Page 56 of Perfect Strangers

Sophie forced a smile. ‘Okay,’ she said, but she wasn’t sure how natural she could look with her shoulders tensed and her stomach churning. She just wanted to get on the train and out of London. Her legs felt weak too as Josh steered her towards the security check. They were going to stop her, she was sure of it, glancing up at the roof, looking for CCTV cameras. Inspector Fox would certainly be wondering where the hell she was after her phone call yesterday. Surely he’d have sent out an alert to be on the lookout for a woman meeting her description.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Josh, drawing her to one side. ‘You’re walking like a waxwork.’

‘What do you think’s the bloody matter? We’re about to go through security and Fox will have alerted the airports, the railway stations, everywhere. They’re going to arrest us, Josh.’

Josh gave a slight smile which riled her enormously.

‘Sophie, the police have questioned you, that’s all. You haven’t been accused or charged with anything. You’re hardly the outlaw Josey Wales.’

‘It’s not funny, Josh,’ she said, glancing towards the security gate. ‘Look, I’m turning back.’

He gripped her arm and pulled her into an alcove in front of a bureau de change booth, his grey eyes searching hers.

‘Listen to me, Sophie. You’re not on any Interpol “most wanted” list. The police almost never put out a port stop, unless it’s a particularly high-profile case or they think someone’s going to get killed. It

’s too much hassle and it costs too much money.’

Sophie’s brow creased.

‘You’re telling me . . . I’m not wanted?’

‘I doubt it very much. Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Disappoint me? You think I’m enjoying this?’ she snapped, pulling away from him.

‘All right,’ said Josh, holding his hands up. ‘Now calm down, you’re attracting attention. In fact that security guard is looking at you now – don’t turn around!’

‘But Josh—’

‘Shut up and pretend you’re enjoying this.’

Before she had time to grasp what was happening, Josh had grabbed her and pressed his lips on to hers. She gasped in surprise and resisted him, but when his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her in, she had no choice but to melt into the kiss. And as they pulled apart, she inhaled sharply. She was still only inches away from his face, still breathing the same air as he was, and could still smell him, taste him on her tongue. She stumbled back and he caught her arm.

‘That shut you up,’ he growled. ‘Now, we’ve got twenty-five minutes before the train leaves.’

He grabbed her hand and led her to passport control. She was still in shock and followed in mute silence as her bag was put through the metal detector, Josh joking with the security guard, who just glanced at their passports and waved them through.

‘You’d better be quick,’ he said.

Josh took her bag and quickened his pace, but Sophie held his sleeve to slow him down.

‘Don’t run,’ she hissed. ‘I feel like a fugitive.’

‘You are a fugitive,’ he whispered. ‘Come on, we’re about to miss the train and I just want to get out of here.’

He pulled her up the ramp, running along the length of the sleek silver train. It looked so good, like a bird that would pick them up and fly them to safety. Sophie’s heart was hammering now; she could hardly believe they had managed to get through security so easily. Maybe she was going to get away after all. She glanced back over her shoulder, half expecting to see dark uniforms or burly Russians chasing them, but apart from a guard with a flag, they were alone.

‘You coming?’ said Josh. He was on the steps of the train, his hand reaching out to her.

She had spent the past twelve hours feeling frightened, unsettled, anxious, but looking up and seeing the sign for Paris, a surge of exhilaration gripped her.

‘Try and stop me,’ she replied as she took his hand.

18

Ruth wandered into David’s kitchen still half asleep. He was sitting at the table reading the Financial Times and absentmindedly sticking a fork into a salmon fillet. Ruth opened a cabinet at random, finding only tea bags and a bottle of expensive-looking olive oil.

‘Have you got any cornflakes?’ she said, rubbing sleep from the corner of her eye.