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There was no other building nearby. Her uneasiness swelled and she instinctively crouched down in the seat as Pitt pulled the Allard to a stop under dim, yellowed lights on a tall pole.
"Where are you taking me?" she demanded.
He looked down at her as if bemused. "Why, my place, of course."
Her face took on an expression of womanly distaste. "You live in this old shed?"
"What you see is a historic building, built in 1936 as a maintenance hangar for an early airline long since demised."
He pulled a small remote transmitter from his coat pocket and punched in a code. A second later a door lifted, revealing what seemed to Maeve a yawning cavern, pitch-black and full of evil. For effect, Pitt turned off the headlights, drove into the darkness, sent a signal to close the door and then sat there.
"Well, what do you think?" he teased in the darkness.
"I'm ready to scream for help," Maeve said with growing confusion.
"Sorry." Pitt punched in another code and the interior of the hangar burst into bright light from rows of fluorescent lamps strategically set around the hangar's arched ceiling.
Maeve's jaw dropped in awe as she found herself looking at priceless examples of mechanical art. She could not believe the glittering collection of classic automobiles, the aircraft and early American railroad car. She recognized a pair of Rolls-Royces and a big convertible Daimler, but she was unfamiliar with the American Packards, Pierce Arrows, Stutzes, Cords and the other European cars on display, including a Hispano-Suiza, Bugatti, Isotta Fraschini, Talbot Lago and a Delahaye. The two aircraft that hung from the ceiling were an old Ford Tri-motor and a Messerschmitt 262 World War II fighter aircraft. The array was
breathtaking. The only exhibit that seemed out of place was a rectangular pedestal supporting an outboard motor attached to an antique cast-iron bathtub.
"Is this all yours?" she gasped.
"It was either this or a wife and kids," he joked.
She turned and tilted her head coquettishly. "You're not too old to marry and have children. You just haven't found the right woman."
"I suppose that's true."
"Unlucky in love'?"
"The Pitt curse."
She gestured to a dark blue Pierce Arrow travel trailer. "Is that where you live?"
He laughed and pointed up. "My apartment is up those circular iron stairs, or if you're lazy, you can take the freight elevator."
"I can use the exercise," she said softly.
He showed her up the ornate wrought-iron spiral staircase. The door opened into a living room-study filled with shelves stacked with books about the sea and glass encased models of ships Pitt had discovered and surveyed while working for NUMA. A door on one side of the room led into a large bedroom decorated like the captain's cabin of an old sailing ship complete with a huge wheel as a backboard for the bed. The opposite end of the living room opened into a kitchen and dining area. To Maeve, the apartment positively reeked of masculinity.
"So this is where Huckleberry Finn moved after leaving his houseboat on the river," she said, kicking off her shoes, settling onto a leather couch and curling up her legs on the cushions.
"I'm on water most of the year as it is. These rooms don't see me as often as I'd like." He removed his coat and untied his bow tie. "Can I offer you a drink?"
"A brandy might be nice."
"Come to think of it, I carried you away from the party before you had a chance to eat. Let me whip you up something."
"The brandy will-do just fine. I can gorge tomorrow."
He poured Maeve a Remy Martin and sat down on the couch beside her. She wanted him desperately, wanted to press herself into his arms, to just touch him, but inside herself she was seething with turmoil. A sudden wave of guilt swept over her as she visualized her children suffering under the brutal hand of Jack Ferguson. She could not push aside the enormity of it. Her chest felt tight, and the rest of her body, numb and weak. She ached for Sean and Michael, who were to her still babies. To allow herself to fall into a sensual adventure was little short of a crime. She wanted to scream with despair. She set the brandy on the coffee table and abruptly began to weep uncontrollably.
Pitt held her tightly. "Your children?" he asked.
She nodded between sobs. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to mislead you."
Strangely, female emotions had never been a big mystery with Pitt as with most men, and he was never confused or mystified when the tears came. He looked upon women's sometimes emotional behavior more with compassion than discomfort. "Put a woman's concern for her offspring against her sex drive, and motherly concern wins every time."
