Classic Bestsellers from Josephine Cox: Bumper Collection. Josephine Cox

out loud. ‘You women!’ he chuckled. ‘Once you get your claws into us men, we’ve got no chance at all.’

      He was only minutes from Park Street when she instructed, ‘Turn down the next street left.’

      Confused, he advised her, ‘But that’s Johnson Street. I were told you wanted Park Street.’

      ‘Well, now I want Johnson Street!’ she snapped. ‘Keep moving until I tell you when to stop.’

      Swinging the vehicle into Johnson Street, the cabbie was guided by the streetlamps. ‘What number?’ He peered at the door: ‘This is fifteen … seventeen …’ As instructed, he moved slowly on.

      ‘Here!’ Perched on the edge of her seat and ready to open the door, she screeched at him, ‘STOP HERE!’

      Made to halt in a dark, shadowy spot between two streetlamps, he wondered what she was up to. ‘Do you want me to wait?’ he asked as she climbed from the cab.

      ‘Well, of course I want you to wait,’ she replied impatiently. ‘The trams have stopped running and I certainly don’t intend walking home in the dark.’

      He nodded. ‘How long will you be?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ she snapped. ‘Anyway, what does it matter to you?’

      ‘Well, if it’s only a few minutes it’ll make no difference. But if it’s gonna be some time, then I might have to charge you a bit more.’

      Georgina rounded on him. ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ she told him. ‘I saw the handful of coins he gave you, and it was more than enough. You’re getting no more – not even if I’m in there till morning!’

      ‘I see.’ He had taken a real dislike to her. ‘And are you likely to be in there “till morning”?’

      ‘Well, now …’ giving a sly little wink, she leaned towards him, ‘… we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’ With that she sauntered off, glancing up at the house numbers as she went.

      Curious, he watched as she knocked on a door. Smartly groomed and dressed in expensive clothes, she was quite an eye-opener, he thought. But it didn’t always follow that what looked good on the outside was good on the inside.

      A naturally wary man, he decided that when she came back out, he would take her home quick as he could, and never a word of conversation between them.

      Cabbies should keep their traps shut and just do their job, he decided, or who knew what trouble they might find themselves in.

      After a few moments the door opened. Casting a glance up and down the street, she hurried inside.

      The cab driver also glanced up and down the street. ‘It’s a far cry from Park Street,’ he muttered thoughtfully.

      A long meandering street on a deep slope towards the town, Johnson Street was typical of the roads in those parts. It was the kind of ordinary, serviceable place where folks like himself lived out their days – hard-working, God-fearing folks who worked long, back-breaking hours in the cotton-mills or the nearby factories.

      One thing was certain: it was nothing like the beautifully kept, wide open streets, with their big posh houses, that ran up alongside the park. Those were reserved for wealthy folk – employers, bank managers, that kind of contented, fortunate soul.

      He settled himself into the seat, closed his eyes and yawned. ‘One thing’s for sure, she’s up to no good.’ He thought about the man who had paid for her cab. ‘Some women don’t know when they’re well off!’ he muttered. ‘That fella seemed a decent sort, but if he’s not careful, he’ll find himself hooked up to a bad lot, an’ no mistake!’

      Georgina followed the man into the sitting room.

      ‘I didn’t expect you tonight, Helen. What you doing ’ere at this late hour anyway?’ A rough-looking fellow, but well-endowed, clad only in underpants he made a fetching sight to her eager eyes.

      ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’ A flush of disappointment coloured her face, but she pouted seductively and slowly slipped her coat off, her eyes full of suggestion.

      He gave a wily grin. ‘Depends, don’t it?’ Looking her up and down he licked his lips. ‘It’s been a while since we got together.’

      ‘I was on my way home and thought I’d come and pay a visit,’ she purred.

      His blue eyes coveting her, he smiled. ‘If I knew where you lived, I might be able to repay the favour now and then.’

      Shaking her head, she took a step forward. ‘I’ll never tell you where I live.’

      ‘Hmm! Sometimes I wonder if your name really is Helen.’ He gave her a wry little smile. ‘Is it?’

      She laughed. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

      ‘You’re a secretive bugger and no mistake.’ Now, as he moved towards her, the light from the flickering gas-mantle played shadows on his unshaven face. ‘And why is that, I wonder?’

      Stroking her hands through his tousled brown hair, she murmured, ‘Because I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone, but I especially don’t trust men.’

      Through hostile, narrowed eyes he studied her. ‘All the same, it would make things easier if I knew a bit more about you. After all, you know my name, and you know where I live.’

      Staring him out, she answered emphatically, ‘Only because I had to bring you home when you were drunk out of your mind. You couldn’t stop talking.’

      They had met in the town one afternoon when Georgina’s high heel had become caught between paving stones and he’d freed her. Each had liked the look of the other. He admired her bold manner and her expensive perfume, and she had always secretly lusted after rough-looking men. Good manners, she found, so often took the excitement out of sex. Sylvia must have found the same, Georgina thought. Why else had she had an affair with Arnold Stratton?

      Neither had anything better to do so they’d found a hotel bar; then, when they’d drunk a fair amount, gone on to a pub he knew. There he’d become ridiculously drunk and she’d had to take him home in a taxi. She’d stayed the night and their affair had started when his hangover abated.

      ‘And besides, you don’t need to know my real name and address,’ she now added.

      ‘Oh, but you’re wrong. As a rule I know all about my women after the first meeting.’

      ‘I’m not one of “your women”.’

      ‘So, what are you doing here?’ Leering into her face, he laughed. ‘Can’t resist me, is that it?’

      She batted her eyelashes. ‘I get lonely sometimes,’ she answered. ‘Is that so hard to understand?’

      He took a long, slow breath. ‘It is, yeah. You’re an attractive woman … not short of a bob or two, by the looks of it, and here you are, slumming through the back streets to see an old lag like me.’

      Smiling, she observed his muscular figure, with the first signs of a rounded stomach, and that unkempt face with its peculiar, rough appeal and, stepping forward, she stroked his bare arm. ‘You’re not an “old lag”,’ she murmured.

      ‘Oh, but I am.’ He was deliberately taunting her. ‘When a man’s been in prison, what else would you call him, but an old lag? I’m a bad man, Helen.’ His eyes were hard like two bright marbles. ‘Some of us are locked up because we deserve to be.’

      She touched him tenderly, her fingers curling round the hairs on his broad chest. ‘If you’d rather I left …’ her voice was like silk in his ear, ‘I’ll go now … if that’s what you really want?’

      ‘O’ course it’s not what I want.’ His features softened. ‘You don’t know how glad I am that you took me home that night,’ he said