“Good, we’re on the same page.” Carolina runs her hand through her hair again. We reach the car, and I hold the back door open for her as she settles into the seat. Brutus hops up onto the seat beside her, and she scoots to the other side, patting her knee. The dog jumps onto her lap and curls up with a deep groan.

Simon takes the driver’s seat, and I hand him the keys as I slide into the back, next to Carolina.

I pat under my jacket, checking the holster at my hip. A reflex action.

Lord Henningborne must have friends in very high places because he managed to get me clearance to conceal carry here, and it is almost impossible. Sometimes, even visiting heads of state can’t manage to clear their security to carry concealed weapons. The UK has some pretty strict gun laws, but Carolina’s father is a powerful man.

The click of her seat belt fastening has me doing mine up too, and then Simon pulls out into the London traffic.

“It’s twenty minutes from here,” Carolina says to him, leaning forward slightly.

“I know where it is, Miss,” he replies.

He’s British and worked with us on a few missions for Brit Special Forces and since has been working as a driver in many war-torn destinations, including running goods through ex-Yugoslavia at the height of the war. If he can do that, he can evade some local thugs threatening us.

Carolina fidgets in the seat next to me. Her scent washes over me, and it’s surprising. A mix of spicy warmth and heady florals. I’d have pictured her for a sensible, light citrus scent kind of a girl. I wonder briefly what other surprises she holds in store, then close that line of thought down immediately.

She is fascinating, though.

I’ve got a file as long as my arm on Carolina, and it contains a fare few photographs. From the pictures, all taken face on, she’d seemed blandly good looking. A beautiful woman undoubtedly with clear eyes, skin, and great bone structure, but not someone I’d look at twice. In the flesh, she’s much more intriguing.

Her mannerisms are controlled, clipped, like her accent and her words, but her face is expressive, almost as if she can control everything else about herself but not that. Or, at least, not off camera. Her hair is also different. In the pictures, it’s long, sleek, and in perfect place. Now, it’s wavy and hangs a few inches above her shoulders, moving every time she does.

Hands folded on her lap, she stares out of the window, facing away from me, but her fingers drum silently on her thighs, a sign of nerves.