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“Yes, ma’am,” she said, stepping into the filmy silk. The phone shrilled in the flowery dressing room. “Will you get that?”
With a grimace Kate stomped across the room, yanked the phone off the hook, and snarled into the receiver. “Yes?”
“This is Lieutenant Miller of the L.A.P.D. Is Holly Benne
tt there?”
Randall woke with a start. It was early afternoon, but the jet lag of almost twenty hours’ flying time had finally taken its toll. He must be getting old, he thought, sitting up and staring down at his rumpled suit with a moue of distaste. Ten years ago jet lag had been an infirmity of lesser mortals. He’d fought it, refusing to give in to the weakness when he’d let himself in to his musty-smelling house at nine this morning, but it had crept up on him, knocking him into a deep, nightmare-ridden sleep on his admittedly comfortable sofa.
He reached up to push his straight black hair away from his face, and felt the stubble of his day-old beard. He needed coffee, he needed a shave and shower and fresh clothes, he needed something to eat. But most of all he needed Maggie Bennett.
He hadn’t even gotten around to airing out the place. He hated the smell of closed-up places—they reminded him of death and wasted lives. First things first, he decided, pulling himself out of the comfortable arms of the sofa. Open windows, to let in the chill December air of Washington, to chase away the cobwebs and gloom. Then take care of his physical needs. And then find Maggie. And this time, God help him—this time he wasn’t going to let her go.
He heard his phone ringing while he was in the shower. He let it ring, in no particular hurry to face the real world again. No one knew he was back, no one except the Agency, and he was never, ever going to do anything for them again. They could ring until hell froze over.
Which might be soon, he thought, stepping from the shower and feeling the icy December wind whip around his flesh. Maybe the house was aired out enough. Washington was due for snow flurries that night, and he was worn out enough to be courting pneumonia if he wasn’t careful. At this point he couldn’t afford to let anything delay him from getting to Maggie.
Four months should be enough time, he thought, pulling on fresh clothes. Four months to realize she needed him as much as he needed her. Unless she’d used that time to build her defenses up again. Well, he’d torn them down before, he could do it again. And again, and again, until she couldn’t fight him any longer.
Time and again he’d played that final scene over in his memory. “Do you love me?” she’d asked, giving him one last chance. And like a fool he’d answered “No.”
He could have lied. But Maggie was too smart for that—she would have seen through any act he tried to put on. He’d never loved anyone in his life, not the way he understood love. Love was unselfish, caring, generous, open and sunny. The emotions he felt for Maggie were dark and dangerous, not the kind of love she knew, not the kind of love she wanted from him. If, indeed, she wanted his love at all. Right now he wasn’t even sure of that.
The phone began ringing again as he was knotting his black silk tie with automatic dexterity. He stared at it for a moment, hesitating, then shrugged. He didn’t need to hide from anyone. He’d almost look forward to the chance to tell Bud Willis’s successor what he could do with his latest project.
But it wasn’t the CIA, or any other government agency. It was Mike Jackson, head of Third World Causes, Ltd., Maggie Bennett’s boss. And Randall heard his gruff voice with an instant sense of foreboding.
“Where the hell have you been, Carter?” he demanded. “No one had the faintest idea where you were.”
“I’m here.”
“So I notice. Listen, I thought you’d want to know this as soon as possible. It’s about Maggie.”
“What?” The one word held a wealth of meaning, emotions that Randall wouldn’t have even admitted existed a few months ago.
“Not her, precisely. Her damned mother,” Jackson said, and Randall felt his pulse return back to normal and his heartbeat slow its heavy thudding.
“What about her damned mother?”
Maggie settled into the unaccustomed luxury of the first-class seats and fastened her seat belt. Her hands were pale, sweating, with a slight tremor that too much coffee didn’t help. First-class air flight came equipped with lots of free-flowing booze, didn’t it? Maybe she’d drink her way to L.A.
No, she couldn’t afford to do that. She needed all her wits about her when the plane landed. Once again her own needs had to be put on hold. Sybil was dying.
No, maybe it wasn’t that bad. The L.A. police hadn’t known enough of the medical details, and it had taken too long to try to get through to the hospital. But Lieutenant Miller had known more than enough about the criminal background of the case.
Tim Flynn wasn’t a soccer player after all. For once Sybil’s histrionics had been based on fact. Timothy Seamus Flynn was a notorious member of the most virulent faction of the IRA. Along with the numerous bombings, assassinations, and terrorist attacks he’d been responsible for, he had a peculiar sideline. He helped raise money, both for himself and his cause, in a particularly gruesome way: by seducing rich older women, taking their money, and leaving them for dead in their mansions and condominiums.
He’d done it all over the world, and had almost a dozen, more or less, to his credit. Sybil was only the latest in a long line. But she wasn’t dead yet.
Maggie’s damp hands clenched the thickly padded armrest, and she forced herself to release it, taking deep, calming breaths. Intensive care, the lieutenant said. Deep coma, uncertain outcome, they’re doing everything they can. Ominous phrases ringing in her head, bringing forth hopeless images. Why the hell hadn’t she called Sybil back?
But she knew why. For once in her life she’d given in to her own weaknesses, turned her back on her family, and concentrated on her own miseries. She simply hadn’t wanted to hear Sybil moaning about her miserable love life—a love life that underwent drastic overhauls every five months.
But this was the one time she couldn’t afford to dismiss Sybil’s theatrics. This time Sybil’s very life had depended on her, and Maggie had ignored the cry for help. The knowledge of that would follow her to her grave.
She leaned back in her seat, remembering the brief telephone conversation. Flynn was long gone, Lieutenant Miller said. And he didn’t sound hopeful about catching up with him. Flynn had gotten away too many times, and the damnable thing was that no one had ever seen the man. Not seen him and lived to identify him. They had nothing more than a vague identification and the probable knowledge that he’d headed back for Ireland.
Of course he had Sybil’s jewels. Three and a half decades of high living and rich lovers and husbands had left her with an impressive collection, but they wouldn’t slow Flynn down. The jewels themselves were priceless—their settings could be disposed of with only a minor loss of value and the stones cut up. The police wouldn’t be tracing him through the loot.
