which you should be soundly punished.”
He reached up and took her face in his hands. The taste of his lips on hers sent a shudder of pleasure through her body. If this is my punishment, she thought, oh, let me commit the crime again… His fingers slid through her hair, tangling in the strands as his kiss pressed ever deeper. She felt her legs wobble and melt away, but she had no need of them; he was there to support them both. She heard his murmur of need and knew that these kisses were dangerous, that he, too, was fast slipping toward the same cliff’s edge. She didn’t care—she was ready to make the leap.
And then, without warning, he froze.
One moment he was kissing her, and an instant later his hands went rigid against her face. He didn’t pull away. Even as she felt his whole body grow tense against her, he kept her firmly in his embrace. His lips glided to her ear.
“Start walking,” he whispered. “Toward the Concorde.”
“What?”
“Just move. Don’t show any alarm. I’ll hold your hand.”
She focused on his face, and through the shadows she saw his look of feral alertness. Swallowing back the questions, she allowed him to take her hand. They turned and began to walk casually toward the Place de la Concorde. He gave her no explanation, but she knew just by the way he gripped her hand that something was wrong, that this was not a game. Like any other pair of lovers, they strolled through the garden, past flower beds deep in shadow, past statues lined up in ghostly formation. Gradually she became more and more aware of sounds: the distant roar of traffic, the wind in the trees, their shoes crunching across the gravel…
And the footsteps, following somewhere behind them.
Nervously she clutched his hand. His answering squeeze of reassurance was enough to dull the razor edge of fear. I’ve known this man only a day, she thought, and already I feel that I can count on him.
Richard picked up his pace—so gradually she almost didn’t notice it. The footsteps still pursued them. They veered right and crossed the park toward Rue de Rivoli. The sounds of traffic grew louder, obscuring the footsteps of their pursuer. Now was the greatest danger—as they left the darkness behind them and their pursuer saw his last chance to make a move. Bright lights beckoned from the street ahead. We can make it if we run, she thought. A dash through the trees and we’ll be safe, surrounded by other people. She prepared for the sprint, waiting for Richard’s cue.
But he made no sudden moves. Neither did their pursuer. Hand in hand, she and Richard strolled nonchalantly into the naked glare of Rue de Rivoli.
Only as they joined the stream of evening pedestrians did Beryl’s pulse begin to slow again. There was no danger here, she thought. Surely no one would dare attack them on a busy street.
Then she glanced at Richard’s face and saw that the tension was still there.
They crossed the street and walked another block.
“Stop for a minute,” he murmured. “Take a long look in that window.”
They paused in front of a chocolate shop. Through the glass they saw a tempting display of confections: raspberry creams and velvety truffles and Turkish delight, all nestled in webs of spun sugar. In the shop, a young woman stood over a vat of melted chocolate, dipping fresh strawberries.
“What are we waiting for?” whispered Beryl.
“To see what happens.”
She stared in the window and saw the reflections of people passing behind them. A couple holding hands. A trio of students in backpacks. A family with four children.
“Let’s start walking again,” he said.
They headed west on Rue de Rivoli, their pace again leisurely, unhurried. She was caught by surprise when he suddenly pulled her to the right, onto an intersecting street.
“Move it!” he barked.
All at once they were sprinting. They made another sharp right onto Mont Thabor, and ducked under an arch. There, huddled in the shadow of a doorway, he pulled her against him so tightly that she felt his heart pounding against hers, his breath warming her brow. They waited.
Seconds later, running footsteps echoed along the street. The sound moved closer, slowed, stopped. Then there was no sound at all. Almost too terrified to look, Beryl slowly shifted in Richard’s arms, just enough to see a shadow slide past their archway. The footsteps moved down the street and faded away.
Richard chanced a quick look up the street, then gave Beryl’s hand a tug. “All clear,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”
They turned onto Castiglione Street and didn’t stop running until they were back at the hotel. Only when they were safely in her suite and he’d bolted the door behind them, did she find her voice again.
“What happened out there?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
“Do you think he meant to rob us?” She moved to the phone. “I should call the police—”
“He wasn’t after our money.”
“What?” She turned and frowned at him.
“Think about it. Even on Rue de Rivoli, with all those witnesses, he didn’t stop following us. Any other thief would’ve given up and gone back to the park. Found himself another victim. But he didn’t. He stayed with us.”
“I didn’t even see him! How do you know there was any—”
“A middle-aged man. Short, stocky. The sort of face most people would forget.”
She stared at him, her agitation mounting. “What are you saying, Richard? That he was following us in particular?”
“Yes.”
“But why would anyone follow you?”
“I could ask the same question of you.”
“I’m of no interest to anyone.”
“Think about it. About why you came to Paris.”
“It’s just a family matter.”
“Apparently not. Since you now seem to have strange men following you around town.”
“How do I know he wasn’t following you? You’re the one who works for the CIA!”
“Correction. I work for myself.”
“Oh, don’t palm off that rubbish on me! I practically grew up in MI6! I can smell you people a mile away!”
“Can you?” His eyebrow shot up. “And the odor didn’t scare you off?”
“Maybe it should have.”
He was pacing the room now, moving about like a restless animal, locking windows, pulling curtains. “Since I can’t seem to
