In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (8 page)

She knew by his brief silence that he was debating his answer, weighing the consequences of his next words. She fully expected to hear a lie.

Instead he surprised her with the truth. “I knew them both,” he said. “I was here in Paris when it happened.” The revelation left her stunned. She didn’t doubt for an instant that it was the truth—why would he fabricate such a story?

“It was my very first posting,” he said. “I thought it was incredible luck to draw Paris. Most first-timers get sent to some bug-infested jungle in the middle of nowhere. But I drew Paris. And that’s where I met Madeline and Bernard.” Wearily he sank into a chair.

“It’s amazing,” he murmured, studying Beryl’s face, “how very much you look like her. The same green eyes, the same black hair. She used to sweep hers back in this sort of loose chignon. But strands of it were always coming loose, falling about her neck….” He smiled fondly at the memory. “Bernard was crazy about her. So was every man who ever met her.”

“Were you?”

“I was only twenty-two. She was the most enchanting woman I’d ever met.” His gaze met hers. Softly he added,

“But then, I hadn’t met her daughter.” They stared at each other, and Beryl felt those silken threads of desire tugging her toward him. Toward a man whose kisses left her dizzy, whose touch could melt even stone. A man who had not been straight with her from the very start.

I’m so tired of secrets, so tired of trying to tease apart
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the truths from the half truths. And I’ll never know which
is which with this man.

Abruptly she went to the door. “If we can’t be honest with each other,” she said, “there’s no point in being together at all. So why don’t we say good-night. And goodbye.”

“I don’t think so.”

She turned and frowned at him. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not ready to say goodbye. Not when I know you’re being followed.”

“You’re concerned about my welfare, is that it?”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

She shot him a breezy smile. “I’m very good at taking care of myself.”

“You’re in a foreign city. Things could happen—”

“I’m not exactly alone.” She crossed the room to the connecting door leading to Jordan’s suite. Yanking it open, she called, “Wake up, Jordie! I’m in need of some brotherly assistance.”

There was no answer from the bed.

“Jordie?” she said.

“Your bodyguard stays right on his toes, doesn’t he?” said Richard.

Annoyed, Beryl flicked on the wall switch. In the sudden flood of light, she found herself blinking in astonishment.

Jordan’s bed was empty.

Four

That woman is staring at me again.

Jordan stirred a teaspoon of sugar into his cappuccino and casually glanced in the direction of the blonde sitting three tables away. At once she averted her gaze. She was attractive enough, he noted. Mid-twenties, with a lean, athletic build. Nothing overripe about that one. Her hair was cut like a boy’s, with elfin wisps feathering her forehead. She wore a black sweater, black skirt, black stockings. Fashion or camouflage? He shifted his gaze ahead to the street and the evening parade of pedestrians.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the woman again looking his way. Ordinarily it would have flattered him to know he was the object of such intense feminine scrutiny.

But something about this particular woman made him uneasy. Couldn’t a fellow wander the streets of Paris these days without being stalked by carnivorous females?

It had been such a pleasant outing up till now. Minutes after sending Beryl and Richard on their way, he’d slipped out of his hotel room in search of a decent watering hole.

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A stroll across Place Vendôme, a visit to the Olympia Music Hall, then a midnight snack at Café de la Paix—

what better way to spend one’s first evening in Paris?

But perhaps it was time to call it a night.

He finished his cappuccino, paid the tab, and began walking toward the Rue de la Paix. It took him only half a block to realize the woman in black was following him.

He had paused at a shop window and was gazing in at a display of men’s suits when he spotted a fleeting glimpse of a blond head reflected in the glass. He turned and saw her standing across the street, intently staring into a window. A lingerie shop, he noted. Judging by the rest of her outfit, she’d no doubt choose her knickers in black, as well.

Jordan continued walking in the direction of Place Vendôme.

Across the street, the woman was paralleling his route.

This is getting tiresome,
he thought.
If she wants to flirt,
why doesn’t she just come over and bat her eyelashes?
The direct approach, he could appreciate. It was honest and straightforward, and he liked honest women. But this stalking business unnerved him.

He walked another half block. So did she.

He stopped and pretended to study another shop window. She did likewise.
This is ridiculous,
he thought.

I am not going to put up with this nonsense.

He crossed the street and walked straight up to her.

“Mademoiselle?”
he said.

She turned and regarded him with a startled look.

Plainly she had not expected a face-to-face confrontation.

“Mademoiselle,”
he said, “may I ask why you’re following me?”

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Tess Gerritsen

She opened her mouth and shut it again, all the time staring at him with those big gray eyes. Rather pretty eyes, he observed.

“Perhaps you don’t understand me?
Parlez-vous
anglais?”

“Yes,” she murmured, “I speak English.”

“Then perhaps you can explain why you’re following me.”

“But I am not following you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not!” She glanced up and down the street. “I am taking a walk. As you are.”

“You’re dogging my every step. Stopping where I stop.

Watching every move I make.”

“That is preposterous.” She pulled herself up, a spark of outrage lighting her eyes. Real or manufactured? He couldn’t be sure. “I have no interest in you,
Monsieur!
You must be imagining things.”

“Am I?”

In answer, she spun around and stalked away up the Rue de la Paix.

“I don’t think I am imagining things!” he called after her.

“You English are all alike!” she flung over her shoulder.

Jordan watched her storm off and wondered if he had jumped to conclusions. If so, what a fool he’d made of himself! The woman rounded a corner and vanished, and he felt a moment’s regret. After all, she had been rather attractive. Lovely gray eyes, unbeatable legs.

Ah, well.

He turned and continued on his way toward the Place Vendôme and the hotel. Only as he reached the lobby
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doors of the Ritz did that sixth sense of his begin to tingle again. He paused and glanced back. In a distant archway, he spied a flicker of movement, a glimpse of a blond head just before it ducked into the shadows.

She was still following him.

Daumier answered the phone on the fifth ring. “Allô?”

“Claude, it’s me,” said Richard. “Are you having us tailed?”

There was a pause, then Daumier said, “A precaution, my friend. Nothing more.”

“Protection? Or surveillance?”

“Protection, naturally! A favor to Hugh—”

“Well, it scared the living daylights out of us. The least you could’ve done was warn me.” Richard glanced toward Beryl, who was anxiously pacing the hotel room. She hadn’t admitted it, but he knew she was shaken, and that for all her bravado, all her attempts to throw him out of her suite, she was relieved he’d stayed. “Another thing,” he said to Daumier, “we seem to have misplaced Jordan.”

“Misplaced?”

“He’s not in his suite. We left him here hours ago. He’s since vanished.”

There was a silence on the line. “This is worrisome,” said Daumier.

“Do your people have any idea where he is?”

“My agent has not yet reported in. I expect to hear from her in another—”

“Her?”
Richard cut in.

“Not our most experienced operative, I admit. But quite capable.”

“It was a man following us tonight.” 78

Tess Gerritsen

Daumier laughed. “Richard, I am disappointed! I thought you, of all people, knew the difference.”

“I can bloody well tell the difference!”

“With Colette, there is no question. Twenty-six, rather pretty. Blond hair.”

“It was a man, Claude.”

“You saw the face?”

“Not clearly. But he was short, stocky—”

“Colette is five foot five, very slender.”

“It wasn’t her.”

Daumier said nothing for a moment. “This is disturbing,” he concluded. “If it was not one of our people—” Richard suddenly pivoted toward the door. Someone was knocking. Beryl stood frozen, staring at him with a look of fear.

“I’ll call you back, Claude,” Richard whispered into the phone. Quietly he hung up.

There was another knock, louder this time.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, “ask who it is.” Shakily she called out, “Who is it?”

“Are you decent?” came the reply. “Or should I try again in the morning?”

“Jordan!” cried a relieved Beryl. She ran to open the door. “Where have you been?”

Her brother sauntered in, his blond hair tousled from the night wind. He saw Richard and halted. “Sorry. If I’ve interrupted anything—”

“Not a thing,” snapped Beryl. She locked the door and turned to face her brother. “We’ve been worried sick about you.”

“I just went for a walk.”

“You could have left me a note!”

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“Why? I was right in the neighborhood.” Jordan flopped lazily into a chair. “Having quite a nice evening, too, until some woman started following me around.” Richard’s chin snapped up in surprise. “Woman?”

“Rather nice-looking. But not my type, really. A bit vampirish for my taste.”

“Was she blond?” asked Richard. “About five foot five?

Mid-twenties?”

Jordan shook his head in amazement. “Next you’ll tell me her name.”

“Colette.”

“Is this a new parlor trick, Richard?” Jordan said with a laugh. “ESP?”

“She’s an agent working for French Intelligence,” said Richard. “Protective surveillance, that’s all.” Beryl gave a sigh of relief. “So that’s why we were followed. And you had me scared out of my wits.”

“You
should
be scared,” said Richard. “The man following us wasn’t working for Daumier.”

“You just said—”

“Daumier had only one agent assigned to surveillance tonight. That woman, Colette. Apparently she stayed with Jordan.”

“Then who was following us?” demanded Beryl.

“I don’t know.”

There was a silence. Then Jordan asked peevishly,

“Have I missed something? Why are we all being followed? And when did Richard join the fun?”

“Richard,” said Beryl tightly, “hasn’t been completely honest with us.”

“About what?”

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“He neglected to mention that he was here in Paris in 1973. He knew Mum and Dad.”

Jordan’s gaze at once shot to Richard’s face. “Is that why you’re here now?” he asked quietly. “To prevent us from learning the truth?”

“No,” said Richard. “I’m here to see that the truth doesn’t get you both killed.”

“Could the truth really be that dangerous?”

“It’s got someone worried enough to have you both followed.”

“Then you don’t believe it
was
a simple murder and suicide,” said Jordan.

“If it was that simple—if it was just a case of Bernard shooting Madeline and then taking his own life—no one would care about it after all these years. But someone obviously does care. And he—or she—is keeping a close watch on your movements.”

Beryl, strangely silent, sat down on the bed. Her hair, which she’d gathered back with pins, was starting to loosen, and silky tendrils had drifted down her neck. All at once Richard was struck by her uncanny resemblance to Madeline. It was the hairstyle and the watered-silk dress.

He recognized that dress now—it was her mother’s. He shook himself to dispel the notion that he was looking at a ghost.

He decided it was time to tell the truth, and nothing but.

“I never did believe it,” he said. “Not for a second did I think Bernard pulled that trigger.” Slowly Beryl looked up at him. What he saw in her gaze—the wariness, the mistrust—made him want to reach out to her, to make her believe in him. But trust wasn’t something she was about to give him, not now. Perhaps not ever.

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“If he didn’t pull the trigger,” she asked, “then who did?” Richard moved to the bed. Gently he touched her face.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m going to help you find out.” After Richard left, Beryl turned to her brother. “I don’t trust him,” she said. “He’s told us too many lies.”

“He didn’t lie to us exactly,” Jordan observed. “He just left out a few facts.”

“Oh, right. He conveniently neglects to mention that he knew Mum and Dad. That he was here in Paris when they died. Jordie, for all we know,
he
could’ve pulled the trigger!”

“He seems quite chummy with Daumier.”

“So?”

“Uncle Hugh trusts Daumier.”

“Meaning we should trust Richard Wolf?” She shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Jordie, you must be more exhausted than you realize.”

“And you must be more smitten than you realize,” he said. Yawning, he crossed the floor toward his own suite.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

“Only that your feelings for the man obviously run hot and heavy. Because you’re fighting them every inch of the way.”

She pursued him to the connecting door. “Hot?” she said incredulously. “Heavy?”

“There, you see?” He breathed a few loud pants and grinned. “Sweet dreams, baby sister. I’m glad to see you’re back in circulation.”