by Anne Stuart
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.
How would they be tracing him? No, scratch that, she thought as the huge silver plane lifted into the Long Island night. How was she going to trace him? The L.A. police had given up before even starting, and she knew far too well the restrictions placed on tracking down international criminals. The only way she could face what she was going to find in L.A., the only way she could deal with her guilt at not listening to her mother’s cry for help, was to concentrate on how she was going to find Tim Flynn. She’d spent the last four months planning a bloody revenge for Randall Carter—she could simply switch her target. Once Flynn was taken care of she could turn her attention back to her nemesis.
She’d read somewhere that one killed the thing one loved best. Well, she didn’t love Randall Carter, and she probably wouldn’t kill him. With any luck Tim Flynn would serve as surrogate. And when she brought him down she could bury Randall Carter with him.
It was a hope, probably a vain one, but the best she could do for now. Turning her face into the blackness of the early December evening, she watched the rain streaking down the thick windows of the 747. And if tears streaked down her face, mirroring the rain, she didn’t even notice.
two
“The question is, what are we going to do about it?” Maggie’s voice was calm, betraying none of the emotion churning underneath it. She turned away from the window overlooking the hospital parking lot and faced her three sisters, accepting her role with only a trace of regret. She’d hoped to break free of their needs, of everyone’s needs but her own, but now wasn’t the time. Not with Sybil lying so very close to death just three doors down.
“I don’t see what we can do about it,” Kate said. “The doctors are doing everything they can for Mother, the police on three continents are looking for Flynn. What can we do that they can’t?”
“For some reason the police don’t inspire me with confidence,” Maggie said. “What about you, Holly?”
“I think they figure it’s a lost cause,” Holly murmured from her seat by the humming coffee machine. She was still wearing her aqua silk dress, and despite the worry in her turquoise eyes, she looked beautiful enough to stop most doctors and even half the nurses as they bustled on their rounds. “Lieutenant Miller took statements from all of us, but of course we weren’t able to tell him much. And if Sybil survives that brutal beating and her knife wounds, it’ll be weeks before she’s in any shape to be questioned. By that time he’ll be so far gone that there’ll be no chance of ever finding him.”
“Exactly. If he’s going to be found it’s got to be right away. And I don’t think we can count on anyone to do it for us,” Maggie said, running a ringless hand through her short-cropped hair.
“What do you suggest we do?” Kate demanded. “Pull a Charlie’s Angels routine, I dump the baby and we all head after the murdering bastard? We did it once, in Chicago, but I don’t think our luck is going to hold.”
“No,” Maggie said, squashing down the fresh wave of nausea that swept over her at the antiseptic hospital smell. Ever since she’d stepped inside the huge building she’d had to fight the memories that had swamped her, of another hospital four months ago, another intensive care unit, another human being dying and taking her peace of mind with him. She shook her head, forcing the memories away. “I don’t think this should be a group effort. I’ll do better alone this time. And Sybil will need you here when she comes around.”
“If she comes around,” Jilly sai
d quietly.
Maggie turned to look at her youngest sister. Jillian Bennett Malcolm was only twenty-five and looked years younger, with her large aquamarine eyes, her pale, pretty face, her gentle manner. She was the daughter of the husband Sybil had always referred to as the great love of her life, probably because he’d died in a plane crash before she could tire of him, Maggie thought cynically. Surely a middle-aged British doctor and a flamboyant, much-married Hollywood actress couldn’t have much in common during the long haul. But Sybil had mourned for two years, her only stretch of celibacy as far as Maggie could remember, and Jilly had received more of Sybil’s sporadic maternal devotion than her other three daughters combined. Which still wasn’t much.
If Maggie was the strong one, Kate the practical one, and Holly the pretty one, then Jilly was the sweet one. She lacked her sisters’ sharp tongues, she lacked Kate’s drive and Maggie’s fierce independence. And she lacked Holly’s self-absorption. She’d followed in her father’s medical footsteps, training and working as a nurse-midwife in an impoverished section of the Northwest, devoting her life to the needy. Her three sisters looked at her with mingled guilt and affection.
“You don’t think she’ll make it?” Kate said finally, breaking the silence.
“There’s no way to tell. She’s in rough shape, but people have survived worse. They’ve also died of much, much less. It’s in the hands of God.”
The three older sisters immediately looked even more uncomfortable. Jilly was also the only one of them who believed in a higher power. Granted, Jilly’s God was a benevolent, liberal force for good in the world and not a fundamental judge and jury demanding blind obedience to a limited set of values, but faith hadn’t had much space in the sisters’ upbringing and had no space at all in their adult life.
“And in the hands of the doctors,” Kate added defiantly.
“And in the hands of the doctors,” Jilly agreed.
“So we’re back to the same question,” Holly said, stretching out her long legs in an instinctively graceful gesture. “What are we going to do about it?”
Maggie took a deep breath. “I’m going to England. Tonight. Alone. The L.A.P.D. were able to trace Flynn as far as London. They’ve passed it on to Interpol, but I’m not about to sit around waiting.”
“You’re going tonight? Sybil might not make it through the night,” Kate shrieked.
“Kate, it’s not going to make any difference if I’m here or not,” Maggie said gently. “And it’ll make a difference in whether I’m able to catch up with Flynn or not. He’s already got a twenty-four hours’ head start on me—I can’t afford to let him get much more.”
“But—” Kate argued, but Holly interrupted.
“Maggie’s right, you know. Sybil would rather have Maggie catch him than she would want her hovering over her hospital bed. But she’s wrong about something else. She’s not going alone. I’m going with her.”
“No, you’re not,” Maggie said flatly. “I can’t spend my time worrying about you while I’m trying to track down Flynn. All my energy needs to be concentrated on him, not on looking after an amateur.”
“I’m not needed here, Maggie,” Holly said. “Kate and Jilly are enough. You might find I’m more than simply decorative.”
Maggie shook her head. “I can’t take the chance. I can’t risk putting you in danger, Holly. This man has already killed a dozen women, not to mention countless political victims. He wouldn’t think twice about carving you up.”
“What about you?”
Maggie smiled, a faint, distant smile that held a trace of her old humor. “I can take care of myself.”
“But—”
“No, Holly. Besides, I’ve got my reservation on the midnight flight to London, and I’m already packed. I don’t want to wait around for another flight while you pack half your wardrobe.”
“But—”
“Miss Bennett?” The green-suited doctor who appeared at their side took the customary moment to stare at Holly before turning to Maggie. “Your mother’s regained consciousness. She’s asking for you.”
The doctor’s definition of consciousness and Maggie’s differed. Sybil lay in the big white hospital bed, a small, huddled figure attached to tubes and machines that brought Bud Willis back to mind no matter how she fought it. Her mother looked small and old, her famous aquamarine eyes sunken, her black hair lifeless. And she’d said only two words before sinking back into a coma.
“Get him,” she said, and her eyes closed once more.
And Maggie had touched the oddly frail flesh. “I will, Sybil,” she said softly, knowing she was beyond hearing. “I will.”
LAX was still busy, even at eleven o’clock at night, but Maggie felt a curious, welcome sense of isolation as she waited for the boarding call. Her mother’s words still lingered in her mind as she sat in one of the orange plastic seats, waiting. She’d get him, all right. The Colt 380 pistol was hidden in its special pouch in her makeup bag, makeup that had been touched far less often than the gun during the last four months. It would go through with the checked baggage safely enough, and she had only customs to worry about.
She was leaping blind, with only minimal information. The L.A.P.D. had been scarcely helpful, and she’d had to rely on her boss for what solid information she had. Mike Jackson had taken over as head of Third World Causes, Ltd., when Peter Wallace had been murdered. She’d worked with Mike during her short tenure at the CIA, and they’d always shared a mutual respect. He’d been able to con some stuff out of Interpol, not a hell of a lot, but enough to give her a start.
She had no choice. She’d head for London, then fly on up to Ireland, Flynn’s next likely destination according to the information Mike had given her. She was adept at getting what she wanted, and she could always use her short-term association with the CIA if nothing else worked.
She sighed, pushing a slender hand through her hair. Her luggage, including the gun, should already be safely aboard, and as soon as they dealt with the piles of matched lavender luggage that had just arrived …
Maggie sat there, just across from the check in counter, watching with a dawning sense of foreboding. The first load of lavender luggage was followed by a second, and a slender female dressed in the same unlikely shade of purple. Maggie waited as Holly checked twelve pieces of luggage, took her boarding pass, and turned to flash her patient sister a brilliant smile.
“Twelve suitcases, Holly?” she greeted her mildly enough.
“It’s less than I usually take,” she murmured sweetly.
“How’s Mother?”
“Still in the coma.” The smile vanished. “Aren’t you going to yell at me for coming?”
“To tell the truth, I’m glad you’re here. It’s not good for you, but I’m glad I don’t have to do it all alone,” she said. “Considering nobody even knows what the man looks like, we’re going to be up against it. I’ll be glad to have some help.”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“I tried to tell you in the hospital but you kept cutting me off. I saw him one afternoon at Sybil’s, when he didn’t realize I was there.”
Maggie felt a sudden dawning of hope. “Could you recognize him again?”
“I think so. Unless he’s using a disguise, and according to what little they know about him, he doesn’t use disguises. Too egocentric, apparently. And since most people don’t know what he looks like, he wouldn’t need to.”
“You’re sure he doesn’t know you saw him?”
“Sybil may have mentioned it, but I doubt it. From what I know about him, he doesn’t leave witnesses. If he knew I saw him I expect I’d probably be in the hospital along with Sybil. Or in the morgue.”
Maggie shivered at the thought. “Maybe. We’ll still have to be doubly careful.” She rose, gathering her paraphernalia. “They’re boarding, Holly. You sure you don’t want to change your mind?”
“I’m sure. Let’s go.”
The flight was by no means full. There was no scramble for boarding, no need for hurry, so it was surprising that the man should bump into them like that, just as they were heading down the winding passageway to the jet. His mumbled apology was in an impeccable upper-class British accent that was at odds with his rough appearance. Maggie’s eyes were sharp as she watched him hurry on ahead of them, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his head ducked down.
He was about average height, with a tough, sturdy body that might almost be called stocky. His clothes were rough, nondescript, and his face was infinitely forgettable. If it hadn’t been for his eyes.
“Bad tempered, wasn’t he?” Holly said lightly, her own eyes trained on the figure ahead of them.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you see the way he glared at us? As if he hated us? Hell, it was his fault he bumped into us, not ours.”
“I didn’t notice.” She eyed Holly’s abstract expression curiously. “I just thought he had nice brown eyes.”
“Green,” she said automatically.
“Were they?”
Holly grinned. “You know they were. And don’t worry—he’s not my type.”
“I’ve never figured out what exactly is your type,” Maggie said.
Holly smiled, her dazzling, serene smile, and the captain flashed her a startled returning smile as they stepped aboard. “Neither have I,” she said sweetly.
Timothy Seamus Flynn pushed the heavy china plate away from him and belched quietly. The rare roast beef lay congealing in fat, and he eyed it curiously, contemplating the nature of dead meat. He was sitting in Champignons, a very posh, very private gambling club in the heart of London, where he intended to throw a great deal of money away at the gaming tables. Whether he came away richer or poorer made little difference to him. He’d made more money than he expected on his latest undertaking, enough money to throw around for a good long time.
Not that he was going to do that. A few nights of rich British food and rich British pussy and then he’d head back to Northern Ireland with what was left of Sybil Bennett’s jewels. Explosives cost money, and while it was a constant battle between his own expensive tastes and his devotion to the cause, it was time for the cause to win out for a bit. In a couple of days.
