When Earth is conquered by the sinister Greys and the alien who killed Evie's husband returns seeking her help, she must find a way to enact her revenge and fight the growing feelings for the creature who is an exact replica of the man she loved.
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TWO AND HALF YEARS EARLIER
I feel his presence before I feel his touch. The sensation of his eyes upon me. The tickle of his breath caressing the nape of my neck.
And then, his hands around my waist. His chin resting on my shoulder. His body, warm and familiar, pressed against my back.
I smile and cover his hands with my own.
'Do you know,' he says, his voice soft, close to my ear, 'that you've been staring at this painting for a good ten minutes now?'
'Getting bored, are we?' I say, rubbing my thumbs over his knuckles. I've always loved his hands. At times, I think I'm strangely obsessed with them. Tom doesn't get it, of course, but then again, men never seem to understand our fascination with these small details and Tom is the worst for putting himself down anyway. He thinks his ears stick out. He thinks his fingers are too thin. He's always fussing with his hair, which he's convinced is an entity in its own right because it won't ever style the way he wants it to. But I can't get enough of him. Can't get enough of the touch of his hands on my waist – or everywhere else for that matter - or of the weight of his hot stare running over me whenever we're in the same room.
'How could I possibly be bored?' he replies, pressing his lips to my neck. 'This is a great place to people-watch.'
Tom loves people-watching. He just loves people. In fact, I don't think I've ever known someone to be so in love with the human race as he is. He's annoyingly glass-half-full at times, whereas I have a tendency to see too much darkness in others. Crowds frighten me a little, but Tom adores nothing more than to just sit and watch people go by, and he loves making up stories about who they are, where they're heading, what they do for a living.
His new game, however, is slightly more risqué and oh-so-typical Tom Morgan.
'Ten o'clock,' he murmurs, angling his head slightly so I follow the direction of his gaze.
Standing in front of An Allegory of Venus and Cupid - and, it has to be said, staring a little too intensely at Venus' breasts - is a tall, suited man, possibly in his early-fifties, who looks as if he's stepped straight out of the City. The cut of his suit is admirable, as is the shine on his brogues and the immaculate side-parting in his salt and pepper hair. He screams of orderly perfection. I reckon, if I was to get closer, he'd smell of Imperial Leather soap and money.
'City dweller, successful fella,' I say, reciting the lyrics of one of Tom's favourite songs.
'City dweller indeed,' Tom agrees. 'And, quite clearly successful, but I'm waging under that expensive designer suit, he's wearing a rather naughty pair of black Victoria's Secret panties that he told the salesgirl he was buying for his young, beautiful model girlfriend, when in fact, he just loves the feel of the satin against his balls.'
