Lie For You

by Pippa Summers

  That this young woman had died was appalling. But as far as I was aware, I had never hit anyone with my sports car.

  It was true though that, with only misty memories of our pre-accident days, I couldn’t immediately recall driving my sports car, though I could picture the vehicle clearly enough. Was this some kind of fit-up? Had Damian borrowed the car himself that night and struck this unfortunate teenager?

  Everything about that time felt so confused. My clearest memories are of the weeks and months following the accident, as though that cataclysmic event had somehow brought me to life out of a long slumber …

  Whatever the truth, I felt torn about the situation. A teenage girl had died. How and why were less important right now than that awful fact. This young woman, Sharon Woods, had lost her life. And I could not deny that it was possible I was responsible, and had somehow blocked out that fact.

  It would certainly explain my intermittent amnesia about my life before the crash, the way events seemed to blur or kaleidoscope in my head when I tried to recall them.

  Nonetheless, I couldn’t allow the public to know what was happening. Not until I knew for sure myself, at least.

  So I strode along the corridor to my luxurious suite without any change of expression, and with Missie chattering cheerfully beside me, as though nothing had happened.

  But inside I was dying.

  The only thing I could do now was fly home, call up my lawyer – Sarah King, who always had my back in music contract negotiations – and then turn myself in at the nearest police station. What else could I do? I had no memory of the accident. But that didn’t mean I was innocent. If the police thought I did it, and had new evidence by way of Damian’s testimony – false or otherwise – then I couldn’t hide from this charge forever. I would need to face it head-on and accept whatever justice was due to me.

  In the suite, I kicked off my shiny Louboutin heels and let Missie help me strip down to my underwear, and remove my make-up and jewellery.

  Then I sent her back to her room to pack and get some sleep. ‘Thanks for all your help tonight, Missie,’ I said. ‘We’ll fly back first thing in the morning as originally arranged. Seven o’clock room service breakfast, eight o’clock meet-up?’

  One she had gone, I took a swift, mercilessly scalding shower, as though I could scrub away all traces of tonight’s horrors and frustrations with soap and hot water.

  After drying off, I donned a long, loose T-shirt with white panties underneath, a simple outfit that made me feel relaxed and more like myself again. Then I rooted out my constantly buzzing phone and threw myself onto the plush sofa to scroll through the long list of messages and notifications that awaited me.

  There were huge numbers of tweets about the concert, with some fabulous photos and links to French newspaper reports. But among those notifications were a few private messages, including one from Jean-Luc Ressier.

  Where did you go? I’m sorry if I upset you tonight. JL x

  I drew my bare feet up onto the sofa and studied the text for a few minutes, stupidly knocked off-balance by that little cross indicating a kiss. I bit my lip so hard, in fact, I could taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.

  Damn it.

  I was unsure whether or not to reply to his text. I didn’t want to get drawn into some long wrangling discussion about why I’d fled his home at midnight like Cinderella after the ball. But on a more mundane level, I needed to check his private plane would still be available to us tomorrow at the airport.

  In the end, I typed, I was tired, then paused, and added with a deep sense of chagrin, I’m sorry not to have said goodbye to Zena. Flight still on tomorrow, 10am? and hit Send before I could change my mind.

  There was a long delay.

  I made myself a cup of soothing chamomile tea and wandered to the window to look out over the dark, twinkling city as she slept.

  I didn’t want to leave Paris.

  England meant the police, and that was a terrifying thought.

  If I could be sure for certain that I had knocked this girl down, I would feel better about walking into a police station and confessing to it. But I had no memory of the event.

  Was it possible that my blurred memories before the accident were down to my subconscious blocking out that awful tragedy so I wouldn’t have to remember it?

  If so, I would need professional help to recover those memories.

  A hypnotist, perhaps.

  If I killed Sharon Woods five years ago, even accidentally, it was time to stop running and to face up to what I did. That might mean spending time in prison. I baulked at the thought, but at least prison would be better than hiding out and trying to dodge that responsibility, always afraid of a knock at the door in the middle of the night …

  At the same time, one part of me was glad to be going home to England.

  Maybe shaking Paris loose would restore sanity to my brain, after this too-sudden obsession with Jean-Luc Ressier, a fixation that had started to hurt my heart too.

  My phone buzzed.

  Can I come up?

  I stared at the text message, my mouth open. What the hell did that mean?

  Unless …

  Fumbling a little, I typed Where are you? and hit Send.

  Less than thirty seconds later, his reply appeared on the phone screen, shocking me to my core.

  Downstairs in the lobby. Ring down to let me come up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I swallowed but did not react for a moment.

  It was the early hours of the morning. I was still wired after the concert, unable to go to bed yet, but beyond that familiar tingle of excitement was a crashing fatigue waiting to kick in. By four o’clock, I would probably be comatose. And given that I had a private flight booked for ten, and we needed to get out to the airport in good time, I really ought to be thinking about bed soon. I could function on three- or four-hours’ sleep, and often had to in this job. But I always preferred to grab more sleep if possible.

  More importantly, did I really want to allow a man like Jean-Luc Ressier access to my suite in the middle of the night?

  There was only one reason he wanted to see me, after all. And it wasn’t so he could congratulate me on singing well at the concert.

  I closed my eyes and fought against a rising tide of intensity.

  I barely knew the man.

  Jean-Luc Ressier might be a wealthy and famous business tycoon here in France. But that didn’t make him someone I could trust. He had photos of me and Lisette on his wall, for God’s sake!

  Then I sucked in a deep breath, listening more to my body than my head, and texted a reply before I could change my mind.

  Sure. Why not?

  Picking up the phone, I hit the button for Reception, and only then glanced at the time and realized how this particular request would sound to the hotel staff. Though so many celebrities stayed here, they were probably used to our odd ways, and would be too discreet to talk to the press about it, anyway.

  I cleared my throat and said haltingly to the concierge in French, ‘Erm, this is Sasha. There’s a man in Reception … ’

  ‘Of course, mademoiselle Sasha,’ the concierge said smoothly in English, and I realized that his computer screen must have already told him which room was calling. And to my embarrassment, it was clear he knew why too.

  ‘Would you like me to send Monsieur Ressier up to your suite, mademoiselle?’

  So much for subtlety, I thought, grimacing.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He hung up, and I hastily replaced the phone too, then ran into the bedroom and nearly shrieked at my lack of make-up and my hair, still damp from the shower and sticking to my head. I grabbed a brush and the powerful hair dryer Missie always brought on tour, hung my head upside-down, and swiftly delivered blasts of hot air to my limp hair while frantically brushing some much-needed height and volume into it.

  There was no time for make-up, but I slicked a tiny amount of pale lip gloss on, and
then pushed my Harry Winston bracelet over my wrist, its white diamond lily cluster catching the light and glittering.

  The doorbell to the suite buzzed.

  I groaned at the sight of my bare tanned legs and T-shirt in the mirror, and threw a despairing glance across at my suitcase, already packed by Missie ready for tomorrow morning. The only clothes hanging in the closet were the neat white linen trouser suit and shirt I had planned on wearing to the airport. And there was no way I was wearing that to open the door to Jean-Luc at this time of the morning. He would think I’d lost my mind.

  I snatched up my dressing-gown and wrapped the belt tight about my waist instead, then hurried to answer the door.

  Jean-Luc was in faded blue denim jeans and a white T-shirt, a simple black jacket over the top. His own hair looked glossily damp, as though I were not the only person who had felt the need for a shower after tonight’s performance.

  I let his presence wash over me, and tried not to stare. It was next to impossible though, and I was certain my hungry expression must have given that away. Even in such casual clothes, the man was completely edible.

  He looked me up and down too, but to his credit made no comment. I knew it was stupid, but I felt naked without my make-up and wearing only a dressing-gown. Like I was facing this dangerous man without even the slightest armour.

  Immediately, I went on the defensive, hoping to disguise my nerves.

  ‘Have you seen the time?’

  ‘I know it’s incredibly late, and I can only apologise if I disturbed your sleep,’ Jean-Luc said, then added enigmatically, ‘but I couldn’t let you leave France without talking to you.’

  ‘So talk.’

  He raised his brows, and I realized we were still talking with the door slightly open, him in the corridor, me inside the room, opposing each other like chess pieces.

  ‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ I said stiffly.

  He was right, of course. It was wiser to keep any discussion behind closed doors. After all, there was no way of knowing when any of the paparazzi might try to sneak past the watchful concierge and his various team members, in the hope of a big scoop about Sasha and her night time adventures.

  Still, as soon as he stepped inside, I felt wobbly inside and decidedly over-heated. His eyebrow crooked at me, and I straightened my back, forcing my mask back into place. The one I wore to hide my emotions from the world. Fear being paramount at the moment. Though desire was not far behind it.

  I saw a disturbing flicker in his eyes as he glanced down at my bare legs, and knew he was thinking something very similar.

  Oh yes, he was a dangerous man, all right.

  I led him through to the sitting room.

  ‘Did Zena have a good birthday? She seemed delighted with the concert.’

  ‘She loved every moment, especially your own performance,’ he said deeply, holding my gaze. ‘And I didn’t thank you properly for having agreed to fly over and do this for us. We raised an enormous amount of money for the charity tonight.’

  ‘There’s no need to thank me, honestly. I was happy to do it.’ I smiled, genuinely pleased that Zena had enjoyed her birthday celebrations.

  ‘I’m aware how much it must have cost you to say yes, though.’ He paused. ‘To come back to Paris after all these years.’

  I did not know what to say to that.

  ‘Coffee?’ I said, feeling horribly nervous, and bent to tidy away the high heels I’d kicked off when we got back from the concert. ‘Herbal tea? Or maybe something stronger? I could ring down for room service.’

  He shook his head, wandering about the sitting room, both hands thrust deep into his jeans pockets. ‘You must be wondering why I’m here,’ he began, in that deep, husky voice I had come to love.

  ‘Oh, a few reasons sprang to mind,’ I said tartly, and saw him shoot me a dry, appreciative glance. ‘Sorry, you were saying?’

  ‘There were some things I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘About?’

  Jean-Luc turned slightly, looking at me through short, dark lashes. ‘About that night in Paris. The night your sister died.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sasha woke up, staring wildly into glinting darkness. For a moment, she could not recall where she was, or even who she was. Her universe was a blank.

  But she did remember her dream.

  Her nightmare.

  As usual, she had been trapped somewhere in the cold dark, blue lights flashing somewhere beyond the limits of her vision, bouncing off the periphery …

  Suddenly, she had become aware that someone was there with her.

  A man.

  She remembered his eyes, dark velvet, and his voice, pitched low, so low it made the hairs tingle on the back of her neck.

  ‘Who are you?’ she’d whispered.

  His mouth had opened, but what came out was not words, but a strange, eerie, high-pitched keening noise, like someone weeping for the dead. As she stared in total incomprehension, the note had changed, slowly and subtly, until she realized it was like the wail of a siren. Police or maybe an ambulance, she couldn’t be sure which.

  He had blinked at her, his lashes sweeping down, and then up, down, and then up. It was raining, she thought, watching him in her motionless dream state. Only it wasn’t the rain that was making his blink. Not unless the rain was red.

  It was blood, dripping into his eyes, coating his lashes …

  He didn’t seem to have noticed, his gaze still riveted on her face, the eerie noise still streaming from his parted lips.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ she said, and tried lifting her arm to point.

  Only her arm wouldn’t move.

  That was when Sasha looked down, and saw that she had been strapped down, two double rings of thick, black webbing stretching round her arms and torso. Deliberately, she thought, her eyes widening in horror. Someone had imprisoned her in this tight little space, her legs jammed against something hard, her arms pinned to her sides. All she could move was her head, swivelling up and down in a jerky fashion, staring from the webbing about her body to the man with blood in his eyes, watching her struggle.

  Her heart thudding with fear, she began to hyperventilate, her body clammy with cold sweat, her stomach clenched hard like a fist.

  What was happening to her? Who had done this to her?

  ‘Help me’ she cried, the sound of sirens growing louder and louder, almost deafening now above the thunder of rain all around them.

  But the man failed to move.

  There was black water bubbling about her feet. She peered down, and realized with a shock that rain had got in and somehow puddled there. It was pooling and rising, up past her ankles, her knees, its chilly fingers creeping along her thighs, gradually filling the tiny dark space. She was shivering, her teeth chattering.

  Panic set in as she thrashed back and forth, desperate to get free before the black water rose to her neck and drowned her.

  ‘Help me,’ she moaned, imploring the man to save her. ‘Please, oh please … Can’t you see what’s happening? Why won’t you help me?’

  But he merely shook his head, blood spattering across her face as the drops were shaken free from his face.

  The water rose inexorably, lapping at her chin, then her lips.

  She began to shout and gasp for air, crying out for help, for the man to save her. But still he did nothing, merely watched her struggles with interest like she was a bug under a microscope, blood thickening on his lashes all the while, darkening his eyes until she could no longer see them, and his whole face was just blood, blood, blood …

  Sasha woke up with a start. For the second time.

  Only this time she was properly awake, not merely dreaming that she had woken up while still being gripped by the world of her nightmare.

  The room was dark, but she could hear the sounds of a city outside her window, where a pale dawn light was already glimmering between the slats of her blinds.

  According to her bedside clock
, it was a little after six o’clock in the morning.

  Swinging her legs out of bed, Sasha stumbled towards the light source, fumbling with the blinds until a gap opened that she could peer through, blinking.

  Her heart still beating fast, she looked down on the London street below, cars and vans already moving past, going about their business. She watched the world for a moment, re-orientating herself with reality, the present moment, and reminding herself that she was awake now and no longer needed to be afraid.

  There was no darkness out there.

  No rain.

  No confined space.

  No cold water rising from the ground to drown her.

  And no man with blood in his eyes.

  She was safe.

  Sasha dropped the blinds and stumbled back to bed, curling up in a protective ball on top of the sheets. It was only a dream, she kept telling herself. A nightmare. Nothing to worry about. She was back in Chelsea, in her London flat. What was past was past. That terrible night in Paris had happened years ago. It couldn’t hurt her anymore.

  Except it wasn’t the first time she had dreamt about that enigmatic stranger, staring at her so intently through a curtain of thick red blood.

  And she doubted it would be the last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I went still at those words, my heart suddenly thumping hard. Since Jean-Luc walked in, I had been concentrating on his physical presence in the room, and fighting the sensual feelings that brought. The temptation to go to bed with him before it was too late, before I left France for good and never saw him again. But now all that sensual awareness fell away, and I fell with it, helpless to stop myself, seeing the same abrupt descent in his eyes, as though the two of us were toppling off a cliff together.

  I could not take my eyes off his face. Part of me seemed to sense that whatever he had to say would be incredibly important. Life-changing, even.

  ‘Go on,’ I whispered.

  ‘I wasn’t entirely truthful at the trial. Or rather I told the judge Eva and I had been arguing. But I concealed what that argument was about. It wouldn’t have made any difference for the court to know the truth, but it would have devastated my world. And Zena’s.’ A muscle jerked in his jaw. ‘You see, Eva and I … We’d been arguing about our relationship.’