ONE

Jay McCaulay was half dressed, eating toast and marmalade, when she thought she saw a man slip across the garden. She could hear Tom upstairs, singing along to a song on the radio, so it couldn’t be him. She doubted it was a burglar doing the rounds at seven a.m. on a Sunday, but something about the way the figure moved – as sinuous as a cat – made her nerves tighten.

Cautiously, she walked across the kitchen. Peered through the French windows. She almost jumped out of her skin when the man stepped right in front of her, inches away.

He wore a pair of combats tucked into black boots and a jacket with its collar turned up. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. A pair of deep brown eyes held hers.

Her jaw dropped.

He glanced at the window handles, then back. Raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Jay flung open the windows. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You have marmalade in your hair.’ He reached a hand towards her face, but she batted it away.

‘Max!’ she protested. ‘You’re supposed to be in South America!’

‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

She glanced over her shoulder. She could hear the shower running, thank God. The last thing she needed was for Tom to come downstairs and find his nemesis in his garden.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’

Before she could move, he plucked the slice of toast she’d forgotten she was clutching and ate it in three swift bites. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Although I prefer honey.’

‘Max . . .’ she said warningly.

‘I’m hungry.’ A smile inched into his eyes. ‘You wouldn’t deny a starving man food, would you?’

Jay checked behind her again. The shower was still running. She stepped outside and closed the door. Damp winter chill immediately wrapped around her bare legs, making her shiver. ‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it,’ she hissed.

He held up his hands. ‘I’m here because I need your help.’

‘What?’ Her brain couldn’t compute what he’d just said. Max Blake, MI5 officer and general all-round superman, wanted help? Sure, she was ex-Services, but she’d been a civvy for four years and was as soft as a goose-down duvet.

‘Please, Jay.’ He spoke softly, and suddenly she saw how tired he looked. His normally tanned skin was pale, and he had purple rings beneath his eyes. He hadn’t shaved for a while either. ‘Just this once, OK?’

They had enough history for her to know something serious was going on. She didn’t think she’d ever heard him plead before. Despite her misgivings, she opened the door and let him inside.

‘How hungry?’ she asked.

‘Very.’

He ran a hand over his face. That was when she spotted what looked like blood on the underarm of his shirt. It wasn’t old blood either. It was bright red and wet.

‘Max?’ She pointed it out.

He twisted his arm, had a look. ‘A plaster would be good.’

Jay hesitated a second, then hared upstairs. The bathroom was steamy and smelled of shaving cream. Tom had a towel wrapped around his middle. His hair was wet and slick, his cheeks pink.

‘Hey, gorgeous.’ He reached out an arm and scooped her close, nuzzling her neck. ‘Hmmm. I don’t have to be at the squash court for another hour . . .’

She opened her mouth to tell him Blake was downstairs, but the words jammed in her throat. Things had been so good between her and Tom over the past few months . . . Could she bandage Blake, hear his story, and get him out of Tom’s house before Tom came downstairs?

Tom and Blake had held an uneasy truce ever since they’d worked together on an op in the summer. There was a mutual respect between the two men, both of them professionals – Blake with MI5, Tom with the Bristol police – but Tom didn’t trust Blake an inch with Jay. Although nothing had happened between Blake and Jay during their past two missions, she found it harder and harder to convince Tom of this fact, and when Tom had found out that Blake had accepted a job in Brazil, he would have opened a bottle of champagne had there been one in the fridge.

She dived for the bathroom cabinet. Grabbed a roll of bandage, some Micropore surgical tape, antiseptic cream and a box of plasters. ‘Back in a minute,’ she said.

Tom looked at the medical supplies in surprise. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine. I just thought they’d be more useful in the kitchen.’

She zipped downstairs.

Blake, in the meantime, had folded on to the tattered old couch in the corner of the kitchen. His eyes were closed, but when she sank next to him, they opened. He let her roll up his shirtsleeve. The wound was a couple of inches long, jagged and deep, and although it had been stitched, two stitches had torn. She smeared the area with cream and wrapped a bandage around his forearm. Secured it with Micropore.

‘Thanks.’ His voice was faint.

‘Tell me what’s going on.’

‘I need a favour.’

‘Go on.’

‘My sister’s sick.’

Jay blinked. She never knew Blake had a sister.

‘Her name’s Emilie.’

‘And?’ she prompted. Although she was aware of Blake, the pallor of his skin, her senses were focused on Tom upstairs. She heard him pad across the corridor into the bedroom to get dressed. Time was running out.

‘She’s just been rushed to hospital.’

All thoughts of Tom vanished. ‘Oh, Max.’

‘I have to go to her. She’s in Brussels. But I have a meeting in Paris tomorrow that I can’t miss.’ He turned his head and looked at her straight. ‘I want you to go to that meeting for me.’

‘Paris?’ she repeated blankly. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘You speak French.’

‘Can’t someone else go? Like one of your colleagues?’

‘No. You’re the only person I trust with this.’

‘But I have a meeting with the Home Office at nine,’ she protested. ‘There are five girls from Kosovo who’ve been trafficked into the UK, and I need to get permission for them to stay otherwise they’ll be sent back and possibly re-trafficked. Then I’m in Manchester, meeting with the police about some Nigerian kids who are being used to scam the social services. They think they’ve been kidnapped in Lagos and sent here as slaves . . .’

She trailed off.

Blake surveyed her steadily.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘You know my job.’

‘His name’s Solomon Neill. His friends call him Sol. I’ve told him you’ll meet him at a café in the Marais at eleven a.m.’ Blake gave her the address.

‘Why can’t he come to London?’ She hated the plaintive tone in her voice. She’d have to reschedule the whole day, and the Home Office wouldn’t be impressed after her badgering them for a meeting.

‘I’ve booked you on Eurostar.’ He passed her a piece of paper upon which was written a reference number. ‘Go to the desk an hour before, and they’ll give you your tickets. And here’s some cash.’ A padded envelope joined the piece of paper. He rose to his feet. Swayed slightly.

‘I don’t even know what Sol looks like,’ Jay said. ‘He might be late. I might get stuck in the tunnel . . .’

‘He’ll approach you.’

‘Max, I need to know what this is about.’ She stood in front of him. ‘I can’t just jump on a train on a whim . . .’

‘Keep an eye on him, Jay. He’s a good friend of mine.’

‘But—’

‘I appreciate it.’ Before she could move, he ducked his head and pressed a kiss on her lips.

At that precise moment, Tom walked into the kitchen.

‘What the—’

‘Detective,’ Blake said. He flicked a finger in a casual salute. ‘Sorry I can’t stay.’

With that, Blake moved to the French windows, slipped outside, and was gone.

Jay stared at the garden, her lips still tingling from his kiss. As usual, Blake had impeccable timing. Anyone would think he’d planned the entire scene to send her currently stable love life into free fall.

‘What was he doing here?’

Although Tom’s voice was calm, the muscles in his cheeks were jumping.

‘He, um . . .’ Please God, don’t let us have a row. ‘He needed a favour.’

‘Why didn’t he ring you? Why turn up at my house?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘He asked me to meet a friend of his in Paris tomorrow. It’s urgent and—’

‘No, Jay.’ Tom shook his head warningly.

‘We’re not going together or anything. He’s headed to Brussels. His sister’s there. She’s been rushed to hospital, apparently. Which is why he’s asked me to go to Paris and—’

‘Why can’t someone else go? Why you?’

‘He doesn’t trust anyone else.’

‘Jesus.’ Tom flung up his hands. ‘Don’t tell me you said yes.’

‘I owe him, Tom.’ Her fingers gripped Blake’s envelope. ‘Considering what he’s done for me in the past . . .’

Tom’s expression was hard, uncompromising.

‘I’ll only be gone a day,’ she begged.

‘Like I haven’t heard that one before. You attract trouble, remember?’

‘It’s a day return.’ She waved the piece of paper with its reference number at him. ‘I’ll be home for supper, no worries.’

Tom didn’t look the least bit mollified, and she desperately tried to think how to change his mood. Out of nowhere, a light bulb switched on in her head. ‘How about you invite Sofie?’ Jay moved casually to the bread bin and pulled out a granary loaf. ‘It’s time I met her. Maybe she can stay over for the night. Save her mother from having to drive back and forth.’

Tom’s eyes widened. ‘You want Sofie to have a sleepover? Here? Tomorrow?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while,’ she lied. She’d been purposely putting off meeting Tom’s twelve-year-old daughter, more to avoid Tom’s exquisitely pretty ex-girlfriend Heather than anything else. ‘I’ll bring some croissants back with me. They taste totally different to the ones we have here. Does she like croissants?’

‘She loves croissants.’

‘That’s settled then.’

Tom ate his toast in silence, but when he left to play squash ten minutes later he wasn’t looking annoyed any more. Just bemused.