Masquerade Read Online Free

supposed to be? Was that what had brought her here? But how could she be sure she didn't live here? The inspector claimed that she spoke English with an American accent, but she was fluent in French. The designer gown, the jewelry—it was possible she was a wealthy American living abroad, perhaps in Nice itself. After all, she knew the names of its streets, the location of a marvelous little tea shop on the Rue St. François-de-Paule, and . . . but a frequent visitor to the city might know such things too.
    If she wasn't supposed to be here, though, then where?
    Her head started to pound again. She turned from the window, absently massaging her temple.
    Inspector Armand stood inside the doorway, his relaxed stance conveying the impression that he'd been observing her for some time. She lifted her head sharply at the sight of him, her glance quickly taking in the shiny bald top of his head, the dark-gray hair shading to white at the temples, the pleasing plumpness of his features, and the keenness of his blue eyes. She hadn't heard him come in. He had slipped in quietly—like a principal slipping in to the back of a classroom to silently observe.
    "I see you are up and about today," he said, his sharp-eyed gaze continuing its assessing sweep of her. "That is good."
    She took a quick step toward him, then stopped, every muscle in her body strained taut. "Have you found out who I am?"
    "Regrettably, non. Our check of the hotels has turned up nothing. The whereabouts of all their guests have been accounted for, and no belongings have been left in any rooms, other than the normal one or two items that a departing guest might forget to pack."
    She had tried to brace herself for this answer, but it was still frustrating to hear it. "And I suppose no one answering my description has been reported missing."
    â€œNon”
    She sighed. "What now, Inspector?"
    "Now, we widen our search to include apartments, homes, villas, yachts. ..."
    "It will take time to check all those out." She looked down at her hands and the tight lacing of her fingers on the blanket, the tension, the turmoil, knotting them as it knotted her.
    "Unfortunately, a considerable amount of time."
    "I don't know if I can wait that long to find out who I am." She forced her hands to loosen their grip on the edge of the blanket. "There must be some other—quicker—way."
    "When you saw Dr. St. Clair this morning, was he able to tell you anything?"
    There was a wry pull at one corner of her mouth. "If you mean other than his opinion that the laceration to my head is healing nicely, no. But he's arranged for a specialist to see me this afternoon. A psychiatrist or psychologist, I don't remember which."
    "Perhaps he will be more helpful."
    "Perhaps." She sighed again. "If only I could remember something—anything."
    "Maybe it is more convenient not to remember."
    He suddenly had her complete attention. "What do you mean by that?" She saw the close way he was watching, observing every nuance of her reaction to this rather startling remark. "Do you think I'm faking this amnesia? Why? What would I gain by it?"
    "I have asked myself that too."
    She stared at him, stunned by the implication of his words. "My God, do you think I'm some criminal? Why haven't you run a check on me?"
    "It was one of the first things I did—merely as a matter of routine, you understand." His mouth curved in a faint, apologetic smile that took much of the sting out of his suspicion.
    "Obviously your 'routine' check didn't turn up anything, or I'd be arrested."
    "The results were negative," the inspector admitted.
    "You don't still think it's a possibility?" "In my profession it is never wise to rule out any possibility until the truth is uncovered."
    "I suppose it isn't. Right now I just wish I knew something. I am so tired of this endless circle of questions."
    "Life is a question, is it not? And we spend our whole life trying to find the answer to it." A smile made his