To find what they need, they may need to relearn everything they thought they knew about love.

He’s a hotshot financial analyst who has lost it all. She’s a brokenhearted world traveler forced to come home and beg for money. His job hangs by a thread. Her dreams of making a difference in the world are circling the drain.

It’s a spectacularly bad time for romance, even on the charming stone streets of an English university town. But sparks fly—and danger threatens—when these two wounded souls are forced to work together to solve a mystery and right a wrong.

• Sweet and thoughtful contemporary read
• Stand-alone novel
• Book length: 86,000 words
• Includes discussion questions for book clubs

Full Circle

By DAVIS BUNN

Thomas Nelson

Copyright © 2008 Davis Bunn
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59554-204-5

Chapter One

Adam sat in the plush leather chair and tried hard to focus. His future depended on pushing the past aside and concentrating upon the here and now. But the contrast between these elegant surroundings and two years of yesterdays was hard to get his head around.

For the past twenty-five months, he had been imprisoned in a hard hospital chair. The previous day, he had flown from Baltimore to London. Now he was seated in a mystic realm where loudspeakers did not bark and hospital bells did not jangle and smells were not sharp as scalpels. Instead, he sat in a palace, one where the fragrance of fresh-cut flowers filled the air. A cheery fire at the reception hall's opposite end kept the English December at bay. The hardwood floors framed Persian carpets. Chandeliers marched like sparkling sentries down the high-ceilinged chamber, guarding a lovely lady behind a curved rosewood desk.

A lady who was trying very hard not to weep.

Two other women appeared through the rear doors, one bearing coffee and the other an embroidered hankie. They clustered around the receptionist.

A tall pendulum clock by the curved staircase bonged nine times. Adam had been kept waiting over an hour. Which was odd, as he had been awakened from a jet-lag stupor at seven o'clock, when a sullen woman phoned his lodgings and demanded that he present himself precisely at eight.

Time dragged at a glacial pace. Adam knew something was horribly wrong. Employees streamed through the front doors. Their dread-filled glances toward the receptionist suggested the problem was not hers alone. Whatever might be ailing this company, it approached an epidemic.

Adam reached into his blazer pocket and touched the folded note. His mother had slipped it to him as he had left the hospital. The single sheet had been opened so often the creases were tearing. Illness had reduced his mother's handwriting to a scrawl. But the words were clear enough. The sign will signify many things. Gifts, and the chance to use them to the fullest. Purpose, and the joy of doing well for yourself and others. Hope, and the illumination this brings to your every day. And love. When you arrive at your destination, I pray you will know clearly that you are doing the right thing. Love, Mom.

Adam rose from his seat, turned his back to the receptionist, and stared at the art adorning the walls. A collection of framed black-and-white photographs rimmed the reception chamber. Adam knew most of them intimately, as they were by his mother's favorite photographer. He stepped forward until he saw his reflection in the glass. A sign, his mother had written.

"Mr. Wright?" a heavyset young woman with a funereal expression paraded down the broad, curved staircase. "I'm Robin Oakes. We spoke this morning. Mr. Dobbins will see you now."

"I was told to report to Mr. Austin."

The woman was halted in the process of starting back up the stairs. She chose her words with care. "Joshua Dobbins is the company's chief financial officer."

"Mr. Austin isn't here?"

"Please, Mr. Wright. Joshua Dobbins does not like to be kept waiting."

The broad stairs ended in an elegant hall where polished oak doors stood recessed within carved frames. They passed two clusters of people sharing muted conversation and grave expressions. More strident than the company's somber mood was the artwork on the walls. The line of Eve Arnold prints clawed at Adam, slowing his progress.

"In here, if you please." The woman knocked on the hallway's last door. "Mr. Wright for you, sir."

"Come in, Wright. That will be all, Mrs. Oakes."

Adam stepped into the office and halted before yet another Eve Arnold print, one that held a special poignancy. The office was high-ceilinged with plaster scrollwork around the chandelier. A pale silk carpet rested upon the polished wood floor. Between him and the desk stood a marble fireplace. The desk was rimmed by tall bay windows.

"Come sit down, Wright."

"I'm fine where I am."

"I didn't ask for your sentiments. Come over here and take a seat."

The man behind the desk was made a silhouette by sunlight. For two years Adam had faced cameras he couldn't see because of the surrounding spotlights. He showed the man a professional calm he did not feel. "You're going to fire me, right? so get it over with."

The man responded with a double-beat of hesitation. "What makes you say that?"

"Your secretary told me Mr. Austin was not in. Your chairman personally offered me the job, and he's my only contact with your company. Your secretary said you are the finance director. You're probably the man who must approve all new hirings, and by the scene I've been watching downstairs, I'd say your company is in serious crisis."

There was only silence from the other end of the room.

Adam went on, "You ordered me here at eight so you could get rid of me before the boss arrived. But then you made me wait for over an hour. I'm thinking you decided to check with him, but he wasn't reachable. Now you've either argued your case, or you've decided to take matters into your own hands. It's doubtful Austin would make an issue over his number two firing a low-level peon. Especially when your company has been hit by incoming fire and is hemorrhaging badly."

"What have you heard about our company's problems?"

"Nothing, until this very minute."

The man, who rose from his desk, held one shoulder slightly lower than the other, or perhaps it was merely the result of his ill-fitting dark suit. A narrow tie was offset by a starched white shirt. His features were pockmarked, his mouth a thin slit. He was a man made to wield the corporate dagger, and without remorse.

"Come sit down, Mr. Wright. No, over here. Will you take coffee?"

"Will I be here that long?"

"I'll take that as a yes." Joshua Dobbins settled into the sofa and waved Adam into the suede chair opposite him. He phoned for coffee, then replied, "I won't deny it, Mr. Wright. I had intended to dismiss you out of hand."

Adam caught the slight inflection. "And you still might."

Mud-gray eyes flashed with something that might have been humor. "This ability of yours to read subtle signs is impressive."

"I'm an analyst," Adam replied. "a good one."

"Are you indeed?" a moment's further inspection, then Dobbins asked, "That print on my wall, the one you noticed upon entering. No, don't turn around. What can you tell me about it?"

"The photograph was taken by Eve Arnold."

"We are hosting a retrospective of her work. You might have read the plaque downstairs. Anything else?"

Adam saw no need to explain how a copy of that very photograph had adorned his mother's studio. "Eve Arnold shot the picture in 1963, on her first trip to England. She was over to do the promo stills for a movie version of Becket. Richard Burton played the starring role. The photo was taken of his death scene. The photograph shows Elizabeth Taylor off camera with their three children. Their daughter was terrified, watching her father die. Eve Arnold took the photo just as Taylor cradled the child in her arms and explained that Burton was acting. The child refused to leave the set until she saw her father get up again, Burton's death was that real."

A curious secretary laid out bone china and poured coffee. "Be so kind as to bring me this gentleman's file from my desk, Mrs. Oakes. Help yourself to cream, Mr....