The Chase: A Novel (25 page)

“We struggled over the gun. Fortunately, I was stronger, and I had just gotten it when some teenage boys appeared. I think they had entered the ruins to smoke some dope, but it was perfect timing. I had the gun, and our gunman decided it was time to make a hasty exit.” He touched her. “It’s okay, Claire.”

Claire was finding it hard to breathe. “No, it’s not okay. That gunman was working for Elgin, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Claire stared, and their gazes met. Elgin . . . who might be William Duke, who might be Robert Ducasse. But he could not be Jean-Léon, obviously. Her father would never try to kill her!

“Was it a mistake?” she asked tersely.

“Look, Claire,” Ian began, reaching for her hand.

“No!” Claire had raised her voice, which was a huge mistake. Pain lanced through her temples. “Surely you are not still suspicious of my father.” Her tone was shrill.

“Elgin is a killer,” Ian said flatly. “Whomever he is masquerading as, he is a
killer.
I believe that gunman was after me, not you. I feel certain his shooting you was his own idea. These thugs aren’t renowned for their high IQs.”

“You did not answer my question.”

“You’re not up for this discussion now.”

She wasn’t, not physically, but having someone try to kill you negated that. “What about your theory that my uncle is alive? Or that William is Elgin?”

Ian sighed. “You’re on painkillers, Claire. You have a very slight concussion. From falling on stones, though, not from the bullet. You should rest.”

“Like you care!” She was so angry, and suddenly so afraid. It was all sinking in. This was no lark. Someone wanted Ian dead—and maybe her as well.

“I care.”

She had to focus on him. It was no easy task with the panic creeping over her. “I have known William Duke since I was a little girl. He would
never
make an attempt on my life.”

Ian hesitated. “If Duke is Elgin, then he might, and he most definitely would if you were a threat. If Duke is Elgin, then he is not what he appears to be, and you don’t know him at all.”

“So far, nothing in my life is what I thought it was!” she cried, thinking of Ian’s suspicions and recalling David’s brutal murder. “There has to be someone else out there, Ian. There just has to be.”

Ian settled his hip beside her and brushed her bangs out of her eyes. Her head was bandaged, she realized. “Maybe there is, Claire, and if that is so, I will find him sooner or later.” He smiled at her.

Claire could not smile back; but she was exhausted now. “So now what happens? We were hunting Elgin, and now he’s hunting us.” Renewed fear filled her.

“What happens next is that you go home,” Ian said softly. “Enough is enough, Claire. You don’t need to be in this kind of danger.”

Their eyes connected and held again. Go home. Of course she should go home. She was truly afraid now—she was a real coward.

He seemed to take her silence for acquiesence, because he said, “I had to tell the police everything, and they’re a bunch of village cops more used to dealing with parking violations and drunkards than anything else. They’re not going to be much help, Claire. But they need a statement from you. Just tell them the truth.”

“I can’t speak to them,” she said quickly. “I’m tired and woozy. I can’t think straight.”

“I’m afraid they won’t take no for an answer. You’re conscious—they’ll insist on speaking with you sooner rather than later. This is a big deal out here, Claire. We’re in the boonies, and someone has shot you.”

Claire stared into his eyes. They were more green than ever, not a hazel green, not a golden green, but a real Irish-clover green. “He’ll try again, won’t he? That gunman.”

“That hired thug is in France by now. And I’d be surprised if Elgin dared set foot in the U.K. right now, with the authorities closing in on him.”

“He’ll try again,” Claire repeated stubbornly.

“If he does, you won’t be in the picture, Claire.”

But she didn’t really hear him—she was thinking about the fact that the Dukes often traveled to London. Still, William would never hurt her. She just knew it.

And Jean-Léon was innocent. She would prove it—she had to.

Ian was speaking. “Look, I’ll book you a flight for tomorrow night. They’re talking about releasing you in the morning, and that will give you enough time to get to London. You’ll feel like a new person when you get home and put all of this behind you.”

Claire took a sip of water from a paper cup beside her bed. How could she prove Jean-Léon innocent if she went home? And as far as putting this behind her, it would take years: David was dead, and that was not how she had intended to end her marriage. Even if she did go home, Elgin had tried to kill them.

Claire put the paper cup down. “I can’t go home. I can’t and I won’t” Oddly, having made the decision somehow calmed her. She had never felt more resolute.

He stood up abruptly. “Why the hell not?”

“We’re partners, remember? Concussion and all.”

“Whatever agreement we had, it’s over. Negated by the fact that you were shot, Claire. Elgin wanted me—and he got you. That is unacceptable as far as I am concerned. Absolutely unacceptable.”

Claire smiled a little. “I’m growing on you, I can tell.”

“You’re growing on me like a gray hair. Unwanted—and with real bad timing!”

“You’re comparing me to gray hair?” Claire tried to be insulted.

“That’s not what I said and you know it. Damn it, don’t look at me with those big eyes. You don’t have an innocent bone in your body—not when you’re after something.”

“If only you knew,” she murmured, her mind veering in the most absurd and forbidden direction.

“What?” he shot back.

“I don’t want to spend the night in the hospital,” Claire announced. “In fact”—she threw the covers aside—”I want to go now.”

“What are you doing?” he cried as she tried to stand up.

There were two problems. One, she was wearing a typically ridiculous and ugly hospital gown that exposed her backside. Two, she was dizzy the moment she stood up. So reaching to close the gown, instead of holding on to the bed, was a bad call.

Claire fell into Ian’s arms, then decided it was a good call after all. “I like that little inn we stayed at last night. Our stuff is still there. We never checked out,” she said against his chest. It was broad and hard and he smelled great.

“You’re not leaving the hospital,” he said firmly, anchoring her with one arm around her back. “What gets into you at times like these?”

Claire looked up. “Man, I am light-headed,” she said.

He pushed her back onto the bed. “Mule-headed is more like it. I’m going to see if the police will wait to speak with you tomorrow. And I am booking you a return to the States.”

“And I’m not going. You’re stuck with me, big guy. Like it or not.”

He stared at her, clearly angry, and she stared back, hoping her smile was seductive and alluring. Trading jests with him was hard work, given her weakened condition.

“Cut it out,” he finally said. “The sweet stuff won’t work. And if you think you’re sexy, forget it. Your head is bandaged and your hospital gown is hardly by Valentino.”

“Shucks. I’d hoped Val made it just for me.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “All right. Truce. We’ll finish this when I come back tomorrow.”

“But won’t you miss my company tonight?”

“No!” He smiled then. “I’d have to lock up the minibar with you around.”

“There is no minibar in the B&B.”

“Do you always have to make the last quip?”

“Only since you came into my life.” Claire smiled happily at him. Her temples no longer throbbed. The painkillers were definitely working.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are really stubborn?”

She smiled slightly. “No. Not ever. Stubbornness has never been one of my major character traits.”

“Great. I clearly bring out the worst in you.”

“Or the best,” she said, still smiling.

He gave her a dark look. “I’m going to see the doctor, tell him what a lousy patient you are, speak with the cops, and then I’ll be back to say good night.”

“Fine,” Claire said meekly.

Ian strode from the room.

Her smile faded as she realized that, filled up with painkillers, concussed, and having just escaped an attempt on her life, she was making jokes and oddly happy. This time there was no denying it. There was also no denying that this was not the time to fall for Ian Marshall.

Unfortunately, Claire had the feeling that the deed was already done.

“Claire?” Ian popped his head back in the room, startling her. “It looks like you’re off the hook. The cop in charge has gone home for the night. They’ll take a report from you in the morning.”

Relief washed over Claire. “Great. That was quick.”

“Doc’s gone, but I spoke with one of the nurses. She’s going to keep a close eye on you, so stay in bed.”

Claire saluted him, thinking with real nostalgia about Veuve Clicquot and their small guest room at the Myddleton Arms. “Aye-aye,
mon capitaine.”

He laughed a little, shaking his head. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow. Good night.”

“Good night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“I won’t,” Ian promised.

“Or the Reception Girl,” Claire had to add.

He rolled his eyes at her and left. Claire wiggled her toes and smiled, until the memories of the horrible and frightening afternoon began to assail her in vivid Technicolor. In spite of her injury, it was a long time before she slept, and when she did, her dreams were filled with the men she loved the most, William, Jean-Léon, and Ian Marshall. Everyone was chasing everyone, and everyone carried guns. Even Robert Ducasse was present.

Except the dream changed, and one gun became a thumb knife. It was dripping blood.

And in her dream Claire saw Elgin’s face and realized who he was—who he had been for all of these years—and it was so obvious, it made so much sense, that she just didn’t understand why they hadn’t figured it out sooner.

Hospital rules required that she use a wheelchair to leave the premises. The next day, Claire sat in the wheelchair, a nurse behind her, on the sidewalk by the hospital’s entrance. Ian was retrieving his car from the parking lot, which faced them.

Claire was brooding. She was recalling the vague, shadowy images of her dreams, which had left her very disturbed. What was worse, in her dream she had uncovered Elgin’s real identity, but in the light of day, she could not recall it. She had been racking her brain ever since awakening, but to no avail.

Ian stopped the sedan at the curb and jumped out. Claire thanked the nurse and got out of the wheelchair. The huge bandage on her head had been reduced to a large Band-Aid. She felt fine, for the most part. She attributed any lingering shakiness to stress, not the mild concussion. There was a killer out there and there was no forgetting it now.

“Okay?” Ian smiled at her, opening the car door.

“Okay,” Claire said with a return smile, slipping into the passenger side of the front seat.

Ian said something to the nurse, and a moment later he was seated beside her and they were leaving the hospital grounds.

“Are you really okay?” he asked, steering onto a busy two-way thoroughfare. “How did it go with the cops?”

Claire rolled down her window so she could inhale the sweet, salty sea air. “You were right. They’re not big-league guys. But the officer in charge said he’s going to call the San Fran PD and Scotland Yard to coordinate with
their
investigation.” Claire gave Ian a look. “He was really excited by the case. Delusions of grandeur, I believe.”

Ian shook his head. “By now, Maclntyre from Scotland Yard has spoken to him and burst his bubble. These village cops will be demoted to foot patrol, if it hasn’t already happened.”

“Anything new on the case?”

“Only the attempted homicide yesterday,” Ian said, glancing at her. “When we get to London, you need to go through some mug books with Maclntyre and some guys from Interpol.”

“Wow,” Claire said, meaning it. “First the SFPD, then the FBI, then Scotland Yard—Special Branch no less—and now Interpol. Do we get to call in the cavalry, too? The CIA kind?”

“No.”

“The Secret Service?”

He ignored her.

“IRS?”

“Claire.”

“What about you?”

“Me, too, of course. I already gave the best description I could of the assassin,” he said.

The assassin.
Claire shivered a little. “Maybe when this is done, I’ll have found a new calling in life. From glam queen to global PI. Now that’s a midlife crisis if I ever heard of one.”

“I like what you do,” Ian said quietly.

Claire twisted to stare at him. “You do?”

“Yeah. It’s really admirable, Claire.”

A tiny compliment—and she was ecstatic. “It fits the red toes. If you have red toes, you have to be a fund-raiser.”

“Got it,” Ian said, smiling.

Claire fell silent, also smiling. Her head still throbbed from time to time, and when it did, her happiness would vanish, replaced by fear and dread. They were driving alongside the promenade. Gulls wheeled overhead. Tourists strolled on the beach while sunbathers stretched out on towels and children splashed in the gentle surf. There was a long pier jutting out into the water with an arcade. Children, families, and teenagers milled about the length of the pier, playing pinball and eating hot dogs. It seemed almost absurd that yesterday she and Ian had been chased and shot at by an assassin.

Claire refused to think about the events of the day before. Instead, she wondered what it would be like to be driving through this town with Ian under normal circumstances. Say, as bona fide tourists, or as lovers.

She looked out of her window again. She had an injury, Ian suspected two of the men she loved most in the world of being Lionel Elgin, yet she was more smitten with him than ever. Damn and double damn. What was to be done?

“Are you okay?” he asked again, a different inflection to his tone.

“As okay as I’ll ever be,” she said.

“You’re a helluva trouper, Claire.” He smiled then. “I’ve begun to see why you’re so good at raising money.”