Last Resort

by Susan Lewis

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Susan Lewis

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Copyright

  About the Book

  When Penny Moon is banished from Fleet Street to resurrect an ex-pat magazine on the French Riviera, the worst news is yet to come. Her partner will be David Villers, the man she once tried – and humiliatingly failed – to seduce.

  But when she arrives at the Riviera, she is surprised to find that, instead of the usual headaches and frustrations of restarting a magazine, all that should be impossible is easy. Then, quite unexpectedly, she meets Christian Mureau, a mysterious and elusive man who is wanted by the FBI, and her curiosity is instantly clouded by passion.

  Swept along by the glamour and intrigue of Mureau’s life and increasingly affected by David’s charm and humour, Penny finds her loyalties as mixed as her feelings. Feelings which lead her deeper and deeper into a web of love and deceit towards the terrifying consequences of two men’s crimes – and beyond…

  About the Author

  Susan Lewis is the bestselling author of twenty-seven novels. She is also the author of Just One More Day and One Day at a Time, the moving memoirs of her childhood in Bristol. Having resided in France for many years she now lives in Gloucestershire. Her website address is www.susanlewis.com

  Susan is a supporter of the childhood bereavement charity, Winston’s Wish: www.winstonswish.org.uk and of the breast cancer charity, BUST: www.bustbristol.co.uk

  Also by Susan Lewis

  Fiction

  A Class Apart

  Dance While You Can

  Stolen Beginnings

  Darkest Longings

  Obsession

  Vengeance

  Summer Madness

  Wildfire

  Chasing Dreams

  Taking Chances

  Cruel Venus

  Strange Allure

  Silent Truths

  Wicked Beauty

  Intimate Strangers

  The Hornbeam Tree

  The Mill House

  A French Affair

  Missing

  Out of the Shadows

  Lost Innocence

  Forgotten

  The Choice

  Stolen

  No Turning Back

  Losing You

  Memoir

  Just One More Day

  One Day at a Time

  Last Resort

  Susan Lewis

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost my thanks must go to Hilary King for sharing so generously her experience of the magazine world as well as her wealth of contacts around the globe. This book as it stands wouldn’t have been possible without Hilary’s input and for that as well as her friendship I shall always be deeply indebted.

  In Hong Kong my sincere thanks go to Julie Ammann of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel and Justin Strachan for the unforgettable experience of a night in Mongkok. I thank Tom Andrews too for his help. Sheri and Rob Dorfman and Teresa Norton Bobertz I thank with all my heart for smoothing the way and making my stay in Hong Kong so memorable and pleasurable.

  Also I thank John and Hilary Andrews for the doors they opened in Manila, one of which led to Barry Riddell, a remarkable man whose knowledge of all things Filipino and whose enthusiasm for the book added such richness to the story. Of those in Manila who spared me so much of their valuable time I would like to thank Atty Ramsey L Ocampo, Police Chief Superintendent, PNP Narcotics Command; Miguel G Coronel, Police Chief Superintendent, PNP Director for Operations; Crescencio Maralit, Police Chief Superintendent, Antipolo.

  And on the idyllic retreat of Pamalican which is home to the Amanpulo I thank Madeleine and Belle – and Alison Frew and Trina Dingier Ebert for organizing the trip.

  Chapter 1

  ‘WHAT DO YOU mean, you don’t know where you are!’

  ‘What I said: I don’t know where I am.’ The plaintive voice echoed down the line, along with the muted honking of horns and alien street bustle.

  ‘But how the hell can you not know where you are? How did you get there?’

  ‘By plane – I think.’

  Penny Moon closed her eyes briefly, opened them again and looked impatiently at her watch. This was something she could do without at the best of times; today it was about as welcome as a Dear John. ‘OK,’ she said, holding on to her exasperation, ‘just tell me the name of the country and we’ll work from there.’

  ‘But that’s just it, I don’t know which country I’m in.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Penny muttered, thinking only her scatty kid sister could do this to her on such a morning. ‘Well, look around you – what colour are the people?’ That might give them a fighting chance.

  ‘They seem to be, well, sort of black, I suppose,’ the answer came after a pause.

  ‘What language are they speaking?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t understand it.’

  Penny took a deep breath. ‘Is it hot or cold?’

  ‘Hot. Very hot.’

  This line of questioning was proving about as productive as a lottery ticket. Thinking of which, ‘Do you have any money?’ Penny said.

  ‘Not a bean. I might have been robbed, because I’m sure I did have some the last time I looked.’

  Penny looked out of the smeary, casement window to where south London was basking in yet another dismal, rainy start to a day. She gave a short, impatient sigh. There were times, like now, when she wished she could be as capricious as Sammy and not give a damn where she was or where the next sou was coming from. Except, of course, Sammy did care, otherwise she wouldn’t be calling. ‘Look,’ she said, realizing she was going to be late, ‘get yourself to the nearest police station and call me from there. I’ll be at the office within an hour.’

  ‘But how am I supposed to know where the police station is,’ Sammy pointed out.

  ‘You’ll find it,’ Penny told her and, slamming down the phone, she snatched up her briefcase, pulled on her raincoat and ran out of the door. A few seconds later she was back, puffing from the sprint up the stairs, to collect her umbrella. She was definitely going to miss the bus now and the chances of finding a taxi in Wandsworth on a morning like this were about as good as rooting out a workable European policy.

  ‘Any chance of borrowing your car?’ she cried, bursting into her flatmate’s bedroom.

  ‘What?’ Peter grunted, prising open a bleary eye.

  ‘Your car,’ Penny said. ‘I’m going to be late otherwise and I can’t be, not today.’

  ‘Just pay for the parking tickets,’ he told her and, rolling over, went promptly back to sleep.

  Ten minutes later, having drenched Monica, her neighbour, in making a rally-like swerve to the kerb to scoop her from the depressing clutch at the bus stop, Penny was swearing in time to the pulse and swish of the windscreen wipers as, up ahead, the lights changed from red to green and back to red with nothing moving. She loved London, absolutely adored it, exc
ept on mornings like this when it seemed the entire world’s mood was as filthy as the weather and when it was debatable which was going to boil over first, her frustration or the radiator of Peter’s ancient Mini.

  Looking at her watch, she groaned aloud and only just resisted the temptation to slam her hand on the horn and keep it there, as though the noise might transform itself into a giant prong that could slide beneath all the other cars and flick them into the Thames. Of course, being late wasn’t going to change anything, the decision on her promotion would already have been taken, but if only, just this once, she could show her boss that she was capable of arriving somewhere on time . . .

  ‘OK,’ Monica declared, attempting to lurch forward within the confines of her seat belt to stuff the newspaper she’d been reading into her bag.

  ‘Did they run it?’ Penny asked, throwing her a quick glance.

  ‘Nope,’ Monica responded shortly.

  For a moment Penny wondered if the lingering drops of rain on Monica’s freckled cheeks were, in fact, tears, and when Monica turned an unsteady smile in her direction she was left in little doubt.

  ‘What was the article on?’ Penny asked.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Monica replied dismally. ‘The only thing I seem able to retain these days,’ she added, gazing glumly down at her thighs, ‘is water.’

  Smiling, Penny reached over to squeeze her hand. This had been happening to Monica for several weeks now and, though it had never happened to Penny, as a fellow journalist she had no problem understanding Monica’s depression. To have one’s articles consistently dropped and for no apparent reason was both humiliating and frightening. She could sense the dilemma going on inside Monica as keenly as she could if it were her own predicament: was it that she was losing it, could no longer report events in a way that was informative, readable and insightful; or was it that Monica’s boss, the editor of the newspaper for which she worked, was trying to edge her out now that he had dumped Monica in favour of the home affairs correspondent?

  ‘Have you thought about striking out on your own, going freelance?’ Penny asked, inching the car forward.

  Monica nodded. ‘I think about it all the time, but I’ve got a mortgage to pay – and if . . . Well, if I am losing it . . .’

  ‘You’re not losing it,’ Penny told her firmly.

  Monica turned to look at her and this time her smile held more assurance, a glint even of laughter and not a little affection. ‘Being around you always does me good, Penny Moon,’ she chuckled, ‘but please, spare me the positive thinking. I’m not up for it this morning.’

  Penny grimaced as her stomach clenched with a lively spasm of nerves. ‘No, me neither,’ she said.

  ‘Oh God, I’d forgotten,’ Monica groaned. ‘Today’s the day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Today’s the day,’ Penny confirmed.

  ‘So, do you think you’ve got it?’

  Penny shrugged.

  Monica turned to look out of the window. ‘I think you have,’ she said, trying to keep the envy from her voice. It wasn’t that she would begrudge Penny her promotion to features editor on Starke, it was simply that Penny’s life seemed to have a golden halo of luck around it and when compared with Monica’s life right now Penny’s seemed so insufferably charmed and cosy that Monica would have bartered her very soul for a boss like Sylvia Starke.

  ‘You’d make a terrific editor, you know,’ Monica said generously. It was true, in a lot of ways Penny would, and a little flattery at this point might not go amiss, especially as it was very likely she’d be looking for a new job pretty soon. Magazines weren’t really her cup of tea – she preferred the cut-and-thrust and impossible deadlines of daily newspaper journalism – but beggars and choosers and all that.

  Penny laughed. ‘I don’t think Linda Kidman would agree with you,’ she said, to a chorus of angry horns as she shot through a set of red lights at World’s End. ‘In fact, she’s pretty damned certain she’s got the job, if for no other reason than she’s much more experienced than I am. She’s been with Starke at least twice as long and she’s proved herself over and over.’

  ‘So have you,’ Monica pointed out. ‘And Sylvia’s just crazy about you, everyone knows that.’

  ‘But she’s fair,’ Penny said. ‘She’s announcing the results herself, by the way.’

  Monica gave a snort of laughter. ‘Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it?’ she declared. ‘She wants to be the one to tell you that you’ve finally achieved what she’s been grooming you for ever since she plucked you out of knitting patterns and napkin-folding on that happily long-forgotten little rag you started on.’

  ‘It might be that she just wants to let me down gently,’ Penny countered, hoping to God it wasn’t true. If it were and Linda Kidman was going to be her boss, then she didn’t see that she’d have any choice but to leave Starke, for the very idea of having to suffer Linda’s supercilious adjuncts to triumph was about as palatable as having to kiss Linda’s backside, which she would unquestionably be expected to do. In truth, it was the prospect of having Linda as her editor that had added several sticks of dynamite to her own ambition – an ambition that had, of late, become something of an obsession. And, in turn, the obsession had prompted some hilarious self-mockery as well as laconic outbursts of theatrical woe that had had the rest of her colleagues convulsed with laughter.

  ‘You don’t think thirty is too young to be a features editor, do you?’ Penny asked. ‘I mean, it might be my age that—’

  ‘Your age will have nothing to do with it,’ Monica interrupted. ‘I told you before, it’s your ability that counts.’ A part of her would have liked to go further and remind Penny of the recognition she had achieved on both sides of the Atlantic for some of the intuitive, witty and occasionally highly controversial interviews she had produced for Starke, the fortnightly news/gossip/features magazine that had a circulation of over half a million, but with her own confidence on the rocks she wasn’t in much of a mood to rub her own nose in someone else’s brilliance – especially when that someone was almost ten years her junior. Which just went to show what a nasty, niggardly and sour old spinster she was turning into, she thought glumly; for there was no way in the world that Penny would ever be so churlish or mean-spirited, no matter how down on her own luck she might be. But then, they couldn’t all be Penny Moons, could they? For not everyone had been blessed with such an irresistible and charitable nature and nor was it everyone who had been offered a job in New York after writing an article on Graham Greene’s antipathy towards Americans which, with its beautifully scripted irony, had even had the Americans laughing. Nor could many boast Penny’s gift for knowing all the right buttons to push when it came to interviewing. Everyone, from under-secretaries to undertakers, from prime ministers to pimps or megastars to media moguls, seemed almost eager to confide their secrets in Penny Moon, probably, Monica reflected, because of Penny Moon’s unique and enviable knack of making them forget they were being interviewed. Monica knew that Penny attributed her remarkable talent to the lack of excitement and adventure in her own life, insisting she got her thrills and spills vicariously, through her interviewees. But that was a load of old hogwash, if Monica’d ever heard any, for if she had just a fraction of Penny Moon’s social life she’d be actively fighting off the social diarists, as Penny’s was the phone that never stopped ringing, Penny’s was the liveliness and wit that everyone wanted at their table, or their ball, or their opening night, just like Penny’s was the ear that was always willing to listen. And, Monica guessed, it was Penny’s popularity in London that had been behind her reason for turning down Vanity Fair. Everyone knew how much Penny adored London – and who could blame her when she seemed to have the whole damned town at her feet? Besides, there wasn’t a Sylvia Starke in New York and mentors like that didn’t come along with the no. 14 bus, did they?

  ‘Do you mind?’ Penny said, picking up the headset of her Walkman. ‘It’s an interview I did weeks ago now and I’ve got
to have it written up by the end of the day.’

  Monica waved a hand for her to continue. It was quite typical of Penny to cut blithely through the London traffic with a Walkman plugged into her ears without any regard for danger.

  It was true to say that were Penny and Linda Kidman competing for an appearance on the front cover of Starke, then Linda would win hands down, but Penny was not without her physical attributes either. She wasn’t particularly tall – about five foot four, Monica reckoned – neither was she particularly slim – she enjoyed her food and wine too much to be that – but she was curvaceous rather than overweight. Even so, Monica couldn’t help hoping that Penny had at least as many dimples in her thighs as she had in her cheeks; it seemed only fair. She was a natural blonde with a thick, glossy bob that either swung around her collar or, as now, was tumbling heedlessly out of an elastic band. Her eyes were as blue as a midsummer sky and as sunny, her cheeks were silky smooth and permanently pink, and her mouth, whilst not large, was most definitely verging upon it and often looked, Monica thought bitchily, as though she had just given someone the blow job of his life. Her smile was as infectious as her humour and her ubiquitous air of recklessness and chaos was, if anything, what would lose her the job of features editor. For, intellect and ability aside, Penny was impulsive, hectic and impossibly emotional. And, if there were any justice in this world, that fall she had been riding for these past two years must surely be just around the corner.

  They were by now crawling past Peter Jones in the drizzle and as Penny removed her headphones she was muttering palatable profanities at a cab driver who was studiously ignoring her as she tried to edge her way in front of him. Winning the battle and wincing at the deafening blast of his horn, she gave him a jaunty little wave and plunged into the bedlam heading towards Eaton Square.

  ‘Did you read that piece in the Spectator about Lord Lucan?’ Penny asked, as they approached Lower Belgrave Street, where the dastardly deed had taken place. ‘Oh shit! I don’t believe it! Is there some kind of contest going on as to which borough can dig up the most roads in rush hour? It’s like bloody open-heart surgery around here. Where shall I drop you, by the way? Will the corner of Grosvenor be OK?’