Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

“Do me up, will you?” she asked.

He turned and saw that she’d moved right beside him. Her back was turned and the nape of her neck was practically within kissing distance.

“The hook,” she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder. He inhaled the flowery scent of shampoo. “I can’t seem to fasten it.”

He attached the hook and eye and found his gaze lingering on her bare shoulders. “Where did you get that dress?” he asked.

“I brought it from Chetwynd.” She breezed over to the dresser and began to slip on earrings. The silk sheath seemed to mold itself to every luscious curve of her body. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s Madeline’s dress. Isn’t it?”

She turned to look at him. “Yes, it is,” she said quietly. “Does that bother you?”

“It’s just-” he let out a breath “-it’s a perfect fit. Curve for curve.”

“And you think you’re seeing a ghost.”

“I remember that dress. I saw her wear it at an embassy reception.” He paused. “God, it’s really eerie, how that dress seems made for you.”

Slowly she moved toward him, her gaze never wavering from his face. “I’m not her, Richard.”

“I know.”

“No matter how much you may want her back-”

“Her?” He took her wrists and pulled her close to him. “When I look at you, I see only Beryl. Of course, I notice the resemblance. The hair, the eyes. But you’re the one I’m looking at. The one I want.” He bent toward her and gently grazed her lips with a kiss. “That’s why I want you to stay here tonight.”

“Your prisoner?” she murmured.

“If need be.” He kissed her again and heard an answering purr of contentment from her throat. She tilted her head back, and his lips slid to her neck, so smooth, so deliciously perfumed.

“Then you’ll have to tie me up…” she whispered.

“Whatever you want.”

“…because there’s no other way you’re going to keep me here tonight.” With a maddening laugh, she wriggled free and walked into the bathroom.

Richard suppressed a groan of frustration. From the doorway, he watched as she pinned up her hair. “Exactly what do you expect to get out of this event, anyway?” he demanded.

“One never knows. That’s the joy of intelligence gathering, isn’t it? Keep your ears and eyes open and see what turns up. I think we’ve learned quite a lot already about François. We know he has a sister who’s ill. Which means François needed money. Working as a janitor in an art gallery couldn’t possibly pay for all the care she needed. Perhaps he was desperate, willing to do anything for money. Even work as a hired assassin.”

“Your logic is unassailable.”

“Thank you.”

“But your plan of action is insane. You don’t need to take this risk-”

“But I do.” She turned to him, her hair now regally swept into a chignon. “Someone wants me and Jordan dead. And there I’ll be tonight. A perfectly convenient target.”

What a magnificent creature she is, he thought. It’s that unbeatable bloodline, those Bernard and Madeline genes. She thinks she’s invincible.

“That’s the plan, is it?” he said. “Tempt the killer into making a move?”

“If that’s what it takes to save Jordan.”

“And what’s to stop the killer from carrying it out?”

“My two bodyguards. And you.”

“I’m not infallible, Beryl.”

“You’re close enough.”

“I could make a mistake. Let my attention slip.”

“I trust you.”

“But I don’t trust myself!” Agitated, he began to pace the bedroom floor. “I’ve been out of the business for years. I’m out of practice, out of condition. I’m forty-two, Beryl, and my reflexes aren’t what they used to be.”

“Last night they seemed quick enough to me.”

“Walk out that door, Beryl, and I can’t guarantee your safety.”

She came toward him, looking him coolly in the eye. “The fact is, Richard, you can’t guarantee my safety anywhere. In here, out on the streets, at an artist’s reception. Wherever I am, there’s a chance things could go wrong. If I stay in this flat, if I stare at these walls any longer, thinking of all the things that could happen, I’ll go insane. It’s better to be out there. Doing something. Jordan isn’t able to, so I have to be the one.”

“The one to set yourself up as bait?”

“Our only lead is a dead man-François. Someone hired him, Richard. Someone who may have connections to Galerie Annika.”

For a moment Richard stood gazing at her, thinking, She’s right, of course. It’s the same conclusion I came to. She’s clever enough to know exactly what needs to be done. And reckless enough to do it.

He went to the nightstand and picked up the Glock. A pound and a half of steel and plastic, that’s all he had to protect her with. It felt flimsy, insubstantial, against all the dangers lurking beyond the front door.

“You’re coming with me?” she said.

He turned and looked at her. “You think I’d let you go alone?”

She smiled, so full of confidence it frightened him. It was Madeline’s old smile. Madeline, who’d been every bit as confident.

He slid the Glock into his shoulder holster. “I’ll be right beside you, Beryl,” he said. “Every step of the way.”

Anthony Sutherland stood posing like a little emperor beside his bronze cast of the Madonna with jackal. He was wearing a pirate shirt of purple silk, black leather pants and snakeskin boots, and he seemed not in the least bit fazed by all the photographers’ flashbulbs that kept popping around him. The art critics were in vapors over the show. “Frightening.” “Disturbing.” “Images that twist convention.” These were some of the comments Beryl overheard being murmured as she wandered through the gallery.

She and Richard stopped to look at another of Anthony’s bronzes. At first glance, it had looked like two nude figures entwined in a loving embrace. Closer inspection, however, revealed it to be a man and woman in the process of devouring each other alive.

“Do you suppose that’s an allegory for marriage?” said a familiar voice. It was Reggie Vane, balancing a glass of champagne in one hand and two dainty plates of canapés in the other.

He bent forward and gave Beryl an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “You’re absolutely stunning tonight, dear. Your mother would be proud of you.”

“Reggie, I had no idea you were interested in modern art,” said Beryl.

“I’m not. Helena dragged me here.” In disgust, he glanced around at the crowd. “Lord, I hate these things. But the St. Pierres were coming, and of course Marie always insists Helena show up as well, just to keep her company.” He set his empty champagne glass on top of the bronze couple and laughed at the whimsical effect. “An improvement, wouldn’t you say? As long as these two are going to eat each other, they might as well have some bubbly to wash each other down.”

An elegantly attired woman swooped in and snatched away the glass. “Please, be more respectful of the work, Mr. Vane,” she scolded.

“Oh, I wasn’t being disrespectful, Annika,” said Reggie. “I just thought it needed a touch of humor.”

“It is absolutely perfect as it is.” Annika gave the bronze heads a swipe of her napkin and stood back to admire the interwoven figures. “Whimsy would ruin its message.”

“What message is that?” asked Richard.

The woman turned to look at him, and her head of boyishly cropped hair suddenly tilted up with interest. “The message,” she said, gazing intently at Richard, “is that monogamy is a destructive institution.”

“That’s marriage, all right,” grunted Reggie.