Without a Trace by Nora Roberts Page A

wanted flamboyant, and she’d delivered. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why it made him angry.
    “Cheap enough for you, Monsieur Cabot?”
    “It’ll do,” he said, already at the door. “Let’s go.”
    She felt like a fool, and as far as she was concerned, she looked the part. Still, she had to remind herself she wasn’t being left behind to worry and fret while Trace went about the business of finding Flynn. Drawing a breath, Gillian told herself that if she was playing a part she should play it well.
    As they stepped out of the hotel, Gillian tucked her arm through his and leaned against him. He gave her a quick, wary look that had her smiling. “Am I supposed to be crazy about you?”
    “About my money, anyway.”
    “Oh, are you rich?”
    “Loaded.”
    She looked over her shoulder as she stepped into a cab. “Then why don’t I have any jewelry?”
    A smart aleck, he thought, and wished he didn’t like her better for it. He put his hand firmly on her bottom. “You haven’t earned it yet, sweetheart.”
    The makeup couldn’t disguise the fire and challenge that leaped into her eyes. Because he’d gotten the last word, he felt a great deal better as he settled into the cab beside her. He gave the driver an address, then turned to her. “Speak any French?”
    “Only enough to know whether I’m ordering calf’s brains or chicken in a restaurant.”
    “Just as well. Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. You’re not supposed to be too bright, in any case.”
    He was telling her to keep her mouth shut too often for her taste. “I’ve already deduced that your taste in women runs to the type in men’s magazines. Glossy and two-dimensional.”
    “As long as they don’t talk back. If you have to say anything, ditch the Irish. You’ve lived in New York long enough to have picked up the tone.”
    They were driving out of the section of the city marked by hotels and large, modern shops. Inland from the port and harbor was the old medina, the original Arab town, enclosed by walls and with a maze of narrow streets. At any other time, it would have fascinated her. She would have wanted to get out and look, smell, touch. Now it was only a place where a clue might be found.
    Trace—or Cabot, as Gillian was training herself to think of him—paid off the cab. She stepped out to look at the hodgepodge of little shops and the mix of tourists they catered to.
    The charm was there, the age, the Arab flavor. Exotic colors, open bazaars, men in robes. The avenue was shaded, the shop windows were crammed with souvenirs and silks and local crafts. The women she saw were for the most part European, unveiled and trousered. The wind was mild and carried the scents of the water, of spice and of garbage left too long.
    “It’s so different.” With her arm tucked through Trace’s again, she began to walk. “You read about such places, but it’s nothing like seeing them. It’s so … exotic.”
    He thought of the bidonville he’d visited that afternoon, the squatters’ shacks, the squalor hardly a stone’s throw away from charming streets and neat shops. A slum was a slum, whatever the language or culture.
    “We’re going in here.” Trace stopped in front of a jeweler’s with gold and silver and brightly polished gems in the window. “Smile and look stupid.”
    Gillian lifted a brow. “I’m not sure I’m that talented, but I’ll do my best.”
    The bells on the door of the shop jingled when it opened. Behind the counter was a man with a face like a burnt almond and hair growing white in patches. He glanced up and recognition came quickly into his eyes before he went back to the customers bargaining over a bracelet. Trace simply linked his hands behind his back and studied the wares in a display case.
    The shop was hardly more than ten feet by twelve, with a backroom closed off by a beaded curtain. There was music playing, something with pipes and flutes that made Gillian think of a