crammed full to overflowing with trash left by the previous tenants.
She should get up and take out the bin. She should.
From his park across the street Luc scrutinised the row of houses in the terrace. He suspected 217 could be the one, for a light had recently gone out in its upper front window. Now the entire house was in darkness, as was its neighbour.
What if he was mistaken? He began to see how ridiculous his mad chase was. He couldn’t knock on every door in the terrace. And how likely was Shari to open the door to him anyway? She’d probably accuse him of stalking her.
Le bon Dieu, he was stalking. Whatever it was about her that had got under his skin was compelling him to linger there even now, when he knew he’d lost any opportunity he might have had if only he’d been able to keep the cab closer.
It wasn’t as if he could throw pebbles at her window. The chances were he might terrify some poor little old lady to death.
He was about to cut his losses and call it a night when he heard a familiar rumbling, then at 221 an old guy came into view hauling a wheelie bin. He trundled it through his gate and parked it next to some others lined up under a streetlight.
A minute or two later one after another all the lights came on at 219.
Luc waited, watching, then his heart leaped. Another bin was being wheeled from the gate of 219, this time by a woman.
A blonde woman.
He got out of the car and strode swiftly across the street.
She’d changed from her party clothes into some long, flowing robe-like garment, but as he drew nearer he saw it was Shari. Admittedly, his heart was beating a tad too fast for a cool guy in charge of the situation.
She angled the bin into line with its neighbours just as he caught up with her.
‘Shari.’
She jumped, and with a strangled cry started back through her gate.
Realising the enormity of having suddenly seemed to appear out of the dark, he was filled with contrition. ‘Shari.’ He only just restrained himself from grabbing her. ‘Forgive me for startling you. I—I only want to talk. I just want to explain …’
‘Luc.’ Her voice was stunned, incredulous. ‘Do you have any idea …? What—what are you even doing here?’
He noticed her draw the lapels of her garment close and fold her arms across her breasts. It affected him with a burning desire to hold her to him, kiss her hair.
‘Shari,’ he said thickly, advancing on her. ‘Shari …’
The light fell full on her face then, and he narrowed his eyes for a closer look. With a gut-wrenching shock he saw it wasn’t a shadow darkening the area surrounding her right eye.
She turned sharply away, covering the bruise with her hand, and started striding for the house. ‘Leave me alone.’
After a second of stunned paralysis, comprehension flooded through him and he was aware of a sharp twist in his chest. Her whimsical make-up had had a purpose, after all. He bounded after her onto her little verandah with the blind intention of pinning her down and making her talk to him, but she reached her door first.
Before she could close it, he rammed his knee against it. ‘What happened? Who did that to you? Was it him? Rémy?’
‘Of course not. What do you think, that as well as being a slut I’m a … a …? I had an accident, all right?’ She was flushed and trembling, so achingly vulnerable in her fierce pride he felt something inside him give.
Accident, vraiment. He couldn’t believe that. At the fragile pretence he felt so torn with tenderness and remorse, he hardly knew what he was saying, only that his voice grew hoarse. ‘Shari, chérie. Don’t be so … I didn’t mean to imply … This—this is not how we should say au’voir.’
In the verandah light her naked face was strained, her eyes dark with emotion. ‘We are strangers. We will never meet again. Move away from the door, please.’
She closed it in his face.
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