She tucked her arm in his and he whispered, “Follow my lead.”
They entered the hotel and walked to the desk. A young blonde with her hair drawn back in a messy, casual bun looked up from her computer to greet them, and her face broke into a wide smile. She spoke in rapid French to the woman next to her, who scurried away, then acknowledged them with a nod.
“Monsieur DuLac, welcome back to the Ritz.”
“Merci, Clothilde. Comment ça va?”
She dimpled at him. “I am well, Monsieur DuLac. It is good to see you again. Will you be staying long?”
“At least one night, perhaps two.”
She glanced at Mike, who suddenly felt very American, very tall, and very underdressed in her motorcycle boots and jeans.
“One room or two?”
“A suite would do nicely, Clothilde. Two bedrooms.”
“Excellent.” She handed him a key. “Shall I send up your usual?”
“That would be lovely. For two, if you will. Merci, Clothilde.”
Mike followed him across the elegant lobby, past the Bar Vendôme. Nicholas paused for a moment to watch the small flat-screen TV. A panel of jewel experts on a local news station were yelling over one another to see who could condemn the Americans more for the Koh-i-Noor theft. He shook his head. It wouldn’t stop until the diamond was back. Once on the elevator, Nicholas smiled at her. “All right?”
She grinned back. “What was all that? Who is Monsieur DuLac? And do I want to know what your usual is?”
“DuLac is one of my better covers. I used to come to Paris often when I worked for the Foreign Office, and DuLac served me well. I didn’t see any reason to walk in and announce who I really was. Besides, we’ll be well taken care of now. You can freshen up and we’ll have some dinner. Without food and sleep, we’re going to be worthless to this investigation. I need to spend some time on the computer, tracking some of these identities. We’re getting enough information on this woman to pull together a real profile. I think the Fox’s days as an anonymous master thief are coming to an abrupt end.
“Even though we have no idea where the Fox might be, she seems to have a sixth sense about us following her. She may have assumed, or hoped, I was dead after the explosion, but she will find out quickly enough there were no fatalities. I certainly don’t need her calling around to hotels to see if anyone by the name of Drummond or Caine has checked in.”
Smart man. “You look like you could use a pain pill. You haven’t had one since we left the hospital this morning, and we’ve had quite a day.”
Actually, he could use a whole handful of pain pills. He said gruffly, “Mike, if I need mothering, I’ll call home.”
They rode to the sixth floor, and Nicholas led her down the blue-and-gold hallway to their suite.
“Did you know the Ritz was supposedly the first hotel in Paris to have en suite bathrooms?”
Mike said, “Good to know. At this point, so long as it has hot water, I don’t care where the bathroom is.”
He opened the door and let her go in first, then pointed to the left. Without examining the room, which looked like the inside of a castle, or the view, which looked expansive—she caught a snatch of the Eiffel Tower; you really could see it from everywhere—she excused herself and went inside.
The bathroom did indeed have hot water, and a gorgeous marble shower with buttery soft peach towels. She stayed under the steaming waterfall for a good fifteen minutes, washing away the travel dust, explosion residue, worry, fear and two days of exhaustive searching for what amounted to a very well-equipped and pissed-off ghost.
She did her best thinking in the shower. She was certain the Fox was in Paris; where else would she be? She thought about the adoptive parents—missionaries—and about the new life the Fox had led with them. Was it good, bad, or maybe it didn’t matter? The Fox had become a criminal regardless.
She was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Go away. I’m never coming out. This is the most glorious shower I’ve ever taken.”
Nicholas laughed. “You may think differently when I give you this news. Savich called. He has a money trail. And the food’s arrived.”
She couldn’t get dry fast enough. She spared a quick glance at her clothes—no sense getting back into them right away, and she’d rushed in here so fast she’d left her bag in the other room. She pulled on the thick robe instead and joined Nicholas in the living room.
He’d had a shower, too. His hair was still damp, and he smelled good. Unlike her, in her anonymous bathrobe, he looked as sleek as a panther in a black zipper-neck sweater and gray wool trousers. Where did he stash all these wonderful clothes? He had to be coming to the bottom of his magic carry-on.
A tray was on the table with a variety of cheeses, bread, and fruit. A bottle of wine was open, but she ignored his offer of a glass and instead poured herself some water.
“So what did Savich have to say?”