His kisses on her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the dip at the base of her ear…

She waited, then waited some more, trying to allow a respectable amount of time for him to answer, but she felt twitchy and jumpy. Was he doing this deliberately? Had he seen her cross the square, was he deliberately making her wait?

‘These parties are all the same. Everyone getting wasted, Fairfax leching over every girl that isn’t you . . .’

‘You sound jealous,’ she grinned.

‘Not jealous. Just bored of him trying to turn it into some kind of war between us. Why won’t he accept you’re with me because you want to be . . . ?’

She buzzed again – just as the green door opened and, suddenly, there he was. It was the same every time she saw him: that sensation of the world tilting abruptly, like a car on a rollercoaster swooping the thrillriders into the next convex whirl.

‘Hey,’ he mumbled, managing to make it sound unfriendly. He was wearing jeans and a cream linen blazer, holding a black holdall in one hand and, almost immediately, he slid on a pair of sunglasses, creating a barrier as thick as any wall.

She managed only to nod in reply, just as a sudden burst of static made them both startle.

‘Diga.’ The voice flickered, sounding almost mechanical through the ancient intercom, but it was undeniably female.

Charlotte felt her heart constrict. It was the reply to her extra call up to his apartment. Her gaze immediately flew back to him but he was already leaning forward, urgency in the movement. He quickly, quietly spoke into it, his Spanish faultless and rapid. ‘It’s fine, I’m down here now. I’ll call you when I get there.’

Charlotte stepped back once, twice – her feet wanting to move, to get her away from here, knowing her composure was deserting her. Already. Not even thirty seconds and she was thrown, undone – for the picture was suddenly startlingly clear. She was why he had all but sprinted from the bed. She was why he hadn’t wanted her explanations about Stephen. Was she his girlfriend? Wife?

He looked up. ‘Ready when you are,’ he said simply, but there were tiny red spots on his cheeks as though he was angry. Angry with her? For finding out? Did he think she would tell her . . . ?

Struck dumb, she turned, leading him quickly across the plaza, only just able to stop herself from breaking into a run. He climbed into the front seat of the car – which was waiting on the opposite corner – twisting round to introduce himself to Marina and her grandmother with an easy smile that he pointedly kept from her. Charlotte saw the flicker of appreciation in Marina’s eyes as she shook his hand, the suspicion in the old woman’s.

‘To the airport?’ the driver asked, looking at Marina in the rear-view mirror.

‘Yes please.’ She looked stiffly out of the window, her arm resting on the windowsill, her hand covering her mouth as they pulled away. How was she supposed to do this? It was like torture, some sort of sick game . . .