Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,8
at. I mean, who were those people? What did they want?”
“I don’t know! All right. All I know is they shot the guy who jumped into my taxi.”
“Our taxi.”
She scowled at him and took another swig of wine.
He took a deep breath. “All right. Where’s the nearest police station?”
“Police! Didn’t you see them shooting at us?”
“The police don’t shoot people.”
“Those ones did. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”
“They weren’t police. They were after the guy they shot. They probably think we’re connected with him. That’s why we need to go to a police station and tell them everything.”
“But they waved guns at me and said, ‘Halt, we’re the police.’ That’s usually a sure sign. Plus, they were in a police car. So, no way, we’re not going to the police.”
“I didn’t see any uniforms, and they weren’t speaking French.”
“Look, I know you’re English, but not all police officers go around wearing silly hats and calling each other Bobby, all right? And I’m sure they were speaking French.”
“They weren’t. It sounded like Russian.”
She stuffed the cork into the bottle, wedged it down the side of the sofa and walked to the kitchen area. “What did he say to you?”
“Who?”
“The dead guy, stupid.”
“Oh. He called me a bastard.”
She laughed loud. “You have to admit, he was a bit of a character.”
“Character? He spat at me! And he used us as human shields.”
She pulled a tub of ice cream from the fridge. “Oh, get over it. He didn’t use us as human shields. What did he say before he called you a bastard?”
Piers scowled. “Something about Waterloo and construction.”
“What was that about?”
“I work for Waterloo Large Construction.”
“Oh, the people building down by the river?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look much like a workman.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You have clean fingernails and new shoes.” She leaned forward and stared at his feet. “Correction, old shoes that have been polished. Still, not workman material.”
She took a giant scoop of ice cream and slowly licked it off the spoon.
Piers wriggled in his seat, trying not to be mesmerized by her tongue. “We just need to get to a police station.”
She shook her head. “No. No. No.”
“Yes, yes, yes. Even if you don’t want to go, I do.”
She licked her spoon and flicked a tiny drop of melted ice cream at him. “You go, then.”
He wiped the ice cream off his face. “Do you mind? Anyway, we both need to go. We need help. They can protect us while all this gets sorted out.”
“You did see the bang, bang, the breaking glass, and the screaming tires? Please tell me you noticed that much?”
“That’s exactly the point. The police will sort all this out.”
“Really. A guy got shot in my—” she huffed—“our taxi. There were bullets everywhere and you, very courageously I must admit, rescued me from a guy with a gun who was looking to shoot anyone who moved. What are you going to say? Sorry we were involved in a gunfight in the middle of the streets? A guy is dead, but we had nothing to do with it? The police probably think we killed the guy ourselves.”
“They’ll understand once we explain.”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t know much about French justice, do you?”
He gave her a quizzical look.
“First they lock you up, then they send you to trial, then you have to prove you’re innocent. Have you ever proved your innocence from a jail cell?”
“We won’t be in a jail cell.”
“Ha! Too right. After what just happened they’ll shoot us on sight.”
“They won’t—” He sighed. “Either way, whatever we’re going to do, we have to get out of here.”
She shook her head. “Nah, dragon lady won’t come up here. Doesn’t like steps.”
Piers rolled his eyes. “Not her! You’ve just been shot at by someone—”
“The police.”
“Maybe—”
“Definitely.”
He held up his hands. “Whoever it was—police, criminals, or whatever—don’t you think they might know where you live?”
Her face froze and she stuffed the spoon into the tub of ice cream. “Well . . .”
“Well nothing. We need to get out of here.”
Chapter 7
The girl piled out of her apartment and down the stairs, the ice cream tub tucked under her arm and the spoon in her mouth.
As she fumbled to open the front door, Piers caught up with her. “What’s your name?”
She looked back at him, “Who, me?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head in bewilderment.
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, right. Sidney.”
She peered out of the front door.
Piers did the same. “Don’t you want to know mine?”
“Your what?”
“Name. Don’t you want