by Hilary Green
‘Well?’ Pascoe snapped.
‘It’s early days yet, of course,’ the surgeon began, trying to recover his dignity, ‘but we think she should pull through. We removed two bullets, one from the apex of the lung and one from the shoulder. She’s lost a lot of blood, of course, but provided there are no complications… Would you say she was a reasonable strong, healthy young woman?’
‘Yes!’ said three voices simultaneously.
‘Well, in that case I’m fairly sure that she will be all right,’ the surgeon concluded. ‘Of course, if that first bullet had been an inch or two lower…’
Nick looked at Stone.
‘That’s down to you, mate,’ he said quietly. ‘I owe you one.’
‘We both do,’ Pascoe put in, unexpectedly.
Chapter 11
Stone whistled happily as he parked his car in the Chelsea square. It was a sultry August night and the air was heavy with dust and the smell of petrol fumes. Leo had returned the previous day from convalescence in Greece and her first action—he told himself it must have been her first action—had been to call him and invite him to dinner. He had been a little disappointed when she had turned down his suggestion that he should take what leave he had coming to him and go to Greece with her, on the grounds that he would soon get bored with the company of a semi-invalid who wanted to do nothing but lie in the sun. However, she had assured him on the phone last night that she was as good as new and anxious to get back to work. He reached into the back of the car and lifted out a huge sheaf of red roses and a bottle of champagne. Then, still whistling, he crossed the road and ran up the steps to the front door.
He was about to press the doorbell when he heard footsteps behind him and turned quickly. At the bottom of the steps stood Nick, carrying an enormous box of chocolates and a spray of exquisite white orchids. For a long moment they looked at each other in silence. Then Stone found himself smiling.
‘Well, come on then,’ he said. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Upstairs in the window of Leo’s sitting-room James Pascoe, already well down his first gin and tonic, watched the little encounter with some amusement.
‘Leo?’ he said.
She looked up from lighting the tall, pink candles on the dining-table. Dressed in a softly flowing white dress, her skin and hair burnished gold by the Aegean sun, she had regained all the heart stopping beauty that had made her famous.
‘Yes, James?’
‘You never did tell me—which one turned out to be Batman?’
She returned to her task, her smile deepening.
‘Do you know,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I still haven’t made up my mind—but I’m working on it!’