In Their Footsteps - Tess Gerritsen

Скачать книгу

of sage and roses, lavender and thyme. He moves like a cat in the darkness, Beryl thought. So quiet, so unfathomable.

      “We met years ago in Paris,” he said. “We lost touch for a long time. And then, a few years ago, when I set up my consulting firm, your uncle was kind enough to advise me.”

      “Jordan tells me your company’s Sakaroff and Wolf.”

      “Yes. We’re security consultants.”

      “And is that your real job?”

      “Meaning what?”

      “Have you a, shall we say, unofficial job?”

      He threw back his head and laughed. “You and your brother have a knack for cutting straight to the chase.”

      “We’ve learned to be direct. It cuts down on the small talk.”

      “Small talk is society’s lubricant.”

      “No, small talk is how society avoids telling the truth.”

      “And you want to hear the truth,” he said.

      “Don’t we all?” She looked up at him, trying to see his eyes in the darkness, but they were only shadows in the silhouette of his face.

      “The truth,” he said, “is that I really am a security consultant. I run the firm with my partner, Niki Sakaroff—”

      “Niki? That wouldn’t be Nikolai Sakaroff?”

      “You’ve heard the name?” he asked, in a tone that was just a trifle too innocent.

      “Former KGB?”

      There was a pause. “Yes, at one time,” he said evenly. “Niki may have had connections.”

      “Connections? If I recall correctly, Nikolai Sakaroff was a full colonel. And now he’s your business partner?” She laughed. “Capitalism does indeed make strange bedfellows.”

      They walked a few moments in silence. She asked quietly, “Do you still do business for the CIA?”

      “Did I say I did?”

      “It’s not a difficult conclusion to come to. I’m very discreet, by the way. The truth is safe with me.”

      “Nevertheless I refuse to be interrogated.”

      She looked up at him with a smile. “Even under torture, I assume?”

      Through the darkness she could see his teeth gleaming in a grin. “That depends on the type of torture. If a beautiful woman nibbles on my ear, well, I might admit to anything.”

      The brick path ended at the maze. For a while, they stood contemplating that leafy wall of shadow.

      “Come on, let’s go in,” she said.

      “Do you know the way out?”

      “We’ll see.”

      She led him through the opening and they were quickly swallowed up by hedge walls. In truth, she knew every turn, every blind end, and she moved through the maze with confidence. “I could do this blindfolded,” she said.

      “Did you grow up at Chetwynd?”

      “In between boarding schools. I came to live with Uncle Hugh when I was eight. After Mum and Dad died.”

      They rustled through the last slot in the hedge and emerged into the center. In a small clearing there was a stone bench and enough moonlight to faintly see each other’s face.

      “They were in the business, too,” she said, circling the grassy clearing slowly. “Or did you already know that?”

      “Yes, I’ve…heard of your parents.”

      At once she sensed an undertone of caution in his voice and wondered why he’d gone evasive on her. She saw that he was standing by the stone bench, his hands in his pockets. All these family secrets. I’m sick of it. Why can’t anyone ever tell the truth in this house?

      “What have you heard about them?” she asked.

      “I know they died in Paris.”

      “In the line of duty. Uncle Hugh says it was a classified mission and refuses to talk about it, so we never do.” She stopped circling and turned to face him. “I seem to be thinking about it a lot these days.”

      “Why?”

      “Because it happened on the fifteenth of July. Twenty years ago tomorrow.”

      He moved toward her, his face still hidden in shadow. “Who reared you, then? Your uncle?”

      She smiled. “‘Reared’ is a bit of an exaggeration. Uncle Hugh gave us a home, and then he pretty much turned us loose to grow up as we pleased. Jordan’s done quite well for himself, I think. Gone to university and all. But then, Jordie’s the smart one in the family.”

      Richard moved closer—so close she thought she could see his eyes glittering above her in the darkness. “And which one are you?”

      “I suppose…I suppose I’m the wild one.”

      “The wild one,” he murmured. “Yes, I think I can tell…”

      He touched her face. With that one brief contact, he left her skin tingling. She was suddenly aware of her pounding heart, her quickening breath. Why am I letting this happen? she wondered. I thought I’d sworn off romance. But now this man I scarcely know is dragging me back into the game—a game at which I’ve proved myself a miserable failure. It’s stupid, it’s impulsive. It’s insanity itself.

       And it’s leaving me quite hungry for more…

      His lips grazed hers; it was the lightest of kisses, but it was heady with the taste of champagne. At once she craved another kiss, a longer kiss. For a moment, they stared at each other, both hovering on the edge of temptation.

      Beryl surrendered first. She swayed toward him, against him. His arms went around her, trapping her in their embrace. Eagerly she met his lips, met his kiss with one just as fierce.

      “The wild one,” he whispered. “Yes, definitely the wild one.”

      “Demanding, too…”

      “I don’t doubt it.”

      “…and very difficult.”

      “I hadn’t noticed…”

      They kissed again, and by the ragged sound of his breathing, she knew that he, too, was a helpless victim of desire. Suddenly a devilish impulse seized her.

      She pulled away. Coyly she asked, “Now will you tell me?”

      “Tell you what?” he asked, plainly confused.

      “Whom you really work for?”

      He paused. “Sakaroff and Wolf, Inc.,” he said. “Security consultants.”

      “Wrong answer,” she said. Then, laughing wickedly, she turned and scampered out of the maze.

       Paris

      AT 8:45, AS WAS HER HABIT, Marie St. Pierre patted on her bee pollen face cream, ran a brush through her stiff gray hair, and then slipped under the covers of her bed. She flicked on the TV remote control and awaited her favorite program of the week—“Dynasty.” Though the voices were obviously dubbed and the settings garishly American, the stories were close to her heart. Love and power. Pain and retribution. Yes, Marie knew all about love and pain. It was the retribution part she hadn’t quite mastered. Every time the anger bubbled up inside her and those old fantasies of revenge began to play out in her mind, she had only to consider the consequences of such action,

Скачать книгу