God she was on the left – no way would she want to swerve to the right. Not with that sheer drop.
She edged past as slowly as she could, almost too afraid to look. The van sped off.
Far from feeling relieved, she had a hairpin bend to negotiate and visibility was even worse. Why had she taken the mountain road? What an idiot.
She blinked hard, trying to bring her surroundings into focus. Had her contact lens moved? She rubbed her eye. It made her vision worse … and then it dawned on her. She’d torn another lens. Blast it. And her glasses were squashed in the bottom of her suitcase. Could things get any worse?
Apparently so.
Headlights appeared behind. The red taxi. Oh, hell.
As much as she wanted to drive off, she couldn’t see clearly enough. She looked in her rear-view mirror and saw the blurred image of a man exiting the passenger side.
It wouldn’t have been a shock to see her ex-husband walking towards the Fiat. Or one of his hired goons. But the combination of thick fog and one contact lens meant it wasn’t until he’d reached the driver’s door that she realised it wasn’t Marcus. It was the blue-eyed thief.
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