Dark Heart Rising Read Online Free

can move on.’
    Soren looked blank; except for the furrowed brow, his eyes were trained, unblinking on me. Then he started to relax and I saw the tension evaporate.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘This is your last day, and I have acted like the’ – he stopped, searching for the rest of the sentence – ‘like an asshole.’ He smiled. ‘Let me take you to my favourite bar … It is near here, on the Left Bank. It is charming. Very traditional – no tourists.’
    I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘And we won’t talk about sad stuff?’
    ‘Absolutely not. No sad stuff.’ Soren looked me up and down. ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough in that little jacket?’ he said. ‘Here, borrow mine.’ He unzipped his leather jacket and held it out to me.

    ‘I think I could live in Paris.’ I looked around at the cosy interior of the tiny restaurant, hidden down an alley near the left bank. The place was full of old men, huddled over beer and wine, and the walls, painted rich reds and pinks, were covered in old posters of Parisian icons, tube stations – or Metro stations. Jazz played quietly in the background and a white-apronned waitress flitted skilfully between tables, taking orders and carrying tray-loads of food with just one hand. I sighed, properly contented, and wriggled out of my denim jacket.
    ‘You like it?’ Soren grinned. ‘This is my favourite place. I came across it, quite by accident, when I first arrived. ‘It is a little secret. It is the kind of place you can sit for hours on your own with just a glass of wine and some saucisson.’
    At the mention of saucisson I realised I was starving again.
    ‘I’ll have the lamb cutlets,’ I said. ‘And a glass of mint tea.’
    Soren grimaced. ‘I forgot, you English. You can’t go anywhere without your tea.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I will have a beer, I think. I am not hungry.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘But you eat. Please. It will make me happy.’
    ‘Really?’ I frowned.
    ‘You need a good meal. You are thin.’ He sat back regarding me as I took a piece of bread.
    ‘I’m not thin,’ I said, reaching for the butter. ‘But I’m starving.’
    Soren beckoned to the waitress and ordered, then turned to the mirror at his side and smoothed his hair back off his face.
    He was vain. Not that I blamed him, with a face like that. I waited, amused, until he’d finished his inspection and turned his attention back to me.
    ‘So, Jane. I’m thinking,’ he said, clasping his hands together. ‘On your last day here in Paris, we must celebrate.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘A glass of champagne … just one.’
    I picked up the wine list. ‘Eighteen Euros?’ I wedged it back between the breadbasket and the salt mill. ‘It’s too much.’
    ‘No, no, no.’ Soren shook his head in a melodramatic, slow fashion. ‘Don’t worry about the money. It is my gift to you.’
    ‘Really,’ I protested. ‘The tea is enough—’
    ‘Ridiculous.’ He slapped a palm on the table. ‘Just one glass of champagne. Don’t you think you deserve a treat, after—’
    ‘Soren,’ I warned, ‘we said no sad stuff.’
    ‘Exactly.’ He smiled triumphantly as the waitress bought over my tea. As she put it down in front of me, Soren waved a hand dismissively at it. ‘This. This is sad.’
    I flared my nostrils, staring at the tiny pot. ‘Well … maybe you have a point. OK.’ I set my shoulders. ‘I’ll have a glass of champagne. Thank you.’
    ‘Thank you .’ He caught the waitress’s eye. ‘Two glasses of the Dom Perignon,’ he said delightedly.

    I glanced at the big clock above the doorway to the restaurant. Half past four. I touched my forehead, feeling hot and a little woozy. In front of me, Soren’s eyes were sleepy, too. A lock of his black hair fell on to his face and he looked in a dreamlike state. The place had emptied out; deserted tables with napkins and half-finished glasses of red wine left behind. The waitress moved about