by Brenda Joyce
“Also your father had that Courbet, linking him to Elgin. I stole it at the end of the war because I needed the money; it was pure coincidence that he bought it from a fence in Paris a few years later.” She smiled. “I must admit, when we became friends, the first time I saw the Courbet I almost fainted.”
Claire remained speechless.
“Surely you have more questions, Claire. Surely you want to know about your lover’s uncle, his father?” She smiled serenely, as if enjoying herself.
“Why do you want to tell me?” Claire asked, sick with fear. There was a lamp on the bureau behind her. It was large. If she let Elizabeth get close enough, could she slam her with it and somehow not get shot? Or worse, killed?
It was a catch-22. To really hit Elizabeth with the lamp, she would have to let her come closer. But in doing so, the odds were greater that Elizabeth, who would clearly shoot to kill, would not miss.
“You won’t live to tell anyone about it. And neither will your lover,” Elizabeth said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Did you murder Eddy Marshall? And Rachel? And what about Harry Elgin and Lionel’s father?” Claire’s mouth seemed numb. It was hard to form the words. Was the lamp within reach? It was plugged in. She knew that from the other night. If she flung it at Elizabeth, would the cord prevent her from doing so effectively? Damn.
“My first victim was Lionel. I don’t enjoy killing, Claire. Lionel enjoyed the power of dispensing life or death. I feel only regret that after all of these years, I am now reduced to the status of a common killer. I am not a killer, Claire. Ideology motivated me during the war. I am a highly ideological person.”
“You’re a fascist.”
“Please, Claire. Don’t start with the Jews now. I am not really an anti-Semite. And in fact, you know my beliefs. I have been on the far right for years.”
Claire inched back another step. Unfortunately, groping behind her would be too obvious. Just how close to the lamp was she?
“Lionel murdered his brother when he was a boy, out of jealousy, I believe. But it was the right move, as he became the Elgin heir with all of the rights and power that entailed. Lord Elgin needed to be removed, as he was in our way—I gave Lionel permission to act on it. As for Eddy? He was in American intelligence, Claire. He uncovered Lionel. I could have been next. He had to be removed.”
The anger overcame Claire then, and its force was stunning. “And did you have to get rid of his wife, too? How ideological is that?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Why are you angry, Claire? You didn’t know Eddy, and you didn’t know Rachel. Lionel thought she knew too much. I agreed. She was a liability. She claimed Eddy had taken photographs—we had to silence her.”
Claire wet her lips. She had to make her move now. “Did he take photographs?”
“I have no idea,” Elizabeth said.
Claire stared. Elizabeth stared back.
“Move away from the bureau,” Elizabeth said.
“Okay,” Claire whispered, and the word came out as a high-pitched squeak. She did move—whirling and grabbing the lamp at the same time. As she flung it, the gun went off. Claire felt an unbelievable burning sensation in her chest, and the bullet’s impact hurled her backward against the bureau, and to the floor.
But Claire didn’t pause. Elizabeth cried out as the lamp hit her in the face and chest, causing her to stagger backward several steps. Claire managed to get up onto all fours. Elizabeth was lifting the gun. Claire leaped up and out through the door as another shot rang out.
Jesus. Claire felt another burning in her back as she slammed the door closed behind her, about to race for the front door—which she had double-locked.
But Elizabeth would be able to mow her down in the hall outside or in the stairwell, if she tried to flee down that.
Claire looked around and grabbed the first item she saw that might be helpful as a weapon: one of the framed photographs from the bookcase in the living area. The frame was sterling silver. Claire shrank against the wall, by the corner, waiting for Elizabeth to come out of the bedroom. She held the photo high.
She promised herself that she would not miss—she would break the other woman’s skull in two.
But the bedroom door did not open.
Seconds passed.
Claire heard her own heavy breathing. She gulped down air. Sweat blurred her vision. Why wasn’t Elizabeth coming out? Had she been hurt by the blow from the lamp?
Claire inhaled, trembling. Her arm began to hurt her from holding the picture so high for so long.
An instinct made her turn.
Claire saw Elizabeth on the terrace outside, aiming the gun at her, the glass door between them. As the shot sounded, Claire dove around the corner of the wall to the other side.
She scrambled up against the wall, panting and shaking. This time, Elizabeth had missed. She heard the glass door sliding open. Now what?
She was so wet. Claire glanced down, and her eyes widened in shock. Half of her white T-shirt was crimson with her own blood. Was she dying?
Right now it didn’t matter. What mattered was Elizabeth, in the adjacent living area, creeping closer—or to a better vantage point from which to gun Claire down.
Claire glanced behind her, at the damn double-locked door. Elizabeth would have a perfect shot if Claire dared to run to it.
She could go back in the bedroom.
Claire didn’t hesitate. She jumped up and grabbed the knob and tried to push open the door. It wouldn’t budge. Elizabeth had locked it before she had used the window to climb outside onto the terrace.
Claire looked down the hall to the master bedroom at its end.
She ran.
Inside, she closed and locked the door, but the lock was pitiful—undoubtedly anyone could open it with a hairpin. Claire didn’t hesitate. She ran to the bedstand and opened the drawer. She rummaged through papers and receipts. No gun.
She ran to the other bedstead, with the same result.
She froze as she heard the lock on the bedroom door clicking open. Then she dashed into the master bathroom, closing and locking that door. She needed a weapon and she needed it now.
An electric razor lay on the marble vanity with a can of shaving foam. So did a bar of soap, an electric toothbrush, and other toiletries. Then Claire saw the scissors.
They were small, but she grabbed them and ran back to the door, positioning herself flat against the wall, so that the door would hide her when it opened.
The lock clicked open.
Claire couldn’t breathe. Cotton filled her mouth. Sweat poured down her body in rivulets—or was it blood? Claire glanced down and saw the bright red drops on the marble floor.
The door began to open, inch by inch.
Claire lifted the tiny scissors.
“There is no way out, Claire,” Elizabeth said softly.
Claire turned her head, otherwise not moving. Through the crack in the door by its hinges, she saw the other woman’s form.
“I know you’re standing behind the door, Claire,” the other woman said.
Claire launched herself around the door with a scream of rage, slicing the scissors down. The gun went off again, but not before Claire felt the small blades tearing through flesh and muscle, not before she heard Elizabeth’s cry, and this time, Elizabeth missed.
Claire smiled at her father. Except Jean-Léon wasn’t really her father. He smiled back.
Claire lay in bed in a hospital room. She had been taken to Lenox Hill. Her father sat by her hip. He held her hand. “Thank God this is over,” he said, not for the first time.
The painkillers were beginning to fade. Her chest, above her left breast but below her collarbone, was beginning to really hurt. But at least she could think more clearly now. “It’s finally over,” she agreed. Elizabeth had been taken into custody.
“I am angry at you for ever becoming involved,” Jean-Léon said hoarsely.
Claire met his opaque gray eyes. It was so obvious now th
at he cared for her. She felt horrible for ever believing him to be Elgin, even for an instant. She should have held fast to her convictions.
She would never tell him the truth about her paternity. If he suspected, she had no clue. She would go along with the arrangement they had had their entire lives. “Dad? Can you ever forgive me for not trusting you? For trapping you?” Tears came to her eyes.
“Don’t worry about anything now, Claire. And of course I forgive you. I blame Marshall for everything.”
Her heart rate seemed to increase at the sound of his name.
“He brainwashed you, he went off half-cocked. I wasn’t lying when I said he’s reckless, a cowboy. It would have been neat and convenient for him if I was Elgin.” Jean-Léon was clearly angry.
Claire wondered just how neat and convenient it would have been. She didn’t want to recall Ian’s declaration now, but she did. I love you. Three such simple words—with so much damn power.
“Dad? How did you know so much about the investigation?” This had been bothering Claire.
He seemed surprised. “When Marshall first appeared in your life—royally upsetting it, I might add, I did what any father world do—I checked the guy out. And you know what? Men like Marshall, who lead complicated lives, never provide neat answers. There were so many questions from our preliminary investigation that I told my guys to go all the way. Which is how I found out about his hunt for Elgin and his father’s murder.”
Claire realized that she should have known.
“What is it?” Jean-Léon asked.
Claire sighed. “If you met the Dukes in the late fifties, why did they lie about it?”
Jean-Léon shrugged. “People like Elizabeth are liars, Claire.”
She winced. “How is William?”
“I don’t know. I imagine he is astonished. It will be some time before he will be able to comprehend all of this.”
“We need to be there for him,” Claire whispered.
His gaze met hers. “Yes, you do,” he said evenly.
Claire started. In that moment, she realized that he knew the truth—he knew that William was her biological father.
Awkwardly, Jean-Léon patted her hand. “I’ll call him if you like.”
“Please,” Claire managed, still stunned. “I’d like to see him.”
Jean-Léon nodded. Someone coughed from behind them.
Claire turned and became rigid. The mere act of stiffening caused more pain to course through her chest. The back wound had been only a graze.
Ian stood on the threshold of her room.
Their gazes locked.
“Get out,” Jean-Léon cried, on his feet. “Haven’t you done enough damage? Get out before I have security throw you out.”
For another heartbeat, Ian stared at Claire. She felt anguish and sorrow, anger and despair.
“I need to speak with Claire alone, Ducasse,” Ian said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for making a terrible mistake.”
“An apology will not do,” Jean-Léon said stiffly.
“Dad!” Claire cried, surprising herself with her protest.
“It will not do,” Jean-Léon reiterated.
Claire swallowed. A part of her mind told her to let Jean-Léon chase Ian away. Another part cried out for her to forgive and forget and do anything not to lose this man. “I need to speak with Ian,” Claire whispered. “Alone.”
Jean-Léon was incredulous. After a curt nod, he left.
Ian approached. “Thank God you are okay.”
Claire did not reply.
“Claire?”
She swallowed a sob. “How is William holding up?”
“Not well. He’s at home, sedated. He loved Elizabeth very much.” Ian’s gaze was somber.
“He didn’t know, did he? He did not have a clue.”
“No, he did not. He’s in shock, Claire. I imagine he will be for a while.” His gaze was searching.
“William Duke is my biological father,” she said. “He told me this morning in the park.”
His eyes widened. “What! What—when—how did this happen?”
“He had an affair with my mother. Apparently she was very unhappy in her marriage.”
“I don’t know what to say. Are you okay with this?”
“I’ve always loved him. He’s always been the one to put the Band-Aid on my knee and the smile on my face. Now I know why he was always around.”
“And Jean-Léon?”
“He’s pretending not to know. I’ll go along with that.” She felt a tear slip free. “It could be worse. I’ve got two fathers now.” Her gaze felt belligerent. “And they’re both innocent.”
“I made a mistake, Claire. I’m only human. But I can defend myself until kingdom come, can’t I, and you will never forgive me.”
“You made me trap my father.”
“No. I asked you to help. You agreed. You did what you thought to be right at the time.”
Claire knew that. She didn’t respond. What point was there? He had wanted her to bait the trap, and yes, she had, and it was over now. It was done. In fact, everything was over.
“Don’t look at me that way,” he whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t take it. Not from you.” He tried a smile and failed. “C’mon, Red. Where’s that famous smile of yours?”
Claire was silent. A question was burning within her. Had he ever loved her? Or had he only used her?
“We need to talk, Claire,” Ian said roughly. “But not this way. We’re both adults. We need to sit down and communicate.”
“We are talking. We’re communicating.”
“No, we’re not. I’m talking, begging, actually, and you’re staring at me sullenly with accusation in your eyes and your mind made up. Why are you pushing me away? Don’t do this, Claire.”
Briefly, Claire closed her eyes. “I have been through hell,” she said. “And I am really tired.”
His eyes widened. “So now you want me to leave?”
“I think that would be best.”
“You’re a fool,” he said angrily. Then he turned and raked his hair before facing her again. “When are they releasing you?”
“Tomorrow or the next day.”
“And when are you going home?”
“We’re going to stay at the St. Regis until I am a bit stronger. I’d like to be off the painkillers before I travel—and I want to be around William,” she said.
He absorbed that. “I’ll come by later, before visiting hours are over.”
She shook her head.
“Claire!”
“What’s the point? I still love you, and even if I forgave you, it wouldn’t solve anything.”
“Why the hell not?” he ground out, ashen.
“Because I can’t trust you,” Claire said.
He stared.
“And I never will.”
A long, tense moment passed. Claire said, “I’m tired.” What she meant was, Please go.
His jaw flexed. His eyes were dark now with anger. He turned and strode for the door. But once there, he paused to look at her. “I told you I loved you and I meant it. But I guess in your book, that doesn’t mean very much—it must have all been a lie on your part.”
The door slammed behind him.
It was just past nine in the evening, California time, when she got out of a taxi in front of her rental home in Mill Valley. Two weeks had gone by. She looked around at the shaded street, the other houses, the woods, feeling bewildered. This wasn’t home. She hadn’t spent even a single night in her rental house. Maybe she should have gone to Tiburon with Jean-Léon.
Jilly, her poodle, started to bark wildly, frantically. Various personnel from the Humane Society had been taking care of her while Claire was away, but the dog had been dropped off a few hours ago in anticipation of Claire’s return. Her furniture had also been moved in while she was away. Claire dashed up the stone walk to her front door, forgetting her bags on the street.
/> She thrust open the door and the dog jumped on her, tail wagging, panting hysterically, happily. Claire got down on her knees, hugging her hard. But all she could think about was New York.
Ian hadn’t tried to see her again.
She had not lifted the phone, not even once, to open up a new dialogue with him.
She had known the moment that the big Boeing 747 had lifted off that running away was not the right thing.
Claire closed her eyes and tried to think while holding Jilly. Images of New York City danced in her mind. The Bay Area had lost its allure. A lifetime ago, it had been the perfect place for her and David. Now she felt lost, homeless.
Ian probably hated her now. Claire felt like she hated herself. “Oh God, Jill, what have I done?” Never had she felt so desolate, regretful, and confused.
Jilly wagged her short tail at her.
Claire stood almost blindly. She had to go back to New York. She had to see Ian, begin the conversation he had wanted to have two weeks ago. But she was scared. What if he had washed his hands of her? What if too much stood between them now? What if she couldn’t trust him, no matter how hard she tried?
What if she could?
The answer was so breathtakingly clear.
“You left these out on the street. Not to mention your front door wide open,” he said.
Claire blinked, whirling around.
And Ian was standing uncertainly in the doorway, holding her two bags. He was not a figment of her wishful thinking.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped.
“I knew that you were leaving New York. William has been kind enough to keep me up to speed these past two weeks.” He shrugged. “I just couldn’t let you leave. I meant to let you go, Claire. I really did. And then, damn it, an hour before your flight left, I found myself racing to the airport, intending to stop you. I got a bit nervous about the scene I might make and picked up a seat on standby instead.” His gaze never left hers.
Claire ran to him, amazed—exultant.
Eyes wide, he dropped her bag so he could catch her and wrap her in his arms. Claire held on to his neck and shoulders. Her plan was to never let go. “I take it this means you’ve had a chance to come to your senses?” he asked.
