Page 9 of Meet Me at Sunset

Stephanie was thoroughly enjoying herself, carried through the evening on a bubble of happiness. It had been so nice of Camille to invite her to the dinner, and she’d had a fabulous time chatting with Isobel – until her husband had made his nasty intervention.

Stephanie’s gaze drifted across the restaurant to where Lucas was tidying up.

He was joking around with his staff; the team clearly got on well, and he was obviously well liked.

He was speaking in Spanish, so Stephanie didn’t understand what he was saying, but they didn’t need to speak the same language for her to appreciate his smouldering hazel eyes and gym-honed physique.

She watched the way he moved, biceps rippling beneath his chef’s whites, in awe of the way he was so dominant in the kitchen.

She found herself wondering whether he was dominant in the bedroom too …

Stephanie finished her glass of ratafia – Lucas had brought out a bottle of the traditional Catalan digestif and encouraged them to help themselves – and realized she felt a little drunk.

Isobel was now chatting to Stuart, whilst Michael and Catherine shared a private joke, and before she had time to talk herself out of it, Stephanie got up and walked towards the kitchen.

She stopped at the entrance and locked eyes with Lucas.

‘Do you need a waiter?’ he asked, moving towards her.

He spoke English with a French accent, and she found it incredibly sexy.

She loved that he was fluent in multiple languages; he seemed different from all the men she’d dated in Brighton, or the vacuous airheads of the acting world, who only cared about their ‘profile’ and who was getting what parts.

She grinned cheekily at Lucas. ‘I was just checking out your equipment.’

Lucas raised his eyebrows.

‘It’s all working nicely, thank you.’

She laughed. ‘In the kitchen!’

‘Really? Why’s that?’

‘My dad ran a chippy in Brighton.’

Lucas’s forehead furrowed in momentary confusion, either misunderstanding her English or not getting the joke. But then he broke into a smile, his full lips widening, his dark-fringed eyes crinkling into laughter lines. ‘Ah! But fish and chips is an art form, non? ’

‘Of course. It’s not easy to fry the perfect chip – crispy on the outside, fluffy in the middle …’

‘For me it’s all about the seasoning. A pinch of salt and a drizzle of vinegar – parfait ,’ Lucas finished seriously, before the two of them burst into laughter, an undeniable chemistry sparking between them.

Stephanie felt delighted to have broken through his serious facade.

Emboldened, she strolled into the kitchen and hopped up on one of the stainless-steel countertops that Lucas had been cleaning only moments earlier.

She crossed her legs, showing off her slim, tanned legs, knowing that her body looked knock-out in the halter-neck mini dress she was wearing.

Lucas watched her, intrigued. The rest of the staff were gathered at the other side of the kitchen, seemingly engrossed in their work, but Stephanie could tell they were casting surreptitious glances at the two of them.

‘How did you get that scar?’ she asked softly, her eyes fluttering over him.

Lucas’s hand reached instinctively to his cheek, tracing the jagged line that ran from the top of his ear down to the corner of his mouth.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment his face darkened.

Stephanie wondered if she’d gone too far with the question, but then Lucas took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eye. ‘I was in a car accident.’

Stephanie remembered what Camille had told her, and her eyes held his. ‘Oh yes, I’m so sorry … Your father …’

Lucas inhaled, his broad shoulders rising as he gathered himself.

‘It was a little over four years ago now. I’m mostly healed – physically …

’ Once again, he traced the jagged line across his cheek, and Stephanie had the crazy idea that she wanted to do the same.

‘But I think this makes me more interesting, don’t you? ’

Stephanie hesitated, trying to read him.

‘I was far too good-looking before. This gives me character,’ Lucas grinned, breaking the tension, and Stephanie laughed.

‘It really does,’ she said with a soft smile. ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up. My mouth didn’t engage my brain first, as usual.’

‘It’s all right,’ he said, with a Gallic shrug. ‘I don’t remember very much about it – it’s all a blur. We had been at my dad’s birthday party in Switzerland. My father and I were driving home, weaving down the mountain, and then … nothing. I woke up in hospital three weeks later.’

Sadness and uncertainty passed over his face, and Stephanie was overwhelmed with an urge to hold him in her arms. But she stayed where she was. ‘I can’t imagine what it must have been like … What you’ve been through …’

‘Everyone has stuff to deal with, right?’ Lucas replied, looking at her meaningfully, and Stephanie felt a jolt of recognition shudder through her body. It was as though he could see inside her, as though he knew what she’d been through.

‘Yeah,’ she answered. She felt oblivious to the busy restaurant outside, or the other chefs bustling round the kitchen, as though it was just the two of them in their own private world, and she sensed that Lucas felt the same.

‘Except sometimes, recently …’ he hesitated, rubbing his forehead. ‘I’ve started to have flashbacks. Nothing I can really piece together. Just moments, snatches of memory, and a feeling that—’

‘Stephanie, we meet again.’ Paulo strode into the kitchen with a roguish grin, breaking the moment.

‘Hi Paulo,’ Stephanie replied, as she jumped down from the counter, amused by the way he was blatantly checking her out.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to enforce the rule of no diners in the kitchen when the restaurant’s open,’ he said with a charming smile, placing a hand on Stephanie’s lower back and steering her towards the archway.

‘You can’t disturb the chef when he’s working.

Besides, his girlfriend wouldn’t like it. ’

Stephanie’s gaze flicked to Lucas, whose eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

‘Oh, did he not mention Elle?’ Paulo could barely hide the note of glee in his voice. ‘Yeah, she’s a model. What was it she said this morning, Lucas? That she was hoping for a ring on her finger very soon …’

Stephanie let herself be guided back to her table, as she took in Paulo’s words. Typical. She’d thought Lucas seemed like a nice guy, and imagined they’d made a connection, but it turned out she’d completely misread the situation. She felt like an idiot.

‘How long are you staying on the island?’

Paulo’s question cut into her thoughts, and she forced herself to focus. ‘A couple of weeks. I’m staying at Catherine and Michael’s villa,’ she explained, noticing how Paulo’s face lit up as he realized who she was referring to.

‘Nice. Well, can I get your number, Stephanie Moon? I’d love to take you out sometime.’

Paulo was staring at her expectantly, with an air of self-confidence, as though he didn’t expect to be refused.

They didn’t share the same kind of spark that she’d felt with Lucas, but he seemed fun, he was good-looking, and she liked his boldness.

Why not enjoy herself during her stay? A no-strings holiday romance could be just what she needed.

‘OK,’ Stephanie agreed, as he pulled his mobile out from his jeans pocket, and she dictated her number.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Paulo winked.

When she glanced back towards the kitchen, Lucas was still staring at her, but she quickly looked away.

Camille returned to the hotel, her mind racing.

The night had gone exceptionally well, but she didn’t feel as though she’d had a moment to herself since she’d arrived in Mallorca.

Seeing Lucas and meeting that plastic surgeon had inevitably brought up memories of the accident, and everything that had happened that night …

‘Senora Fontaine?’ The receptionist called out to her, and Camille stopped abruptly as she crossed the chic stone lobby.

‘Yes?’

‘A package arrived for you earlier this evening, shortly after you left for dinner.’

‘Thank you.’ Camille smiled as she took the A4-sized brown manila envelope, her name marked in black capitals on the front.

She hurried back to her suite, taking in the paperwork and sketches and fabric samples piled on the desk.

She still had a lot of work to do before she could go to sleep, she thought with a sigh, as she opened the balcony doors, letting in the warm night air, the voile curtain gently fluttering in the breeze.

Distractedly, Camille began to open the envelope.

Her memories of Andre felt fresh and painful this evening, his ghost a constant presence on the island.

She thought enough time had passed since the accident, but it seemed she’d been wrong.

What had happened that fateful night still haunted her – perhaps it always would.

Camille slid the thin pile of papers out of the envelope.

It took a moment for her to realize what she was seeing and then she gasped.

The package didn’t contain a fabric sample, or a copy of a contract, or any of the documents she had been expecting.

Instead, she was holding a grainy black-and-white photograph, a copy of the accident report from the Swiss canton police, and a newspaper article with the headline: Fashion Mogul Killed in Horror Crash .

The items were fastened together with a paperclip, a note attached to the top with four chilling words:

I know you lied .

Camille felt sick.

Another one …

She glanced around her, suddenly imagining she could feel someone watching her. She strode over to the balcony doors and closed them quickly, shivering despite the heat as she pulled the curtains shut.

Camille poured herself a glass of water with shaking hands and tried to think logically.

The papers were still laid on the desk where she’d thrown them, and she hastily gathered them up, shoving them back inside the envelope.

Then she picked up her lockable attaché case, entering the code and undoing the clips, sliding the envelope between a sheaf of sketches before firmly slamming the case shut and locking it once again.

She sank down on the desk chair, taking another sip of water as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. She looked as though she’d seen a ghost. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and startled.

This wasn’t the first time she’d received a note like that. Someone knew what had happened that fateful night. But who?

She turned the piece of paper over to read it. It was just an amount, €10,000, and an offshore bank account number – untraceable, her accountant had explained, when she had asked him to send the money there before.

The world felt as though it was spinning, and Camille sensed panic rising in her chest, her breath coming fast, as though she were about to have a panic attack.

She reached for the phone on the desk and started to punch in the number that she knew so well.

It came automatically to her fingers; she didn’t even need to think about it.

Nicolas.

But halfway through, Camille stopped. Taking a deep breath, she replaced the receiver with a click.

She should have told Nicolas about this ages ago, rather than panicked and sent the money, three or four times now.

It was a lot of money, but also, she could afford it.

Some couture houses spent that every week on flowers for the lobby.

This was a drop in the ocean in some ways.

However badly she needed him, she couldn’t call him. Not after all the hurtful things she had said to him. Nicolas had been adamant; if she turned him down, it was over.

She would call her accountant as soon as he was at his desk.

Camille was on her own now. She had to deal with this herself.