Getting Lost Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  About the Author

  Other Bold Strokes Books Titles Available via Amazon

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  Synopsis

  Twenty-eight days, thirteen European countries, a tour manager fighting attraction, and an accused murderer. What could possibly go wrong? European tour manger Stella Cruz has adeptly led eager tourists around Europe for far too long. Nearly thirty, she is ready to abandon a constantly changing clientele and the never-ending stream of willing bed partners. Enter Phoebe Lancaster, tall, blond, and dangerous. Arrested for the murder of her socialite girlfriend, but later released, Phoebe’s presence on the tour is an unnerving mystery and a reckless temptation for Stella.

  Getting Lost

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  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  Getting Lost

  © 2015 By Michelle Grubb. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-372-1

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: March 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  Acknowledgments

  Rarely is a book written without the valuable input of special people. Here are my thanks, etched on paper for now and evermore.

  Thank you, Alanna Cannon, for all your encouragement, your handy red pen, and for believing in me.

  Thanks also to Jenny Cashin, Jane Johnson, and Jill Stone for your support and valuable feedback. I couldn’t ask for a better bunch of friends. Malcolm Honey, your kind message back when I was getting started is treasured.

  To Monique Gorham, I have a lot to thank you for, but for now I’ll just say thanks for the medical advice.

  A big thank you to Bold Strokes Books; Radclyffe, Sandy, Cindy, and Sheri. I’m thrilled to have this amazing opportunity.

  Lastly, I’d like to thank Kerry Grubb-Moore. Thank you for your amazing mind, your fantastic ideas, endless support, and for the exciting world you offer me every day.

  Dedication

  For Kerry.

  My inspiration, my big fish.

  Chapter One

  “I’m not your mother.” She smiled sweetly, but her tone meant business. “And Russo here, he’s not your father.”

  Russo, a pale, tattooed, skinhead Australian with stunningly handsome features and eyelashes that were the envy of girls, momentarily took his eyes off the road to glance back, giving a cheeky wink.

  “We’re all adults here, so unless the problem you have requires the help of a tour manager or a coach driver, I suggest you buy a phone card to call home.”

  The first day spiel was second nature to Stella. Commanding the attention of everyone on board, she stood at the front of the coach, sporting her much despised corporate-issue lilac polo shirt and beige cargo shorts. Her wardrobe usually consisted of designer European branded jeans and shirts, but on day one, she conceded to wearing the common corporate crap.

  “I love the new hair.” Russo was referring to her short blond haircut. Stella always sported the latest look.

  “Don’t even ask, wise guy.”

  “Go on, how much?”

  Russo shaved his head and was constantly astounded to hear how much she would pay London designers to cut her hair. “Your weekly salary.”

  Russo whistled. “It suits you. Pity you’re about two feet too short for the catwalk.”

  Stella had no comeback. She was short, but she mouthed the words “Fuck off” just to have the last say.

  Her boss, Janet, had told Stella there were three extremely important rules to being a successful tour manager, and she wouldn’t find them written in any handbook. Rule number one: be single. Never have a partner, boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife, or obvious relations of any description. Even if you never intended to sleep with anyone on your tours, the trick was to make them think you could if you wanted to. Anyone with the slightest attraction toward you should be led to believe they’re in with a chance. Sex, Janet would say, is what makes the world go round. If you’re not single, learn to lie.

  That, incidentally, was rule number two: lie convincingly, pretend, and fake it. Janet had emphasised that these tours were full of idiots. And make no mistake, she had said, “You’ll scarcely like any of the bleeding fuck wits,” so the best thing was to learn how to pretend and lie convincingly. The third rule was never, ever get caught sleeping with the driver. If it wasn’t bad enough the group thought you weren’t available, sleeping with the driver—whom everyone also wanted to bed—could lead to mutiny. European tours were for sex-crazed or sex-starved idiots with too much money, Janet had said. Minutes after being hired, as Stella swaggered triumphantly from Janet’s office, she heard Janet whistle and mutter under her breath, “That little arse will see some action.”

  Stella had lost count of the times she’d stood in front of an excited coach load of tourists, mostly Australians, and repeated the exact same lines as the coach weaved out of London, fifty pairs of beady little eyes watching her every move and hanging on her every word. It was becoming a little monotonous now, however, and she and Russo, who always looked so handsome in lilac, had been together doing this route all year long—London, down to Greece, and back again—in all, a journey of twenty-eight days. Between them, they had nine years of touring Europe under their belts, which afforded them the prestige of hotel tours. No more campsites or cabins; they were assigned to the newbies.

  Stella had a reputation as one of the slickest tour managers on the European circuit. Her organisational skills were impeccable, the clients adored her, she consistently achieved higher bonuses than her colleagues, and absolutely every other tour company had attempted to headhunt her at one time or another. It was reaching the ridiculous stage where prospective clients were e-mailing the company to ask for her summer roster, hoping to book her tours after being referred by a friend. Of course this was impossible to facilitate, but it was a compliment nevertheless.r />
  It was rumoured that Janet was eventually intending to move into a higher role in another company specialising in older age groups. Older and richer. If Janet had contempt for the sex-crazed young traveller, she had equally as much contempt for the lazy, rich, old ones. Ironically, while Janet despised the clients, she was exceptional at delivering results.

  At twenty-seven, and after living out of a suitcase for four years—at least during the warmer months—Stella was ready to leave the transient life of a tour manager. Between tours, she occupied a room the size of a broom cupboard in her cousin’s flat south of London, but it wasn’t home. For the first time in her life, Stella craved a place to finally lay down roots. She had Janet’s job in her sights—it was time to take the reins in a managerial position.

  With a sense of familiarity, Stella settled down in the single chair opposite Russo, resting her head back; her next speech wasn’t due until the approach to Dover. She was a little hungover—an unexpected drinking session with a colleague saw her stumble in at three that morning—but she forced herself to pull the client list from her satchel to confirm the hotel room booking for their first night in Paris. She ignored the nagging, dull ache that pulsed in her temples. It was overcast leaving London, but she wore her sunglasses regardless. Six couples requiring double rooms, thirteen twin rooms, three triple rooms, and three single rooms.

  A hard line was required on the first day of any tour. It was necessary for Stella to establish, from the outset, that she was in charge. She was keen to avoid some of her bolder clients from developing any bright ideas about questioning her authority. Her reputation usually preceded her, but her clients expected the best, and she nearly always delivered. The drug-like high that sent her ego soaring from constant adoration was simply a valued added extra.

  It was a huge talking point among tour companies just how much people would play up on holiday. Of course, there was nothing wrong with a bit of fun, but the number of people who would leave their real personalities at home, assuming a completely reckless persona, was remarkable. Ten thousand miles away from their real lives, these folks were wound up and ready to go off. They would flirt like never before, have sex like it was going out of fashion, and the risks they were prepared to take were astounding.

  This group were well mixed, not too young—younger meant more work—and not too old, although a tour of predominantly over thirties meant it was more like a holiday for Stella herself. Her new crew were diverse, slightly fewer males than females, ranging in age from eighteen—an American from New Jersey travelling with his cousin—to thirty-eight.

  She scanned the names to see if any rang a bell. On too many occasions, she’d been on tour with people she went to school with and hadn’t recognised. It had been embarrassing. Now, as a matter of interest, she always checked the list for any potential long lost classmates. No names stood out from school, but there was one name that seemed familiar. Phoebe Lancaster—single room. Unable to place the name, she dismissed the hint of recognition, scrolled through the numbers in the memory of her phone, and dialled the hotel on the outskirts of Paris. With a mixture of English and poor French, Stella confirmed her reservation for the required rooms and, as usual, secured two of the quietest single rooms for herself and Russo.

  The name Phoebe Lancaster bounced around the fogginess of Stella’s lethargic brain. She was sure no one of that name had been at school with her, but it nagged at her regardless.

  Russo glanced her way. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, hotel’s confirmed.”

  “And have you anyone in your sights for some company this evening?”

  Stella rolled her eyes. In the early days, she held the record as the only female tour manager to bed a conquest on the first night. But that was history now. As it stood, she could hardly be bothered bedding a conquest at all. The shine had certainly worn off. Russo, on the other hand, was a self-professed sex machine.

  “I can’t imagine why that’s any of your business.”

  He grinned and took the next corner a little late, waking up any dozers on the coach.

  Stella leaned closer to him and softly asked, “Hey, does the name Phoebe Lancaster ring any bells with you?”

  Russo’s eyes sprung wide. “Why? Do you know her?”

  “No. Well, I don’t think so. Her name’s on the room list.”

  His voice grew louder and higher in pitch. “What?”

  “Shh!” Stella hadn’t quite expected that reaction. “Keep your voice down!”

  “You mean she’s on the coach?”

  “Yes.”

  “This coach?”

  “Yes, you bloody idiot. This coach. Who is she?”

  Subtly twitching his head, Russo indicated Stella needed to be closer still for this revelation. “She’s the bird who killed Rebecca Dean!”

  “Who’s Rebecca Dean?”

  Russo sighed dramatically. “What are you, fucking twelve years old or something? Oscar Dean’s daughter, you twat!”

  Stella’s face indicated she was drawing a blank.

  Russo rolled his eyes. “Oscar Dean practically owns every media outlet in Australia. His daughter was murdered five years ago. Remember I was telling you about it?” Vague memories were seeping back to Stella. “Lesbian love triangle stuff?”

  Suddenly, it all came back. She remembered Russo reading something to her from a newspaper in Australia. The story hadn’t really made the news internationally. “Oh that Rebecca Dean.”

  “Yes, that Rebecca Dean.” Russo slowed down, as if unable to maintain speed while discussing this issue. “Phoebe Lancaster was her lover. She killed her.”

  Stella frowned and cocked her head. “So, how come she’s on our coach?”

  “Well, obviously she wasn’t convicted. No one really knows who did it, but she was charged. They released her eventually. Seemed a bit suss at the time.”

  “So, which one is she?” Stella jerked her head back toward the passengers.

  “Beats me.” Russo’s brow developed a moist surface shine.

  “But what does she look like?”

  He thought for a moment. “Dark. No, blond, I think. Shit. I really can’t remember.”

  Stella shook her head and returned to her seat to digest this revelation. With the knowledge a murderer could be on the coach, she desperately needed to find out which passenger was Phoebe Lancaster.

  Russo sped up again and glanced nervously in the rearview mirror.

  Stella wondered if anyone in the office knew about Phoebe being on this tour considering half the office staff was either from Australia or New Zealand. A heads-up would have been helpful, but for the time being, she would give them the benefit of the doubt. In the privacy of her room that evening, she would call Janet.

  Stella formulated a plan to establish the identity of Phoebe Lancaster. She unbuckled her belt, grabbed the list of passengers, and switched on the microphone.

  “Hi, folks, sorry to interrupt, but can the three people with single rooms please raise your hands?”

  Three people indicated with a wave. Stella discounted the male from Perth; she wasn’t interested in him. She analysed the remaining two quickly. Neither sparked any twinge of recognition, and rather inconveniently, neither had Murderer tattooed on her forehead. Her eyes lingered longer on the stunning blonde, and she recalled the pleasant and unexpected spark that had ignited between her legs earlier that morning as she completed the mandatory passport checks. She had been so mesmerised by the aloof woman, she failed to actually register what name was on the passport. Idiot.

  Perhaps now it was her fascination of this lean, tall beauty with amazing glowing skin that convinced her to discount the possibility she could be a murderer. Subsequently, she settled her gaze for an extended moment on the other woman.

  Stella intended to speak while her courage remained intact and resolutely marched toward a dark-haired, freckled, pleasant looking woman. As if she had no idea who she was, Stella pretended to read the n
ame from the list. “Phoebe, is it?”

  The girl frowned.

  “No.” Stella heard a smooth, deep voice from behind. “I’m Phoebe.”

  Stella swung around as the dashing Phoebe Lancaster stood up. She hesitated awkwardly and felt exposed because she’d singled Phoebe out. Stella backtracked and spoke to the dark-haired girl first, but with no idea of her name, she clumsily consulted her list.

  “Hi, Melanie?” The girl nodded. “Look, there may be a problem with the hotel tonight. I’m awaiting confirmation, but a suite may be the only available room. It will have two quite separate bedrooms.” The girl nodded again. “For Paris only, would it be okay for you to share with the other lady who has asked for a single room?” The lie was easy to retract; she would simply say the hotel had received a cancellation.

  Melanie spoke with a strong South African accent. “Sure, no problem.”

  Stella treasured how willing clients were to accommodate her, somehow hoping this would enhance their European experience. “Great, Mel. Thanks for being so understanding and flexible. It may not come to that, but I thought I’d prepare you. Just in case. I’ll let the other lady know.”

  Stella drew a deep breath on the approach to Phoebe Lancaster. “Phoebe, hi. Look, I don’t know if you heard me chatting to Mel, but there may be a problem with the room allocations in Paris.”

  Phoebe’s expression remained indifferent, and Stella wondered how she could feel a pang of attraction and fear all at once. Surely the fact that this woman was once suspected of murder would be enough to quell her unpredictable urges. Apparently not.

  Phoebe was remarkably attractive, and her shoulder-length blond hair appeared natural. Her most appealing feature was her amazing, flawless complexion. Stella couldn’t detect even a hint of makeup, and she was pleased she’d left her sunglasses on so she could stare a little longer. There were no blemishes, merely a light dusting of freckles and only faint laugh lines. Her lips were glossed, her blue eyes sparkled, and her high cheekbones accentuated features Stella was sure never to forget.