From Paris, With Love - Samantha Tonge

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where to run next. In other words, there was no alternative but to ring Edward. Shrieking for help, I could have approached a train guard but, well, that wasn’t my style – especially after the last few months of weird things happening. I’d toughened up.

      Don’t get me wrong, nausea hit the back of my throat when I thought who this guy could be or what he might want. However, since being on the telly, I’d been sent men’s underwear through the post, my phone had been hacked, a troll had stolen my identity on Facebook and a fan of Edward’s had stalked me in the swimming pool showers… Currently I had two restraining orders out on people who had grudges against the person they thought I was. It would take more than a smartly dressed dude, in a swanky car, to make me lose my cool.

      Blowing out chilly air, I lifted a finger to press dial when a hand curled firmly around my arm and led me out onto the pavement. I stared the black BMW, parked to the side, with its sinister black-tinted windows.

      ‘There’s no need to ring Edward,’ said the man.

      I turned around to meet stern maple-syrup eyes.

      ‘We’ve taken care of him.’ he continued.

      Huh? My chin wobbled. How did he know my boyfriend’s name? What if my sexy, kind-hearted, loyal, dreamy Edward would – or had – come to some harm?

      ‘All will be explained,’ said the weirdo, his voice a titch softer. ‘Now, please. Trust me. You’ll be safe. Just get in the car.’

      For Edward’s sake, I did what I was told.

      ‘You’re telling me that “taking care of” Edward meant texting him, to say I was going for a walk, to look around? Liar! You haven’t even got his number.’ My eyes narrowed, although it was hard to concentrate on mystery man’s face, due to the distraction of… *sigh*… a mega romantic view in front of me. We sat on the steps of the Sacre-Coeur. I’d been driven there, handed a bottle of water and a yummy bar of English chocolate – ridiculous, or what? One of mystery man’s colleagues – also in a black suit and smelling strongly of a pungent musky aftershave – sat behind us, on the next step up.

      My abductor shrugged. ‘We know a lot of things.’

      ‘Like this?’ I ran a finger over the chocolate bar’s purple wrapper. ‘How did you know it was my favourite?’ Perhaps, after all, he wasn’t an axe murderer or dangerous criminal with a ransom plan… Although, eek! I hadn’t thought of that – now that the Croxley family had won a million dollars, perhaps he thought they’d pay up for my release.

      ‘Look, what’s your name?’ I said, trying to act all huffy, which was impossible as I gazed back down at the City of Light. When we’d first arrived, I’d just about been able to make out the details of roofs, chimneys and aerials. Now, however,everywhere was liquorice black, as if the starry sky had fallen to earth, just like that children’s story where Brer Rabbit thinks the moon has dropped into a pond. Lights twinkled and towards the right stood the sparkly Eiffel Tower.

      I turned around, and gazed up at the awesome Sacre-Coeur church, illuminated by an amber glow. A Native American band played nearby, with their drums, flutes and pipes. Chat, laughter and ciggie smoke filled the air. Necking wine out of a bottle, a tramp sat next to us and directly in front was a group of camera-clicking Japanese girls.

      I unwrapped the chocolate. With his black suit, perhaps I’d been accosted by the Man from Milk Tray.

      ‘Hmm. Yumski…’ I said, after swallowing the first creamy mouthful.

      ‘Yumski – have you distant Russian ancestors?’ His brow furrowed.

      ‘I’m not answering any questions until you tell me your name.’

      He stared at me for a moment. ‘Bloggs. The name is Joe Bloggs.’

      ‘I see, and…’ Huh? I put the rest of the bar on my lap. ‘Really? You expect me to fall for that?’

      He raised one eyebrow, which looked kinda hot– but nowhere near as sexy as Lord Edward, of course.

      ‘Your help is needed,’ he continued. ‘As part of the ongoing 2014-2018 events to commemorate the centenary of the First World War, four weeks tomorrow, on the first Saturday in March, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge are visiting Paris. They’ll attend a charity football match. It will star legends of the game from around the world.’

      ‘Yeah, I’ve heard – it’s supposed to represent the famous Christmas Eve truce in the trenches, isn’t it, when the two sides came together to play football?’ See, I did pay attention during my history classes at school… (okay, you’ve got me – I really knew because of Paul McCartney’s video to his famous Christmas song “Pipes of Peace”.)

      ‘Indeed. And…’ Joe cleared his throat. ‘I have reason to believe that the royal couple’s safety is compromised.’ He stared intently at me. ‘That’s where you come in.’

      I snorted. ‘Huh? Who do you work for? The M5?’

      His top lip twitched. ‘That’s a motorway. Try MI5 – the Security Service, who keep an eye on domestic affairs in Britain, but no, I’m not…’

      ‘Duh, of course you aren’t…’ I snorted. ‘That organisation only really exists in movies.’

      ‘I’m actually from MI6,’ he continued, ‘also known as the SIS – the Secret Intelligence Service who focus on foreign affairs.’

      I almost spat out a mouthful of water. ‘You mean…’ I wiped my lips. ‘Like James Bond? You’re an international spy?’

      ‘If you like.’

      A mega bubble of laughter rose within my chest. My eyes watered. It was no good, and like an over-microwaved stuffed tomato I suddenly burst. Tears trickled down my cheeks and a convoluted (one of Edward’s words) giggle escaped my lips.

      ‘For God’s sake!’ I said. ‘You’ve got a nerve – pretending to be from a supposed top-secret institution that would never pick up someone in broad daylight and talk of their secret plans. I’ve watched Austin Powers and Johnny English… You can’t fool me.’

      Oh dear. Laughing fit again. Finally I recovered. ‘Sorry, mate, but in any case, I am the most unlikely potential female spy you could ever meet. I haven’t got a rude name, like Pussy Galore, and would look rubbish in her cat suit. Nor have I got awesome hair like Charlie’s Angels, and I don’t kick quite as high as that woman in The Avengers…’ I shook my head. ‘Whoever you are – TV company, newspaper – I’m not interested. Ring my agent if you must,’ (wicked isn’t it, I now “had people”, mainly to fob off nutters like this). ‘I could have you charged for kidnapping me…’ I stood up to leave but Joe pulled me back down.

      A whiff of soap filled my nostrils. His nails were super-clean. His tie ruler-straight. Clearly he lived by rules and regulations and I had no doubt this meeting with me today had been well-planned.

      Discreetly, he opened his jacket and black metal flashed under the Sacre-Coeur’s lights. Oh my God! He was also licensed to kill. What if he’d actually harmed Edward?

      At that moment my phone bleeped and I took it out of my rucksack. My eyes tingled. Thank God. Mystery man had told the truth and texted Edward. It was him, saying to enjoy my tour of the area. He’d continue to unpack until I got back.

      ‘So, you’re armed…’ Annoyingly my voice sounded a titch impressed. ‘And I suppose he’s an agent as well?’

      I turned around to the colleague, who had cold grey eyes and an expressionless mouth. He fiddled with gold cufflinks that looked out-of-place on the straightforward suit. There was something about him that was decidedly creepy. He had greased-back hair like some Fifties barber, and a smarmy smile.

      ‘That’s John. John Smith,’

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