Getting Lost Page 4

  Stella read with interest: Rebecca was the only child of Oscar Dean. Unknown sources suggested that Oscar Dean was livid when he discovered his daughter was a lesbian. Publicly, he denied this, of course, remaining neutral in all things regarding Rebecca’s sexuality. Oscar’s plan had been for Rebecca to marry Simon Threadbody, his right-hand man.

  Stella wondered how strongly Oscar had pressed Rebecca to marry Simon. Was Oscar Dean a difficult man to disappoint?

  Chapter Four

  The prearranged wake-up calls resounded in every room at precisely seven a.m. Never having been a big breakfast eater, Stella took her time; she would buy a real coffee near Notre Dame. Nagging her was the information she’d read regarding Rebecca Dean the previous night. She called her boss.

  “Phoebe who?” Janet, bossy by nature as well as in job title, was a massive woman from New Zealand. Everything concerning her was big—her voice, her jet-black hair, and especially her salary.

  Stella rolled her eyes and counted to five. “Phoebe Lancaster. She was arrested for the murder of Rebecca Dean five years ago in Australia. You know? The daughter of Oscar Dean?”

  “Well, did she do it?” Janet bellowed down the line.

  “I have no idea. She was let off. Look, does any of this ring a bell with you? I’ve got a bloody coach load of Australians who know exactly who she is. Surely someone there recognised the name.”

  “So what? Without a criminal record, she’s free to travel wherever the fuck she likes.”

  Stella and Janet rarely saw eye to eye, but they shared a mutual respect for each other’s abilities, although both would deny this publicly. “I know that, but a heads-up might have been helpful. I could have at least avoided the Calais fiasco. I looked like an incompetent idiot. Listen, I haven’t got time to read up on all this, but can you please see what you can find out about her and e-mail it through?”

  “You are an incompetent idiot, Stella.” Janet laughed then coughed and nearly choked.

  “Can you just e-mail the info, please?”

  “Sure, whatever. I’ll get that idiot PA I hired from Latvia or Libya, or wherever the fuck she’s from, to look it up and send it through. She can’t fuck that up, surely.”

  “Thanks.” Stella sighed.

  “Harden the fuck up, Stella. You’ll be fine.” The line went dead.

  Stella sighed. Coming from Janet, that was actually a term of endearment.

  Sparked by a renewed sense of adventure, and with the notion that things could only improve, Stella met the buzzing group at breakfast and found herself seeking out Phoebe.

  The picture before her was jaw-dropping. Lounging comfortably in the middle of a growing crowd were Pippy and Phoebe, laughing and joking like old buddies. Oh, please. Stella was at a loss. Things should have been getting better, not weirder. And to top off her distaste, she was annoyed with the fleeting cramp of jealousy flaring in her chest. God, Stella, she could be a murderer. Pull yourself together. Her sense of unease surrounding Phoebe had not abated overnight; fear and attraction were a distracting combination. Stella busied herself with juice and half a slice of cold toast, preparing to address the group regarding the schedule for the day.

  “Morning, everyone,” she said, raising her voice above the chatter. “I trust you all slept well.” Matt lifted his head from his arms to reveal a pale, clammy complexion. “All except Matt. I told you you’re past it, old man.” He raised his middle finger before gently replacing his head. “So here’s the deal for today. Firstly, we’re going to visit Napoleon’s Tomb—I mentioned it last night. Then we’re off to Notre Dame, where I’ve organised a guide to show you around. Manuel has lived in Paris for years. His knowledge is outstanding. And then Russo and I leave you to explore for the day, but we will have a pickup at five p.m. if you wish to return to the hotel and freshen up before we visit a cabaret this evening. Alternatively, I’ve noted the address of the cabaret on your info sheet and you can meet us there. As usual, you can stick with us or do your own thing. The world, or Paris at this stage, is your oyster.”

  Tables full of people began to disperse before Stella remembered her own plan for the day. “Oh, before you all head off, I’m taking the Metro to the catacombs after Notre Dame this morning, if anyone’s interested in tagging along.” Having spoken to Pippy about this last night, Stella glanced toward her to be met with the most horrified expression. Phoebe, on the other hand, grinned from ear to ear, and Stella was sure she wasn’t supposed to be turned on by such an openly evil expression.

  “St-St-Stella. Stella.” Pippy ran toward her, Phoebe in tow. “The c-c-catacombs?” Her stuttering seemed to exacerbate under stress. “You in-in-invited e-e-everyone?”

  Shit. Stella hadn’t realised Pippy was stupid enough to think she would exclusively invite her little group. She played it down. “Of course. The more the merrier, honey. I’ll see you on the coach, okay?” Stella nervously directed her next comment to Phoebe. “You coming along?”

  Phoebe played with her knife—ironically, the blade was red, raspberry jam smeared on it—deftly rolling it between her fingers. She caught Stella staring and shrugged. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  An insane rush of nervous energy exploded within Stella, and she spoke before she could stop herself. “You look at home with a knife in your hand.” Oh, that’s right, Stella, make a joke with the murderer about a knife.

  Obviously taken aback by such a bold statement, Phoebe advanced toward her. Stella stood her ground. Phoebe whispered, “Many things look at home in my hands, Stella. You just want to hope that if you’re ever in my grasp, I’m in a good mood.”

  Stella smiled and feigned confidence. “When you have me in your grasp, of course.”

  “Of course.” Phoebe returned the smile. “Look, I’ve seen Notre Dame countless times. Can I buy you a coffee this morning while the others do their little tour?”

  Stella’s heart began to slow. Phoebe appeared neither offended nor amused by her poor attempt at humour. “Your charm is outstanding. I suppose, given what you’ve just said, that I should ask whether you’re in a good mood or not?”

  “Why, Stella, are you expecting to be in my grasp sometime this morning?”

  “Safety first, Miss Lancaster.”

  “Well, in that case, I think you’ll find my mood to be favourable.”

  “That is a relief. Coffee it is then. Maybe you’d like to invite Pippy?” Stella joked, grinning wickedly.

  Phoebe gave away the slightest hint of embarrassment before recovering. “Sometimes you find yourself in situations not entirely of your doing,” she said.

  “I see.”

  “But then again”—Phoebe winked—“you might find yourself in sticky little situations you wouldn’t change for the world.”

  Stella scooted off while she was certain her legs were still able to carry her.

  She remained completely distracted by Phoebe as she hurried the group along in the foyer. The moisture between her legs provided undeniable evidence of a strong attraction, but did Phoebe feel it too? One moment, Stella was convinced she was being played, the next, she’d recall a glimpse of what she considered genuine emotion. It was all too confusing. And then there was the blatant intimidation. Phoebe enjoyed making people squirm, and lately it seemed to be Stella she was focused on. She reminded herself that Phoebe was a free woman, never convicted of murder, but the vision of a shiny knife weaving through long, strong fingers flashed once again in her mind. Logic told her to stay away from Phoebe. Overwhelming adrenaline and lust told her she must be kidding if she thought she could even attempt to deny herself. I’m done for.

  Under a cloudless sky, while the group—minus one accused murderer—toured the gothic Notre Dame with Manuel, Stella met Louis for a Bloody Mary and collected her fee from the previous evening. Phoebe waited patiently in a café nearby.

  On her approach, Stella inhaled deeply. She needed that extra oxygen, the sight of Phoebe lounging in her chair at an outsid
e table, beautiful and looking like she owned the place, left Stella feeling giddy. Give me strength.

  Phoebe looked up. “I saw you coming. I ordered you a latte.”

  “Thanks, but how do you know I even drink latte?” asked Stella.

  Phoebe grinned. “Why do you think I even care?”

  With a shrug, Stella sat. “Well, this is off to a good start.”

  Phoebe sighed, and Stella observed that now familiar adjustment in attitude. Phoebe’s shoulders dropped slightly, and her eyes seemed to soften from high alert to mild amusement. “If you really don’t want a latte, I’ll buy you something else.”

  “A latte is fine, thanks.”

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  Stella hesitated. Despite feigning interest in half a slice of cold toast at the disturbing sight of Phoebe and Pippy chumming it up at breakfast, she realised she had eaten very little.

  The hesitation was apparently enough to indicate she was hungry. In flawless French, Phoebe called the waiter and ordered for both of them.

  Gobsmacked, Stella raised her eyebrows.

  “Vegetarian pastries and something sweet,” said Phoebe.

  Stella shook her head.

  “What? You don’t eat vegetables or something?”

  “You just ordered food for me.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t think I’m capable of ordering for myself?” asked Stella.

  “On the contrary, I think you’re incredibly capable in many areas. But with the adoration of a coach load of imbeciles stroking your ego every day of your life, I thought I’d relieve you of the pressure.”

  Stella didn’t agree to meet only to have her ego and sense of control questioned or tested. “I’m quite sure I can take the pressure.”

  A broad smile, revealing perfect, polished teeth, spread attractively across Phoebe’s face. “What’s it like? Having a new bunch of idiots in your charge every month or so?”

  “They’re not idiots,” said Stella.

  “Not that you can tell from the lot we have now.”

  “Well, not all of them, anyway.” It was difficult to maintain her stance when she knew this was likely to be her last year. She had to concede, many of them were in fact high maintenance, spoilt rich kids.

  “You obviously love your job?”

  Before Stella could answer, a waiter arrived with fresh coffee and the food Phoebe had ordered. It looked delicious.

  “See? Relinquishing control isn’t so bad after all.” Phoebe smiled.

  Stella met her gaze. “I didn’t relinquish control; you ordered some food. That’s all.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  “What?” Stella nearly choked on marinated eggplant. “Are we still talking about food?”

  “I doubt there are many occasions, food or no food, when you aren’t in control. But back to the original question, you do love your job, don’t you?” The teasing expression was replaced with one of genuine interest. “For what it’s worth, you’re very good at it.”

  Stella’s heart skipped a beat. She had met some remarkable women during her years of tour managing. She had met some damn sexy women with one thing on their mind, and she’d met some intellectually attractive women who could almost talk her into an orgasm. But no one made her feel like she was the only person in the entire universe, like Phoebe was doing right now. Phoebe Lancaster made Paris disappear.

  “I enjoy what I’m doing,” she said, returning Phoebe’s intense gaze. “But I no longer love it. I consider myself very lucky to be paid to do this, though.”

  “It’s a remarkable opportunity, I agree.”

  “But like everything, it has a shelf life,” added Stella.

  “And let me guess, you’ve reached yours?”

  “Something like that.” Stella knew she shouldn’t be having this conversation with a client.

  Breaking the spell, she looked around at the famous city of love and spread her arms wide. “Welcome to my office. Europe is my workplace. It sure as hell beats any crappy nine-to-five job I’ve ever done.”

  “I imagine your time doing this job has been rather colourful.” Phoebe flicked her hair back, and Stella nearly melted. “So in the past you’ve bedded countless women; you would never have paid rent, bills, or needed to buy groceries; you’ve effectively lived in Europe—a different country every few days—and you practically have your own personal driver. It must take something pretty special these days to get your kicks.”

  And didn’t Stella know it. Searching Phoebe’s eyes for the insulting punch line or inevitable put-down, even she had to admit the bar was set incredibly high. But it wasn’t “something special” that was proving to be the source of her kicks. She was rapidly realising it was someone special.

  “Women and thrills aren’t everything, you know?” Stella was disappointed that Phoebe’s impression of her might be one of promiscuity. “I know the reputation tour managers have.”

  “Really?” Phoebe appeared entirely unconvinced. “Maybe I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

  Stella laughed. “Find out if I’m promiscuous?”

  “On the contrary.” Phoebe beamed at her. “Find out if you’re not.”

  God, what is she trying to do to me?

  “I think the group has finished touring the cathedral.”

  “What?” Stella turned as Phoebe pointed. Half of her group were wandering aimlessly around the entrance of Notre Dame. “Crap. I’d better go. Thanks for brunch.” Stella rushed off to round up the strays and send them on their way for the day. She couldn’t believe she had lost track of time. Damn you, Phoebe Lancaster.

  *

  It was a big ask—so much to do in Paris—but several people were interested in the catacombs. The majority opted out when they realised the catacombs were dark tunnels that weaved beneath the streets of Paris, full of human remains, exhumed in 1785 from overcrowded cemeteries. Matt, who was hungover and unable to bear the glare of the sun, tagged along, as did Pippy and her two cousins, a couple from Perth, a pleasant and attractive South African girl called Megan, and confusingly, Phoebe Lancaster.

  The part of Stella’s brain that screamed at her to stay away from Phoebe was losing out every single time.

  Stella had the group moving at a swift pace toward the Metro station, but she was so shocked by the sight before her, she reached for her phone and discreetly snapped a photo before sending it to Russo. Within ten seconds, her phone rang.

  “You’re fucking kidding me, aren’t you?” he bellowed down the line.

  “Nope. I knew you’d have to see it to believe it.”

  The vision Stella had forwarded was precisely what she was staring at with her own eyes. Walking briskly in front of her, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world, were Pippy and Phoebe, arms linked at the elbows, chatting and laughing in the glorious sunshine. Stella suppressed an urge to vomit, but not before a thick layer of jealousy heavily lined her stomach.

  “Something is seriously wrong here, Stells,” Russo conceded humourlessly.

  “You’re telling me.”

  “I’m not joking, Stella. I mean it. Possibly the most attractive woman on the coach making friends with that ignorant Texan twat? This is too weird.”

  Stella felt ashamed. Her reason for sending the photo was pure, unadulterated jealousy. “I think Pippy has a little crush. Poor Phoebe.”

  “Poor Phoebe? I don’t care about Phoebe. God damn it. She was accused of murder, Stella. Accused of a murder no one else has ever been convicted of.”

  “Steady on, Russo. She might not have done it, you know?”

  Russo laughed. “Did you see her at breakfast? That bloody knife in her hand? Murderer or not, she’s got something going on. If that little display was supposed to be a joke, I missed the punch line.”

  “Look, Russo, I’ve spoken to her a couple of times now. She isn’t evil, and I doubt that tough façade is the real her. How would you feel if you had be
en accused of a murder you didn’t commit? It would haunt you your entire life.”

  “I know how I’d feel if I had been accused of murder and I did do it. I’d feel bloody happy I got away with it and wonder if I could again, probably.”

  “Oh, come on, Russo. She’s not that bad, and she wasn’t even tried.”

  Russo was silent for a moment. “No, Stella. No fucking way. I know where this is heading, and you are fucking insane if you get involved with her.”

  Stella was quick to defend herself. “I’m not doing a damn thing with her, so stop worrying.”

  “But you’re attracted to her, right?”

  Stella hardly ever kept secrets from Russo, and she felt comfortable enough to discuss this. Hopefully, he might offer an insight into her ridiculous attraction. “No. Yes. Maybe. Look, I really don’t know.”

  “This isn’t good. You know that, don’t you? I’m a bloke and she scares the shit out of me.”

  Stella couldn’t help herself. “That’s just it, Russo. On some level, she scares the shit out of me too, but it makes me…”

  “Go on, you can say it,” said Russo, resigned.

  “She makes me that fucking wet. The feeling is addictive. I’m a dribbling mess when I’m around her, and I know it’s wrong, on so many levels. But I just can’t shake it. Jesus, I actually think she’s nice.”

  “Oh, Stella. This isn’t good.”

  “I can’t control it. It’s like this attraction belongs to someone else and is hiding out in my body.”

  Russo was silent, and Stella knew he was formulating a plan. “Well, she’s with Pippy today, so just leave it for now. We need to talk about this face-to-face and preferably while consuming alcohol.”

  “You’re right.” Stella felt pathetic and out of control, but maybe Russo was right. Maybe his point of view wasn’t tainted with attraction. “We’re nearly there. I’ll talk to you soon.” Stella thought for a moment. “Where are you, by the way?”

  “Ah, nothing gets past you, Sherlock, does it? Room 2050 actually.” Russo’s tone softened, becoming playful.