‘I was as jealous as hell that Nick had got his paws on you first.’
‘Maybe you should have tried a bit harder,’ she replied, circling his T-shirt with her fingertip and feeling the coarse scrub of chest hair underneath. As she looked up at him, she wondered how things might have panned out had she met Josh before rather than after Nick. Or if Josh had tried harder, hung around a little longer to talk to her. Would he have charmed her away from Nick? If he had succeeded, where would they be now? On his houseboat, enjoying the English summer, or in her tiny Battersea studio, which seemed so remote it was as if it belonged in another lifetime? Or would she not even have given him a chance? Josh was the antithesis of her usual type, but it had taken this week, this journey to realise that he was exactly what she wanted.
He smiled, and the corners of his soft grey eyes creased into fine lines. It was a hell of a sexy smile.
‘Much as I would like to make up for lost time, we should get moving.’
Sophie unfolded herself from his embrace and began to dress. She splashed some water on her face, brushed her teeth and threw all their belongings in their two small nylon bags. She was ready to finish this.
It was almost four a.m. and the sky was still black.
They shut their room door quietly and dropped the key off in a drop box, leaving two fifty-dollar bills behind the reception desk.
‘Stop,’ said Josh, putting his hand in front of Sophie.
He peeped through the front window shutters.
‘See there?’ he whispered. ‘Blue saloon car across the street. There’s someone in it.’
‘Not Sergei’s men again?’ said Sophie, her heart starting to hammer.
‘I’m guessing the SEC or the FBI. Come on. There must be a back exit somewhere around here.’
They went through the small courtyard behind the motel and scrambled over the back wall. A dustbin clattered over as Sophie fell on top of it, which set off a dog barking.
Josh phoned Lana, who told them to get to her hotel as soon as they could. They wandered the streets for ten minutes for a taxi, and only when they had reached Lana’s hotel – South Beach’s art deco jewel, the Raleigh – did Sophie even start to feel safe.
42
The insistent ring of her mobile phone woke her. Peeling open one eye, Ruth squinted at her alarm clock and groaned; it was three thirty in the afternoon. It had been a long time since she had slept this late. True, she had always been a night owl – working through till the early hours, when her brain seemed to function better. Perhaps it was sensory deprivation like a blinkered horse; having the world cloaked in darkness and quiet allowed her to concentrate. But the truth was this time she had just overslept, exhausted from long hours and too much stress.
‘Dammit,’ she hissed, stretching to grab her phone.
‘Hello,’ she croaked, swinging one leg out of bed, then the other, feeling for her slippers with her toes.
‘Ruth, it’s Isaac. We need to talk.’
His voice made her stand up, wide awake.
‘Isaac. It’s Sunday.’ She sounded foggy, but her mind was already up and running, trying to second-guess why her editor-in-chief might be calling on a Sunday afternoon. Was he about to tell her that the bureau was closing down, effective immediately: don’t bother to come in tomorrow because the doors will be bolted and your pink slips will be in the post?
‘So what if it’s Sunday?’ snapped Isaac. ‘I’m working seven days a week trying to keep this paper from sinking to the bottom of the goddamn Potomac, and I expect my employees to do the same.’
‘I am working, Isaac,’ said Ruth calmly. ‘You know me, I never switch off. I’m famous for it.’
She went over to the kitchen sink and poured herself a big tumbler of cold water.
‘I’m assuming you’ve seen the Chronicle this morning?’
‘Sure, not read it yet,’ she said. ‘Been too busy, had an interview to transcribe. Saw the front page, though, obviously.’
She tiptoed to the front door and snatched up the bundle of papers which had been delivered many hours earlier.
‘What I want to know,’ Isaac was saying, ‘is why we’re not getting scoops like these guys are. Was I not clear last week when I said we needed grade A exclusives? The Chronicle’s lead is exactly the sort of item I’m talking about. You should congratulate your boyfriend; maybe we should think about getting him over to the Trib, whatdaya think?’
Boyfriend? She felt a cold, creeping sense of horror. Cradling the phone between her ear and her shoulder, she laid the newspaper flat on her dining table – and immediately felt sick.
Banker stung in honeytrap vice ring, screamed the headline. US political hopeful and German minister also ensnared by escort girl conspiracy.