In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen

“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.”

“Were you?”

“I was only twenty-two. She was the most enchanting woman I’d ever met.” His gaze met hers. Softly he added, “But then, I hadn’t met her daughter.”

They stared at each other, and Beryl felt those silken threads of desire tugging her toward him. Toward a man whose kisses left her dizzy, whose touch could melt even stone. A man who had not been straight with her from the very start.

I’m so tired of secrets, so tired of trying to tease apart the truths from the half truths. And I’ll never know which is which with this man.

Abruptly she went to the door. “If we can’t be honest with each other,” she said, “there’s no point in being together at all. So why don’t we say good-night. And goodbye.”

“I don’t think so.”

She turned and frowned at him. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not ready to say goodbye. Not when I know you’re being followed.”

“You’re concerned about my welfare, is that it?”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

She shot him a breezy smile. “I’m very good at taking care of myself.”

“You’re in a foreign city. Things could happen—”

“I’m not exactly alone.” She crossed the room to the connecting door leading to Jordan’s suite. Yanking it open, she called, “Wake up, Jordie! I’m in need of some brotherly assistance.”

There was no answer from the bed.

“Jordie?” she said.

“Your bodyguard stays right on his toes, doesn’t he?” said Richard.

Annoyed, Beryl flicked on the wall switch. In the sudden flood of light, she found herself blinking in astonishment.

Jordan’s bed was empty.

Chapter 4

That woman is staring at me again.

Jordan stirred a teaspoon of sugar into his cappuccino and casually glanced in the direction of the blonde sitting three tables away. At once she averted her gaze. She was attractive enough, he noted. Mid-twenties, with a lean, athletic build. Nothing overripe about that one. Her hair was cut like a boy’s, with elfin wisps feathering her forehead. She wore a black sweater, black skirt, black stockings. Fashion or camouflage? He shifted his gaze ahead to the street and the evening parade of pedestrians. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the woman again looking his way. Ordinarily it would have flattered him to know he was the object of such intense feminine scrutiny. But something about this particular woman made him uneasy. Couldn’t a fellow wander the streets of Paris these days without being stalked by carnivorous females?

It had been such a pleasant outing up till now. Minutes after sending Beryl and Richard on their way, he’d slipped out of his hotel room in search of a decent watering hole. A stroll across Place Vendčme, a visit to the Olympia Music Hall, then a midnight snack at Café de la Paix—what better way to spend one’s first evening in Paris?

But perhaps it was time to call it a night.

He finished his cappuccino, paid the tab, and began walking toward the Rue de la Paix. It took him only half a block to realize the woman in black was following him.

He had paused at a shop window and was gazing in at a display of men’s suits when he spotted a fleeting glimpse of a blond head reflected in the glass. He turned and saw her standing across the street, intently staring into a window. A lingerie shop, he noted. Judging by the rest of her outfit, she’d no doubt choose her knickers in black, as well.

Jordan continued walking in the direction of Place Vendčme.

Across the street, the woman was parralleling his route.

This is getting tiresome, he thought. If she wants to flirt, why doesn’t she just come over and bat her eyelashes? The direct approach, he could appreciate. It was honest and straightforward, and he liked honest women. But this stalking business unnerved him.

He walked another half block. So did she.

He stopped and pretended to study another shop window. She did likewise. This is ridiculous, he thought. I am not going to put up with this nonsense.

He crossed the street and walked straight up to her. “Mademoiselle?” he said.

She turned and regarded him with a startled look. Plainly she had not expected a face-to-face confrontation.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “may I ask why you’re following me?”

She opened her mouth and shut it again, all the time staring at him with those big gray eyes. Rather pretty eyes, he observed.

“Perhaps you don’t understand me? Parlezvous anglais?”

“Yes,” she murmured, “I speak English.”

“Then perhaps you can explain why you’re following me.”

“But I am not following you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not!” She glanced up and down the street. “I am taking a walk. As you are.”

“You’re dogging my every step. Stopping where I stop. Watching every move I make.”

“That is preposterous.” She pulled herself up, a spark of outrage lighting her eyes. Real or manufactured? He couldn’t be sure. “I have no interest in you, Monsieur! You must be imagining things.”

“Am I?”

In answer, she spun around and stalked away up the Rue de la Paix.

“I don’t think I am imagining things!” he called after her.