Except this was his business, and no matter how he looked at it, he only had one choice. To find the man who'd killed his wife. Tomorrow he would start again.

Alone.

He jerked upright and realized he'd dozed against the window frame. The luminous dial on his watch showed two o'clock. Outside, the night was peaceful, still, appropriate to this idyllic village. Houston snorted at the irony. He stayed beside the window long enough to see a man come through the misty trees in the park. The man who wore the lilac-scented talc.u.m, Houston realized, dressed formally again, returning late again. The man did not seem drunk this time, and Houston wondered idly where he'd been that he was coming back this late. But despite his eighteen-hour sleep, he still felt wearied by his disappointment, and he let the man slip from his consciousness. He stumbled toward the bed.

The sheets were cool and crisp. He slipped his clothes off and crawled under the covers. His head sank on the pillow, and he snuggled on the welcome mattress, soft yet firm, so different from the chair on which he'd slept two nights ago.

The memory disturbed him. It brought back the pain Simone's decision caused, the loneliness she made him feel. He fought to shut her from his mind. He counted backward from one hundred, never reaching seventy-five.

An instinct wakened him, a premonition. He blinked in the darkness. He'd been dreaming of the man with lilac-scented talc.u.m powder, and he realized that what had wakened him had been a noise.

A sc.r.a.ping. Metal scratching metal. Houston didn't move. From where he lay, he scanned the blackness of the room.

The door first. He had locked it. Someone might be picking it. No, he was wrong.

The sound was somewhere else. A killer wouldn't risk discovery picking at a hallway lock. Most guests would be asleep, but one of them returning late the man with lilac talc.u.m might ask questions.

The man with lilac talc.u.m. Houston's mind began to race. The man had been here every time that trouble happened. Consistently he was in the pattern.

Houston sat up, straining toward the window. But there wasn't any balcony. No ledge gave access to the window. Where then? Where the h.e.l.l was that faint sc.r.a.ping sound coming from?

His stomach cramped. His hands began to shake. And then he realized the door between this room and the adjacent one! Not one door! Two of them! The door on that side could be opened easily. But Houston had locked his own side, and now someone in the other room was picking at the lock. No late-returning guest would interrupt. The killer would have all the secrecy he needed.

The shadow of the door began to move. Houston had no weapon. He was naked, helpless in the dark. He had no chance. He breathed in, preparing to shout.

And stopped himself. A shout wouldn't bring help in time. It would only alarm the killer, forcing him to act quickly. Houston pressed his head down on the pillow. If the killer used a knife, he'd have to come up close, and Houston could grab him.

And do what? The man was surely trained, while Houston wasn't used to fighting.

His hands were paralyzed with fear. His arms felt numb.

He squinted, confident that from this distance, in the dark, the killer couldn't see or know that Houston was awake. The door was fully open now, but the adjacent room was dark. Houston saw only a shadow stalking toward him.

Crouching. Cautious. Taking care to do this properly. No gunshot to alarm the guests. A knife would do the trick. Or maybe Houston would be smothered like the priest.

The figure crept up to the bed. It studied Houston. Though his lungs burned, aching, Houston kept his stomach rigid, breathing slowly, feigning sleep. A hand reached toward him.

Now! And Houston lunged. He landed on top of the figure, pushing down, trailing sheets, entangling both of them. They struggled on the floor. He cursed and fought to grab the knife. A knee jabbed sharply at his groin. He moaned and strained to keep from doubling up. He gripped the killer's throat.

"Pete, stop it!" He kept strangling. "No, Pete!" In the dark, the voice was hoa.r.s.e, grotesque. "No! You're hurting me!" He froze, gasping. Instantly, he released his hands. "Simone!" "My throat."

"Oh, Jesus." Houston stumbled to his feet and helped her stand. He groped to turn the bedlight on. She swallowed, ma.s.saging her welted throat. She wore a shirt and jeans now. Her left cheek was swollen. She blinked rapidly, in pain.

"My G.o.d, I nearly killed you!" Houston said. She slumped across the bed, rubbing at her neck. The sheets were on the floor. Houston suddenly felt cold.

And naked. He was standing close before her with no clothes on. Fumbling, he picked up the sheets and wrapped them over him. He draped a long end past his shoulder. She laughed. "What?" he said. "You look so foolish," she said. "So ridiculous."

"You scared me half to death."

"My father took the other key. I couldn't get in through the hallway door."

"You could have knocked, for Christ's sake."

"Suppose somebody saw me? Or my father? No, I found the key that fit the room next door."

He clutched the sheets around him. Once again, she laughed. "The key got stuck in the connecting door."

"You could have knocked on that door."

"That's the joke. I didn't want to wake you. Hey, I'm laughing at the both of us, not you alone. This whole thing's ridiculous. Those sheets." She pointed, giggling. "You look so undignified." Tears rolled down her cheeks.

He couldn't stop himself. He glanced down at the rumpled sheets and imagined what he looked like his embarra.s.sment, his indignation. Laughter grew within him. Relieved, he let it out. He slumped across the bed, laughing until his stomach ached. Tears streamed down his own face.

"Jesus, what a pair," he groaned. "And why was it so urgent, so important that you couldn't wait, that you decided to break in here?"

She stopped laughing. Now her face was childlike, her eyes afraid.

Abruptly Houston understood. "No."

"Pete, I "

"No," he told her.

She looked shamed. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need."

"I thought . . . Forget it."

"Tell me."

"If I went to bed with you, I thought you'd understand how much I want to be with you. I told you what my father said. That doesn't mean I agree with him. I had to translate for him, had to let him have his say."

"You didn't argue with him."

"Not in front of you. He would have been insulted."

"You're not giving up?"

She firmly shook her head.

"You're going back with me?" He sat up straight. "To Ron-cevaux?"

"To anywhere. I couldn't let you go. I need you. Dammit, I'm in love with you."

"Don't say that." She looked stunned. "Don't say it. No." He closed his eyes. He shook.

Chapter 27.

They left at dawn. She slipped a note beneath her father's door to tell him not to worry, that she'd phone him and explain, but that she couldn't hide forever.

She and Houston had no other choice.

But as they drove Pete used a different route and kept looking at his rearview mirror they were strangely quiet. As their silence lengthened, as the narrow road curved sharply through the tree-lined hilly countryside, they fidgeted self-consciously, were strained and ill at ease.

"There's something wrong," she said. "What is it?"

Houston shook his head from side to side, avoiding her.

"That isn't fair," she said. "Be honest with me."

Houston clenched the steering wheel. "It's not your problem."

"Anything involving you concerns me. Please, don't shut me out. I don't deserve that."

Houston bit his lip until it hurt. "I'll be fine. I have to think things through."

"Last night?" she asked.

He nodded.

"What I tried to do with you?" she said.

Again he nodded. "My wife . . . Look, let's not talk about it. I don't want to hurt you."

"And you won't. I wasn't lying. I meant it when I said I love you." She held up a hand. "Let me finish. I was rushing things. I knew that. And I knew there'd be complications. But I took the risk. I had to. It was always on my mind. I had to show you."

"I'm not blaming you."

"But let me ask a question. Did you love your wife?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"That's not a good enough answer. Tell me. Were you in love with her, or was your marriage just a habit?"

Houston's voice was strained. "I loved her."

"Would she have expected you to spend your whole life grieving for her? To be always loyal to the point where you behaved as if you still were married? To avoid another woman?"

"No. She'd probably be angry."

"Then be loyal to her memory. Respect it. Cherish what you had with her. Believe me, I'm not in compet.i.tion with her. I don't want you to forget her. I want to share you."

Houston sighed. His eyes ached with tears.

"Pete, we could die today, tonight, tomorrow. But at least we'd be together.

We'd have shared the moments that were given to us."

"Don't you understand? I am attracted to you. I don't want to be. I only want to mourn for Jan."

She stared at him.

"All I want to do is find her killer. I don't have a right to be attracted to you."

In response she simply touched his hand.

Chapter 28.

They'd never been to Bellay's office, having met him in the squad room, so when they walked inside that room but didn't see him they went over to the first of seven desks to ask an overweight policeman where Bellay was.

The policeman's response in French was so disturbing that Simone faced Houston in alarm. "He doesn't have an office," she said. "He's not even stationed here."

"That's wrong. He said he was a.s.signed to us because he'd understand my English."

"He's from Paris."

"Yes, he told us that. He said some years ago in Paris he had dealings with the British."

'But it wasn't several years ago," she said. "This cop says Bellay arrived from Paris on the day of the explosion. You remember? We were taken to Emergency. We waited. We were brought here, and we waited some more.

Then Bellay showed up. There was an interval of several hours."

Houston's temples throbbed.

"That gave him time to hurry here from Paris. He was sent here, Pete. He came because of us, because of the explosion. He knew more than what he told us. He was testing us."

The policemen in the room turned to stare at them. Everyone was silent.

Houston glanced at them. Simone raised a hand as if to touch her mouth.

But something stopped her. From the door. "So you came back," a man said, his voice so deep, so sonorous that Houston felt it vibrate.

They whirled toward him in surprise.

Bellay stood in the open doorway, one hand on the doorjamb. He was as well dressed as before, a brown suit this time, with a vest, the pants pressed neatly, the cut perfect. He watched them ironically, his eyebrows raised, his head c.o.c.ked slightly, questioning. His short dark hair was neatly combed.