Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,7
walk out and get gunned down by some nutcase? Am I supposed to be some decoy—”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m being ridiculous? You drag me into god knows what, get me shot at, and dump me Christ knows where, and I’m the one who’s being ridiculous?”
“Ooohhh. You’re English, aren’t you?”
“What the hell has that got to do with anything?”
Before she could reply, a door creaked and an old woman’s voice called out “Who’s there?”
The girl’s pencil thin eyebrows narrowed. “Merde.” She beckoned Piers frantically. “Up here. Now. Vite, vite, vite.”
“What? One minute it’s so-long-and-thanks-for-all-the-fish and the next I have to follow your every instruction?”
“You’re the one who’s worried about nutcases, and this one’s a doozy. What’s more, you’re a guy. She’ll want a kiss.”
Footsteps echoed on old floorboards. “Who is it? Who’s there? Is that a man’s voice?”
The girl gave Piers a told-you-so smile and bounded up the stairs. Piers followed, three steps at a time. On the third floor, the girl crashed into a door, fumbled the key into the lock, and swept inside. Piers dived after her and she swung the door closed, gently lowering the latch.
The girl leaned back on the wall and exhaled, long and slow. She rolled her head back and closed her eyes as she unbuttoned her jacket.
Piers’ heart was pounding from adrenaline and exertion, but he couldn’t stop his gaze from sinking down over the white blouse that fitted close across her chest and moved hypnotically with each breath, nor the short skirt wrapped tight around the very tops of her long, toned legs. With a jolt, he realized she was staring straight at him. She lowered her face and he thought he saw her sneer for an instant. He flushed hot and his ears prickled. “I, er … I didn’t mean … I’m sorry … who was that?”
She cleared her throat. “That?”
“The voice. The woman.”
“Oh, right. That.” She shrugged. “Landlady. Nosy old bat.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“You haven’t had to put up with her as long as I have.”
Piers glanced around. It was a tiny studio apartment. A bed was pushed up against one wall and a cooker and sink were in the corner. A large armchair, a desk with a sewing machine, and a rolling rack of clothing filled most of the floor. Everywhere else, even the walls, was covered with bolts of fabric, fashion illustrations, sketches, and pages torn out of magazines. He whistled. “You’ve lived here a long time.”
“Tell me about it. Since September.”
“September?”
“September. The month I moved in. September.”
“Which September?”
“This September. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Sorry. I just thought you said you’d been here a long time.”
“I have. I just told you. Since September. Five weeks. Five long weeks with that nosy old bat hounding me.”
“That doesn’t seem like a lo—”
Her eyes seemed to double in size. “It’s a long time, all right?”
Piers put his hands up. “Okay, okay, it’s a long time.”
The girl pulled a toolbox out from underneath the sink and produced a set of bolt croppers.
Piers stared. “You have bolt croppers?”
“There’s no fooling you, is there?”
“Not every girl has a set of bolt croppers.”
“Lots of people have them.”
“Riiiiight. Do you often have to remove handcuffs?”
She stared at him and snorted. “Just cut the damn things.”
Piers aligned the croppers carefully and squeezed. The handcuff gave in an instant. The girl wriggled and held up the other one, which was just as easily dispatched. She tossed the mangled metal on the bed.
Under a pile of fabric on the armchair, she found a half-finished bottle of wine. The cork popped with a tuneful echo and she slugged a mouthful.
“Is that good?” said Piers.
She blew out a long breath. “Yeah. I needed it. I’ve been shot at.”
“Me too, just in case you didn’t notice.”
“Yes, but they weren’t really shooting at you.”
“Weren’t shooting at me? Christ, I nearly got my head blown off.”
The girl gave a sarcastic smile. “Yeah.”
Piers rolled his eyes at her and looked around the small room. “This is your apartment?”
She took another swig of wine. “Right on, Sherlock. What does it look like, a fish shop?”
“No. But people have been shooting at you and me, don’t you think they might just happen to know where you live?”
“Why would they know where I live? This is a very quiet neighborhood.”
“Who cares if it’s a quiet neighborhood? We’re in the first place they’ll look. This is bloody ridiculous.”
“Trust me, this neighborhood is way too quiet.”
“Quiet? It’s not about the area being quiet. Shit, this is serious! We’ve been shot