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Back The Ringmaster Save as PDF
Chapters (73)
  1. Cover
  2. The Ringmaster
  3. Contents
  4. Prologue
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. Epilogue
  72. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  73. Copyright

Ugh, my eyes were assaulted by the sudden light and I raised my arm up to cover them. Paul climbed out from under the covers, and even in my state of panic my heart rate ratcheted up a bit more at the sight of his physique. Hadn’t quite intended for things to work out like this.

‘Where’s my sock?’

‘On my foot.’

‘Well, I’ll have it back, thanks. I don’t do floral, plus I don’t think I’d even get my toes in this thing.’ He held up my missing hosiery, and then flipped it in my direction. ‘What a way to end a perfect evening,’ he said and came over, cupped my cheeks and kissed me gently. ‘I hope ditching me for your mother at this hour of the morning is worth it.’

Oh, God, yes. He didn’t know the half of it.

48

The click of the key turning in the lock and the creak of the front floorboards sounded like gunshots to my paranoid ears as I skulked into the house. I paused, listening for any sign of life, before advancing towards the staircase. A shaft of light cut into the hallway from beyond the partially closed kitchen door. Someone must have forgotten to turn it off. I pushed the door open slightly and reached around for the switch.

‘Sam, is that you?’

It was just as well I didn’t have a full bladder.

I pushed the door open and was appalled to see Mum, seated at the kitchen table, wrapped in her towelling robe, hands wrapped around what looked to be an empty mug. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. A sharp pang hit me in the stomach.

‘Oh, God, Mum, what’s happened? What’s wrong?’ I asked, afraid of what news that kind of face must surely convey. I came around and pulled up a chair beside her, reached out my hands, one on her knee, one on her shoulder. My heart pounded, not wanting to hear, not that.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, between sniffs. ‘You have the cheek to ask me what’s wrong? Your father is lying in hospital, ill, dying for all we know and my daughter cares so little for him, for us, that she won’t even grace us with her presence, slinking in at some ungodly hour of the morning, and you ask me what’s wrong?’

I felt a surge of heat as it rushed up my face and I leaned back into my chair.