Praise for the bestselling novels of
IRIS JOHANSEN
FINAL TARGET
“A winning page-turner that will please old and new fans alike.”
—Booklist
“A fast-paced thriller in the best Johansen tradition.”
—Abilene Reporter-News
THE SEARCH
“Thoroughly gripping and with a number of shocking plot twists … [Johansen] has packed all the right elements into this latest work: intriguing characters; a creepy, crazy villain; a variety of exotic locations.”
—New York Post
“Fans of Iris Johansen will pounce on The Search. And they’ll be rewarded.”
—USA Today
THE KILLING GAME
“Johansen is at the top of her game.… An enthralling cat-and-mouse game … perfect pacing … The suspense holds until the very end.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An intense whodunit that will have you gasping for breath.”
—The Tennessean
THE FACE OF DECEPTION
“One of her best … a fast-paced, nonstop, clever plot in which Johansen mixes political intrigue, murder, and suspense.”
—USA Today
“Johansen keeps her story moving at breakneck speed.”
—The Daily Sun, Chicago
AND THEN YOU DIE
“Iris Johansen keeps the reader intrigued with complex characters and plenty of plot twists. The story moves so fast, you’ll be reading the epilogue before you notice.”
—People
Books by Iris Johansen
And the Desert Blooms
The Treasure
Touch the Horizon
Golden Valkyrie
Capture the Rainbow
A Summer Smile
Stormy Vows/Tempest at Sea
Stalemate
An Unexpected Song
Killer Dreams
On the Run
Countdown
Blind Alley
Firestorm
Fatal Tide
Dead Aim
No One to Trust
Body of Lies
Final Target
The Search
The Killing Game
The Face of Deception
And Then You Die
Long After Midnight
The Ugly Duckling
Lion’s Bride
Dark Rider
Midnight Warrior
The Beloved Scoundrel
The Magnificent Rogue
The Tiger Prince
Last Bridge Home
The Golden Barbarian
Reap the Wind
Storm Winds
The Wind Dancer
STORM WINDS
A Bantam Book/June 1991
Bantam reissue edition / September 2002
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1991 by Iris Johansen.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-76800-1
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Author’s Afterword
About the Author
ONE
Versailles, France
July 25, 1779
The emerald eyes of the golden horse looked down at her, as if he knew her every hope, her every sorrow, Juliette thought. Lips parted in a smile of fierce joy, filigree wings folded back against his body, the Pegasus stood on a tall marble pedestal in the gallery, deserted now. Juliette could hear the tinkling music of a clavichord and women singing, but she paid no attention to anything except the beautiful golden horse.
She had caught glimpses of herself in the seventeen mirrors gracing the long gallery as she’d dashed moments ago to the sheltering presence of the Pegasus. How helpless and stupid she looked with tears running down her face, she thought.
She hated to cry as much as she hated to feel helpless. Marguerite, her nurse, liked to see her cry, Juliette had realized recently. When the old woman goaded and tormented until she succeeded in making her break down and weep, she seemed to Juliette to puff up with satisfaction as if those childish tears somehow watered and nourished her. Someday, Juliette vowed, when she was a woman grown like her mother and Marguerite, she would never let anyone see her this helpless or frightened.
She ducked behind the tall pedestal, gathering her nightgown close to her shivering body and crouched on the floor, trying to hide in the shadows. Her breath coming in harsh sobs, she cradled a precious brown clay pot against her chest. She prayed Marguerite wouldn’t find her and soon would stop searching. Then she would run into the garden and find a safe hiding place for the pot in the vast beds of flowers.
She could see only a narrow slice of the long hall glittering with mirrors, the candles shimmering starlike in crystal chandeliers. Juliette had eluded Marguerite in the corridors below, but an army of footmen and at least three Swiss guards would be able to set her nurse on the right path if she stopped to inquire. She peeped cautiously around the pedestal and sighed with relief.
No Marguerite.
“I tell you I did see something, Axel.” A woman’s light voice, very close, faintly impatient. “I looked up from the clavichord and I saw … I don’t know … something.”
Juliette tensed, pressing back against the wall and holding her breath.
“I would not think of arguing with you.” A man’s amused voice. “I’m sure those blue eyes are as keen as they are beautiful. Perhaps it was a servant.”
“No, it was much closer to the floor.”
“A pup? God knows your court seems to abound with them and none of them worth a franc in the hunting field.”
A pair of white satin shoes, diamond buckles gleaming in the candlelight, appeared in Juliette’s line of vision. Her gaze traveled from the gleaming buckles to the hem of enormously wide azure satin skirts decorated with square-cut sapphires set in circlets of violets.
“It was just a glimpse, but I know—Well, what have we here?”
Sparkling blue eyes peered down into the shadows at her. The lady knelt in a flurry of satin skirts. “Here’s your puppy, Axel. It’s a child.”
Wild despair tore through Juliette. It was clear she had been found by a lady of the court. The rich gown and stylish white wig were so like her mother’s. This woman would be bound to find her mother, Juliette thought desperately. She braced he
rself, the muscles of her calves tensing to spring, her hands clutching the clay pot so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“A very small child.” The lady reached forward and gently touched Juliette’s wet cheek. “What are you doing here, ma petite? It’s almost midnight and little girls should be in bed.”
Juliette drew back, huddling against the wall.
“Don’t be frightened.” The lady drew closer. “I have a little girl too. My Marie Thérèse is only a year old, but later perhaps you and she could play together when …” The words trailed off as the lady looked down at her damp fingertips that had caressed Juliette’s cheek. “Mother of God, there’s blood on my fingers, Axel. The child’s hurt. Give me your handkerchief.”
“Bring her out and let’s have a look at her.” The man came into view, tall, handsomely dressed in a brilliant emerald-green coat. He handed the lady a spotless lace-trimmed handkerchief and knelt beside her.
“Come out, ma petite.” The lady held out her arms to Juliette. “No one is going to hurt you.”
Hurt? Juliette didn’t care about the pain. She was used to pain and it was nothing compared to the disaster facing her now.
“What’s your name?” The lady’s hand gently pushed back the riotous dark curls from Juliette’s forehead. The touch was so tender Juliette wanted to lean into it.
“Juliette,” she whispered.
“A pretty name for a pretty little girl.”
“I’m not pretty.”
“No?”
“My nose turns up and my mouth is too big.”
“Well, I think you’re pretty. You have exquisite skin and lovely brown eyes. You are such a big girl, Juliette.”
“Almost seven.”
“A great age.” The lady dabbed at Juliette’s lip with the handkerchief. “Your lip is bleeding. Did someone hurt you?”
Juliette looked away. “No, I fell against the door.”
“What door?”
“I … don’t remember.” Juliette had learned a long time before that all bruises and cuts must be explained away in this fashion. Why was the lady so interested in her? In Juliette’s experience, adults accepted any untruth that made them most comfortable.
“Never mind.” The lady held out her arms again. “Won’t you come out from behind the Wind Dancer and let me hold you? I like children. Nothing will happen to you, I promise.”
The lady’s arms were as white and plump and well-formed as those on the statues of the goddesses in the garden, although they were not as beautiful as the golden wings of the Pegasus, Juliette thought. Suddenly, though, she was drawn to those open arms as she had been drawn to the statue the lady had called the Wind Dancer.
She inched out of the shadows.
“That’s right.” The lady drew Juliette into her embrace. The scent of violets, roses, and perfumed powder surrounded Juliette. Her mother sometimes smelled of violets, Juliette thought wistfully. If she closed her eyes, perhaps she could pretend this lady holding her with such tenderness was her mother. She would run away soon but it would do no harm to stay for just another moment.
“What a sweet, shy child you are.”
Juliette knew she was not a sweet child. Marguerite always called her an obstinate spawn of the devil. The lady would find out her mistake soon enough and push Juliette away. If her own mother considered her too wicked to be pleasing, she would not be able to deceive a stranger for any length of time.
A mirrored door next to the statue was thrown open, and a burst of laughter and music entered the gallery along with a woman.
“Your Majesty, we miss your lovely voice in our harmonies.”
Her mother!
Juliette stiffened and burrowed her head in the lady’s powdered shoulder.
“In a moment, Celeste. We have a small problem here.”
“May I help? What pro—Juliette!”
“You know this child?” The lady stood up, still holding Juliette by the hand. “It seems she’s in great distress.”
“Juliette is my daughter.” Celeste de Clement came forward, her exquisitely shaped mouth tight with displeasure. “Forgive her, Your Majesty, she’s not usually so naughty and uncontrolled. I’ll send for her nurse who must be searching the palace for her.”
“I’ll go, Your Majesty.” The handsome man rose to his feet, smiled, bowed. “It’s my pleasure to serve you.” He paused. “Always.”
“Thank you, Count Fersen.” A faint smile on her lips, the lady’s gaze followed him as he turned and strode down the hall. When he vanished from sight she looked again at Juliette. “I think we must find out why she’s so unhappy, Celeste. Why were you hiding, child?”
Your Majesty. This lady was the queen? Juliette swallowed. “Marguerite said she was going to take away my paints.”
Marie Antoinette looked down at her. “Paints?”
Juliette held out her clay pot. “I have to have my paints. She cannot take them away.” Tears of helplessness and anger began to well in her eyes again. “I won’t let her do it. I’ll run away and hide them where she’ll never find them.”
“Hush.” Her mother’s voice was harsh. “Have you not shamed me enough with your behavior?” She turned to the queen. “My father gave her an artist’s brush and that pot of red paint when we visited him in Andorra and the child does nothing but cover every scrap of parchment in our apartments with her daubs. I told Marguerite to take them away from her so she wouldn’t disfigure your beautiful walls.”
“I’d never do that.” Juliette looked pleadingly at Marie Antoinette. “I want to paint splendid pictures. I wouldn’t waste my paint on your walls.”
Marie Antoinette burst into laughter. “That relieves me exceedingly.”
“She’s done nothing but wander about the palace, gazing at the paintings and sculptures, since we arrived here at Versailles a fortnight ago.” A veil of tears turned Celeste’s blue-violet eyes moistly brilliant. “I know she’s unruly, but since my dear Henri was taken from me I fear I’ve neglected her supervision. It’s not easy being a woman alone in the world.”
The queen’s expression softened as she looked at Celeste. “I, too, am a woman who knows the trials of being a mother.” She reached out and took Celeste’s hand in both her own and raised it to her cheek. “We’ll have to endeavor to make things easier for you, my dear Celeste.”
“Your Majesty is too kind.” Celeste smiled sweetly through her tears. “Indeed, it’s enough reward to be allowed to be close to you. After all, I’m not even of French birth. I’d heard Spaniards were not popular at Versailles, and I never imagined when I came to court that the honor of being near you would be accorded me.”
How did her mother manage to keep the tears misting her eyes? Why did they not spill over and run down her cheeks? Juliette had noticed this many times before and it baffled her.
“I was a foreigner also when I came here as a bride from Austria. Both you and I became French when we married.” Marie Antoinette pressed an affectionate kiss on Celeste’s palm. “It is but one more bond between us. Our court is infinitely richer for your enchanting presence, Celeste. We would have been devastated if you’d chosen to stay in that horrid château in Normandy.”
The two women exchanged a glance of intimate understanding before the queen reluctantly released Celeste’s hand.
“And now I think we must do something to dry your daughter’s tears.” She dropped to her knees again, grasped Juliette’s shoulders, staring at her with mock sternness. “I do think such a passionate love for beauty should be rewarded, but your mother is right. A paintbrush should be allowed in the hands of a child only under a careful eye. I shall have my friend, Elizabeth Vigée Le Brun, give you lessons. She’s a splendid artist and very kind as well.”
Juliette gazed at the queen in disbelief. “I may keep my paint?”
“Well, you could hardly create pictures without it. I’ll send you more paints and canvases and I’m sure someday you shall paint many splendid treasures for me.”
The queen ruffled Juliette’s curls. “But you must meet one condition.”
Disappointment made Juliette almost ill. It wasn’t going to happen. She should have known the queen was toying with her. Grown-ups seldom told the truth to children. Why should this lady be any different?
“Don’t look so tragic.” Marie Antoinette chuckled. “I ask only that you promise to be my friend.”
Juliette went still. “Your … friend?”
“Is that so impossible a task?”
“No!” Her heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely breathe. Paints, canvas, a friend. It was too much. For a brief moment she felt as if she were soaring up to the high-arched ceiling. Quickly she hurtled back to earth. “You probably won’t want to be my friend for long.”
“Why not?”
“I say things people don’t like.”
“Why do you say things people don’t like when you know they’ll be upset with you?”
“Because it’s stupid to tell lies.” Juliette met the queen’s gaze, and her voice held desperation as she continued. “But I’ll try to be whatever you want me to be. I’ll be so good, I promise.”
“Shh, I have no desire for anything but your honesty.” The queen’s voice was suddenly weary. “There’s little enough of that commodity in Versailles.”
“Ah, here’s Marguerite.” Celeste’s voice sounded relieved. But Juliette winced at the sight of the tall, black-gowned figure of Marguerite Duclos, escorted by the handsome man the queen had called Axel.
Celeste took Juliette’s hand. “My dear child must be put to bed. I’m sure your kindness has excited her until it will be impossible for her to sleep. I shall return as quickly as possible, Your Majesty.”
“Do hurry.” Marie Antoinette patted Juliette’s cheek but her gaze was already fixed dreamily on Axel. “I think we shall play a game of backgammon before we retire.”
“An excellent idea.” Celeste pulled Juliette the few paces to where Marguerite waited at a respectful distance from the queen.
Her mother was still angry, Juliette realized. Yet she was so full of joy, she could not worry. Paints, canvas, and a friend!
“You incompetent fool,” Celeste whispered to Marguerite as she released Juliette into the nurse’s custody. “If you cannot raise my daughter to display some semblance of meekness and decorum, I shall send you back to Andorra and find someone who can do so.”