Page 8 of Sinful Escape

“One Swede?”

“Claudette. The brunette in the twelfth row.”

Roman adjusted the mirror, attempting to check her out. People came on a Vacation Dreamz tour for two things: scenery or sex. Sometimes both. Roman, I decided, was here for the latter.

All my younger drivers were the same. At first, they focused a little on the travel. But after doing the same tour every month, seeing the same sights, staying in the same accommodation, their interest turned to the tourists. As soon as they did that, it was like a switch was flicked, and suddenly all available women, single or not, were attracted to them like tourists to cheap cocktails at a tacky tiki bar.

Laughter erupted from the back of the bus. In the mirror above the windshield, the American boys ogled something on Warren’s phone. I inwardly groaned.

I could sniff out the players even with twenty bodies seated between us. One glance at the five men in the back row was enough to predict their motivation for being there . . . sex.

And that meant I had to be on top of my observation and herding skills. Players tended to drift into little corners where they didn’t want to be seen. I hadn’t lost one yet, and that was a track record I intended to keep.

I returned my gaze forward. Roman sat to my left. The bus’s huge wraparound windshield spread from him to me, providing an elevated view of the congested traffic. Rain blasted the windshield in sheets that the wipers swished away with squeaky sweeps. I could barely see ten feet in front.

All morning had been a textbook summer day: mild breezes, clear sky and blazing sunshine, T-shirt temperature. Typical London weather though—it could cycle through three seasons in an hour. “Did you get a weather report?”

Roman looked at me like I’d shoved a bread roll up my nose. “No. It’s not something I can control, so what’s the point?”

My jaw dropped. “What about a traffic report?”

“Same thing. From what Bruce told me, you have never missed the ferry, so it obviously doesn’t matter what the traffic is like.”

It was true. Whether London was gridlocked up to Big Ben or not, every tour, we’d leave around the same time, still take the same ferry and still arrive in Paris sometime between five and six o’clock that night.

But that wasn’t the point. Navigating the traffic was Roman’s job. He should be prepared.

Not happy.

“Well, I checked both. There’s congestion to Docklands, but it looks pretty good from there on. We should have no trouble meeting the midday ferry.” Diverting my eyes from him, my gaze snagged on a man riding a motorcycle without wet-weather gear. His business shirt was soaked through, clinging to his back. I bet he wished he’d read the weather report. I glared at Roman, and he must’ve felt my gaze. “Next time, check the reports.”

He saluted. “Yes, boss.”

Clenching my teeth, I shot a glare at him that could carve ice. “Excuse me?”

“I said, yes, boss. Anyway, Bruce told me you’ve been doing this tour for two and a half years.”

He switched topic so swiftly it caught me off guard. Replaying his words in my head, I reached a reply. “Is that a question?”

“Nope. This is. Don’t you get bored?”

“Bored?” Frowning, I blinked at him. “No. Why would I be bored? I love this job. Every day offers something different.”

“Hmmm. Okay, I get that.” He turned the bus through a set of lights and merged into the M2 traffic. “What about in your downtime? What do you do in your monthly break?”

Roman sure was chatty. I didn’t always like chatty. Especially when my only highlight during my latest ten-day break was losing one of my socks down the back of the dryer.

Deciding against sharing that excitement, I said, “Not much. . . cleaning, reading, catching up on sleep.”

“Wow.” Frown lines creased his forehead. “You’re an Aussie, right? And you live in London.”

“Yes, and yes. And?” How much had Bruce told him? In contrast, he’d told me nothing about my new driver.

For all I knew he could be a prison escapee.

“If I lived in London, I’d spend every minute checking it out.” His long lashes blinked my way.

“Yeah, well . . .” I flicked my hand wishing I could shoo him away. “I guess I should go out more.”