London's Calling Read online

  London’s Calling

  KL Donn

  Copyright © 2020 by KL Donn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing by KA Matthews

  Cover design by Sensual Graphic Designs

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Synopsis

  Introduction

  1. London

  2. Quinn

  3. Quinn

  4. Quinn

  5. London

  6. London

  7. London

  Epilogue

  Passport 2 Love Collaboration

  About the Author

  Also by KL Donn

  Synopsis

  London Eye, Big Ben, Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square.

  What do they all have in common?

  They’re in London, England.

  What don’t they have in common? Me. London Manchester. Named for the beautiful city I long to visit one day. The rich history, the beautiful sights, I want to explore it all.

  What I don’t expect to do is land in this majestic country and find love with a sweet and sexy British cop on suspension for assaulting a well-deserving suspect. I don’t expect to never want to leave, either. To become so addicted to that sexy accent, those loving words, and did I mention the accent?

  London is calling, and the name is Quinn Page.

  Introduction

  Dear Reader!

  Thank you so much for checking out Passport 2 Love!

  Thirteen authors have come together to work on a collaboration that will have you travelling the world from the comfort of your own home with twelve new books!

  Don’t worry about a passport and airline tickets! We will take you around the globe! From Vegas to Mexico to London, and all over!

  Now, are you ready? Yeah? Alright! Let’s do this! Up, up, and away!

  Love always,

  Passport 2 Love authors

  Dedication

  For my husband’s maternal family!

  Your roots inspired this story!

  Much love,

  XOXO

  Chapter 1

  London

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts and place your trays in their upright positions. We will be landing at London’s Heathrow Airport in thirty minutes. Local time is 8:30 p.m., and the sky is clear of rain and clouds with a warm temperature of 25 degrees Celsius. Thank you for flying Air Canada, and we hope you've had an enjoyable flight.”

  Eeekk! I can’t help the inner squeal. It’s happening, I’m finally here.

  London, England.

  The United Kingdom.

  The Queen’s country.

  I keep all of this to myself, though, much as I would like to be screaming it out loud. I’ve become even more fascinated with the city since learning about my parents and the origin of my name. My mother and father died in a car accident when I was twelve, and I spent my adolescence in foster homes.

  It wasn’t all bad, not like the horror stories that have been playing across the country for the past few years. I grew up in Sherwood Park, Alberta, until they passed, then I was shuffled around Edmonton through various foster homes.

  The day I turned 18, I moved back to the Park. It’s a small community, and I love how quiet it is compared to the big city.

  I’ve been saving money since I was 14 to travel to London for my 23rd birthday, and with it only a few weeks away, I decided going early was soon enough. My obsession with the city grew long before I found out about my parents, but I feel like it just brings us that much closer. I believe they would be excited to know I want to explore my roots.

  After doing one of those heritage tests and finding family I never knew existed, I learned that I was, indeed, named London after the city. Manchester—my middle name that I hate and have been using as a last name for as long as I can remember—is where my parents met.

  I had no idea they were from the UK until those results.

  The DNA that changed my life.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The woman next to me, who has been quiet until now, says as she peeks out my window without invading my space.

  “Have you been here before?” She doesn’t have the accent, so I assume she’s not local.

  “Many times.” Her smile is melancholy as she leans back in her seat. “My husband was born and raised here. We fell in love over forty years ago when he moved to Ottawa for school.” You can hear the sadness in her voice.

  “I’m so sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. Death makes me uncomfortable.

  “Thank you, dear. I’m returning him home. He loved Stonehenge, so I’m meeting his cousin’s family, and we’re going to spread his ashes near there.” Her smile, it’s not sad now, not quite. More like in remembrance, happiness from the past.

  “That sounds lovely.” Do not ask where his ashes are, London. It’s not appropriate. I sometimes have to remind myself that not everyone understands my special brand of honest and inquisitive. And so, I wind up having full-out conversations in my head while conversing with the general public. But seriously, can she even bring those on the plane?

  I grip my armrests tightly at the sound of grinding gears as the wheels lower, and the aircraft descends. I’ve never flown before, and to say I’m nervous would be an understatement.

  “Breathe through it slowly, dear,” my companion next to me says with another smile.

  I can only nod as I close my eyes and await the bumping I know will occur as we land. The jostle is rough, but nothing more than I expected, and soon, we’re taxying our way down the runway.

  “Welcome to London, England, we hope you enjoy your stay, and welcome home.” The flight attendant’s slight accent is soothing as my ears pop.

  Unbuckling myself, I wait my turn to disembark after grabbing my bag from the overhead compartment. My eyes roam everywhere. The blue sky, and the tall buildings I can barely see from a distance.

  “What’s your first stop?” the woman asks.

  I smile, knowing exactly where I plan to go. “Trafalgar Square. I’ve booked a hotel not far from it.”

  “Check out Garfunkel’s. My husband and I went there every time we came home.” Her voice is wistful as we walk through the corridors to baggage claim. “It’s most certainly a magical city. You have fun, my dear, and enjoy this beautiful country.”

  “Thank you.” I want to say something more, but I don’t know what. Enjoy spreading your husband’s ashes? Good luck? Instead, I leave it at that and watch as she grabs her bag from the carousel and leaves.

  I stand in the middle of baggage claim and realize I must look lost to some people, but I’m simply taking it all in.

  I’m in London.

  A place I’ve dreamt about being my entire life. The place my parents called home. My heritage is here. Well, mostly, and I plan to wring the most out of it I can in the two weeks I’m visiting.

  Quinn

  “This is complete bollocks, mate.” I watch my chief inspector at Scotland Yard for any tell-tale signs of remorse. He buggered up my last assignment, but he’s putting the blame on me. Shouldering none of his own.

  “Take it on the chin, chap, and enjoy your time off. It’s not like you aren’t getting paid for it.” I’d like to wipe the smug smile of his damn face.

  Turning, I stop at my desk to grab my phone and walk out of the building. I’ve been a member of the force for ten years, after retiring from the British Army when I was twenty-five. Retired is a nice way of saying honourably d
ischarged after an IED attack left my Humvee in pieces in Kandahar.

  Shrapnel lodged itself in most of my left leg, and it took a lot of surgery and rehab to get me walking again. The Army thought I was a risk to any future units, so I was given a medal for saving two of my four comrades and sent home with a pat on the back.

  Taking the stairs down the four levels to the main concourse, I said nothing as I left. I'm pissed beyond belief, so it was best not to speak to anyone. Otherwise, my fist might have ended up in someone’s face.

  I head to my Land Rover in the carport and take off for home in Westminster, not far from Trafalgar Square. A trip to Garfunkel’s on my mind as I cross the bridge

  Parking my vehicle, I ignore the bustle of the city to cross the street and bump into a pretty blonde, staring down at a map.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry.” She smiles up at me, speaking with her American accent, and I’m lost in the swirls of blue and gold in her eyes. Her head tilts to the side as she waits for me to say something. When I don’t, she shakes her head and walks into the building.

  “Bollocks,” I mutter to myself, following her in. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting before I see her being seated at a booth in the back. Following behind, I sit across from her without an invite.

  Her brows raise, but she doesn’t say a word, and neither do I. “Another menu please, dear,” I say to the server as she walks away.

  The woman watches me. Assessing me. And I wonder what the hell I’m doing. Why I’m sitting with a person I don’t even know.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” she asks, and there’s amusement in her voice.

  “I apologize for being so rude out there. Your beauty struck me by surprise.” Her eyes cloud over and darken.

  “Well, you can leave now.” She lifts up the menu, and when the server goes to hand me one, she strikes a hand out. “He’s leaving. It’ll be just me.” Her head doesn’t even lift.

  “Are all Americans this rude?” I’m being snarky, and I know it.

  She does look up then, and I’m once again ensnared in her gaze. “I’m Canadian, not American, and we’re rude when the occasion calls for it.” A blush works up her cheeks, and I continue to be transfixed by this little specimen.

  “Why does my admiration of your beauty upset you?”

  She bites the inside of her cheek before answering. “Because I’m more than a pretty face, and I’d like to be acknowledged for it.”

  “Fair enough. How about we start over?” I stick out my hand and wait. When she nods and grips my hand, a zing of electricity pulses between us, and I’m drawn in closer to her. “Name’s Quinn Page.”

  I watch as her pupils dilate a bit. and she licks her lips before responding, “London Manchester.” I’m lost in the velvety sound of her voice. Silky, soft, and then her name registers, and a booming laugh leaves me.

  “You’re having a laugh, right?”

  There’s that anger again. I don’t let her lovely hand go when she tries to pull back. “I assure you I’m not kidding, and now that we’ve gone through this rudeness twice, you can leave. Right now. I have zero desire to converse with such an asshole on my first night in a city I’ve been enamoured of since I was a little girl.”

  London’s still tugging her hand. I stand and walk around to her side of the table. Sitting next to her, I crowd her space. “You must understand how amusing that is for a man born here, right? It’s irony at its finest pet.”

  She studies me, and I can’t say I don’t like it because I’d love to feel her gaze travel across my body in a much more intimate setting as well. “Fine. I suppose I can see how it’d be funny to you,” she finally relents.

  “Tell me there’s a story behind the beauty of your name.” I smile crookedly, hoping to get her to open up to me. I don’t understand why, but this sweet little morsel of a woman calls to me.

  “There is, but it’s not very interesting. And I only just learned of it.”

  The server returns before she can elaborate. “Do you know what you’d like, dear?”

  “Oh.” London looks down at the menu quickly, realizing I still haven’t let go of her hand.

  “Two house specials, and whatever’s on tap.” I take the decision from her. I eat here all the time and know whatever they have on special is tasty.

  The server walks away, and London glares at me. “I’m capable of making my own decisions.” She tugs her hand again. “Can I have my hand back?”

  “I’ve no doubt you are, but you looked torn on what to order. I frequent here often enough; I know what’s good.” I squeeze the hand she’s tugging. “And no, you may not. I like it just where it is.”

  “You’re kind of a barbarian,” she says, still tugging. This woman levels me with a look that would likely scorch any other man, but not me. Oh no, I’m more than a passing stranger, or at least, I will be.

  I aim to know this sweet little morsel much more intimately before she goes back home.

  London

  I should be outraged, angry, yelling, or something, but this man, this handsome stranger, is making me laugh at a time when I was beginning to feel lonely. I had only made it to my hotel a few blocks away, checked-in, and showered, when the receptionist recommended this place. I figure if two people are telling me to eat here, then I should.

  Bumping into the deeply tanned and extremely tall stranger as I entered has proven to be very entertaining. With his lyrical accent, sexy smirk, and knowing light green eyes, I find I can’t turn him away and mean it.

  “Tell me, sweet London, where are you from?” His thumb smooths the top of my hand after our delicious meal. I won’t admit he was right that the double deep-fried fish and chips were amazing. And they didn’t taste greasy at all. Which is always a bonus in my book.

  “I’m from Sherwood Park.” I try to hold back my grin because the response is typically the same if you aren’t familiar with Canada.

  He doesn’t disappoint. “Like Robin Hood? Sheriff of Nottingham and all them lovely characters?”

  My laughter cannot be contained. “You forgot Maid Marian.” He watches me with a bemused expression until I get myself under control. “I’m pretty sure the Sherwood Park you’re thinking of is from a Disney movie, and it’s Sherwood Forrest. The one I’m from is in northern Alberta. The west side of Canada.”

  “So, you don’t take from the rich and give to the poor then?” I shake my head with a smile. “Isn’t that where all the snow is then?”

  “And hockey.”

  “Ahh, yes, chasing a puck across ice whilst smashing into boards.” He nods with a serious expression on his face, but his gaze gives away his amusement.

  “And football in the summer.”

  “Your football or my football?”

  “Your soccer, my football.”

  “You blokes sure like to chase things out west,” he comments straight-faced, but there’s a twinkle in his eye.

  “Uhm, did you forget that you chase balls here too?” We throw a ball across the field, they kick it. What’s the difference?

  “Ahh, pet, that’s where you’re wrong.” He smirks as he picks up his beer and drinks. My eyes are glued to his throat as he swallows. Strong, masculine, a touch of hair from his chest peeks through the collar of his shirt.

  I rapidly blink as he drops the glass back on the table with a thud. “How am I wrong, precisely?”

  “We fight for the ball. We don’t just chase it around like children. It’s about precision and skill.” I could seriously listen to him talk all day long. That accent mixed with his husky tone gets all the girly bits standing at attention.

  “If you say so.” I swallow back my smart retort.

  “You were telling me about your name earlier, care to elaborate?”

  “Subject change, huh? You afraid I’m right, and you’re just spewing bullshit?” I laugh at his faux shock and innocent look.

  “Perhaps.” He shrugs, and again, I’m lost in the muscle
movement behind his t-shirt.

  Giving in, I tell him the condensed version of what I’ve found out. “My parents died when I was a pre-teen, and I was bounced around a bit in the system. About a year ago, I did one of those ancestry tests and went through their site about the results. Anyway, I found a cousin-relative type person in Ontario, and we spoke on the phone quite a bit. They told me about my name, how it came about.” I pause because he has this weird look on his face. Like he’s sucking on a lemon. “What?”

  “Cousin-relative type person?” He laughs, and I realize what I've said, so I follow suit.

  “It’s a confusing title I’m not even sure I understand, so it’s easier.”

  “Alright, go on.” He rolls his wrist for me to continue.

  “So anyway, they were both born here in London—hence the first name—and met at Manchester University—hence the last name. They migrated to Canada when they graduated, but after they married. Mom was an English teacher and Dad, even though he had a degree in Political Science, he became a firefighter.”

  “Fascinating,” Quinn says, and I can tell he means it.

  “Anyway, Manchester is actually my middle name. I just use it as my last because it doesn’t sound nearly as weird.”

  “So, what’s your legal last name then?”

  I level him with a serious look before answering. “If you laugh, I will walk out and never see you again.”

  “It can’t be that bad.” He grins.

  Blowing out a deep breath, I spit it out. “Bond.” I swear the entire place freezes as the word leaves my mouth.

  “Bond,” he repeats. “London Manchester Bond.” It’s like he’s rolling the words off his tongue to test them out. “Can we get married so I can be a Bond too?”