The Sun Sister (The Seven Sisters #6) - Lucinda Riley Page 0,40

sank to my feet as I vaguely pictured dancing naked with Joaquim on the terrace. And Mariam and Maia’s faces when we’d appeared in the living room . . .

‘Jesus, Electra,’ I groaned as I staggered out of bed to answer the door to room service. As I drank the hot coffee, I also remembered admitting to my sister that I’d taken some stuff – which wouldn’t exactly have been a surprise to her, given the fact she’d found me obviously high and stark naked with a random guy. Then the bit about her suggesting I stayed on for a couple of days here, and that I should think about going into rehab . . .

Shit! That was not good news. And worse than that, Mariam had obviously snaked on me. Well, there was no way – just NO WAY – I was going to a funny farm. Yesterday had been a bad day, that was all. And I certainly wasn’t going to hang around with Saint Maia to be lectured. I picked up the receiver and dialled Mariam.

‘Good morning, Electra, how are you feeling?’

‘Great, just great,’ I lied, wondering if I’d ever call Mariam up and catch her half asleep. ‘I need you to book us back on the flights to NY as soon as possible.’

There was a small pause on the line. ‘Right. I thought the plan was for you to stay here a while and spend time with your sister?’

‘It wasn’t a plan, Mariam, it was an idea, but I think I need to get back to the Big Apple.’

‘As I said, you have nothing in your diary, so you can stay on—’

‘And I’m telling you I want you to book us back to New York, okay? My bags are already packed and I’m ready to leave any time from now.’

Mariam took the hint that I wasn’t in the mood to be argued with, and an hour later we were on our way to the airport. I sent Maia a text thanking her for last night and saying that I’d see her at Atlantis for Pa’s water memorial in June.

As the jet soared upwards, I felt a sense of relief that I’d escaped. No one was going to lock me away anywhere. Ever.

Spooked by how out of control I’d been in Rio, I was determined to make a serious effort to stay clean over the weekend. I drank tons of water, and ordered in an array of smoothies laden with vitamin C. The first day back, I managed to get to lunchtime before pouring myself the tiniest vodka. Knowing I would pour another without some distraction, I stepped out across the road to take a run in Central Park.

‘You okay, Electra?’ Tommy asked me as I jogged towards him on my way back.

‘I’m good, yeah. How are you?’

‘I’m okay, thanks for asking. Y’know, when you were in Rio, a woman came by who looked a whole lot like you.’

‘Really?’ I raised an eyebrow as I slowed to a standstill. ‘Well, if she comes by again, please tell her I’m out, even if you know I’m in. She’s just another crackpot who’s convinced she’s related to me.’

‘Yeah, well, she sure did look like she could be related to you. See you tomorrow, Electra.’

Up in my apartment, I peeled off my sweaty running gear and was just about to take a shower when the concierge phone rang.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi, Miss D’Aplièse, a couple boxes have arrived down here for you. Can we bring them up?’

‘Yeah, sure, as long as you’ve checked them for explosives first!’ I half joked.

Five minutes later, the porter and his lackey appeared pushing a trolley loaded with two large cardboard boxes, which they then dumped on my living room floor.

‘Who brought these? They look like the kind of boxes you’d use to move house.’

‘Some delivery guy in a van dropped them off. With this.’ He handed me an envelope. ‘Want help unpacking them, ma’am?’

‘No. Thanks, though.’

Brimming with curiosity like a child presented with a gift, I took the lid off one of the boxes. It was full of clothes – my clothes. On the top of the pile sat a shoebox, which I opened to find my silk sleeping mask, lip balm, ear plugs, a pair of sunglasses . . . and beneath all the crap, I glimpsed the thick cream vellum of Pa Salt’s letter.

Fishing it out, I realised immediately what these boxes were: everything I’d left behind at Mitch’s house in Malibu. The shoebox was