you want anything from the duty-free shop? Or shall we go straight to the train?’
When he didn’t answer, merely frowned, she bit her lip, wondered if he actually had any money on him. ‘I can lend you some money...’ she began awkwardly. ‘I mean...’
Glancing at her, he smiled. But it wasn’t Sébastien’s smile. It wasn’t gentle, just rather mockingly amused.
‘I wasn’t a deck hand for free. I got paid.’
‘Oh.’
‘But thank you anyway. I need to change it into francs. And I’ll pay you back for the tickets when I come into my—“inheritance”.’
She nodded, drove round to the parking area beside the duty-free shops.
Queuing up for coffees, she watched him, watched other people watch him. He didn’t look like a tourist. In fact, he looked like an extra from a movie. One about mercenaries, or piracy on the high seas. People gave him a wide berth. Probably wisely. There seemed very little of the old Sébastien left. This man was bigger, tougher. Harder.
‘Yes?’
Swinging around, she quickly apologised. ‘Sorry. Two coffees, please.’
After paying for them, she carried them over to a vacant table, and continued to watch Sébastien, tried so very hard to come to terms with this unreality. She didn’t honestly know how she felt about him. In an odd sort of way, he fascinated her—perhaps because he was so very different from the man she had once known. Maybe she was still in shock.
As her mother had been—and then thoughtful, understanding. ‘Go,’ she had finally urged. ‘If you don’t, you will always wonder. Go, and be very careful.’
Yes, she would be careful.
He finished changing his money, put it carefully in his wallet and returned it to his back pocket. Looking round, he spotted her, began strolling towards her. Lithe, at ease, yet somehow alert. There was an arrogance about him, a look of indifference, dismissal, almost, of others. He looked as though he didn’t give a damn about anybody, but cross him at your peril.
In clean jeans and a grey T-shirt, he wore them with the same ease he wore everything, whether it be dinner jacket or cords. Clothes didn’t make Sébastien. Sébastien made the clothes. Or had.
‘I got you a coffee,’ she told him quietly. ‘I didn’t get anything to eat. I didn’t know if you were hungry.’
He shook his head. Still standing, he picked up his coffee, tasted it, choked and replaced it on the table. ‘How can anyone make something so good taste so bloody awful? Don’t tell me you like it.’
‘No,’ she replied with a small smile. ‘I think that has to be the worst coffee I have ever tasted in my life.’
‘For sure,’ he agreed fervently. ‘I sometimes think the English make ruining coffee into an art form.’
‘Probably. Shall we go?’
She had a moment’s fear when they drove through the British and then the French frontier controls, but their passports were merely glanced at and then returned.
‘You’d make a terrible smuggler,’ he observed almost scathingly.
‘How would you know? Been one, have you?’
‘No,’ he denied dismissively. ‘And you’re being waved on.’
Staring at the official, and then at the raised plates she was being asked to drive over, she bit her lip. ‘I hope the car will go over them.’
‘You didn’t use this car when you came before?’
‘Yes, but it only just cleared them. I should have checked the tyres, made sure they were fully inflated.’ Too late now. Easing cautiously forward, teeth clenched in anticipation of a crunch, ignoring the impatient official, she didn’t breathe easily until she’d driven over the last one, and began following the signs towards the waiting area. ‘They have them so that they know a car will have the necessary clearance on the train.’
‘So I assumed.’ Turning a mocking glance on her, he added softly, ‘Loss of memory doesn’t make me stupid.’
‘I didn’t say it did.’
‘Was I stupid before?’
‘No,’ she denied stiffly. Neither were you so hatefully mocking.
They waited ten minutes, and then drove onto the train. The journey was smooth, silent, efficient, and, thirty-five minutes later, they were in France. Fortunately for her peace of mind, he hadn’t stayed in the car with her. That would have been too much to bear. Whilst she was driving, concentrating, she could shut him from her mind. But, once she stopped, awareness stole back, cramped her muscles, filled her mind with memories.
‘Impressive,’ he murmured.
‘Yes. I told you it was brilliant.’
‘So you did.’ Consulting the map, he ordered, ‘Take the autoroute; it will be quicker.’
‘I was intending to. I’ll drive until it gets dark and then we’ll find somewhere to stop for the night.’
‘I’ll need to stop for petrol...’
‘And something to eat.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know the way? Which turn-offs to take?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly. ‘I know the way.’ She’d been this way so many times she could do it in her sleep. Looking for him. Always looking for him. And now she’d found him and didn’t know him at all.
CHAPTER THREE
THEY spent the night in a small motel, in separate rooms, and, in the morning, they breakfasted together—as strangers. The last time they had driven this route, stopped overnight, there had been laughter and teasing. Love. Now there was just tension.
‘Ready?’
Sébastien nodded.
‘Over halfway,’ Gellis added inanely as they made their way to the car.
‘Yes.’
Climbing behind the wheel, she waited until he was settled, then pulled onto the road that would take them back to the autoroute.
Hours passed. Silent hours, tense hours, and the further they drove, the tenser it became. Stops for petrol or meals weren’t much of a relief, and when they did speak conversation was stilted, unnatural. He, presumably, because he was nearing his goal and so much was riding on it. She because of the close proximity, the realisation of what she was actually doing.
And then there was only one last stop to make.
‘Not much further,’ she murmured as she stood beside him whilst he filled the car with petrol.
‘No.
