Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,28
if your mummy isn’t around.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She obviously looks after you.”
“She does not!”
“Well, she didn’t sound very happy.”
“She wasn’t happy because this nutcase was wailing and crying right next to me. That’s not normal, Sidney.”
“I was trying to get us out of our little situation.”
“Little situation? We’re being followed by a pair of maybe, maybe not, trained killers who want us to return a painting we know squat about before they decide to do away with us, and you call that little?”
Sidney came to a stop at the end of a block, leaving Piers to walk on an extra pace, around the corner, out of the umbrella, and into the rain.
“What?” he said. “Does the truth hurt?”
“No.” She nodded across the street to a knot of police officers and yellow tape. “We’re here.”
Piers ducked back behind the corner of the building. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did.”
“I meant before I walked out into the full view of Paris’ finest.”
“I got us here, all right? I can’t think of everything.”
“What now?”
“How would I know? You were the one who wanted to come here.”
Piers groaned. He looked around the corner of the building. “We need a plan.”
“You’re on fire today, aren’t you?”
He rolled his eyes at her and looked up and down the street. “We need a distraction.”
She gave him a sour look. “As long as it doesn’t involve me taking my clothes off.”
He screwed up his face. “Have I ever suggested anything like that?”
“I’m just saying.”
He looked up and down the street. “There’s a phone box over there.”
“So?”
“You need to make a phone call.”
She pulled out her mobile and waved it in front of him.
He shook his head again. “You need to phone the police. Give them a tip.”
“Phone the police? Me?”
“Yes, you. Tell them you spotted the people on the TV a few blocks from here.”
“Guy on the TV,” she corrected. “They didn’t have a picture of me.”
“Okay, okay, tell them guy.”
“And why do I have to call from a phone box?”
“Because they could track your phone to you, and then they’d know where you are and that you’re involved.”
“But phone boxes smell.”
“I’m sorry. Try to stand outside.”
“Men pee in them.”
“Well, not this man. Maybe some men do, but this man doesn’t.”
“And women, too. I’ve seen that, you know. Women peeing in phone boxes.”
“All right. Okay. Very sorry. Just make the phone call and get straight back here.”
She stomped off, taking the umbrella. He watched her dance around the phone box, standing outside it, inserting her money, and holding the receiver with the tips of her fingers. She kept it at a distance from her mouth, spoke loudly, hung up, and walked back. “Done.”
“Where did you tell them we’d been spotted?”
She pointed back the way they had come. “Down the street, turn left, then ten more blocks.”
“What? So this is the quickest route?”
She nodded, “Yeah.”
“Oh my god.” He slapped his forehead. “We wanted to get rid of them, not bring them to us.”
Around the corner shouts broke out among the police officers. With a squeal of tires, a string of police cars headed in their direction. Piers grabbed her hand, ready to run. She pulled him back, shoved him against the wall, and pressed herself hard against him. She popped open the umbrella and flipped it over her shoulder, blocking them from view, then pressed her face into his neck.
Piers heart thumped. “I—”
She shushed him and wrapped her leg around his, rubbing the back of her ankle up and down his leg. “Act natural. No Parisian will notice a kissing couple,” she whispered, “just don’t you dare let your hands wander.”
“I—”
“Shut up, I know it must be difficult for you, but act like you’re enjoying it.”
He folded his arms around her and stroked her back. Her breath was warm on his neck. He tilted his head to press his face to hers. He could feel her bra and the softness of her body pushing against him. She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, squeezing his biceps playfully.
The tension in his limbs dissolved and a warm glow spread through him. A calm smile spread across his face. She rubbed her hand across his shoulders and her long hair brushed against his ear. He closed his eyes and squeezed her tight.
“You only have to act like you’re enjoying it,” she said.
He opened his eyes and loosened his hold. “I am,” he cleared his throat, “acting.”
“You better be.”
A cavalcade of cars and motorbikes raced by, sirens