In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts

by Tess Gerritsen

  Richard picked up his pace—so gradually she almost didn’t notice it. The footsteps still pursued them. They veered right and crossed the park toward Rue de Rivoli. The sounds of traffic grew louder, obscuring the footsteps of their pursuer. Now was the greatest danger—as they left the darkness behind them and their pursuer saw his last chance to make a move. Bright lights beckoned from the street ahead. We can make it if we run, she thought. A dash through the trees and we’ll be safe, surrounded by other people. She prepared for the sprint, waiting for Richard’s cue.

  But he made no sudden moves. Neither did their pursuer. Hand in hand, she and Richard strolled nonchalantly into the naked glare of Rue de Rivoli.

  Only as they joined the stream of evening pedestrians did Beryl’s pulse begin to slow again. There was no danger here, she thought. Surely no one would dare attack them on a busy street.

  Then she glanced at Richard’s face and saw that the tension was still there.

  They crossed the street and walked another block.

  “Stop for a minute,” he murmured. “Take a long look in that window.”

  They paused in front of a chocolate shop. Through the glass they saw a tempting display of confections: raspberry creams and velvety truffles and Turkish delight, all nestled in webs of spun sugar. In the shop, a young woman stood over a vat of melted chocolate, dipping fresh strawberries.

  “What are we waiting for?” whispered Beryl.

  “To see what happens.”

  She stared in the window and saw the reflections of people passing behind them. A couple holding hands. A trio of students in backpacks. A family with four children.

  “Let’s start walking again,” he said.

  They headed west on Rue de Rivoli, their pace again leisurely, unhurried. She was caught by surprise when he suddenly pulled her to the right, onto an intersecting street.

  “Move it!” he barked.

  All at once they were sprinting. They made another sharp right onto Mont Thabor, and ducked under an arch. There, huddled in the shadow of a doorway, he pulled her against him so tightly that she felt his heart pounding against hers, his breath warming her brow. They waited.

  Seconds later, running footsteps echoed along the street. The sound moved closer, slowed, stopped. Then there was no sound at all. Almost too terrified to look, Beryl slowly shifted in Richard’s arms, just enough to see a shadow slide past their archway. The footsteps moved down the street and faded away.

  Richard chanced a quick look up the street, then gave Beryl’s hand a tug. “All clear,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They turned onto Castiglione Street and didn’t stop running until they were back at the hotel. Only when they were safely in her suite and he’d bolted the door behind them, did she find her voice again.

  “What happened out there?” she demanded.

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

  “Do you think he meant to rob us?” She moved to the phone. “I should call the police—”

  “He wasn’t after our money.”

  “What?” She turned and frowned at him.

  “Think about it. Even on Rue de Rivoli, with all those witnesses, he didn’t stop following us. Any other thief would’ve given up and gone back to the park. Found himself another victim. But he didn’t. He stayed with us.”

  “I didn’t even see him! How do you know there was any—”

  “A middle-aged man. Short, stocky. The sort of face most people would forget.”

  She stared at him, her agitation mounting. “What are you saying, Richard? That he was following us in particular?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why would anyone follow you?”

  “I could ask the same question of you.”

  “I’m of no interest to anyone.”

  “Think about it. About why you came to Paris.”

  “It’s just a family matter.”

  “Apparently not. Since you now seem to have strange men following you around town.”

  “How do I know he wasn’t following you? You’re the one who works for the CIA!”

  “Correction. I work for myself.”

  “Oh, don’t palm off that rubbish on me! I practically grew up in MI6! I can smell you people a mile away!”

  “Can you?” His eyebrow shot up. “And the odor didn’t scare you off?”

  “Maybe it should have.”

  He was pacing the room now, moving about like a restless animal, locking windows, pulling curtains. “Since I can’t seem to deceive your highly perceptive nose, I’ll just confess it. My job description is a bit looser than I’ve admitted to.”

  “I’m astonished.”

  “But I’m still convinced the man was following you.”

  “Why would anyone follow me?”

  “Because you’re digging in a mine field. You don’t understand, Beryl. When your parents were killed, there was more involved than just another sex scandal.”

  “Wait a minute.” She crossed toward him, her gaze hard on his face. “What do you know about it?”

  “I knew you were coming to Paris.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Claude Daumier. He called me in London. Said that Hugh was worried. That someone had to keep an eye on you and Jordan.”

  “So you’re our nanny?”

  He laughed. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “And how much do you know about my mother and father?”

  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 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.<
br />
  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. A stroll across Place Vendme, 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 Vendme.

  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?”

  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 Vendme and the hotel. Only as he reached the lobby 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. “All?”

  “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.”

  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!”

  “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?”

  “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.