Reckless

She hadn’t changed. Not really. Not deep down. Whatever she said.

Tonight proved it, even if it also proved she’d been lying to him all along. Tracy knew where Hunter Drexel was. She probably knew who Kate was too. And it had nothing to do with any stupid poker game.

She’s figured it out, damn her. And she’s cut me out. She still doesn’t trust me.

The entire poker game had been a setup. All of it—except for the part about Gustav Arendt being a cheat. Johnny Cray was never going to be there. As for Catherine Clarke and Ali Lassferly, whoever they were . . .

A sudden thought stopped Jeff in his tracks. Pulling over, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pen and paper.

He wrote out each letter carefully.

A-L-I-L-A-S-S –F-E. . . .

I don’t believe it. Jeff started to laugh.

Ali Lassferly was an anagram.

Of Sally Faiers.

Tracy’s idea of a tribute, perhaps?

Pulling back onto the AutoRoute, his foot firmly on the accelerator, Jeff felt a momentary rush of joy. Tracy was still the same wonderful, smart, conniving, deceitful, perfect woman she’d always been. And here he was chasing her. Again.

Jeff glanced at the red dot on the satellite tracker he had wired to his dashboard and smiled. Tracy was heading for Grenoble station.

Thank God he’d slipped the tracking device into Tracy’s phone.

Right behind you, my darling.

Jeff Stevens hadn’t changed either.

GRENOBLE STATION WAS BUSIER than Jeff expected so late at night.

The huge timetable boards mounted above the concourse announced the arrival and departure of a large number of trains, many of them international.

With the satellite tracker now clenched tightly in his hand, Jeff weaved his way through gaggles of tired travelers, closing in on Tracy’s red dot.

It drew him in a straight line towards platform 13, where a train was waiting to leave. The sign at the barrier informed Jeff of its destination—Rome—and departure time. He had two minutes.

“Billet.” The surly inspector at the gate scowled at Jeff as he tried to push his way onto the platform.

“I’m late. I’ll pay on board!” Jeff tapped frantically at his watch.

“Billet,” the man repeated, impassively.

Jeff contemplated punching him in his ugly, jowly, miserable French face, but he couldn’t afford to be arrested. Not before he got to see the look on Tracy’s face as he took his seat opposite her. Fancy seeing you here, darling.

Forget Hunter Drexel. It would be worth it for that look alone.

Turning around, Jeff sprinted to the ticket office, practically combusting with frustration as he waited for the family in front of him to finish arguing about the fare.

“Je vous en prie!” he begged, waving large euro notes at them and pointing desperately to the Rome train. “Please! I have to catch that train. It’s urgent.”

Sprinting back to platform 13, he arrived just as the barrier was closing. That was when he saw her, in the same cream polo neck and tailored gray pants she’d been wearing earlier, with her hair tied back. She was right at the far end of the platform, in the front carriage of the train. Leaning out of the doorway, Tracy looked back

to the concourse as the guard blew his whistle. Apparently satisfied, she retreated back inside the train.

Jeff waved his ticket at the guard.