Cinderella's Desert Baby Bombshell by Lynne Graham, Louise Fuller

CHAPTER ONE

THETRAINBURSTout of the tunnel into the fading light. Frankie Fox flinched as the carriage jerked sideways.

It had taken just over two years of persistence and hard work, but finally it had happened. Two days ago her social media profile—@StoneColdRedHotFox—had reached the milestone of a million followers.

Better still, the man of her dreams had invited her to spend the weekend at Hadfield Hall, his family’s home in Northumberland.

She should have been feeling on cloud nine, but instead she was staring morosely through the grimy window at a darkening landscape.

It was her fault she was feeling this way.

For the first time in two years she had let herself dream, let herself hope that she might be given a second chance to belong. That maybe she had done enough to earn a place in someone’s life.

And the day had started so promisingly...

After weeks of rain, she had woken up to a pale March sun in a sky of clear harebell-blue.

Miraculously, she had got to the station with time to spare and, best of all, Johnny had been waiting beneath the clock, just as he’d said he would be.

They’d met just shy of three months ago at a product launch. Technically, she had been working, but that had been quickly forgotten because for her it had been love at first sight.

Johnny Milburn was an actor—the kind described as ‘hot’ and ‘up-and-coming’. He certainly looked like a leading man, with that lean body and clean-cut superhero features, the floppy blond hair, a smile that could power the National Grid, and the most beautiful meltingly soft chocolate-coloured eyes.

She had been the one melting when he’d taken her hands last Saturday and told her that she was working too hard. That somebody had to tell her she needed a break, and that person was him.

She breathed out unsteadily, remembering how his eyes had been fixed on her face as if there was nobody in the world but her. He hadn’t kissed her, but incredibly—unbelievably—he had invited her to spend the weekend with him at Hadfield Hall, his family’s estate on a tidal island off the coast of Northumberland. It had all sounded swooningly romantic. Like something out of a Georgette Heyer novel...

She glanced across the table to where Johnny should have been sitting.

Except romantic novels needed a hero and a heroine, and right now her hero was somewhere over the Atlantic on his way to an audition in Los Angeles, and she was on her way to Northumberland alone.

Slumping back in her seat, she sighed.

She’d tried telling Johnny that she couldn’t possibly just turn up at his family’s house on her own, but he wouldn’t listen to her.

‘Please, Frankie. It’s bad enough that I can’t go, but if you don’t go either then I might as well call off the trip to LA, because I won’t be able to stop thinking about how I messed everything up for you.’

‘But what am I supposed to say to your brother?’ she’d asked.

Remembering how Johnny’s expression had changed from pleading to relief, she let her head fall against the train window. She’d been trying to make him see the impracticality of what he was suggesting, but instead she had simply given him the means to make refusing impossible.

‘Arlo?’ He’d frowned. ‘You won’t have to say anything to him. I thought he was home, but apparently he’s on some ice floe in the Antarctic. He probably won’t be back for months.’

That at least was something, she thought, gazing up at the rain-spattered glass.

Johnny’s brother, Arlo Milburn, was not just a decorated former marine and a renowned expert on all things environmental, he was also a polar explorer. She had been dreading meeting him with Johnny there, but doing so on her own—

She shivered.

It was just lucky for her that he was away, because guilt had made Johnny unusually single-minded.

‘Look, it’s perfect for you.’ He’d held up his phone to show her. ‘For starters, it’s basically off-grid. Plus, you can have the run of the place. Nobody will be there except Constance—’

‘Who’s Constance?’

He’d frowned. ‘She looks after the house.’

‘Won’t she think it a bit odd, me just turning up on my own?’

‘No,’ Johnny had said firmly. ‘She hates it when Arlo’s away. Honestly, she’ll love having you there. And you’ll love it too. It’ll be like a home from home.’ He’d taken her hand and squeezed it. ‘Besides, I’ve already called her and left a message saying you’re coming, so you have to go now, Frankie.’

He’d been so racked with remorse, so contrite, so very handsome...

And, anyway, what would the alternative have been? Running home with her tail between her legs?

It was getting dark now outside, and for a moment she stared at her reflection.

And then what?

If she went out then she would have to pretend everything was fine, and she just didn’t have the energy to do that. But if she stayed in then she would be alone with her thoughts...

No, with or without Johnny, she needed a break—a change of scene. A few days away in Northumberland was exactly what the doctor ordered.

Suddenly her heart was racing, and even though she could feel her hands, could see the jutting bleached-out knobs of her knuckles, it felt as though she was losing substance.

Of course the opposite was true.

She alone had survived.

Her shoulders jerked. Even now it was a physical pain. Knowing that everyone she loved, everyone who had loved her, was gone.

Her family had been coming back from a summer holiday in Provence. Her father had been flying the plane when it had crashed. The crash had killed him, her mother, and her twin brother and sister.

She alone had survived.

And every day she wondered why.

‘This train will shortly be arriving at Berwick-upon-Tweed.’

The automated voice broke into her thoughts as she fought for calm.

‘Please remember to take all your belongings with you before you leave the train.’

Her fingers tightened on the armrest. After the shock had worn off there had been endless paperwork to fill in, meetings with solicitors, and then finally the inquest.

A shiver ran over her skin.

She had told the truth, but nothing she’d said had made any difference. That was when she’d started blogging and she hadn’t stopped since. But working non-stop for eighteen months had taken its toll. She was sleeping badly, had trouble concentrating, and lately she had a strange, disquieting feeling of being erased...like a drawing that wasn’t quite good enough—

Jolted back into the present, and glancing around, she saw that the carriage was empty. Standing up, she pulled her suitcase down from the overhead luggage rack.

Everything would be fine. Once she reached the Hall, she could relax and unwind. And if she felt like doing something more strenuous she could go for a walk along the beach or just do some cloud-spotting.

And there were plenty of clouds to spot, she thought twenty minutes later, as she hugged her beautiful but utterly ineffective quilted jacket around her shivering body. In fact, the sky was pretty much one huge, dark cloud, and the half-hearted rain from earlier was now sheeting down in force as she rapped on the door with the huge cast-iron knocker.

She waited, squinting up at the immense grey stone house rising above her, her heart beating in time to the raindrops hitting her face.

In her head, she’d imagined Constance opening the door, smiling warmly. But there was no sign of any housekeeper, with or without a smile, and all the windows looked ominously dark...

Trying to still the jittery feeling in her legs, she pulled out her phone.Perhaps she should call Johnny.

No service.

She bit her lip. So did that mean Constance had never got Johnny’s message about her coming alone?

Turning, she felt a quiver of apprehension scamper down her backbone as she watched the taillights of the taxi she’d hired at the station disappear into the rain.

There was no way she was walking back over that cobbled causeway in this weather. And it wasn’t as if she would be breaking in or anything...

Turning her back against the thundering rain, she found the key Johnny had given her, pushed it into the lock, and turned it.

It was toe-curlingly dark inside. Her heart thudding, she fumbled for a light switch.

Oh, wow.

She was standing in a tennis-court-sized entrance hall. Water was dripping down her legs into her trainers, but she was too distracted to care.

Home from home, Johnny had said. Clearly that depended on your definition of ‘home’, she thought, gazing up at the huge mahogany staircase, the stucco ceiling, and innumerable gold-framed oil paintings on the walls.

She had known Johnny came from money. Not the professionally earned sort, but old money—the kind that came with a small but exclusive circle of acquaintances, a flat in Eaton Square, and a country estate. She knew, too, that he had a cousin who was a lord or an earl or something.

Only she had never really put it into context until now.

Her stomach twisted. What would it be like to live here? To be the lady of the house? But of course ordinary people like her didn’t actually live in places like this. At most they stayed for a weekend—or, in her case, one night.

Tomorrow she would pay whatever it cost to take a taxi to the nearest hotel. Johnny would understand.

Her heart leapt in her throat as a noisy cluster of raindrops hit the windows.

Maybe in the morning she might take a quick peek around the house. Right now, though, she just wanted to go to bed.

Upstairs, there was an unbelievable number of bedrooms, all awash with heavy fabrics and Persian rugs and paintings of horses. Feeling like Goldilocks, she wandered from one room to another, pressing her hand against the velvet bedspreads to test the mattresses.

That one was too soft, this one was too hard, but this one...

Like all the other rooms, this one was large, but it had a different feel to it. There was an overflowing bookcase, a battered trunk at the end of the bed, and a large shabby wicker dog basket beneath the window.

The mattress dipped as she sat down on the edge of the mahogany-framed four-poster bed.

This one was just right.

She washed her face and brushed her teeth in the large and very austere en suite bathroom. No toiletries. Just dark grey tiles, a bath the size of a boat, and a leather armchair that looked like something from a gentlemen’s club.

Oh, and a cricket bat leaning incongruously against the wall, as if someone had just walked in off the pitch.

She stared at it in silence, frowning, and then picked it up. She might be on an island, in a house that looked as if it had been built to keep out invaders from across the sea, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a little extra protection to hand.

Back in the bedroom, she peeled off her damp clothes and reached into her suitcase for the old dress shirt of her dad’s that she wore to bed.

Instead her hand brushed against something seductively soft and she pulled out the whisper of midnight-blue silk she had packed, in case ‘something happened’ with Johnny.

Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered the moment when she’d seen it in the shop.

She’d wanted to look cool and confident and sexy. That was who she was, after all. A stone-cold, red-hot fox. Or at least it was who she was pretending to be. In reality, she felt anything but.

Throat tightening, she closed her fingers around the flimsy fabric.

She might as well wear it. Who knew when—if—she would have an opportunity to do so again?

Wriggling under the quilt, she gazed up at the heavy draped tapestry curtains. She felt as if she was in a fairy tale. If only Johnny were here with her, it would be perfect.

But he wasn’t.

Grabbing one of the pillows, she hugged it close to her body.

Life was not a fairy tale—at least not her life, anyway. And her supposed prince would be on the other side of the ocean by now.

Reaching over, she switched off the light.

Instantly the empty house creaked into life. Pipes hummed, windows rattled, and there was a distant thump like a door slamming.

Rolling onto her side, she yawned. The sound of the rain was making her feel sleepy...

And then she heard it. The sound of footsteps.

She sat upright so fast she thought her spine would snap. Her pulse was racing, her heartbeat bouncing off the walls.

It’s just your imagination, she told herself, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Except the footsteps were getting closer.

Her ears pricked, she groped frantically in the darkness for the cricket bat—and then almost jerked out of her skin when the door clicked open.

‘What the—?’

There was a crash, and then a thump, as someone—no, not someone...a man—collided with something solid in the darkness and she heard him swear explosively.

She felt a jolt of panic. Her heart was thumping uncontrollably, her fear so intense that she was shivering all over, and then sudden light blinded her.

Blinking, she stared across the room.

Her suitcase was lying on its back, rocking from side to side like an upended turtle. A man was standing next to it, his huge shoulders filling the doorway, his face shrouded beneath a hood, a bulky-looking dark leather bag in his hand and a dog quivering beside him.

Terror doused her like a bucket of cold water as he dropped the bag and took a step forward. Edging back against the headboard, she held the cricket bat out threateningly in front of her, tension bunching her muscles.

‘Don’t come any closer,’ she managed.

There was a silence, and then the man reached up and pushed back the hood. Eyes the colour of the storm clouds outside locked onto hers.

‘Or what?’

His voice sounded as if it was rolling across shingle.

‘Come closer and you’ll find out,’ she said hoarsely.

He leaned almost casually against the doorjamb, his lips twisting into something halfway between a smile and a sneer, so that she caught a glimpse of straight white teeth.

‘Is that an invitation?’

She felt goosebumps erupt over her skin.

An invitation!

Shocked, she gazed up at him, open-mouthed.

Not in a million yearswas her first response.

He was tall, and even though she couldn’t see beneath the bulky jacket he was wearing there was a sense of restrained power beneath the almost languid pose. But she liked her men pretty, and this man was not pretty. In fact, his features were strikingly discordant—part-Modigliani, part-Picasso, part-Border Reiver.

He had a too-big mouth, surrounded by a dark, scruffy moustache and beard. His broad nose looked as if it had been broken at some time, maybe several times, in the past, and there was a scar cutting across his left cheek like the cleft in a peach.

Maybe if they had met under other circumstances, when she was feeling more generous, she might have described him as ‘unconventionally handsome’. But, given that he had just broken into the house where she was staying and scared her half to death, she wasn’t feeling generous.

And yet...

There was something compelling about him—an uncompromising, unapologetic, raw masculinity that felt real in a way that both shocked and excited her. She could almost imagine him standing on the island’s clifftops, his grey eyes narrowed on the foam-flecked sea...

Blinking out of this train of thought, she glared at him hot-cheeked, her fingers tightening around the handle of the cricket bat.

‘Look, I’ve already called the police,’ she lied. ‘So if I were you, I’d just leave.’

‘You would?’

His cool, dark gaze made breathing a challenge.

‘But things are just starting to get interesting...’

She tugged the quilt more tightly around her body as he looked down at her.

‘In fact, you should probably give the police a call back. Ask them to bring a ball. Then we can actually make use of that bat you’re waving around so enthusiastically.’

What?

Frankie looked at him in confusion. She could count the number of conversations she’d had with burglars on one finger, but surely this wasn’t how they were supposed to go.

‘Do you think this is funny?’ she snapped.

‘No, I don’t.’ His gaze bored into her. ‘Do you?’

‘Of course not—’

‘In that case...’ He paused, his eyes narrowing on her face with such a mixture of exasperation and hostility that she had to look away. ‘Do you think it would be too much trouble to tell me exactly what you’re doing in my bed?’

Frankie’s head jerked up. She stared at him, her pulse doing some kind of complicated step-ball-change.

His bed.

Her eyes dropped to the bag by his feet—more specifically to the initials embossed on the leather.

A. M.

A.M.

In other words, Arlo Milburn...

She groaned inwardly as a grainy silence filled the room. ‘Wh-what are you doing here?’ she finally stammered. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’

Shifting his weight away from the doorframe, he walked slowly across the room, stopping at the end of the bed.

‘I think you’ll find that’s my line,’ he said coldly.

Watching the woman’s paleface stiffen with shock and panic, Arlo Milburn felt his jaw tighten. The last few days had been some of the most stressful and frustrating in his life.

He’d been on his way from the research station on the Brunt Ice Shelf to speak at a climate conference in Nairobi. It was an important conference. They all were. But when they’d landed at Durban one of the engineers had spotted an electrical fault on the plane, so instead he’d spent eight hours pacing the hangar, missing his connecting flight and his chance to speak.

And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, Emma—his extremely efficient assistant—had called to tell him that she had broken her arm and was going to be off work for at least six weeks.

Thwarted at every turn, he’d randomly decided to come home.

Big mistake.

Thanks to the frenetic arrival of Storm Delia on British shores, his journey had been plagued with even more delays. He was cold, wet, and tired, and he wanted to go to bed.

Only his bed was already taken.

By some unknown female who looked as if she had stepped out of that painting by Titian in the entrance hall. Except she was wielding a cricket bat.

Arlo scowled. ‘Well? Why are you here? In my house? In my bed? And make it quick—otherwise I will call the police, and unlike you I won’t be bluffing.’

He felt a rush of gratification as a faint flush of colour spread over her cheeks.

‘Stop interrogating me like some sergeant-major,’ she snapped. ‘You’re not in the army now.’

His gaze narrowed. ‘I never was. I was a marine. That’s the navy. And I was a captain, not a sergeant-major.’

She gave him a withering look. ‘Fine...whatever. I thought Johnny had spoken to you.’ She bit her lip, doing a good impression of confusion and dismay. ‘He said he’d called you.’

Johnny.But of course—

Arlo’s jaw clenched and he swore under his breath, wondering what else his brother had told this woman. He’d been taking care of Johnny ever since their grief-stricken father had retreated to his artist’s studio after their mother died, and he loved him unconditionally. But his brother was not without his flaws.

Poor timekeeping. A failure to do what he said he would do. And, last but not least, his refusal to judge a book by its cover—something this scheming little redhead had clearly spotted and mined to her advantage.

‘Where is he?’ he demanded.

She blinked; her mouth was trembling. ‘I don’t know exactly.’

Her eyes locked on his, and for a split second he forgot his anger, forgot that he was cold and tired. Instead, he stared at her mutely, held captive by the blue of those eyes.

It was the same blue as an Antarctic summer sky. The kind of blue that almost verged on purple, like the flowers on the fragrant, woody rosemary that grew so abundantly in the Hall’s kitchen garden.

Maybe that was why he was having to dig his heels into the faded Afghan carpet to stop himself from leaning over and inhaling her scent.

His breath hitched. Johnny was never without a woman in his life. As soon as he’d become a teenager a constant stream of interchangeable leggy girls had started trailing after him, and that hadn’t changed as an adult. But for some reason the idea of his little brother and this particular woman put his back up.

Probably because she was an impudent little madam who had no doubt been bowling men over with that look her entire life.

Not him, though.

His back straightened. ‘Look, I’ve spent the last two days in trains, planes, and taxis. I’m cold and tired and I nearly broke my neck tripping over your damn case, so I’m really not in the mood for a game of hide and seek.’

Her chin jerked up and he knew he was doing a poor job of hiding his frustration—which, of course, only made him more frustrated.

‘I’m not playing games. Johnny’s not here, he’s—’ she began, her red curls bouncing in indignation, but he cut her off.

‘What do you mean, he’s not here? If you’re here, he has to be here.’ Glancing down, he noticed a lumpy shape beneath the bedding and his temper flared. ‘What the—?’

The woman scrambled up the bed as he jerked the quilt free of her hands. ‘Are you crazy? What are you doing?’

Arlo gazed down at the pillow, and then back at the woman, and a bolt of heat exploded in his groin. The shock of finding her in his bed had blinded him to all but the most obvious features of her appearance, so that he’d registered nothing much more than those eyes, a lot of freckles, and that hair. Now, though, he was registering a lot more.

His eyes skimmed over her near-naked body.

A whole lot more.

She was wearing some kind of dark blue silky slip. Yes, slip was the right word for it, he thought, his heart pounding like a cannon against his ribcage. He felt as though the floor had turned to ice and he was sliding sideways.

Her skin was pale, and he knew it would be stupidly smooth to the touch, but it was what was hinted at beneath the slip that was that was making his body ache. The press of her nipples, the provocative curve of her bottom...

He closed his eyes briefly to compose himself, and then tossed the bedding back towards her. ‘He’s not here.’

‘I just told you that,’ she said hotly. ‘We were supposed to come up here together, only then he got called back for a part and he had to fly out to LA. Anyway, he gave me a key and told me I could have the run of the place.’

‘Did he?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘How very generous of him.’ He saw her teeth clench.

‘He didn’t know you were going to be here. He was just trying to do a nice thing for me.’

She left the sentence there, but it was clear from the curl of her lip that she considered such ‘niceness’ beyond Arlo.

‘And you are...?’ he said impatiently.

‘Frankie Fox.’

What kind of a name was that?

A rush of exasperation collided with a sharp, intense desire to press his mouth against hers and wipe that impudent curl from her lips.

‘Hence the hair, I suppose?’ He stared at her witheringly. ‘Do you change your name when you dye it a different colour?’

‘This is my hair colour.’ Her eyes flashed with undisguised irritation. ‘And my name is the one my parents gave me.’

Tilting his head to one side, he sighed. ‘I’m guessing you’re an actor too. They usually are... Johnny’s fangirls.’

He’d wanted to cut her down to size only watching the way she wrapped her arms around herself, as if she was cold, he suddenly felt something pinch inside him.

But it wasn’t as if Johnny could be serious about her. Sure, she was pretty, but his brother was swimming in beautiful women.

Her chin jutted forward. ‘I’m not an actor,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m a social media influencer.’

He frowned. ‘A what?’

He knew what social media was, but an influencer...?

‘A. Social. Media. Influencer.’

She was speaking each word slowly, as if English wasn’t his first language or he was hard of hearing.

‘Basically, brands send me clothes and accessories and I get paid to tell my followers about them.’

By ‘followers’ he supposed she meant a bunch of young men with their tongues hanging out.

‘Sounds fascinating.’

As payback for the eye-roll that had accompanied her reply, he deliberately made no effort to hide the derision in his voice. His eyes bored into the quilt she was clutching to her chest, then shifted to the thin satin straps hugging her shoulders.

‘So who exactly are you expecting to “influence” dressed like that?’

The question ricocheted ominously inside his head as he replayed what she’d told him. Johnny inviting her to the family home on its private island...his last-minute call-back in the States...her decision to come without him. And, last but not least, he took in that teasing scrap of material she was wearing.

All of it could be explained away as either coincidence or misunderstanding. But the way she was biting into her lip and gazing up at him through that forest of eyelashes—that was calculated. It was the swift-thinking, self-serving, opportunistic response of a beautiful, unprincipled woman who knew her charms and was willing to turn them on for the right reward.

‘No one. I’m obviously not working.’

Not on the clock, anyway.

He felt anger stir inside him. She might not have an Equity card, but she was one hell of an actress. Only she’d picked the wrong man to hustle.

‘Not working. And not staying,’ he said coolly.

Spinning round, he picked up her ridiculous pillarbox-red suitcase and tossed it onto the bed.

‘Pack your stuff. You can spend the rest of the night here, but I want you out of my house in the morning. And out of my bed right now.’

She was staring at him open-mouthed, as if she couldn’t believe what he was saying. He couldn’t quite believe it either. He certainly hadn’t been raised to turf guests out of their beds.

But Frankie Fox was not a guest.

He knew her type and she was all kinds of trouble wrapped up in a silk slip. Maybe another man—a more trusting, less experienced man, like Johnny—might be tempted to unwrap her. He knew better. It was the one, the only benefit of his short-lived, disastrous marriage to Harriet. Being able to look before leaping.

‘You can’t do this...’ Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was trembling slightly. ‘You can’t just throw me out.’

‘It’s my home,’ he said flatly. ‘I can do what I like. And what I would like is to go to sleep. It’s been a very long day, and tomorrow I’ve got a series of lectures to write up. Because, unlike you, I don’t get paid to lounge around in my underwear. Nor am I running a B&B for my brother’s cast-offs.’

Watching her hands clench, he knew she wanted to hurl her suitcase at his head.

‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ she hissed.

‘Oh, I dare, Ms Fox.’ He held her gaze. ‘You see, I know exactly how this plays out. You came up here to play house with my sweet little brother, maybe “influence” him into something more serious. Only he bailed, so you’re switching to Plan B. Me.’

‘What?’

A slow wash of crimson flooded her cheeks as the case slid from her fingers. But he refused to let his gaze drop to the tempting thrust of her breasts.

‘Unfortunately, you’re wasting your time. I’m on a break from women right now, and even if I wasn’t, I would never be interested in some little chancer like you.’

She was looking at him as if he was something the tide had washed up on the beach.

‘Let me get this right. You think I want to seduce you.’ Hot colour flushed her cheeks like warpaint. ‘As if!’ She spat the words at him.

‘Then you won’t mind leaving my bed,’ he snapped, more annoyed than he liked to admit by her emphatic response.

‘Mind?’She scrambled to her feet. ‘I’d rather sleep in the dog’s basket than with you.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ he said curtly, pulling his fleece over his head. ‘He snores. And you can cut the theatrics. There’s a whole other wing of bedrooms. But then I’m guessing you know that, from wandering around playing lady of the manor.’

The flush of colour darkened in her cheeks and with a rush of satisfaction he began unbuttoning his shirt.

‘What are you doing?’

He could hear the sudden sharp snag of panic in her voice, but he didn’t look over at her. ‘I’m getting undressed.’

Unthinkingly, he shifted his gaze to the mirror over the fireplace and watched her snatch jeans and a jacket from the window seat. Her face and collarbone were still flushed pink and that glorious hair rippled over her bare shoulders like molten copper. She was exquisite.

His throat clenched. She was also about as far from his ideal woman as it was possible to get—and that was putting it mildly.

He swung round to face her, his eyes snagging on her bare legs before he had a chance to stop himself. ‘Leave the keys.’

Breathing raggedly, she fumbled in the jacket pocket. As she pulled them out, they caught in the lining.

He swore softly. ‘Here, let me—’

His fingers brushed against hers as he reached to help and he felt a sharp snap of static.

‘Don’t touch me.’ Breathing out shakily, she jerked away from him.

He felt a stab of anger. He hadn’t meant to touch her. Only now, as his eyes jumped from the fierce expression on her face to her soft parted lips, he realised he wanted more than one brief moment of contact. What he wanted was to push her back onto the bed and slide his hands over every inch of that satin-smooth skin...

‘Nothing could be further from my mind,’ he lied. ‘Now, give me back the keys,’ he said tersely.

Drawing a jagged breath, she tossed them at him and stalked across the room. As she reached the door she turned, tilting her chin to look at him with over-bright eyes, and he felt something twist inside his chest.

‘You know, Johnny talks about you a lot. He thinks you’re going to save the world...that you’re a hero.’ Raising her chin, she held his gaze. ‘Some hero,’ she said, smiling coldly.

And then, without giving him a chance to reply, she grabbed the handle of her suitcase and spun away into the darkness.