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Willis dropped his briefcase on the king-size bed. “Guns, Maggie. What else?” In his three-piece suit and Italian shoes, Willis looked like a completely different animal than the jungle savage. Until you looked into his empty eyes, she thought, suppressing a shudder. He snapped the locks, opening the case, and Maggie looked down with combined satisfaction and distaste.
“They’ll do,” she allowed. “Anything else?”
“Why, Maggie, one would almost think you didn’t like my company.”
“She doesn’t,” Mack said.
Willis gave him his mocking grin. “Too fucking bad, friend. I’m your contact here in Switzerland, and the only chance of help you two have.”
“If you’re our only chance of help, then we’re better off alone,” he said. “Get out.”
The smile on Willis’s face tightened for a moment, and his face grew even more skeletal. And then he was once more all mocking charm. “Sure thing, guys. You’d need me if you were going to hand Van Zandt over to us. But we all know it’s not going to come down to that, don’t we, sugar lips?” He’d turned his attention back to Maggie, pinching her cheek, and out of the corner of her eye she could see Mack move with that sudden, lightning stealth that still managed to shock her.
But she could move fast, too, and she didn’t want their hotel room turned into a battleground. She shoved Willis away, putting her body between his and Mack’s. “Good-bye, Willis. Tell them to send someone less sleazy next time. Like Jack the Ripper.”
Willis smiled, but he moved to the door. “Our paths are going to cross again, Maggie. We both know it.”
He was halfway out the door before her voice stopped him. “Willis, answer me one thing.”
“Sure thing, sweet cakes.”
“Did Consuela survive?” The memory of those dark, haunted eyes and her slender, wringing hands had haunted Maggie for the last twenty-four hours, and she simply had to know.
Willis dismissed the question with a shrug. “I doubt it. I didn’t wait around to see. What’s it to you?”
She almost moved out of the way to let Mack at him. Only her fear that the two might be evenly matched stopped her. In the end she had no choice. Mack’s hands came down on her shoulders, the fingers strong and kneading the tight muscles.
“Get the hell out of here, Willis,” he said.
Willis grinned. “I’m history, friend. For now.” And he shut the door very quietly behind him.
Maggie turned and threaded her arms around Mack, hiding her face against his shoulder. “The man,” she whispered, “is swamp scum.”
“That’s being generous,” Mack whispered back. “Now what were we doing when we were so rudely interrupted?”
The waiting, Maggie decided, was the hardest part of this entire adventure. Twenty-four hours later there was no word from Van Zandt, Willis had vanished into the sewers where he belonged, and the four walls of the hotel room were beginning to close in on them. When Dynasty dubbed in German began to look good, Maggie knew she was in trouble. It was another matter for a tube addict like Mack. He could watch anything and be reasonably entertained. But Maggie was made of sterner stuff.
“I’m just glad I didn’t have to hide out in Moab,” she said. “I think I would have gone completely mad.”
“You are completely mad, darling,” Mack said evenly, pulling his attention away from the German Carringtons. “Why don’t we get out of this place? Go for a walk, go shopping? It’s a beautiful day, and if Van Zandt arrives and we’re not here, he can damn well come back later.”
“I don’t know. As long as we’re in this room, I feel safe. Once we leave it, all bets are off.”
“It doesn’t do us much good to be safe if we’re both crazy,” he said reasonably. “And since you’ve decided sex isn’t an option, I find I’m in need of some exercise to work off my frustrations. You can come with me or you can hide out here.”
“Mack, I explained to you last night—”
“You had a dozen excuses, Maggie May,” he said dispassionately. “All very logical, rational excuses that don’t amount to a hill of beans. When it comes right down to it you’re scared to death—”
“I am not,” she shot back, pushing away from the window. “I can face Van Zandt and anything he wants to dish out without batting an eye, and you damn well know it.”
“Sure, I know it. I’m the one you can’t face, Maggie. You’re scared to death of me—no, scratch that—you’re scared to death of your feelings for me.”
“And just what do you think my feelings for you are?”
He’d snapped off the television and he stood there looking at her, his eyes dark and disappointed. “Maggie, I toured Scandinavia in the early seventies. I know as
well as anyone what jeg ilsker dig means.”
