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‘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 …

‘Señora 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.

Chapter 7

Stephanie Moon’s long copper hair shimmered like gold in the sunlight, whipping around her face as the white speedboat bounced over the Mediterranean waves. The sun was high overhead but the wind was deliciously cooling as they sped along, so fast they skated over the water’s surface.

Standing at the prow, with flecks of saltwater beading her skin, Stephanie felt a burst of adrenaline. She turned to look at Paulo who was driving the boat; it was hard to hear anything over the noise of the engine, and the roar of the wind and the waves, and he had to shout to be heard.

‘Scream if you want to go faster,’ he yelled, and Stephanie threw back her head and whooped with joy. In that moment, she felt wild and free, as though she was truly living. Until recently, she’d felt as if she was still waiting for her life to start. But now it felt sped up, as Paulo pushed the throttle and the boat skipped through the deep blue of the Balearic Sea. To her left, she could see the coastline in the distance, a wild tangle of rocky cliffs and hidden coves, with sprawling villas high on the bluffs. To the right, nothing but the distant horizon.

‘Do you want to drive?’ Paulo suggested.

Stephanie didn’t need to be asked twice. She eagerly left her spot at the front of the boat and scrambled over to the helm, taking over from Paulo, feeling the power of the boat and how it responded to the slightest touch.

Paulo grinned at her, and Stephanie smiled back happily. She was dressed in a casual strappy sundress and leather sandals from the market. She wasn’t trying to impress Paulo – she still didn’t know if she was interested in him, but she sensed he could be a lot of fun. And he was attractive, dressed in shorts and a polo shirt teamed with designer sunglasses.