The rain was razor-thin and mean with a cold, it was a miserable drizzle that sliced through the bones and into one's spirit. It had turned the light blanket of snow into a mire of mud and the light of dawn into a gloomy smear in the sky.
It was the sort of morning when a reasonable person snuggled in bed. Or at the very least lingered over a second cup of coffee.
As far as Mark Ashton was concerned, London was the only place to spend the first breaths of spring. His cliff house on the bay afforded him the most spectacular view of the restless North sea. There was nothing more relaxing than standing by his wall of windows and watching the waves crash and spew.
Power had never failed to fascinate him.
As a lover of the city and the sea that surrounded it, he considered London as a beaut
