‘Then don’t,’ she said, turning away. ‘Because I’m sick of trying to persuade you to be on my side.’
‘I AM on your bloody side!’ he shouted.
Lara strode back across the deck and, knowing he’d gone too far, he ran to catch up with her.
‘Lar, stay,’ he said, catching hold of her arm, but she je
rked away from him.
‘Lara, please!’
Alex ran after her, only to see her jump into a taxi. Her punched her number into his phone. It rang and rang but she didn’t pick up. Exhausted, he turned back towards the boat, desperate for a drink. To his dismay, Charlie was standing at the foot of the gangway smoking a cigarette. Alex had the uncomfortable feeling that he – and the rest of the party – had heard every word of their exchange.
‘Lovers’ tiff?’ smiled Charlie, grinding his butt out before he sauntered back onto the yacht.
Chapter 15
As her eyes fluttered open, Lara had to immediately squeeze them shut again. Despite the half-slanted shutters, the room in her Roquebrune pension was far too bright. She pressed a hand against her forehead but that only made her feel worse. Reaching for her phone to check the time, she knocked something to the floorboards with a clatter. Damn. One of the miniatures. I’m too old for this, she thought, peeling her eyes open again. Hangovers used to be a breeze, but lately it had become an ordeal of nausea and recrimination. ‘Never again,’ she whispered. The whole mini-bar, she thought, shuddering at the cost. Brandy, vodka, even those weird crispy nut things: the bright orange dye was still coating her tongue.
The previous evening, the hotel mini-bar had seemed like the answer to her problems. The trial, Nicholas dropping the axe, Sandrine’s death – each event had stripped layer after layer from her usually tough hide and now she just felt raw. Her argument with Alex had been the last straw, the exhaustion of the week feeding into her frustration.
Limping to the bathroom, she ran a cold flannel over her face, filled a tooth-glass with water and returned to perch on the edge of the bed.
‘Four o’clock?’ she muttered, her mind clearing enough to register what she had just seen on her phone screen. Had she really slept for eighteen hours straight?
Her phone delivered another blow of disappointment. No messages from Alex. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but still, it made her feel even worse.
She lay back on the white sheets, staring up at the ceiling. She shouldn’t have hit him, but she had meant every word she’d said on the Goliath.
There had been a time when Lara and Alex had been completely on the same page, sharing ideals and dreams, even sharing the same room on mini-breaks to Rome and Istanbul, but lately Alex had changed. The suits, the playboy apartment, the way he seemed to care more about ‘the business’ than the actual truth.
The bedside phone rang.
‘Miss Lara? It is reception. I have visitors for you.’
Her heart jumped. Alex. She couldn’t remember telling him where she was staying, but perhaps he was feeling guilty and had tracked her down. She glanced in the mirror and grimaced: she looked like death.
‘Visiteurs?’ she asked. Plural? Her pleasure faded; he must have brought Charlie with him.
‘Oui, Mademoiselle, deux. Eduardo Ortega et Monsieur Stefan Melberg.’
‘What on earth are you two doing here?’
They were sitting in the courtyard garden under a pergola twisted with honeysuckle, radiating a sweet, heady and floral scent. Lara felt far from fragrant. She’d had the world’s quickest shower and tied her still-damp hair up into a bun, but even a slick of red lipstick couldn’t disguise her crumpled clothes – or her crumpled face, come to that.
‘Pleased to see us, then?’ said Stefan, rising to give her a double-kiss.
‘It’s a long way from Shoreditch.’ said Lara. ‘How the hell did you get here? Gulfstream?’
It was meant to be a joke – as a member of the Ortega family, she was sure he was used to flying private, but Eduardo just shrugged.
‘Easyjet,’ he replied.
Eduardo smiled gratefully as an elderly man with a tray brought them a jug of ice tea, jingling with ice.
‘After you rang me yesterday to tell us about Jago Bain, I made a few calls myself,’ said Eduardo, as he poured the tea. ‘Turns out he is in Monaco this weekend. I’ve arranged a meeting.’
‘Bain’s here?’