The Chase: A Novel by Brenda Joyce Page B

at anyone.
    He had crashed the party, and he had been far too charming, and he had been snooping around her house. Today, he’d been asking her father all kinds of questions, and he wasn’t even a cop. He had misled her about his real occupation, he had lied about his relationship with David. Why?
    Claire stole a sidelong glance at him. His profile was hard and chiseled; now she found little attractive about it. Beneath the beautifully cut sports jacket was a gun.
    Claire tried to remain calm. Normal people did not carry firearms. At least not in her world. She made a snap decision.
    “You know what?” Claire said quickly. “I left my car double-parked in front of Jean-Léon’s gallery. Why don’t you take me back there and I’ll follow you up to the house?” She smiled at him. “I’m going to get a ticket. Or worse, towed.”
    “You won’t get a ticket, and I’ll make sure that if you are towed, you’ll have the car delivered back to your front door.”
    Claire stared. He turned his head toward her, and their gazes locked. “Can you do that?”
    “Yes.”
    Okay, so he had connections. That was a plus. “How does one acquire a thumb knife?” she heard herself ask.
    He twisted to face her. “Well, you could steal it from a museum. Or you could have one made. Murphy’s got a big mouth. He should lay off the whiskey.”
    “Why are you trying to keep me in the dark?” Claire whispered, unable to look away from him. “Why won’t you tell me the truth?”
    Their gazes held. “I don’t want to see an innocent bystander hurt.”

    Her house looked vacant and lifelessly dull now, Claire thought, as they stepped out of the car. Ian told the driver to go get a cup of coffee.
    Claire tensed as the sedan began backing out of her driveway. “Why did you do that?” she cried, turning to face him, aghast.
    “Why are you acting as if you’re afraid of me?”
    Claire swallowed. “Why do you refuse to answer any of my questions?”
    “Are you afraid of me?”
    “Yes!”
    He stared, his eyes widening fractionally. “Well, that is just great.” He seemed very irritated now. “I sent the driver to get coffee because I am beat and I need some caffeine.”
    “Bull.”
    He smiled for the first time since she had seen him that day. “You’re cute when you curse.” He started up the walk to the house.
    Was she crazy enough to follow him? Claire decided that she was not. She stood where she was, by the drive, like a statue. “That was not a curse, by the way.”
    He tested the front door, which was locked. “Coming from you, it most certainly was.”
    Claire moved. Acutely interested now, she turned to see what he was doing.
    He didn’t look back at her. “I need the keys.”
    “I don’t have them,” she lied.
    He dipped his hand into an interior pocket and produced something long, like a pick. Claire felt her eyes bulge as he inserted the object into the lock. Was he an accomplished burglar, too, as well as a Nazi hunter? Oh, this was just too much. “Are you picking my lock?”
    “Yes, I am.” He sounded infinitely patient. Claire could not help herself, and she walked over to him.
    He slid the object from the lock and opened the door. “After you,” he said with a slight gesture.
    Claire did not precede him in. “After you,” she said firmly. She had changed her mind. This was just too rich to avoid. However, she would remain on alert, and she would keep her distance, for now.
    He stared down at her. “Are you thinking that somehow I’m involved in the murders of David and Suttill?”
    “No. What I’m actually thinking is that you killed both men, imitating some ancient espionage-ish form of murder.”
    He smiled, then he started to laugh.
    “That’s funny?” She was annoyed now.
    “Yes, it is. It’s hysterical, actually. Claire, FYI: I’ve never killed anybody. Let’s go inside.”
    He had never killed anybody. Claire hoped that was the case. But what would he do if the opposite were