Lie For You

by Pippa Summers

  Once all the doors were closed, Ressier pressed a button on the door, communicating with the driver. ‘Chez moi, Henri.’

  I sat up, alarmed. ‘Wait … I thought we were going straight to the hotel.’

  My French might not be fluent. But even I knew that chez moi meant my place, or home.

  Ressier looked from me to Damian. ‘Hotel?’

  ‘We’ve booked two suites at the Meurice for the duration of our stay,’ Damian explained apologetically.

  ‘Bien.’ Ressier raised his eyebrows, not once taking his eyes from my face. ‘An excellent hotel, of course. Forgive me, Mr McDowell, I had assumed you would rather stay somewhere less impersonal. I’ve put two floors of my own home at your disposal, should you decide to change your mind. It’s a ranch not far from Versailles. A little far out from the centre, it’s true. But it’s a highly secure location. My driver would be glad to take you into the city for shopping or socialising,’ he said calmly, his English as impeccable as any native speaker’s, ‘and you would be close at hand for rehearsals.’

  Damian nodded. ‘The concert is being held in the grounds of your house, is that right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Damian glanced at me sideways.

  Ressier waited.

  I said nothing, but felt distinctly uncomfortable under Ressier’s searching gaze. He did not appear surprised or put out by the information that we had booked rooms at the Meurice. In fact, I was convinced he knew all about it. Yet he was pressing the point. As though this was some kind of test.

  ‘It’s a very generous offer, Jean-Luc,’ Damian told him, ‘and under different circumstances, we would be glad to accept your hospitality. But Sasha prefers to stay at hotels when she’s performing. I’m sorry, I thought we’d made that clear to your assistant on the phone.’

  Ressier nodded, his gaze still on my face. ‘Of course. And I understand perfectly. You are an artist. I would not dream of interfering with your methods of preparation. And the Meurice has always been popular with visiting celebrities.’

  He pressed the button on the intercom again, and this time the rattling machine-gun speed of his French was unintelligible except for a few words: Rue de Rivoli, which I recognised as the address of the Hotel Meurice. Through the smoky glass of the partition between them and the front of the car, I saw the chauffeur and bodyguard exchange glances, then the latter shrugged and pressed a mobile phone to his ear.

  ‘What about Paul and Missie?’ I asked, concerned that the others might become separated.

  We usually travelled with slightly more people, including several trusted musicians and their roadies. But since Ressier was providing the band and all their equipment for this charity concert, there had been no need to convey the whole team to France.

  Ressier leaned back in his seat, looking across at me. With his head turned slightly to the side, it was impossible to see his scar. I wondered if he was making a point of hiding it from me. Perhaps he had seen my reaction before and been hurt by it.

  The thought was mortifying.

  ‘Please don’t concern yourself,’ he told me coolly. ‘The other car is being alerted to our change in destination.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Ressier inclined his head. ‘Mon plaisir, mademoiselle.’

  His husky voice made me shiver. I pressed my lips together tightly. Good grief, how did he manage to sound so sexy and forbidding at the same time? Did he know the effect he was having on me?

  Only too likely, I thought grimly.

  Some wayward strands of blonde hair had escaped my ponytail, so I hooked them back over my ears, feeling oddly childlike and vulnerable in front of him. I rummaged in my bag for my own dark glasses, a pair of gold-and-hazelnut Armani frames set with photo-sensitive lenses. I slipped them on, then turned to look out of the window.

  I was very aware of him still watching me, and wearing shades gave me an illusory but comforting protection from his stare.

  I tried to relax, watching the landscape slip by. The roads were busy, but traffic was moving briskly. I recalled that the French prefer to work late and take a leisurely lunch break rather than tumble out at work at five or six o’clock, as they tend to do in Britain. That probably accounted for the relative ease of their progress out of the airport. Then we joined a dual carriageway and the chauffeur accelerated into the sun-glare. Slightly faster than was comfortable, perhaps, the car swaying with the motion. But I supposed that was a French thing too.

  ‘I’d very much like you to meet my daughter,’ Ressier said suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. His legs were stretched out before him in the spacious car. He looked perfectly at his ease even at this high speed. ‘If it’s not inconvenient?’

  ‘Of course,’ I agreed readily. ‘I’d love to meet her.’

  He had been playing with his dark glasses while he watched me, running his thumb along the thin metal frame, but now slipped them into his top pocket. Armani too, I suspected. A male version of my own pair.

  His smile was brief. ‘Thank you. How about tonight?’

  Damian cleared his throat. ‘I think it might be better if we keep the schedule light for the first day or so. Let Sasha find her feet.’

  ‘I think Sasha can probably speak for herself,’ Ressier said curtly.

  I drew a breath and held it for a long moment, studying Jean-Luc Ressier from behind my own dark glasses, trying to gauge what lay behind the tension I could feel coming off him in spadefuls.

  This man was not a fan of my music, I had spotted that the moment we met. Fans approached with wide eyes and even wider smiles, genuinely thrilled to be meeting an idol for the first time. His approach had been cool and distant, and perhaps a shade disapproving. There was something unnerving about his relentless scrutiny too.

  Did Ressier resent the fact that his daughter was a fan? Some parents were like that, wishing their kids liked classical music or jazz. I was a pop star whose music appealed more to teens and younger adults, it had to be admitted. With Lisette, we had gone for a wider audience, a deeper emotional range. But under Damian’s guidance, and with my own song-writing at a low ebb, I had been working with melodies from other writers for the past few years. The songs I sang now tended to be fast-paced and catchy, their lyrics rarely serious. Perhaps it was simply that he would prefer his child to have better taste in music, I thought drily.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Dinner, at my place.’

  ‘With your daughter, you mean?’

  ‘Zena probably won’t join us for dinner,’ he said, after a slight hesitation. ‘She has some odd habits, food-wise, and usually prefers to eat in her own rooms with her nurse.’

  Poor kid, I thought. She must be so lonely.

  ‘However,’ Ressier continued smoothly, ‘she will be thrilled to meet you. I can’t emphasise enough how much Zena has been looking forward to this concert. She likes to sing too, and has prepared a special song for you. One she wrote herself.’

  ‘That’s lovely. I can’t wait to hear her sing it.’

  ‘Afterwards, we can have dinner. And then my driver will take you back to Paris.’

  I glanced at Damian. ‘Is this okay with you? Or did you have other plans?’

  ‘I’m sure your manager can find something else to do tonight that will amuse him,’ Ressier said bluntly, then turned his head to look directly at Damian for the first time. ‘This invitation is for Sasha only.’

  Damian was clearly annoyed, yet he shrugged and did not try to intervene as I had fully expected him to. He put a hand on my knee. ‘You should go, Sasha. It’s a good idea.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘As Mr Ressier says, you can meet Zena and see the grounds where the concert is being held.’ Damian glanced at me, then quickly withdrew his hand when he saw the expression on my face. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’

  I stared at his averted profile.

  Damian knew how I felt about this kind of invitation. Female pop star
s were particularly vulnerable to stalkers. And while this guy did not seem to be a fan, he was sexually interested in me. That much was obvious. Widowed single dad or not, Ressier could be dangerous if left alone with me, and alarm bells should be ringing here for Damian. They were certainly ringing for me, with ear-piercing clarity. Ressier was a wealthy and successful business tycoon. From the short time I had spent in his company, I had learned that he was aggressive in his methods, used to getting his own way, and clearly not open to hearing the word, ‘No.’ The last thing I should be doing was agreeing to have dinner alone with him in a private house.

  Normally Damian would have protected me from a lone predatory male like Ressier by saying no on my behalf, even if he had to make up some outlandish story to explain why I couldn’t go. Yet he seemed almost to be encouraging me to step into this potentially dangerous situation without the safeguard of his or even Missie’s company.

  What was going on?

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ I began, ‘but I need to shower. Maybe get an early night too.’

  ‘Of course,’ he agreed, not taking the hint that he should reschedule dinner to another night. ‘Take all the time you need to freshen up. There’ll be a car waiting outside the hotel for you when you’re ready. And you must leave whenever you wish after dinner.’

  Why did I not believe him?

  ‘In that case, I suppose … ’

  ‘Thank you.’ He smiled easily, then took his phone out of his pocket. ‘I’ll call ahead and tell my staff about the revised arrival time.’

  I turned my head to look out of the car window while he was on the phone. Anything to avoid his gaze. Why was I so prickly around this man? And what was this powerful sense of deja-vu I kept experiencing whenever I looked at him?

  We had never met. Ressier had said so himself. What reason could he have to lie? I did not remember having seen his picture on a magazine or in a news report, though I had to concede that it was possible.

  I dug deep, painfully going through everything I could recall from our last trip to Paris, yet found no memory of the man.

  Still his presence nagged at me. Like a blind spot in my memory. Like an appalling moment I had experienced on stage once when I had forgotten the words to the song and stared out into the glare of spotlights instead, dazed and speechless. I wished there was some polite way to wriggle out of dinner with him tonight. Thank God I had refused to stay at his home and stuck to our original plan of taking those two suites at the Meurice. But I did want to meet his eight-year-old daughter.

  That was why I had come back to Paris, after all. To help a sick kid and raise money for a good cause. That was one of the best things about being a celebrity; being able to help others just by showing up. So what if the dad made me nervous? It was probably just the memory of what happened here five years ago that was playing on my mind, making me jumpy about everything.

  Passing built-up suburban areas on one side of the road and green fields stretching into a shimmering haze on the other, the limousine sped on towards inner-city Paris, weaving in and out of traffic, its swaying motion almost comforting.

  Leaning back against the padded seat, I closed my eyes as though asleep, and deliberately did not open them again until the car drew to a halt outside the Hotel Meurice.

  ‘We’re here,’ Damian said, touching my knee again.

  I sat up and straightened my clothes. He was being very hands-on at the moment, I thought, shooting Damian a wary glance. But my manager was already climbing out of the limousine, head bent over the mobile phone in his hand as he checked through his messages.

  We had stayed at the Paris Ritz the last time, the French capital’s most glamorous hotel, a vast paradise of opulent whites and golds with a famous name and tradition attached to every suite. I had loved to wander through its public rooms, soaking up its palatial gorgeousness and sense of history. Lisette had spent much of her time there in the bar or asleep, exhausted after the long rehearsals and late nights in clubs. But Damian had felt the Ritz would be a bad idea, given my history with the place, and apparently the Hotel Meurice was the most glamorous alternative, with a history of welcoming celebrities discreetly.

  ‘Madame?’

  The driver was holding the door open for me.

  I slid out, smiling up at him. ‘Merci.’

  The Meurice was a good choice, I thought, turning to study the very Parisian edifice with its elegant, lantern-hung arcade and dozens of neat windows and balconies rising in tiers above. The hotel looked huge and magnificent without being intimidating. Situated in the chic and world-famous Rue de Rivoli, right in the glamorous heart of Paris, yet also opposite the peace and tranquillity of the Tuileries Gardens, the Meurice exuded a pleasing air of wealth and exclusivity.

  And it looked like the hotel took security as seriously as their decor. The doorman was waiting outside the heavily ornate entrance, a tall imposing figure in an immaculate uniform, guarding the revolving door.

  As I watched, a small group of Japanese teenagers in jeans, T-shirts and matching backpacks approached the hotel entrance with mobile phones in hand, giggling and taking photos through the glass, and the doorman made the slightest of movements towards them, discouraging the girls with a gentle smile and a shake of the head.

  Hurriedly I bent my head and looked away, concealing my face until the Japanese teens had moved on.

  The last thing I wanted was to be snapped by a tourist’s iPhone outside the Hotel Meurice. In less than thirty seconds, my photo or a short video of me could be on a social media account like Snapchat or Twitter or Instagram. There it could be shared within another few seconds, then shared again, and be seen by thousands of accounts around the world in less than three minutes. There were no paparazzi waiting for me outside the hotel, as I had half-feared there might be, and I had no inclination to let the world know where I was staying.

  The broad, sunlit Rue de Rivoli was remarkably quiet though. Cars were moving steadily, no traffic jams, and only a few passers-by on the street glanced at me curiously, mostly shoppers laden down with bags or exhausted-looking tourists with rucksacks and maps in hand. It was a blessed relief after the chaos I had envisaged. There were no dazzling flashbulbs going off or cameras shoved in my face, no crowds, no intrusive reporters shouting questions, no jostle of media around the hotel entrance. Which meant there had been no tip-off from the English newspapers that we might be staying here.

  Not yet, at any rate.

  Damian had disappeared inside, presumably to start the process of checking in. Meanwhile our luggage was being scooped up by two ultra-efficient liveried porters with a trolley and wheeled into the hotel. The chauffeur who had opened the car doors for me touched his cap, muttered something in French, then slid back into the driver’s seat and closed the door.

  I looked up at the cloudless blue sky. God, it was hot! I was in desperate need of a hat. Something chic and Parisian with a wide brim, perhaps. Or a low-key baseball cap. That might work too.

  With warm May sunshine beating down on my uncovered head, I felt myself beginning to perspire. I could hardly wait to kick off my high heels in my suite and take a long, cool bath. Then maybe order up some champagne to ease my nerves.

  But of course I had a dinner date ahead with an alarming stranger. Champagne might be dangerous, I reminded myself. The chances of getting tanked and making a complete arse of myself were simply too high.

  Talking of that dangerous stranger, Ressier was leaning against the bonnet of the limousine, partially obscured by Le Monde, the French newspaper that he was reading. He lowered the paper when I stopped and glanced back at him uncertainly. He was wearing his dark glasses again, his expression even more inscrutable now that I could not see his eyes.

  ‘Please, take your time,’ he told me lazily, then went back to reading his newspaper. ‘I’m in no hurry.’

  The sheer arrogance of the man!

  Without bothering to comment, I strode away and through the revolving doors of
the Meurice, smiling at the doorman as though he was the sexiest man on the planet. I hoped Ressier noticed.

  ‘Merci,’ I murmured, passing through the silently revolving doors into the understated cream and gold chequered elegance of the hotel foyer.

  Damian was already at the small reception desk with Paul and Missie, listening intently as the receptionist handed out door keys.

  Heading towards him, I caught a sudden familiar movement to my right. Faltering, I half-spun in that direction, my heart beating fast.

  Was it possible that … ?

  I held my breath, staring stupidly as I realised it was my own reflection that had startled me. A glass panelled door to my right, in fact, momentarily catching a flicker of my own too-pale face as the door opened and closed behind a member of the hotel staff.

  What on earth was wrong with me?

  I had not expected this trip to be a comfortable one, but even so, this was ridiculous. I could hardly go around Paris jumping at my own bloody reflection like I’d seen a ghost. Next thing I knew, there would be stories in the gossip columns and newspapers about a nervous breakdown. And the offers of big gigs would begin to dry up again, exactly as they had done following Lisette’s death and my much-publicised struggle to recover from that blow.

  Missie caught sight of me and blew a loud kiss across the foyer. ‘Over here, Sasha darling!’ she called out in her husky Russian accent.

  Heads turned. An old lady reclining in a gilt and white tub armchair across the foyer stared at me out of large gold-rimmed glasses, her mouth slightly open. She had to be about ninety years old, and looked like a turtle in a knee-length green dress, a string of pearls about her withered neck. Still, I would not mind looking that glamorous at her age.

  I pinned a bright smile to my lips and waved back. ‘Hey, Missie!’

  I was not going to have a nervous breakdown. I was not going to let my past strangle my future. However much I missed Lisette, this was my time now, my moment, and I was determined not to be held back by a few nervous hiccups.