A stone’s throw away, Francesca Young rebuffed an inept pass by her escort as she drew her tanned legs into the waiting limo. She wrinkled her nose just discemibly at the sight of a troll in the chauffeur’s seat, but he was polite and Forbes Security had obviously spent money on elocution lessons for their operatives. Mercifully , he restricted himself to a "Very good, m’lady" as he eased the powerful machine along Kensington High Street; Francesca was too out of sorts to put up with a driver who thought clients wanted meaningless chatter about London’s weather at two in the morning. As she stared out the window, the first sight that greeted her eyes was that of two young fools in tuxedos squaring off in the road while a pair of debs shrieked with delight from the windows of their limo. She felt tired and jaded, fed up with men who ordered salmon after hearing her mention she’d grown up on the Pacific seaboard of North America, then expected sexual favors for the price of a fairly routine meal.