In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (37 page)

“If you insist, I’ll take you to your hotel,” he offered.

“But you need someone to look after you.”

“I can’t go there, either.”

He frowned at her. Her fear, her desperation, must have registered on her face. “All right, Diana.” He sighed. “Just tell me where you want to go.”

“The train station.”

He shook his head. “You’re in no condition to travel.”

“I can do it.”

“You can scarcely stand up on your own two feet!”

“I have no choice!” she cried. Then, with a desperate sob, she whispered, “I have no choice.” He studied her in silence. “You’re not getting on the train,” he said at last. “I won’t allow it.”

“Won’t
allow
it?” Sudden rage made her raise her head in defiance. “You have no right. You don’t have any idea what I’m facing—”

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“Listen to me! I’m taking you to a safe place. You have to trust me on this.” He looked at her, a gaze so direct it defied her not to believe him. How simple it would be to hand over her fate to this man, and hope for the best. She wanted to trust him. She
did
trust him. Which meant it was all over for her, because no one who made a mistake that stupid would live long enough to regret it.

I don’t have a choice,
she thought as another wave of dizziness sent her head lolling to her knees. She might as well wave the white flag. Her future was now out of her hands.

And firmly in the grasp of Jordan Tavistock.

“How is she doing?” asked Richard.

Drained and exhausted, Jordan joined Richard in the library and poured himself a generous shot of brandy. “Obviously scared out of her wits,” he said. “But otherwise she seems all right. Beryl’s putting her to bed now. Maybe we’ll get more out of her in the morning.” He drained the brandy in a few gulps, then proceeded to pour himself a well-deserved second shot. He could feel Richard’s doubtful gaze on him as he took another sip and sank into the easy chair by the fireplace. Sobriety was normally one of Jordan’s virtues. It was unlike him to guzzle a triple brandy in one sitting.

It was certainly not like him to drag home stray females.

Yet that’s exactly what he had upstairs at this moment, bundled away in the guest bedroom. Thank God Beryl hadn’t bombarded him right off with questions. His sister was good that way; in a crisis she simply did what needed to be done. For the moment the bruised little waif would be well taken care of.

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Questions, however, were sure to follow, and Jordan didn’t know how to answer them because he himself didn’t have the answers. He didn’t even know why he’d brought Diana home. All he knew was that she was terrified, and that he couldn’t turn his back on her. For some insane reason he felt responsible for the woman.

Even more insane, he
wanted
to feel responsible for her.

He leaned back and rubbed his face with both hands.

“What a night,” he groaned.

“You’ve been a very busy fellow,” Richard observed.

“Car bombs. Runaway females. Why didn’t you tell us all this was cooking?”

“I had no idea bombs
would
be going off! I thought all I was dealing with was a cat burglar. Or is it burglaress?” He gave his head a shake to clear away the pleasant fog of brandy. “Theft is one thing. But she never mentioned anything about mad bombers.”

Richard moved closer. “My question is,” he said quietly,

“who was the intended victim?”

“What?” Jordan looked up. He had great respect for his future brother-in-law. Years of working in the intelligence business had taught Richard that one should never accept evidence at face value. One had to examine around it, under it, looking for the twists and turns that might lead to completely different conclusions. Richard was doing that now.

“The bomb was planted in Guy Delancey’s car,” said Richard. “It could have been a random attack. It could have been aimed specifically at Delancey. Or…” Jordan frowned at Richard. He saw that they were both considering the same possibility. “Or the target wasn’t Delancey at all,” Jordan finished softly.

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“She was supposed to be riding in the car with him,” said Richard. “She would have been killed, as well.”

“There’s no doubt Diana’s terrified. But she hasn’t told me what she’s afraid of.”

“What
do
you know about the woman?” Jordan shook his head. “All I know is her name is Diana Lamb. Other than that I can’t tell you much. I’m not even sure what her real hair color is! One day she’s blond, then the next day she transforms into a redhead.”

“What about the fingerprints? The ones you got off her glass?”

“I had Uncle Hugh’s friend run them through the Scotland Yard computer. No match. Not a surprise, really.

Since I’m sure she’s a Yank.”

“You
have
been busy, haven’t you? Why the hell didn’t you let me in on this earlier? I could’ve sent the fingerprints off to American authorities by now.”

“I wasn’t at liberty to say a thing. I’d promised Veronica, you see.”

Richard laughed. “And a gentleman always keeps his promises.”

“Well, yes. Except under certain circumstances. Such as car bombs.” Jordan stared at his empty brandy snifter and considered pouring another. No, better not. Just look at what drink had done to Guy Delancey. Drink and women—the sole purpose of Delancey’s life. And now he lay deprived of both.

Jordan set down the glass. “Motive,” he said. “That’s what I don’t know. Why would someone kill Diana?”

“Or Delancey.”

“That,” said Jordan, “isn’t too difficult to answer. God only knows how many women he’s gone through in the
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past year. Add to that a few angry husbands, and you’ve probably got a slew of people who’d love to knock him off.”

“Including your friend Veronica and her husband.” That possibility made Jordan pause. “I hardly think either one of them would ever—”

“Nevertheless, we have to consider them. Everyone’s a suspect.”

The sound of footsteps made both men turn. Beryl walked into the library and frowned at her brother and her fiancé. “Who’s a suspect?” she demanded.

“Richard wants to include anyone who’s had an affair with Guy Delancey,” said Jordan.

Beryl laughed. “It’d be easier to start off with who
hasn’t
had an affair with the man.” She caught Richard’s inquiring glance and she snapped, “No, I never have.”

“Did I say anything?” asked Richard.

“I saw the look in your eye.”

“On that note,” cut in Jordan, rising to his feet, “I think I’ll make my escape. Good night all.”

“Jordan!” called Beryl. “What about Diana?”

“What about her?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said wearily, “I haven’t the faintest idea.” He walked out of the library. He knew he owed Beryl an explanation, but he was too exhausted to repeat the story a second time. Richard would fill her in on the details.

Jordan climbed the stairs and started up the hall toward his bedroom. Halfway there, he stopped. Some compulsion made him turn around and walk, instead, to the bedroom 350

Tess Gerritsen

where Diana was staying. He lingered outside the closed door, debating whether he should walk away.

He couldn’t help himself; he tapped on the door.

“Diana?” he called.

There was no answer. Quietly he entered the room.

A corner lamp had been left on, and the glow spilled softly over the bed, illuminating its sleeping occupant.

She lay curled up on her side, her arms wrapped protectively around her chest, her hair rippling in red-gold waves across the pillow. The linen nightgown she wore was Beryl’s, and a few sizes too big; the billowing sleeves almost engulfed her hands. He knew he should leave, but he found himself sinking into the chair beside the bed.

There he watched her sleep and thought how very small she looked, how defenseless she truly was.

“My little thief,” he murmured.

A sigh suddenly escaped her throat and she stirred awake. She looked at him with unfocused eyes, then slowly seemed to comprehend where she was.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and rose from the chair. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.” He turned to leave.

“Jordan?”

He glanced back at her. She seemed to be lost in a sea of white sheets and goose-down pillows and puffy nightgown linen, and he had the ridiculous urge to pull her out of there before she drowned.

“I…have to tell you something,” she whispered.

“It can wait till tomorrow.”

“No, I have to tell you now. It’s not fair of me, pulling you into this. When you could get hurt.” Frowning, he moved back to the bed. “The bomb. In the car.
Was
it meant for Guy?”
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“I don’t know.” She blinked, and he saw the sparkle of tears on her lashes. “Maybe. Or maybe it was meant for me. I can’t be sure. That—that’s what makes this so confusing. Not knowing if I’m the one who was supposed to die. I keep thinking…” She looked at him, her eyes full of torment. “I keep thinking it’s my fault, what happened to Guy. He never really did anything wrong. I mean, not
seriously
wrong. He just got caught up in a bit of greed. But he didn’t deserve…” She swallowed and looked down at the sheets. “He didn’t deserve to die,” she whispered.

“There’s a chance he might live.”

“You saw the explosion! Do you really think anyone could survive it?”

After a pause Jordan admitted, “No. To be honest, I don’t think he’ll survive.”

They fell silent for a moment.
Had she cared at all for
Delancey?
he wondered.
Or are her tears purely from
guilt?
He couldn’t help but feel a little guilty himself.

After all, he’d invaded the man’s house. He’d never really liked Delancey, had thought him laughable. But now the man was at death’s door. No one, not even Guy Delancey, deserved such a terrible end.

“Why do you think
you
might have been the target?” he asked.

“Because…” She let out a deep breath. “Because it’s happened before.”

“Bombs?”

“No. Other things. Accidents.”

“When?”

“A few weeks ago, in London, I was almost run down by a taxi.”

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“In London,” he noted dryly, “that could happen to anyone.”

“It wasn’t the only time.”

“You mean there was another accident?” She nodded. “In the Underground. I was standing on the train platform. And someone pushed me.” He stared at her skeptically. “Are you positive, Diana?

Isn’t it more likely that someone just bumped into you?”

“Do you think I’m
stupid?
” she cried. “Wouldn’t I know it if someone
pushed
me?” With a sob of frustration she buried her face in her hands.

Her unexpected outburst left him stunned. For a moment he could think of nothing to say. Then, gently, he reached for her shoulder. With that one touch, something seemed to leap between them. A longing. Through the flimsy nightgown fabric he felt the warmth of her skin, and with sudden vividness he remembered the taste of her mouth, the sweetness of her kisses earlier that night.

Ruthlessly he suppressed all those inconvenient urges now threatening to overwhelm his sense of reason. He sat beside her on the bed. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me again what happened in the Underground.”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Give me a chance. Please.”

She raised her head and looked at him, her gaze moist and uncertain. “I—I fell onto the tracks. The train was just pulling in. If it hadn’t been for a man who saw me…”

“A man? Then someone pulled you out?” She nodded. “I never even learned his name. All I remember is that he reached down and yanked me back onto the platform. I tried to thank him, but he just—just
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told me to be more careful. And then he was gone.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “My guardian angel.” He looked into those glistening brown eyes and wondered if any of this was possible. Wondered how anyone could be cold-blooded enough to push this woman under a train.

“Why would anyone want you dead?” he asked. “Is it something you’ve done?”

Instantly she stiffened, as though he’d struck her. “What do you mean, is it something I’ve done?”

“I’m just trying to understand—”

“Do you think I deserve this somehow? That I must be guilty of something?”

“Diana, I’m not accusing you of anything. It’s just that murder—attempted murder—generally involves a motive.

And you haven’t told me what it is.” He waited for an answer, but he realized that he’d somehow lost her. She was huddled in a self-protective embrace, as though to ward off any further attacks he might launch against her.

“Diana,” he said gently, “you have to trust me.”

“I don’t have to trust anyone.”

“It would make it easier. If I’m to help you at all—”

“You’ve already helped me. I can’t really ask you for anything more.”

“The least you can do is tell me what I’ve gotten involved in. If bombs are going to be blowing up around here, I’d like to know why.”

She sat stubbornly huddled, not responding. In frustration he rose from the bed, paced to the door, then paced back. Damn it all, she
was
going to tell him. Even if he had to use the threat of last resort.

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“If you don’t tell me,” he said, “I really shall have to call the police.”

She looked up in astonishment and gave a disbelieving laugh. “The
police?
I’d think they’re the last people you’d want to call. Considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Delancey’s bedroom. The minor matter of a little burglary.”

Sighing, he clawed his hair back. “The time has come to set you straight on that. The truth is, I broke into Guy’s house as a favor to a lady.”

“What favor?”