Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen

by Tess Gerritsen

  MacLeod’s cellular phone rang. He picked it up, listened a moment, then hung up. He looked at Tony. “We know exactly where she is.”

  “The phone call?”

  “Traced to a private residence. A Hugh Tavistock in Buckinghamshire.”

  Tony shook his head. “Who’s that?”

  “We’re running the check now. In the meantime, she’ll be safe. Our field man’s been notified of her whereabouts.”

  Tony sat on the bed and clutched his head. “When Clea finds out about this, she’s bloody well going to kill me.”

  “From what we’ve seen of your cousin,” said MacLeod with a laugh, “she very likely will.”

  “They have lost her,” said Simon Trott.

  Victor Van Weldon allowed no trace of alarm to show on his face as he received the news, but he could feel the rage tightening its grip on his chest. In a moment it would pass. In a moment he’d let his displeasure be known. But he must not lose control, not in front of Simon Trott.

  “How did it happen?” asked Van Weldon, his voice icy calm.

  “It happened at the hospital. She was taken there after the bombing. Somehow she slipped away from our man.”

  “She was injured?”

  “A concussion.”

  “Then she can’t have gotten very far. Track her down.”

  “They’re trying to. They’re afraid, though, that…”

  “What?”

  “She may have enlisted the help of authorities.”

  Again, that giant fist seemed to close around Van Weldon’s chest. He paused for a moment, struggling for air, counting the seconds for the spell to pass. This was a bad one, he thought, and all because of that woman. She’d be the death of him. He took out his bottle of nitroglycerin and slipped two tablets under his tongue. Slowly the discomfort began to fade. I’m not ready to die, he thought. Not yet.

  He looked at Trott. “Have we any proof she’s contacted the authorities?”

  “She’s escaped too many times. She must be getting help. From the police. Or Interpol.”

  “Not Clea Rice. She’d never trust the police.” He slipped the nitroglycerin bottle back in his pocket and took a deep breath. The pain was gone.

  “She has been lucky, that’s all,” said Van Weldon. He gave a careless wave of his hand. “Her luck will run out.”

  She had not meant to sleep so late, but the concussion had left her groggy and the bed was so comfortable and she felt safe in this house-the safest she’d felt in weeks. By the time she finally crawled out of bed, the sun was shining straight through her window and her headache had faded to only a dull soreness.

  I’m still alive, she thought in wonder.

  From various parts of the house came the sounds of morning stirrings: creaking floorboards, water running through the pipes. Too late to make an escape unnoticed. She would simply have to play the guest for a few hours. Later she’d slip away, make it on foot to the village train station. How far was it, a few miles? She could do it. After all, she’d once trudged ten miles along the Spanish coast. And that was in the dead of night, while sopping wet. But then, she hadn’t been wearing high heels.

  She surveyed her clothes. Her dress, torn and dirt stained, was draped over a chair. Her stockings were in shreds. Her shoes, those wretched instruments of torture, sat mocking her with their three-inch spike heels. No, she’d rather go barefoot. Or perhaps in bedroom slippers? She spied a pair by the dresser, comfy-looking pink slippers edged with fluff. Wouldn’t that blend in with the crowd?

  She pulled on a silk bathrobe she found in the closet, slid her feet into the pink slippers and pulled away the chair she’d wedged against the door. Then she ventured out of the room.

  The rest of the household was already up and about. She went downstairs and spied them through the French doors. They were outside, assembled around a breakfast table on the terrace. It looked like a photo straight from the pages of some stylish magazine, the iron railings traced by climbing roses, the dew-kissed autumn garden, the table with its linen and china. And the people sitting around that table! There was Beryl with her model’s cheekbones and glossy black hair. There was Richard Wolf, lean and relaxed, his arm slung possessively around Beryl’s shoulders.

  And there was Jordan.

  If last night had been a trial for him, it certainly didn’t show this morning. He was looking unruffled and elegant as ever, his fair hair almost silvery in the morning light, his tweed jacket perfectly molded to his shoulders. As Clea watched them through the glass, she thought how perfect they looked, like thoroughbreds reared on bluegrass. It wasn’t envy she felt, but a sense of wonder, as though she were observing some alien species. She could move among them, could even act the part, but the wrong blood would always run in her veins. Tainted blood. Like Uncle Walter’s blood.

  Too timid to intrude on that perfect tableau, she turned to retreat upstairs. But as she backed away from the French doors she heard Jordan call her name and she knew she’d been spotted. He was waving to her, beckoning her to join them. No chance of escape now; she’d simply have to brazen it out.

  She smoothed out the silk robe, ran her fingers through her hair and stepped out onto the terrace. Only then did she remember the pink slippers. The soles made painfully distinct scuffing sounds across the flagstones.

  Jordan rose and pulled out a chair for her. “I was about to check on you. Feeling better this morning?”

  Uneasily she tugged the edges of the robe together. “I’m really not dressed for breakfast. My clothes are a mess and I didn’t know what else-”

  “Don’t give it a thought. We’re a casual bunch here.”

  Clea glanced at Beryl, flawlessly pulled together in cashmere and jodhpurs, at Jordan in his wool tweed. A casual bunch. Right. Resignedly she sat down in the offered chair and felt like some sort of zoo specimen with fluffy pink feet. While Jordan poured her coffee and dished out a serving of eggs and sausages, she found herself focusing on his hands, on his long fingers, on the golden hairs glittering on the backs of his wrists. An aristocrat’s hands, she thought, and remembered with sudden clarity the gentle strength with which those hands had reached for her in the road last night.

  “Don’t you care for eggs?”

  She blinked at her plate. Eggs. Yes. Automatically she picked up the fork and felt all eyes watching her as she took her first bite.

  “I did try to leave you some fresh clothes this morning,” Beryl explained. “But I couldn’t seem to get in your door.”

  “I had a chair in front of it,” said Clea.

  “Oh.” Beryl gave a sheepish smile, as though to say, Well, of course. Doesn’t everybody barricade their door?

  No one seemed to know how to respond, so they simply watched Clea eat. Their gazes were not unfriendly, merely…puzzled.

  “It’s just a habit I picked up,” Clea said as she poured cream in her coffee. “I don’t trust locks, you see. It’s so easy to get past them.”

  “Is it?” said Beryl.

  “Especially bedroom doors. One can bypass your typical bedroom lock in five seconds. Even the newer ones with the disk tumblers.”

  “How very useful to know that,” Beryl murmured.

  Clea looked up and saw that everyone was watching her with fascination. Face flushing, she quickly dropped her gaze back to the eggs. I’m babbling like an idiot, she thought.

  She flinched when Jordan reached for her hand.

  “Diana, I’ve told them.”

  She stared at him. “Told them? You mean…about…”

  “Everything. The way we met. The attempts on your life. I had to tell them. If they’re to help you, then they need to know it all.”

  “Believe me, we do want to help,” said Beryl. “You can trust us. Every bit as much as you trust Jordie.”

  Clea’s hands were unsteady. She dropped them to her lap. They’re asking me to trust them, she thought in misery. But I’m the one who hasn’t been telling the truth.

  “We h
ave resources that might prove useful,” said Jordan. “Connections with Intelligence. And Richard’s firm specializes in security. If you need any help at all…”

  The offer was almost too tempting to resist. For weeks she’d been on her own, had hopscotched from hotel to hotel, never sure whom she could trust, or where she would go next. She was so very tired of running.

  And yet she wasn’t ready to put her life in anyone’s hands. Not even Jordan ’s.

  “The only favor I ask,” she said quietly, “is a ride to the train station. And perhaps…” She glanced down at the pink slippers and gave a laugh. “A change of clothes?”

  Beryl rose to her feet. “That I can certainly arrange.” She tugged on her fiancé’s arm. “Come on, Richard. Let’s go rummage around in my closet.”

  Clea was left sitting alone with Jordan. For a moment they sat in silence. Up in the trees, doves cooed a lament to the passing of summer. The clouds drifted across the sun, tarnishing the morning to gray.

  “Then you’ll be leaving us,” said Jordan.

  “Yes.” She folded her napkin and carefully laid it on the table. Though she remained focused on that small square of cream linen, she couldn’t shut out her awareness of the man. She could almost feel the warmth of his gaze. All her senses were conspiring against her efforts at indifference. Last night, with that first kiss, they’d crossed some invisible threshold, had wandered into territory with no boundaries, where the possibilities seemed limitless.

  That’s all they are, she reminded herself. Possibilities. Fantasies winking in the murk of half-truths. She had told him so many lies, had changed her story so many times. She still hadn’t told him the worst truth of all. Who she was, what she was.

  What she had been.

  Better to leave him with the fantasy, she thought. Let him assume the best about me. And not know the worst.

  She looked up and found he was watching her with a gaze both puzzled and thoughtful. “Where will you go next?” he asked.

  “ London. It’s clear I can’t handle this alone. My…associates at the agency will carry on the investigation.”

  “And what will you do?”

  She gave a shrug, a smile. “Take an easier case. Something that doesn’t involve exploding cars.”

  “Diana, if you ever need my help-anything at all-”

  Their gazes met and she saw in his eyes the offer of more than just assistance. She had to fight off the temptation to confess everything, to draw him into this dangerous mess.

  She shook her head. “I have some very capable colleagues. They’ll see I’m taken care of. But thanks for the offer.”

  He gave a curt nod of the head and said no more about it.

  Seated on a bench on the train platform, a gray-suited man read his newspapers and watched the passengers gather for the twelve-fifteen to London. It was the fourth train of the day, and so far he hadn’t spotted Clea Rice. The bench was occupied by three other women and a bouncy child who kept knocking at the newspaper, and the man was ready to give the brat a whack out of frustration. He’d been so sure Clea Rice would choose the train; now it looked as if she’d managed to sneak out of town some other way. Yes, she was definitely getting better at the game-a quick study at doing the unexpected. He still didn’t know how she’d managed to slip away from the hospital last night. That would have been a far easier place to finish it, a private room, the patient under sedation. He had passed for a doctor once before, on a previous job. He certainly could have repeated the ruse.

  A pity she hadn’t cooperated.

  Now he’d have to track her down again, before she vanished into the teeming masses of London.

  “Other people ’ere could use the bench, y’know,” said a woman.

  He looked sideways and saw a steel-haired lady toting a shopping bag. “It’s occupied,” he said, and snapped his newspaper taut.

  “Decent man’d leave it to folks wi’difficulties,” said the woman.

  He kept reading his newspaper, his fingers suddenly itching for the automatic in his shoulder holster. A hole right between the old biddy’s eyes, that’s what he’d like to do, just to shut her up. She was nattering on and on now about the dearth of gentlemen in this world, saying it to no one in particular, but loudly enough to draw the attention of people standing nearby. This was not good.

  He stood, shot a poisonous look at the old hag, and surrendered his spot on the bench. She claimed it with a grunt of satisfaction. Folding up his newspaper, he wandered to the other end of the platform.

  That’s when he spotted Clea Rice.

  She’d just emerged from the loo. She was wearing a houndstooth skirt and jacket, both a few sizes too large. Her hair was almost completely concealed by a scarf, but a few tendrils of red bangs peeked out. That, plus the way she moved-her gaze darting around, her circuitous route keeping her well away from the platform’s edge-told him it was her.

  This was not the place to do it.

  He decided he’d let her board and would follow her onto the train. There he could keep an eye on her. Perhaps when she got off again…

  He had his ticket ready. He stepped forward and joined the crowd of passengers waiting to board.

  So Clea Rice was taking the twelve-fifteen to London. Not the wisest move she could make, thought Charles Ogilvie as he stood in line behind her at the ticket office. He’d had no trouble tailing her from Chetwynd. Jordan Tavistock’s champagne gold Jaguar wasn’t exactly easy to miss. If he had been able to stay on their trail, surely someone else could do it, as well.

  And now the woman was about to board a train in broad daylight.

  Ogilvie reached the head of the line and quickly purchased his ticket. Then he followed the woman onto the platform. She vanished into the women’s loo. He waited. Only as the train approached the station did she reemerge. There were about two dozen people standing on the platform, a mingling of business types and housewives, any one of whom could prove lethal. Ogilvie allowed his gaze to drift casually across the faces, trying to match one of them with a face he might have seen before.

  At the far edge of the crowd he spotted someone who seemed familiar, a man in a gray suit and carrying a newspaper. His face, while not in any way distinctive, still struck a memory chord. Where had he seen him before?

  The hospital. Last night, in the lobby. The man had been buying a paper from the hall newsstand.

  Now he was boarding the twelve fifteen to London. Right behind Clea Rice.

  A surge of adrenaline pumped through Ogilvie’s veins. If something was going to happen, it’d be soon. Perhaps not here in the crowd, but on the train, or at the next stop. All it took was a gun barrel to the back of the head. Clea Rice would never see it coming.

  The man in the gray suit was edging closer to the woman.

  Ogilvie pushed forward. Already he had his jacket unbuttoned, his shoulder holster within easy reach. His gaze stayed focused on Mr. Gray Suit. At the first sign of attack, he’d bloody well better be ready. He was Clea Rice’s only lifeline.

  And there’d be no second chances.

  Almost there. Almost there.

  Clea clutched the ticket like a good-luck charm as she waited for the train to glide to a stop. She hung back a bit, allowing everyone else to press forward first. The memory of that incident in the London Underground was still too fresh; never again would she stand at any platform edge while a train pulled in. All it took was one push from behind. No, it was better to hang back where she could see trouble coming.

  The train had pulled to a stop. Passengers were starting to board.

  Clea eased into the gathering. Her headache had come throbbing back with a vengeance, and she longed for the relative privacy of a train compartment. A few more steps, and she’d be on her way back to London. To anonymity. It was the best choice, after all-to simply drop out of sight. She’d been insane to think she could match wits with Van Weldon, an opponent who’d met her every thrust with a deadlier parry, who had every reason, and
every resource, to crush her. Call it surrender, but she was ready to yield. Anything to stay alive.

  She was so focused on getting aboard that she didn’t notice the disturbance behind her. Just as she climbed onto the first step, a hand gripped her by the arm and tugged her back onto the platform.

  She spun around, every nerve instantly wired for attack, her fingers arcing to claw across her assailant’s face. An instant before striking flesh, she froze.

  “ Jordan?” she said in astonishment.

  He grabbed her wrist. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’ll explain later. Come on.”

  “But I’m leaving-”

  He tugged her away, out of the line of passengers. She tried to yank free but he caught her by the shoulders and pulled her close to him. “Listen to me,” he whispered. “Someone’s followed us here, from Chetwynd. You can’t get on the train.”

  Instantly she stiffened. His breath felt hot in her hair, and her awareness of his scent, his warmth, had never been more acute. Even through the tweed jacket she could feel the thudding of his heart, the tension in his arms. Without a word she nodded, and the arms encircling her relaxed their hold. Together they turned away from the train and took a step back up the platform.

  A man seemed to appear from nowhere. He materialized directly in their path, a man in a gray suit. His face was scarcely worth noting; it was the gun in his hand that drew Clea’s stunned gaze.

  She was already pivoting away to the left when the first shot rang out. Something slammed into her shoulder, shoving her away. Jordan. In what seemed like slow motion she caught a flash of Jordan ’s tweed jacket as he lunged against her, and then she was stumbling sideways, falling to her knees onto the platform. The impact of the pavement sent a shock wave straight up her spine. The pain in her head was almost blinding.

  Screams erupted all around her. She scrambled back to her feet, at the same time twisting around to locate the attacker. The platform was a melee of panicked bodies scattering in every direction. Jordan still shielded her from a clear view, but over his shoulder she caught a glimpse of the gunman.