Since her revelation about Dad that morning he’d been adamant he had to keep his distance. It wasn’t what his father had suggested that got to him but that she’d believed in him, known he’d do what was right. It was what he’d expected, had barely hoped for on the bad days, but to have her tell him had shot straight at his heart, twisting the noose tighter. He was so screwed. He should’ve refused to come to Nice when he’d known Tori was going to be here.
But that had been impossible. Seven years of missing her, needing her—even when in denial—had driven him to take a risk. He had wanted so badly to see her again, had truly believed this would help him move on. And now he was making mistakes like saying they had a date.
‘What are you ordering?’ John asked from across the table.
The waiter was hovering at his elbow, ready to translate if needed.
Ben pointed to the menu. ‘Steak, rare.’
Tori laughed and held her hand out to Rita. ‘You owe me. Twenty euros, I believe.’
‘What?’ Ben looked from one smug woman to the other delving into her wallet to flourish a twenty-euro note.
‘The girls had a bet on what you’d choose. Steak or seafood.’
And he’d missed that? Too much daydreaming and not enough concentration. Of course Tori would know what he’d choose. Steak had always been his favourite protein. ‘We are in France. Obviously I’m eating steak.’ He tipped a nod at Tori. ‘You’re having paella.’ She ate seafood in any way, shape or form at every opportunity.
Her smile melted his gloomy mood and put him back in his happy shoes. ‘Duck à l’orange, or however it’s said in French.’
So he’d got that wrong. He liked it that Tori could still surprise him. I’m not meant to be liking anything about her too much. True, but he was going to enjoy the evening anyway.
John ordered champagne, and sparkling water for Tori. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing out on,’ he told her.
‘Sure I do.’ Her smile dipped.
‘When did you stop drinking wine?’ Ben asked.
‘A while back.’
‘I remember...’ He hesitated.
‘That I drank too much.’ A don’t-go-there look had crept into her eyes. ‘I’m sure you do.’
When you said to drink French champagne in France would be the ultimate dream. Looks like she’d got over that.
‘Let’s order,’ Rita intervened, after a quick glance at Tori.
The food was delicious, made more so by the setting and the company. At last Ben pushed his dessert plate aside and reached for his wine glass. He hadn’t had such a wonderful night in a long while. ‘Thanks, everyone. A great evening.’ He raised his glass to his friends. Tori? A friend? For lack of a better word, yes, but it didn’t sit easily. She was more than a friend, less than his wife.
‘I agree.’ John tapped his nearly full glass against everyone else’s and put it down, the wine untouched.
‘John? Something wrong with your wine?’ The man was a wine connoisseur, never missed an opportunity to try new vintages.
He gave a single shake of his head. ‘It’s fine.’
It should be, given it was one of the biggest names for red wine on the continent. About to push John about it, Ben backed off. If his mate didn’t want to say anything, then he’d respect that. He mightn’t want to be heard criticising the wine in front of the waiters.
Rita said, ‘You don’t want your dessert, either? Can I try some?’
‘Go ahead.’ John pushed his plate towards his wife. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.’
‘It’s chocolate. Of course I have to have some.’ Rita spooned up a small mouthful.
John said, ‘I think I’m having a heart attack.’
What? Cold dread filled Ben. ‘John? Tori, get an ambulance.’ He was on his feet and at John’s side in an instant. ‘I’m taking your pulse, man. You’re sweating. Where exactly is this pain?’
‘Onto it.’ Tori was already halfway across the dining area, hurrying towards the head waiter. She was waving her hands and pointing to their table as she talked rapidly. Hopefully the waiter understood enough English to get the gist of her request. Now was not the time to have to be trying out her schoolgirl French.
Rita’s spoon clattered onto her plate. ‘John? Please, tell me this is a joke.’
John lifted his hand to his chest, rubbed round and round over his ribs, his heart, even up to his shoulder. ‘Here.’
Rita cried, ‘John? Hold on for that ambulance. Think of the kids. Please.’ Her hand gripped John’s. ‘Don’t you dare go getting sick, love. You can’t.’ Despair had crept into her voice.
Ben touched her shoulder. ‘We’ll soon have John in hospital.’ He had no idea what the response time would be like here, or how far away the hospital was.
‘There’s a hotel full of cardiologists ten minutes away,’ John quipped around a pain-filled grimace. ‘I’ll be fine, sweetheart.’
Oh, sure. Ben barely stopped himself rolling his eyes. John was only trying to cheer up Rita, but one quick look at her told him how much she believed that.
‘They’re phoning for the ambulance now.’ Tori was back.
‘How can you be sure what they’re doing?’ The wobble in Rita’s voice was awful.
Tori wrapped an arm around Rita’s waist. ‘I talked to a patron who spoke English and French. She’s organising everything.’
John groaned and pitched forward into Ben’s arms.
‘Steady, mate. Let’s get you lying down.’
A woman appeared by their table. ‘There’s a sofa inside that the waiter says you can use for your friend.’
‘Thank you,’ Tori answered. ‘Now we need a man to help Ben shift John in there.’
‘The waiter’s willing to help.’ The woman fired off what was required to the man at her elbow.
Ben stood up with John draped over him. ‘Come on, mate. We’re taking you in where you’ll be more comfortable.’
John wasn’t answering. His mouth was slack and drooling.
‘Quickly, help me.’ Ben swallowed down on the flare of panic. This was not happening to John. No way in hell.
Even as the woman translated the waiter was taking John’s other side. Between them they shuffled John inside and laid him on the sofa.
Tori brought Rita inside and gently pressed her onto a chair. ‘I’m going to help Ben, okay? John’s in good hands.’
Ben was counting John’s respiratory rate as he undid his tie and tore open his shirt. ‘How’s that pain, John?’
‘Worse,’ John croaked, then screwed his eyes tight.
‘I’m taking your pulse,’ Tori told him, her eyes scanning John’s face. ‘Very pale,’ she murmured.
‘Have you had pain like this before?’ Ben asked. Resp rate was low.
‘No,’ John muttered.
‘Pulse faint.’ Tori added to the dire picture.
The woman who’d called for the ambulance said, ‘Do you want me to stay and interpret for you when the paramedics arrive?’
‘Yes, please. You can start by telling them we’re both cardiac specialists.’ They’d understand everything possible had been done correctly.
John’s head lolled to one side.
Tori flicked her head up. ‘Pulse gone.’
Rita cried out. The woman moved to her side.
Ben stood and pulled John onto the floor so there was something hard under his body. ‘Tori, I’ll take the compressions, you do the breaths.’
‘Onto it.’ She knelt at John’s head, snatched a cushion from a chair and gently slid it under John, tipping his head back to clear the throat.