Getting Lost Read online

  “Yes, I heard. It’s certainly okay with me.” Phoebe paused, frowning. “Plus, it may not eventuate yet.”

  Stella wasn’t sure, but she thought a smug grin fleetingly flickered across her face. “Thanks, Phoebe. These things happen. Fingers crossed the hotel receives a cancellation and we don’t have to worry about it.”

  “Yes.” Phoebe sighed, disinterested. “Fingers crossed.”

  Without further interaction, Phoebe turned toward the window. Stella was dismissed.

  *

  With Dover soon approaching, it was essential Stella prepare the group for passport control.

  She wedged herself between the partition behind Russo and the first row of seats to inform her troops of the process—she was exceptionally comfortable with a microphone in hand. Her unquestionable ability to control fifty strangers gave her a thrill second only to that of an orgasm. She loved their willingness to please her.

  Power and control aside, Stella had a job to do. More often than not, a French immigration officer would simply question Stella and Russo—Stella was obligated to site every passenger’s passport before departure that morning—but sometimes the impulsive officials kept them on their toes, boarding the coach and checking documentation.

  As instructed, the passengers were on their best behaviour as the coach joined the end of a long queue on the slow crawl toward the ferry. Cars, caravans, coaches, motorcycles, and trucks all lined up.

  The low-lying clouds of London had long disappeared, and Dover was aglow with bright sunshine reflecting off the cliffs and the crisp blue water. Russo had slid open his window, and a fresh warm breeze wafted toward Stella. She loved summer in Europe and would miss it. The people, the places, the amazing weather, and there was always something exciting happening in every country. Once upon a time, Stella had felt more at home on the road in Europe than anywhere else in the world. Now, the road felt long and the desire to unpack her suitcase and leave it unpacked was more appealing.

  On the approach to the immigration checkpoint, an officer boarded and spoke to Stella, requesting a copy of their client list. He was almost out the door after scanning the list when he stopped abruptly, a serious expression creasing his weathered face.

  “I think today, mademoiselle, we will check.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Oui, I’m sure it is fine. Instruct your group to have their passports on hand, s’il vous plaît.”

  Eyeing Russo, Stella gripped the microphone and addressed the quiet, apprehensive group calmly. “This is simply routine, folks. Can everyone please have their passport ready for inspection, and by ready, I mean in your hot little hands.”

  Stella, hiding behind her sunglasses, intently watched Phoebe Lancaster for any sign of distress. Nothing. In fact, she appeared calmer than every other passenger. Phoebe gazed out the window, ignoring the girl fidgeting in the seat beside her.

  In no time at all, a murmur swelled and gathered momentum. Annoyed expressions and enquiring glances brought the group to life. The only words Stella could distinguish from the utterings were, “Phoebe Lancaster.” Exasperated, Stella sighed—there was nothing listed under “Accused Murderer” in the handbook.

  Stella spoke firmly to regain control. “People! I said this was routine, and I meant it. Passport checks happen all the time. Get used to it. Now, can we have a bit of quiet while the officer does his job, please?”

  Silence. Stella had bought some time. A coach half full of Australians had been bound to realise, sooner rather than later, that a high profile accused murderer was on board. With their backs to the group, Stella and Russo anxiously discussed options.

  “I love it when you speak to them like that.” Russo forced an anxious grin.

  “This is not the time, Russo.” She gripped the back of her neck. “How the hell did she get on my tour?”

  “Paris is only hours away. Let’s just bide our time until then, assess the damage, and salvage what we can.”

  Stella knew that was all they could do. Dissidence so early was often irreparable. She also knew it was going to be hard work. Between now and Paris, she would identify some strong personalities amongst the group and focus on keeping them onside. Twenty-eight days together was a long time. “I agree.”

  “Hey.” Russo smiled. “You’ll work some magic later. It’ll be fine.”

  A kerfuffle toward the rear of the coach broke out, distracting Stella, who swung around to watch the officer escort Phoebe Lancaster down the aisle. Phoebe held an expression Stella couldn’t interpret and eyed her all the way. Stella couldn’t help but be in awe of her composure. The moisture in her pants suggested she was in awe of something else altogether. Christ, Stella, hold it together.

  Once again, the Australians in the group erupted in discontent. Stella thrust the microphone at Russo and calmly followed Phoebe and the officer off the coach. As they briskly crossed the tarmac to the immigration office, Stella heard Russo demand silence on the coach yet again.

  “What’s going on?” Stella stood protectively close to Phoebe in the small, cream-coloured office. Although, nearly a foot shorter than Phoebe, she was hardly an imposing figure. Forty-nine paying customers sat waiting on the coach. It was in everyone’s best interests to have this resolved promptly.

  “Do you know who this lady is?”

  “Yes, she’s a client who’s paid nearly seven thousand dollars to be on my coach.”

  “Oui, the money is important to you. I know. But Mademoiselle Lancaster on a coach, travelling to Europe.” He shrugged. “This requires some attention from me.”

  “Okay.” Stella wanted to do this the easy way. “What do you need from her?”

  “Right now? Only her passport.” Phoebe tossed her passport on the bare desk, ignoring the outstretched hand. “I have to make some calls. I will return soon.” He disappeared through a glass one-way mirrored door.

  Phoebe stepped away from Stella, and after a minute of awkward silence, she spoke, her voice deep and velvet, almost foreign to her porcelain doll appearance. “I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t change my name.”

  The thought had crossed Stella’s mind, along with hundreds of other disturbing notions. Something was horribly wrong. Phoebe Lancaster was as cold as ice, and Stella wondered how to survive a month with this woman on her coach. Of greater concern was the raw physical attraction gripping her. She trusted her body to eventually ignore the growing lust and finally work out that she did not have, nor ever would have, a connection with this woman. It was essential when constantly dealing with fifty new clients, that Stella rely on instincts and intuition. At that moment, with Phoebe leering at her, her gut feeling was stripped down to basic fear. Phoebe Lancaster scared her. She was, however, unwilling to reveal how intimidated she felt. “Might have been easier?”

  “I’m not a criminal,” Phoebe said. “I have never been convicted of a crime. I refuse to change my name, or my face, purely for your comfort, or anyone else’s.”

  You asked! It occurred to Stella that an opportunity had presented itself. Had Phoebe been anyone else under the microscope of French immigration, Stella would continue to take control of the situation and conduct as much of the negotiation as possible. Given that a refusal of entry from French authorities could efficiently solve this serious problem, Stella elected to let Phoebe fend for herself. If Phoebe was refused entry, she would deal with her soaring desire later or suffer until a suitable alternative distraction presented itself. Stella kept her responses to a minimum, not convinced her voice would remain even. “I’m not judging you. You asked and I answered. Forgive me if this sounds rude, but why are you even on a coach tour of Europe?”

  “It sounds rude, because it is rude.” Phoebe glared intensely, but offered nothing further. They waited in silence, Phoebe appearing calm, while Stella’s head throbbed with the pounding of her racing heart.

  The officer re-entered the room, faxed documents in hand and a serious scowl upon his brow. “Mademoi
selle, I am going to stamp your passport with a visa requiring you to report to immigration upon leaving France in precisely four weeks’ time.”

  You’re kidding. Stella’s heart sank.

  He continued. “If you remain in France or the European Union beyond the date on this visa, your stay will be unlawful, and upon arrest you will be deported, jeopardising any future travel to Europe. Is that clear, Mademoiselle Lancaster?” He turned to Stella. “If she is not on the coach when you return, you will have some explaining to do.”

  Stella knew perfectly well the movements of a client were out of her control and beyond her responsibility, but she nodded regardless. In a tone Stella had not heard, nor thought Phoebe capable of, she smiled sweetly and assured the officer she would abide by the generous conditions imposed upon her.

  What a piece of work. Opportunity missed, although a small part of Stella enjoyed the idea that Phoebe’s continued presence was out of her hands for the time being. Phoebe Lancaster was not going away that easily.

  “Thanks for your support in there.” Phoebe oozed sarcasm as they strode toward the waiting coach.

  “Excuse me? You appeared to handle it well enough.”

  “Yes, I did. That’s what I do. I handle things—in all kinds of ways. You’d do well to remember that.”

  “And what precisely does that mean?” Stella pulled up and Phoebe followed suit, stopping only centimetres away. “Are you threatening me?”

  Phoebe smiled. And although Stella admired her ability to change demeanour on a whim, it unnerved her. Phoebe’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “You’ll never have to ask me that. Trust me; you’ll know if I threaten you.”

  “Look.” Stella’s composure wouldn’t hold for long, and the words rushed from her. “I have fifty people to worry about, not one, not just you. The real problem we have is sitting on that coach. If it weren’t for the bloody Australians, you’d have gone unnoticed, but that cocky lot can make your holiday hell. They’ll happily be judge, jury, and fucking executioner, so we need to think about how we’re going to deal with this.”

  “We do, do we?” It was impossible to tell if this episode raised Phoebe’s stress levels at all. “I don’t have a problem. I don’t care what you, or those idiots on that wretched bus, think of me.” She strode defiantly toward the coach, but called over her shoulder, “Perhaps it would be better if I were to share with you in Paris tonight?”

  “I don’t get paid enough for that shit.” Stella looked down as something in her stomach performed a back flip. “And damn it, you can just quit it, too.”

  With any other client, Stella would have read them the riot act. Under normal circumstances, nothing aggravated her more than self-centred, spoilt, rich kids. Not that Phoebe Lancaster was a child. Her date of birth indicated she was thirty-one. But something put Stella on edge—her instincts told her not to mess with this woman. And it wasn’t like she wanted to mess with her anyway. Racking her brain, she couldn’t fathom one valid reason why Phoebe Lancaster should be on a coach tour of Europe. The entire scenario was bizarre, and until she could find out more, she remained hesitant and wary of rocking the boat.

  Stella boarded the coach, and Russo raised his eyebrows questioningly. There was no time to confer with him as she observed the group eyeing Phoebe with contempt. With Phoebe back in her seat, forty-nine pairs of questioning eyes fell upon Stella for answers.

  “Right, folks.” Her voice bellowed loudly through the sound system, demanding attention. “I’m under the impression you’re all unhappy about something, so let’s get it out in the open. Some of you have obviously recognised Phoebe.” The group nodded and groaned in agreement. “Now, unless someone here knows her personally, or has some inside information about her that the rest of the world isn’t privy to, I suggest we all pull our heads in and quit being so selfishly judgmental. Not one of you has probably spoken a word to her, yet you’re all terribly keen to pass judgment. You’ll get nothing from a month in Europe if you all play judge and jury with everyone you meet.” The softening of faces reassured Stella her rant was working. “So, can we all please focus on having a good time and keeping ourselves open to new and exciting experiences?”

  Utterings of confirmation murmured throughout the coach. It was unfair that she had to berate this group for their actions when her own feelings toward Phoebe were questionable and possibly tainted with an unwanted attraction. If Stella hadn’t known better, a fleeting expression of victory, almost pleasure, flashed across Phoebe’s beautiful face as she switched off the microphone.

  To Stella’s amazement, her speech appeared to work. The deathly stares directed toward Phoebe somehow dissipated, not that Phoebe gave the slightest hint of acknowledgement. A distinct look of petulance, followed by indifference settled on Phoebe’s face as she disengaged, leaning back casually and placing headphones in her ears. Stella shook her head. Thanks, Stella. Thanks for helping out. She settled back into her seat stewing over Phoebe’s attitude and wondering why the hell it even mattered. Damn those blue eyes and lean legs that go on forever.

  The mood on the coach lightened considerably, and a glance toward Russo, who gave her an affectionate wink, eased her stress. It was a struggle pushing all thoughts of Phoebe from her mind—the fear and the attraction—so instead Stella focused on the shipping workers skillfully organising the impatient traffic onto the waiting ferry.

  Stella’s thoughts inevitably returned to Phoebe, and it occurred to her, after watching the negative reactions of a busload of predominantly Australians, how frustrating it must be being constantly recognised as the accused murderer of Rebecca Dean. Accused murderer. The words lingered in Stella’s mind, and she shivered, recalling the steely gaze that almost tore right through her in the French immigration office. Gauging by Phoebe’s reaction, she took sadistic delight in observing how nervous and fidgety people became by her sheer presence.

  What bugged Stella was that she couldn’t think of one valid reason for Phoebe being on her tour. Phoebe clearly thought she belonged in a higher class, and by the countless immigration stamps she caught a glimpse of in her passport, she was well travelled and obviously not lacking in funds. With the clear intention of not enjoying herself and making everyone else’s life a terrifying misery, Stella was at a loss to even begin to explain why Phoebe Lancaster sat annoyingly smug on her coach.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if that smug grin belonged to a murderer.

  Chapter Two

  Stella worked the coach as they sped toward Paris. It wasn’t the safest thing to do, and certainly against regulations—standing in the aisle chatting—but considering the events of the morning, a little extra effort was required to keep this group on track.

  Negativity spread like a rampant disease when left to fester. On rare occasions, Stella and Russo had been oblivious to niggling problems, and before they could intervene, the morale and attitude had slipped to irretrievable depths. It was understood not everyone on the coach would get along, but when things went awry, divisions would surface, and the outcome was unpleasant, not to mention extremely hard work.

  Stella’s most precious talent was flirting—simple, but effective. Her small stature worked to her advantage. The difference between an accomplished, flirtatious tour manager and one who lacked the skill, was between one and two thousand pounds per trip in tips. The men were an easy target—half of them were attracted to her immediately. The other half fed off her authority and then, soon after, developed an attraction. The women were a different story. Some wanted to be her—they were usually easy to get along with—some fancied her, and that was no problem, but others felt threatened. This minority of insecure girls required subtle attention, but eventually they fell under her spell. Then, of course, there were those who no matter what she did, they disliked her regardless. In the early days, she would waste precious time seeking to win over this faction, but it was often to the detriment of the rest of the group. Experience taught Stella to concentrate and focus on
the ninety percent of people she’d already charmed, forget the rest. Her first year on the job, Stella flirted to land a bed partner; the extra cash was incidental. Now, she flirted for the cash—scoring a conquest was often more trouble than it was worth.

  A laid-back couple from Brisbane, Matt and Belinda, appeared to be the leaders, or at least the most outspoken, of a group of eight travelling together from Queensland. Stella and Matt hit it off immediately, but to remain on side, she focused her attention on Belinda, and during the course of their discussion, promised to take her—and anyone else who cared to join them—to the best crepe stall on the Champs-Élysées. Hook, line, and sinker, Stella reeled them in. Personal, almost one-on-one interest from the tour manager was guaranteed to keep clients on side. Winning over this group of eight was a good place to start.

  Throughout the course of the tour, she would interact on a personal level with everyone—special chats, time alone, thoughtful comments, jovial banter—but the first few days were imperative. Considerable time and effort was spent including everyone in the early stages.

  Matt and Belinda were like the opposite sex version of each other. Not like siblings. Stella had toured with many brother and sister travelling teams; their closeness could be defined as comfortable, almost intuitive. But couples like Matt and Belinda had a certain physical sexuality about them. Without knowing, Stella guessed these two had been together for at least ten years.

  “So, Stella, what’s the plan for tonight?” Matt, slightly chubby with narrow eyes and mousy brown wavy hair, appeared eager to begin the trip with a hangover.

  “Dinner and bed for you, I should imagine. You’d be too old for nightclubs, surely?” Stella winked toward Belinda and some others in their group. The simple wink was a powerful tool, and while a happy group meant a greater tip for her and Russo in the end, it remained an effective and genuine way to put a smile on someone’s face.