Carrie Duffy
VIP

Table of Contents

Title Page

Prologue: Detroit

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Extract from Diva

About the Author

Also by Carrie Duffy

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue
Detroit

Dionne Summers was hurrying down the dark, deserted streets, just off Livernois Avenue in downtown Detroit. It was what the middle-class residents of the city, cosy in their smart, roach-free houses in the affluent suburbs, termed ‘a bad area’, but Dionne had lived here all her life and knew everyone in the neighbourhood. Yes, they were poor, but the people round here looked out for each other – well, most of them, Dionne thought darkly. Some just looked out for themselves, only interested in what they could get.

She pulled her denim jacket more tightly around her as she walked, her heels clacking on the sidewalk. The late evening air was chilly, and the dress she was wearing was hardly going to keep her warm. Made of cheap, black lycra, she’d picked it up for a few dollars at K-Mart, but it showed off every curve of her blossoming body. Only sixteen years old, she already had a figure that the girls at school envied and which drove the boys wild. Her breasts were overly ripe and generous, with a handspan waist and a booty to rival Kim Kardashian’s. Her chocolate skin was dark and glossy, her black hair running loose in a riot of curls. In short, she was stunning.

As she neared the house she was looking for, Dionne slowed. The street light outside was broken, making it appear even more menacing – set back from the road, the property was low and wide, a threatening bulk that lurked in the darkness. Dionne could make out piles of rubbish dumped in the overgrown front garden, a couple of glossy BMWs parked incongruously in the driveway.

Dionne stood for a moment, exhaling slowly through her nose as she tried to steel her nerves. The thought of what she was about to do made her feel nauseous, but it would all be worth it. She just had to keep believing.

She strode purposefully down the path and up the front steps to the porch, knocking sharply on the front door. Inside a light flickered on, filtering through a crack in the curtains, and a couple of vicious-sounding dogs began to bark.

Then a man Dionne recognised answered the door. His name was Leroy, and he was black and stocky, ridiculously muscular. The kind of guy you didn’t want to mess with. His hair was plaited into cornrows, and there was a scar above his upper lip. His gaze ran sleazily over her, leaving Dionne feeling horribly exposed in the revealing dress and cropped jacket, and she knew instantly that he’d seen those photos of her. The ones she’d been tricked into taking. The ones that would make her daddy disown her if they ever saw the light of day.

“Well, look who it is,” he grinned, his lip curling at the corner as he spoke. There was nothing friendly in the smile – his whole air was menacing. “Whatcha doin’ here, Dionne?”

Dionne threw her hair back over her shoulders, willing her voice not to shake. “I’m here to see Dash.”

Leroy laughed hollowly. “Yeah? Why you wastin’ your time chasin’ him, huh? I can give you everything he can,” he leered.

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Dionne shot back. She waited a second, watching to see her comment register on his face. Dash Ramón was Leroy’s boss, and when a woman turned up asking to see your boss, you didn’t try it on with her. In Dionne’s neighbourhood, people were scared of Dash Ramón – and with good reason.

“So, is he in?” Dionne repeated, trying to sound confident even though her heart was hammering like a subway train.

Leroy grunted. “I’ll go see.” The door was slammed unceremoniously in her face and Dionne let out a long, shaky breath. Out on the road, a car slowly cruised by, its headlights temporarily illuminating the street. Kids, Dionne guessed. It wasn’t a cop car; they didn’t dare come round here at night.

She knew she was messing around in a world that was way out of her league, and the thought terrified her. Dash Ramón was a big shot in her neighbourhood – a gang leader and a dangerous man. He controlled the area west of Twelfth to the Jeffries, and ran drugs rings, brothels, protection rackets. He’d done a couple of stints inside, but on the whole the cops couldn’t touch him.

The door opened suddenly and Dionne jumped, betraying her nerves. Leroy gave her that same, crooked smile and jerked his head to indicate that she should come in.

The hallway carpet was grotty and threadbare, and Dionne stepped inside cautiously. The air was thick with reefer smoke, and another, more potent scent that Dionne strained to identify. Crack? Meth? It didn’t smell good, whatever it was.

Inside, the walls were cracked and peeling, with the furniture kept to a bare minimum, and everything was cheap and functional. It was hardly what you’d call luxurious; there were no home comforts and most pieces looked like they’d been picked out of a dumpster. Dionne knew Dash had money – that was the whole reason she was there – and she’d expected something better. This place was little more than a squat.

The door to the sitting room was open, and the smell of weed got stronger as she approached. Ramón’s entourage – a dozen guys of various ethnicities, dressed in bomber jackets and baggy jeans – were sitting around on saggy old sofas, smoking and talking on cell phones. They looked up as she entered, staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and outright lust, their eyes lighting up as they blatantly checked out her body. A couple of scantily dressed white girls were perched on the edge of the seats, eyeing her with open hostility.

And in the centre, reclining in an enormous armchair as he took a pull on a fat joint, was Dash Ramón himself. Hispanic-looking, his head was shaved and his features were heavy. He wasn’t good looking in the conventional sense, but there was something about him … he radiated power, a menacing authority that translated into charisma. At his feet, two dogs – big, meaty looking brutes – were settling back down, growling softly. Guard dogs, Dionne realised, not pets.

She forced herself to hide the hatred in her eyes as she looked straight at Dash, drawing herself up to her full height and trying not to seem like a schoolgirl who was way out of her depth and nervous as hell. Then she caught sight of a handgun lying casually on the chair beside him and seriously considered running straight out the house and abandoning this whole crazy idea.

“Whatcha want, Dionne?” Dash asked finally. He gazed at her with dark, stoned eyes.

Dionne swallowed. “I wanna speak with you. In private,” she added, with a pointed glance at the hangers-on in the room.

“If you think you’re getting those pictures back, it ain’t happenin’,” Dash warned. He gestured towards the table, and Dionne saw with horror that amongst the mess of cigarette butts and blackened aluminium foil was a thick pile of glossy photos. She could just make out the image on the top one: her naked body, dark-skinned and curvaceous, reclining on a shabby chaise longue. The other guys sniggered as they saw the expression on her face, and it was all Dionne could do not to throw up right there on the carpet.

But instead she managed to smile, holding Dash’s gaze as she spoke. “Keep them,” she shrugged airily. She paused for a beat, letting her next words have maximum impact: “But why look at photos when you can have the real thing?”

Instantly, the room fell silent, as the others registered what she’d just said. Everyone’s eyes were on her, and the tension hung thick in the air.

Dash looked at her suspiciously. “What you sayin’?”

“What I’m sayin’,” Dionne began, her voice low and seductive as she took a step further into the room, “is that maybe you should take a closer look at what you bin dreamin’ about over there.” She dipped one shoulder so that her jacket slipped down a little, tossing back her hair to give him an unobstructed view of her cleavage. Her body was knock-out and she knew it.

Dash took his time weighing up the options. He took another long drag on his spliff, watching as the smoke curled towards the ceiling, then dropped it in the ashtray beside him.

Without saying a word, he got up from his chair and walked towards her. Jabbing a finger into the centre of her stomach, he forced her backwards, out of the room. Then he turned and beckoned for Leroy to come with them.

“What the—” Dionne began, as Dash pushed her into a room across the hallway. Her heart was thumping, her eyes darting anxiously between the two burly men as Leroy shut the door behind them, trapping her inside. He didn’t lock it, Dionne noticed, and the thought calmed her. But he remained standing in front of it as though to keep guard, his arms folded and his chest puffed out like a nightclub bouncer.

Dash flicked a switch and a dull light flooded the room, a bare bulb overhead swinging dangerously on a frayed wire. The room was just as grimy as the rest of the house, everything dirty and neglected. Piles of clothes were strewn all over the floor, beside a filthy mattress stained with God alone knew what.

Dash grinned, showing a diamond stud in his front tooth. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuckled his belt, letting his jeans drop to the floor, followed by his underwear. Naked from the waist down, he was instantly erect. Dionne looked at him with pleading eyes, silently begging him not to make her do this.

“Ain’t that what you’re here for?” he asked cruelly. “I seen those photos. I know you’re a big ole whore, just like your momma,” he chuckled.

Dionne burned with hatred, white-hot anger running through her veins. She longed to tell him to go screw himself and walk right out of that hell hole. But she’d come too far now, and there was still a chance she might get what she wanted. Besides, she realised, with an anxious glance at Leroy guarding the door, she didn’t think she could leave now, even if she wanted to.

“Take off your clothes, Dionne,” Dash told her.

Dionne hesitated for a fraction of a second. She knew she didn’t have a choice. Biting her lip, she slipped off her jacket. Dash grinned. Dionne lowered her gaze so she didn’t have to see the look on his face as she removed her dress, her bra, her panties.

It doesn’t matter, she tried to tell herself. Plenty of people used their looks or their bodies to get ahead in life. Just this once, and then it would all be over.

“Get down on your knees, bitch,” Dash sneered. Dionne did as she was told, taking him in her mouth as he pushed his way between her lips and began to thrust. He held her head steady, his fingers digging into her temples as he forced himself deeper, hitting the back of her throat. Dionne’s eyes started to water, choking sounds escaping from her as she struggled to breathe. Mercifully, it was all over quickly. She felt him go rigid inside of her, then her throat was filled with thick, foul-tasting liquid. It made her gag, and for a horrible moment she thought she might vomit. She tried to swallow but her body protested; unable to help herself, she spat out the contents of her mouth on the floor beside her.

Dash laughed as he pulled up his jeans. “I need to take a piss.”

Leroy stood aside as Dash left the room, while Dionne remained helplessly on her knees, furiously wiping at her mouth as she tried to get rid of the vile taste of him.

What the hell was she going to do next? This wasn’t how the plan was supposed to go, Dionne thought, her brain working foggily as she tried to focus. She needed to be alone in the room, not have this goddamn ape watching every move she made.

Warily, she glanced up at Leroy. It was a mistake: the second they made eye contact his face lit up, that leering grin creeping over his features. He lumbered across the floor towards her and grabbed her roughly by the arm.

“Get off me, you piece of shit!” Dionne screamed, genuinely terrified now. Frantically, she tried to escape, twisting her body away from him in an effort to break his grip. Stark naked, she felt horribly vulnerable and exposed, turning her back on him to try and hide herself.

Then the door burst open and Dash ran back in.

“Take your fucking hands off her, man,” he yelled.

Dionne looked up, startled, as Leroy dropped her wrists and jumped away from her, breathing heavily.

“Now get the fuck out,” Dash swore. Leroy curled his lip, but did as he was told. Dash turned round and glared at Dionne. She had the weird sensation of being grateful to him, wanted to thank him for what he’d just done. But before she could say a word, he snapped: “Hey, bitch, get dressed and get out.”

He stalked off, and Dionne realised she was shaking. Instinctively, she pushed the door closed to give herself a little privacy then scrabbled on the floor for her clothes, her hands trembling as she dressed hastily, keeping one eye on the door the whole time. She didn’t want any more of Dash’s Neanderthals coming in. But no one seemed to be around.

Pulling on her jacket, Dionne realised she was alone. This was what she’d been waiting for, her whole reason for coming here. And she had to do it now.

Ears straining for any movement in the corridor, she crept over to the bedside table and opened the top drawer. She rifled through it quickly but … nothing. Slamming it shut, she opened the second. Inside, she found the same old detritus – a porn magazine; old receipts, faded and yellowing; a couple of cell phone chargers; a pile of used tissues. And then, right at the back, a battered old wash bag. Dionne pulled it out and unzipped it. Jackpot! It was stuffed with dozens of hundred dollar bills, all in used notes.

Her heart rate seemed to have trebled as she looked down at the cash in her hands. She felt vindicated; it proved that she’d been right to come here, to do what she’d just done, however humiliating it might have been. Dash Ramón was the only person she knew with this kind of money, and her hunch that he didn’t trust banks had turned out to be correct. She was pretty sure that guys like him didn’t make an annual declaration to the IRS.

Her eyes skimmed over the notes, mentally calculating. There must have been around ten thousand dollars in there, but Dionne knew she couldn’t take it all. It would look too suspicious. Quickly, she grabbed a bundle of notes and shoved them in her purse, before zipping up the wash bag and stashing it at the back of the drawer, covering it with the magazine.

She got to her feet and looked nervously at the door. It was still propped shut, and Dionne hesitated, paralysed by indecision. She felt sure there would be more cash hidden in the room, but she was torn between her desire for more and her terror at what would happen if she got caught. The terror won out. Clasping her bag tightly to her, she fled into the corridor.

She was brought up short by a man standing there, speaking softly into his cell phone. Dionne froze, certain that her guilt must be written all over her face, but almost before she knew what she was saying, she asked, “Where’s the bathroom?”

He didn’t break off from his conversation, simply pointed to a door. Dionne nodded her thanks, walking quickly in the direction he’d indicated. Once inside, she locked the door and set to work, opening the cabinet on the wall. It was crammed with all kinds of pills, a bag of coke, a couple of razor blades and, in a surprisingly domestic touch, a bottle of aftershave. But no money.

Adrenaline pumping through her body, Dionne span round and began checking the rest of the room – behind the pipes, underneath the sink. Still nothing. With a sudden burst of inspiration, she pulled the lid off the toilet cistern. It scraped along the tank as she tried to move it and Dionne winced, convinced every tiny noise would betray her. But already she could see what she was looking for: taped to the inside of the cistern was a waterproof bag. Dionne pulled it out, wrenching it open. Inside was another bag of what looked like coke and, below that, a pile of notes.

Dionne’s pulse was racing as she pulled out a handful of dollars – about a third of the stash, so it wasn’t as noticeable. When Dash eventually discovered that the money was gone, she didn’t want him to link it to her. She dreaded to think what the repercussions would be for her momma and daddy after she’d gone.

Doing her best to replace everything as she’d found it, Dionne flushed the toilet for authenticity and unlocked the door, walking smartly back down the corridor. She could hear talking and laughing coming from the sitting room, but no one paid any attention to her. The guy on the cell phone had gone, and she slipped out of the front door into the silent streets.

Her heart was thumping so loudly she felt sure everyone in the neighbouring houses could hear it, but she forced herself to walk the first block, past the Baptist Church and the Medical Centre, so she wouldn’t draw any attention to herself. Just another kid from the neighbourhood, out prowling the streets late at night. All she could think about was the money in her purse; there must have been at least five or six thousand dollars, but she wasn’t going to stop and count it.

Rounding the corner, past the old cinema that had long since burned down, Dionne saw that the streets were practically deserted; only the occasional car driving by in the darkness. Clutching her bag to her chest as if her life depended on it, Dionne began to run.

1

The guy sitting opposite her was hot as hell, with dark, Mediterranean looks, and a powerful, muscular body, but Alyson Wakefield didn’t even notice. She was staring out of the train window, fascinated by the view as it flashed past the carriage. The scene outside was far from extraordinary – bleak, grey skies, hanging low over the Kent countryside – but to Alyson, it was one of the most exciting things she’d ever seen. The rolling fields stretching away into the distance represented glorious freedom, the fruit trees coming into bud somehow symbolic of her new life.

Alyson had never even seen this part of England before, let alone been out of the country. She wasn’t one of those privileged kids, the ones who saw foreign holidays and an annual ski trip as a God-given right. Her life had been tough; she’d experienced more hardship in eighteen years than most people did in a lifetime.

But now she was leaving.

She felt a surge of excitement shoot through her body, nerves and anticipation churning in her stomach at the prospect of what lay ahead. She was moving to Paris, leaving behind the rugged moorland of Oldham, and the industrial cityscape of Manchester, where she’d grown up, for the city of love and life and lights.

The possibilities were endless and tantalising. She could reinvent herself – do what she wanted to do, be the person she wanted to be. She was no longer the shy, gangly schoolgirl, the one that the popular girls ignored and the popular boys taunted mercilessly. Like a snake shedding her skin, it was as though she’d left her old self behind when she’d checked in at St Pancras. In Paris, she could be anyone she chose to be.

She just wished she was leaving under happier circumstances. For years, she and her mother, Lynn, had faced the world alone, the two of them trying to get by as Lynn struggled with mental health issues and Alyson worked all the spare hours she could to try and keep a roof over their heads. And then her mother had been admitted to hospital after taking an overdose and her father, Terry – the man she hadn’t seen for almost a decade – had come back into their lives, offering Alyson the chance of escape.

You need to do something for yourself, he’d told her. You need to stand on your own two feet – and you need to give your mother the chance to do the same.

Alyson knew he was right, but that didn’t stop her hating him. She’d taken the money and run, wracked with guilt but eager to flee before the chance was snatched away. She had no idea what she was going to do with her life, but she was full of hope for the future and willing to work like a dog to make something of herself. She wanted to make her mother proud, to prove to her that it had been the right decision to leave. She didn’t give a damn what her father thought. As far as Alyson was concerned, he could go to hell.

The rural scene outside her window disappeared in an instant, replaced by nothing but stark blackness. Alyson jumped, jolted out of her daydreams. They were heading into the tunnel now, she realised, shooting under the sea on their way to another country, another life. Alyson couldn’t wait to get started.

“First time to Paris?”

“I’m sorry?” Alyson looked up in confusion. It was the man in the seat opposite who had spoken to her. She stared back at him, her pale blue eyes wide and uncertain.

“I said, is this your first time to Paris?” His face was gentle, his accent hard to place – not English, but not French either. He looked to be in his late twenties, with mocha-coloured skin and dark, curly hair. Even sitting down, it was obvious that he was at least six foot, and his dark eyes were trained on her intently. Alyson was oblivious to his interest. Men weren’t on her radar – her father had seen to that. No way was she ever going to give anyone the opportunity to treat her the way her father had treated her mother.

“I … yes …” she replied shortly, wishing this guy would just leave her alone. She didn’t want to strike up conversation with a random stranger, no matter how attractive he was.

“Are you travelling for a vacation?” he asked easily, seemingly unaware of her discomfort.

“It’s … I mean … Excuse me,” Alyson replied, flustered, as she grabbed her bag and quickly stood up. She could feel the colour flaming in her cheeks as she rushed down the aisle and out of the carriage. She only stopped when she found herself in the buffet car, her breathing coming hard, tears beginning to gather at the corner of her eyes.

What the hell’s wrong with me? she wondered in frustration. Some guy had spoken to her and she’d bolted like a hare from a trap.

She was supposed to be different now, she thought, furious at her own weakness. She wanted to be witty and sophisticated, poised and intelligent and able to hold her own in any conversation – not someone who took fright and ran every time a stranger tried to talk to her. Alyson let out a long, shaky sigh. Maybe this new life would be harder than she’d thought.

She stood miserably beside the window, her own reflection staring back at her. Who was she trying to fool? She wasn’t elegant or beautiful, she thought critically, examining her features in the makeshift mirror. Her face was too thin, too angular, all thrusting cheekbones and pouting lips, surrounded by fine blonde hair. And her eyes were far too large – wide and round, fringed by long, pale lashes. It didn’t help that at five feet eleven, she was about six inches taller than most other women and permanently hunched her shoulders to try and make herself look smaller. Her limbs were ridiculous – long and skinny – while her skin was pale and she refused to use fake tan. She’d spent all of her teenage years being labelled a freak, and it was going to take more than boarding the train to a new city to erase all that.

Alyson exhaled slowly, wiping her eyes. She never wore make-up, so at least she didn’t have to worry about mascara streaking down her face. She would just buy something from the buffet car and go back to her seat, she told herself, as she joined the queue behind an overweight man in a business suit. She tried to stand a little straighter, relaxing her shoulders, as though she could fool people into thinking she really was confident and successful – not shy, terrified Alyson Wakefield from a run-down terrace in Oldham.

She didn’t realise that men looked at her not with disdain, but with naked desire; that the distant look in their eyes was nothing to do with disinterest and everything to do with imagining what she would look like in a wisp of black lace from La Perla. If she’d known what they were really thinking, Alyson would have been horrified.

“Madam? Madam, can I help you?”

Alyson started; she hadn’t realised she’d reached the front of the line. She heard someone tut behind her and leapt forward self-consciously, ordering a tea which she grabbed before scuttling straight back to her seat.

The guy who’d spoken to her had his head down, scribbling in a Moleskine notebook. He looked up as she slid in opposite him.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, as he closed the notebook and put down his pen. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Alyson smiled, wishing they could start again. He must think she was a complete idiot. “It’s fine,” she assured him. “Really.” She tried to speak confidently, meeting his eyes for the first time. They were a deep brown, and sparkled when he looked at her.

“I’m Javier,” he told her. His voice was deep, his accent rich – Spanish or Portuguese, Alyson guessed.

She hesitated for a moment before replying, then told herself not to be so stupid. “Alyson,” she replied. “And yes, it’s my first time to Paris. Have you … have you been before?”

“Yes, many times,” Javier nodded. “I love to travel, and Paris is a beautiful city – although it’s some time I was last there. I’m a writer,” he explained, “And to write about life, you have to experience life – that is what I believe. So yes, I like to travel, to visit many different cities and people …” He broke off, his dark eyes dancing. “I’m sorry. I think I talk too much.”

“No, not at all,” Alyson insisted. “It’s fascinating. I’ve never really travelled at all, but I’d like to.”

“Well, Paris is a very good place to start.” He smiled at her, and Alyson could feel the heat rise in her face. She was so unused to all of this – chatting with a man, having a normal conversation. He was so much more mature than the boys at school, the ones who yelled crude things as she passed them in the corridor, teasing her ruthlessly to bring out all her insecurities.

“Have you been staying in London?” Alyson asked. She spoke quickly to hide her embarrassment, trying to ignore the feeling of warmth growing in her stomach and spreading through her body.

“Yes,” he nodded eagerly. “It’s a wonderful city – very modern, and majestic. But the weather is so cold!” He looked so outraged by this last statement that Alyson couldn’t help laughing. “I’m like a bird,” he continued, by way of explanation. “I must fly south to find somewhere warmer.”

“Do they have good weather in Paris?” Alyson asked innocently, taking a sip of her tea.

Javier shrugged. “A little better than London, maybe. But I won’t stay for long – a few days, perhaps a week or two. Then I’ll make my way down to Spain – my home country,” he explained with a grin. “My family are in Madrid, but I have friends in Barcelona so I’ll stop there. And I hope to be in Morocco by the end of the month. After that … what’s the expression?”

He broke off, and Alyson watched him as his brow furrowed in thought. She felt strangely disappointed that he wasn’t going to be staying in Paris. It was completely irrational, she knew that – half an hour ago, she’d never even spoken to him before. But there was something about him she found intriguing: to have the confidence to travel the world, moving from country to country like a free spirit, making casual acquaintances on trains and writing about what you found … He was so interesting, so adventurous.

Well now she was making her own adventure, she thought determinedly.

“Ah yes,” Javier began, suddenly remembering. “I will go where the wind takes me.”

The train shot out of the tunnel, and Alyson whipped round, eager to see what was outside the window. Her face fell as she looked at the view. She could feel Javier watching her.

“Is something wrong?” he asked

Alyson opened her mouth to speak, wondering how to explain herself. “I didn’t think … I mean, I just expected something else. The landscape, I mean …” she broke off, shrugging helplessly. The scene outside was depressingly similar to the one she’d left behind in England – the same flat, muddy fields and overcast skies. She knew it was crazy, but she’d somehow expected France to look visibly different; a glamorous, exotic Technicolor world, like Dorothy leaving Kansas and arriving in Oz.

Javier smiled sympathetically, the look of disappointment on her face all too obvious. “It will be different in Paris,” he reassured her. “It’s a magical, beautiful city – nothing like this,” he finished, waving his hand dismissively at the window.

“I hope so,” Alyson whispered. She’d come here looking for a new life, and so far nothing had gone to plan. She just hoped she hadn’t made a huge mistake.

***

The Gare du Nord was enormous. Alyson stared round in awe, gazing at the huge, arched windows and the vast green columns stretching up to the vaulted roof. All around her people hurried past, dragging suitcases behind them as they dashed to make their train. Nearby, a couple exclaimed in a language she didn’t understand, clearly delighted as they rushed towards each other and embraced, like a scene from an old-fashioned movie. Everything felt so … French! The announcements over the tannoy in a rapid Parisian accent; the signs outside the cafés for Orangina and croque-monsieur; the massive billboards advertising shows at the Opera Bastille and portables and TGV trains to Provence. Alyson loved it instantly.

It was incredibly inspiring, and more than a little intimidating. Every sense was on high alert as her body was bombarded by new sights and sounds and smells. Could she really do this, she wondered, a horrible wave of doubt creeping over her. There were so many people here that she felt completely insignificant, just one person in a city of millions. Was it really possible that she could carve out a future for herself here, with friends, an apartment, a career?

Instinctively, she moved closer to Javier. He’d accompanied her from the train, carrying her suitcase through to the arrivals hall.

“Can I help you find a taxi?” he offered.

“It’s okay,” Alyson shook her head. “I’ll take the metro.” A taxi seemed far too extravagant, especially as she had no idea when – if at all – she would find a job. She had to make her father’s money last as long as possible.

“Where are you staying?” Javier asked.

“I’m booked into a hotel in the Fifth for a few nights.” It was a tiny, two-star place she’d found on the internet. The reviews were horrendous, but the rates were dirt-cheap. “You?”

“The Eighteenth – the other side of the city.” Javier’s tone was apologetic. “It’s not the best area but …” he shrugged. “It’s very lively. There’s a real mix of people, many different nationalities … You’re sure I can’t help you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Alyson assured him, with more confidence than she felt. Their hands brushed as she went to take the suitcase from him, and she felt her stomach contract sharply.

“Well, it was great to meet you,” he told her softly, his eyes lingering on her face. Then he leaned towards her and Alyson felt a sudden stab of panic. He was going to kiss her! He was about to—

Javier bent down, their skin barely touching as he kissed lightly her on both cheeks, and Alyson felt a wave of humiliation wash over her. What the hell was she thinking? Her imagination had been working overtime, and she’d totally forgotten the way they did things over here – the double kiss being a perfectly normal way of saying hello and goodbye.

“Take care, Alyson,” Javier smiled. He picked up his bag and turned around, walking away into the crush of people. Alyson stared after him, watching the broad muscles of his shoulders until he was swallowed up by the crowds that bustled through the station. Then reality hit: she was in a strange city, a foreign country, and she was completely alone.

She could feel the warmth of his cheek against hers long after he’d walked away.

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