Why had she just chosen precipitous action instead of further reflection? A relentless hunger for absolute truth in a world of grey had made her a successful intelligence officer, but she was less certain it was a recipe for happiness.

She knew no one could force themselves out of an emotional twilight zone. Was the promise she’d just made to Stuart some kind of test, to see if she could break free from the confusion of her own heart?

Her mind drifted back to the feel of him close to her on that bank above the farmhouse. Over and over their circumstances she went, the visceral force of her emotions on a collision course with her rational mind, which warned her not to step back into the orbit of the man who had betrayed her. For a brief moment, anger – or logic – held the upper hand. She recalled Imogen Conrad’s glib beauty, vanity and shallowness, and cursed Stuart’s decision to throw away his marriage for a few nights in her permatanned clutches.

She made her way back to the gîte, having resolved to let Stuart know with the dawn that he must fight his own battles. But that determination melted away on the perfectly manicured lawn, already damp with dew, and she found herself walking through the house to Stuart’s bedroom.

His French windows were open. She hesitated on the threshold. What on earth was she doing? Some kind of madness drove her on. Perhaps them spending time as a family, or the loneliness of her life since their parting, or the stillness of the night. She stepped into the room, kicked off her pumps and let her dress slip to the floor.

‘Kate?’

She slid in beside him. She ran her fingertips across the stubble on his chin and through his still thick, curly hair.

‘What are you doing?’ he breathed.

She gave her answer with the urgency of her desire.

Her hands ran across his newly hardened abdomen as they slipped into the sensual routine she’d no idea she’d missed so much. Only after he had peeled off her underwear and brought her to a climax did a discordant note from the past intrude. She raised her hand as he rolled gently on top of her. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not on the pill. We can’t.’

For just a moment, she felt his body tense, and knew well enough what he was thinking: that on the trip to Moscow a few months ago – when he had saved her life on the long drive to the northern border – she had shown no such restraint with her old friend Sergei.

She pushed him gently on to his back, her long hair brushing across his face, and kissed him again. She drifted lower, brushing her lips against his chest and his stomach.

‘Oh … God …’ he muttered, as the night enveloped them both.

It was not the dawn that let reality back in, but the piercing scrutiny of their sixteen-year-old daughter.