In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (45 page)

And she knew it was the best she could hope for.

It was all she dared hope for.

He awakened to the subtle perfume of a woman’s scent, to the tickle of hair against his face. He opened his eyes and by the gray light slanting in through the shutters he saw Clea asleep beside him. Without a trace of makeup, and her hair lushly tangled across the pillow, she looked like some fairy princess over whom a spell of deathless repose had been cast. Unarousable, untouchable. Not altogether real.

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How real she’d felt to him last night! Not a princess at all, but a temptress, full of sweet mischief and even sweeter fire.

Even now he couldn’t resist her. He reached for her and kissed her on the mouth.

Her reaction was abrupt and startling. She gave a shudder of alarm and jerked up from the pillow.

“It’s all right,” he soothed. “It’s only me.” She stared for a moment, as though not recognizing him. Then she gave a soft gasp and shook her head. “I—I haven’t been sleeping very well. Needless to say.” He watched her huddle beneath the duvet and wondered how she had maintained her sanity through these weeks of running and hiding. He couldn’t help but feel a rush of pity for her. It was mingled with admiration for her strength. Her will to live.

She glanced at the window and saw daylight gleaming through the closed shutters. “They’ll be searching for us.

We can’t stay here much longer.”

“We can’t exactly stroll away, either. Not without help.”

“Oh, no. No more calling on friends and family. I’m sure that’s how they found us last night. Your Richard Wolf must have told someone.”

“He’d never do that.”

“Then they followed him. Or they’ve tapped your phone. Something.” Abruptly she climbed out of bed and snatched up her underwear. Finding it still damp, she tossed it in disgust onto a chair. “I’m going to have to leave naked.”

“Then you’ll most certainly catch someone’s eye.”

“You’re not much help. Can’t you get out of bed, at least?”

420

Tess Gerritsen

“I’m thinking. I think best in bed.”

“Bed is where most men don’t think at all.” She picked up her bra. It, too, was damp. She looped it over the doorknob and glanced around the room in frustration.

“You say the man who owns this place is a bachelor?”

“In between states of wedded bliss.”

“Does he have any women’s clothes?”

“I’ve never thought to ask Monty such a personal question.”

“You know what I mean.”

He rose from the bed and went to open the wardrobe door. Inside hung two summer suits, a raincoat and a few neatly pressed shirts. On Jordan they’d all fit nicely. On Clea they’d look ridiculous. He took out a bathrobe and tossed it to her.

“Unless we can turn you into a six-foot man,” he said,

“this wardrobe won’t work. And even if we did find women’s clothes in here, there’s still the matter of your hair. That flaming red isn’t the most subtle color.” She snatched a lock of her hair and frowned at it. “I hate it, anyway. Let’s cut it off.”

He eyed those lustrous waves and was forced to give a regretful nod. “Monty always keeps a bottle of hair dye around to touch up his graying temples. We could darken what’s left of your hair.”

“I’ll find some scissors.”

“Wait. Clea,” he said. “We have to talk.” She turned to him, her jaw set with the determination of what had to be done. “About what?”

“Even if we do change your appearance, running may not be your best option.”

“I think it’s my only option.”

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“There’s still the authorities.”

“They didn’t believe me before. Why should they believe me now? My word’s nothing against Van Weldon’s.”

“The Eye of Kashmir would change that.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Delancey does.”

She shook her head. “By now, Van Weldon must have realized what a mistake it was to sell the Eye so soon. His people will be trying to get it back.”

“What if they haven’t? It may still be in Delancey’s house, waiting to be snatched. By us.” She went very still. “Us?” she asked quietly.

“Yes, us.” He smiled at her, a smile that did not seem to inspire much confidence, judging by her expression.

“Congratulations. Meet your new partner in crime,” he said.

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“I’m just thinking about your last burglary attempt. And how close you came to getting us both handcuffed.”

“That was inexperience. I’m now fully seasoned.”

“Right. And ready for the frying pan.”

“What is this, a crisis of confidence? You told me you used to burglarize houses just for the challenge of it.”

“I didn’t know better then. I was a kid.”

“And now you’re experienced. Better at the art.” Letting out a breath, she began to pace a line back and forth in the carpet. “I know I could break in again. I’m
sure
I could. But I don’t know where to look. The dagger could be anywhere upstairs. The bedroom, the guest rooms. I’d need time.”

“Together, we could do it in half the time.” 422

Tess Gerritsen

“Or get caught twice as fast,” she muttered. And she left the room.

He followed her into the kitchen, where he found her rummaging through drawers for the scissors. “There’s always the other option,” he said. “The logical one. The reasonable one. We go to the police.”

“Where they’ll laugh in my face, the way they did before.

And Van Weldon will know exactly where to find me.”

“You’ll be under protection. I promise.”

“The safest place for me, Jordan, is out where I can run.

A moving target’s not so easy to hit.” She found the scissors and handed them to him. “Especially when the target keeps changing its appearance. Go ahead, do it.” He looked down at the scissors, then looked at that beautiful mane of hair. The task was almost too painful, but he had no choice. Regretfully he took a handful of cinnamon red hair. Just the scent of those silky strands was enough to reawaken all the memories of last night. The way her body had fitted against his. The way she’d moved beneath him, not a docile release but the joyous shudders of a wild creature.

That’s what she was. A wild thing. Sensuous. Unpredictable. In time she would drive him crazy.

Already he was losing his long-practiced sense of self-control. All it took was a few whiffs of her hair, the touch of silk in his palm, and he was ready to drag her back to bed.

He gave his head a shake to clear away those inconvenient images. Then he lifted the scissors and calmly, deliberately, began to snip off her hair.

By the gray morning light, they followed the footprints in the mud—a pair of them, one large set, one smaller set, veering away from the road. The prints headed west across
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the field. It had rained heavily last night, and the tracks were easy to follow for about three hundred yards or so, until they connected up with another road. Then, after a few muddy imprints on the pavement, the footprints faded.

They could be anywhere by now.

Archie MacLeod gazed out over the field and cursed.

“I should’ve known she’d do this. Probably got one inkling we were on her trail and off she goes. Like a bloody she-fox, that one.”

“You can hardly blame her,” said Richard. “Of course she’d expect the worst. How did your people fumble this one? They were supposed to bring her into custody. Instead they managed to chase her underground.”

“Their orders were to do it quietly. Somehow she got wind of them.”

“Or Jordan did,” said Richard. “I should have contacted him last night. Told him what was coming down. Now he’ll wonder.”

“You don’t think he doubts
you?
”

“No. But he’ll be cautious now. He’ll assume Van Weldon’s got me covered, that it won’t be safe to contact me. That’s what I’d assume in his place.”

“So how do we find them now?”

“We don’t.” Richard turned to his car and slid in behind the wheel. “And we hope Van Weldon doesn’t, either.”

“I’m not so confident of that.”

“Jordan’s clever. So is Clea Rice. Together they may do all right.”

MacLeod leaned in the car window. “Guy Delancey died this morning.”

“I know,” said Richard.

“And we’ve just heard rumors that Victor Van Weldon’s 424

Tess Gerritsen

upped the price on Clea Rice to two million. Within twenty-four hours this area will be swarming with contract men. If they get anywhere near Clea Rice, she won’t stand a chance. Neither will Tavistock.”

Richard stared at him. “Why the hell did you wait so long to bring her into custody? You should have locked her under guard weeks ago.”

“We didn’t know whether to believe her.”

“So you waited for Van Weldon to make a move, was that the strategy? If he tried to kill her, she must be telling the truth?”

MacLeod slapped the car door in frustration. “I’m not defending what we’ve done. I’m just saying we’re now convinced she’s told the truth.” He leaned forward.

“Jordan Tavistock is your friend. You must have an idea where he’d go.”

“I’m not even sure he’s the one calling the shots right now. It might be the woman.”

“You let me know if you come up with any ideas.

Anything at all about where they might go next.” Richard started the car. “I know where
I’d
go if I were them. I’d get away from here. I’d run as fast as I could. And I’d damn well get lost in a crowd.”

“London?”

Richard nodded. “Can you think of a better place to hide?”

“That woman must have nine lives. And she’s used up only three of them,” said Victor Van Weldon. He was wheezing again. His breathing, which was normally labored even on the best of days, had the moist rattle of hopelessly congested lungs.

Soon,
thought Simon Trott. Victor was a dying man.

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What a relief it would be when it was over. No more of these distasteful audiences, these grotesque scenes of a virtual corpse fighting to hang on. If only the old man would just get it over with and die. Until then, he’d have to stay in the old man’s good graces. And for that, he’d have to take care of this Clea Rice problem.

“You should have seen to this yourself,” said Victor.

“Now we’ve lost our chance.”

“We’ll find her again. We know she’s still with Tavistock.”

“Has he surfaced yet?”

“No. But eventually he’ll turn to his family. And we’ll be ready.”

Van Weldon exhaled a deep sigh. His breathing seemed clearer, as though the assurances had eased the congestion in his lungs. “I want you to see to it personally.” Trott nodded. “I’ll leave for London this evening.” Crouched behind the yew hedge of Guy Delancey’s yard, Jordan and Clea waited in the darkness for the house lights to go out. Whitmore’s nightly habit was as it had always been, the checking of the windows and doors at nine o’clock, the pause in the kitchen to brew a pot of tea, then the retreat upstairs to his room in the servants’ wing.

How many years has the fellow clung to that petrified routine of his? Clea wondered. What a shock it must be to him, to know that all would soon change.

Clea and Jordan had heard it on the radio that morning: Guy Delancey was dead.

Soon others would come to claim this house. And old Whitmore, a relic from the dinosaur age, would be forced to evolve.

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Tess Gerritsen

The lights in the servants’ wing went out.

“Give him half an hour,” whispered Jordan. “Just to make sure he’s asleep.”

Half an hour,
thought Clea, shivering. She’d freeze by then. She was dressed in Monty’s black turtleneck and a baggy pair of jeans, which she’d shortened with a few snips of the scissors. It wasn’t enough protection against this chill autumn night.

“Which way do we enter?” asked Jordan.

Clea scanned the house. The French door leading from the terrace was how she’d broken in the last time. No doubt that particular lock had since been replaced. So, undoubtedly, had the locks on all the ground-floor doors and windows.

“The second floor,” she said. “Balcony off the master bedroom.”

“That’s how I got in the last time.”

“And if
you
managed to do it,” she said dryly, “it must have been a piece of cake.”

“Oh, right, insult your partner. See where it gets you.” She glanced at him. His blond hair was concealed under a watch cap, and his face was blackened with grease. In the darkness only the white arc of his teeth showed in a Cheshire-cat grin.

“You’re sure you’re up to this?” she asked. “It could get sticky in there.”

“Clea, if things do go wrong, promise me.”

“Promise you what?”

“You’ll run. Don’t wait for me. And don’t look back.”

“Trying to be chivalrous again? Something silly like that?”

“I just want to get things straight now. Before things go awry.”

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“Don’t say that. It’s bad luck.”

“Then this is for good luck.” He took her arm, pulled her against him and kissed her. She floundered in his embrace, torn between wanting desperately to get kissed again, and wanting to stay focused on the task that lay ahead. When he finally released her, they stared at each other for a moment. Only the gleam of his eyes and teeth were visible in the darkness.

That was a farewell kiss,
she realized. In case things went wrong. In case they got separated and never saw each other again. A chill wind blew and the trees creaked overhead. As the moments passed, and the night grew colder, she tried to commit every detail to memory.

Because she knew, as he did, that every step they took could end in disaster. She had not counted on this complication, had not wanted this attraction. But here it was, shimmering between them. The fact it couldn’t last, that any feelings they had for each other were doomed by who she was, and who he was, only made those feelings all the sweeter.
Will you miss me someday, Jordan Tavistock?
she wondered.
As much as I’ll miss you?