“Merci, Emile. That was the best meal I’ve ever eaten. You are a fabulous cook.”
His cheeks darkened and he squirmed in his seat. “You have a fine lady friend here, cousin. Do not let this one get away, hein?”
Now it was Nicholas’s turn to blush. He obviously hadn’t come out to his family, and she wondered how that would be accepted here, away from a cosmopolitan city. She reached over and gave his hand a squeeze to reassure him, and to keep the act going for Emile.
“Excuse me.” She stood. “May I use the bathroom?”
“Oh, but of course.” Their host jumped to his feet and showed her the way to a small closet next to the door, fitted out with a toilet and a tiny sink in the corner. She took her time washing her hands and face with hot water and lavender-scented soap. She did her best with her hair, but between the kidnapping, the swim, and the hike, she was left with a hopeless tangle.
It was obvious when she returned to the kitchen that Nicholas had filled his cousin in. They broke off talking as soon as she appeared, and waited for her to get comfortable.
“Emile has a plan, and I think it might work,” Nicholas said, pushing from his chair and taking up position at the window.
She looked from one man to the other. “But all I have to do is call Tony, and he’ll come—”
They shook their heads in unison, but it was Emile who explained. “We have no cell phone, too many hills. The local phone is on a party line. Many villagers make it a habit to pick up the phone and listen for interesting gossip. No, we must get you both out of the village and to a larger town. Autun would be best.”
He continued to lay out the plan, and she had no choice but to agree.
After helping with the dishes, against Emile’s strong objection, she settled on the bed in the guest room and quickly lost the fight against sleep.
Early the next morning, she found herself once more crammed into the backseat of a fast-moving car.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gaston climbed back in the car with a paper cup. “Here, drink up, it will get your brain cells working.”
Tony inhaled the heady aroma of perfect French coffee before taking a cautious sip. “You French do many things well, but this is the best damn cup of coffee I’ve ever had.”
Gaston burst out laughing and stomped on the gas.
Tony had a millisecond to react to avoid a scalded lap, but he appreciated the other man’s haste.
“So fill me in. How did you find her?”
The pause was a second too long. Tony turned in his seat so he could watch the other man’s face. “Gaston? It was Heather who was sighted, right?”
“Bah, I am sorry. Yes, it was. But you notice I say ‘was,’ oui?”
“Where are we racing off to, then?” Jesus fucking Christ. He clenched his teeth against the howl of frustration threatening to let loose and crack the windows. This case would kill him.
“Bon. A man I helped get out of a fix a few years ago, someone who was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, lives in a small village west of here. He was out walking his dog last night, and passed a house with a few lights burning inside. Now this fellow is not nosy, but he could not help look in. The man who lives there, Emile Bernier, was entertaining two people. A man and a woman.”
“Who is this Emile?”
“A law-abiding citizen, as far as we know. But he has a cousin who was employed by Jeffers, and who just returned from the States.”
“One of Jeffers’s bodyguards was found in a shallow grave in Maine.”
“Oui, c’est vrai. A man named Nicholas Sanxay cleared customs yesterday, but has not been seen at his home. I believe he is the man in Emile’s house. Based on the description, the woman is your Heather. I am sure of it.”
“Are they still there?”
“That I doubt, but do not know for sure. My informant has no telephone. He called from a neighbor’s house.”
“Damn, this could be a wild-goose chase. We don’t even know for sure she’s still there.” But what else did he have to do?
“It is a lead we must follow, yes? I have contacted a colleague in Autun. He will go to Chemardin and, how do you say, stake out the place?”
“You’ve been watching too many Dirty Harry movies, my friend.” Tony grinned, relieved to at least be on the move. Going to a town where she was sighted would get them closer to her trail, if nothing else.
“My informant also seemed to think the man and woman were amoureux, based on the way they embraced.” He flicked a glance at Tony. “Is it possible Mlle. James has fallen in love with Nicholas?”
Tony shook his head.
There had to be some other explanation for why she left town with Laroux and was now traveling with Nicholas. He wished he could think of one.
The seconds ticked by, the odometer turned over, and Tony slowly went crazy. Every minute that passed was a minute in which she could be taken from him. Again.
They stopped for another cup of coffee on the outskirts of Autun and had just turned onto the smaller road leading to Chemardin when Gaston’s radio buzzed.
“Oui,” he barked into the small microphone clipped to his vest.
Tony could hear a male voice on the other end and forced himself to wait patiently.
“Oui, et la voiture? Ah…bon, merci.”
Gaston shut off his mic. “Emile and his two guests just left the house. Heading this way.”
“So we can intercept them.”
“Exactly my thought. It will not be long now and you will see the mademoiselle again. Keep an eye out for a dark green Renault 5. I believe you Americans knew it as Le Car.” He winked, then concentrated on his driving, taking the small car up to one hundred sixty kilometers per hour in only a few seconds.
Tony made sure his seat belt was snug and held on to the door handle with a white-knuckled grip.
They crested a rise, and on an opposite hill he saw a small green car heading toward them. He pointed.
“Oui. I propose to block the lane, yes?” Gaston slowed the car, and with a few maneuvers had the entire width of the narrow road blocked. “I suggest we wait at a safe distance.” He spoke while hopping out and quickly climbed the bank. He crouched behind a shrub and motioned for Tony to join him.
“Let’s hope he’s sensible.” Tony kept his gaze on the road.
“If he is not here in ten seconds, we will know he has turned around. My compatriots are following so he will not get far.”
The sound of an engine downshifting had Tony jumping from the bank. He walked past the police car, concerned that there was now no noise save for the breeze blowing through the bushes that crowded either side of the road.
He heard the unmistakable sound of a car reversing and broke into a run. The rear end of the green car disappeared down a side lane and was swallowed by the forest.
“Shit.” Tony reversed direction and shouted to his partner. “Gaston, they turned off into the woods.”
Gaston started the engine and followed Tony’s directions. “Mon dieu, that is nothing but a woodcutter’s track. They will not get far.”
“Go as far in as you can, then I’ll continue on foot.”
“Oui, and I will instruct the other car to turn back. The driver is a local man, he may know where they are headed.”
“Let’s hope they were running blind and will have to turn around.”
The modern, low-slung police car could only go a hundred feet into the woods before it scraped its bottom on a rock. “That is as far as I dare take it, mon ami.”
“I’ll let you know what I find.” Tony zipped his jacket and took off at a trot.
He stayed to the grassy center of the track as much as possible to muffle the sound of his steps. He felt sure his prey would have to leave their car at some point and strike out on foot.
Why the hell was Heather running from the police?
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Nicholas—wait—I can’t—” Heather leaned against a tre
e and sucked air into her aching lungs. She looked up, trying to get some idea of the direction they were traveling. They were headed back to town, weren’t they? Why the heck had they left the car? Why the heck were they running from the police? From Tony?
“We must keep moving.” Nicholas grasped her hand and pulled her away from the tree.
“I still don’t understand why we’re running away. We should have turned around, headed back to the road. Poor Emile will be in trouble just for helping us.” She stumbled and would have fallen except for Nicholas’s strong grip on her hand. “I thought you wanted Jeffers caught.”
“I want him dead.”
The matter-of-fact way he spoke lifted the hairs on her head. “Look, I heard he’s gravely ill and won’t live long, a few months. If you help the police—”
“So then he will be locked up, perhaps in a prison hospital. Kept comfortable until he dies, having had time to make his peace with God.” He stopped and yanked on her arm to pull her close. She flinched. His eyes looked crazed, and he quivered with rage. “Maxim was not given time.”
“What do you plan to do?” Damn, she hated sounding scared spitless, even though she was. She’d thought Nicholas was helping her escape, except she’d just gone from one loony jailer to another.
“I will hunt him down, make him suffer.”
“And then what? You’ll be caught—”
“I have made plans.”
Heather pulled against his grip, not feeling quite so sorry for the man anymore. “Why do you need me? You know more about his habits and where to look for him than I do. I’ll only hold you back, slow you down. I should have stayed with Emile.” Then she’d stand a better chance of finding Tony.
Nicholas gestured the way they’d come. “I may need something to trade.”
Fear chilled her skin. “You said you’d help me get away.”
“I did. I saved you from Laroux. Surely you guessed why Andre dug the hole.”
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She’d hoped she’d succumbed to a bit of melodrama when picturing a grave. Her grave.
“Okay, look—”
“No, enough talking.” Nicholas gave her hand an extra yank and she had to jog to keep up with his long strides. She’d go along for now and look for a chance to escape. They had to stop at some point.
Minutes later, Nicholas veered off the trail and held his hand up for silence. “Quiet, I hear something.”
Heather held her breath. She heard it, too. Someone was running toward them.
“You can still surrender,” she whispered. “I’m sure they’ll go easy on you if you help them.”
Nicholas didn’t answer, but kept his gaze focused on the trail. “Come.” He pulled her deeper into the trees, pushing branches and bushes to the side, not seeming to care if they snapped back into her face.
“Tony!” She yelled as loud as she could, hoping it was him back there, coming to her rescue. She had no way of knowing if the pursuer even heard her.
Nicholas shoved a giant black gun into her ribs, grabbed her jacket collar, and pushed her ahead of him into the underbrush. Branches, leaves, and thorns snagged her borrowed clothes, her hair, and the skin on her face. Tears of fear and pain gathered in her eyes.
Talk about jumping from the fire into the frying pan. Nicholas may have freed her from the goons digging her grave, but it didn’t look like she was any better off.
They came to a clearing, a swampy area, and had to slow down as the mud sucked at their feet. She pressed a hand to the stitch in her side. “Please, I need a rest.”
“We will stop when I say.”
“You won’t get very far very fast if you have to drag me. Just give me a minute,” she wheezed. “Do you know where we are?”
“We are almost there.”
They’d made so many twists, turns, and detours she had no idea which way was up. The sun was at their back. It had to be before noon, so they were traveling west. That much she remembered from her brief stint in the Girl Scouts. What good that knowledge did her, she hadn’t a clue.
The ground dipped down, toward a small stream, and Heather let herself fall. Scooping up handfuls of frigid water, she drank deeply and tried to catch her breath.
“You will be ill. You don’t know where that water comes from.” Nicholas stood by, breathing hard, his hands on his hips. Unfortunately he didn’t take his gaze off her, so her plan to leap to her feet and run away had to be put on hold. There was also the gun in his waistband to worry about. She didn’t doubt for a second that he’d shoot her. He’d become unhinged with his hatred of his lover’s killer, and nothing would stand in the way of his revenge.
She splashed water onto her face. “I’ll take my chances with the microorganisms.” A bit of energy returned. She wouldn’t give up without a fight. She’d make a break for it. Maybe not now, but soon.
“Enough, let us go.”
She scooped up a last handful of cold water and got to her feet. Kneeling for that short time had cramped her leg muscles. Dang, she hobbled like an old man. When had she gotten so out of shape? A regular exercise routine would be started as soon as she got home. If she got home. Wherever home was.
Nicholas led the way, a firm grip on her arm. He moved slower and froze when the roof of a small house came into view. “Don’t make a sound.” He pushed her behind a tree and forced her to her knees.
“Where are we?”
“I want to see if my—friend is alone. You will go to the door and knock.”
“The hell I will. You go yourself, it’s your friend.”
He grabbed her, his hands around her neck.
She clawed at him, feeling the pressure build in her head. “Stop—can’t breathe,” she croaked.
“This is your last chance. If the flics are not there, I will join you. Nod if you understand.”
She nodded like a bobblehead doll, believing her life depended on it. His grip relaxed, and she took several deep breaths, rubbing at her sore throat. “You’re crazy.”
“Go. If you do not get shot, I will know it is safe.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She peered at the house, but from this angle the yard could have been full of a SWAT team and she wouldn’t know. “I still think you’re making a mistake.”
He gave her a push, and she stumbled down the steep bank. Reaching the house without incident, she peeked around the corner. Two chickens pecked in the dirt. No armed men in sight.
A burst of pain in her shoulder had her spinning around. “What the hell?”
Nicholas threw another rock, missed, and made a shooing motion.
When they got out of this mess, she was going to enjoy testifying against the jerk. He may have saved her from certain death, but he was seriously pissing her off. The last speck of sympathy for his lost lover evaporated.
She crept along the side of the house and took a quick look at the front door. Nothing moved. A small red car was parked close by.
Out here, in the middle of nowhere, what were the chances the owner had left the keys in the car? She scurried to its side but found the doors locked and the ignition empty.
Crap.
Whoever lived here didn’t trust the neighbors, if there were any. She couldn’t see through the dense forest, and had no idea how far they were from a road.
Taking a deep breath, she went to the front door and tapped.
Gee, Heather, why don’t you use your muscles? The sooner you help Nick the Jerk, the sooner you can get out of this mess.
She knocked hard enough to hurt her knuckles. The sound of footsteps preceded the door swinging open. Meg Ryan stood inside, dressed in a loose smock, holding a paintbrush.
“Oui? Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
She sounded like a sexy French woman, which she was. Not Meg obviously, and a few years younger.
“Ah, I’m—je suis une amie of Nicholas—um—he’s—” Heather gestured toward the woods and stuttered to a stop.
“Nichola
s est ici?” Meg stepped out into the yard, a frown marring her pretty face. She looked at Heather, unsure what was going on.
Heather cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Nicholas, it’s safe, you jerk.”
He came around the corner of the house. Meg gave a cry and ran toward him, flinging herself into his arms, releasing a torrent of French. Nicholas clasped her to his chest with one arm. The other hand still held the gun, quashing Heather’s idea of a mad dash to the woods.
Seeing them together, it was obvious they were related. Based on their ages, probably brother and sister.
Nicholas pulled away from the woman and moved toward the door. “We need to get inside.”
Meg didn’t ask any questions, merely ran toward the house. Heather flinched as Nicholas grabbed her arm, forcing her to follow. Maybe Meg could talk some sense into her brother and this would all end happily.
The house was ancient. The stone walls had to be two feet thick. There were very few windows, and those were tiny, making for a gloomy interior. An artist’s easel was set up next to one window, a still life in its beginning stages. The stone floor was covered with many threadbare rugs, and the whole atmosphere was cozy and welcoming.
If Heather were to picture an artist’s cottage in the French countryside, this would be it. A place where she’d love to spend a couple weeks, live like a local. Try her hand at baking authentic baguettes. It was a shame there was a madman at her back. With a gun.
Nicholas and Meg continued to chatter, way too fast for Heather to catch even the occasional word. She took the opportunity to look around, for a way to escape or for a weapon.
The ground floor was one large room, with a fireplace on the kitchen side. A sink with a hand pump sat in one corner, and a scarred table that would cost a small fortune in a New York boutique sat in front of the fire. A set of steep narrow steps, almost a ladder, hugged the opposite wall, leading to a loft.
No visible indoor plumbing.
Portrait of a Girl Page 18