Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

“Part of it, too,” said Richard, “is the fact that Reggie never really liked being in Paris, and he never liked being a banker. Helena talked him into taking the post.”

“She doesn’t seem to like it here much, either.”

“No. And so there they are, always sniping at each other. I’d see them at parties with your parents, and I was always struck by the contrast. Bernard and Madeline seemed so much in love. Then again, every man who met your mother couldn’t help but fall in love, just a little.”

“What was it about her?” asked Beryl. “You said once that she was…enchanting.”

“When I met her, she was about forty. Oh, she had a gray hair here and there. A few laugh lines. But she was more fascinating than any twenty-year-old woman I’d ever met. I was surprised to hear that she wasn’t born to nobility.”

“She was from Cornwall. Old Spanish blood. Dad met her one summer while on holiday.” Beryl smiled. “He said she beat him in a footrace. In her bare feet. And that’s when he knew she was the one for him.”

“They were well matched, in every way. I suppose that’s what fascinated me-their happiness. My parents were divorced. It was a pretty nasty split, and it soured me on the whole idea of marriage. But your parents made it look so easy.” He shook his head. “I was more shocked than anyone about their deaths. I couldn’t believe that Bernard would-”

“He didn’t do it. I know he didn’t.”

After a pause, Richard said, “So do I.”

They drove for a moment without speaking, the lights of passing traffic flashing at them through the windshield.

“Is that why you never married?” she asked. “Because of your parents’ divorce?”

“It was one reason. The other is that I’ve never found the right woman.” He glanced at her. “Why didn’t you marry?”

She shrugged. “Never the right man.”

“There must have been someone in your life.”

“There was. For a while.” She hugged herself and stared out at the darkness rushing past.

“Didn’t work out?”

She managed a laugh. “I’m lucky it didn’t.”

“Do I detect a trace of bitterness?”

“Disillusionment, really. When we first met, I thought he was quite extraordinary. He was a surgeon about to leave on a mercy mission to Nigeria. It’s so rare to find a man who really cares about humanity. I visited him, twice, in Africa. He was in his element out there.”

“And what happened?”

“We were lovers for a while. And then I came to realize how he saw himself. The great white savior. He’d swoop into a primitive hospital, save a few lives, then fly home to England for a bracing dose of adulation. Which, it turned out, he could never get enough of. One adoring woman wasn’t sufficient. He had to have a dozen.” Softly she added, “And I wanted to be the only one.” She leaned back against the car seat and stared out at the glow of Paris. The City of Light, she thought. Still, there were those shadows, those dark alleys and even darker secrets.

Back at the Place Vend me, they sat for a moment in the parked car, not speaking, just sitting side by side in the gloom. We’re both exhausted, she thought. And the night isn’t over yet. I’ll have to pack Jordan ’s things. A toothbrush, a change of clothes. Bring them back to the prison…

“Then I can’t talk you into leaving,” he said.

She looked out at the plaza, at the silhouette of two lovers strolling arm in arm through the darkness. “No. Not until he’s free. Not until we see this through to the end.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. But I’m not surprised. Just the other day you told me you had a hard head.”

She looked at his face, saw the gleam of his smile in the shadows. “This isn’t hardheadedness, Richard. This is loyalty. To Jordan. To my parents. We’re Tavistocks, you see, and we stand by each other.”

“Standing by Jordan, I can see. But your parents are dead.”

“It’s a matter of honor.”

He shook his head. “Bernard and Madeline aren’t around to care about honor. It’s a medieval concept, to march into battle for something as abstract as the family name.”

She climbed out of the car. “Obviously the Wolf family name means nothing to you,” she said coldly.

He was out of the car and moving right beside her as she walked through the hotel lobby and stepped into the elevator. “Maybe it’s my peculiarly American point of view, but my name is what I make of it. I don’t wear the family crest tattooed on my forehead.”

“You couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Of course not,” he retorted as they stepped out of the elevator. “I’m just a dumb Yank.”

“I never called you any such thing!”

He followed her into the suite and shut the door with a thud. “Still, it’s clear I’m not up to her Ladyship’s standards.”

She whirled around and faced him in anger. “You’re holding it against me, aren’t you? My name. My wealth.”

“What’s bothering me has nothing to do with your being a Tavistock.”

“What is bothering you, then?”

“The fact that you won’t listen to reason.”

“Ah. My hard head.”

“Yes, your hard head. And your dumb sense of honor. And your…your…”

She moved right up to him. Tilting up her chin, she stared him straight in the eye. “My what?”

He took her face in his hands and planted a kiss on her mouth, a kiss so long and hard that she had difficulty catching her breath. When at last he pulled back, her legs were wobbly and her pulse was roaring in her ears.

“ That’s what’s bothering me,” he said. “I can’t think straight when you’re around. Can’t concentrate long enough to tie my own shoelaces. You brush past me, or just look at me, and my mind goes off on certain tangents I’d rather not specify. It’s the kind of situation that leads to mistakes. And I don’t like to make mistakes.”

“You’re the one who can’t concentrate. And I’m the one who has to fly home?” She turned and started across the room toward the connecting door to Jordan ’s suite. “Sorry, Richard,” she said, moving past the window, “but you’ll just have to keep those lusty male hormones under-”

Her words were cut off by the crack of the shattering window.

Reflexes made her pivot away from the sting of flying glass. In the next instant, Richard lunged at her and sent her sprawling to the shard-littered floor.

Another bullet zinged through the window and thudded into the far wall.

“The light!” shouted Richard. “Got to kill the light!” He began to crawl toward the bedside lamp and had almost reached it when the second window shattered. Broken glass rained on top of him.

“Richard!” screamed Beryl.

“Stay down!” He took a deep breath, then rolled across the floor. He grabbed the lamp cord and yanked the plug from the outlet. Instantly the room was plunged into darkness. The only light came through the windows, shining dimly in from the Place Vend me. An eerie silence fell over the room, broken only by the hammering of Beryl’s heartbeat in her ears.

She started to rise to her knees.

“Don’t move!” warned Richard.

“He can’t see us.”

“He might have an infrared scope. Stay down.”

Beryl dropped back to the floor and felt the bite of broken glass through her sleeves. “Where’s it coming from?”

“Has to be one of the buildings across the plaza. Long-range rifle.”

“What do we do now?”

“We call for reinforcements.” She heard him crawling in the darkness, then heard the clang of the telephone hitting the floor. An instant later, he muttered an oath. “Line’s dead! Someone’s cut the wire.”