The early morning train was cramped and when Jacqui King stretched her long, stocking-clad legs she felt a twinge in her lower spine. She immediately knew for sure that it was sciatica or, if it wasn’t, it was some sort of freak reaction caused by a brain tumour. Or maybe that old standby cancer.
“Just because you’re a hypochondriac it doesn’t mean life’s not out to get you,” she said aloud.
She ignored the giggling French teens cluttering the aisle and focused on the man that sat across from her. He was the archetypal bit of rough. Broken nose, scar running down the side of his face. Just her type. The train journey to London was going to be a long and tedious drag but maybe this brute could liven things up. She tapped her shiny red Jimmy Choo shoes together to get his attention. When he didn’t respond, she kicked his shin.
He turned and glared at her.
“Co?” he said.
Oh, goody, thought Jacqui. A foreigner.
“Your zip is undone,” she said, looking at his crotch.
“Co?…
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