Saved By Their One-Night Baby. Louisa George

looked away. No point getting in any deeper than one look. Tomorrow he was facing a demon or two and he had to keep his head straight. He tried to shrug off the trepidation of meeting up with Chase after all these years, and spending the next six weeks rescuing refugees. The doctoring part he could do in his sleep, but living on a ship would only add more spice to his nightmares. He looked down at the menu but the gnawing sensation in his gut had nothing to do with hunger.

      She laughed.

      Oh, what the hell? He chanced another look, because he couldn’t not. Something about her compelled him to take a second viewing. And there wasn’t anything else to look at in this place other than a baby grand piano that no one was playing, dark velvet drapes and that bar menu, which he’d scanned and disregarded a dozen times already.

      She was talking to, but standing a little away from, a guy who had about fifteen years on her. Thin, wiry. Like a stoat. No, a weasel, in a shiny, cheap suit that was clearly tailored to bulk him up. They seemed oddly matched. Too old to be a boyfriend, too young to be a parent.

      The weasel leaned in, leering. Unsteady. He had the kind of smile that was all mouth and no eyes. Greedy. He said something to her.

      Her body snapped taut as she stepped back. ‘No. I’m not interested, thank you.’

      Something about her reaction and the fleeting shock in her eyes had Ethan on high alert. He edged closer to listen.

      Weasel guy’s empty smile kept on giving as he ran a bony finger over her hand. ‘I’m sure you are. A drink. Some fun. Maybe I just need to persuade you?’

      Persuade? Nausea roiled in Ethan’s gut, he’d seen way too much fallout from men persuading women in his line of work. But this wasn’t his business. He sat back.

      Sure, it wasn’t his business, but he kept a watchful eye open.

      Another step back, a flick of her hair as she shook her head. ‘I said I’m not interested. Please, leave me alone.’

      ‘Oh, chérie. Come on, let’s have some fun.’

      Knowing he beat the guy hands down on height and strength and definitely smarts, Ethan walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. When the weasel wheeled round and looked up at Ethan he gulped. Swallowed. Paled.

      Ethan stepped into his face. ‘She said leave her alone. So do it. When a woman says no, she means no. And even when a woman says yes to a guy like you, she means no. Okay?’

      ‘I wasn’t trying anything.’ The man raised palms slick with a sweaty sheen. ‘Just being friendly.’

      Ethan shook his head. ‘No. It’s not friendly, it’s creepy. And you’re not trying a thing, mate, because you’re leaving.’

      ‘Okay. Okay. I get it.’ The wiry man shook his head back, imitating Ethan. Then he nodded sharply to the woman. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

      ‘Merci.’ The woman breathed out as the weasel disappeared out the door. ‘But I was handling it.’

      ‘I know you were, but I also know men like him. It’s just easier if we outnumber them.’

      ‘We?’ Her eyebrows lifted. ‘For a minute there I thought you were going to play the part of my boyfriend. You know how it goes... Hi, honey, sorry I’m late. Big bisous. That would have given him a definite hint to leave too.’

      ‘Big kisses.’ There was a thought. A highly inappropriate thought given the circumstances. He caught her eye again and this time she looked away, two red spots blooming on her cheeks. He reached for an excuse to make her smile again because he liked it when she did that. ‘Just checking my French. For a minute I thought you said bison. And I wondered if it was normal in France for a boyfriend to bring buffalo along to a date.’

      ‘Buffalo are great on dates, don’t you do that in England? You’re all so weird over there. Yes, bisous means kisses.’ As she laughed, her gaze settled on his mouth and that stoked something deep in his gut. Then she was back to eye contact again. ‘Your French is good.’

      ‘I’m very rusty, it’s been a long time since I was in France.’ Not long enough. ‘Your English is far better.’

      ‘My mother is English. French father.’ She drained the luminous orange drink and put the glass on the bar. ‘Okay, Monsieur Knight-in-Shining-Armour, that’s me done. Time for bed, I’m heading up to my room. Thanks again for rescuing me when I didn’t need it.’

      ‘Hey, any time you don’t need rescuing, I’m your guy. I’ll walk with you to the lift to make sure he’s gone.’ He kept a healthy distance but caught the fresh scent of coconut and hibiscus. She smelt good. She looked good. She made him laugh. In another life he might have made a move. But not tonight. She looked too sweet to want what he could give her; which was a one-night stand and nothing more.

      As they reached the lift she nodded goodbye politely to him, stopped and pressed the button and he headed towards the stairwell door. Which didn’t move when he pushed it. He pushed again. No. No movement. He heaved his right shoulder against it, but no. ‘Strange. It can’t be locked. It’s a fire door.’

      ‘Maybe there’s something leaning against it on the other side? Or perhaps it’s jammed?’ The woman called to him. ‘The lift’s on its way down. Hop in.’

      ‘No, thank you.’ He tried the shoulder heave again. No dice.

      A ping. ‘Quick. Going up. Come on.’ She ran over, tugged his hand. Tugged again and laughed. That soft sound had his gut contracting. He gave one last long look at the closed fire exit door and shrugged. It was just an elevator. It would be a matter of seconds, a minute at most, and he’d be on his way to bed.

      It was just an ancient elevator with one of those concertina doors that he’d seen in black and white movies. As he tugged the heavy lattice across she asked him, ‘Floor?’

      He controlled his raging heartbeat. It was just a damned elevator. ‘Eleven. Please.’

      ‘Oh. Same.’ Her gaze snagged his and she smiled as if there was some meaning there. ‘Funny coincidence.’

      He didn’t believe in coincidences. ‘At least there isn’t any muzak playing, like the Beatles on strings or some such crime against our eardrums.’

      Filling his lungs with as much oxygen as he could, he fixed his eye on the green LED display.

      ‘Lifts aren’t your thing?’ There was laughter in her voice. ‘Or is it the music you don’t like?’

      ‘I prefer stairs, that’s all.’ He couldn’t be in here and do small talk and breathe all at the same time.

       Floor One.

      She tapped her foot. She was wearing flat black shoes with a little bow on the front. Like something a ballerina would have. It was amazing to see something so dainty. Most of the women he’d spent time with over the last few years had worn hiking boots or had bare feet. It was weird being here with no dust, and with regular things like reliable electricity and running water, clean clothes. Elegant shoes. A beautiful woman who smelt of fruit and flowers instead of dry dust and sweat. A body that looked fit from exercise but not too much. Just enough curves that in that fictional other life where he’d consider making a move, he’d relish exploring. Her hair shone and was shot through with wisps of gold and light.

      And, man, he really needed to get to floor eleven before he got carried away on pointless poetics which were so unlike him he forced himself to do a quick reality check.

      France. Lift. Tomorrow. Which was enough to send any wayward thoughts scuttling back to where they’d come from.

       Floor Two

      ‘So why is a knight in Marseille? Business? Holiday?’ she asked, her smile refreshingly open and unguarded.

      ‘Business.’ If he said out loud what he