Here he was, at one of the most fashionable parties of the year, surrounded by society’s beau monde, and yet he felt hollow and unsettled.

Maybe Tony was right. Maybe he needed to settle down. He’d had enough of using beautiful young women like Isabella, and all the other interchangeable blondes, brunettes and redheads. Maybe he needed to change his life, although it was never as easy as that, he thought, frowning as he watched the smoke float up into the dark night air.

‘Dominic.’

The voice was not at first familiar. For one anxious minute he thought that Gerald Hamilton had come to pay him a visit, before he registered an accent and recognised it.

‘Eugene.’ He smiled with relief, stubbing his cigarette out under the sole of his shoe.

He had known the Russian naval attaché, stationed at his country’s embassy in Kensington since Christmas, and liked him a lot. At first he had been surprised that Eugene was invited to society parties and dinners such as the one they were at tonight – people were suspicious of the Soviets, and rightly so, with the Cold War raging. But the truth was that someone considered mysterious and forbidden – someone like a handsome Soviet naval attaché – was as welcome in the salons of the upper classes as Dominic was.

‘How are you, my friend?’ he asked, extending his hand and resting it on the Russian’s shoulder.

Eugene simply nodded.

‘Can we talk?’ he asked.

Dominic was always ready to listen. He took his cigarette case from his pocket, opened it and offered his friend a tobacco-brown Sobranie.

‘Of course,’ he replied as they stepped out into the garden.

The air was fragrant, the smell of daffodils and damp grass potent and luscious, and the full moon spilt lazy, creamy light around the garden.

They sat down on a stone bench, and as Eugene began to talk, Dominic crossed his legs and blew another smoke ring, preparing to listen, not knowing that the conversation he was about to have was one that would change the entire course of his life.

Chapter One

London, present day

Abby Gordon looked down at the curled sepia map spread out on the oak table in front of her and sighed. I mean, who cares where Samarkand is anyway? she thought rebelliously. She had a sudden urge to scrunch the map up into a ball and toss it into the incinerator. She imagined the fire catching, watching as it glowed and burnt. Shaking her head she looked around the room, wondering if anyone had noticed that she was blushing. No, only nice Mr Bramley, an elderly academic bent over his research on the other side of the glass door.

Mr Bramley certainly cared very deeply for this map. Mr Bramley would probably jump into the incinerator to save it.

Get a grip, Abby, she told herself, imagining poor Mr Bramley on fire.