Walking The Edge: A Romantic Suspense/Espionage Thriller (Corpus Brides Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

If the situation weren’t so dire, and anger not flowing so freely inside her, she’d throw her head back and laugh at his plight. Yes, she loved to see him suffer. Did it make her a bitch?

She bent to examine a decorative tribal shield—by far the most interesting ornament she’d come across in all the shops that day—when her spine stiffened and she froze.

He was there.

Her ‘stalker.’

She could sense him, some alert inside her body going all haywire.

After putting the shield back on its display, she left the shopping basket where she had settled it at her feet and proceeded to a clearer area of the shop. Maybe from a central position, she’d be able to catch sight of the tall stranger.

Nathaniel followed her, but she didn’t give a damn about him. She had to figure out where the other man could be lurking.

A loud, shrill
beep
sounded when she passed the checkout counter. A small commotion broke out, a handful of men converging upon her. Some wore security uniforms, but most had plainclothes on.

They brushed past her and she gasped when they surrounded Nathaniel.

Had he tried to sneak something out of the shop?

“Step forward, sir,” one of the security men said.

“Wait,” Nathaniel replied. “It’s a misunderstanding. There’s someone with me who will explain.”

Lord, he
can
talk. So he’s been shamming me all along?

Don’t count on me, buster.
She slunk away from the counter, suddenly reckoning she was free from her bodyguard’s shadow. She could ditch him if the guards kept him busy. A small tumult broke out, interrupting her thoughts.

“He’s got a gun,” one of the men said.

“Freeze,” another shouted.

She really had to get away. There wouldn’t be a better chance to escape.

A hand closed on her arm. “Come with me, ma’am.”

The burr of the man’s voice came out throaty, as if not natural. His grasp tightened as he led her away from the crowd.

“I have nothing to do with—” Her gaze landed firmly on the man who took her from the store. He wore dark denims and a tucked-in blue shirt; a baseball cap covered his head, and a thick moustache shadowed his upper lip. Yet, the thrust of his chin looked familiar.

Floored by the realization, she froze and her feet stopped moving for a split second. This was her stalker! Not a security man.

And if she listened to her instincts, she’d bet all the remaining money in her handbag that he’d orchestrated the whole setup so security would stop Nathaniel and she would be without her bodyguard.

And he now led her away, towards the front door. But why?

“What do you want?” she asked.

He remained silent and continued to drag her forward.

He couldn’t be thinking of abducting her, surely? Not in broad daylight in a shopping centre full of people?

The man proved dangerous. Her mouth went dry when she focused on the strong, controlled grip on her arm, the same one Peter had bruised the night before. She couldn’t say this man’s hand felt gentle, but he certainly didn’t hurt her. Yet.

They had drawn close to the door. Maybe she should try one final approach at gaining an explanation before screaming the place down that he was kidnapping her. “What do you want with me?”

“Quiet.”

The word came out sounding more like a soft growl, giving her all the proof she needed. She couldn’t trust him, and though he’d take her out of the mall and away from Nathaniel, where would he lead her once outside? Who said he wouldn’t drag her to a side alley and drug her unconscious?

She had to get away. Immediately.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the way their legs moved, tuning in to their momentum. An almost comfortable, reassuring instinct seemed to wrap her in a shroud, guiding her moves as long as she kept her eyes closed and listened inside her.

When the time felt right—for no apparent reason except that her mind screamed so—she swung inward from the direction of her free arm and allowed the flat of her palm to land with the mighty force of kinetic energy onto his solar plexus.

The breath whooshed out of his lungs, and a look of intense surprise blossomed on the part of his face not shadowed by his cap.

Still, he didn’t release her arm, although his grip loosened. Listening to a firmly feminine instinct, she jerked her knee into his groin area and he doubled with pain...letting her go in the process.

She didn’t pause to think and rushed out onto the street to duck into a waiting taxi, throwing a quick apology to the person she’d cut off from claiming the cab.

“Drive away from here,” she yelled at the cabbie.

The man complied, no doubt egged on by her frantic tone. He hit the accelerator, and the black vehicle left the curb in a screech of burning tyres.

As they slipped into traffic with a speed that made her suspect the cabbie must be a Formula One driver in his spare time, she allowed herself to breathe again. Free. She was free of Nathaniel. She’d dreamt of it happening, yet, had never thought it could occur.

And here she found herself, with a split-second window of time open before her to make a decision about what to do.

Closing her eyes, which made the pounding of her heart and the thundering of her blood more obvious as her other senses took over, she tried to make sense of what had just happened.

The images tumbled through. Had the stalker set up Nathaniel? Who was that man? Had he been waiting in ambush for her? And why her?

Answers. She needed damn answers. Not more questions.

Marseille.

The name whispered across her mind like a whiff of cool, fresh air in the heated congestion inside her head.

She had to go to Marseille. Lord, had Fate known what lay in store for her today? Grabbing her handbag, she probed inside to touch the wads of money stashed there.

Eighteen thousand pounds, and even more money in Euros when she had the chance to exchange the British currency for the unique European money at a
bureau de change
. It had to be enough to get to the French city and find that
commissaire
, right?

Gerard Besson. The hammering of her heart accelerated as she summoned the memory of him. He had known her before, and he could help her.

What if he doesn’t want to?

Well, then she’d just have to buck up and find her way herself. It would certainly be better if he could lend a hand, but she had a feeling she had always gone looking for answers on her own and had never waited for anything or anyone to hand her what she needed on a platter.

How to get to Marseille, though? As she recalled the information on the pages she had browsed earlier, the path developed seemingly by itself.

Popping her eyes open, she saw the direction she should take. St. Pancras International—from where the Eurostar channel tunnel train left London for Lille. From there, she could hop on a local TGV railway line to the southern French city.

“Take me to St. Pancras,” she told the cabbie. Settling back in the seat, she took in a deep breath.

What was she getting into? She had no idea, but this must be the surest bet she had with the cards Fate had dealt her so far.

A few blocks from the station, the traffic stalled. She paid the fare and stepped out of the taxi, preferring to walk the remaining distance to her destination.

As her steps took her forward, a strange sense of certainty filled her. She was doing the right thing.

She reached into her bag and closed her fingers around her mobile. A voice inside her told her to get rid of it, but as she reached out to drop the phone into a nearby clear plastic bag hanging from a hoop—the London version of the public bin—something stopped her.

What, she had no idea, but it felt as if her mind urged her to let it take over, to switch to some sort of automatic pilot.

What the hell?

The urge struck as so strong, so right... She gave in with a shrug. Battling it would be too time-consuming and not at all efficient.

Assess your surroundings. Always.

Better buck up and trust the voice. Might be her ticket to an asylum, but she’d take that over going back to Peter.

She looked up to find she stood near a curry shop. One could always find a curry shop on every London corner. Going in, she wrinkled her nose at the pronounced reek of pungent spices that assaulted her nostrils. She must not be used to Indian food—otherwise, the odours wouldn’t cause her to reel as they did right now.

Not a British gal, then, because these thrived on their curry. What food
did
she favour? Being South African, as Peter had mentioned, she would probably be a lover of braai and other barbeque-style cooking. Except the idea of a thick slab of meat churned her stomach.

Who on earth was she?

Feeling suddenly sick, she clamped a hand over her mouth in an effort to keep in the rising bile.

“Can I use the loo?” she asked the man behind the counter.

He indicated the back of the room, and with a nod, she heeded the directions and rushed away.
Quell the nausea—you’re here for a purpose.
Once in the bathroom, she didn’t pause to think; she closed the stall door behind her and dismantled the phone.

Casing, battery, SIM card. She removed all of them, and then frowned at the voice telling her to dunk all the components in the water tank. Without stopping to question if she were going insane or becoming totally paranoid, she removed the tank’s cover and dropped the phone case and all its bits into the cloudy water. Then she replaced the cover, came out, washed her hands, and left the shop after thanking the owner.

As she walked, she tucked her arm in a protective gesture over the handbag. All her money sat in there—she couldn’t afford to lose it. Her credit cards were in there, too, so if the bag got lost or stolen, she’d be doomed.

No plastic trail.

Where had this thought come from?

As if on cue, the autopilot switched on again. She paused, scanned her surroundings, and saw a stationery shop across the road. After buying a pair of scissors, she clipped all her plastic cards in two and dumped the bits in a nearby hanging bag.

Finally, St. Pancras—the distinctive, reddish-brown Victorian edifice—came into view. She walked through the south end of the upper level of the station, her trek taking her past the enormous, bronze statue of the couple hugging in reunion. She walked fast as she proceeded through the interior to reach the international platforms used by Eurostar.

Lots of people crowded the counters, and she fidgeted as she waited for the line at the Chunnel ticket booth to move forward, preferably before the day ended. What if Peter or Nathaniel found her? She had to get away quickly or else— No, she wouldn’t think of that.

Finally, her turn came. She asked for a ticket for the channel crossing. “The earliest you have available, please.”

“Why, you sure are lucky, mam,” the chirpy woman behind the counter said. “The one o’clock train is nearly sold out, but I can squeeze you in.” She shook her head. “Good thing, too. Nothing else available on the other schedules today.”

“Lots of people travelling?” She loathed the idea of idle chitchat but sensed she’d better get the information. Mining every smallest bit of data could prove helpful, a part of her mind reckoned.

The woman nodded. “Booze trips, you know. All those youngsters care about today,” she said in a low voice as she bent closer. “Seeing as it’s Friday, all they want is to run across to France, get some cheap booze, and party the weekend away, whether there or back here.”

She gave the ticket lady a nod and glanced around. Indeed, the area looked crowded with youngsters in hip clothes. In her tailored coat and trousers, she stuck out like a sore thumb. Definitely screamed ‘adult.’ No wonder the other woman had shared her very grown-up opinion with her.

If someone came here looking for her...

“There you go.” The woman interrupted her thoughts, handing her the ticket.

“Thanks.” She slipped the paper into her bag and went to a crowded corner of the waiting area, having at least half an hour to kill before she could board the train.

She stood next to a gaggle of young girls in skinny jeans and oversized, layered sweaters. They grew silent, and then huddled together, whispering furiously, after she threw them a cursory glance.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she looked their way and caught their envious peeks before they averted their faces.

They’d been eyeing her clothes. The cogs turned in her head. Most of the stuff she had on came from the latest high-end collections and probably cost more than these girls made in pocket money in a year.

An idea struck her. She zeroed in on the girl who appeared to be the group’s leader, the one with crow-black, shaggy tresses and hot-pink hair extensions.

“Yes, it’s from Burberry,” she said, knowing the words would bait them into conversing with her; she’d heard them asking each other about the brand just a few minutes earlier. “You want it?”