Red Skye at Night Read Online Free

for the likes of him.
    I make a point of keeping my eyes locked on the taxi in front, refusing to let my gaze slide so much as a fraction sideways, even when I’m fully aware he’s again alongside. No point tempting fate.
    Suddenly the family with the children and buggies seem to have some sort of epiphany. They realize they’re booked on a minibus shuttle service and won’t be needing a taxi after all. With a great deal of fuss and a frantic gathering of bags, toddlers and jelly tots, they collect their brood together and head for the row of bus stops, leaving a gaping hole in the cluster of eager passengers. There ensues a deal of shuffling and dragging of suitcases, checking who’s before who in the line, and before my very eyes, the shell suits disappear into the taxi two cars ahead of me.
    Ho hum, so much for that little game. But I really cannot be held accountable for the vagaries of parents who clearly are getting even less sleep than I am.
    To my relief the Liverpool fans clamber into the back of the taxi in front. I’m next. The rear door of my car is opened and I turn just in time to see Mr. Smart and Sexy Dusseldorf easing his long frame into my back seat.
    “Excuse me…” I start to form some sort of protest. There’s a queue. It’s not his turn. Can’t be. There were people in front of him.
    “Queens Hotel please. Leeds.”
    He has a trans-Atlantic drawl, and I’m stunned to note that he is considerably more devastating up close than he was on the airport forecourt. Who would have thought that was even possible? His accent is as sexy as his hair, which is just starting to flop over his forehead. He swipes it back with his hand as he hauls the small case onto the seat alongside him. He opens the lid with a decisive snap and pulls out a sheaf of papers.
    I don’t move. I stare at him, transfixed. What? What did he say? Where…?
    “Is there a problem? Do you know the Queens Hotel? Just head for Leeds and follow signs for the station.” He glances at me under his brows, just a fleeting suggestion of eye contact before he returns his attention to the papers in his hand.
    “I know where it is.” I don’t go out of my way to snap at my customers, not usually. It’s not good for repeat trade.
    A raised eyebrow signals that he caught my waspish tone. He makes no comment, though, just offers me the merest hint of a nod before gazing out of the window at the now almost deserted airport frontage.
    The lack of other potential fares decides the matter for me. Business is business. I turn my back on him and put my nearly new Ford Focus into gear. The sooner I can get Mr. Dusseldorf to Leeds and dump him on the steps of the Queens Hotel, the better I’ll like it.
    I punch my car into first gear with perhaps slightly more force than strictly necessary and pull out into the now thin stream of traffic heading for the exit. Despite my annoyance at my passenger, I do enjoy the drive from Leeds Bradford airport to central Leeds. It’s early evening, the afternoon rush of traffic has cleared, the weather is pleasant, and my new car is performing beautifully. I stretched my financial limits to buy it, and I do realize a Ford Focus is not everyone’s dream machine, but it suits me fine. It represents the start of my business empire.
    I like driving. I like people—mostly. So I put the two together and came up with my dream job—I’ll drive people. Ergo, I’m a licensed private hire driver. This means I’m allowed to pick up fares from designated stands and I also work on a sort of freelance basis for a taxi firm in Leeds. The money’s not fantastic but it’s good enough. I can generally earn enough to meet my bills and put a bit by. The plan is to pay off my loan for the car and perhaps invest in something else as well—a limousine hopefully. I could do weddings, hen nights, that sort of thing. Eventually I’d like to have a few drivers perhaps working for me, but I’m still a long way from that.
    I