Il a besoin de toi.’ ‘Wake up, dancing girl, he needs you,’ the voice whispered in French again. ‘They’re coming for him. Hurry, or he’ll die.’ Rose moaned, rolled on her back and pulled the sheets over her head. Sleep, she needed more sleep. Dark thoughts had kept her awake well into the night, together with the clock’s chiming and the music which sounded louder and louder as the hours ticked by. After the clock struck two, she had jumped out of bed, stomped to the fireplace and grabbed hold of it with the intention of sticking it in the wardrobe under a pile of linen. But something had held her back and she had returned the clock to the mantelpiece, climbed back into bed and buried her head under the pillows instead. And now she’d finally managed to fall asleep, a woman was doing her very best to wake her up. He was in danger, he needed her. The voice didn’t say who he was. It didn’t need to. Somehow she knew who it was talking about. Bruce McGunn. Why was she dreaming about him?
