Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,50
thought hadn’t even begun to start formulating in—”
“And don’t do that either. We’re on a tight schedule. The boss wants his stuff back.”
“Ah, pronto, as you said.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
“So, are you going to hand it back?”
“It’s not as simple as that. There are things to consider. Options. Permutations. Configurations—”
“And the likelihood that you’ll be killed if you don’t hand it over.”
“So, you think we should hand it over?”
There was a long pause. “You mean … you have it?”
“Uh-huh.”
There was an even longer pause. “You sure?”
“Course I’m sure. We found Auguste’s car and found it inside.”
Piers heard Little take a deep breath. “Right.”
“Right, what?”
“Right, just right, you know.”
“Right.”
Piers heard the pair talking in hushed tones before Little spoke into the phone again. “Okay. We need to let the boss know. Where are you?”
“Tell you boss we’ll meet him at Epicure. It’s a restaurant. We’ll be sat outside. Be there at seven.”
“No funny stuff.”
Piers huffed. “Trust me, we want this over as much as you do.”
He could hear Little clicking his tongue against his teeth. “There’s, er . . .”
“What?”
“Well, there’s something, I mean—”
“Just get on with it.”
Little took a depth breath. “Don’t mess with the boss. He’s isn’t called Matchstick for nothing. And … “
“And what?”
“He’ll bring another crew.”
Piers bit his lip. His heart raced and his mouth felt dry. He swallowed. “Meaning?”
“Not us. Trained killers. Real. Trained. Killers.”
Piers took deep breaths and tried to slow his heart. “Right.”
“Do what he says to the letter and you’ll be all right.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The phone went dead as Sidney returned to the table. “Did they call?”
“I called them. Seven o’clock. Outside. We hand over the painting and try to get our lives back.”
“What?” Sidney grabbed her phone and checked the time. “Oh. Long enough.”
The waiter returned with their meals and two glasses of red wine, which he handled with his fingertips, as if he might catch something from them.
Piers stared at Sidney. “Long enough for what?”
“To eat,” she said, waving her fork.
The Ratatouille was good. The tomatoes and herbs had worked their way into the sliced vegetables to perfection.
“Good choice,” he said, holding up a red-tinged slice of zucchini.
“My comfort food.” She held up her glass. “Along with this.”
He clinked his glass with hers. “To normality.”
“Normality,” she chorused.
They ate for a few moments before she spoke again. “This is a different Friday night, eh?”
He nodded and ate some more. “Friday night. Yes. I guess you go out with your … I guess … I mean do you … “
She looked at him expectantly. “Do I what?”
He cleared his throat. “Do you … do you have … I mean … do you have a boyfriend?”
She snorted. It was part amused and part contemptuous, and Piers wasn’t sure which part was in the majority.
“Nah. I go out with some girls I know. You know. Try to enjoy ourselves without men.”
“Oh.”
She grunted. “It’s not like that. I want to meet someone, just not drunk in a bar, you know? I want to get to know someone before I go out with him. The men I’ve met in bars have only been as faithful as their options.”
Piers had to think for a moment before he understood. “Right.”
She put another forkful of vegetables in her mouth. “What do you look for in a girl?”
He forced down a mouthful of ratatouille. “I, I, I don’t really look—I mean, I don’t really know. I never thought about it.”
“You have to think about it. You have to know what you want. You can’t leave it to chance. You’ll end up unhappy.”
He nodded, uncertainly. “What do you want?”
She laughed. “A friend. Someone who stands up to me and doesn’t say yes just because they think it’ll make me happy. Because it won’t. Neither of us will end up happy. I want someone who’s willing to grab life, jump in with both feet. Someone who’ll drag me along as much as I drag them. Someone who’ll take me dancing before they think of dragging me to their bed. Someone like James Bond, but without the sappy floozies fawning all over him.”
He gave a false laugh. “Well, that leaves me out. I’ve seen the movies, but I don’t have the car.”
She winked at him. “At least you have the accent.” She curved her foot around his ankle and ran it slowly up his calf. “And … you do have some muscles.”
Piers tensed. The back of his neck prickled, and he licked his lips. “I, I work out. You know. A little. Not for strength, just endurance.”
She