From Paris With Love (27 page)

Oh dear – and do you know what happened then? My phone, as usual, ahem, conveniently didn’t work. So, pretending to be cross, I took it out of my trouser pocket, under my overalls, and held it in the air. Secretly, I took photos of the faces all around.

Most people were young – including several hot guys – all dressed in disguise, in dancing gear. Several nationalities appeared in the mix, so no obvious terrorist group sprang to mind. I know. As if I’d have any real clue. But Joe was sleeping like a baby in my bed, so I had to assess the situation as best I could.

Clapping hands brought everyone to attention and Monique entered the room. Shit (sorry, Lady, C), whilst my disguise might work from a distance, if she came over to ask me to leave, the wig and glasses probably wouldn’t fool her for long. I put the mobile back in my pocket, left the desk and scuttled to the back of the room, to furiously polish the ballet barres. Everyone had rucksacks or holdalls – what might they hold? For the first time it struck me that the royal couple might not be the only people they were hoping to hurt. What if this was a mass group of suicide bombers?

On the ground, near me, was a bag, its zip half open. I swallowed and looked around. Surely a titchy peek wouldn’t hurt? I leant down and pulled the zip back several centimetres. Hmm, a pair of trainers, a bottle of water… some energy bars… In other words, nothing much.

A few metres away lay a pink rucksack, open at the top. I glanced around – no one was interested in little old me, so I went over and had a quick rummage around. Again, there were trainers, a bottle of water and a small towel. I delved into a pocket and found a purse plus… My fingers curled around a piece of card.

I pulled it out. Wow. It was ticket to the charity football match. Quickly I took out my phone and photographed its seating details. Awesome! Joe would be impressed that I’d got evidence of the exact place this crowd were planning to sit. I shoved the ticket back inside the bag and just as I pulled my hand back out, nail-varnished fingers grabbed my wrist.

‘
Qu’est-ce que vous faites
?’ snapped a voice.

Eek! Joe wouldn’t be so impressed with me now. Suddenly, the wig felt suffocating. I pulled away from the vice-like grip on my arm. A woman not much taller than me, with a blonde pixie cut, stood before me, arms now folded. Loudly she fired out something else in French, and I picked out the word “thief”.

‘
Pardon, pardon
,’ I muttered and picked up my duster and spray from the floor, before hurrying around the side of the room, to the door.

But I heard her squeaky voice follow me, so I walked even quicker, shoving the mobile back into my pocket. I just reached the door when a tall man in a mustard corduroy coat stood in my way. I looked up to meet his gaze as he barked something at me.

I shrugged. The room went quiet. He barked at me again.

‘
Vorbiti engleza
(do you speak English)?’ I said and brainstormed an excuse I could give for rifling in someone’s bag. ‘Er, English?’

The blonde woman appeared in my face, eyes fiery, brow furrowed. ‘
Oui
. Yes. You – thief. We should call the police.’

I almost snorted. Talk about bluffing – as if a group of assassins would do that! But I kept a straight face.

‘No… You are very wrong…’ I said, putting on what I considered to be an eastern European accent. ‘I thought the bag was lost, so looked inside for a name to hand it in. Please… Do not say anything… I need this job, with… two small children to support.’ And then, in an apologetic voice I added the longest Romanian phrase I’d learnt from the book, hoping to come across as authentic. Little did she know it meant “I have diarrhoea, please show me to the nearest hospital.”

‘
Allez-y
!’ called Monique from the other side of the room. Clearly the actress was getting impatient. The blonde woman stared at me for a moment, then scowled before turning around to listen to the upcoming speech.

Head perspiring more than ever, under the wig, I squeezed past the tall man who sneered and shook his head. Unfortunately for me, the blonde woman had stuck her foot out and… Aarggh! I tripped, which Edward would have thought was karma, if he still believed I’d tripped Monique up, right at the beginning of our stay in Paris.

The polish flew across the ground and I sat up, glasses crooked and… My mouth went dry. A black fringe hung over my eyes which meant the wig had shifted and my light brown hair would be visible from behind. Even worse, it suddenly disappeared from view altogether and my head felt cold. I looked up to see the blonde woman, lipsticked mouth open, holding the curly wig in her hand. I jumped to my feet and without attempting to offer any explanation, bolted from the room.

After all, the most important thing Joe had taught me was, where possible, flight not fight. Behind me I heard Blondie loudly ‘
espionne
!’ –the French for “spy”. Two steps at a time, I descended down the staircase, past reception and outside. Feet pounded behind me, so there was no point aiming for the car, I’d never have time to open the door, get in and drive away. Instead, I turned right, ran fifty yards and legged it down an avenue. The sound of voices had petered away, but footsteps still followed, although not so many as before.

‘Stop!’ shouted a voice, which had the opposite effect on me and I ran for my life, hoping I wouldn’t trip over as this little street wasn’t lit and intermittent piles of rubbish littered the pavement.

‘Gemma!’ called a French male voice and I heard the screech of a car as well. Oh God. My identity was known. Clearly I was going to be thrown in a boot and this time tomorrow be in the Middle East or Russia or – I swallowed hard – a shallow grave in nearby woods.

I bit my lip, chest heaving as I squinted through the darkness. About fifty yards ahead stood a wall. I’d actually turned into a deadend. Now what would I do?

Nausea backed up my throat and I felt exactly the same as that day in the bunker, when Joe had turned nasty, during role play. And then – ouch! Two arms grabbed my shoulders. With all my might I stamped, hoping my foot would land on my assailant’s feet, but it was no good. I couldn’t wriggle out of my clothes easily, to escape, cos of the cumbersome overalls. So, I turned my head sharply to the right and bit into a hand. Someone swore in English and I wrenched myself free, but where to go?

The wall was only a bit higher than me. I charged ahead and with all my might, jumped – but two big arms pulled me back down. A tall body pinned me against the wall. Trembling from head to toe, I wriggled as my life flashed before me at breakneck speed…

Dad and my brothers cheering as I recited the offside rule… Auntie Jan trying not to cry as we sat, scoffing popcorn, in front of a mega slushy film… Winning a gold star at junior school for Drama… Getting my first ever tip as a waitress… The old Earl’s face when we won
Million Dollar Mansion
… Chef JC’s pride last week as I mastered a complicated sauce… Me and Edward kissing on Christmas night… Fans in the street shouting out how much they loved me… The Sacre-Coeur, lit up, under the French sky…

‘Let me go!’ I screamed, in a muffled voice, face pressed against the wall. I had a pretty cool life, and wasn’t about to let anyone bring it to a halt, not now. In fact, in that split-second, I realised a very important thing. Good times had existed before I knew Edward, and would without him, once again. What’s more, I, Gemma Goodwin, had been mad to be intimidated by Monique. So what if she lived and breathed art and probably had an IQ to match Einstein? I’d helped save a stately home. Now my catering skills were going from strength to strength. Plus I’d been cherry-picked to help protect our royals. I had friends from all social circles and still got bundles of fan letters. I
was
good enough for darling Edward. If only I’d realised that before, and put up more of a fight when Monique set her sights on my noble boyfriend.

I struggled again and to my surprise, the strong arms around me released their grip.

‘Gemma… It’s me.’ The body backed off.

Huh? I turned around and the shock almost winded me as I took in the spiky black hair and eyeliner.

‘Blade?’

‘Gemma, why are you –’

‘
Blade
?’ I shook my head. ‘What are you doing here?’ Then the penny dropped. ‘Oh my God… Joe was right. You
are
involved with this mega treacherous plot… How
could
you?’ My eyes tingled. Blade wasn’t the man I thought he was.

But I had no time for questions, as a familiar black BMW zoomed towards us and screeched to a halt. A wide-awake Joe jumped out, punched Blade deftly in the face and after a few seconds of wrestling, bundled him into the back of the car, which promptly drove off.

Chapter 24

‘All right, all right,
j’arrive
!’ I called as the rapping got louder. I yawned and glanced at my phone before heading to the front door. Honestly, who was knocking at this unearthly hour on a Sunday morning? It was only half past seven and I still felt knackered after being chased last night. A waiting text caught my attention. Wow. It was from Joe – said he’d made a mistake and that my rockstar mate was a good guy.

The knocking became more urgent and a wave of unease washed over me. It sounded remarkably like Blade calling my name. And Joe wouldn’t just message something like that – he’d have rung with an explanation. What if Blade had overcome him and escaped? What if the rockstar was waiting outside, ready to pounce?

I took a minute to read the text again. My chest squeezed as I read the word “Gemma”. Joe never called me that when he was on duty, or if we were talking spy stuff. And suddenly I knew that was his coded way of telling me all was not well.

The front door rattled and I ran into the kitchen to grab a frying pan. I tried to text Agent John Smith but my hands shook too much. With a deep breath I opened the door. Blade stood there in a different outfit from last night, as if he’d been home and changed. His lip had a slight cut on it from Joe’s punch. He held out a box and lifted the lid – croissants, fresh from the shop below, no doubt.

‘Gemma – please, may I come in? I feel we need to talk and…’

I tightened my grip on the frying pan. ‘Where is Joe? What have you done with him?’

‘Nothing?’ His brow furrowed. ‘Look…’

He strode right in and put the box on the kitchen unit, before raising his hands in the air. ‘
Ma pucette
, there is no need to…’

‘Tell me where Joe is!’ I said

‘Right here,’ said an abrupt voice and – all chiselled cheekbones and broad chest as usual – Joe strolled in. He gave a quick smile.

‘Good work. This was just short test. No doubt you surmised from my text that something was wrong. Just keeping you on your toes. Safety is para–’

‘… paramount, I know,’ I said.

‘Although, in actual fact, nothing is wrong…’ His cheeks flushed. ‘I was wrong about your friend. Blade’s identity checks out and he has nothing to do with Monique’s plans. I’ve apologised for the punch last night, along with bundling him into the car and interrogating him.’

Blade took the pan off me whilst I made my way to the sofa and collapsed. The two men came over and also sat down, Joe next to me and Blade in an armchair to the left.

‘Wait a minute, I mean… I can’t keep up…’ I shook my head. ‘So, the pretend text, whilst not real, is actually right? Blade’s not a criminal?’

‘Spot on,’ said Joe.

‘So, why didn’t his birthdate check out?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Gemma, when you texted me it, you just said the twelfth of July.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Bastille day is actually the fourteenth!’

Oops. I looked at Blade, whose lips jerked into an appealing grin.

‘And what about the rock magazine that Blade autographed?’ I said. ‘You declared it a fake.’

The agent cleared his throat. ‘Let’s just say my knowledge of heavy metal media isn’t as extensive as I thought. It’s a new publication that’s just been set up and hasn’t even got a web page yet. We drove Blade to his flat. He showed us his back catalogue.’

‘And Blade’s job? Didn’t John check out the shop? No one matching Blade’s description worked there.’

Joe nodded. ‘Blade gave me his boss’s number and I rang him just before we came here. John had described Blade as looking like
Alice Cooper
. Blade’s boss didn’t hear properly and thought he was looking for someone called Alice. He doesn’t employ any women at the moment.’

‘Yes, well, John should have made himself clearer – and that doesn’t make me very confident in… in your, um, company,’ I said, not sure how much my agent friend had told Blade about who exactly he worked for.

Blade reached across and patted my hand. Tingles ran up my arm.

‘Just as well you are on the job,’ he said, in his yummy French accent.

The room spun a little. Talk about playing with my emotions. One minute Blade was a good guy. Then he wasn’t, and I’m being held against a wall, terrifed and with a mouthful of moss. Then he was again.

‘Sugar… Give me sugar,’ I said weakly.

Blade stood up and hurriedly fetched me a croissant, which he delivered to me on a plate. I took an enormous bite, chewed a few times and then swallowed. Whoosh, a little sugar rush focused my mind.

‘Okay. So Blade is who he is…’ I looked at Joe. ‘How much does he know – about you?’

‘
Merde alors
!’ said Blade. ‘Enough with the mystery. Yes please, explain why my identity is so important. Is all this to do with some television channel? Have you both signed up to pull some prank on… Is it Monique?’

Joe looked at me. I raised one eyebrow.

‘Blade does know Monique,’ I said. ‘He might be able to help. You know – someone else, like me, off the payroll…’

‘You aren’t getting paid, Gemma?’ Blade shook his head. ‘Well, leave me out.

Joe finally nodded. ‘Okay, Blade, mate. We’ll tell you what’s going on – first answer these questions: have you taken Class A drugs in the last twelve months?’

Blade shook his head.

‘Class B in the last six?’

Blade shook his head again.