Training Days.

Jane Frances.

This one's for you, Aline.

Je t'aime.

Acknowledgments.

A huge thank you to Aline, who, in addition to delivering frequent cups of espresso to my desk, not only read every draft almost the moment it was thrust into her hands, but was also unceasingly patient in my appalling attempts to speak and write French. To Fleur, who gives her honest opinion whether I want it or not, and to all my usual suspects-many thanks for your ongoing advice and support.

Again, special thanks to Christine at Bella Books, my editor extraordinaire!.

About the Author.

The daughter of a teacher, Jane was brought up with books from as early as she can remember, and to this day continues her love affair with the written word and its ability to transport the reader to places unknown.

Jane was educated in the traditional fashion, taking the path directly from school to university and gaining a Bachelor of Business degree with major studies in Marketing. Her studies took her to the marketing department of a city-based educational inst.i.tution where she spent over a decade working in a creative and supportive environment.

At the time of writing this novel, Jane was in the midst of a two-year sabbatical which took her across Europe, to China and a flying visit to the United States. She has since returned to Australia and her much-missed friends and family, hopefully a little wiser, but definitely with an expanded view of the world that we all occupy together.

CHAPTER ONE.

Morgan Silverstone swallowed the yawn that would advertise her inattentiveness and pushed the venetian blind aside far enough to glimpse the landscape moving beyond the window. The last time she looked, which was not too long after the train pulled out of the gray and dreary East Perth station, they had been rolling through the Swan Valley, a wine region located right on the doorstep of Western Australia's capital city. She'd watched the vines that marched in ordered rows across the plains of the valley as she munched on the not-too-bad but boring chicken and lettuce sandwiches that Kitty bought from the canteen in the diner car. Only two days ago she and her crew were filming in that very same valley, gathering footage to promote the region to the rest of the nation. A half-day had been spent at one of the more prestigious wineries, accompanying a tour that took visitors through the entire winemaking process, from the vine to the cellar. The tour ended with a gastronomic lunch at the winery's restaurant.

Memories of the fabulous cabernet sauvignon that was served with her melt-in-the-mouth fillet steak made Morgan set aside the bad-verging-on-awful coffee Kitty had also plopped on the table next to the sandwiches. But only minutes later the wine was forgotten and the bad coffee downed as she, Kitty, Mark and Nick became engrossed in a preproduction meeting.

As expected, the meeting was long. Despite the groundwork already laid before they even boarded the train that would take them the 4,352 kilometers from Perth to Sydney, there was an endless array of items to finalize for the series of segments they would film over their three-day train ride.

Now, after it seemed they had nitpicked every detail possible, Kitty declared the meeting done.

There was a collective groan of relief from around the small table as, finally, they could escape the confines of Morgan's "room." The compartment was meant to accommodate two, cozy enough when containing the standard number of persons, but positively claustrophobic with four of them squeezed in.

The exodus of the three other members of their party was led by Mark, the only smoker in their group, who was now presumably charging toward one of the few designated smoking areas in the train, a gla.s.s-encased "capsule" with its own ventilation system.

Once alone, Morgan held her arms above her head, intertwined her fingers and stretched as high as she could. On release she let out a sigh, feeling an easing of some of the stiffness in her back that sitting in more or less one spot for the last four and a bit hours had caused. Her upper body again mobile, she wriggled her toes, flexed her calf muscles and tucked away the small foldaway table that had served as their works.p.a.ce. She dug into her beauty case and drew the brush she found through her long auburn hair. She cleaned her teeth at the tiny wash basin, gargled with a medicated rinse, sprayed on some perfume and reapplied a smattering of lipstick.

A mirror check revealed she was presentable, so she grabbed her handbag, locked the compartment door behind her and went to explore the train. Filming would not begin until tomorrow, but before then she was charged with the task of finding fellow travelers who would be willing to be on national television. Since a great majority of people clamored to be on camera, especially for a show with such a high profile as theirs, getting takers was not normally a problem. What did present a problem was finding those persons who could be put in front of a camera and talk coherently once there.

"Morgan Silverstone?"

Morgan turned to the questioning voice coming from behind her. As soon as she did a rather rotund woman clapped her hand to her mouth and gave a delighted squeal. She rushed forward.

"Oh, my G.o.d, Morgan Silverstone!" she gushed. "I thought it was you, but I can't believe it actually is. I just love Bonnes Vacances. I watch it every week . . . honestly, I do. Bless you, dear, you look just like on television, only maybe not as tall." The woman dug into her bag and pulled out a pocket camera, not missing a beat as she primed it to take a picture. "I can't wait until I tell the girls at the club who I met . . ."

Yep, Morgan thought as the flash from the camera made her blink. I think I can safely cross you off my list of would-be stars.

The woman introduced herself as Marge, who lived in Adelaide and had been in Perth to visit her sister who had taken a bit of a turn on the stairs but, bless her, was on the mend now. Marge was taking the train for the return journey because it was one of those things one really must do, wasn't it, despite the fact it meant being away a bit longer from her husband, Fred, who, bless him, was probably starving by now as he couldn't even boil an egg, even though she had left plenty of meals in the freezer and clear instructions for reheating them in the oven . . .

Morgan had been heading toward the front of the train, to the common areas designated for "Red" pa.s.sengers, that is, those in second-cla.s.s sleepers such as hers and those unfortunates committed to an upright seat for the entire journey. Marge was also heading that way, so Morgan pretended she had forgotten something in her compartment and hurriedly turned the key in the lock. She rustled around noisily for a moment, poked her head outside and found Marge beaming at her, taking a deep breath as if to begin speaking again.

"It was lovely meeting you." Morgan wrapped her hands around Marge's and flashed the television presenter smile that had sent the hearts of many of her male audience-and no doubt some of the female viewers too-beating wildly. "But I do have an appointment"-she pointed in the direction of the "Gold" carriages-"down there."

"Of course, of course." Marge bobbed her head up and down. "You must be awfully busy. Life isn't just one long Bonnes Vacances, is it?" She laughed loudly at her own joke and beamed when Morgan politely laughed along.

Morgan nodded an a.s.surance she would of course visit seat twenty-seven in carriage three just as soon as she had the chance, then turned and walked with what she hoped looked like an "I'm late for an appointment" purpose toward the end of the corridor. She pa.s.sed through another sleeper car similar to her own before coming to a sign that read Gold Cla.s.s Pa.s.sengers only beyond this point. Despite-with the exception of Kitty-their lodgings being in Red cla.s.s, Morgan and the rest of the television crew had access to all the pa.s.senger areas of the train, so she had no hesitation in pulling on the handle and stepping into what was no doubt a different world.

Courtesy of the waistcoated and bow-tied bartender, she exited Gold cla.s.s two hours later, a vodka and cranberry juice under her belt and a short list of potential ring-ins in her mind. Top of her list was a gregarious retired Scottish woman who was steadily working her way through what were popularly known as the "Great Train Journeys." Each year for the past eight years she had taken a different voyage. Last year she had traveled the Paris to Istanbul route on the famed Orient Express. The year prior she traversed Canada from Vancouver to Nova Scotia.

"Hey, Mogs."

"Hey." Morgan switched her attention from thoughts of the Scotswoman to Mark, who was approaching from the opposite direction. "How's it going?"

"No worries my end." Mark grinned laconically. "Nick's having a bit of a fit though. He's just discovered his camera's as dead as a dodo and after tearing our room apart he's come to the conclusion he must have checked his spare battery packs and charger with the rest of his luggage."

"So, what's the big deal?" Morgan shrugged. "We don't start filming until tomorrow." Cameraman Nick, despite having the steady hands required for his job, had a nervous disposition and was p.r.o.ne to making mountains out of molehills. A complete contrast with sound recordist Mark, who, until the urge for nicotine got the better of him, was as laid back as they come. "He can just get them when we make the stop at Kalgoorlie tonight."

Mark leaned up against the window side of the corridor, hands behind his back and one sneaker-clad foot flat to the wall. "Easier said than done. Apparently checked luggage is not accessible for the entire journey. Kitty's 'in conference' with the chief guard as we speak, trying to get him to make an exception."

"Of course they will." Kitty, as the producer, had dealt with much bigger problems than a dead battery. The weight of the show's reputation alone would be enough to sway any decision. The train management surely wouldn't keep the checked baggage under lock and key at the expense of missing out on national television coverage. Morgan waved the issue away as unimportant and changed the subject. "I thought I might check out the Red pa.s.sengers. Do you want to come?"

"Looking for a Lady in Red?" Mark deadpanned.

Morgan shot him a withering look. "Very funny. Come on. We've less than two hours until they start serving dinner. We're booked in for the first sitting and I sure don't want to miss any of it."

"Gold?" Mark asked hopefully.

"d.a.m.n right." Morgan nodded happily. Although they would shoot a segment of Morgan eating in Red, their access all areas privilege also gave them dining rights in the Gold restaurant car. It was another perk of the job. So goodness knew why Kitty had made them suffer through their lunch of canteen sandwiches and burnt coffee. Probably for the same reason that, back in February, she had convinced the executive producer it should be Morgan who was sent underwater in a sharkproof cage for a segment on diving with the Great White shark. This was despite Morgan's terror of the creatures and despite the fact that Troy- one of the show's team of six presenters and an extreme sports enthusiast-was champing at the bit for the opportunity. Kitty did such things just because she could.

Or, more likely, she did such things because she eked some sort of grim satisfaction from making life difficult for Morgan. Morgan knew, despite Kitty's outward impression that last February's "Mai Tai Incident" in Chiang Mai was forgotten, inwardly she had never actually forgiven.

Mark and Morgan agreed all the Red action was most likely to be happening in either the diner car, where meals and snacks could be purchased, or in the lounge car with its club-type seating and bar area. Their a.s.sumption was pretty much correct. A couple of the sleeper compartment doors they pa.s.sed were open, and sly glances showed the occupants to be window-gazing, reading or in quiet conversation. The corridors were surprisingly devoid of people, and thankfully the people who squeezed past them either did not recognize Morgan or chose not to acknowledge the fact.

There was an immediate change in atmosphere as soon as Mark opened the door to the lounge car. Dozens had gathered in the comparatively wide s.p.a.ce, many cl.u.s.tered in tight groups along the upholstered seating that flanked either side of the carriage. Others nursed their drinks as they leaned on the high circular tables found in bars around the world. At the far end of the carriage a group of young men had discovered the video game consoles. Occasional cheers or groans came from their direction as the current player either blew something up or was himself blown to pieces.

Generally, the patrons were pretty much involved in their own activities and conversations, so Mark and Morgan's entrance did not cause a sea of heads to swivel in their direction. Morgan nodded to the bar. "My buy."

"The usual, thanks." Mark was already headed in the direction of the smoking capsule, located next to the video consoles. "I'll be right back."

Morgan ordered a vodka and cranberry for herself and a beer for Mark. The woman behind the bar opened her eyes a little wider in the body language of recognition but silently placed two coasters on the bar and attended to preparing her drinks. "There you go, Ms. Silverstone," she murmured as she placed the gla.s.ses on the coasters.

"Thank you." No doubt all the staff on this journey had been briefed about the presence of a Bonnes Vacances film crew, but still Morgan nodded and smiled, appreciating the woman's discretion. Five years as the anchor presenter for the travel show that constantly ripped through the ratings had long ago stripped her of her anonymity. Her fame was restricted to Australia, which meant-apart from the natural curiosity of the general public when stumbling across a working film crew-she could move relatively freely in other countries. On Australia-based a.s.signments such as this, however, she spent a good amount of time in the presence of starstruck fans. Morgan reluctantly accepted this fact as part and parcel of her job. After all, no fans meant no ratings, which ultimately meant no show . . . and no job.

Morgan slid the gla.s.ses across the bar, moving away from the central serving area. She stayed facing the bar, sipping on her drink and enjoying a brief moment of being n.o.body before she had to slip back into "Morgan" mode. The moment lasted for a full minute. Then she felt the weight of someone's glance.

"Excuse me."

Here we go, Morgan thought cynically, half turning toward the voice and preparing her television presenter smile. Her efforts were wasted. The young woman standing next to her was not addressing her at all but was instead trying to get the bartender's attention. The bartender had moved to the far end of the small bar, within earshot but intent on straightening the packets of dry-roasted peanuts in a display stand of various bar snacks.

"Pardon, madame?" the young woman rephrased, a little louder this time.

Morgan leaned forward over the bar and waved to get the bartender's attention. "h.e.l.lo?" she called.

The bartender immediately left her peanuts and rushed over. "I'm sorry Ms.-" She stopped short when Morgan shook her head and nodded to the woman next to her.

The bartender changed the focus of her attention. "How can I help you?"

"One espresso please. To take with me."

Morgan noted the young woman spoke with a strong French accent. Given that the espressos in France were among the best Morgan had ever tasted, she was tempted to tell the young woman the coffee was likely to be terrible. Instead she held her tongue, covertly eyeing the woman's profile. She liked what she saw-hair short, but not too short, strong features without being harsh, taut skin touched by the sun. The T-shirt was loose without being baggy and the pants were a stylish cargo type with multiple pockets.

Maybe? Morgan mused, idly stirring the swizzle stick in her vodka and cranberry.

Definitely, Morgan decided ten seconds later. The bartender had presented the woman with her espresso, a sugar sachet and a plastic stirrer. The woman turned to Morgan, looked her straight in the eye and smiled. It was a short, penetrating look, but it spoke volumes.

Definitely a d.y.k.e.

The coffee was held up and the woman continued to look directly at Morgan as she nodded in the direction of the bartender. "Merci beaucoup . . ." She smiled again as she corrected herself. "Thank you very much."

Morgan had been right. She was French, or perhaps from a French-speaking country. She delved into her memory, searching for an appropriate response in her extremely limited stockpile of French phrases. Nothing immediately came to mind, so she opted for an Australian phrase instead. "No worries."

That caused the French woman to pause then laugh softly. "No worries," she repeated, as if trying out the words for the first time. "It is an 'Aussie' saying?"

Morgan shifted to face her fully. This was not the first time she had been beguiled by an accent. It was one of her failings, and a path her globetrotting career led her down many times. She nodded, noting the woman gave her a quick once-over before returning her gaze. Morgan answered the unspoken "I'm interested" with a sultry stare. "Very Aussie."

At that moment Mark, reeking of tobacco smoke, appeared at Morgan's side. "Thanks, Mogs." He reached around her for his beer, which was still sitting on the bar. "What's very Aussie?"

"We were just talking about our 'no worries' saying." Morgan took a sip of her vodka and cranberry, discreetly checking the Frenchwoman's reaction to the interruption. As feared, she totally misinterpreted Mark's presence. The woman's eyes flicked from Morgan to Mark and immediately her demeanor changed, tightening and closing.

The little cardboard cup of espresso was held up. "I must go to my place. The coffee-it gets cold."

Morgan nodded a good-bye and dismally watched the woman fade into the crowd.

"What?" Mark asked when Morgan glowered at him. Then he said, "Oh," as he realized he had interrupted something. He slapped Morgan on the back and leaned toward her. "Just as well I came when I did then. Don't forget where we are."

"I know, I know." Morgan sighed a heavy sigh. The Australian-made closet she lived in to protect her public persona sure put the reins on her love life. "Come." She downed her vodka and cranberry in a series of swallows and placed the empty gla.s.s onto the bar. "Let's go mingle."

Forty minutes later and Morgan was desperate for a toilet break, the diuretic qualities of her drink of choice taking effect as she finished her third vodka and cranberry for the day. She excused herself from her present company-a very sweet old married couple from Adelaide-and worked her way through the crowd to Mark, who was in the process of protecting the galaxy from deadly invaders. After being stopped twice by people who had met her briefly and now a.s.sumed they had best-friend status, she finally made it to the bank of video games.

She tapped Mark on the shoulder, told him she would see him at dinner and headed out of the carriage in the direction of the nearest toilet. To her dismay, but not to her surprise, it was engaged. A sign pointed to alternate facilities in the next carriage, so Morgan continued on.

It too was occupied. Morgan figured the farther she moved from the lounge car, the more likely she would find a free toilet. She pa.s.sed through to what was the first of the upright seating carriages.

"What does a girl have to do to take a pee 'round here?" she muttered on discovering that, yet again, the toilet was occupied.

She was at the stage of need where she'd have to cross her legs if she waited in the one spot, so she made one more desperate flee to the next carriage. The toilet was vacant. She ducked in.

A few minutes later, with her kidneys now taken care of, Morgan was able to give her immediate surrounds a bit more attention. The seats were like those of most modern long-distance trains. They looked remarkably similar to airplane seating, and with not too much more leg room. Many of the seats in this particular carriage were littered with reading matter, rugs, pillows and other nonvaluable oddments that indicated they were occupied but temporarily vacated. Morgan surmised the pa.s.sengers were either crowded into the lounge or diner cars, or trawling up and down the narrow corridors, stretching their legs.

Morgan checked the number on the carriage door to see exactly where she was. Carriage four. Since she had been steadily moving toward the front of the train, that meant seat number twenty-seven in the next carriage was home for camera-wielding Marge. It was too close to dinnertime to become ensconced in another difficult-to-escape conversation, so Morgan retraced her steps. She would be pa.s.sing this way tomorrow morning anyway, for an early interview with one of the train drivers, so she would call a h.e.l.lo to Marge on the way past.

The mere thought of Marge seemed to make her materialize. She was close at the heels of another woman of around the same age so she was only partially in view, but the voice was unmistakable. The leading woman wore a suffering expression and Morgan wondered how long she had been listening to tales of, bless him, husband Fred. Morgan's sympathy for the woman's plight was, however, not enough to provide her with an avenue of escape. Morgan noticed the two seats closest to her were vacant. She flung herself into the one next to the aisle, and although now facing the opposite direction to Marge and her companion, she picked up the magazine lying on the next seat and stuck her nose into it.

She stayed with head bent into the magazine until Marge's voice, which continued unabated, disappeared with her voluminous frame into the next carriage. With a loud sigh she tossed the magazine back where she found it. Only then did she notice the set of khaki-clad knees close to hers. Morgan lifted her gaze to the person sitting immediately opposite her, in one of the two backward-facing seats, and immediately raised her eyebrows in surprise.

It was the Frenchwoman.

Morgan gave a crooked, embarra.s.sed smile. Of all the seats she had to dive into like a criminal, it had to be this one. Maybe she could redeem herself with some French. "Bonjour."

The woman smiled back, obviously amused, if somewhat bemused, by Morgan's unexpected visit. "Bonsoir."

You gotta love how the French can't help but point out your language mistakes, Morgan thought a little sourly. She nodded in acknowledgment of the correction, considered explaining her actions but decided against it, holding out her hand instead. "Je m'appelle Morgan."

The woman's grip was firm, warm and dry, and the eyes that met hers steady. "Marie."

"Enchantee." Morgan held both Marie's hand and her gaze a little longer than necessary. It had the desired effect. There was a renewed flash of interest in Marie's eyes.

"Parlez-vous franais?" Marie asked, her expression hopeful.

"Pas vraiment." Morgan shook her head, and her lack of French language skills forced her to switch back to English. "Only enough to order a coffee and a croissant."

This time Marie's eyes lit up. "You 'ave visited my country?"

Morgan had probably been to France over a dozen times during her five years with Bonnes Vacances. "Once or twice. It's very beautiful . . . they make good espresso too," she said as she looked pointedly at the empty cardboard cup that lay wedged between the window and what she a.s.sumed was Marie's overnight bag.

"Bof!" Marie exclaimed disgustedly, "The coffee 'ere. It is 'orrible!"

Morgan laughed. "I know. I should have warned you." She searched her brain for the French version of sorry. "Desolee."

Marie paused, apparently searching for words. She looked very pleased with herself as she said, "No worries."

Morgan laughed out loud. English spoken with a French accent really was delightful. "So, Marie . . . apart from our fabulous coffee, what brings you to Australia?"