The Honeymoon Prize. Jessica Hart

to spend the night with them.’

      He glanced sardonically over his shoulder at Freya. ‘I gather the idea was for me to leave the apartment to you and that journalist who had his tongue down your throat when I arrived. I’m sorry if I spoilt your plans, but I’d been travelling for three days, my flights were delayed all the way along the line, and quite frankly your love life wasn’t high on my priority list right then.’

      ‘How did you know Dan was a journalist?’ said Freya blankly, latching on to the only thing that she understood.

      ‘He had the gall to introduce himself while you and Lucy were flapping around trying to get everyone to leave.’ Max loaded the dishwasher with soap and shut it with a bang that made Freya wince. ‘He had no compunction about eavesdropping our conversation, and the next thing I knew he was telling me that he worked for some television company I’ve never heard of and demanding that I tell him everything I could about the coup so he could rush off and file a story on it.’

      Freya frowned as she tried to follow this. ‘What coup?’ she asked.

      ‘God, you really don’t remember anything about last night, do you?’ Max shook his head.

      There was a sizzle as he laid two rashers of bacon in the frying pan. ‘For someone who works on a foreign newsdesk you’re remarkably badly informed,’ he said astringently. ‘There’s been unrest in the region for weeks now. I’d have thought you would be expecting me back at any time.’

      ‘I’ve had other things on my mind recently,’ she said, unwilling to admit that she had no idea which region he was talking about.

      ‘What, like prats in leather jackets?’

      Freya looked at him coldly. ‘What exactly happened?’

      ‘I’ve been trying to set up a project out there. I’d hoped I’d be able to get more done before the situation blew, but as it was I only just got back to Usutu in time.’

      ‘Usutu?’ Startled, Freya jerked upright, spilling her tea.

      ‘The capital of Mbanazere,’ said Max impatiently. ‘Surely you know that?’

      ‘Of course I do. It’s just…’ She trailed off, one hand to her aching head, unable to explain the weird sense of déjà vu.

      It was as if her life had come full circle. Here was Max, back from the same country, with the same tanned skin, the same light eyes, the same competent hands. And here she was, with the same ability to humiliate herself in front of him. Six years, and nothing had changed.

      ‘I didn’t realise that was where you had been,’ she finished lamely. ‘It’s quite a coincidence, really. I was talking about Usutu only last night.’

      ‘To your friend with the hide of a rhinoceros, no doubt,’ said Max, a crisp edge to his voice. ‘For someone who’s being posted out there as correspondent, he doesn’t know much about the country. He was pestering me with inane questions about the situation there while people were leaving, and you were still pressing martinis on the rest of us.

      ‘Not that there was much I could tell him,’ he went on. ‘I was up country when the coup happened. The first I heard about it was when I went in to town to talk to the provincial governor, and everyone was shouting and waving their arms around. There were soldiers patrolling the streets, and I was ordered onto a plane forthwith. The RAF airlifted a whole lot of us and…well, here I am.’