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She heard the key in the lock, but she didn’t dare turn. She couldn’t bear to see the sorrowful expression on Ian’s face. She didn’t know him well enough to share the suddenly unbearable emotions that were threatening to strangle her, and she clenched her fists, her short nails digging into her palms, waiting for the deadly words.
They were prosaic enough. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Randall’s unmistakable voice pierced through her fog of despair. “We’re booked on a plane to Northern Ireland tomorrow morning and you’ve probably still got a hell of a case of jet lag.”
It took her a moment to school her features. She kept her back to him, her face turned to the plate-glass window as the first waves of relief and joy washed over her. She shuddered, then turned, her face calm and unmoved.
“Where’s Holly?”
“Down in the bar with Ian, filling him in on what little we found out.”
“Then it was Champignons,” she said in a weary little voice, unable to contemplate what she had almost lost. “Do you want to tell me?”
Randall shut the door behind him, moving across the room so that he was standing much too close to her. He didn’t touch her, he didn’t need to. His very closeness was an unwanted embrace. “We got caught in the world’s worst traffic jam. We were three blocks away when the bomb blew.” He shrugged. “We were lucky.”
“Was it Flynn?”
Randall smiled, his cold, wintry smile. “Who can tell? Anybody who worked in the club, who would have seen him, has been blown to hell and back. I think it would be a reasonable assumption.”
“Reasonable,” Maggie agreed coolly. “Is Holly all right?”
“A little shaken. Andrews isn’t half bad, you know. He took one look at her pale face and immediately began to insult her. She perked right up. Last I saw them they were squabbling over brandy and chips.”
“Brandy and chips?” Maggie said faintly. “Better her than me. What time is our plane?”
“Not till eleven.” His voice was curiously gentle. “Are you all right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” She summoned up a trace of belligerence.
“Maybe you were worried about the bombing?” he suggested.
“I was worried about Holly,” she corrected. “I could give a damn about your fate, Randall.”
His smile was faintly skeptical. “Really? I hate to tell you this, Maggie, but I could see your reflection quite clearly in that plate-glass window. You were damned glad to see me. Almost tearful, as a matter of fact.”
She didn’t bother to deny it. “That’s because I knew your presence, no matter how unwelcome, meant that Holly was all right. Nothing more than that.”
“I can accept that,” he said, his voice suddenly intent. “If you’ll tell me why you suddenly decided to hate me. If you feel like imparting that piece of information I’d appreciate it.”
She stared at him for a long moment, contemplating. On impulse she spoke. “How well did you know Bud Willis?”
His eyes narrowed. “Too well. Why?”
“Did you ever hire him to do anything for you? Anything of a personal nature?” Hell, she thought, why don’t you just come right out and ask him?
Randall was standing very still, and a mask had shuttered his features. “What makes you ask that?”
“Idle curiosity. Are you going to answer me?”
“No.”
She waited. “No, you’re not going to answer me or no, you never hired him?”
“No, I’m not going to answer your question. It’s none of your damned business, Maggie.” His temper flared. “The past is the past, and raking over old mistakes is a waste of time when it’s too late to change any of it. If you don’t like the way I’ve run my life that’s your problem, not mine.”
Maggie nodded, her face cool and still. “You’re absolutely right. And I’ll take care of it, sooner or later. That’s a promise.”
“It sounds like a threat,” he said wearily.
Maggie managed a distant smile. “Take your pick, Randall.”
