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She shook her head. “I wouldn’t go that far. We’ve been involved in a number of joint ventures in the three years I’ve worked for Third World Causes, and he’s always been helpful. I just have a bad feeling about him, so I keep my distance whenever I can.”
“Does he know you don’t like him?”
“Of course. Jeffrey Van Zandt has to have everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. You should know that; you’re his friend.”
“Not his friend. An acquaintance. He was simply at the right place at the right time when I needed someone to turn to.”
“Was he?” She slid up higher in her seat, shifting her long legs. “How coincidental.”
“Stop being cryptic, Maggie. I thought you said you trusted him.”
“You weren’t listening. I said I didn’t think Peter was wrong to trust him. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”
Mack cast an appraising glance over her lean, strong body. “Given the fact that Van Zandt is at least three inches shorter than you, that might be quite a ways indeed.”
“Don’t quibble. If I really thought he was a danger, I wouldn’t take you anywhere near him. I’m sure he’s just an oily, manipulative civil servant. As long as we’re useful to him he’ll be useful to us. When that time passes he’ll be history, and we won’t have to worry about it.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. I don’t like the idea of walking into a trap.”
“You won’t be. It’s all very simple—we check in to the hotel and wait for Peter to be in touch. Only Peter and I know the names we’re going to be registering under, only Peter and I know where we’re planning to meet. We just sit and wait in our room, watch a little TV, order champagne from room service, use the sauna. Everything will be fine.”
“Why does it sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, Maggie May? I trust you.”
“Yeah,” she said gloomily, looking at the huge, sprawling city through the shimmering haze of heat surrounding them. “I just wish I could trust myself.”
“Okay, Maggie.” Mack dropped down on one of the two king-sized beds that took up only a quarter of the space of their hotel room. “What next?”
Maggie was staring out at the city around them, trying to ignore the shiver that ran up her backbone, telling herself it was only the air-conditioning. The Travers Hotel was one of the newer, fancier, larger buildings among a great many new, fancy, large buildings in downtown Houston. It combined a world-class hotel, the American headquarters of Travers Petroleum, and twelve floors rented at a phenomenal price to various corporations that could afford the prestige. One of those corporations was the nonprofit Third World Causes, Ltd., whose space was rent-free, a convenient tax write-off for Travers Petroleum that aided them in their quest to pay zero income tax. A quest that had met with success three out of the last four years.
She turned back to Mack. He looked hot and sweaty and rumpled, but he also looked damned sexy, she had to admit. It was probably just as well this little excursion was almost over.
“What I want most of all is a bath and a change of clothes,” she said. “And then a nap.”
“Sounds good. Where are we going to find the clothes?”
“There are boutiques on the second and third balconies of this monstrosity of a hotel. You want me to find something for you too?” She grabbed her wallet and headed toward the door.
He made no move to get off the bed. “That’d be nice. I think I’ll go for the nap first. Pants are thirty-two, thirty-four, shirt large, no polyester or double knit.”
“Aw, c’mon, Pulaski. A powder-blue leisure suit would be just the ticket.”
He raised his head long enough to glower at her. “You buy it, you wear it, Maggie May.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, glanced at her watch, and grimaced. “It’s a quarter of five. Don’t answer the phone. I’ll be back within an hour.”
“I won’t answer the phone,” he replied sleepily, and she watched his eyes drift closed above his stubbled face. Very sexy indeed, she thought dismally. And she needed to run, as fast and as far as she could. She wasn’t ready for this, for him, for the odd, tender, unexpected longings and emotions that were cropping up.
Of course he wouldn’t have been half as sexy in a polyester leisure suit, if they even still made such things, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It took her half an hour to buy him khakis, a field shirt, socks, and turquoise Calvin Klein briefs, another ten minutes for a beige cotton jumpsuit for herself and the toiletries they’d need to get them through the next twenty-four hours. Then she was off to Peter Wallace’s office on the thirteenth floor.
It was almost six o’clock, and the long, wide hallways were deserted, the offices shut tight. No one worked late in Houston, at least not on a hot summer’s evening. Third World Causes, Ltd. was at the end of the broad corridor, and Maggie moved with caution, her running shoes silent on the thick smoke-colored carpet that lined the hallway. She was being neurotic and paranoid, she told herself, clutching her noisy paper bags beneath her arm. And why the hell did she hate guns so much? She would have felt a lot happier having one tucked in her belt at that very moment.
There was nothing to worry about—Peter probably wasn’t even in Houston yet. He’d call as soon as he got in, and then he’d tell her what to do with Mack. And she’d be able to turn her back and head to L.A. with a clear conscience, a sigh of relief, and more than a trace of regret.
The heavy oak door, with its raised brass lettering, was open just a tiny crack, and all Maggie’s doubts rushed back tenfold. With as much stealth as she could manage, she pushed the door open. It moved back silently, on well-oiled hinges, displaying a tableau that would haunt her nightmares for years to come.
Peter Wallace was lying on the red carpet. Except that the carpet was pale beige—it was only red surrounding his body. Blood was everywhere, covering his torso, his arms and legs, his face. It even reached the man leaning over him, staining his hands and shirt.
Mack looked up into her horrified face. He had a gun in his hand, a large, nasty-looking thing, and there was blood on that too. The two of them stared at each other for a long, breathless moment, and Maggie wondered whether she should scream, run, or try to kick the gun out of his hand. She did none of the three. She just stood there, clutching the bags in her nerveless hands.
