Page 66 of Return Ticket

Then he stepped out, slammed the door, and she heard the key turn.

“Damn,” she said, as James ran to the door and tried to put in the spare key. “That won’t work. Someone will have to pull the key out before we can unlock it from this side.”

James ran back to the sash window, and shoved the lower half up and leaned out. She and Jerome joined him, and saw the man run to his Mercedes and drive off.

“We thought we were so clever,” Jerome said, and he sounded disgusted.

“You were, though,” she said. If he hadn’t had a gun, it would have been masterful.

The ruse had worked beautifully. They had given the man the impression he had enough time to get his answer and leave before Jerome returned, and then they had quietly opened the door.

“I never thought for a moment he’d have a gun.” James turned to her, and she blinked at the harsh line of his mouth.

“How could you?” she asked. “He never even showed it to me until you two knocked on the door. I don’t think he wanted to use it.”

“Where did he even get it?” Jerome wondered.

“My guess is during the war. He’s old enough to have served.” James gave a sharp shake of his head. “He was the man from earlier today?”

“Yes.” She turned away from the view of the street and sat down on the deep window seat.

“When I saw the black Mercedes with some paint damage in the street, I guessed it was him.” James leaned against the window, hand in a tight fist.

“You were cooking dinner?” Jerome said, suddenly noticing the table.

“Yes.” She got to her feet.

“Who were you expecting?” James asked, also studying the table.

“You.” She shot him a look. “I thought it was you at the door, when he knocked.”

She went to the kitchen, got out another plate and cutlery, and set it on the table, ignoring the fact that her hands were shaking. “Help me move this to the window seat so we can all sit down. Unless you’ve eaten, Jerome?”

“No.” He looked bemused. “We’re having dinner?”

“Well, we’re stuck in here,” she said. “And dinner is ready.”

The two men exchanged a look and then lifted the table between them and set it down close enough for someone to use the window seat as a third chair.

“Sit,” she told them both. She dished pasta at the tiny kitchen counter and ladled sauce over it, sprinkled basil on top, and then carried it over. “Will you grate the parmesan?” she asked James, turning to fetch the grater and cheese.

He closed his hand gently around her forearm to stop her. “You all right?”

She lifted the back of her other hand to her cheek, and realized it was wet. “I’m all right.” She gave a slightly gurgling laugh. “Really. I’m fine.”

He let go of her, and she came back with her own bowl and the cheese. Took a seat.

“This looks good,” Jerome said. His words broke the tension and she flashed him a quick smile.

They started to eat, and she felt herself relax as a comfortable silence descended.

They had just finished when James turned at the sound of voices below.

“Solomon,” he called down from the open window.

“Hey, Mr. Detective.” Solomon stood below, looking up.

“We’re locked in Gabriella’s flat. Do you mind coming up and letting us out?” he asked.

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