‘I’m not passing on any message, you can tell them yourself. And there will be media too. There always are at things like this. You’re going to be famous. The boy who lived, right?’
‘And who are you? Freaking Hermione?’
‘In your dreams, Reid.’
Little falls of dust trickled over them. Outside someone was shouting at everyone to keep still.
‘Ne bouge pas. Attendez! Attendez!’
More French.
He hated French. He hated snow. He hated being trapped. He didn’t want to die.
Panicked voices. A siren. More sirens.
But Chase caught Ethan’s eye. Determination shone there as he nodded. ‘Right, let’s go again. I never thought I’d say this to you but, Ethan, I need you to work with me. Everything you’ve got, okay? Or you and I will die here and that, my man, is not the way I want to go. One. Two. Three.’
Next thing he knew Ethan was being dragged over brickwork and snow and something he didn’t even want to imagine but which felt soft and yet bony. And then he was hauling fresh air into suffocating lungs and watching the place where he’d been two seconds earlier disintegrate into rubble and dust and nothing.
And he breathed, sucking in huge gulps of air.
He breathed.
He was alive. Chase Barrington had saved him.
And that was something he’d never have believed possible.
* * *
Later, as the paramedics worked on him, he watched Chase talk to one of the newly arrived search and rescue guys. Saw the slump of his shoulders. The hand whisked across his eyes. Then his view was obliterated by a sudden convoy of vans. Tearful parents pouring out, screaming and sobbing. He craned his neck for his mother or father.
No.
As he’d imagined. He wondered what he’d have to damned well do to get their attention at all.
Then, as he was being shunted into the ambulance, Ethan saw Chase walk away from a woman, leaving her sobbing into the dark night. Ethan called out, ‘Chase! Chase.’
Chase turned and looked, then he turned away and walked into the darkness.
‘Chase!’
But then he was there. Looming up in front of him as he had in the tight, dark prison a few minutes earlier, but the bravado from before had gone. He had red rings around swollen eyes. A gruff expression. Hell, he was just a seventeen-year-old kid living a nightmare. Like me. ‘Look, Reid, I gotta go.’
Ethan held up his hand to stop the paramedic from closing the ambulance door. ‘And Nick?’
Chase shook his head and his words came out on a sob that he coughed away. ‘He didn’t...make it. That’s his mum. She’s broken. He was her only child.’
The paramedic fiddled with the drip and then said softly, ‘My count was four. I’m so sorry, buddy.’
Four dead? Four of the team? His brothers in sport, if nothing else. Ethan’s heart twisted as his gaze settled back on Chase. ‘But you told me they were safe.’
‘I told you they were out.’ Chase shrugged. Empty. His best friend had been in danger and he’d chosen to save someone else’s life. How would that make you feel? You had a chance and you didn’t take it. You bet on someone else. On the someone you didn’t even like.
‘But you made me think they were alive. I thought they were safe.’
‘You needed something to hang onto.’
And he’d hung on tight. ‘I’m so sorry about Nick. I heard the conversation. I heard you make a choice. No one should ever have to do that.’
‘You were closest.’ Chase’s face clouded, the way it did when they fought. The way it did in their stand-offs. The way it had just a few hours ago when he’d been trying to make Ethan apologise in their stupid argument. Chase’s hands fisted as he wrestled some emotion or other away. His best friend had died and maybe he could have done something to prevent that. God knew how that felt. ‘You’d better be worth it, Reid. Make it worth it.’
Judging by the way Ethan’s parents had treated him to date, and knowing what a great guy Nick had been, Ethan doubted he could ever be worth it. But this was a second chance and he was going to make the best of it. ‘I damned well will. Chase, I owe you my life. Thank you. If you ever need me, anything at all, just find me and I’ll be there for you.’
But the way Chase looked at him told Ethan that he’d never call. And, worse, that he believed he’d made the wrong choice after all.
CHAPTER ONE
FRANCE.
Not a place he’d ever thought he’d return to, and he’d done everything in his power to avoid it. But sometimes honour and duty overrode everything else, even good sense.
Dr Ethan Reid dropped his khaki holdall onto the hotel bedroom floor and chanced his luck for a minibar. After opening all the cupboards and drawers, he grunted. Seemed his luck was all out. But if he was forced to be in France he was going to drink, at least tonight, and then he’d have some chance of sleeping.
After a quick shower and change out of flight-weary clothes he took the stairs down two at a time from the eleventh floor, courting the usual looks of astonishment from anyone he passed peeking out from the generic hotel corridors at a tall, lumbering, sandy-haired and probably sandy-coated—given he’d been in Africa for the last four years—guy gunning down the stairs instead of sedately hitching a ride on the elevator. Seemed no one walked these days.
Never mind. Or, as they said around here, tant pis.
After spending years living under canvas his first instinct was to sit outside on the terrace in the fresh air as he was used to, but the thunderstorm that had threatened as his plane was landing had become a reality, so he was forced to stay in the bar. Even so, the place was quiet with just a few suited singletons dotted at the tables staring at smartphones and laptops, probably in Marseille on business given the outfits.
The end of April was too early in the season for the sun crowd, though he suspected the port city would be busy all year round. He ordered his whiskey and soda, and slumped down at the bar, trying not to engage in extended conversation with the bar staff, which left him plenty of scope to chill and get his head round being back here, in the place that still gave him nightmares.
His instructions were on his phone. He tugged it from his pocket and ran through them again with the same trepidation he’d felt the first time he’d read them. How had he agreed to this?
6.30 a.m. Orientation with Medicine For All Search and Rescue Co-ordinator Chase Barrington on the bridge of the SOS Poseidon.
7.00 a.m. Pre-launch safety briefing
7.30 a.m. Under way
So that was it. A six-week deployment to pluck refugees from the Mediterranean Sea, assess and treat those with medical needs and transport them to a receiving port.
And somehow survive.
‘Aperol spritz, s’il vous plaît.’
A woman’s voice behind him cut through his thoughts. After his initial knee-jerk disquiet at hearing the French language again he was impressed to realise he still understood it a little.
‘Merci. It’s a beautiful night. I love thunderstorms. I know...crazy.’ As she seamlessly switched from French to English she laughed, a soft sound that breathed life through the dull, stale atmosphere in the bar, and continued her conversation with...whoever. ‘Here’s to freedom, excitement. Adventure.’
A strange toast that conjured up all manner of stories in his active imagination. Curiosity getting the better of him, Ethan turned to see who the laugh belonged to and who needed all of those things. A little further along the bar was a petite woman dressed casually in contrast to the suits in a dark blue flared skirt and a navy-and-white-striped T-shirt, a dark silk scarf looped loosely round her neck and a small black leather backpack slung over one shoulder. Very chic. She had large, dark eyes and loose honey-coloured waves framing her face. Pretty too.
As if she felt him lo
oking, her gaze sought him out. Whoa. So much more than pretty. She had the kind of face that pulled you to her, a heady charisma, eyes buzzing with energy, a generous smile, olive skin that had him thinking of cloudless skies and skinny-dipping. And now he was just getting carried away.
Glancing around the room, he noticed all the single suits watching her too.
Ethan looked away. No point getting in any deeper than one look. Tomorrow he was facing a demon or two and he had to keep his head straight. He tried to shrug off the trepidation of meeting up with Chase after all these years, and spending the next six weeks rescuing refugees. The doctoring part he could do in his sleep, but living on a ship would only add more spice to his nightmares. He looked down at the menu but the gnawing sensation in his gut had nothing to do with hunger.
She laughed.
Oh, what the hell? He chanced another look, because he couldn’t not. Something about her compelled him to take a second viewing. And there wasn’t anything else to look at in this place other than a baby grand piano that no one was playing, dark velvet drapes and that bar menu, which he’d scanned and disregarded a dozen times already.
She was talking to, but standing a little away from, a guy who had about fifteen years on her. Thin, wiry. Like a stoat. No, a weasel, in a shiny, cheap suit that was clearly tailored to bulk him up. They seemed oddly matched. Too old to be a boyfriend, too young to be a parent.
The weasel leaned in, leering. Unsteady. He had the kind of smile that was all mouth and no eyes. Greedy. He said something to her.
Her body snapped taut as she stepped back. ‘No. I’m not interested, thank you.’
Something about her reaction and the fleeting shock in her eyes had Ethan on high alert. He edged closer to listen.
Weasel guy’s empty smile kept on giving as he ran a bony finger over her hand. ‘I’m sure you are. A drink. Some fun. Maybe I just need to persuade you?’
Persuade? Nausea roiled in Ethan’s gut, he’d seen way too much fallout from men persuading women in his line of work. But this wasn’t his business. He sat back.
Sure, it wasn’t his business, but he kept a watchful eye open.
Another step back, a flick of her hair as she shook her head. ‘I said I’m not interested. Please, leave me alone.’
‘Oh, chérie. Come on, let’s have some fun.’
Knowing he beat the guy hands down on height and strength and definitely smarts, Ethan walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. When the weasel wheeled round and looked up at Ethan he gulped. Swallowed. Paled.
Ethan stepped into his face. ‘She said leave her alone. So do it. When a woman says no, she means no. And even when a woman says yes to a guy like you, she means no. Okay?’
‘I wasn’t trying anything.’ The man raised palms slick with a sweaty sheen. ‘Just being friendly.’
Ethan shook his head. ‘No. It’s not friendly, it’s creepy. And you’re not trying a thing, mate, because you’re leaving.’
‘Okay. Okay. I get it.’ The wiry man shook his head back, imitating Ethan. Then he nodded sharply to the woman. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Merci.’ The woman breathed out as the weasel disappeared out the door. ‘But I was handling it.’
‘I know you were, but I also know men like him. It’s just easier if we outnumber them.’
‘We?’ Her eyebrows lifted. ‘For a minute there I thought you were going to play the part of my boyfriend. You know how it goes... Hi, honey, sorry I’m late. Big bisous. That would have given him a definite hint to leave too.’
‘Big kisses.’ There was a thought. A highly inappropriate thought given the circumstances. He caught her eye again and this time she looked away, two red spots blooming on her cheeks. He reached for an excuse to make her smile again because he liked it when she did that. ‘Just checking my French. For a minute I thought you said bison. And I wondered if it was normal in France for a boyfriend to bring buffalo along to a date.’
‘Buffalo are great on dates, don’t you do that in England? You’re all so weird over there. Yes, bisous means kisses.’ As she laughed, her gaze settled on his mouth and that stoked something deep in his gut. Then she was back to eye contact again. ‘Your French is good.’
‘I’m very rusty, it’s been a long time since I was in France.’ Not long enough. ‘Your English is far better.’
‘My mother is English. French father.’ She drained the luminous orange drink and put the glass on the bar. ‘Okay, Monsieur Knight-in-Shining-Armour, that’s me done. Time for bed, I’m heading up to my room. Thanks again for rescuing me when I didn’t need it.’
‘Hey, any time you don’t need rescuing, I’m your guy. I’ll walk with you to the lift to make sure he’s gone.’ He kept a healthy distance but caught the fresh scent of coconut and hibiscus. She smelt good. She looked good. She made him laugh. In another life he might have made a move. But not tonight. She looked too sweet to want what he could give her; which was a one-night stand and nothing more.
As they reached the lift she nodded goodbye politely to him, stopped and pressed the button and he headed towards the stairwell door. Which didn’t move when he pushed it. He pushed again. No. No movement. He heaved his right shoulder against it, but no. ‘Strange. It can’t be locked. It’s a fire door.’
‘Maybe there’s something leaning against it on the other side? Or perhaps it’s jammed?’ The woman called to him. ‘The lift’s on its way down. Hop in.’
‘No, thank you.’ He tried the shoulder heave again. No dice.
A ping. ‘Quick. Going up. Come on.’ She ran over, tugged his hand. Tugged again and laughed. That soft sound had his gut contracting. He gave one last long look at the closed fire exit door and shrugged. It was just an elevator. It would be a matter of seconds, a minute at most, and he’d be on his way to bed.
It was just an ancient elevator with one of those concertina doors that he’d seen in black and white movies. As he tugged the heavy lattice across she asked him, ‘Floor?’
He controlled his raging heartbeat. It was just a damned elevator. ‘Eleven. Please.’
‘Oh. Same.’ Her gaze snagged his and she smiled as if there was some meaning there. ‘Funny coincidence.’
He didn’t believe in coincidences. ‘At least there isn’t any muzak playing, like the Beatles on strings or some such crime against our eardrums.’
Filling his lungs with as much oxygen as he could, he fixed his eye on the green LED display.
‘Lifts aren’t your thing?’ There was laughter in her voice. ‘Or is it the music you don’t like?’
‘I prefer stairs, that’s all.’ He couldn’t be in here and do small talk and breathe all at the same time.
Floor One.
She tapped her foot. She was wearing flat black shoes with a little bow on the front. Like something a ballerina would have. It was amazing to see something so dainty. Most of the women he’d spent time with over the last few years had worn hiking boots or had bare feet. It was weird being here with no dust, and with regular things like reliable electricity and running water, clean clothes. Elegant shoes. A beautiful woman who smelt of fruit and flowers instead of dry dust and sweat. A body that looked fit from exercise but not too much. Just enough curves that in that fictional other life where he’d consider making a move, he’d relish exploring. Her hair shone and was shot through with wisps of gold and light.
And, man, he really needed to get to floor eleven before he got carried away on pointless poetics which were so unlike him he forced himself to do a quick reality check.
France. Lift. Tomorrow. Which was enough to send any wayward thoughts scuttling back to where they’d come from.
Floor Two
‘So why is a knight in Marseille? Business? Holiday?’ she asked, her smile refreshingly open and unguarded.
‘Business.’ If he said out loud what he was here fo
r it might actually make it real, and he wanted to live in the blissful pretence that he wasn’t going to set foot on a ship tomorrow and meet up with a ghost from years ago. ‘You?’
Floor Three
‘An adventure, actually.’ Her eyes lit up, her dark brown irises dilating a little. Whatever she was going to do in Marseille, she was certainly looking forward to it.
Floor Four
‘Ah, yes. How did it go? Freedom, adventure, excitement?’
‘Oh! You heard me?’ She pressed her lips together and chuckled again.
Floor Five
He nodded. ‘It sounds intriguing. Have you just been released from prison or something?’
Her hand hovered over her mouth. ‘I can see how it could have sounded like that. Yes, I’m a mysterious, elusive thief who’s just escaped from gaol.’
‘If you were elusive you wouldn’t be in gaol, or telling me about it.’ She was good value, that was for sure. A woman who didn’t take herself too seriously. A delicious distraction.
‘Good point—Oh!’ The elevator jerked sharply and she grabbed his arm to steady herself. There was a weird thumping sound. The gate rattled. A bump. Another jerk. Then...nothing. No sound. No movement. Nothing.
Floor Six
Kind of. Maybe? Who knew? Just an elevator. Breathe.
Her hand was still on his arm and he realised he didn’t want her to let go, not just yet. She turned her face up to him, eyes still lit by excitement. ‘A power outage? Must be the storm. It happens. In France.’
‘It happens everywhere.’ So much for reliable electricity. And why she was excited by this he couldn’t fathom.
‘At least the light is still on, that’s something.’ But her smile faded as the bulb flickered and fizzed and died. ‘Wait, wait...damn.’
Was it him or was it hard to breathe right now?
‘Hang on.’ He slid his phone out of his pocket and flicked on the torch. An eerie glow lit the tiny space and he fought back the memories that still walked through his dreams.
Saved by Their One-Night Baby Page 2
