Читать книгу The Honeymoon Prize - Jessica Hart - Страница 8

DECIDING to seduce Dan Freer was all very well in theory, Freya reflected as she sipped a cocktail and tried to look as if she was enjoying her own party, but in practice it didn’t seem quite so easy as she had blithely claimed to Pel.

She had done what she could. Her hair had been cut and coloured, transforming her into a blonde whose reflection made her start every time she looked in a mirror. Egged on by Lucy, she had bought a daring new dress and a fabulous pair of shoes. She looked as good as she was ever going to, Freya decided.

She had thrown her efforts into organising the party, which was well into its swing, judging by the hubbub and the number of empty bottles congregating in the kitchen, and she hadn’t given enough thought to what she was actually going to do once Dan actually appeared.

Freya’s planning had always got a bit vague at that point. Somehow the two of them would gravitate together, and when the other guests started drifting politely away at eight, as Pel had said they would, Dan would insist on taking her out to dinner at some intimate little restaurant where they could be alone, and after that…well, that would be up to him. That was as much as Freya had decided. She couldn’t be expected to organise everything herself.

Not that there was much sign of Dan gravitating towards her so far. She hadn’t counted on the way he had been instantly annexed by a bevy of the prettiest girls from office, who had him corralled against the back of a sofa and were busy running fingers through their hair and laughing like hyenas whenever Dan opened his mouth.

She should have been able to count on losing her nerve, though, thought Freya, resigned.

She took another slug of her martini and glanced at Lucy, who was standing beside her. ‘What do you think?’

Lucy didn’t pretend to misunderstand the question. ‘He’s perfect,’ she said.

Together, they gazed across the room at Dan. Unlike the rest of the men, he had ignored the black tie specified on Freya’s careful invitations, and had come in his trademark battered leather jacket, but instead of looking underdressed he was easily the coolest guy at the party, surrounded by his coterie of blondes. The famous smile gleamed, showing perfect white teeth. He exuded a kind of dissolute charm that raised him above mere good looks. He was dark and debonair and deliciously handsome, but there was something faintly, irresistibly, dangerous about him, too.

‘He’s exactly what you need,’ Lucy told her. ‘Your very own sex god.’

‘He is quite attractive, isn’t he?’

‘And the award for understatement of the year goes to…Freya King! God, Freya, where’s your sense of proportion? That man is “quite attractive” in the way the Pope is quite Catholic! If you’d said he was drop-dead gorgeous I would have thought you were being restrained.’

Lucy fished the olive out of her martini and waved it at her friend. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you,’ she said. ‘You may be incredibly picky, but you’ve got taste!’

‘I’m glad you approve,’ said Freya humbly.

‘I certainly do. Dan is to die for! If I wasn’t married to Steve, I’d be elbowing you out of the way—which, by the way, is what you should be doing to those girls,’ she added pointedly. ‘What are you doing standing here with us? You go get him, girl!’

‘Do you really think I can?’ Freya looked doubtfully back at Dan. He really was extraordinarily good-looking. Why should a man like him notice her? He probably spent his whole life batting away gorgeous women who threw themselves at his feet. She would only get squashed in the pile.

‘Of course you can!’ Lucy was taking no nonsense. ‘Look at you! You look fantastic! That dress is fabulous, and if those high heels don’t turn him on, he’s not the red-blooded male I take him for. By the time you’ve dazzled him with your sparkling wit and personality, I guarantee you’ll have him on his knees!’

She gave Freya a little push. ‘Off you go!’

Freya dug in her heels like a child. ‘I’ll…er…I’ll just fix my lipstick first,’ she muttered, reluctant to admit to Lucy how nervous she felt after all her boasts about how determined she was to change her life.

‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you. Dan will only want to kiss it all off,’ said Lucy, but Freya was already escaping to the bathroom.

It was all right for Lucy and Pel. They had a confidence that Freya had never acquired. They knew how to flirt, how to read the signals they claimed were so glaringly obvious, but which Freya herself always seemed to miss entirely. And as Pel unfailingly pointed out, they had both had a great time before settling into happy relationships, while any prospective lovers that swam into Freya’s orbit invariably ended up going out with one of her friends.

‘You just don’t try,’ they would sigh.

Well, now she was going to try, Freya reminded herself in the bathroom mirror. Lucy was right. She was missing out on life, but now all that was going to change. She was tired of being just good friends, the one you could always rely on to be in on a Friday night if you had nothing else to do. Wouldn’t she rather be having a wild, passionate affair with an incredibly sexy man than slobbing out on the sofa in front of E.R.?

Of course she would, Freya told her reflection sternly, appalled at that telltale moment of hesitation.

Right, then. There was an incredibly sexy man leaning against her sofa—well, Max’s sofa—in the next room, and according to Lucy and Pel all she had to do was walk over and get him. Freya didn’t believe that seducing a man like Dan Freer could be quite that easy, but the fact remained that he was the first man in a long time to get the old hormones stirring, so she might as well have a go.

Tugging her dress into place, she regarded her reflection dubiously. The bright red made her feel a bit like a post box, and it was much shorter than she usually wore, but there was no doubt that the heels drew attention to her legs, which were her best feature, and away from the tightness around her hips, which definitely weren’t.

‘You look pretty damn hot.’ She tried to psyche herself up. ‘Now, go get him!’

The noise hit her as she went back into the big living room that stretched the entire width of the apartment. An extraordinary number of people had turned up. Freya had worried about how they were all going to get on, but the most bizarre combination of people seemed to be getting on like a house on fire.

She didn’t know what Pel and Marco were putting in the cocktails, but it was lethal, whatever it was. She had lost count of how many she had had herself to bolster her confidence and it was getting quite tricky to balance on her heels.

Freya’s vision of an elegant gathering that would disperse come eight o’clock as she had said on the invitations had never been realised. It was almost eleven already, and there was clearly no chance of impressing Dan with her sophistication now. She had put on a Glenn Miller CD to set the mood when everyone arrived, but long before Dan turned up someone had replaced it with something a bit more upbeat, and several people who obviously didn’t know that cocktail parties were about standing around and making polite chit-chat were actually dancing at the other end of the room.

Wondering how much longer the drink would hold out, Freya looked around for Pel, only to start guiltily as she encountered Lucy’s disapproving gaze. Scowling awfully, her friend jerked her head in Dan’s direction and mouthed, ‘Get over there!’

There seemed nothing for it but to do as she was told. Helping herself to another martini, Freya tossed it back in one, straightened her spine and set off, woman on a mission.

God, he was gorgeous, she thought involuntarily, as she headed towards the group by the sofa. Those brown bedroom eyes, the warm curving mouth, that hunky body, the sharp intelligence and the devastating charm…Freya faltered, realising all at once how absurd she had been to even think about attracting the notice of a man like Dan.

She was about to turn away when Dan spotted her and beckoned, reeling her in effortlessly with his smile. ‘Hey, great party!’ he greeted her, moving back with flattering alacrity to let Freya into the group.

‘Yes, great,’ the girls echoed, their welcome considerably less enthusiastic.

‘Thanks. I’m glad you could make it,’ she said stiffly, miserably conscious of how polite she sounded. Her mother would be proud of her.

‘Not as glad as I am.’ The warm brown eyes roved in lazy appreciation up Freya’s legs. ‘I hardly recognised you when I saw you tonight.’

‘Oh?’ She smiled a little nervously.

Way to go, Freya. Not much chance of dazzling him with your wit and personality at this rate!

‘When I said I was looking forward to seeing you, I didn’t realise quite how much of you I’d be seeing!’ Dan had one of those slow, American drawls that always made Freya think he was about to tip his hat and start calling her ma’am. ‘Great legs,’ he said admiringly.

‘Oh, these old things? I’ve had them for ages.’

Dan laughed. ‘You shouldn’t keep them hidden away. You always look so demure sitting at the newsdesk,’ he went on, lowering his voice and gazing deep into her eyes. The effect was rather like sinking into a vat of melted chocolate. ‘I had you down as a good girl, but you sure don’t look like a good girl tonight. You look…naughty.’

Crikey, thought Freya, as his smile broadened suggestively. How was one supposed to respond to a comment like that? Clearly bursting into laughter would be out of order. Should she smirk? Try to simper? Or smoulder?

Unsure how to do any of them, she compromised by attempting all three at once, although judging by the looks on her guests’ faces, it came out as a leer instead.

As if in response to some unspoken dismissal from Dan, the simpering girls were turning disconsolately away. Not wanting to look as if she were monopolising him, Freya made to back away too, but Dan caught hold of her hand.

‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all evening.’

Freya swallowed hard and tried to look as if holding hands with the likes of Dan Freer was all in a day’s work for her. Another evening, another gorgeous guy unable to keep his hands off her, that was the attitude.

Did the Julia Robertses of this world get bored by this kind of thing? Freya wondered wildly. Did they ever wish they were the girl making laborious small-talk with an accountant instead of having every woman’s fantasy draped possessively around her?

Dan’s fingers were warm around hers. What was she supposed to do now? Squeezing his hand might seem a bit too forward, but if she just left hers sitting there like a wet fish, he might think that she wasn’t interested. God, there was so much to think about. Wouldn’t it be easier in the long run just to stick to the sofa and fantasies about George Clooney?

‘Let’s dance,’ he murmured.

‘Er…all right.’

Freya didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed when Dan ignored the lively beat and pulled her against him in readiness for a good old-fashioned smooch. ‘This is my lucky day,’ he told her, smiling.

‘Really?’ Freya managed to croak, distracted by the feel of his hand playing up and down her spine. It was bad enough concentrating on staying upright on her heels as it was, without having to make conversation as well.

‘I think so,’ said Dan smugly. ‘A new job and a new you all in one day. It feels pretty lucky to me.’

Freya wasn’t sure how to respond to that. ‘New job?’ she echoed, opting to ignore his comment about the ‘new you’.

‘You, Freya, are snuggling up to News Live Network’s new Africa correspondent!’

‘Africa?’

‘A whole continent all to myself!’ he said complacently, unable to keep the grin from his voice.

‘Won’t you have to share it with one or two Africans as well?’ she said without thinking.

There was a tiny pause, while, too late, Freya heard the tartness in her voice.

Bad, Freya, very bad, she thought gloomily. According to Lucy, who was an expert on relationships, men didn’t like criticism or snippy comments or the faintest suggestion that you thought they were anything less than a hundred per cent perfect.

‘I thought you were going for a job here in London,’ she added hastily.

Dan, who had stiffened imperceptibly, relaxed. ‘I thought so, too, but then this job came up unexpectedly. I’ve always wanted to be a foreign correspondent, and I’ll be able to cover stories all over Africa.’

‘It sounds great,’ said Freya dutifully. ‘Where are you going to live?’

‘Usutu. The capital of Mbanazere,’ he added when she didn’t answer immediately.

Memory stirred queerly inside her. Usutu was where Max had been based before Lucy’s wedding. He had told her about the Arab forts and the markets and the smell of cloves and coconuts.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘Of course you do. I keep forgetting you’re the foreign newsdesk secretary.’ Dan obviously felt that he had erred in some way. ‘Well, anyway, it’s a good base for East Africa, and it’s easy to get to the southern and central countries as well. And of course it’s an incredibly volatile region. They’ve been trying to build up tourism, but it’s more likely to be the next flashpoint. That’s what I’m banking on, anyway. I should be filing lots of stories.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Freya, wondering how the people of Mbanazere would feel about having their lives disrupted in order to provide good disaster stories to keep Dan on television.

Dan didn’t seem to find anything amiss in her answer. He was talking on, telling her about the political situation and the difficulties of reporting, which she only listened to with half an ear. She knew how reporters liked to make out that their assignments were more dangerous than they actually were.

‘It sounds like you’re raring to go,’ she said when she judged it time to contribute to the conversation, trying not to sound too resentful. She could have spared herself the expense of a party if she had known that Dan would barely have time to knock back a martini before buggering off to Africa. What was the point in planning a wild affair with someone who wasn’t going to be around?

Freya sighed to herself. This was typical of her. All that effort bringing herself to point where she was actually prepared to do something about the fact that she found a man attractive, and he promptly left the country. It served her right for picking on someone who was obviously right out of her league.

‘The funny thing is that right this minute I’m not anxious to go,’ said Dan, his mouth against her ear, his breath warm on her throat, and in spite of herself she shivered.

‘When are you leaving?’

‘Not for another month,’ he murmured. ‘And a lot can happen in a month, can’t it, Freya?’

It was true, thought Freya. Maybe she didn’t have to abandon her plan as a lost cause before it began after all. Here Dan was, his arms around her, murmuring suggestively in her ear. How much more encouragement did she need?

It wasn’t as if she wanted a long-term relationship. No, excitement was what she wanted, the headiness of a wild, passionate affair, not the nitty-gritty of compromising over squeezing toothpaste and whose turn it was to stack the dishwasher.

If she was being honest, a month on the emotional roller-coaster of getting involved with a man like Dan would be more than enough for her. She could wave him off to Africa and go back to her sofa with her honour, not to mention her libido, satisfied, and whenever Pel and Lucy started going on about getting a life, she would be able to remind them that she had had a fling with no less than Dan Freer.

So, get on with it, Freya told herself. Dan was making all the right moves, and with his tongue practically in her ear there was never going to be a better time to indicate that she was ready to have that fling.

Putting her arms around his neck, she smiled at him in what she hoped was a seductive way. ‘It can,’ she agreed, ‘if you want it to happen.’

‘I’m beginning to think that I do,’ said Dan. ‘You know, you’re quite a surprise.’

‘A nice surprise, I hope?’ Freya winced at the corniness of her response, but Dan didn’t seem to mind.

‘Very nice, and very intriguing. In fact, so intriguing that I think I’m going to have to do some undercover investigation to find the real Freya King. Could be an exclusive…’

It was actually happening. She, Freya King, was flirting with Dan Freer!

Over Dan’s shoulder, Freya could see Lucy grinning broadly and sticking her thumbs up, but still she couldn’t quite believe it. She could feel Dan’s hand pressing against her spine, pulling her into the hardness of his body; she could smell his aftershave, hear his voice, deep and warm, as his lips drifted from her earlobe down her throat. She should be thrilled, but all she could feel was vaguely detached.

It was all too pat. Dan might have been reading a script. Any minute now he’d be suggesting they go and find somewhere they could be alone.

‘Let’s go,’ whispered Dan. ‘Let’s find somewhere we can be on our own.’

Relax, Freya told herself sternly. This was it. She was on the verge of a passionate affair with an incredibly attractive man. It would be wild and exciting, and when it was over, she would be able to say that she had lived dangerously. Thirty years from now, when her hair was grey and she didn’t need to worry about her weight any more, she would be able to hint darkly at a broken heart and—

God, what was she doing fantasising about being fifty when Dan’s hands were on her bottom and his mouth was hot on her skin?

‘It’s my party. I can’t just walk out on everyone,’ she demurred, wishing she could stop feeling as if she were acting a part—and not very well, at that.

‘Perhaps they’ll all go home soon.’

Privately, Freya thought it was unlikely, knowing her friends, but it seemed safe to say that she hoped so. She made herself relax into Dan, and was rewarded by an un-curling warmth in her stomach as he began kissing his way along her jaw.

At last! This was what it was supposed to feel like. Just go with the flow. Tightening her arms around his neck, she turned her face towards Dan’s, but just as their lips were about to meet, someone tugged insistently at her sleeve.

‘Freya!’

‘Not now, Lucy,’ she muttered out of the side of her mouth.

‘It’s important.’

Reluctantly, Freya disengaged herself from Dan, who was looking understandably irritable at the interruption. ‘Somebody better be dead,’ she scowled. ‘What is it?’

‘I think the party might be over,’ said Lucy with a grimace, and turned towards the door.

Following her gaze, Freya saw a man in khaki trousers and a creased shirt with a battered bag at his feet. He had a stern, shuttered face, with thick flyaway brows that right then were drawn together in an intimidating frown. He looked very tired.

And very cross.

Freya’s heart did a sickening somersault as his peculiarly penetrating eyes found hers through the crowd, and she leapt away from Dan as if she had been jabbed with a cattle prod.

‘Max,’ she said in a hollow voice.

Hanging onto the kitchen door frame, Freya squinted through her hair at the man who was standing by the kettle. ‘It is you,’ she said in a voice of deep foreboding. ‘I thought it was all just a horrible dream.’

‘Good morning, Freya,’ said Max. ‘It’s lovely to see you, too.’

Freya groped her way over to the table and collapsed into a chair. ‘I think I’m going to die,’ she said simply.

‘Here.’ He put a glass of water and some paracetamol on the table beside her. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’

She screwed up her face as she took the tablets, and then, exhausted by the effort, pillowed her head in her arms so that her newly blonde hair spilled over the table. It felt as if a hammer was being swung around inside her skull.

‘I see you still haven’t learnt to drink in moderation,’ said Max, leaning against the kitchen counter and regarding her with disapproval.

‘I usually do,’ muttered Freya without lifting her poor head. It was true. Ever since the night of Lucy’s twenty-first, she had been careful not to risk another humiliation, but she was in no fit state to introduce that particular subject of conversation. ‘I was nervous last night,’ she said instead. ‘I think I must have drunk more than I realised.’

‘What were you nervous about?’

Very, very carefully, Freya lifted her head to rest her forehead in her palms. There was no way she could explain Dan to Max. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. The noise of the kettle boiling made her wince. ‘It was just something silly,’ she went on feebly, ‘and obviously it wasn’t what I should have been nervous about, which was you turning up without warning! Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home?’

‘It all happened so quickly I didn’t have chance before I left,’ said Max. ‘I rang when I eventually got to Heathrow, but there was no answer, so I assumed you were out. I didn’t know that the only reason no one answered was because nobody could hear the phone ringing over all the noise that was going on here.

‘I’d been travelling for three days by then, and all I wanted was to sleep, so I thought I would just let myself in and leave you a note. I wasn’t best pleased to arrive and find the apartment heaving with strangers and my neighbours all ringing the council to complain about noise pollution,’ he finished sardonically.

‘I can’t remember very much about last night,’ Freya had to confess. ‘I mean, I remember you arriving, of course.’ She could still feel the way her heart had lurched at the sight of him. ‘I remember Lucy arguing, too, and something about sheets…did I make up a bed for you?’ she asked, puzzled in spite of herself.

‘You tried,’ said Max. ‘I have to say that you weren’t much help, what with stumbling on your heels and dropping pillowcases and falling onto the duvet.

‘I’m perfectly capable of making my own bed,’ he added dryly, ‘but you seemed to have gone into hostess overdrive to make up for your evident horror at seeing me. I’d have been quite happy if you’d handed over a towel and pointed me in the right direction, but no! You insisted on coming into the room with me, although you appeared to find the whole business a lot more embarrassing than I did. You kept tugging down your skirt and apologising for the mess.’

‘Oh, God, I’m sorry…’

‘Yes, just like that. I thought you were never going to go.’ Max’s face was quite straight, but Freya was almost sure she detected a gleam of amusement in his pale grey eyes. ‘At one point I wondered whether you were going to insist on putting me to bed and tucking me in,’ he said.

It was all beginning to come back now. Freya clutched at her head as she remembered how horribly embarrassed she had been by the awkwardness of the situation. It was the first time she and Max had been alone together since the night of Lucy’s twenty-first and, as if that hadn’t been bad enough, he had come home to find his immaculate apartment a tip, and the only place for him to sleep was the spare bedroom which she had been using as a wardrobe, and was consequently knee-deep in discarded clothes.

Her nerves, already frayed by the whole business with Dan, had gone to pieces entirely, and she had blundered around, talking too much and obviously making a complete idiot of herself. Freya cringed behind her hair. Please, please, please let her not have done anything really embarrassing, like making another pass at Max! She had a disturbing picture of him unbuttoning his shirt. Had that been last night or six years ago?

‘I hope I didn’t go that far?’ she said nervously.

‘Not quite,’ said Max, ‘but I was reduced to taking my shirt off to get rid of you.’

‘I can see that would have done the trick,’ said Freya, acid edging her voice, but to her annoyance Max’s look of amusement only deepened.

‘Eventually. You just stood there staring at me, with your eyes like saucers, and for a few moments there I thought I might have to strip completely before you got the point, but the penny dropped then and you started to blush and then you bolted.’

Excellent, thought Freya glumly. A sure way to impress him with her sophistication and poise.

She was annoyed to see a smile tugging at the corner of Max’s mouth. ‘If I hadn’t been so tired, your expression would have been funny,’ he said. ‘Talk about covered with confusion!’

‘Glad I’ve provided you with some amusement,’ she said a trifle sullenly.

‘I wasn’t so amused when I got up in the middle of the night to get some water and found you crashed out on the sofa with all lights blazing and the dregs of a martini in a glass that had fallen out of your hand. It was like a scene from a Channel Four docu-drama! I tried to wake you up, but you just kept mumbling something about missing the bus.’

Freya swallowed. Oddly enough, she remembered that bit. ‘I was dreaming about our old biology teacher, Mr Nuttall. He was shouting at me because I was late.’

‘That was me doing the shouting,’ said Max. ‘Not that it got me anywhere. In the end I had to carry you bodily. I’m afraid you just got dumped on the bed, but I wasn’t feeling that strong myself.’

Oh, right. Make her feel fat as well as stupid!

She could dimly remember surfacing at one point to pull her dress off, though, so presumably he hadn’t actually investigated what her mother insisted on calling ‘your lovely womanly figure’.

‘I took your shoes off, but I drew the line at undressing you,’ said Max dryly.

And now he could read her mind. That was all she needed.

‘You needn’t worry,’ he said, misinterpreting her expression. ‘I’m not into necrophilia! But by that stage I was beginning to wish that I’d sent you home with Lucy.’

The kettle had boiled while he’d been talking, and he made a pot of tea while Freya took the opportunity to drop her head back into her folded arms. So far, the morning which had started off so spectacularly badly with possibly the worst hangover of her life wasn’t getting any better. If only she could rewind time, preferably back to the point before she had even heard of a martini, shaken or stirred.

Max poured tea into a mug, added several spoonfuls of sugar, and stirred it before setting it down beside Freya on the table. Turning her head fractionally, she opened one eye to see the mug looming disproportionately large at the odd angle.

‘Go on, drink it,’ said Max. ‘It’ll do you good.’

Lifting her head very cautiously, she took a tentative sip, only to screw up her face. ‘It’s got sugar in it!’

‘Drink it anyway.’

Freya didn’t have the energy to withstand him. The pounding in her head subsided as she drank her tea, staring blankly ahead of her. It was only when she got to the end, and had to admit that she felt a little better that she realised that Max was tidying up the debris of her attempts to make canapés—was it only last night? It felt like a lifetime ago when she had been young and vigorous.

‘I’ll do that,’ she said lamely.

Max glanced over his shoulder at her. ‘I can’t wait until you’re capable of standing up,’ he said. ‘I’m just clearing a space to make some breakfast, anyway. I’m starving.’

‘Breakfast!’ Freya’s stomach heaved at the very thought, and the shadow of a grin flickered across his face.

‘I didn’t spend all last night guzzling cocktails,’ he pointed out. ‘I haven’t eaten since somewhere over the Sahara.’

Freya watched in some dismay as he opened the fridge. His expression told her all she needed to know about what he thought about the contents, but he unearthed some bacon, curling at the edges, and a box of eggs that she had bought as part of healthy eating programme that had never quite materialised. She just hoped that they were still in date. She wouldn’t be very popular if she gave him salmonella on top of everything else.

Max put the frying pan on to heat and began stacking dirty plates and bowls in the dishwasher, careless of the fact that every chink and clatter was like a drill in Freya’s head.

‘What were you and Lucy arguing about last night?’ she asked to distract herself.

‘Lucy was arguing,’ he corrected her. ‘She was objecting loudly and at length to the fact that I selfishly wasn’t prepared to leave the moment I’d arrived and trek across London with her and Steve to spend the night with them.’

He glanced sardonically over his shoulder at Freya. ‘I gather the idea was for me to leave the apartment to you and that journalist who had his tongue down your throat when I arrived. I’m sorry if I spoilt your plans, but I’d been travelling for three days, my flights were delayed all the way along the line, and quite frankly your love life wasn’t high on my priority list right then.’

‘How did you know Dan was a journalist?’ said Freya blankly, latching on to the only thing that she understood.

‘He had the gall to introduce himself while you and Lucy were flapping around trying to get everyone to leave.’ Max loaded the dishwasher with soap and shut it with a bang that made Freya wince. ‘He had no compunction about eavesdropping our conversation, and the next thing I knew he was telling me that he worked for some television company I’ve never heard of and demanding that I tell him everything I could about the coup so he could rush off and file a story on it.’

Freya frowned as she tried to follow this. ‘What coup?’ she asked.

‘God, you really don’t remember anything about last night, do you?’ Max shook his head.

There was a sizzle as he laid two rashers of bacon in the frying pan. ‘For someone who works on a foreign newsdesk you’re remarkably badly informed,’ he said astringently. ‘There’s been unrest in the region for weeks now. I’d have thought you would be expecting me back at any time.’

‘I’ve had other things on my mind recently,’ she said, unwilling to admit that she had no idea which region he was talking about.

‘What, like prats in leather jackets?’

Freya looked at him coldly. ‘What exactly happened?’

‘I’ve been trying to set up a project out there. I’d hoped I’d be able to get more done before the situation blew, but as it was I only just got back to Usutu in time.’

‘Usutu?’ Startled, Freya jerked upright, spilling her tea.

‘The capital of Mbanazere,’ said Max impatiently. ‘Surely you know that?’

‘Of course I do. It’s just…’ She trailed off, one hand to her aching head, unable to explain the weird sense of déjà vu.

It was as if her life had come full circle. Here was Max, back from the same country, with the same tanned skin, the same light eyes, the same competent hands. And here she was, with the same ability to humiliate herself in front of him. Six years, and nothing had changed.

‘I didn’t realise that was where you had been,’ she finished lamely. ‘It’s quite a coincidence, really. I was talking about Usutu only last night.’

‘To your friend with the hide of a rhinoceros, no doubt,’ said Max, a crisp edge to his voice. ‘For someone who’s being posted out there as correspondent, he doesn’t know much about the country. He was pestering me with inane questions about the situation there while people were leaving, and you were still pressing martinis on the rest of us.

‘Not that there was much I could tell him,’ he went on. ‘I was up country when the coup happened. The first I heard about it was when I went in to town to talk to the provincial governor, and everyone was shouting and waving their arms around. There were soldiers patrolling the streets, and I was ordered onto a plane forthwith. The RAF airlifted a whole lot of us and…well, here I am.’