by Joanna Rees
‘What are you going to do to me?’ she managed.
Dieter dropped her on to the floor of the boat. She hit her head hard. He knelt down beside her and smashed her across the face with his gun.
How much time had gone by? Minutes . . . hours? All Peaches knew was that she was now lying on sand. On a beach. She could hear the hiss of waves nearby. A black wall of cliffs stretched up into the deep dark velvet sky. She could taste blood in her mouth. Her body was drenched in white pain. She tried to lift her head, but she couldn’t move. One eye was sealed shut.
But with the other, she could see that Alexei Rodokov was crouched down in front of her.
‘Do you think we don’t get people like you all the time?’ he said. ‘Thieves who want to rob us? Or get revenge for something they think we did?’ He was loading a pistol, snapping back the mechanism so that it was primed. Beads of sweat on his smooth suntanned brow glistened in the moonlight. ‘Some birthday this is turning out to be,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even want any fucking whores on my yacht. And now you’ve brought me to this.’
Peaches tried to look around for help. All she saw was the brooding hulk of Dieter, sitting on the edge of a dinghy ten yards away, just out of the reach of the surf. The red eye of his cigarette flared and glowed malevolently in the dark.
‘Please . . .’ Peaches said.
Rodokov’s face was impassive. ‘Tell me about Irena,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything you know and I might let you live.’
Peaches opened her mouth to speak. Then snapped it shut. Might. He’d said might. Might meant nothing on a night when no one else knew they were here. There was no point in trying to bargain her way out of this. She was dead. She’d been dead from the instant she’d failed to kill Khordinsky. Tell Rodokov about Irena and Khordinsky would kill her too.
‘Fuck you,’ she said. She knew she was going to die, but some part of her clung desperately to these last precious moments of life, like a shipwreck survivor refusing to let go of a disintegrating raft. ‘I’d rather die than tell you anything.’
Rodokov’s expression seemed to harden in the moonlight. ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’
He aimed the pistol at her head.
Peaches heard a soft whimper. It was her own. She thought about saying her prayers, but there was only fear.
Then he fired.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Frankie must have dozed off, for the clank of bars jolted her awake, like a gunshot. A woman screamed in the distance. Frankie rubbed her face. Her hair was matted and tangled from all the hairspray Marc had applied last night when she’d been getting ready in the Carlton Hotel. That seemed like a week ago now.
Frankie groaned. It was dawn already and she was still here. In jail. Under arrest. The small police cell she was in stank of urine. A high window let in weak daylight, showing the streaks of dirt and graffiti on the painted walls.
She stood up from the ripped plastic mattress and started pacing. The sound of the woman screaming was getting closer and she could hear footsteps approaching the cell.
Frankie’s Valentino couture dress – probably worth tens of thousands – was comprehensively ruined. She was covered in grease and oil after her scuffle with the harbour master.
She’d never felt so frustrated. She’d tried to explain who she was and that she’d just been borrowing the tender from the luxury yacht. But the harbour master wouldn’t hear of it. And when she’d admitted that she was trying to get to Pushkin, it had only made matters ten times worse.
The owner of the yacht whose tender she’d commandeered had been equally unforgiving. He’d told the gendarmes she’d been handed over to next that he wanted her prosecuted to the full extent of the law. The officer in charge was furious that she’d been brought in on such a busy night, and when she’d finally cracked and started shouting at them, he’d locked her in the cell.
Now Frankie leant down to rip off a whole section from the bottom of the dress, where the once gorgeous sequined silk was frayed and torn. She needed a bath, a drink of water, some food. But, most of all, she needed to get out of here.
‘Oh, Todd, please . . .’ she muttered, closing her eyes in silent prayer.
Earlier, the gendarmes, finally responding to her desperate cries and banging on the door, had allowed her a phone call. She’d still had Todd’s mobile number written on her wrist. She’d left a desperate message on his answering service, but she’d heard nothing.
But Todd would probably still be fast asleep, she reasoned. Why would he have listened to his messages? And even if he did, would he really help her like he said he would?
It was still impossible to comprehend that the only person in the world who could help her also happened to be the most famous movie star in the world. He was Todd Lands, for God’s sake. The very magnitude of this fact now filled her with fresh doubt. Why shouldn’t he walk away and forget all about her? Especially since his last words to her had been a warning to stay out of trouble.
What if the press had got hold of the story somehow? If they found out that the same girl who’d been Todd’s date earlier in the evening had stolen a boat and attempted to crash a party on Pushkin, that would mean a hell of a lot more than just a few column inches – it would be a major embarrassment to Todd.
But Todd had to come through for her and get her out of here – because there was no alternative. Apart from him, Frankie had nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The thought terrified her. She slumped back down on to the ripped mattress and put her head in her hands, fighting back tears. This was all her own fault. She hadn’t been strong enough. She’d allowed herself to be bullied, right from the second she’d arrived back from Marrakech and Richard had treated her the way he had. And, like an idiot, she’d gone along with Sonny’s plan without a murmur. Why hadn’t she protested more and demanded to see Alex as soon as they’d got to the Carlton? Why hadn’t she fought to get out of the limo when she’d been whisked to the premiere with Todd? Why had she been so weak? So easily led?
From Alex’s point of view, her actions must seem terrible. They’d made it impossible for him not to swallow the lies Khordinsky had told him.
But even here, in the cold light of dawn, Frankie still felt a flicker of hope. She loved Alex and she wouldn’t give up on him, no matter what anyone else might tell her to do. Hadn’t Alex told her to have faith? Hadn’t he told her right from the start that trust was the most important thing?
Well, even if Alex had lost his faith in her, she wasn’t going to lose hers in him. Angrily, determinedly, she wiped the tears from her face.
No more weakness. She was going to make damn sure he found out the truth. She was going to prove to him that he could trust her again. That he always could have. That he always would be able to.
She’d come this far; she wasn’t going to give up. She’d lost everything once before in South Africa and she was damn sure it wasn’t going to happen again – not without a fight.
Frankie flinched and sat up as a cacophony of screaming erupted in the corridor outside. The key turned in the lock and the door burst open. A gendarme – one she recognized from last night – was manhandling a skinny, sallow-faced young woman into the cell. She was hissing like a cat. Her make-up was smudged and her tight jeans were torn. Frankie didn’t know much French, but she knew that the girl was swearing furiously.
She stuck her chin up, talking rapidly, then spat on the gendarme’s polished black boots. She looked like a hooker, Frankie concluded, a junkie. Someone Frankie usually crossed the street to avoid.
But who was she to be so judgemental? she thought. Frankie had stolen a boat herself last night. She was probably in a lot more trouble than this girl.
‘Monsieur!’ Frankie said, standing up and getting the gendarme’s attention. She smoothed her hair behind her ear and gave him her most polite smile.
He looked her up and down wearily, then nodded, as if he’d just remembered her existence. ‘A
h, oui, come this way,’ he said, in clipped English.
At this show of preferential treatment the skinny girl launched into another vicious tirade. But Frankie’s stomach tipped over with hope and apprehension. She was being released from the cell – but into what? she wondered. Freedom? Had her message reached Todd? Had he managed to pull some strings? Or was she being taken somewhere worse? An interrogation room? A bus to another prison? Somewhere that was going to make this cell like a blast?
The skinny girl pounded on the door behind her as Frankie was led down the corridor, then on through two security doors and up two flights of stairs. She was shown into another cell. This one was empty and clean, with a bottle of chilled Evian on the table next to two plastic cups. A barred window overlooked the twinkling blue bay – a world away.
‘Wait,’ said the gendarme.
He stepped back outside, leaving her alone. No cuffs. No need, she saw. A security camera winked its red eye from the ceiling.
Be strong, Frankie reminded herself, beating down her fear as she slugged back the water from the bottle. No more fuck-ups. Do whatever it takes to get out of here in one piece.
A few minutes later, the door opened and a man with a button-down cream cotton shirt and smart chinos came in. He had a pointed beard and kind green eyes behind half-moon spectacles. He reached forward and shook Frankie’s hand, before laying his smart attaché case on the table.
‘Miss Willis. I am Laurent Ricard. Todd Lands sent me to get you out of this mess.’
Frankie smiled. Thank God. Todd hadn’t forgotten about her after all. ‘Thank you,’ she said, shaking his hand gratefully.
‘Why don’t you tell me what happened? And then we’ll see what we can do about persuading these people that what you did wasn’t so bad at all.’
An hour later, Frankie had been reprimanded, but thanks to Laurent had walked away from the whole ordeal. No fine. All charges had been magically and mysteriously dropped.
Laurent quickly ushered her into his waiting car, grabbing her arm rather than letting her savour the morning air and the unbelievable euphoria she felt at getting her freedom back. ‘You can enjoy this better where we are going,’ he said.
In no time, they were on their way to Nice airport, where Todd had left his helicopter and pilot at their disposal. Todd himself had left the Hôtel du Cap and was now up at his residence in the hills where they were to join him.
Todd’s place turned out to be a short flight but a million miles away from the madness of Cannes. It was tucked away in a beautiful valley patterned with rows of vines and surrounded by olive groves and orchards. As they flew over fields of wild poppies and along an avenue of cypress trees to touch down on the front lawn of the pretty seventeenth-century château, with its steep tiled roof and sky-blue shutters, Frankie could see the long sweep of a gravel drive and a gleaming gold Maserati parked outside the front doors.
Inside, Frankie held her shoes in her hand as she followed Laurent and a slightly officious English butler across the cool flagstones and through a maze of hallways and grand rooms, marvelling at the way the place had been done up. A grid of giant Andy Warhol-style pictures of Todd hung above the stone fireplace. Modern furniture and life-sized sculptures stood out against portcullis-style gates and ancient stone arches. The whole place had a comfortable yet stylish feel to it; it was as much of a statement as Todd himself.
Towards the back of the château, staff scuttled about, carrying vast flower arrangements and ice-buckets out to the terrace, where a long dining table was being set up.
The butler barked a few instructions to the staff as he led them past an ornate stone fountain and out to the back gardens, with their beds of scented rose bushes and lavender and neat gravel pathways. Frankie, trying to take in the splendour, shielded her eyes against the glare of the late morning sun and wished she had her shades. But they, like everything else, had been lost.
She followed the butler through a wrought-iron gate in a hedge of sculpted box trees and they all stopped. Ahead of them Todd Lands was getting out of the most incredible black slate infinity swimming pool.
The sight of him seemed oddly familiar. But then, Todd Lands half naked was an iconic image throughout the world. There were postcard stalls from Tokyo to Berlin selling this exact image of him. And here he was in the flesh.
Most girls would almost certainly swoon, but Frankie felt too tired. And too embarrassed, and too in his debt.
He was wearing a skimpy turquoise thong; it was a look Frankie thought was ridiculous, but she had to concede that his body was in incredible shape. Despite his petite stature, he was perfectly proportioned, with a toned, tanned stomach, the muscles of which positively rippled as he bent over and plucked an ochre silk dhoti from the back of a teak deckchair and languidly wrapped it round his waist and thighs. There was no doubt that he liked the fact that he had an audience.
‘Glad you could make it,’ he said, running up the steps to greet Frankie. His smile turned to a frown as he drew nearer. ‘My God,’ he said, as if he didn’t know that she’d spent the night in a French prison cell. ‘You’re a mess!’
‘Some leading lady, huh?’ Frankie said, managing a weak smile.
‘Lal,’ Todd chastised the lawyer. ‘You could at least have stopped off at a chichi shop and picked up poor Cinders some new threads.’
Laurent smiled wryly. ‘Clothes shopping is not my forte. Dealing with the gendarmes is.’
Todd grinned. ‘Dry as ever. I like it.’ He slapped the lawyer on the back, leaving a wet handprint on Laurent’s linen suit. ‘Good job, though,’ he said. ‘Getting Frankie out. How much did it cost me?’
‘Nothing you need worry about. The owner of the tender proved very amenable, once he found out your interest. It seems his wife’s a big fan of yours. I’ve promised them tickets to the New York premiere. I said you’d say hello.’
Todd rolled his eyes. ‘I’d rather have paid cash.’
‘Thanks for bailing me out, Todd,’ Frankie said, realizing how inconvenienced he’d be as a result.
‘Is there anything else you need?’ Laurent said, bowing his head.
Todd looked at Frankie. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Here’s your chance. Laurent is the main man. He can get anything.’
‘What I really need is a passport,’ Frankie said, wondering whether it was too much to ask.
Laurent Ricard nodded. ‘Of course. Give me your details and a couple of days and I’ll have one delivered.’
A couple of days! She couldn’t believe he could sort it out that quickly. But at the same time it presented another problem. What was Frankie going to do for a couple of days? She had nowhere to stay and no money; nothing but the torn, borrowed clothes on her back.
‘You can bring it here, Lal. You’ll stay, won’t you, Frankie?’ Todd said as if reading her mind. ‘I’m not sure I want to let you out of my sight. You get into too much trouble. Quite an impressive stunt, though,’ he said, winking at her. Frankie smiled. She was so relieved he wasn’t angry. And so touched that he was prepared to be so generous.
‘Ah, here’s Claire,’ Todd said, as a woman in a pretty sundress on a mobile phone came down from the terrace. ‘You remember her from last night? My PA. She’ll figure out clothes. We’re having a lunch party, so you’re going to have to get cleaned up.’
Frankie felt her shoulders sag. The thought of being on show at another party made her want to cry. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball somewhere and sleep. She gazed past the sunlight twinkling on the pool, and on down the gently sloping immaculate lawn which reached into the valley below. She thought of Alex, of the two of them in the pool in Morocco, of them riding along the beach. So free. So different from now.
Todd read her expression. ‘Come on,’ he told her. ‘Get a smile on that pretty face of yours. No more moping, OK? You’re stuck with me. You might as well enjoy yourself.’
After Laurent had departed and Claire had gone to prepare a room and they were alone, Fran
kie sat down on one of the terrace chairs and faced Todd. A nearby table was strewn with newspapers, most of which were carrying pictures of her and Todd.
‘Todd, about last night . . .’ she began.
‘Alex better not have read today’s papers,’ he said, with a whistle. ‘They’re sizzling hot. All over you and me.’
‘I can see,’ Frankie said glumly. Alex must hate her even more by now.
‘They’re all very flattering, though, I must say. They think you and I look great together.’
‘Oh.’ Frankie bit her lip and squeezed her hands between her knees.
‘You know,’ Todd continued, pouring two glasses of sparkling mineral water, ‘I got a call from my PR people. They say you and I should keep working it. That there’s still plenty of mileage left in our so-called romance. The hit rate on my website’s gone astral. Jay Leno and Letterman have been on the phone. And you know, since you didn’t patch things up with Alex, I thought maybe you might like to reconsider. I mean, we’re cool. And it’d be fun. I know you’re currently unemployed, so I could make it worth your while financially.’
Frankie stared at him. Was he serious?
Oh God. He was.
‘Todd . . . I can’t,’ Frankie stumbled. ‘I know I mucked things up with Alex this time, but next time I won’t. You know how I feel about him, Todd. I love him, and I want him back. Pretending I’m your girlfriend is really not going to help.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Todd said.
‘No, I mean it, Todd. I can’t do it. I’m not an actress. I know you’d be able to find a thousand girls who’d walk over hot coals for an offer like that, but I can’t do it.’
Todd rolled his eyes. ‘I hear you. Well, I know I’m not your style, but let me tell you, before you start planning another escapade, Alexei Rodokov’s yacht has left Cannes. Nobody knows where this precious boyfriend of yours is.’
‘I’m still not giving up,’ Frankie said. ‘I’ll find him.’
Todd nodded. ‘But not without your passport, right?’