In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen. Tess Gerritsen
the trees and we’ll be safe, surrounded by other people. She prepared for the sprint, waiting for Richard’s cue.
But he made no sudden moves. Neither did their pursuer. Hand in hand, she and Richard strolled nonchalantly into the naked glare of Rue de Rivoli.
Only as they joined the stream of evening pedestrians did Beryl’s pulse begin to slow again. There was no danger here, she thought. Surely no one would dare attack them on a busy street.
Then she glanced at Richard’s face and saw that the tension was still there.
They crossed the street and walked another block.
“Stop for a minute,” he murmured. “Take a long look in that window.”
They paused in front of a chocolate shop. Through the glass they saw a tempting display of confections: raspberry creams and velvety truffles and Turkish delight, all nestled in webs of spun sugar. In the shop, a young woman stood over a vat of melted chocolate, dipping fresh strawberries.
“What are we waiting for?” whispered Beryl.
“To see what happens.”
She stared in the window and saw the reflections of people passing behind them. A couple holding hands. A trio of students in backpacks. A family with four children.
“Let’s start walking again,” he said.
They headed west on Rue de Rivoli, their pace again leisurely, unhurried. She was caught by surprise when he suddenly pulled her to the right, onto an intersecting street.
“Move it!” he barked.
All at once they were sprinting. They made another sharp right onto Mont Thabor, and ducked under an arch. There, huddled in the shadow of a doorway, he pulled her against him so tightly that she felt his heart pounding against hers, his breath warming her brow. They waited.
Seconds later, running footsteps echoed along the street. The sound moved closer, slowed, stopped. Then there was no sound at all. Almost too terrified to look, Beryl slowly shifted in Richard’s arms, just enough to see a shadow slide past their archway. The footsteps moved down the street and faded away.
Richard chanced a quick look up the street, then gave Beryl’s hand a tug. “All clear,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”
They turned onto Castiglione Street and didn’t stop running until they were back at the hotel. Only when they were safely in her suite and he’d bolted the door behind them, did she find her voice again.
“What happened out there?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
“Do you think he meant to rob us?” She moved to the phone. “I should call the police—”
“He wasn’t after our money.”
“What?” She turned and frowned at him.
“Think about it. Even on Rue de Rivoli, with all those witnesses, he didn’t stop following us. Any other thief would’ve given up and gone back to the park. Found himself another victim. But he didn’t. He stayed with us.”
“I didn’t even see him! How do you know there was any—”
“A middle-aged man. Short, stocky. The sort of face most people would forget.”
She stared at him, her agitation mounting. “What are you saying, Richard? That he was following us in particular?”
“Yes.”
“But why would anyone follow you?”
“I could ask the same question of you.”
“I’m of no interest to anyone.”
“Think about it. About why you came to Paris.”
“It’s just a family matter.”
“Apparently not. Since you now seem to have strange men following you around town.”
“How do I know he wasn’t following you? You’re the one who works for the CIA!”
“Correction. I work for myself.”
“Oh, don’t palm off that rubbish on me! I practically grew up in MI6! I can smell you people a mile away!”
“Can you?” His eyebrow shot up. “And the odor didn’t scare you off?”
“Maybe it should have.”
He was pacing the room now, moving about like a restless animal, locking windows, pulling curtains. “Since I can’t seem to deceive your highly perceptive nose, I’ll just confess it. My job description is a bit looser than I’ve admitted to.”
“I’m astonished.”
“But I’m still convinced the man was following you.”
“Why would anyone follow me?”
“Because you’re digging in a mine field. You don’t understand, Beryl. When your parents were killed, there was more involved than just another sex scandal.”
“Wait a minute.” She crossed toward him, her gaze hard on his face. “What do you know about it?”
“I knew you were coming to Paris.”
“Who told you?”
“Claude Daumier. He called me in London. Said that Hugh was worried. That someone had to keep an eye on you and Jordan.”
“So you’re our nanny?”
He laughed. “In a manner of speaking.”
“And how much do you know about my mother and father?”
She knew by his brief silence that he was debating his answer, weighing the consequences of his next words. She fully expected to hear a lie.
Instead he surprised her with the truth. “I knew them both,” he said. “I was here in Paris when it happened.”
The revelation left her stunned. She didn’t doubt for an instant that it was the truth—why would he fabricate such a story?
“It was my very first posting,” he said. “I thought it was incredible luck to draw Paris. Most first-timers get sent to some bug-infested jungle in the middle of nowhere. But I drew Paris. And that’s where I met Madeline and Bernard.” Wearily he sank into a chair. “It’s amazing,” he murmured, studying Beryl’s face, “How very much you look like her. The same green eyes, the same black hair. She used to sweep hers back in this sort of loose chignon. But strands of it were always coming loose, falling about her neck…” He smiled fondly at the memory. “Bernard was crazy about her. So was every man who ever met her.”
“Were you?”
“I was only twenty-two. She was the most enchanting woman I’d ever met.” His gaze met hers. Softly he added, “But then, I hadn’t met her daughter.”
They stared at each other, and Beryl felt those silken threads of desire tugging her toward him. Toward a man whose kisses left her dizzy, whose touch could melt even stone. A man who had not been straight with her from the very start.
I’m so tired of secrets, so tired of trying to tease apart the truths from the half truths. And I’ll never know which is which with this man.
Abruptly she went to the door. “If we can’t be honest with each other,” she said, “there’s no point in being together at all. So why don’t we say good-night. And goodbye.”
“I don’t think so.”
She turned and frowned at him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not ready to say goodbye. Not when I know you’re being followed.”
“You’re concerned about my welfare, is that