Tess Gerritsen: In Their Footsteps

There was a pause. “Yes, at one time,” he said evenly. “Niki may have had connections.”

“Connections? If I recall correctly, Nikolai Sakaroff was a full colonel. And now he’s your business partner?” She laughed. “Capitalism does indeed make strange bedfellows.”

They walked a few moments in silence. She asked quietly, “Do you still do business for the CIA?”

“Did I say I did?”

“It’s not a difficult conclusion to come to. I’m very discreet, by the way. The truth is safe with me.”

“Nevertheless I refuse to be interrogated.”

She looked up at him with a smile. “Even under torture, I assume?”

Through the darkness she could see his teeth gleaming in a grin. “That depends on the type of torture. If a beautiful woman nibbles on my ear, well, I might admit to anything.”

The brick path ended at the maze. For a while, they stood contemplating that leafy wall of shadow.

“Come on, let’s go in,” she said.

“Do you know the way out?”

“We’ll see.”

She led him through the opening and they were quickly swallowed up by hedge walls. In truth, she knew every turn, every blind end, and she moved through the maze with confidence. “I could do this blindfolded,” she said.

“Did you grow up at Chetwynd?”

“In between boarding schools. I came to live with Uncle Hugh when I was eight. After Mum and Dad died.”

They rustled through the last slot in the hedge and emerged into the center. In a small clearing there was a stone bench and enough moonlight to faintly see each other’s face.

“They were in the business, too,” she said, circling the grassy clearing slowly. “Or did you already know that?”

“Yes, I’ve…heard of your parents.”

At once she sensed an undertone of caution in his voice and wondered why he’d gone evasive on her. She saw that he was standing by the stone bench, his hands in his pockets. All these family secrets. I’m sick of it. Why can’t anyone ever tell the truth in this house?

“What have you heard about them?” she asked.

“I know they died in Paris.”

“In the line of duty. Uncle Hugh says it was a classified mission and refuses to talk about it, so we never do.” She stopped circling and turned to face him. “I seem to be thinking about it a lot these days.”

“Why?”

“Because it happened on the fifteenth of July. Twenty years ago tomorrow.”

He moved toward her, his face still hidden in shadow. “Who reared you, then? Your uncle?”

She smiled. “‘Reared’is a bit of an exaggeration. Uncle Hugh gave us a home, and then he pretty much turned us loose to grow up as we pleased. Jordan ’s done quite well for himself, I think. Gone to university and all. But then, Jordie’s the smart one in the family.”

Richard moved closer-so close she thought she could see his eyes glittering above her in the darkness. “And which one are you?”

“I suppose…I suppose I’m the wild one.”

“The wild one,” he murmured. “Yes, I think I can tell…”

He touched her face. With that one brief contact, he left her skin tingling. She was suddenly aware of her pounding heart, her quickening breath. Why am I letting this happen? she wondered. I thought I’d sworn off romance. But now this man I scarcely know is dragging me back into the game-a game at which I’ve proved myself a miserable failure. It’s stupid, it’s impulsive. It’s insanity itself.

And it’s leaving me quite hungry for more…

His lips grazed hers; it was the lightest of kisses, but it was heady with the taste of champagne. At once she craved another kiss, a longer kiss. For a moment, they stared at each other, both hovering on the edge of temptation.

Beryl surrendered first. She swayed toward him, against him. His arms went around her, trapping her in their embrace. Eagerly she met his lips, met his kiss with one just as fierce.

“The wild one,” he whispered. “Yes, definitely the wild one.”

“Demanding, too…”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“…and very difficult.”

“I hadn’t noticed…”

They kissed again, and by the ragged sound of his breathing, she knew that he, too, was a helpless victim of desire. Suddenly a devilish impulse seized her.

She pulled away. Coyly she asked, “Now will you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” he asked, plainly confused.

“Whom you really work for?”

He paused. “Sakaroff and Wolf, Inc.,” he said. “Security consultants.”

“Wrong answer,” she said. Then, laughing wickedly, she turned and scampered out of the maze.

Paris

At 8:45, as was her habit, Marie St. Pierre patted on her bee pollen face cream, ran a brush through her stiff gray hair, and then slipped under the covers of her bed. She flicked on the TV remote control and awaited her favorite program of the week-“Dynasty.” Though the voices were obviously dubbed and the settings garishly American, the stories were close to her heart. Love and power. Pain and retribution. Yes, Marie knew all about love and pain. It was the retribution part she hadn’t quite mastered. Every time the anger bubbled up inside her and those old fantasies of revenge began to play out in her mind, she had only to consider the consequences of such action, and all thoughts of vengeance died. No, she loved Philippe too much. And they had come so far together! From finance minister to prime minister would be such a short, short climb…

She suddenly focused on the TV as a brief news item flashed on the screen-the London economic summit. Would Philippe’s face appear? No, just a pan of the conference table, a five-second view of two dozen men in suits and ties. No Philippe. She sat back in disappointment and wondered, for the hundredth time, if she should have accompanied her husband to London. She hated to fly, and he’d warned her the trip would be tiresome. Better to stay home, he’d told her; she would hate London.

Still, it might have been nice to go away with him for a few days. Just the two of them in a hotel room. A change of scenery, a new bed. It might have been the spark their marriage so terribly needed-

A thought suddenly crossed her mind. A thought so painful that it twisted her heart in knots. Here I am. And there is Philippe, alone in London…

Or was he alone?

She sat trembling for a moment, considering the possibilities. The images. At last she could resist the impulse no longer. She reached for the telephone and dialed Nina Sutherland’s Paris apartment.

The phone rang and rang. She hung up and dialed again. Still it rang unanswered. She stared at the receiver. So Nina has gone to London, too, she thought. And there they would be together, in his hotel room. While I wait at home in Paris.

She rose from the bed. “Dynasty” had just come on the TV; she ignored it. Instead she got dressed. Perhaps I am jumping to conclusions, she thought. Perhaps Nina is really home and refuses to answer her telephone.

She would drive past Nina’s apartment in Neuilly. Check the windows to see if her lights were on inside.

And if they were not?

No, she wouldn’t think about that, not yet.

Fully dressed now, she hurried downstairs, picked up her purse and keys in the darkened living room, and opened the front door. Just as she felt the night air against her face, her ears were blasted by a deafening roar.

The explosion threw her off her feet, flinging her forward down the front steps. Only her outstretched arms beneath her prevented her head from slamming against the concrete. She was vaguely aware of glass raining down around her and then of the soft crackle of flames. Slowly she managed to roll over onto her back. There she lay, staring upward at the fingers of fire shooting through her bedroom window.