“Nothing more?”
“For now, just surveillance. But things may change at any time, depending on what they learn. With any luck, they’ll simply turn around and run home to England.”
“If they do not?”
“Then we’ll take further action.”
“What about Mme St. Pierre? Do you wish me to try again?”
The caller paused. “No,” he said at last, “she can wait. For now, the Tavistocks take priority.”
OVER A MEAL OF poached salmon and duck with raspberry sauce, Beryl and Richard thrusted and parried questions and answers. Richard, an accomplished verbal duelist, revealed only the barest sketch of his personal life. He was born and reared in Connecticut. His father, a retired cop, was still living. After leaving Princeton University, Richard joined the U.S. State Department and served as political officer at embassies around the world. Then, five years ago, he left government service to start up business as a security consultant. Sakaroff and Wolf, based in Washington, D.C., was born.
“And that’s what brought me to London last week,” he said. “Several American firms wanted security for their executives during the summit. I was hired as consultant.”
“And that’s all you were doing in London?” she asked.
“That’s all I was doing in London. Until I got Hugh’s invitation to Chetwynd.” His gaze met hers across the table.
His directness unsettled her. Is he telling me the truth, fiction or something in between? That matter-of-fact recitation of his career had struck her as rehearsed, but then, it would be. People in the intelligence business always had their life histories down pat, the details memorized, fact blending smoothly with fantasy. What did she really know about him? Only that he smiled easily, laughed easily. That his appetite was hearty and he drank his coffee black.
And that she was intensely, insanely, attracted to him.
After supper, he offered to drive them back to the Ritz. Jordan sat in the back seat, Beryl in the front—right next to Richard. She kept glancing sideways at him as they drove up Boulevard Saint-Germain toward the Seine. Even the traffic, outrageously rude and noisy, did not seem to ruffle him. At a stoplight, he turned and looked at her and that one glimpse of his face through the darkness of the car was enough to make her heart do a somersault.
Calmly he shifted his attention back to the road. “It’s still early,” he said. “Are you sure you want to go back to the hotel?”
“What’s my choice?”
“A drive. A walk. Whatever you’d like. After all, you’re in Paris. Why not make the most of it?” He reached down to shift gears, and his hand brushed past her knee. A shiver ran through her—a warm, delicious sizzle of anticipation.
He’s tempting me. Making me dizzy with all the possibilities. Or is it the wine? What harm can there be in a little stroll, a little fresh air?
She called over her shoulder, “How about it, Jordie? Do you feel like taking a walk?” She was answered by a loud snore.
Beryl turned and saw to her astonishment that her brother was sprawled across the back seat. A sleepless night and two glasses of wine at supper had left him dead to the world. “I guess that’s a negative,” she said with a laugh.
“What about just you and me?”
That invitation, voiced so softly, sent another shiver of temptation up her spine. After all, she thought, she was in Paris…
“A short walk,” she agreed. “But first, let’s put Jordan to bed.”
“Valet service coming up,” Richard said, laughing. “First stop, the Ritz.”
Jordan snored all the way back to the hotel.
THEY WALKED IN THE Tuileries, a stroll that took them along a gravel path through formal gardens, past statues glowing a ghostly white under the street lamps.
“And here we are again,” said Richard, “walking through another garden. Now if only we could find a maze with a nice little stone bench at the center.”
“Why?” she asked with a smile. “Are you hoping for a repeat scenario?”
“With a slightly different ending. You know, after you left me in there, it took me a good five minutes to find my way out.”
“I know.” She laughed. “I was waiting at the door, counting the minutes. Five minutes wasn’t bad, really. But other men have done better.”
“So that’s how you screen your men. You’re the cheese in the maze—”
“And you were the rat.”
They both laughed then, and the sound of their voices floated through the night air.
“And my performance was only…adequate?” he said.
“Average.”
He moved toward her, his smile gleaming in the shadows. “Better than adquate?”
“For you, I’ll make allowances. After all, it was dark…”
“Yes, it was.” He moved closer, so close she had to tilt her head up to look at him. So close she could almost feel the heat radiating from his body. “Very dark,” he whispered.
“And perhaps you were disoriented?”
“Extremely.”
“And it was a nasty trick I played…”
“For which you should be soundly punished.”
He reached up and took her face in his hands. The taste of his lips on hers sent a shudder of pleasure through her body. If this is my punishment, she thought, oh, let me commit the crime again… His fingers slid through her hair, tangling in the strands as his kiss pressed ever deeper. She felt her legs wobble and melt away, but she had no need of them; he was there to support them both. She heard his murmur of need and knew that these kisses were dangerous, that he, too, was fast slipping toward the same cliff’s edge. She didn’t care—she was ready to make the leap.
And then, without warning, he froze.
One moment he was kissing her, and an instant later his hands went rigid against her face. He didn’t pull away. Even as she felt his whole body grow tense against her, he kept her firmly in his embrace. His lips glided to her ear.
“Start walking,” he whispered. “Toward the Concorde.”
“What?”
“Just move. Don’t show any alarm. I’ll hold your hand.”
She focused on his face, and through the shadows she saw his look of feral alertness. Swallowing back the questions, she allowed him to take her hand. They turned and began to walk casually toward the Place de la Concorde. He gave her no explanation, but she knew just by the way he gripped her hand that something was wrong, that this was not a game. Like any other pair of lovers, they strolled through the garden, past flower beds deep in shadow, past statues lined up in ghostly formation. Gradually she became more and more aware of sounds: the distant roar of traffic, the wind in the trees, their shoes crunching across the gravel…
And the footsteps, following somewhere behind them.
Nervously she clutched his hand. His answering squeeze of reassurance was enough to dull the razor edge of fear. I’ve known this man only a day, she thought, and already I feel that I can count on him.
Richard picked up his pace—so gradually she almost didn’t notice it. The footsteps still pursued them. They veered right and crossed