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Shifting behind the wheel, I start the engine and get out of the parking area. Luckily, the first hour is free, so I don’t have to waste time by paying. I only have to push the parking ticket into the slot for the barricade to open. I have no idea how much time I have. Maybe not long before the guard realizes I’m gone. Maxime will send men after me. He’ll look for my car and license plate. At the nearest bus terminal, I park in an illegal spot and take my bag from the trunk. It won’t take long before my car is towed away. Maxime will eventually find it at the impound, but hopefully it wins me more time.
I check the bus routes on the board, and take the number that goes to the airport. All the way there, my stomach twists so tightly I think I may be sick. I grip my handbag in my lap.
Please, God. Please.
After twenty minutes, the bus pulls up at the airport stop. I get out and fall in line with the other passengers, making sure I move in the middle of the group. I’ve never been to the airport, but it’s not big. It doesn’t take long to find the Air France information counter.
A tall man wearing a blue suit and red tie stands next to the counter, reading a tourist brochure. He’s shorter than Maxime, but bulkier. One look at his strong frame tells me this man is in the security business. His brown eyes have that vigilant light that says he’s aware of everything happening around him, even if he seems to be engrossed in what he’s reading.
My assumption is proved correct when he looks up while I’m still a short distance away. Our eyes lock. He offers me a warm smile, the appreciative kind a man would only offer to a woman he knows well. He recognizes me. Maybe Damian showed him a photo.
I study his handsome face. He has deep laugh lines around his mouth and eyes. A bit of gray touches the russet color of his sideburns. He looks easygoing, yet alert, competent, exactly like someone Damian would trust and employ.
“Code word?” I ask under my breath as I stop in front of him, looking around to make sure we’re not watched.
“Apple pie,” he says in a deep voice.
My relief is so great it feels as if my knees may give out. Before I know what’s happening, he pulls me into a hug.
I try to push away but he holds tighter and whispers in my ear, “Make this look real. We’re a couple traveling together.”
Understanding, I return his smile when he lets me go. To anyone looking on, we’re just a boyfriend and girlfriend happy to be reunited.
He takes my bag. “Any other luggage?”
“No.”
Offering me his arm, he leads me to passport control. “Damian will be so happy to see you.”
I know he’s only making conversation to help me stay calm. Nodding, I look over my shoulder.
“Act normally,” he says, squeezing my hand that rests on his arm. “Just relax.”
Easier said than done. I’m expecting Maxime’s men to burst through the doors with automatic rifles and kill Russell before dragging me away.
“Who am I, anyway?” I asked in hushed tone.
He glances around before handing me the brochure he was reading. I flip it open to find a South African passport with the familiar green cover inside. Turning the page, I read the name next to my photo, Amanda Clifford.
“I’m Devon Edgar,” he says in my ear, pretending to sneak in a kiss. “We spent ten days at the Blue Voile on the French Riviera, our first holiday in France.”
The information threatens to scatter with how much I’m stressing. Blue Voile. French Riviera. Ten days. Devon Edgar. I repeat it silently in my head.
“You’ll be fine,” he says with another easy smile.
We go through the scanners. At the customs counter, I remove my sunglasses. The officer looks from my passport to my face with a bored expression. Taking his time, he pages through the passport. The pages look used—frequently touched and full of stamps.
“Returning home?” he asks me in English.
In a reflex reaction, I almost reply in French, but bite my tongue just in time. “Yes.” I smile. “Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.”
The officer turns to Russell. “What was the nature of your visit?”
“Holiday,” Russell says.
I nearly sag in relief when the officer pounds the stamp in my passport and shifts it toward me over the counter.
“Thank you,” I say in a chirpy voice.
“We’re not in the clear yet,” Russell says as he steers me to the international lounge. “Not until we’re in the air.”
I’m very aware of that. A powerful man like Maxime will be able to delay flights and search planes. Since I’m unable to sit still, we wander through the duty-free shops where Russell buys wine and truffle oil.
