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      He removed his hand.

      ‘Enjoy your meal,’ he said curtly, and vanished into the crowd.

      It was over. He was gone. All the things she ought to have said came crowding into her head now that it was too late to say them. All that was left was the imprint of his hand on the bare skin of her arm. He hadn’t held her all that tightly, but she could still feel him.

      She turned away from the market and walked on through the streets. She found a restaurant and entered, barely noticing her surroundings.

      The food was superb, duck terrine flavoured with black truffle, chick-pea soup with giant prawn tails. She had eaten in the finest restaurants in London and New York, but this was a whole new experience. More art than food.

      ‘Definitely, I am not going home before I have to,’ she murmured. ‘He can say what he likes.’