His voice was tender, and made her feel at ease. Her mind whirred through all the possibilities like some sort of super-computer. Trust him. Don’t. Fancy him. Don’t.
He was incredibly attractive, that was undeniable. If she was pregnant, then any resultant offspring would no doubt be beautiful.
If it was his.
But she worried about his moods. Could they really all be explained away by the stress of the day? Of what they’d done? Until today she’d thought she was sure. But the way he’d been picking on Paul, dismissive of Ginny. Then later, seemingly angry with Cat – these things had caused a small ball of doubt to begin to expand and bloom. And that worried her.
It worried her a lot.
What was to stop Tristan double-crossing her? Perhaps he had plans to get rid of her, too. She didn’t know the route. He could easily lead her the wrong way. It might even look like an actual accident this time.
She watched him as he chewed his own protein bar. He seemed miles away, deep in thought. Probably thinking the exact same things that she was. He would gain the most if he got rid of her. He held the key to the money transfer, and even if he didn’t move it to a different account, it would be his – with Ginny gone.
But then if something was to happen to him . . . then it would all be Cat’s, wouldn’t it? Not just Ginny’s money that she all but stole from Cat – but Tristan’s money too. And he must have plenty of it, with the job he did. The bonuses. The savings. If something was to happen to him, and Ginny was his beneficiary, then it would come to Cat, because there would be no one left in the family line.
She took a bite of the protein bar. It tasted like cardboard filled with dirt. She’d love something nice to eat right now. Cheese on toast, maybe. And a big mug of hot chocolate.
She pushed the thoughts of the money from her head. It was money that had brought them here. Money and greed. But it had to stop somewhere. It was like gambling in a casino. How much are you happy to win? How much are you willing to lose? Besides . . . it was more than money. She just wasn’t sure she was ready to face the truth of her real motivation.
Tristan spoke, bringing her back into the room. ‘We can get a test in the village. After we’ve sorted things with the police and the hotel.’
She blinked. Shook her head. She was trying to dislodge the horrible greedy thoughts. Tried to imagine a baby being the thing that might turn everything around.
And then she heard a noise outside. ‘What was that?’ She shrank back into herself, arms around her knees. Her heart thumped.
Tristan stood. ‘I don’t know. An animal?’ He walked over to the window, and the shift in the air made the candles flicker.
She swallowed. ‘I heard a twig snap. I think there’s something right outside.’ If this was a horror film, she’d wait while Tristan investigated. After a while, she’d make the mistake of going to look for him, and she’d find him hacked to death or hanging from a tree. She’d seen all of those movies. She blew out a breath. ‘Maybe we should go upstairs. Get away from the door.’ She paused, anticipating his next move. ‘I don’t think you should go out there.’
He rolled his shoulders. ‘Go through to the kitchen. Stay in the corner, OK? Take the torch.’ He turned the door handle. ‘I’ll be right back. I promise.’
Thirty-Eight
SUNDAY AFTERNOON
The man is now half sitting, half lying on one of the benches in the locker room by the toilets. There is a camera in that area too, and although the woman urged him to lie down and rest, he still looks uncomfortable. In pain. But refusing any further help. Pigalle is certain now that the woman has a hold over him, but has no idea what it might relate to. Pigalle is getting as fed up with the waiting as they are.
He insisted on turning the TV off after the second football match finished, and thus he and Séb have been sitting in the office doing very little but watching the couple as they battle with themselves over their decision to keep quiet. Séb has just got off the phone with the embassy personnel, and the news is good.
The woman walks up to the counter.
‘Excuse-moi?’ she says, not too loudly. Not bothering to press the intercom, knowing that they will be able to hear her now that the racket has been switched off.
Pigalle walks out front and greets her with a warm smile. ‘Good news, madame. You must have the sixth sense . . .’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Your embassy friends are back on the road. They will be here shortly.’
She nods. ‘How many of them are coming?’