Without a Trace by Nora Roberts Page B

right. I’d rather do it another way.”
    He stood up to do some pacing himself. She’d slow him down, but not by much. And if she stayed with him, he’d be able to keep an eye on her. He couldn’t deny she’d held up in Mexico. If he had to play that kind of game again, he could use her.
    “We go together; it doesn’t mean we’re partners; it means you take orders.”
    Gillian inclined her head but didn’t say anything.
    “When the time comes for me to move, you stay out of the way. I won’t be able to worry about you then.”
    “You won’t have to worry about me.” She took a deep breath. “What do we do now?”
    “First I check with Rory.” He moved to the phone. “But I have a feeling we’re catching a plane.”

Chapter 4
    Casablanca. Bogart and Bergman. Pirates and intrigue. Foggy airports and sun-washed beaches. The name conjured up images of danger and romance. Gillian was determined to accept the first and avoid the second.
    Trace had booked adjoining rooms in one of the more exclusive hotels near United Nations Square. Gillian remained silent while he spoke to the desk clerk in fluent French and was addressed as Monsieur Cabot.
    André Cabot was the name on the passport he was using now. He wore a conservative three-piece suit and shoes that had a mirror gleam. His brown-rinsed hair was a bit mussed from the drive, but he’d shaved. He stood differently, too, she noted. Ramrod straight, as though he’d come through some military academy. Even his personality had changed, she thought as she stood to the side and let him deal with the details of checking in. He’d slipped so effortlessly into the role of the brusque, slightly impatient French businessman, she could almost believe she’d lost Trace O’Hurley along the way and picked up someone else.
    For the second time she felt as if she were putting her life into the hands of a stranger.
    But the eyes were the same. A little shock passed through her when he turned and looked at her with the dark intensity she recognized but had yet to become accustomed to.
    She remained silent as Trace took her arm and led her to a bank of elevators. Gillian still wore the wig, but the glasses were gone and the drab dress was replaced by an elegant silk outfit more suited to the image of Cabot’s current mistress. Twenty stories later they were entering their suite, and he hadn’t said a word. Trace passed bills to the bellman in a slow, methodical fashion that indicated that he was a man who counted his francs.
    She expected Cabot to disappear the moment the door was closed, but instead he spoke to her in lightly accented English. “For rooms of this price, the sheets should be threaded with gold.”
    “What—”
    “See if the bar is stocked,
chérie
.” He was moving around the room, checking lamps, lifting pictures from the wall. He turned to her only briefly, with a warning glance. “I would prefer a small glass of vermouth before I have the pleasure of undressing your lovely body.” He picked up the phone, unscrewed the mouthpiece, and then, after a quick search, fastened it again.
    “Would you?” She understood he was staying in character until he was certain there was no surveillance equipment in the rooms. Though it was unnerving, she accepted it. It was only the fact that he’d portrayed his character and hers as lovers that grated. Deciding two could play, she moved to a small wet bar and opened a cabinet door.
    “I’m more than happy to fix you a drink, sweetheart.” She saw his brow lift as he checked the headboard, then the mattress. “But, as to the rest, I’m a bit tired after the flight.”
    “Then we’ll have to see what can be done to bring your energy back.” Satisfied the first room was clean, Trace walked to her. There was a long moment of silence before he accepted the glass she’d poured. “Let’s move into the next room,” he murmured, then turned and left her to follow. “Perhaps you’re not as tired as you