“You mean his name?” She shook her head. Just that movement brought the throbbing back to her skull. “No idea.”
“And the other man? The one who just saved our lives?”
“I don’t know his name, either. But…” She paused. “I think I’ve seen him before. In London. The Underground.”
“Your guardian angel?”
“But this time you saw him. So I guess he’s not an angel at all.” She glanced in the mirror. Still no one following them. Breathing more easily, she thought ahead to what came next. Chetwynd?
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “We can’t go back to Chetwynd. They’ll be expecting that.”
“You could go back.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You’re not the one they want.”
“Are you going to tell me who they are?”
“The same people who blew up Guy Delancey’s car.”
“These people—are they connected with this mysterious Belgian? Or was that just another fable?”
“It’s the truth. Sort of.”
He groaned. “Sort of?”
She glanced sideways and she noticed that his jaw was tightly squared. He must be as terrified as I am, she thought.
“I think I have the right to know the whole truth,” he said.
“Later. When I’ve carved us out some breathing space.” She nudged the accelerator. The Jaguar responded with a quiet purr and a burst of speed. “Right now, I just want to get the hell out of this county. When we hit London—”
“London?” He shook his head. “You think it’ll be that easy? Just cruise down the highway? If they’re as dangerous as you say, they’ll have the main roads covered.”
And a pale gold Jaguar wasn’t a car they’d be likely to miss, she realized. She’d have to ditch the Jag. And maybe the man, as well. He’d be better off without her. Trouble seemed to attach itself to her like iron filings to a magnet, and when the next crisis hit, she didn’t want Jordan caught in the cross fire. She owed him that much.
“There’s a turnoff coming up,” he said. “Take it.”
“Where does it go?”
“Back road.”
“To London?”
“No. It’ll take us to an inn. I know the proprietors. There’s a barn where we can hide the car.”
“And how do I get to London?”
“We don’t. We stay put for a while and get our bearings. Then we figure out our next move.”
“I say our next move is to keep going! On foot if we have to! I won’t hang around this neighborhood any longer than—”
“But I’m afraid I’ll have to,” he murmured.
She glanced sideways again. What she saw almost made her swerve off the road in horror.
He had pulled back the edge of his jacket and was staring down at his shirt. Bright splotches of blood stained the fine linen.
Seven
“Oh, my god,” said Clea. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s not serious.”
“How the hell can you tell?”
“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”
“Oh, that’s just wonderful.” She spun the wheel and sent the Jag in a dizzying U-turn. “We’re going to a hospital.”
“No.” He reached over and grabbed her hand. “They’d be on you in a flash.”
“What am I supposed to do? Let you bleed to death?”
“I’m all right. I think it’s stopped.” He looked down again at his shirt. The stains didn’t seem to be spreading. “What’s the cliché? ‘It’s only a flesh wound’?”
“What if it isn’t? What if you’re bleeding internally?”
“I’ll be the first to beg for help. Believe me,” he added with a pained smile, “I’m truly a coward at heart.”
A coward? she thought. Not this man. He was the least cowardly man she knew.
“Go to the inn,” he insisted. “If this is really serious, I can call for help.”
Reluctantly she made another U-turn and headed back the way they’d been going. The turnoff brought them onto a narrow road lined by hedgerows. Through gaps in the foliage she spied a patchwork of fields and stone walls. The hedgerows gave way to a graveled driveway, and they pulled up at last in front of the Munstead Inn. A cottage garden, its blossoms fading into autumn, lined the front walk.
Clea scrambled out of the car to help Jordan to his feet.
“Let me walk on my own,” he said. “Best to pretend nothing’s wrong.”
“You might faint.”
“I’d never do anything so embarrassing.” Grunting, he managed to slide out of the car and stand without her assistance. He made it on his own power through the garden and up the front steps.
Their knock on the door was answered by an elderly gentleman whose peat-colored trousers hung limp on his bony frame. He peered at them through bifocals, then exclaimed in pleasure, “Why, if it isn’t young Mr. Tavistock!”
Jordan smiled. “Hello, Munstead. Any rooms available?”
“For friends o’ yours, anytime!” The old man stepped aside and waved them into the front hall. “Chetwynd’s full up, then?” he asked. “No room for guests?”
“Actually, this room would be for me and the lady.”
“You and…” Munstead turned and regarded Jordan with surprise. A sly grin spread across his face. “Ah, it’s a bit of a hush thing, is it?”
“Just between us.”
Munstead winked. “Gotcha, sir.”
Clea didn’t know how Jordan managed to hold up his end of the banter. As the old man rummaged for a key, Jordan politely inquired as to Mrs. Munstead’s health, asked how the garden was this summer and were the children coming to visit at Christmas? At last they were led upstairs to the second floor. Under better circumstances Clea might have appreciated the romantic touches to the place, the flocked wallpaper, the lace curtains. Now her only focus was to get Jordan into a bed and his wound checked.
When they were safely behind closed doors, Clea practically forced Jordan down onto the mattress. He sat there, his face screwed up in discomfort, as she pulled off the tweed jacket. The droplets of blood staining his shirt led a trail under his right arm.
She unbuttoned the shirt. The blood had dried, adhering the fabric to his skin. Slowly, gently she peeled the shirt off, revealing a broad chest with tawny hair, some of it caked with blood. What she saw looked more like a slash than a bullet wound, as though a knife blade had caught him just in front of the armpit and sliced straight back along his right side.
She gave a sigh of relief. “It looks like just a graze. Caught you in passing. It could just as easily have gone straight through your chest. You’re lucky.”
He stared down at his wound and frowned. “Maybe it’s more a case of divine intervention than luck.”
“What?”
“Hand me my coat.”
Perplexed, she passed him the tweed jacket. The bullet’s entry was easy to locate. It cut a hole through the fabric over the right chest. Jordan reached inside the inner pocket and pulled out a handsome watch attached to a chain. Clearly stamped on the gold watch cover was an ugly dent.
“A helping hand from beyond the grave,” he said, and handed Clea the watch.
She flipped open the dented cover. Inside was engraved the name Bernard Tavistock.
“My father’s,” said Jordan. “I inherited it on his death. It seems he’s still watching out for me.”
“Then you’d better keep it close by,” she said, handing it back. “So it can ward off the next bullet.”
“I sincerely hope there won’t be a next bullet. This one’s bloody uncomfortable as it is.”
She went into the bathroom, soaked a towel in warm water and wrung it out. When she came back to the bed, he was looking almost sheepish about all the fuss. As she bent to clean the wound, their heads brushed, and she inhaled a disturbingly primal mingling of scents. Blood and sweat and after-shave. His breath warmed her hair, and that warmth seeme
d to seep into her cheeks. Desperately trying to ignore his effect on her, she kept her gaze focused on his wound.
“I had no idea you’d been hurt,” she said softly.
“It was the first shot. I sort of stumbled into it.”
“Stumbled, hell! You pushed me away, you idiot.”
He laughed. “Chivalry goes unappreciated.”
Without warning she planted both hands on either side of his face and lowered her mouth to his in a fierce kiss. She knew at once it was a mistake. Her stomach seemed to drop away inside her. She felt his lips press hard against hers, heard his growl of both longing and satisfaction. Before he could tug her against him, she pulled away.
“You see, you’re wrong,” she whispered. “Chivalry is most definitely appreciated.”
“If that’s my reward, I may just do it again.”
“Well, don’t. Once is chivalry. Twice is stupidity.”
Breathing hard, she focused her attention back on his wound. She could feel him watching her, could still taste the tang of his lips on hers, but she stubbornly refused to meet his gaze. If she did, they’d only kiss again.
She wiped up the last dried flecks of blood and straightened. “How are we going to dress it?”
“I’ve a first aid kit in the car. Bandages and such.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Park the car in the barn, while you’re at it. Get it out of sight.”
With almost a sense of relief, she fled the room and hurried down the stairs. Once outside, she felt she could breathe again, felt she was back in control.
She walked deliberately to the Jaguar, started the engine and parked it inside the barn. After fetching the first aid kit out of the trunk, she stood by the car for a moment, taking deep, calming breaths of hay-scented air. At last her headache was all but gone and she could think clearly again. Must concentrate, she thought. Remember what it is I’m facing. I can’t afford to be distracted. Even by someone as distracting as Jordan.
With first aid kit in hand, she returned to the room. The instant she stepped inside she felt her hard-won composure begin to crack around the edges. Jordan was standing at the window, his broad back turned to her, his gaze focused somewhere on the garden outside. She suppressed the impulse to go to him, to slide her hands down that expanse of naked skin.
“I hid the car,” she said.
She thought he nodded, but he didn’t answer.
After a pause she asked, “Is something wrong?”
He turned to look at her. “I called Chetwynd.”
She frowned, trying to understand why, with that one call, his whole demeanor should change. “You called? Why?”
“To tell them what’s happened. We’re going to need help.”
“It’s better if they don’t know. Safer if we don’t—”
“Safer for whom?”
“For everyone. They might talk to the wrong people. Reveal things they shouldn’t—”
She couldn’t read his expression against the glare of the window. But she could hear the anger in his voice. “If I can’t count on my own family, who can I count on?”
Stung by his tone, she sat on the bed and stared dully at the first aid kit in her lap. “I envy you your blind faith,” she said softly. She opened the kit. Inside were bandages, adhesive tape, a bottle of antiseptic. “Come here. I’d better dress that wound.”
He came to the bed and sat beside her. Neither of them spoke as she opened packets of gauze and snipped off lengths of tape. She heard him suck in a startled gasp of air when she dabbed on the antiseptic, but he said nothing. His silence frightened her. Something had changed between them since she’d left the room, something about that phone call to Chetwynd. She was afraid to ask about it, afraid to cut what few threads of connection still remained between them. So she said nothing, but simply finished the task, the whole time fighting off a sense of panic that she’d lost him. Or even worse, that he’d turned against her.
Her worst suspicions seemed confirmed when he said, as she was pressing the last strip of tape to his chest, “Richard’s on his way.”
She sat back and stared at him. “You told him where we are?”
“I had to.”
“Couldn’t you just say you’re alive and well? Leave it at that?”
“He has something to tell me.”
“He could have said everything over the phone.”
“It has to be face-to-face.” Jordan paused, then he added quietly, “It has to do with you.”
She sat clutching the roll of tape, her gaze frozen on his face. He knows, she thought. She felt sick to her stomach, sick of herself and her sorry past. Whatever attraction Jordan had felt for her was obviously gone now, destroyed by some revelation gleaned from a phone call.
She swallowed and looked away. “What did he tell you?”
“Only that you haven’t been entirely honest about who you are.”
“And…” She cleared her throat. “How did he find out?”
“Your fingerprints.”
“What fingerprints?”
“The polo field. You left them on your glass in the refreshment tent.”
It took her a moment for the implications to sink in. “Then you—you’re the one who—”
He nodded. “I picked up your glass. Your fingerprints weren’t on record at Scotland Yard. So I asked Richard to check with American authorities. And they had the prints on file.”
She shot to her feet and backed away from the bed. “I trusted you!”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“No, you just prowled around behind my back.”
“I knew you weren’t being straight with me. How else could I find out? I had to know.”
“Why? What difference would it make to you?” she cried.
“I wanted to believe you. I wanted to be absolutely sure of you.”
“So you set out to prove I’m a fraud.”
“Is that what I’ve proved?”
She shook her head and laughed. “What else would I be but a fraud? It’s what you looked for. It’s what you expected to find.”
“I don’t know what I expected to find.”
“Maybe that I’d be some—some princess in disguise? Instead you learn the truth. A frog instead of a princess. Oh, but you must be so disappointed! I find it disappointing that I can’t ever outrun my past. No matter how hard I try, it follows me around like one of those little cartoon rain clouds over my head.” She looked down at the flowered rug. For a moment she studied the pattern of its weave. Then, wearily, she sighed. “Well, I do thank you for your help. You’ve been more of a gentleman than any man has ever been to me. I wish…I’d hoped…” She shook her head and turned to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“It’s a long walk to London. I think I’ll get started.”
In an instant he was on his feet and crossing toward her. “You can’t go.”
“I have a life to get on with.”
“And how long will it last? What happens at the next train station?”
“Are you volunteering to take another bullet?”
He caught her arm and pulled her against him. As she collided with his chest, she felt her whole body turn liquid against his heat.
“I’m not sure what I’m volunteering for,” he murmured. “But I think I’ve already signed up…”
The kiss caught them both off-balance. The instant their lips met, Clea felt herself swaying, tilting. He pressed her to the wall, his lips on hers, his body a warm and breathing barrier to escape. Their breaths were coming so loud and fast, their sighs so needy, that she didn’t hear the footsteps creaking on the stairs, didn’t hear them approach their room.
The knock on the door made them both jerk apart. They stared at each other, faces flushed with passion, hair equally tousled.
“Who is it?” Jordan called.
“It’s me.”
Jordan opened the door.
Richard Wolf stood in th
e hall. He glanced at Clea’s reddened cheeks, then looked at Jordan’s bare chest. Without comment he stepped into the room and locked the door behind him. Clea noticed he had a file folder stuffed with papers.
“You weren’t followed?” asked Jordan.
“No.” Richard looked at Clea, and she almost felt like slinking away, so cool was that gaze of his. So now the truth will be spilled. He knows all, of course. That must be what he had in that folder—the proof of her identity. Who and what she’d been. He would lay it all out for Jordan, and she wouldn’t be able to deny it. And how would Jordan react? With anger, disgust?
Feeling defeated beyond words, she went to the bed and sat down. She wouldn’t look at either one of the men; she didn’t want to see their faces as they shared the facts about Clea Rice. She would just sit here and passively confirm it all. Then she would leave. Surely Jordan wouldn’t bother to stop her this time. Surely he’d be happy to see her go.
She waited on the bed and listened as the truth was finally told.
“Her name isn’t Diana Lamb,” said Richard. “It’s Clea Rice.”
Jordan looked at the woman, half expecting a protest, a denial, some sort of response, but she said nothing. She only sat with her shoulders hunched forward, her head drooping with what looked like profound weariness. It was almost painful to look at her. This was not at all the brash Diana—correction, Clea—he knew. But then, he’d never really known her, had he?
Richard handed the folder to Jordan. “That was faxed to me just an hour ago from Washington.”
“From Niki?”
Richard nodded. Nikolai Sakaroff was his partner in Sakaroff and Wolf, Security Consultants. Formerly a colonel with the KGB and now an enthusiastic advocate of capitalism, Sakaroff had turned his talents for intelligence gathering to more profitable uses. If anyone could dig up obscure information, it was Niki.
“Her fingerprints were on file with the Massachusetts police,” said Richard. “Once that fact was established, the rest of it came easy.”
Jordan opened the folder. The first page he saw was a grainy reproduction of a mug shot, a frontal and two profiles. The faxing process had blurred the details, but he could still tell it was a younger version of Clea. The subject gazed unsmiling at the camera, her dark eyes wide and bewildered, her lips pressed tightly together. Her hair, free flowing about her shoulders, appeared to be blond. Jordan glanced once again at the live woman. She hadn’t moved.
In Their Footsteps / Thief of Hearts Page 31