In Their Footsteps. Tess Gerritsen
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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.”
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