Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps / Stolen - In Their Footsteps / Stolen

He met her gaze without wavering. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because you two obviously know each other well. Is this the way Daumier usually operates?”

“Claude’s not one to spill secrets. But he also believes in helping out old friends, and your uncle Hugh’s a good friend of his. I’m sure Claude’s keeping your best interests at heart.”

Old friends, thought Beryl. Daumier and Uncle Hugh and Richard Wolf—all of them linked together by some shadowy past, a past they would not talk about. This was how it had been, growing up at Chetwynd. Mysterious men in limousines dropping in to visit Hugh. Sometimes Beryl would hear snatches of conversation, would pick up whispered names whose significance she could only guess at. Yurchenko. Andropov. Baghdad. Berlin. She had learned long ago not to ask questions, never to expect answers. “Not something to bother your pretty head about,” Hugh would tell her.

This time, she wouldn’t be put off. This time she demanded answers.

The waiter came to the table with the menus. Beryl shook her head. “We won’t be staying,” she said.

“You’re not interested in supper?” asked Richard. “Claude says it’s an excellent restaurant.”

“Did Claude ask you to show up?” she demanded. “Keep us well fed and entertained so we won’t trouble him?”

“I’m delighted to keep you well fed. And, if you’re willing, entertained.” He smiled at her then, a smile with just a spark of mischief. Looking into his eyes, she found herself wavering on the edge of temptation. Have supper with me, she read in his smile. And afterward, who knows? Anything’s possible.

Slowly she sat back in the booth. “We’ll have supper with you, on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You play it straight with us. No dodging, no games.”

“I’ll try.”

“Why are you in Paris?”

“Claude asked me to consult. As a personal favor. The summit’s over now, so my schedule’s open. Plus, I was curious.”

“About the bombing?”

He nodded. “Cosmic Solidarity is a new one for me. I try to keep up with new terrorist groups. It’s my business.” He held a menu out to her and smiled. “And that, Miss Tavistock, is the unadulterated truth.”

She met his gaze and saw no flicker of avoidance in his eyes. Still, her instincts told her there was something more behind that smile, something yet unsaid.

“You don’t believe me,” he said.

“How did you guess?”

“Does this mean you’re not having supper with me?”

Up until that moment, Jordan had sat watching them, his gaze playing Ping-Pong. Now he cut in impatiently. “We are definitely having supper. Because I’m hungry, Beryl, and I’m not moving from this booth until I’ve eaten.”

With a sigh of resignation, Beryl took the menu. “I guess that answers that. Jordie’s stomach has spoken.”

AMIEL FOCH’S TELEPHONE rang at precisely sevenfifteen.

“I have a new task for you,” said the caller. “It’s a matter of some urgency. Perhaps this time around, you’ll prove successful.”

The criticism stung, and Amiel Foch, with twenty-five years’ experience in the business, barely managed to suppress a retort. The caller held the purse strings; he could afford to hurl insults. Foch had his retirement to consider. Requests for his services were few and far between these days. One’s reflexes, after all, did not improve with age.

Foch said, with quiet control, “I planted the device as you instructed. It went off at the time specified.”

“And all it did was make a lot of bloody noise. The target was scarcely hurt.”

“She did the unexpected. One cannot control such things.”

“Let’s hope this time you keep things under better control.”

“What is the name?”

“Two names. A brother and sister, Beryl and Jordan Tavistock. They’re staying at the Ritz. I want to know where they go. Who they see.”

“Nothing more?”

“For now, just surveillance. But things may change at any time, depending on what they learn. With any luck, they’ll simply turn around and run home to England.”

“If they do not?”

“Then we’ll take further action.”

“What about Mme St. Pierre? Do you wish me to try again?”

The caller paused. “No,” he said at last, “she can wait. For now, the Tavistocks take priority.”

OVER A MEAL OF poached salmon and duck with raspberry sauce, Beryl and Richard thrusted and parried questions and answers. Richard, an accomplished verbal duelist, revealed only the barest sketch of his personal life. He was born and reared in Connecticut. His father, a retired cop, was still living. After leaving Princeton University, Richard joined the U.S. State Department and served as political officer at embassies around the world. Then, five years ago, he left government service to start up business as a security consultant. Sakaroff and Wolf, based in Washington, D.C., was born.

“And that’s what brought me to London last week,” he said. “Several American firms wanted security for their executives during the summit. I was hired as consultant.”

“And that’s all you were doing in London?” she asked.

“That’s all I was doing in London. Until I got Hugh’s invitation to Chetwynd.” His gaze met hers across the table.

His directness unsettled her. Is he telling me the truth, fiction or something in between? That matter-of-fact recitation of his career had struck her as rehearsed, but then, it would be. People in the intelligence business always had their life histories down pat, the details memorized, fact blending smoothly with fantasy. What did she really know about him? Only that he smiled easily, laughed easily. That his appetite was hearty and he drank his coffee black.

And that she was intensely, insanely, attracted to him.

After supper, he offered to drive them back to the Ritz. Jordan sat in the back seat, Beryl in the front—right next to Richard. She kept glancing sideways at him as they drove up Boulevard Saint-Germain toward the Seine. Even the traffic, outrageously rude and noisy, did not seem to ruffle him. At a stoplight, he turned and looked at her and that one glimpse of his face through the darkness of the car was enough to make her heart do a somersault.

Calmly he shifted his attention back to the road. “It’s still early,” he said. “Are you sure you want to go back to the hotel?”

“What’s my choice?”

“A drive. A walk. Whatever you’d like. After all, you’re in Paris. Why not make the most of it?” He reached down to shift gears, and his hand brushed past her knee. A shiver ran through her—a warm, delicious sizzle of anticipation.

He’s tempting me. Making me dizzy with all the possibilities. Or is it the wine? What harm can there be in a little stroll, a little fresh air?

She called over her shoulder, “How about it, Jordie? Do you feel like taking a walk?” She was answered by a loud snore.

Beryl turned and saw to her astonishment that her brother was sprawled across the back seat. A sleepless night and two glasses of wine at supper had left him dead to the world. “I guess that’s a negative,” she said with a laugh.

“What about just you and me?”

That invitation, voiced so softly, sent another shiver of temptation up her spine. After all, she thought, she was in Paris…

“A short walk,” she agreed. “But first, let’s put Jordan to bed.”

“Valet service coming up,” Richard said, laughing. “First stop, the Ritz.”

Jordan snored all the way back to the hotel.

THEY WALKED IN THE Tuileries, a stroll that took them along a gravel path through formal gardens, past statues glowing a ghostly white under the street lamps.