The Running Lie E-Book

Jennifer Young

• Herausgeber: Cinnamon Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 481

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

In Cold Crash, when Archaeologist Max Falkland, the Anglo-American daughter of a British peer, meets American John Knox in London in April 1952, her already troubled life takes on mystery. As the Cold War thriller progresses, Max finds herself in increasing danger, but three weeks after the events of Cold Crash, the point at which The Running Lie begins, Max has found an archaeological dig in London and John Knox has entered her life. But even now, can he be trusted? Max encounters both skulls and sexism on the dig site at the bombed out shell of St. Bride's Church in London. A family request sends her to the Berlin International Film Festival, away from the dig and her growing relationship with John Knox. But after she sees John in Berlin with another woman, Max forces him to confess he is an American spy. When his current case collides with her family life, Max has to find a way to navigate layers of lies. As fireworks explode for the Fourth of July party, Max must make a dangerous choice if she wants to save both John and her family. The Running Lie is a page-turning Cold War spy thriller that reboots old school cloak and dagger — Max Falkland is the James Bond of the 21st Century.

Leseprobe

Contents

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Research

Dedications

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

About This Book

Guide

Contents

Start of Content

THE RUNNING LIE

A MAX FALKLAND NOVEL

JENNIFER YOUNG

Published by Cinnamon Presswww.cinnamonpress.com

The right of Jennifer Young to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988. © 2020 Jennifer Young. ISBN 978-1-78864-100-5

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP record for this book can be obtained from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publishers. This book may not be lent, hired out, resold or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior consent of the publishers.

Designed and typeset in Garamond by Cinnamon Press. Cover design by Adam Craig © Adam Craig.

Cinnamon Press is represented by Inpress and by the Books Council of Wales.

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Books Council of Wales.

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Jan for being a great editor and to Adam for the beautiful cover. Cathy, Dave and Natalie were fantastic beta readers. Thanks to Joe for archaeological and historical advice – and for the title! Thank you to Cathy Jewett for being an inspirational teacher (who taught me all the grammar I know), adopting Cold Crash for the Sidney Lanier Book Club of Cabarrus County in Concord, NC and for agreeing to be the best possible proofreader for my manuscript! I’m grateful to Jeremy, Helen and Simon at the University of Hertfordshire, and to the warm welcome I’ve received at Falmouth University, particularly from Paul, Amy, Andy and David.

Research

A great deal of research goes into a historical novel, and I’m indebted to many people for assistance with this novel. I’m very keen that the history and archaeology be as ‘right’ as I can make it. My plan has always been to include real female archaeologists from the ’50s in every novel in the trilogy. Cold Crash had Honor Frost, and The Running Lie has Audrey Williams and Pearl Wheatley.

I looked through the Norfolk County Council Historic Environment Record for a site Max could visit, and NHER 5755 referenced a Miss P Wheatley leading a dig. in Pearson’s field. The staff of the Historic Environment Record kindly digitised the files and sent them to me, and I started a search for Miss P Wheatley. I eventually found Pearl Wheatley through the Society for Lincolnshire History and Archaeology, and in July 2017 I travelled to Lincoln to interview her. Miss Wheatley was a fabulous host, with wonderful stories of being a teacher in Norfolk and Lincoln and her work for the Ministry of Works. She went on to found the Society for Lincolnshire History and Archaeology, and she received an MBE for her services to heritage in 2007. Her recounting of the dig in Pearson’s field appears in the novel, along with her motorbike and her recollections of Group Captain Knocker and his digging team. Neither dig took place in 1952—the Pearson’s field dig was in 1959 and Knocker’s dig was in 1957, but both took place in Thetford. The details of the digs and the finds are correct. The account of Knocker’s dig was drawn from Excavations in Thetford, 1948–59 and 1973–80, edited by Andrew Rogerson and Carolyn Dallas (East Anglican Archaeology, report 22, 1984.) Many thanks to Ken Hamilton of Historic England for putting me in touch with Charlotte Jarvis of the Historic Environment Service at Norfolk County Council, who scanned and emailed annotations from an unknown hand on the photos of the dig.

Thank you to Saya Miles and Jenny Harvey, both Archive Conservators for Historic England, for answering my questions about photographic decay so comprehensively. The details of the St Bride’s dig were drawn from St. Bride’s Church London: archaeological research 1952–60 and 1992–5 by Gustav Milne (English Heritage Archaeology, volume 11, 1997). Max’s dig in Iceland was inspired by Orri Vésteinsson article ‘Icelandic farmhouse excavations. Field methods and site choices’ (Archaeologia islandica, volume 3, 2004).

In addition to the very specific archaeological research, I loved poring over fashion magazines such as Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar in the British Library, selecting the right clothes for Max. The wedding dresses described in Nancy’s issue of Vogue are from the June 1952 British issue. I immersed myself in period publications such as What’s On in London, finding details such as the release date of the Singin’ in the Rain record. If you are interested in more details about my historical research, please visit my website at www.maxfalkland.com.

If you enjoy this novel, please leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Many thanks!

Please follow me on social media—I’m at @maxfalkland on twitter and Instagram.

The Running Lie

To Bela, Carolyn, Cathy, Natalie and Rachel—thank you.

And as always, this book is for Zoe (although not to be read until you are older!).

CHAPTER ONE

USUALLY ON SUMMER digs, Max had to layer herself heavily. She’d figured out on her first dig that she blistered, rather than tanned. But this dig had long shadows cast across it by the burnt out—yet still standing—walls of St Bride’s Church. She got by with a broad brimmed hat. In her two weeks of volunteering, they’d unearthed multiple bodies. Today they’d found yet another burial, and now she brushed delicately around the skull. They’d already dug out Samuel Richardson’s lead coffin, with its plaque intact. This body had no identifiers. Chatter in the trench mostly centred on the upcoming Olympics in Iceland.

‘Max and I have been to Helsinki, haven’t we?’ Will Firmin said.

‘Only on the way to Þjórsárdalur. Back in ’49.’ It’d been the first dig she’d gone on before starting her PhD. She’d arrived in Iceland on what should have been her wedding day. ‘We worked with Kristján Eldjárn, excavating Viking pit houses. Fascinating work on ordinary families.’

‘The peer’s daughter is interested in ordinary families?’

Max didn’t look up from the eye socket of the skull. She didn’t want to know who had spoken. ‘It formed part of my PhD.’

‘We had quite the special time there together, didn’t we, Max?’ Will’s hand landed on her back, and she shrugged it away.

‘If you mean digging, yes. Otherwise, no.’ The others laughed, and Will’s faced burned red. It clashed with his hair. The flash of anger in his eyes reminded Max far too much of the last night of that dig in Iceland, when he’d grabbed her and tried to kiss her. She’d managed to get free, but she’d never forgotten the pain in her arms or the fan of his beery breath across her face. She’d avoided being alone with him ever since. ‘Do you think the equestrian team’s chances are as good as the papers say?’ she asked. Conversation returned to normal, and Will moved away from her. Max sighed. Why did dig dynamics have to be so tricky? And why was Will trench supervisor here? He liked to remind her his position was over her, and always with a lewd smile.

‘Hey, Max. Somebody to see you,’ called someone.

Max clenched her teeth. If it’d been any bone other than a skull, maybe she could convince her mother it was a bit of a building. Max glanced up, readying an excuse. But John Knox stood under an archway, not her mother. He held his hat, and the sun shone on his dark hair. His blue suit looked immaculate. Max looked down at her filthy trousers and shirt. She dropped her brush and climbed out of the trench. ‘Hello, John.’ The last time she’d seen him, they’d kissed. What could she say now? ‘Want to have a look around?’

‘I’d love to, but I only have a minute.’ His eyes dropped to his hat. ‘How have you been?’

‘In the last three weeks? Fine.’ Why did she say that? Three—and a half—weeks since their first date. Only date.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t called. I had to go on an unexpected work trip, and I only got back today. Would you consider having dinner with me tonight?’

‘How did you know I was here?’

John shrugged his blue suited shoulders. ‘Journalists have sources.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Abroad.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Sorry, I have to get to a meeting. My office is just over that way on Fleet Street. I think some of my colleagues tried to help put out the fire here, when the bomb hit back in 1940. This dig’s been quite a conversation piece.’

But how did he know she was here? ‘Out for lunch?’

John smiled. ‘No. I haven’t been in yet. I’m still on my way from the airport.’

He’d come to see her first. Max meant to smile at him, but instead she found herself kissing him. She had the sense to keep it brief, but she drew away to catcalls from the archaeologists.

‘Is that a yes?’ He didn’t smile, he didn’t react to the noise.

Shadows lurked under his eyes. How long had he been travelling? ‘Yes. Wait, no. I’m supposed to go to Victor’s party tonight.’

‘I forgot about that. He invited me too.’ He turned his hat. His right index finger had a half-healed scrape along the knuckle. ‘Want to...’

‘So, the ice maiden thaws,’ Will said, resting his hand on her shoulder. ‘Or at least warms slightly. Coming back to work anytime soon, Max?’

Max gritted her teeth. People left trenches all the time. She should be trench supervisor, not Will. He didn’t even have a degree. ‘In a moment.’ She shrugged, knocking his hand away.

‘I didn’t think you would ever deign to... Knox? John Knox?’

John didn’t take his eyes from Max’s face. ‘Hello, Firmin.’

‘How do you two know each other?’ Max asked.

‘Same unit in the war,’ Will said. ‘At least for a while. What are you doing now, Knox?’

‘Newspaper manager. Look, Max, I need to go. Shall I collect you? Seven?’

Max nodded. ‘Remember my address?’ John found her on a bloody dig site in London, of course he’d remember her address. And somehow, she didn’t want Will to hear it.

‘Yep. See you tonight.’ John’s smile was bright, but he didn’t say goodbye to Will. John walked towards his car, a black Humber Supersnipe.

‘Come on, back to work.’ Will touched the small of Max’s back. ‘Very intimate with Knox, are you?’

Max dropped her hat simply to crouch and pick it up. And waited, slow, agonising seconds till Will took one step forward. ‘I don’t know him well, no.’

‘Looked like you do.’

‘Mm.’ Max settled her hat on her head. She wouldn’t focus on the sensation of John’s lips against hers. They reached the trench. ‘What ranks were you?’

‘What?’

‘You and John. You said you were in the same unit.’

‘Corporal and Captain. That’s what a damn degree gets you, sugar.’ He smiled. ‘Of course, it matters less than experience in the end.’

Max returned to her brush, sweeping it over the eye socket of the skull. Will kept talking, now to other workers in the trench. She studied Will for a moment. He was as tall as John, but ever since Iceland, she hadn’t quite trusted him. Could she trust John Knox any more than Will? John might not grab her and kiss her, but what did she know about him?

John claimed to be a journalist, specifically a foreign manager at the American newspaper Universal Dispatch, but she had doubts. Victor had told her once that John had clearly been somebody in the War. But nearly every man she knew had served in the War. And most of them didn’t have the same level of alertness or focus that John had, at least not now, seven years on from the end of the War. But then John had served in Korea as well.

‘Your boyfriend?’ Audrey Williams crouched next to the trench. She worked as Professor Grimes’ assistant, but she was an outstanding archaeologist in her own right.

‘No.’ Max looked back down at the section of her trench. ‘Just a…’ Friend? ‘No.’

Audrey laughed. ‘He’s good-looking. Thinking about it?’

Max smiled. ‘Maybe.’

Max parked her car on Pelham Crescent and went up to the house. She had an hour to get ready, and if she could avoid Mother, it would all be easier. But as she opened the door, Mother came out of the drawing room.

‘Darling, must you go around London covered in grime and God knows what?’

‘Mostly just London dirt,’ Max said. ‘You were the one who wanted me to stay at home.’ Max had planned to find a dig abroad. She knelt to unlace her boots, rather than tromp dirt on the carpets. ‘I’m going straight to the shower anyway.’ At least her mother didn’t seem to realise Max had been digging up human remains all day.

‘You have a party tonight?’

Max nodded.

‘What time do you need to leave?’ Mother asked.

‘I’m, um, being collected. At seven.’

Mother flicked the pages of Vogue. ‘A friend or a date?’

‘A date.’

‘Who’s it with?’ a voice called.

Max looked up at her cousin Charlie, who leaned against the banister above them. His crutches rested beside him. It’d been four weeks since he broke his leg in two places. At least he could lurch around the house now, even if he’d missed the last term at school.

‘Charlie, you shouldn’t eavesdrop. And grammar, please,’ Mother said. She smiled. ‘It’s a good question though.’

‘John Knox.’ Max picked up her boots. ‘I should go get ready.’

‘Hasn’t it been ages since you went out with him?’ Charlie asked.

‘He’s been abroad, for work.’ She dashed up the stairs, but stopped five steps up. ‘Mother, did you speak to him? Tell him where I was working?’

‘No. Why?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Maybe Victor had told him. Or his colleagues—but he hadn’t been to work yet. And why would they know she had started volunteering there? It must have been Victor.

As the shower water thrummed against her skull, she remembered that John had forgotten about Victor’s party. Victor would be physically incapable of talking to someone and not reminding them about his own party.

She sat at her vanity and applied makeup swiftly. Drawing eyeliner over her lids, she asked her reflection how her suspicions weighed up against the undeniable attractiveness of John Knox. She slicked on red lipstick and blotted, remembering the easy confidence of his mouth against hers. The Kleenex ricocheted into the bin. What did she want from tonight?

Max dropped a bag with wine bottles in the entry hall, and then forced herself into the drawing room.

‘Lovely,’ her mother said. ‘Red’s a good colour on you.’

‘Do you want a drink?’ her father asked, handing her mother a glass of champagne. ‘Have you heard from Bernice Dinsmore, Nancy?’ Dad asked. ‘I just wondered how she is, since Samuel passed away.’

Max forced herself to relax her jaw. Grinding her molars against each other would be much more satisfying. Mrs Dinsmore was perfectly lovely, but her daughter Catherine Max loathed. For a very good reason. ‘I didn’t know about Mr Dinsmore.’ Max sat and rested her handbag on the skirt of her halter neck dress.

‘It was quite sudden. The funeral was in the States.’ Dad lifted the champagne bottle again. ‘A drink, darling?’

‘No, thanks.’ Her mother’s Vogue rested beside her on the table. Max could pick it up, but what if her hands trembled? How could she be so nervous?

‘So, Nancy, have you…’ Dad started.

‘If I remember correctly, Mr Knox knew George?’ Mother asked. Her face stayed smooth, but her voice sounded ever so slightly strained. It always did when she mentioned George’s name.

Eight months ago, they had received the news from Korea. Actual physical pains still shot down the tendons of Max’s legs when she imagined the flames enveloping his cockpit, the terror her baby brother must have felt as his plane plummeted. And the memorial service with no body, the months of formal mourning, and the slow return to vague normalcy hadn’t shifted the aches.

Maybe Catherine and her brother Tommy felt the same distress, but Catherine feeling anything as human as grief seemed hard to fathom.

‘Well.’ Dad sipped his champagne. ‘It’s promising that George liked Mr Knox. It would be good to meet Mr Knox properly soon. Have him over for dinner.’

‘Didn’t you used to think George had bad taste in friends?’ Charlie asked. ‘I remember that time you wouldn’t let me visit when his friends were here.’

‘Charlie,’ Mother said.

‘And you hated all the dates he set you up with, Max.’ Charlie poked under his cast. ‘But I liked Mr Knox.’

It was true. All those dates—they’d all been horrid. Most of George’s friends were.

‘Leave your cast alone, please, Charlie. How do you—how serious are you about Mr Knox, darling?’ Mother asked.

Why hadn’t she agreed to meet him anywhere? ‘I…’ Max folded her hands around the handle of her handbag. ‘I like him. More than—I don’t know yet. But I do like him.’ Max checked her watch. Four minutes to seven.

‘What do you know about his family?’ Mother asked. Her voice didn’t have the warmth of Charlie’s.

‘They have a farm in North Carolina. John went to the University of North Carolina. Studied Languages, then joined up.’ She’d learned most of that on a ten-hour train ride with him, when she was exhausted and in pain. John had stopped being the mysterious, slightly annoying stranger she’d thought him before. He’d made jokes, played cards, gotten her food. And held her hand so she could have two hours of nightmare-free sleep.

‘Where in North Carolina?’

‘I don’t think we need to do a full-scale social investigation, Nancy,’ Dad said.

‘You would if he were British,’ Mother said.

‘There’s a smaller pool here. We know more of the young men Max would meet.’

‘Does it matter?’ Max asked. ‘It’s not like I’ll be producing an heir.’ Poor Charlie flinched. That duty belonged to him now. She stood to pace. ‘Not that I’m saying I would, with John I mean, but…’ God. ‘This is only our second date.’ Except she’d never had a second date where she’d spent so much time already with the man.

‘I’ll check his service record, Nancy, if it’s important to you. I’m sure Mr Knox’s family is fine.’

‘But North Carolina.’

‘You’re being a snob, Mother. You spent weeks saying he should have rung me after our first date. What’s wrong with North Carolina?’

‘Nothing.’ Mother smiled, that radiant glowing smile that lit the entire room. ‘But it shows you are really quite interested in him after all.’

Her father laughed, as Max flushed. ‘She’s got you there, Max.’

The doorbell rang, precisely as the clock chimed seven. Max ran to the hallway, barely pausing to grab her bag. She reached the door just ahead of Harris, the butler. She stepped back to let him open it, but she didn’t wait for John to be invited in or announced.

‘Let’s go,’ she said, grabbing his hand. ‘Sorry, Harris, can you tell my parents we’ve already left? Thanks.’

‘What happened?’ John asked, as Max pulled him down the steps. ‘Shouldn’t I say hello? I’d certainly do that at home. Hang on, Max.’

Max found a smile. ‘I’m—my mother is full of questions.’

‘About me?’ He tugged at her hand, but she resisted. ‘My car’s this way. What’s in the bag?’

Max exhaled and walked beside him to the car. ‘Wine for the party.’

‘May I?’

Max relinquished the bag into his grip. ‘My mother takes an extreme interest in my social life.’

‘Isn’t that the definition of a mother?’

Max laughed. ‘I suppose so.’

John opened her car door and held it as she slid inside. Max wanted to simply relax and enjoy herself, but as he got in the car she had to ask. ‘How did you know where to find me today?’

‘Victor.’ He started the car. ‘I figured if you were working, a phone call would be pretty useless. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

‘You didn’t. Of course not.’ She smoothed her skirt. Unnerved, perhaps. Not frightened. ‘You seemed to have little time for Will.’

‘Did I? Well, I was running late.’ He turned onto Fulham Road. ‘Did he say anything?’

‘Only that you’d been his captain. And he was a corporal.’

‘Was.’ He glanced over at her. ‘He was a private when I last saw him.’

‘Why?’ Obviously, John had demoted him. ‘I guess that’s a silly question.’

‘No, but it’s one I shouldn’t answer. I shouldn’t have said anything.’ He stopped at a stoplight and smiled at her. ‘I think I’m entirely too honest around you.’

Would John answer any other questions? Where had he been on his trip? And did he actually work for a newspaper? ‘What’s your job like?’

‘I sit in long meetings at the Universal Dispatch offices in London, and periodically I go to other countries and sit in long meetings about how to sell our paper in their region. Mostly to overseas Americans.’ He accelerated away from the intersection. ‘And could I interest you in a subscription, Dr Falkland?’

Max laughed. ‘I’m not American, even if I sound it. Do you normally sell door to door, well, car?’

‘Nope. But I’ll make an exception for you.’

‘Do you focus on a particular region?’ Max asked. These were the types of questions she’d been trained to ask. That her ex-fiancé had expected her to spout at parties.

‘Yes. The entire world, minus the United States.’ He smiled. ‘I haven’t made it to either Pole yet.’

He drove smoothly, calmly thorough the traffic. His eyes still looked tired, but his black hair swept back in a perfect pompadour. ‘How long have you been travelling today?’

‘Entirely too long.’ His finger tapped the steering wheel. The finger with the scrape. ‘At least I don’t have to go in tomorrow.’

‘What happened there?’ Max asked, although it fell outside the permitted questions.

‘Just an embarrassing collision with a door. I’d love to hear about your dig, if you can tell me about it,’ John said.

Would colliding with a door break the skin so unevenly? ‘There’s no secrecy about it. Besides, the vicar keeps leaking everything we find to the press anyway, to bolster the restoration fund. We’ve started focusing on the nave.’

‘What were you doing when I arrived?’

‘Digging up a skeleton. The site’s riddled with them.’ Max glanced at him. Most men wouldn’t consider this appropriate conversation for a date. He’d change the topic and…

‘Makes sense, for a church, I suppose. What do you think you’ll find under it? Vikings?’

He’d remembered her research interests. Max took a deep breath. How could he be so attractive when she knew so little about him? ‘No, not likely. I honestly just wanted to join any archaeological work I could find, and my mother wouldn’t let me leave London again. It’ll be Roman. Maybe Celtic.’ And then she heard words she hadn’t dared say aloud before. ‘I’m not enjoying it the way I thought I would. It’s…’ How did she compare digging a quarter of a trench under Will Firmin with the moment of her plane crashing, her run through the darkened distillery? John stayed silent. ‘I guess it isn’t the summer I expected.’

‘Would you have preferred to stay on Mull?’

With gunfire and submarines? ‘Maybe.’ She’d been in control of the archaeological survey there. But was that all?

‘How are you sleeping now?’ John asked.

That definitely fell outside the permitted questions. ‘Better than I was.’ The nightmares had stopped, but her dissatisfaction with her days had not.

John parked on Victor and Emma’s street. ‘They really do live close to me. My place is three streets that way.’ He pointed.

‘Then Kensington was quite a trek. Sorry.’

‘Are you kidding?’ His fingers brushed her cheek gently. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I was when you said yes. And that I’m finally back in London.’

‘I’m glad too,’ Max said, flushing. She’d nearly said she’d missed him. And she had.

They walked down the street, Max’s hand caught in the warmth of John’s. She’d been to dozens and dozens of parties at Victor and Emma’s, since she met them four years ago, on that same dig in Iceland. Victor had paraded so many men past her, convinced he could find the one for her. Only her mother matched him in persistence. She glanced up at John’s profile. None of them had been as attractive, on any level.

‘Why are they having a party?’ John asked.

‘They like parties. I’m not sure about this particular one.’ They hadn’t had one in ages. After the last one, Emma had confided they were trying for a baby, and that she didn’t want late parties anymore. But here they were, hosting another one.

People spilled out onto the street from the open door. Max said hello to a clump of archaeologists, introducing John and swapping pleasantries.

They headed up the steps. The hallway felt dark after the low sun outside. Music washed over her along with a heady rush of voices. The piano riffs of ‘All of Me’ played, and a few people started dancing to Dean Martin’s voice.

‘Max,’ Victor called, manoeuvring through the press of bodies towards them. ‘Hiya, John.’ He grinned. ‘So, is this an accidental simultaneous arrival, or was this a planned, dare I say it, date?’

John laughed. ‘I asked Max out, but she insisted she had to come here.’

‘But you said you were invited too,’ Max said. Had Victor told John about the dig site? They didn’t act like people who had spoken earlier today. Did it matter?

‘Look at you. A second date and you’re already bickering. Either it’ll be the altar or a quick ending.’

Heat rose to Max’s cheeks, and she didn’t want to see John’s face. ‘Well, poor John’s carrying this bag of wine,’ she said. ‘Let’s take it to the kitchen.’

‘You all right to go alone? I need to sort something.’ Victor grinned. ‘Make sure you get some of hers, John. Vastly superior to the booze we have.’

Max led John to the kitchen. Emma lifted a tray of pastry out of the oven.

‘Hello, darling. Hello, John.’ She dropped the tray on top of the cooker. ‘Why do I keep doing hot food in summer?’

‘Because you’re that kind of hostess?’

‘Can I put this here?’ John lifted the bag onto the bright yellow tablecloth.

‘Yes, of course.’ Emma slid another tray into the oven. ‘Give me a second.’ She moved to the cabinets.

Max pulled a bottle from her bag. John picked up a bottle opener from the table and took the wine from her. He smiled.

‘I didn’t learn how to do this either till I left home. The problems of growing up in a dry county.’

‘Did you have much wine in the Army?’ Max asked.

John eased out the cork. ‘Mostly beer. But wine in France.’

Emma brought over three glasses and John poured the red liquid equally. ‘It’s nice to see you both…together?’ Emma asked.

Max closed her eyes. ‘Yes.’ Would she have a faint blush all night? She sipped the wine, then took a gulp. She couldn’t get smashed either.

‘Knox,’ a voice called. Will Firmin. ‘Oh, excellent. More wine.’ He came into the kitchen.

‘Are we running out?’ Emma asked.

Will’s houndstooth suit’s check was simply too big. John wore the blue suit he’d worn earlier today, but the shirt looked fresh.

‘No, but I’m guessing that’s better, since Max’s standing guard.’

Anger rose in a hot column, but Max exhaled rather than snapping. Will downed his remaining wine and held out his glass. Emma filled it.

‘Super party, as ever, Emma,’ Will said. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’

‘I think every archaeologist left in London is here,’ Emma said.

‘How did you get into archaeology, Will?’ John asked. ‘Emma, do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Of course not.’

John lit a cigarette, and offered them to Will and Emma. He’d remembered that Max didn’t smoke. Will took one; Emma didn’t.

‘After the war, I thought it’d be a different way of looking at death, if you know what I mean,’ Will said.

Max had heard this post-war explanation for doing archaeology before from Will. It sounded more intellectual than he was.

‘Did you ever do a degree?’ John asked.

‘Oh no, not me. Too dense for that. I’m good at the labour though.’ He grinned. ‘Strong back and all that. Still, Max here has to obey me on this dig.’

‘I’d hardly call site discipline that strict, Will,’ Max said, maintaining a smile. ‘Emma, can I help you with anything?’

‘Yes. Excuse us, please,’ Emma said. She and Max left the kitchen and moved down the hallway. ‘Is this thing with John serious?’

‘I thought you needed my help.’

‘Only in getting you away from Will. Serious posturing there.’ Emma frowned. ‘Has Will ever asked you out before? He’s very huffy.’

Max shrugged. ‘He’s propositioned me. I wouldn’t say he’s asked me on a date per se.’

‘Lovely.’ Emma untied her apron. ‘What about John?’

‘It’s a second date. But I like him a lot.’

‘Good. What can I say we needed when we go back?’

‘I could change your hair?’ Max laughed. ‘Or we could just go back in.’

‘What are you plotting?’ Victor asked. His arm went around Emma’s waist. The music came to a halt, and only voices from the living room and further down the hall sounded now.

‘Emma’s just trying to get information about John.’ Max held up a hand to forestall him. ‘There’s nothing to tell. It’s a date. Leave it at that.’ She led them back towards the kitchen, but stopped when she heard Will’s harsh laugh.

‘Me? I never get knocked back,’ Will said. ‘I reckon she’ll only really go for some rich guy.’

Max took a deep breath, remembering the pressure of Will’s hand on her arm in Iceland. Many times since, he’d laughed when she said no, but bitterness sounded in his voice now.

Will kept talking. ‘But I’m sure you’d love to get your hands on her dosh. It’s not like the Knoxes are flush, right? Besides, Max’s a bi…’

‘You’ll keep a civil tongue, Firmin,’ John snapped.

Only an officer could make that sound so sharp.

Victor took a step forward. ‘That’s enough. I won’t have that in my house.’

‘He didn’t know we were listening, did he?’ She turned and pushed Victor back. ‘Leave it. It’s nothing I didn’t suspect he’d say already.’

A body crashed into her, and wine tipped out of her glass to the floor. Arms steadied her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ John said. He was slow to move away from her.

Will barged out past them without saying anything.

‘I’ll get a cloth,’ Victor said, easing into the kitchen.

‘And I’ll put on another record,’ Emma said, heading to the living room.

‘How long have you been here?’ John shoved his hands in his pockets.

‘Not long.’ She looked down at the small puddle on the floor. A drop had fallen on the toe of her shoe. At least the black leather wouldn’t stain. ‘But… thank you.’

‘What did you hear?’ A smile twisted his mouth. ‘Or do I want to know?’

Max leaned up to kiss his cheek. His arm closed around her back, warm and solid. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t a flirt. She wanted to thank him for chastising Will. She wanted to know what had been said that sent Will charging out of the kitchen when she couldn’t hear them anymore over Victor’s outrage.

‘Someone to Watch over Me’ started playing.

‘I love Ella Fitzgerald.’ Max let go of all her questions.

‘I do too. Want to dance?’

Max nodded, and they walked back to the living room. Max went into John’s arms, inhaling the faint spiciness of his aftershave and smoke. Without any negotiation or conversation, they embraced more closely than her mother would have thought proper at one of the endless balls she forced Max to attend.

‘You dance well,’ Max murmured. Pleasure hummed through her, from the warmth of his hand on her waist, the smooth way they moved together, and the feel of his body under his suit.

‘You sound surprised.’ John smiled at her. ‘My mother loves to dance. I...’

He stopped speaking as someone tapped his shoulder. Will Firmin.

‘Mind if I cut in?’ Will asked.

Max minded, terribly, and she squeezed John’s hand before releasing it. What else could she do? Will hadn’t asked her, and a room full of sharp eyed archaeologists watched her. If she refused, another strike would be added to her dilettante, difficult reputation. With smiles from all three of them, the switch was engineered.

She stiffened her arms when Will tried to pull her close. His breath reeked of wine, onions and smoke.

‘Useful day on the site,’ she said.

‘What do you see in him? He’s a stick in the mud. Come out with me instead.’

‘I think, if we manage to get through the layer of burials, we might find some of the Roman...’

‘I’m as tall as he is, easily as good looking.’

True, Will had regular features. His hair was reddish brown, but how could she possibly ever kiss that ridiculous moustache? And it came down to she’d known Will for four years. She’d never found him remotely as attractive as John Knox. John stood on the far side of the room, talking to Emma. He lit a cigarette and watched them. And made no pretence that he didn’t.

‘And I’d definitely be better in bed.’ Will’s fingers traced her skin. Max shuddered. ‘See? I reckon you’ve been screwing the wrong guys.’

How in God’s name could he consider her reaction to be attraction? She took a deep breath. ‘Will, have you ever considered just talking to me instead of hitting on me?’

‘But look at you.’

‘You mean I’m a blonde woman with secondary sex characteristics? That doesn’t mean I can’t think or talk.’ Her mother’s words rang in her ears: twenty-seven, too much education, stubborn. ‘Lots of other men manage to talk to me.’

‘Knox?’ His voice grated.

‘Yes. And Victor and...’ Actually, not that many other archaeologists. Her PhD supervisor, Edward.

‘Victor is disgustingly monogamous.’

Max laughed. ‘Oh, Will, you sell yourself so well. You won’t talk to me, and you admit you wouldn’t be faithful, even if I did sleep with you.’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘I’m completely comfortable not knowing.’ The song ended, and she dropped her arms. ‘Excuse me.’ She held her skirts close so they didn’t brush against him. Could she walk straight to John? He’d moved though, and she didn’t see him, Victor or Emma anywhere. She headed towards the drinks table and poured herself another glass of wine. She should attach herself to a group, make chit chat with archaeologists. Not doing it would only add to her reputation, but she hated it. She leaned against the cool wall and sipped her wine. Its sharpness flooded her tongue. Why did she feel flustered? Was she being as snobbish as Mother? The moustache alone, never mind his clothes. Will had eased into a group of women, and they all chatted cheerily to him. He’d clearly been about to call her a bitch.

John came through the living room door with Victor. Victor laughed at something John said, and John smiled. She shifted through the crowd until she reached them.

‘You okay, kiddo?’ Victor asked.

Max nodded.

‘Would you like to dance again?’ John asked.

‘Yes. Excuse us, please, Victor.’ They linked hands and took the few steps back to the dance area.

‘I’m sorry we were interrupted,’ John murmured.

Maybe she should be embarrassed at how easily she relaxed in his arms. She wanted to curl into him. ‘So am I.’ Why was she spending her time away from the dig with the people who annoyed her? She’d barely even seen Victor or Emma, and she and John couldn’t actually talk. The song came to an end, and they slowly separated. ‘Do you mind if we leave?’ Max asked. She didn’t wear a watch tonight, but it couldn’t be much later than eight.

‘Are you all right?’ John asked.

‘I just have a bit of a headache. The music’s quite loud.’ Smoke hung in clouds in the rooms.

‘Of course.’

Max waved at Victor, who nodded. And then she was outside in the gloriously fresh air.

John opened Max’s door and then walked around to his side. But he didn’t turn on the car immediately. ‘I’ll take you home.’

Max flushed. ‘It’s quite early still. Would you like a drink somewhere?’ She glanced down at her handbag. ‘I guess I didn’t feel much like a party after all.’

‘There are lots of pubs around here.’ John stayed silent for a moment. ‘Or would you like to come to my place?’

‘I’d prefer that.’ Max took a deep breath. Her mother would be horrified. Going to a man’s flat on any date, much less the second one.

The drive only took a few minutes, and soon John turned down a narrow street and parked. They slowly walked to the last terraced house. 15A. John unlocked the door and ushered her in. Was she being foolish? The hallway light illuminated a dozen or so envelopes and a couple of magazines spilling across the hallway carpet.

‘Sorry, I haven’t been home yet. Go on in.’ He bent and started picking up envelopes.

Max turned on the light in the living room. No television, but a radio sat near the sofa. An utterly bland room, with cream walls and a hideously blurry painting of a country landscape in lavender and pale green. She’d bet it came with the flat. Just before she turned back to the hallway, she spied the bookcase beyond the sofa. Some historical books—two by historians she didn’t rate but the rest she deemed acceptable. The lower two shelves held novels. She recognised titles in French, Italian and German. Some Agatha Christies. The Russian and Asian language titles she could only guess at.

‘I figured you’d be at the bookcase.’ John placed the stack of post on a side table. Did she imagine it or were the envelopes graded by size? ‘Approve?’

‘Yes. How many languages do you speak again?’

‘Seven fluently. I’m decent in a few more.’ He opened the living room window. ‘It’s a bit stuffy in here.’ He took off his jacket and folded it precisely before draping it over the armchair. ‘Now, I offered you a drink. I hope bourbon is okay.’

‘That’s great.’ Max followed him into the kitchen. Every item sat at right angles, from the bread bin to the dish drainer. A single, wilted pot plant sat in the middle of the small table. ‘You rent this place, right?’ A refrigerator hummed in the corner.

‘How’d you know?’ He opened a cupboard that held a bottle of bourbon, two tumblers and two wine glasses.

‘I didn’t have you down as a soft-focus landscape kind of person. Although I’m surprised a landlord would give you a refrigerator.’

‘He didn’t. I bought the fridge since I’m away so often—and usually without a lot of notice. Coming home to rotten meat once was an incentive enough.’

And what did he do on those trips? ‘Can I help?’ she asked, when John picked up the bottle.

John smiled. ‘It’s hardly high entertaining here. Would you like anything to eat? Having offered, I should clarify that the only thing I’m positive I have in the place is a bag of grits.’

Max lifted the glasses. ‘Just a drink is fine.’ She followed him into the living room. ‘Did you bring the grits back with you?’

‘Oh, it’s much worse than that. I had my mother mail them to a colleague who went home.’ He put the bottle on the coffee table. ‘I haven’t been there in three years.’

‘Neither have I.’ She put the glasses beside the bottle. They looked at each other.

‘Sorry, have a seat, please.’ John opened the bottle and splashed some in each glass.

Max lifted hers and sat on the sofa. It took a lot of willpower to keep her shoes on and her feet on the floor. She’d far rather curl them up under her. John sat beside her and rolled up his sleeves. Max touched his forearm, just above a bandage, startling in its whiteness against his tanned skin.

‘I dropped a glass,’ John said. ‘Cards?’

‘Okay.’ She wanted to kiss him and talk, not play cards, but she hesitated to say it aloud. And how would dropping a glass leave a cut that high up?

John turned on the radio. He fiddled with the dial, moving from a comedy to the end of an opera. The Light Programme announced the fourth episode of play called The Case of the Night-Watchman’s Friend, and John switched it off. ‘I’ve got to get a record player.’ He pulled cards out of a drawer and dealt gin rummy.

They’d last played cards three weeks ago. She’d been in the middle of a game with Charlie when John arrived at her house to collect her for their date. John had coached Charlie, but Max still won. Tonight, she watched John’s tanned fingers against the blue backs of the cards and swiftly lost.

A second date. She couldn’t possibly try to pursue more than drinks and cards. His tie remained knotted. She wanted to tug it loose, but instead she sipped her bourbon. Max swept the cards up and shuffled neatly. Maybe he wouldn’t notice her cheeks had heated. It’d been nearly four years since she’d had sex—and then not very satisfactorily with her ex-fiancé Daniel Hagan. Daniel hadn’t been remotely as attractive as John.

‘How’s your cousin’s leg?’ John asked.

Clearly John was thinking about their previous date too. Not about sex. ‘Charlie still has the cast. His school’s sent him coursework now, so he’s complaining a lot.’ She smiled. ‘You charmed him completely though.’

‘Even though he didn’t win the game?’ John lifted his cards. ‘I’m not sure I helped him that much.’

Max smiled. ‘It didn’t matter to him.’

John shifted a card to the left, and then set them on the coffee table. ‘Gin.’

‘How did you do that so fast?’

‘You dealt it.’ He scooped up the cards as she tallied the points.

After winning one hand, she excused herself to go upstairs to the WC. His hairbrush rested beside the sink, but no black strands twined through the bristles. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Did she want more than cards? Could she honestly suggest it? Clearly John wouldn’t push. He hadn’t even kissed her.

How big a hypocrite was she that she told Will Firmin off for hitting on her but she wanted to do the same to—with—John Knox?

She traced a line on the bathroom countertop. A list would help. Cons. Falling for him. More, she added. J saying no, laughing. Pregnancy. Surely, he would have protection. If he didn’t, she’d stop. Pros. Sex. She missed sex. Falling for him, more. And what would happen next?

Her hand swiped away the imaginary list, as if John could see it.

She peeked into his bedroom. The bedside table held a phone, a lamp, a spotless ashtray, another novel and a clock. The bed’s pale blue counterpane fell in perfect alignment. His study had papers and more books, but a filing system kept everything just as regimented.

John stopped playing solitaire as she came back to the living room. ‘Nice browse around?’ he asked. His smile softened his words.

Max still blushed. ‘How’d you guess?’

‘Four minutes since the flush. It’s a small place. Discover anything interesting?’

‘You have no photos anywhere. And your towels are from North Carolina.’

‘As are my sheets. I’m from a textile town.’

Max steeled herself. Had four years left her so inept around men? She pushed aside memories of Daniel. This had nothing to do with him.

But what if John said no? What if he thought her all the words her mother would use—forward, a hussy? What if once she brought it up, he morphed into Will Firmin and never properly talked to her again?

‘More bourbon?’ John asked, lifting the bottle.

‘No, thank you.’ She leaned down to kiss him. As it went on, his arms went around her and drew her onto the sofa beside him.

He broke away. ‘Max, honey, we should stop.’ His finger traced the curve of her ear.

Max ran her lips along the line of his jaw. ‘Mr Knox, I’d very much like to make love with you.’

John took a deep breath. ‘You consistently surprise me, Dr Falkland.’ He tunnelled his fingers into her hair and kissed her. After a long interlude, his mouth skimmed down her throat and brushed along her collarbone. ‘I do like you in red.’

Max sighed, heat flooding her.

‘At the risk of sounding ungentlemanly, can I ask…’

‘It’s not the bourbon; I’ve thought this out very carefully in advance.’ Sort of in advance. ‘Pros and cons.’ His chuckle vibrated against her skin. ‘I’m quite clear about it.’ She traced over the width of his shoulders. ‘Oh, and I’ve had sex before.’

‘That was actually my question.’ He framed her face, and his blue eyes stayed serious. ‘Are you sure?’

His accent deepened, sure coming almost as two syllables. Max inhaled.

‘Max?’

She nodded. ‘Have you?’ It seemed only fair to know as well. Her fingers caressed the black knitted silk of his tie before she loosened the knot.

John smiled. ‘I have.’

She unbuttoned his top shirt button. ‘Are you sure too? Do you…’ She stopped. Nothing about his expression implied judgment.

‘Definitely.’

‘And protection?’ She should have asked that first.

‘Yep.’

His pulse beat swiftly at the base of his neck. Daniel would have already accused her of chattering too much. Had, in fact, when she gave him back his engagement ring. ‘A lot of questions.’

‘Exactly as I anticipated.’ John drew her chin up so she looked at his face. ‘Talking to you, Max, is one of my very favourite things.’

Max leaned forward to kiss him, her nerves falling away.

‘That could be added to my list though. And this.’ His lips returned to her collarbone.

She laughed. ‘Then will you show me your North Carolina sheets, please?’

John stopped speaking, and his caress of her spine slowed and ceased. Under her cheek, his chest rose and fell evenly. He didn’t snore. Another thing to like about him. She shivered, and his arm tightened around her. Max pressed her lips to his skin and watched pink streaks in the sky deepen to navy. Sex had never been so… relaxed with Daniel. When she’d told John that she didn’t want to make love on the sofa under the awful landscape, he chased her up the stairs laughing. When had she last laughed during sex? Any vague hope that she could sleep with him and move on dissipated. She wanted to stay right here, for a long time.

His clock was on the other side of the bed, so she tilted his wrist until she could see the phosphorescent numbers on his watch. Nearly ten. She closed her eyes and breathed in. Smoke, bourbon and a faint aftershave sharpness.

Max eased out from under his arm. He shifted, but didn’t wake. She headed down the stairs to gather her clothes and then tiptoed past the bedroom door to the lavatory to dress. A slick of red lipstick and she smiled at her reflection. But if she went home with her hair this disarrayed, her mother would never believe she’d only been to a party. Max didn’t want to hear the words she’d imagined out loud. Her fingers didn’t make much of a difference to the tangles, so she used his brush. She put it back by the sink but then tugged the long blonde strands free and dropped them in the bin. The bin that held the condom she expected, but on top of it lay a bandageand wrappings for a new one. Presumably the one on his forearm. Bright crimson slashed over the dried blood on the old bandage. Had it bled again when they made love? A glass, he’d said. And a door hit his finger. Would he ever tell her the truth about what he really did?

Her stockinged feet paused by his bedroom door. She could ring for a taxi, but what would her mother say if she returned from a date in a taxi? The light from the hallway illuminated his hair tumbling over his forehead. How had she ever kidded herself this was simply lust? She crossed the room and kissed him gently. He murmured her name, his arms folding around her. He tugged at a button on her dress as his eyes opened.

‘When did you get dressed?’

She sighed as he stroked her back. ‘I have to go home. I’m a respectable girl, remember?’

‘Marry me. Stay and be respectable.’

‘Are you serious?’

John scrubbed at his face and sat up. ‘Yes.’ He spoke slowly. ‘I am.’

Max laughed, although her stomach lurched. Could she? This fast? ‘Ask me again when you’re awake. You look far too shocked for me to take you seriously.’ Was it purely because she’d initiated sex? Did he mean it?

‘I can’t believe I fell asleep.’ He clicked on the lamp and lifted his alarm clock. He blinked. ‘How did I miss you getting up?’

‘I was quiet.’ In the light, without the rush of passion, a bruise overlapping an expanse of scarring on his left side looked far darker. She brushed it gently, and then touched a round pucker on his right shoulder. The bandage on his arm was new.

‘Korea,’ John said, pulling her hand to his lips. ‘The bullet from the War.’

‘And the bruise?’ He didn’t answer. Max leaned over and kissed the bullet scar. ‘See, I don’t think I could marry somebody…’ she whispered against his skin. John stiffened. ‘Who wouldn’t tell me what he did as a job.’ His tension eased, and suddenly he rolled them so she lay on the bed, with him looming over her. He threaded his fingers through hers against the sheets.

‘Honey.’ He punctuated each word with a kiss on her temple, her cheek, her nose. ‘What do you think I do?’

‘I don’t know.’ But she didn’t think journalists often had massive bruises and scraped knuckles.

‘I’m a journalist. Honest.’ John rested his forehead on hers. ‘I’m sorry I fell asleep.’

‘I insisted on this. And I knew you were tired.’

John grinned and nibbled a path up her neck. ‘Insist again.’

Max laughed and then gasped as his teeth closed on her earlobe. ‘I should go.’

‘In a minute,’ John murmured.

‘Have we stayed too late?’ John closed the car door behind her.

The interior light came on as he opened his door, and Max looked in her compact. ‘I think I can get by an inspection if the lights are low.’ She smoothed her hair. ‘Besides, I suspect it will just be Dad waiting up now.’

‘I don’t want you to get into trouble on my account.’ He started the engine.

‘Dad likes Americans.’ She smiled. ‘My British grandfather considered my mother to be the daughter of jumped up shopkeepers. But he adored her. And the money she brought.’ She pushed at a wrinkle in her dress. Next time she shouldn’t just let it fall.

‘What did you hear Firmin say?’

‘Not much. It was quite loud.’ She turned towards him, splashes of light crossing over his hands as they drove under street lamps. ‘Whatever he said, I’ve never—we’ve always been colleagues. Nothing more.’ What would John think of her after tonight?

‘I got the sense you don’t like him much.’ He paused at a traffic light. ‘To be honest, I don’t, so maybe I’m just making an assumption.’

Max shook her head. ‘No, you’re right. He has this idea because I’m blonde and, well…’

‘Gorgeous, intelligent, funny, and charming?’

Max laughed. ‘I wasn’t fishing for compliments.’ Did John really think she was all those things? ‘Anyway, Will has quite specific ideas about me.’ Did she need to be so circumspect after they’d slept together? ‘And he doesn’t take no very well.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ John brushed her hand on the seat between them. ‘I was completely sincere when I asked you to marry me.’

This time the lurch of her stomach felt more like pleasure than fear. Max nodded. ‘I need some time.’

‘Of course. I realise it was sudden. And not in the best of circumstances.’

‘Why?’

‘I hardly painted myself as a catch by falling asleep after making love.’ He glanced over at her as he stopped at another traffic light.

He sounded uncertain. Did he feel as floored as she did? Max slid along the seat and she kissed his cheek. ‘That didn’t bother me in the slightest.’ Make love, he said. Not sex.

John’s arm wrapped around her shoulders. A sigh crept out before she realised it. Somehow her hand landed on his knee. Her finger traced the crease in his trousers. The silence felt easy.

John kissed her hair. ‘What’s your perfume?’

‘Vol du Nuit.’

‘It suits you,’ John said. ‘Night flight. Is it named after the Antoine de Saint-Exupéry novel?’

Max smiled. ‘Yes. I picked it out when I was fifteen, based entirely on the bottle. It has an aeroplane propeller cut into the glass. I didn’t get to wear it till I left home for the ATA. My mother thought it was too old for me.’

‘Was she annoyed?’

‘Everything about me joining the ATA annoyed her.’ But not as much as Max breaking it off with Daniel.

‘Maybe she was just worried about your safety.’

‘Maybe.’

John turned off Fulham Road into Pelham Crescent. The hanging light over her front door created a puddle of illumination, but it didn’t extend down the stairs. John drove a bit further down the street before parking. The key clicked in the ignition and the engine stilled. John bent his head and kissed her. Three kisses later they both took deep breaths. ‘Dr Falkland, I had no expectation of this happening tonight, but I’m awfully glad it did.’

Max slid her fingers into the softness of his hair. ‘Me too.’

John’s lips twitched. ‘I thought you’d planned it in advance.’

‘Only when I went to your WC.’

John laughed. ‘And I imagined you carefully making a list before I even picked you up.’

Max trailed tiny kisses over his face. ‘Mr Knox, I like that you’re intelligent, charming, and beautiful.’ She smiled. ‘Plus, you have the most stunning body I’ve ever seen.’ Every journalist she’d ever met before had a pot-belly. His cheeks warmed under her hands. Surely desire rather than a blush? Could John blush? She traced his eyebrow. ‘But you’re also mysterious.’

‘And do you like that too?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m not that mysterious surely.’ He kissed her. ‘You’ve seen my home; you’ve seen my books.’

‘I’ve seen how terrifyingly tidy you are.’ She shifted in his arms. ‘I should go in. Thank you for a lovely evening.’

‘Thank you.’ He came around to her side of the car.

Max knew she should take his arm, but instead she held his hand. Dad wouldn’t be peering out a window.

John squeezed her fingers. ‘Would your mother be scandalised…’

‘Without a doubt.’

John laughed. ‘I meant if I asked you out two nights in a row?’

‘I think she’d survive.’ Mother would be bloody delighted. They reached the bottom of steps and she turned to him. ‘I’d like that a lot.’

‘Dinner?’

The lock snicked, and harsh light poured over them from the open door. John’s hand tightened around hers.

‘Good evening, Miss Max, Mr Knox,’ a deep voice said.

Mr Rawls, one of her father’s staff. She exhaled. Had he been watching them? A shudder ran down her back at the thought. Not that they had done anything wrong, but why would he stare out the peephole at them?

She wished her cheeks didn’t heat. ‘John, Mr Rawls works for my father.’ And he clearly knew who John was already. How?

‘Hello.’ John’s smile was slightly pinched, but he hadn’t flushed. ‘Well, good night, Max.’ He squeezed her hand and then let go.

‘Good night, John.’ She stepped inside, and Mr Rawls closed the door and locked it.