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She looked at him then, her face flushed and defiant. “I used to. I think I probably still do.”
He kept his face impassive, watching her. He wanted to scoop her up into his arms and carry her off to the bedroom, like a scene in a movie. He didn’t move, just watched the tension tick through her body.
“Well, I guess there’s nothing we can do now,” she said finally, when he said nothing. “What are we going to do about Alicia Stoneham?”
“We’re going to find out who’s working with her. Whether it’s Caleb McAllister or someone else, we need to know before we make our move. And we need more proof than just the word of someone at Red Glove Films.”
“How did you get him to tell you?” she asked, and he could see the curiosity burning beneath her nervousness.
He smiled a faint, wintry smile. “You don’t want to know, Maggie.”
“Maybe I don’t,” she said with a sigh.
“It’s just as well your sister isn’t here. I don’t trust your ability to be discreet. It would be just like you to blurt out everything about Caleb and Alicia, and the fewer people who know at this point the better.”
“You mean you expect me not to say anything about Alicia, either?” she demanded, outraged. “What am I supposed to tell her when she asks where I was?”
“Tell her you were in bed with me,” he suggested coolly. “Tell her we had a long passionate weekend in your New York apartment, writhing around on the living room carpet.”
The nervousness was leaving her, replaced by healthy anger. “You’re such a bastard, Randall,” she said.
“I know.” He crossed the room, took her resisting hand in his, opened it with no trouble whatsoever, and placed Kate’s note inside. His hand reached up and gently traced the bruised side of her face; his thumb brushed her cut lip. “You look like you’ve been through a war.”
She stood very still beneath his hands. And then, to his complete astonishment, a very small, very tentative smile lit her face. “You don’t look so hot yourself,” she said, raising her hand to touch the welt across his forehead.
It was all he could do not to take her then, not to pull her into his arms and make love to her until they were both exhausted. But they were both exhausted already, and he had things to do.
He couldn’t resist, though. He caught the hand that had gently touched his forehead and drew it to his mouth, kissing it with great tenderness. And then he moved away.
“Get some sleep, Maggie,” he said, ignoring the startled expression in her aquamarine eyes. “I can’t afford to have jet lag impair your efficiency.”
“No,” she said, “we wouldn’t want that.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Sleep as late as you can—there’s nothing we can do for a while.”
“Where are you going?”
“To my hotel. Unless you were going to invite me to stay?” He knew she wouldn’t, when he put it that way. And much as he wanted to, he had too many things to do to spend the night curled up against her strong, warm body.
She turned away from him. “Good night, Randall.”
Her back was straight and strong; her shoulders weren’t the slightest bit bowed under all she’d been through. He paused in the open doorway and looked back at her, and his hand clenched the knob tightly. “Maggie.”
She didn’t turn. “What?” Her voice was cool, not at all sulky.
“Don’t put on another one of Pulaski’s shirts. I’ll just have to rip it off you again.” And he shut the door before she could respond.
The shrill ring of the telephone shattered Maggie’s sleep. She moaned in her sleep, hating the nagging, insistent ringing, trying to hold on to the fast-disappearing waves of sleep. She reached out in the wide, empty bed, reached out and found no one beside her. The wave of desolation that washed over her wrenched her out of the last bits of sleep.
Still the damned phone rang. With a curse, she threw back the covers and stumbled out into the living room, past the still-burning lamps that she’d left on to defeat the darkness. When she finally reached the phone, it had stopped ringing; the dial tone that met her ear was a taunt. It took all her willpower not to pick it up and heave it through the nearest window, but willpower was something she was slowly regaining. With only the slightest bit of a slam, she replaced the phone onto its cradle, and an only slightly obscene curse left her mouth when she looked at the clock and found it was a quarter past eight in the morning: too early for her to want to get up after her global trek, too late to have any hope for more sleep.
She moved around the room and turned off the lights, shivering in the early-morning chill. The thin cotton nightgown she’d purloined from Kate’s closet provided little protection, and she headed back to her room for a sweater.
She was looking at the empty, rumpled bed with unseeing eyes when she finally realized why she was feeling so unbalanced. It wasn’t lack of sleep or jet lag. With sudden, inescapable clarity it came to her, leaving her shaken: She hadn’t woken up feeling abandoned by Mack. It was Randall’s body she’d reached for through the mists of sleep; it was Randall she wanted.
Mack’s chambray shirt met her eyes. Countless times she’d worn it for warmth, for comfort. But Mack was gone, beyo
nd her reach, beyond her sorrow. She picked up the shirt and held it in her hands, but it was only a shirt. It was no longer a talisman of the only real love she’d ever known. She dropped it back onto the bed and turned to find a cotton sweater; the increasing chill now came from inside as well as out.
