In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen. Tess Gerritsen
be lurking around the bend. A cow or a goat.
Or another witch on horseback.
I have quite a hard head. He smiled. A hard head, indeed. She slips off the saddle—bump—and she’s right back on her feet. And cheeky to boot. As if I couldn’t tell a mare from a stallion. All I needed was the right view.
Which he certainly had had of her. There was no doubt whatsoever that it was the female of the species he’d been looking at. All that raven hair, those laughing green eyes. She almost reminds me of…
He suppressed the thought, shoved it into the quicksand of bad memories. Nightmares, really. Those terrible echoes of his first assignment, his first failure. It had colored his career, had kept him from ever again taking anything for granted. That was the way one should operate in this business. Check the facts, never trust your sources, and always, always watch your back.
It was starting to wear him down. Maybe I should kick back and retire early. Live the quiet country life like Hugh Tavistock. Of course Tavistock had a title and estate to keep him in comfort, though Richard had to laugh when he thought of the rotund and balding Hugh Tavistock as earl of anything. Yeah, I should just settle down on those ten acres in Connecticut. Declare myself Earl of Whatever and grow cucumbers.
But he’d miss the work. Those delicious whiffs of danger, the international chess game of wits. The world was changing so fast, and you didn’t know from day to day who your enemies were…
He spotted, at last, the turnoff to Chetwynd. Flanked by majestic elms, it was as the black-haired woman had described it. That impressive driveway was more than matched by the manor house standing at the end of the road. This was no mere country cottage; this was a castle, complete with turrets and ivy-covered stone walls. Formal gardens stretched out for acres, and a brick path led to what looked like a medieval maze. So this was where old Hugh Tavistock had repaired to after those forty years of service to queen and country. Earldom must have its benefits—one certainly didn’t acquire this much wealth in government service. And Hugh had struck him as such a down-to-earth fellow! Not at all the country nobleman type. He had no airs, no pretensions; he was more like some absentminded civil servant who’d wandered, quite by accident, into MI6’s inner sanctum.
Amused by the grandeur of it all, Richard went up the steps, breezed through the security gauntlet, and walked into the ballroom.
Here he saw a number of familiar faces among the dozens of guests who’d already arrived. The London economic summit had drawn in diplomats and financiers from across the continent. He spotted at once the American ambassador, swaggering and schmoozing like the political appointee he was. Across the room he saw a trio of old acquaintances from Paris. There was Philippe St. Pierre, the French finance minister, deep in conversation with Reggie Vane, head of the Paris Division, Bank of London. Off to the side stood Reggie’s wife, Helena, looking ignored and crabby as usual. Had Richard ever seen that woman look happy?
A woman’s loud and brassy laugh drew Richard’s attention to another familiar figure from his Paris days—Nina Sutherland, the ambassador’s widow, shimmering from throat to ankle in green silk and bugle beads. Though her husband was long dead, the old gal was still working the crowd like a seasoned diplomat’s wife. Beside her was her twenty-year-old son, Anthony, rumored to be an artist. In his purple shirt, he cut just as flashy a figure as his mother did. What a resplendent pair they were, like a couple of peacocks! Young Anthony had obviously inherited his ex-actress mother’s gene for flamboyance.
Judiciously avoiding the Sutherland pair, Richard headed to the buffet table, which was graced with an elaborate ice sculpture of the Eiffel Tower. This Bastille Day theme had been carried to ridiculous extremes. Everything was French tonight: the music, the champagne, the tricolors hanging from the ceiling.
“Rather makes one want to burst out singing the ‘Marseillaise,’ doesn’t it?” said a voice.
Richard turned and saw a tall blond man standing beside him. Slenderly built, with the stamp of aristocracy on his face, he seemed elegantly at ease in his starched shirt and tuxedo. Smiling, he handed a glass of champagne to Richard. The chandelier light glittered in the pale bubbles. “You’re Richard Wolf,” the man said.
Richard nodded, accepting the glass. “And you are…?”
“Jordan Tavistock. Uncle Hugh pointed you out as you walked into the room. Thought I’d come by and introduce myself.”
The two men shook hands. Jordan’s grip was solid and connected, not what Richard expected from such smoothly aristocratic hands.
“So tell me,” said Jordan, casually picking up a second glass of champagne for himself, “which category do you fit into? Spy, diplomat or financier?”
Richard laughed. “I’m expected to answer that question?”
“No. But I thought I’d ask, anyway. It gets things off to a flying start.” He took a sip and smiled. “It’s a mental exercise of mine. Keeps these parties interesting. I try to pick up on the cues, deduce which ones are with Intelligence. And half of these people are. Or were.” Jordan gazed around the room. “Think of all the secrets contained in all these heads—all those little synapses snapping with classified data.”
“You seem to have more than a passing acquaintance with the business.”
“When one grows up in this household, one lives and breathes the game.” Jordan regarded Richard for a moment. “Let’s see. You’re American…”
“Correct.”
“And whereas the corporate executives arrived in groups by stretch limousine, you came on your own.”
“Right so far.”
“And you refer to intelligence work as the business.”
“You noticed.”
“So my guess is…CIA?”
Richard shook his head and smiled. “I’m just a private security consultant. Sakaroff and Wolf, Inc.”
Jordan smiled back. “Clever cover.”
“It’s not a cover. I’m the real thing. All these corporate executives you see here want a safe summit. An IRA bomb could ruin their whole day.”
“So they hire you to keep the nasties away,” finished Jordan.
“Exactly,” said Richard. And he thought, Yes, this is Madeline and Bernard’s son, all right. He resembles Bernard, has got the same sharply observant brown eyes, the same finely wrought features. And he’s quick. He notices things—an indispensable talent.
At that moment, Jordan’s attention suddenly shifted to a new arrival. Richard turned to see who had just entered the ballroom. At his first glimpse of the woman, he stiffened in surprise.
It was that black-haired witch, dressed not in old jodhpurs and boots this time, but in a long gown of midnight blue silk. Her hair had been swept up into an elegant mass of waves. Even from this distance, he could feel the magical spell of her attraction—as did every other man in the room.
“It’s her,” murmured Richard.
“You mean you two have met?” asked Jordan.
“Quite by accident. I spooked her horse on the road. She was none too pleased about the fall.”
“You actually unhorsed her?” said Jordan in amazement. “I didn’t think it was possible.”
The woman glided into the room and swept up a glass of champagne from a tray, her progress cutting a noticeable swath through the crowd.
“She certainly knows how to fill a dress,” Richard said under his breath, marveling.
“I’ll tell her you said so,” Jordan said dryly.
“You wouldn’t.”
Laughing,