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“Will you kiss me?”
Paris lifted a hand to touch his face gently. Will froze, then raised a cynical eyebrow. “For old times’ sake?”
“No.” She shook her head. “For now. For the me I am now.”
For a long moment Will didn’t move and she thought that he was going to deny her, but his grip tightened on her arm and he drew her slowly toward him, his eyes holding hers. He lowered his head to hers, touched her lips with his mouth. For an instant it was as if time had stood still and he was kissing her for the very first time all over again.
SALLY WENTWORTH was born and raised in Hertfordshire, England, where she still lives, and started writing after attending an evening class course. She is married and has one son. There is always a novel on the bedside table, but she also does craftwork, plays bridge, and is the president of a National Trust group. They go to the ballet and theater regularly and to open-air concerts in the summer. Sometimes she doesn’t know how she finds the time to write!
Christmas Nights
Sally Wentworth
PARIS had been home for less than an hour when the police came. The flat was cold and unwelcoming. When she’d left to go to Budapest six weeks ago the weather had been mild and autumnal and it hadn’t seemed worthwhile leaving the heating on. Now, a week before Christmas, it was freezing outside and the flat was not much warmer.
She’d turned the heating up as high as it would go, drawn the curtains across the frosted windows, fixed herself a drink, and kicked off her shoes as she sat on the settee and began to go through the piles of letters, Christmas cards and junk mail that she had found on the doormat.
When the buzzer sounded Paris frowned, of half a mind to ignore it, but it rang imperatively for a second time, and with a sigh she went over to the entry phone. The faces of two men she didn’t know looked at her from the screen.
‘Yes?’
‘Miss Paris Reid?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re policemen, Miss Reid.’ The nearest man held up an identity card. ‘May we talk to you, please?’
‘Has there been an accident?’ Paris asked, immediately fearful for her parents.
‘No, it’s nothing like that, but we need to talk to you urgently.’
‘You’d better come up, then.’
She waited by the open door for the lift to arrive at her floor. The flat, in the northern suburbs of London, was her own, the mortgage paid for out of her quite considerable earnings. There was only one bedroom, but that suited Paris fine; she had no intention of ever sharing it with a female flatmate—or anyone else, if it came to that.
The policemen had said that there hadn’t been an accident but Paris was still uneasy as she greeted them and led the way into her sitting-room. ‘It isn’t one of my parents?’ she asked anxiously.
‘No, Miss Reid. It’s about Noel Ramsay.’
For a moment it didn’t mean anything, then she grew still. ‘Noel Ramsay?’ she repeated, to give herself time.
‘Yes. You must remember that you were on the jury when he was tried for murder, nearly four years ago now.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She dredged her memory. ‘He escaped, didn’t he? I seem to remember reading about it in the papers some months ago.’
‘That’s right.’ The policeman who’d introduced himself as a detective inspector gave her a pleased smile, as if she were a bright pupil in a classroom.
‘But why on earth should you come to me about him? You did catch him again, didn’t you?’
‘No, I’m afraid we didn’t,’ the inspector admitted ruefully. He paused, then said, ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but you may remember that at the trial Ramsay swore to be revenged on everyone who put him away.’
For a brief, horrible moment the vision of Ramsay’s face, twisted by hate, shouting threats and abuse as he was dragged away, came sharply back into Paris’s mind. ‘Yes, I remember,’ she said tightly.
‘Yes. Well—I’m afraid it’s beginning to look as if he’s carrying out his threat.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Haven’t you been reading the papers lately? The barrister who prosecuted Ramsay was killed by a hit-andrun driver about three months ago, and then one of the policemen who arrested him was very badly injured when the brakes on his car failed—a newish car that had always been well maintained.’
‘Couldn’t those things have been coincidental?’
‘Possibly.’ The inspector shrugged. ‘But a month ago one of the prosecution witnesses just disappeared, and then a member of the jury was found dead in suspicious circumstances. Two incidents could possibly be coincidence, but hardly four. And so we—’ He broke off. ‘Are you all right, Miss Reid?’
Every last vestige of colour had fled from Paris’s face and her throat didn’t seem to work. Her whole being felt suspended in time, too frozen to breathe, but by a tremendous effort of will-power she somehow forced herself to say, ‘Which—which member of the jury?’
‘A Mrs Sheila Rayner. She was the foreman of the jury, if you remember,’ he answered, looking at her curiously.
‘Yes, of course.’ Paris’s heart started to beat again, relief to flow through