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time Joe Bloggs legged it back to help me, the old man’s trouser zip was already halfway undone.
    Not that he’d have stood a chance of offending me with mean-machine Joe on the scene. Whilst berating the tramp, in perfect French, Joe held me close, all protectively. No need of course – I was fine, but in a zombie apocalypse I’d definitely be on Team Joe Bloggs. He hauled the flasher off to the local
gendarmerie
(see how quickly I’m picking up the local lingo?)
    What strength. Such speed. Plus a fearlessness to match that of sexy Damon from The Vampire Diaries. Of course, no one compared to Edward– whose disappointed but generous smile twisted my heart when, that night, I’d visited him with John and spun the tale about my supposed catering weekend…and the fact that our first day or two in Paris would be spent apart. You’d think me lying to him would easy after last year, when I pretended to be his cousin for a fortnight. But any deception still scrunched my stomach into tight knots.
    Thank God Saturday – my first day here in the secret bunker – was now almost over and my spy training (*big grin*) had gone well. Don’t get me wrong, I’d enjoyed every minute, but longed to be back with my hot man for a night of Parisian passion.
    ‘Right, one last run through of the moves you’ve learnt since this morning, with some role-play – get to your feet,’ said Joe, in his usual clipped tones. Abrupt was his style – he used words on a need to know basis, as if every one contained secret information.
    And what did he mean “morning”? His car had picked me up at five a.m. which was practically the middle of the night. The day had involved full-on self-defence training in this glaringly bright room, several metres under the ground. Not that I felt it was necessary. I mean, Joe was only asking me to act on a hunch of his, right? But Mr Bossy Bloggs was adamant that he should teach me how to protect myself. That yes, his suspicions might come to nothing, but he wasn’t prepared to risk me being hurt.
    The bunker was huge– with a canteen, gym, computer room and corridors. People in black suits to-ed and fro-ed carrying clipboards and left me in no doubt that Joe actually worked for the Secret Intelligence Service.
Au naturel
, I’d been blindfolded during the car journey there, even though it was dark outside. However, I could have sworn John muttered something about “the woods” and said “Bois de Boulogne”.
    Having swilled back some water, I got up from an uncomfortable metal chair. So did Joe.
    ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘give it your all. Flight if possible. Fight if necessary. Learn to recognise imminent aggression and avoid it where you can. Employ all the tactics we’ve practised.’
    That was some challenge, as he’d shown me more moves than Jackie Chan probably knew. Apparently tomorrow we’d focus on crash courses in basic lock-picking and surveillance. By Sunday night my head would be ready to explode.
    Without warning, Joe grabbed my arm. ‘Get in the car, bitch…’ he growled and pointed to an imaginary vehicle.
    What a terrible actor! I giggled.
    ‘Concentrate, Gemma!’
    ‘Sorry, but you’re no Daniel Day Lewis.’
    Chiselled face expressionless, he raised one eyebrow.
    ‘Oh, come on Joe, loosen up…’
    Those determined lips pursed.
    ‘Let’s head off for a burger and chips. I’ll even buy you a Martini, shaken not stirred, or whatever it is you agents drink in real life…’ I stuck out my tongue and winked.
    Wait for it… There it was, his shoulders relaxed and… Pow! With my free hand I punched his solid throat. Joe staggered back, just giving me time to yank myself away and charge to the other side of the room. Yay! I’d done it, but how my knuckles throbbed.
    ‘See, I have my own tactics,’ I said, ‘like chatting my heart out. It’s called distraction… Did you really think me fluffy enough to cut training for a fast food snack?’ Cue what I imagined to