“What do you think? Did you read the paper?” She didn’t want to talk about murders that had nothing to do with her, but the alternative was even more threatening.
“It seems unlikely that the man would have killed all those women. He was just a lower-level bureaucrat. He had no motive and even less opportunity. However, it seems pretty clear that he did kill the woman in the photograph. Why are you here?”
The question came so quickly that she didn’t expect it, wasn’t prepared to counter it. She looked up into his warm blue eyes and told him the truth. “I don’t know. I think I was looking for you.”
The hand tightened on hers for a moment, and his wonderful grin lit his face once more. “Good. It saved me the trouble of looking for you. You never told me where you lived.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea …”
“It’s a terrific idea,” he interrupted. “If you don’t tell me I’ll follow you home.”
Claire shivered in the bright sunlight. “Have you been following me already?” She could still feel the memory of the eyes burning into her back.
“No. Why?”
She gave herself an imperceptible shake. “Guilty conscience, I guess,” she said with a self-deprecating grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “I shouldn’t be here with you.”
“Why not? We’re just a couple of expatriates sharing news of home and a cup of coffee. There’s nothing wrong in that. Unless there’s more to it.” His voice was calm, implacable, just the tiniest bit goading.
Claire knew she should ignore it, should agree that their meeting was harmless. His hand was still on hers, the heat of his flesh sinking into her chilled bones, and slowly she turned her palm over, her fingers grasping his. She smiled ruefully. “Unless there’s more to it,” she echoed, her eyes meeting his for a long, breathless moment.
His fingers tightened around hers. “Claire …”
“Claire! What on earth are you doing here!”
She hadn’t seen them coming. If she had, she would have released Tom’s hand, she would have dived under the table to avoid them. As it was, all she could do was look up into two almost identical pairs of dark French eyes and curse the day she was born.
“Robert and I were wondering where you and Marc had gotten to,” Solange Capet said, keeping a possessive arm around her husband. “We’ve seen nothing of you recently. And who is this charming young man?”
Claire suppressed the urge to scream. Solange and Robert Capet were the only people Marc had ever socialized with. Robert was a fellow mime of splendid physical attributes and not much brain power; Solange was much older, much richer, a major patron of the Théâtre du Mime. Claire had always suspected that she and Marc had once been lovers, and the malicious glint in Solange’s eyes did nothing to discourage that supposition.
“I’m Claire’s brother,” Tom said helpfully. “Jeff MacIntyre, from Boston.”
Claire swallowed her groan of dismay as Solange’s grin widened. “Claire is an only child,” she said sweetly. “How very naughty of you, Claire darling. Tell me, does Marc know what you do when you go out? He never was terribly modern about these things.”
“Tom is a friend.” There was no way she could keep the defensiveness from her voice, but it no longer mattered. She had never liked Solange or her witless husband, and right now she detested them.
“Tom? I thought his name was Jeff?” Solange cooed. Her mauve-tinted eyelids drooped for a moment as she surveyed Claire’s companion. “You know, I don’t blame you. He’s very attractive in a roughhewn sort of way. Marc won’t take kindly to being a cuckold, and believe me, he’ll find out.”
“I’m not cheating on Marc!” Claire said desperately. Tom’s fingers clenched warningly around her own, and she realized belatedly that she hadn’t let go of his hand. She wasn’t about to do it now—the damage had been done, and she needed the reassuring touch of his flesh too badly in the face of Solange’s sophisticated malice.
“No?” said Solange. “Well, if I were you I’d be sorely tempted. However, let me give you a piece of advice. I’d wait until Marc is out of town before I’d take a lover. Marc has a nasty temper and a streak of unpleasantness in him that it would be wise to avoid.”
Claire opened her mouth to protest once more when Solange’s words sunk in. “Marc is out of town,” she said slowly.
“Is he?”
“You should know that as well as I do,” Claire said. “He’s on tour with the Théâtre du Mime.”
Was that pity on Solange’s face, mixed the amusement? It was too hard to tell. “No, he’s not.”
“He’s been gone two weeks,” Claire said desperately.
“He may very well be. But he’s not on tour. If he were, Robert would be with him. And I, as a major fund-raiser, would know about it. If Marc told you he was going on tour he lied to you.” Reaching over, she patted Claire’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Perhaps he’s found a lover of his own and just hasn’t wanted to break the news to you. When he comes back and finds Jeff/Tom here he might be relieved. Or then again, he might not.” She moved away, taking the oblivious Robert with her. “Keep in touch, chérie. This is almost as good as ‘Dynasty.’”
Slowly Claire removed her hand from Tom’s. Slowly she rose from the table. “Would you pay for my coffee? I never know how much they want.”
“Claire, don’t leave!”