Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

Jordan groaned. “Oh, great. That would’ve been me.”

Beryl frowned. “You?”

“I talked her into giving me a ride back to the hotel. My fingerprints will be all over the inside of that car.”

“What happened after you got into the car?” Richard asked.

“She let me off at the Ritz. I went up to the room for a few minutes, then came back down to talk to her. That’s when I found…” Groaning, he clutched his head. “Lord, this can’t be happening.”

“Did you see anything?” Richard pressed him.

“Not a thing. But…” Jordan ’s head slowly lifted. “Colette may have.”

“You’re not sure?”

“While we were driving to the hotel, she kept frowning at the mirror. Said something about imagining things. I looked, but all I saw was traffic.” Miserable, he turned to Daumier. “I blame myself, really. I keep thinking, if only I’d paid more attention, if I hadn’t been so wrapped up-”

“She knew how to protect herself,” interrupted Daumier. “She should have been prepared.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” said Jordan. “That she was caught so off guard.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s still plenty of daylight. We could go back to Boulevard Saint-Germain. Retrace my steps. Something might come back to me.”

His suggestion was met with dead silence.

“Jordie,” said Beryl, softly, “you can’t.”

“What do you mean, I can’t?”

“They won’t release you.”

“But they have to release me! I didn’t do it!” He looked at Daumier. To his dismay, the Frenchman regretfully shook his head.

Richard said, “We’ll do whatever it takes, Jordan. Somehow we’ll get you out of here.”

“Has anyone called Uncle Hugh?”

“He’s not at Chetwynd,” said Beryl. “No one knows where he is. It seems he left last night without telling anyone. So we’re going to see Reggie and Helena. They’ve friends in the embassy. Maybe they can pull some strings.”

Dismayed by the news, Jordan could only stand there, surrounded by the chaos of milling prisoners and policemen. I’m in prison and Uncle Hugh’s vanished, he thought. This nightmare is getting worse by the second.

“The police think I’m guilty?” he ventured.

“I am afraid so,” said Daumier.

“And you, Claude? What do you think?”

“Of course he knows you’re innocent!” declared Beryl. “We all do. Just give me time to clear things up.”

Jordan turned to his sister, his beautiful, stubborn sister. The one person he cared most about in the world. He took off his watch and firmly pressed it into her hand.

She frowned. “Why are you giving me this?”

“Safekeeping. I may be in here a rather long time. Now, I want you to go home, Beryl. The next plane to London. Do you understand?”

“But I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are. And Richard is damn well going to see to it.”

“How?” she retorted. “By dragging me off by the hair?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“You need me here!”

“Beryl.” He took her by the shoulders and spoke quietly. Sensibly. “A woman’s been killed. And she was trained to defend herself.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m next.”

“It means they’re frightened. Ready to strike back. You have to go home.”

“And leave you in this place?”

“Claude will be here. And Reggie-”

“So I fly home and leave you to rot in prison?” She shook her head in disagreement. “Do you really think I’d do that?”

“If you love me, you will.”

Her chin came up. “If I love you,” she said, “I’ll do no such thing.” She threw her arms around him in a fierce, uncompromising embrace. Then, brushing away tears, she turned to Richard. “Let’s go. The sooner we talk to Reggie, the sooner we’ll clear up this mess.”

Jordan watched his sister walk away. It was just like her, he thought, to steer her own straight and stubborn course through that unruly crowd of pickpockets and prostitutes. “Beryl!” he yelled. “Go home! Don’t be a bloody idiot!”

She stopped and looked back at him. “But I can’t help it, Jordie. It runs in the family.” Then she turned and walked out the door.

“Your brother’s right,” said Richard. “You should go home.”

“Don’t you start now,” she snapped over her shoulder.

“I’ll drive you to the hotel to pack. Then I’m taking you to the airport.”

“You and what regiment?”

“For once will you take some advice?” he yelled.

She spun around on the crowded sidewalk and turned to confront him. “Advice, yes. Orders, no.”

“Okay, then just listen for a minute. Your coming to Paris was a crazy move to begin with. Sure, I understand why you did it. I understand that you’d want to know the truth about your parents. But things have changed, Beryl. A woman’s been killed. It’s a whole new ball game now.”

“What am I supposed to do about Jordan? Just leave him there?”

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll talk to Reggie. We’ll get him the best lawyer there is-”

“And I run home? Wash my hands of the whole mess?” She looked down at the watch she was holding. Jordan ’s watch. Quietly she said, “He’s my family. Did you see how wretched he looked? It would kill him to stay in that place. If I left him there, I’d never forgive myself.”

“And if something happened to you, Jordan would never forgive himself. And neither would I.”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“But you are.”

“And who decided that?”

He reached for her then, trapping her face in his hands. “I did,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to hers. She was so stunned by the ferocity of his kiss that at first she couldn’t react; too many glorious sensations were assaulting her at once. She heard his murmurings of need, felt the hot surge of his tongue into her mouth. Her own body responded, every nerve singing with desire. She was oblivious to the traffic, the passersby on the sidewalk. There were only the two of them and the way their bodies and mouths melted together. All day they’d been fighting this, she thought. And all day she knew it was hopeless. She knew it would come to this-one kiss on a Paris street, and she was lost.

Gently he pulled away and gazed down at her. “ That’s why you have to leave Paris,” he murmured.

“Because you command it?”

“No. Because it makes sense.”

She stepped back, desperate to put space between them, to regain some control-any control-over her emotions. “Sense to you, perhaps,” she said softly. “But not to me.” Then she turned and climbed into his car.

He slid in beside her and shut the door. Though they sat in silence, she could feel his frustration radiating throughout the car.

“What can I say that would make you change your mind?” he asked.

“ My mind?” She looked at him and managed a tight, uncompromising smile. “Absolutely nothing.”

“It’s rather a sticky situation,” said Reggie Vane. “If the charges weren’t so serious-theft, perhaps, or even assault-then the embassy might be able to do something. But murder? I’m afraid that’s beyond diplomatic intervention.”

They were talking in Reggie’s private study, a masculine, dark-paneled room very much like her Uncle Hugh’s at Chetwynd. The bookshelves were lined with English classics, the walls hung with hunting scenes of foxes and hounds and gentlemen on horseback. The stone fireplace was an exact copy, Reggie had told them, of the hearth in his childhood home in Cornwall. Even the smell of Reggie’s pipe tobacco reminded Beryl of home. How comforting to discover that here, on the outskirts of Paris, was a familiar world transplanted straight from England.