Sidney Sheldon's Reckless (37 page)

“Drexel could pull that off,” said Tracy.

“Maybe,” Jeff conceded. “We'll know tonight I guess. I'm more interested in the last player.”

“Who's he?”

“She. It's a woman. Apparently she's a widow living in St. Tropez. But she's American. And rich. You want to guess her name?”

The hairs on Tracy's arms stood on end. “Kate?”

Jeff leaned forward. “Close enough. Mrs. Catherine Clarke.”

“Do you really think it could be her?”

“I don't know. But something's going down tonight. I'm sure of it.”

“I should come with you,” Tracy blurted.

“Absolutely not.”

“It could be dangerous, Jeff.”

“Exactly.”

Tracy opened her mouth to protest but Jeff cut her off. “We have a plan. A good one. There's no reason to change it.” Reaching into his jacket pocket he handed Tracy a new disposable phone. Just to be safe they were both changing handsets every few days.

“Keep it on. I'll call if I need you.”

GUSTAV ARENDT WAS IN
a foul mood. For three very good reasons.

Women.

Money.

And hemorrhoids.

Gustav's wife, Alisse, had found out last night about his mistress, Camille. Alisse was being tiresomely bourgeois about it, ranting and yelling, making unseemly comments about Camille's fake breasts and threatening divorce. Gustav couldn't understand it.

What do women expect when they marry a wealthy man? Monogamy?

Alisse's meltdown could not have come at a worse time. Gustav had already had a bad week, losing millions on a failed investment in the Ukraine. Land that he'd believed to be bursting at the seams with shale gas had actually produced pathetically meager returns. Gustav had fired his chief engineer, but that did little to stem his foul temper.

The hemorrhoids spoke for themselves.

The one bright spot in Gustav Arendt's otherwise black sky was the prospect of fleecing his guests at the poker game tonight. Looking out of the window at Chalet Mirabelle, he watched as the first of the players drove up.

There was Luca Androni, his fat, spaghetti-filled belly emerging first from his chauffeur-driven Range Rover.

Pig.
Gustav Arendt disliked all his competitors in business, but he reserved a special loathing for Androni. It didn't help that, despite his obvious stupidity, the Italian had made out like a bandit in Ukraine. Luca Androni's shale gas fields directly abutted Gustav's, yet Androni had managed to extract millions of dollars from his land while Arendt's frenzied fracking had produced nothing more than a weak fart.

Gustav was going to enjoy relieving Luca of some of those millions tonight. Unlike Europe's increasingly indolent, lazy and grasping poor, he didn't need Group 99 to do his dirty work for him. Although, come to think of it, it surprised Gustav Arendt that a man like Luca Androni had
not
yet been targeted by Group 99. On paper, at least, he seemed like a perfect candidate for their loathsome brand of self-righteous communism. That was the problem with violent extremists. They were never there when you needed them.

The next player to arrive was Lars Berensen, swiftly followed by the ridiculous American fool Brian Crick. With his stooped shoulders, shuffling gait and bald crown, Berensen looked like an escapee from the local nursing home. But the art dealer was a lot sharper than his little-old-man shtick suggested. He had a painting under his arm tonight, to present to his client, Mrs. Clarke. No doubt the bitch had paid well over the odds for it. But that was Berensen's business. Gustav was not averse to his guests doing a little business up at Chalet Mirabelle, especially if they brought other rich stooges along to his poker table. Lars Berensen was responsible for inviting both the rich Widow Clarke and the Arab. Tonight, Lassferly. He'd earned his keep.

Brian Crick strode up to the chalet, talking loudly and clapping a hand across Luca Androni's meaty shoulders on the doorstep in a faux display of bonhomie.

“Good to meet you.” Gustav could hear the American's booming voice from the window. “I heard a lot about you. Name's Brian. Brian Crick.”

Gustav smiled. Mr. Crick would be a good deal quieter by the time he left tonight. And a good deal poorer.

Tapping the implant in his ear twice, Gustav waited for the familiar voice. Two floors above them, a technician sat in the eaves of the house, watching six separate camera feeds on a state-of-the-art screen.

“Testing.”

Arendt nodded imperceptibly towards camera four.

Clear as a bell.

TRACY TOOK A SEAT
at the bar. The barman was arranging crystal glasses on a shelf.

She looked around for Peter Davies, but the Englishman wasn't here tonight. In fact the entire hotel was eerily quiet.

The barman turned around.

“What can I get you, Mrs. Crick?”

“I'll have a gin and tonic please. Gordon's if you have it, ice but no lemon.”

“Coming right up.”

Tracy glanced anxiously at her phone, then at the clock on the wall. It was still only seven o'clock. She thought about Jeff arriving at the game, waiting for Hunter Drexel, or Althea, to show up. She knew exactly how he'd be feeling right now, adrenaline pumping, nerves taut as a wire. Just like the old days.

For a moment she felt a flicker of guilt for what she was about to do.

But only for a moment.

This isn't a game,
she reminded herself.
And these aren't the old days. However much Jeff wants them to be.

I have a job to do.

JEFF SAT AT THE
card table twitching like a rabbit.

“I believe that's mine.”

Gustav Arendt smiled smugly, spreading his second straight flush of the night across the soft green baize and reaching towards the pile of chips like a kid grabbing at candy. Jeff had seen some cheats in his time. But this guy was utterly shameless.

Not that Jeff cared about the cards.

Something had gone wrong. Very wrong.

Neither Catherine Clarke nor Ali Lassferly had shown up to the game. Nor, for that matter, had Johnny Cray. One down might have been coincidence, but three? Something was up.

Jeff wasn't the only one disappointed by the players' absences. Gustav Arendt was clearly pissed not to have three more fat wallets to plunder. But Berensen, the art dealer, looked close to tears. He kept glancing at the door, as if hoping against hope they would walk in, then back to the painting he'd brought with him, a carefully wrapped rectangle propped forlornly against the chalet wall.

Someone tipped the others off. But nobody told Berensen.

The situation was bad for multiple reasons. The first was that tonight's plan would have to be scrapped. Once again, their quarry had slipped through the net.

The second reason was far worse.

Drexel and his Group 99 friends know we're here.

They know who we are.

Do they know where we're staying?

Jeff's thoughts flew to Tracy, back at Les Fermes de Mairie. Was she safe? He longed to call her, but he couldn't leave the game until Arendt called a break, not without rousing suspicions.

At last, after what felt like an eternity to all of them, Luca Androni tossed his cards on the table in disgust and announced he was leaving.

“Me too.” Jeff yawned loudly, still playing the part of bumbling Brian. “There's only so much beating a man can take in one night. Thanks for the hospitality, Gustav.”

Pulling out a checkbook, Jeff left Arendt with what he and Tracy used to call a “bouncing bomb”—a beautiful forgery—for half a million dollars and hurried out into the night.

He called Tracy from the car but got no answer.

Strange.

“Start packing,” he texted. “Clarke and Lassferly both no-shows. Back in ten.”

LEAVING THE CAR ENGINE
running, Jeff sprinted into the hotel.

Ignoring the girl at the front desk trying to get his attention, he stepped into a waiting elevator and went straight up to the room, only to find his key card didn't work.

“Annie? Honey?” He banged loudly on the door.

Goddamn it, Tracy!

He took out his frustration on the girl at the front desk. “I've been locked out of my room,” he fumed. “And I can't find my wife.”

“I was trying to tell you earlier, Mr. Crick, when you came in. Mrs. Crick checked out earlier this evening. She paid the bill in full. I'm afraid I assumed you were both leaving Megève, as Mrs. Crick took all the luggage with her.”

“All of it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Jeff's mind raced.

My laptop.

My second phone.

“If you still need the room I'd be happy to reactivate your cards . . .”

But Jeff was already running.

TRACY SAT IN THE
back of the cab, downloading the last of Jeff's files to her USB chip as they approached Grenoble. At this time of night the roads were clear. She should make the train in good time.

Poor Jeff. I hope he'll forgive me when this is all over.

Jeff. Cameron. Greg Walton. There were a lot of people Tracy would have to explain herself to. But she didn't care. The only person who really mattered was Nick.

Closing her eyes, Tracy focused on his face.

I'm close, darling. Really close. I'll do this for you, I promise.

Bringing Jeff down to Megève, the whole poker setup, had been complicated but necessary.

She had all the information she needed now.

It's time to finish this thing.

JEFF HAD NEVER DRIVEN
faster in his life.

Part of him wanted to strangle Tracy with his bare hands. But another part wanted to kiss her passionately and never let her go.

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.

“Mon billet.”

The squat little man shrugged. “Sorry,” he said in French. “Too late. Barrier's closed.”

The train began to move.

Jeff's face darkened for a moment. Then he gave the man a beaming smile.

“I'm so sorry,” he said. “I think you misheard.”

Jeff's fist connected with the man's cheekbone with a satisfying crack. With a howl of pain, he dropped to the floor. Jeff vaulted the balcony and ran towards the train. It was gaining speed.