‘Oh, yes, you are, Sophie. Lilli gave me a case of things she thought you’d need for the next week or so. Now stop arguing. I haven’t got all day to spend hanging around here.’
He took hold of her arm and propelled her firmly towards the door. For a moment Sophie meant to fight, but then she thought again and gave in, realising that it solved her immediate problems, even if it created a few more for the future. Steve Colbourne was a human steamroller. She had the feeling he was becoming a real problem for her.
4
They got a taxi to his hotel, where Steve had already booked a room for her, just across the corridor from his own. ‘It would be safer if you stayed in here until we got the plane tomorrow morning,’ he told her, depositing her suitcase on the luggage rack. ‘If there’s anything you want let me know and I’ll get it for you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, reluctant to be grateful but forced to it. She opened the case and looked at the neatly packed contents. ‘I can’t think of anything Lilli hasn’t already thought of – she’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Lucky for me that Theo introduced me to her.’
‘She’s a one-off,’ agreed Steve. He hadn’t yet given her any details of the burglary. There was something far too intimate and disturbing about someone taking out their rage on her clothes, some of which had been torn to shreds. Lilli had sent what was left. ‘She says she’ll ring you. She packed warm winter clothes for London; sweaters and warm skirts and trousers, she said.’ He looked at his watch and sighed. ‘Sorry, I’m afraid I have to go to my office. But you have TV, and you can order anything you want from Room Service.’ He gave her a look of concern. She was deathly pale, dark circles under her eyes. ‘Try to rest. Go back to bed.’
She was standing by the window looking out at the New York skyline, the jagged battlements of grey roofs stretching into the distance. Below them were the leafless trees of Central Park, and she could see the Dakota building’s eerie outline. She had visited it soon after she arrived, wanting to see where John Lennon had been shot and the Roman Polanski film ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ filmed. Seeing the film in her early teens, Sophie had not been able to sleep, and when she did had had weird dreams. It made her shiver now. There was something deeply sinister under New York’s glamorous skin.
Steve wandered over to the window to look out too, without finding the vista as enthralling as she seemed to; he had known this city most of his life and preferred Washington, his chosen adopted city.
She turned her blonde head to smile at him and he felt his pulse pick up. Close to, she was even lovelier. ‘You’re very kind, but I’ll be OK, don’t worry,’ she said.
He gave her an incredulous, furious look. ‘Yesterday somebody tried to kill you and then wrecked your apartment – if you aren’t worrying, then you should be!’
‘Don’t shout at me!’ she burst out, her voice trembling, and he groaned.
‘Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ Putting out a gentle finger, he stroked her cheek tentatively, then frowned. ‘You’re cold. Shock takes a while to wear off, you know. As soon as I’ve gone, go back to bed and try to sleep.’
The lingering warmth of his skin against hers comforted, was human and reassuring. When she was a little girl her mother had been very affectionate, and Sophie had often been cuddled and kissed, but after Johanna married Franz she had lost interest in Sophie and focused all her affection on the new babies that began arriving. She was the sort of woman who adored small children, especially if they were boys. Sophie had been just another pair of hands, an unpaid nursemaid, excluded from the new family circle – her mother, Franz and their two sons. The family of which Sophie had been a part was buried in the churchyard, with her dead father and dead sister.
She shivered violently and Steve watched, wondering what she was thinking about that made her eyes look so sad. Don Gowrie? What had the man done to her?
‘Tell me,’ he said urgently. ‘Can’t you see that you’d be much safer if you talked?’
She started violently at the sound of his voice. ‘What? Oh . . .’ She became aware of him again, picking up the scent of his aftershave, fresh, astringent, very male. It disturbed her. She didn’t want to be aware of him; she had enough problems at the moment without adding a man to them. Steve Colbourne was attractive, she couldn’t deny it, but she knew she couldn’t trust him, it wasn’t safe.
He smelt a story, and he was determined to get it out of her. The man was far too plausible, far too shrewd. She was a journalist, too; she knew how they operated, how far they would go to get a story.
The only thing she could be sure about was that he wanted to wheedle out of her whatever she knew about Don Gowrie. Everything else about him – his charm, his looks, the fact that he seemed to find her attractive – could be totally phoney. She had learnt in a bitter school that nothing was what it seemed, that even those who said they loved you could lie, that you could not trust anyone but yourself.
She looked at him, her eyes filmed with ice, and said in a chilly voice, ‘I’m not telling you anything, Mr Colbourne, so stop badgering me!’
‘You’re a fool,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t you realize? You’re playing Russian Roulette with your own life.’
That was so true that she flinched. The stark realities of what she was doing had only just begun to dawn on her. She had not really expected her life to be in danger until the moment on the subway station. Turning away, she looked out of the window again.
‘New York is breathtaking, isn’t it? I still can’t believe I’m really here. You said you lived in Washington, didn’t you? I’m dying to see that.’
He nodded. ‘That’s where the centre of power is. If you want to report on government you have to be there, and it is a fascinating place, especially for a journalist. It’s a city with hidden depths. The architecture is on the grand scale – public architecture, I mean. You get the feeling at times you’re back in ancient Rome or Greece. The Lincoln Memorial, all white marble columns . . . the Washington Monument too . . . not to mention the White House itself. The guy who designed the city, Pierre L’Enfant, wanted to awe people, impress the hell out of them, and it succeeds. But the domestic architecture is something else; you must visit Georgetown and see the restored town houses, especially in the spring, when the magnolias are out. It’s like being on the set of “Gone with the Wind”.’ He paused, one eyebrow lifting. ‘Did you ever see that film?’
‘Of course I did! We do get Hollywood films in Prague, you know! It isn’t the back of beyond.’
He laughed. ‘Sorry, of course you do. I don’t know much about life in your country. Keep filling me in, won’t you?’
She softened, smiling back. ‘So long as you keep telling me stuff I don’t know about America, and that is a lot! I hardly know a thing yet.’
‘Glad to help out,’ he agreed, offering his hand.
She stared, bewildered, and he grinned at her.
‘Deal?’
She understood the gesture then, and took his hand, smiling back. ‘Deal.’