Tess Gerritsen: Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen

Dazed, she looked up at Richard. He regarded her with an almost kindly smile and held out his hand. Wordlessly she gave him the pistol. He nodded and said softly, “That’s a good girl.”

Within fifteen minutes a team of medics had appeared, helicoptered in from the nearby Royal Navy ship. By then, Clea’s legs had regained their circulation and she was able to stand, albeit unsteadily. Her head was aching worse than ever, and a medic tried to pull her aside to examine the bruises on her temple, but she shrugged him away.

All her attention was focused on Jordan. She watched as IV lines were threaded into Jordan’s veins, as he was lifted and strapped onto a stretcher. In numb silence she squeezed onto the elevator that carried his stretcher up to the deck.

Only when one of the officers held her back as they lifted Jordan into the chopper did she understand they were taking him from her. Suddenly she panicked, terrified that if she lost sight of him now, she would never see him again.

She shoved forward, elbowing aside the naval officer, and would have run all the way to the chopper were it not for a grip that firmly closed around her arm.

Richard Wolf’s.

“Let me go!” she sobbed, trying to fight him off.

“He’s being transported to a hospital. They’ll take care of him.”

“I want to be with him! He needs me!”

Richard took her firmly by the shoulders. “You’ll see him soon, I promise! But now we need you, Clea. You have to tell us things. About Van Weldon. About this ship.”

The roar of the rotor engine drowned out any other words. With despairing eyes, Clea saw the chopper lift away into the wind-buffeted darkness. Please take care of him, she prayed. That’s all I ask. Please keep him safe.

She watched the taillights wink into the night. A moment later the rumble had faded, leaving only the sounds of the wind and the sea.

“Miss Rice?” Richard prodded gently.

Through tears Clea looked at him. “I’ll tell you everything, Mr. Wolf,” she said. And an anguished laugh suddenly escaped her throat. “Even the truth.”

It was two days before she saw Jordan again.

She was told that Jordan had lost a great deal of blood, but that the surgery had gone well, without complications. She could learn no more.

Richard Wolf installed her in an MI6 safe house outside London. It was a sweet little stone cottage with a white fence and a garden. She considered it a prison. The three men guarding the entrances did nothing to dispel that impression.

Richard had told her the men were a necessity. The contract on her life might still be active, he’d explained. It was dangerous to move her. Until Van Weldon’s topple from power became general knowledge, Clea would have to be kept out of sight.

And away from Jordan.

She understood the real purpose of the separation. It did not surprise her that his aristocratic family would, in the end, prevail. Clea was not the sort of woman one allowed into one’s family. Not if one had a reputation to uphold. No matter how much Jordan cared about her-and he did care, she knew that now-her past would come between them.

The Tavistocks had only Jordan’s well-being in mind. For that she could not fault them.

But she did resent them for the way they had taken control of her freedom. For two days she tolerated her pleasant little prison. She paced in the garden, stared at the TV, leafed without interest through magazines.

By the second day in captivity, she’d bloody well had enough.

She picked up her knapsack, marched outside and announced to the guard posted in the front yard, “I want out.”

“Afraid that’s quite impossible,” he said.

“What’re you going to do about it, Buster, shoot me in the back?”

“My orders are to ensure your safety. You can’t leave.”

“Watch me.” She slung the knapsack over her shoulder and was pushing through the gate when a black limousine rolled into the driveway. It came to a stop right in front of her. In amazement she watched as the chauffeur emerged, circled around and opened the rear door.

An elderly man stepped out. He was portly and balding, but he wore his finely tailored suit with comfortable elegance. For a moment he regarded Clea in silence.

“So you are the woman in question,” he said at last.

Coolly she looked him up and down. “And the man in question?”

He held out his hand in greeting. “I’m Hugh Tavistock. Jordan’s uncle.”

Clea momentarily lost her voice. Wordlessly she accepted his handshake and found the man’s grip firm, his gaze steady. Like Jordan’s.

“We have much to talk about, Miss Rice,” said Hugh. “Will you step into the car?”

“Actually, I was just leaving.”

“You don’t wish to see him?”

“You mean…Jordan?”

Hugh nodded. “It’s a long drive to the hospital. I thought it would give us a chance to get acquainted.”

She studied him, searching for some hint of what was to come. His expression was unreadable, his face a cipher.

She climbed into the limousine.

They sat side by side, not speaking for a while. Outside the window, the countryside glided past. The brilliant hues of fall were tingeing the trees. What do we possibly have to say to each other? she wondered. I’m a stranger to his world, as he is to mine.

“It seems my nephew has formed an attachment to you,” said Hugh.

“Your nephew is a good man,” she said. She stared out the window and added softly, “A very fine man.”

“I’ve always thought so.”

“He deserves…” She paused and swallowed back tears. “He deserves the very best there is.”

“True.”

“So…” She raised her chin and looked at him. “I’ll not be difficult. You must understand, Lord Lovat, I have no demands. No expectations. I only want…” She looked away. “I only want him to be happy. I’ll do whatever it takes. Even if it means vanishing.”

“You love him.” It was not a question but a statement.

This time she couldn’t keep the tears at bay. They began to fall slowly, silently.

Sighing, he sat back in the seat. “Well, it’s certainly not without precedent.”

“What do you mean?”

“A number of women have fallen for my nephew.”

“I can see why.”

“But none of them were quite like you. You do realize, don’t you, that you are almost single-handedly responsible for bringing down Victor Van Weldon? For smashing an arms shipment empire?”

She shrugged, as if none of it mattered. And at the moment, it didn’t. It all seemed irrelevant. She scarcely listened as Hugh outlined the ripple of developments since the Villafjord was boarded. The arrests of Oliver and Veronica Cairncross. The new investigation into the Max Havelaar ’s sinking. The cache of surface-to-air missiles found in the Cairncross Biscuits warehouse. Unfortunately, Victor Van Weldon would probably not live long enough to go to trial. But he had, in some measure, met justice. The final rendering would have to come from his Maker.

When Hugh had finished speaking, he looked at Clea and said, “You have performed a service for us all, Miss Rice. You’re to be congratulated.”

She said nothing.

To her surprise he chuckled. “I’ve met many heroes in my time. But none so uninterested in praise.”

She shook her head. “I’m tired, Lord Lovat. I just want to go home.”

“To America?”

Again she shrugged. “I suppose that is my home. I…I don’t know anymore…”

“What about Jordan? I thought you loved him.”

“You yourself said it’s not without precedent. Women have always been falling in love with your nephew.”