Ethan Justice: Origins

16: Sunday 25th September, 08:00

ON SUNDAY MORNING in the king-sized bed in one of the junior suites at the Ritz, Savannah Jones awoke with her arm draped over John Smith and her stomach pressed against his back. She disengaged herself, taking great care not to awaken him. She couldn't recall ever having slept so well.

"What time is it?" he asked, as she rolled away.

She jumped. "Don't do that. How long have you been awake?"

"Only about ten minutes. I didn't move because I didn't want to wake you up." John reached over and grabbed his new Rolex. "The time is exactly eight oh one," he announced.

Savannah had bigger worries than the time. How long had she been spooning up to him? Whatever did he think of her? Last night she had offered him sex in return for a favour. Very un-prostitute like, not! Now he had woken up with her attached to him. Get cooler, Savannah, she told herself.

"I'm used to sleeping alone," she said. "Sorry if it bothered you."

"Hardly noticed it."

What was that supposed to mean? Was he used to waking up with lots of different women? It didn't seem that way when he had found her in his bed yesterday. Talk about a scene. Then once he knew she was on a rate, didn't his face change. Whatever could have been between them had been destroyed long before she had offered herself in return for the agents' help with Christos. She realised that, even if they got through today and whatever lay beyond, they were never going to be an item.

Savannah's musings were curtailed by a knock at the door. Rather than venture downstairs and eat breakfast with the rich and influential, they had elected to have breakfast in the suite where they could talk about her predicament in private. She had quite fancied a delve into how the rich and successful behaved at breakfast but she doubted if circumstances would have permitted her to appreciate the exercise.

John made no move to answer the door, so she pulled off the covers, slid out, and did it herself. In the fluffy white dressing gown provided to all guests and worn by both bedfellows, in the agreed pursuit of avoiding further embarrassment, she released the chain from the door.

"Wait a sec," John said.

"What is it?"

"How do we know it's breakfast?"

Savannah sent John an 'are you nuts' look. "Because we ordered it for eight o'clock," she said in answer to his daft question. She gripped the door handle.

"Just humour me and check."

Savannah withdrew her hand and shook her head. She knew that he was right but nobody would be crazy enough to attack them inside the world's most prestigious hotel - would they? She leaned over to the door keeping her feet well back in case whoever stood on the other side attempted to break the door down. It all seemed so bizarre.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Room service, Madam. Breakfast for two."

Savannah looked back at John who shrugged. What else could she ask? She opened the heavy door slowly, remaining behind it all the time. If they had a gun they could shoot at John first. A smartly dressed man in a dark Ritz uniform entered with a trolley loaded with wonderful smells. There were two tall glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice; two covered plates containing scrambled eggs with grilled bacon, sausage, mushrooms and tomatoes; a pot of steaming-hot tea; two Danish pastries; two enormous muffins and finally, two golden croissants.

If the elderly gent who kindly unloaded the trolley of its treats and laid them all lovingly out at the dining table for two was going to murder them, she hoped they could eat first.