her grandmother’s pride and joy for the journey—the teeniest scratch on Miriam’s Maserati would have meant being beaten with a big stick and sent to stand in the naughty corner for weeks.
Her face screwed up against the stinging onslaught of low-flying—and actually quite ferocious—snowflakes, Nadia hopped back into the car. At least she had her mobile. She could dial 999 and ask the police to come and rescue her… except if she did that, chances were they might want to know where she was.
Hmm.
Maybe phone home then, and at least let the family know she was in a ditch, in a blizzard, somewhere in deepest darkest Gloucestershire. Or, more accurately, deepest whitest Gloucestershire.
Although it would be dark soon enough.
This dilemma was solved neatly enough by the discovery that her phone was dead, which narrowed the options down to two. Should she leave the car and trudge off through the ever-deepening snow in search of civilisation?
Or stay here and hope that somebody else—preferably in a Sherman tank or a helicopter—might come along and rescue her?
Since civilisation could be miles away and her feet still ached like mad from dancing last night, Nadia reached over to the back seat for her sleeping bag, wriggled into it like a giant worm and settled down to wait.
Poor old Laurie, he’d missed a brilliant party. Nadia smiled to herself, thinking back to yesterday morning’s phone call. She wondered how hot it was right now in Egypt, if Laurie was remembering to drink only bottled water and if he’d managed to squeeze in a visit to Tutankhamun’s tomb before flying on to Milan.
Gosh, she was hungry. Easing a hand from the cocoon of her sleeping bag, she flicked open the glove compartment. A packet of Rolos and a half-empty bag of wine gums. Should she ration herself, like people trapped on mountains, to one Rolo a day? Or give in to temptation and guzzle the whole lot at once?
But she wasn’t trapped on a mountain and she wasn’t going to starve. Compromising, Nadia ate three Rolos and half a dozen wine gums, then switched on the car radio for company, just in time to hear a DJ cheerfully announcing that there was plenty more snow on the way.
That was the thing about Sherman tanks, they were never around when you needed them.
Less than half an hour later—though it seemed like more—Nadia let out a shriek and abruptly stopped singing along with Sting to ‘Don’t Stand So Close To Me’. Actually, it was an appropriate song. The person who had tapped on her window was pretty close.
Male or female? Hard to tell with that hat pulled down over their face. Wrapped up in a Barbour, thick sweater and jeans, it was either a man or a hulking great six-foot-plus woman.
Hoping it wasn’t Janet Street-Porter, Nadia opened the window and promptly wished she could have been wearing something more alluring than a green nylon sleeping bag strewn with bits of gold foil Rolo wrapper.
She also hoped she’d been singing more or less in tune.
Not that this was terribly likely.
‘Are you OK?’
He had dark hair, light brown eyes and snowflakes decorating his black, spiky eyelashes.
‘I’m fine. Really warm. Skidded off the road,’ Nadia explained, fairly idiotically given the novel angle at which she was sitting.
He inclined his head. ‘I noticed.’
Nadia peered at the empty road behind him. ‘Did you crash too?’
‘No, I did the sensible thing.’ He looked amused. ‘Abandoned the car before that happened. It’s at the bottom of the last hill.’
‘Rolo?’ She offered him one through the open window. Not her last Rolo, obviously.
‘No thanks. Look, there’s a village half a mile ahead. Do you want to walk with me?’
‘You live around here?’ Nadia brightened, then hesitated. Hang on, a complete stranger offering her shelter in the middle of nowhere, seemingly perfectly normal and friendly right up until the moment he reappeared from the woodshed with madness in his eyes and a sharp axe?
How many times had she seen that film?
He shook his head, scattering snowflakes. ‘No, I live in Oxford.’
‘So how do you know there’s a village?’ She didn’t want to struggle through the blizzard on a whim.
The mad axe-murderer seemed entertained by the wary look in her eyes.
‘I’m very psychic.’
Oh God, he really was a nutter.
‘That’s great.’ Nadia took a deep breath. ‘Look, have you ever been to this part of Gloucestershire before?’
‘No.’ Smiling, he patted the pocket of his waxed Barbour. ‘But, unlike you, I do have a map.’