Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(19)

“I’m so sorry,” he said smoothly. “Wrong room.”

Back in the waiting room, the receptionist glared at him.

“As I was saying, I’m afraid Dr. McBride’s on holiday.”

“Where?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“WHERE?” Jeff bellowed.

The girl crumbled. “Morocco. With his family.”

So he has a family, does he? Bastard.

“When will he be back?”

The receptionist regained her composure. “I must ask you to leave now, sir. This is a doctor’s office, and you’re upsetting our patients.”

“Tell McBride I’ll be back,” said Jeff. “This isn’t over.”

Outside, he walked along Harley Street in a daze. Where are you, Tracy? Where in God’s name are you? He took a cab to Eaton Square as he did every day, just in case Tracy had decided to return to the house. His heart soared when he saw a woman standing in the front garden, bending low over the rosebushes, but as he approached he saw that it wasn’t Tracy.

“Can I help you?”

The woman turned around. She was in her early forties, blond and had the sort of hard, overly made-up face and heavily lacquered hair that Jeff usually associated with newscasters.

“Who are you?” she asked him rudely.

“I’m Jeff Stevens. This is my house. Who are you?”

Newscaster lady handed him a business card. It read: Helen Flint. Partner, Foxtons.

“You’re a real estate agent?”

“That’s right. A Mrs. Tracy Stevens has instructed me to put this property on the market. My understanding was that she is the sole legal owner. Is that not correct?”

“No. It’s correct,” said Jeff, his heart beating faster. “The house is in Tracy’s name. When did she instruct you to sell it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“This morning,” Helen Flint replied briskly. Pulling out a house key from her Anya Hindmarch handbag, she began unlocking the front door. Now that Jeff had confirmed the fact that he wasn’t a co-owner, he’d become an irritation.

“Did you see her?” Jeff asked. “In person?”

Ignoring him, the agent punched in a code to turn off the alarm and walked into the kitchen, taking notes. Jeff followed.

“I asked you a question,” he said, grabbing her by the elbow. “Did my wife come to your offices this morning?”

Helen Flint looked at him as if he were something unpleasant that was stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “Let go of me or I’ll call the police.”

Jeff did as she asked. “I’m sorry. It’s just that my wife’s been missing for more than two weeks. I’ve been terribly worried about her.”

“Yes, well. Your personal problems are none of my business. But in answer to your question, your wife instructed me by telephone. We haven’t met.”


“Did she say where she was calling from?” asked Jeff.

“No.”

“Well, did she leave a number, at least?”

“She did not. I have an e-mail address. She said that would be the best way to contact her.” On the back of another card, the agent scribbled something down. “Now, if you don’t mind, Mr. Stevens, I really must get on.”

Jeff looked at the card. His heart plunged for a second time. It was a Hotmail address, generic and untraceable.

“If she contacts you again, Miss Flint, please ask her to get in touch with me. It’s really very important.”

The real estate agent gave Jeff a look that clearly translated as Not to me it isn’t.

Jeff went back to Gunther’s.

“At least you know she’s alive and well.” Gunther tried to get Jeff to look on the bright side at dinner.

“Alive and well and selling our house,” said Jeff. “She’s dismantling our life together, Gunther. Without even talking to me. That’s not fair. That’s not the Tracy I know.”

“I suspect she’s still very hurt.”

“So am I!”

It pained Gunther to see Jeff fighting back tears.

“I have to find her,” he said eventually. “I have to. There must be something I’ve missed.”

REBECCA MORTIMER WAS GETTING ready for bed when the doorbell to her apartment rang.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.” Jeff Stevens’s gruff, gravelly voice on the other side of the door made her heart skip a beat. “Sorry to come by so late. It’s important.”

Rebecca opened the door.

“Jeff! What a lovely surprise.”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

He followed her into a living room littered with half-drunk cups of coffee and books on Celtic manuscripts. Rebecca’s hair was wet from the shower and the nightshirt she was wearing clung in places to her still-damp skin. Jeff tried not to notice the way it rode up when she sat down on the sofa, exposing the smooth, supple skin of her upper thighs.

“The disk you gave me,” said Jeff. “The footage of Tracy with McBride. Where did you get it?”

For a moment Rebecca looked nonplussed. Then she said, “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”