In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts by Tess Gerritsen Read Free Book Online Page A

darling.
    Really.”
    “But the Tavistocks—”
    “They’re harmless.” He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I guarantee it.” Three
    From the window of her suite at the Paris Ritz, Beryl looked down at the opulence of Place Vendôme, with its Corinthian pilasters and stone arches, and saw the evening parade of well-heeled tourists. It had been eight years since she’d last visited Paris, and then it had been on a lark with her girlfriends—three wild chums from school, who’d preferred the Left Bank bistros and seedy nightlife of Mont-parnasse to this view of unrepentant luxury. They’d had a grand time of it, too, had drunk countless bottles of wine, danced in the streets, flirted with every Frenchman who’d glanced their way—and there’d been a lot of them.
    It seemed a million years ago. A different life, a different age.
    Now, standing at the hotel window, she mourned the loss of all those carefree days and knew they would never be back. I’ve changed too much, she thought. It’s more than just the revelations about Mum and Dad. It’s me. I feel restless. I’m longing for…I don’t know what. Purpose, perhaps? I’ve gone so long without purpose in my life….

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    Tess Gerritsen
    She heard the door open, and Jordan came in through the connecting door from his suite. “Claude Daumier finally returned my call,” he said. “He’s tied up with the bomb investigation, but he’s agreed to meet us for an early supper.”
    “When?”
    “Half an hour.”
    Beryl turned from the window and looked at her brother.
    They’d scarcely slept last night, and it showed in Jordan’s face. Though freshly shaved and impeccably dressed, he had that ragged edge of fatigue, the lean and hungry look of a man operating on reserve strength. Like me.
    “I’m ready to leave anytime,” she said.
    He frowned at her dress. “Isn’t that…Mum’s?”
    “Yes. I packed a few of her things in my suitcase. I don’t know why, really.” She gazed down at the watered-silk skirt. “It’s eerie, isn’t it? How well it fits. As if it were made for me.”
    “Beryl, are you sure you’re up to this?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “It’s just that—” Jordan shook his head “—you don’t seem at all yourself.”
    “Neither of us is, Jordie. How could we be?” She looked out the window again, at the lengthening shadows in Place Vendôme. The same view her mother must have looked down upon on her visits to Paris. The same hotel, perhaps even the same suite. I’m even wearing her dress. “It’s as if—as if we don’t know who we are anymore,” she said.
    “Where we spring from.”
    “Who you are, who I am, has never been in doubt, Beryl. Whatever we learn about them doesn’t change us.” She looked at him. “So you think it might be true.” In Their Footsteps
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    He paused. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m preparing myself for the worst. And so should you.” He went to the closet and took out her wrap. “Come on. It’s time to confront the facts, little sister. Whatever they may be.” At seven o’clock, they arrived at Le Petit Zinc, the café where Daumier had arranged to meet them. It was early for the usual Parisian supper hour, and except for a lone couple dining on soup and bread, the café was empty.
    They took a seat in a booth at the rear and ordered wine and bread and a remoulade of mustard and celeriac to stave off their hunger. The lone couple finished their meal and departed. The appointed time came and went. Had Daumier changed his mind about meeting them?
    Then, at seven-twenty, the door opened and a trim little Frenchman in suit and tie walked into the dining room.
    With his graying temples and his briefcase, he could have passed for any distinguished banker or lawyer. But the instant his gaze locked on Beryl, she knew, by his nod of acknowledgment, that this must be Claude Daumier.
    But he had not come alone. He glanced over his shoulder as the door opened