by Anne Stuart
“Until Van Zandt shows up, I suppose,” he said, moving back to the window.
“And what if he shows up before our contact does?”
“Then we’ll have no weapons,” he said, turning back from the window, “and we’ll be sitting ducks.”
“Cheerful thought,” Maggie said, watching as Mack headed back to the window again. That suit was definitely an asset to a body she had come to accept as impossibly sexy anyway. She patted the too hard mattress. “Wanna take a nap?”
He stopped his pacing, turning to stare at her, and slowly his brooding eyes lightened, and his grim mouth curved in a smile. “Now there’s an idea. But I don’t know if I’m sleepy.”
She matched his grin. “Maybe we could get a little exercise? Just enough to tire us out a bit.” She reached up and began unfastening the buttons of her jumpsuit.
His smile broadened to a lascivious grin. “Maybe I’m glad you came after all,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket. “If we’re going to die, we may as well die happy.” He was advancing to the bed when a loud knocking reverberated through their soundproof door.
“Damn,” Mack said, jumping a mile. His eyes met Maggie’s suddenly alert ones. “Do you think it’s Van Zandt?”
Maggie was already off the bed, her nerves strung as tightly as piano wire. “There’s only one way to find out,” she said, advancing on the door just as the pounding began again.
“Who is it?” she called out in German.
“Room service.” The reply was in flat, Midwestern American, and the two of them exchanged glances. It didn’t sound like Van Zandt, but then the voice was muffled through the door.
“We didn’t order anything from room service,” she said in English.
There was a pause. “Let’s just say I’m a friend of Hamilton’s, and no, I’m not wearing a rose in my lapel,” the voice replied.
Mack shrugged at Maggie’s inquiring glance. “Let him in. What have we got to lose?”
“Our lives,” she muttered. She unfastened one lock, then the second, and pulled open the door. And then almost slammed it shut again. “Oh, God, no!” she groaned.
Bud Willis sauntered into the room, his skeletal grin firmly in place. “Your friendly CIA contact, making house calls,” he announced himself. “Howya doing?”
twenty
“I guess it’s only the good who die young,” Maggie said, shutting the door behind him.
“You got it,” Willis said. “Surprised the hell out of me when I heard you guys made it out of Chicaste in one piece. I thought for sure those greasers would have gotten you.”
Mack’s smile resembled a snarl. “We made it. Last time I saw you, you were running from a hail of bullets.”
Willis shrugged. “What can I say? I run fast.”
“Or they didn’t want to hit you,” Maggie added. “What did you do, Willis, sell them out too? And how come you’re working for the CIA? I thought you were kicked out years ago.”
“Maggie, Maggie, you should know that things are never as they seem with the Company,” Willis chided her. “And not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I don’t sell people out. I follow orders.”
“With the CIA that’s the same thing,” she said. “So what did you bring us?”
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.”
“Listen, Mack, my Danish isn’t that good. I just said whatever came into my mind, and you shouldn’t take it seriously. I—”
“I’m not interested in excuses, Maggie,” he cut her off. “You knew what you were saying. And you know you’re lying right now. But I’m tired of it, Maggie. I’m tired of fighting your fragile ego and your need for control, and I’m tired of watching you fight yourself and your needs. I’m tired of being jerked around, and Maggie”—he had moved very close to her, and she could see the anger in his eyes, feel the warmth of his breath on her face—“right now I am damned tired of you.”
He turned around without touching her and started for the door. She watched him go without moving. One word and he’d turn back. She knew that full well, but her mouth wouldn’t open. A hand clamped down on her heart, squeezing it, wrenching it, so that she longed to cry out for him. But she couldn’t.
He didn’t look back. The door closed behind him, and the quiet, well-oiled click reverberated through her tense body. She stood there trying to summon up righteous indignation, anger, and outrage at his harsh words. But those emotions wouldn’t come at her bidding. The one thing she prided herself on was her scrupulous honesty. And she couldn’t hide from the fact that he had every reason to be angry.
Her excuses last night had sounded weak even to her own ears. Mack had just looked at her. Listened to her drone on and on with excuses, and said not a word. Just given her his sweet, slightly mocking smile and turned over and gone to sleep, leaving her to lie awake beside him for half the night, her body acutely aware of him, her mind obsessed with him, her heart crying for him. She knew she loved him and she panicked, and tried to push him away.
“Bastard,” she said now, moving to drop down on the bed. “Having a temper tantrum because I wouldn’t put out. It’s time to grow up, Pulaski,” she said severely into the pillow.
The words echoed around the empty room. “Yes,” she said wearily, “it’s time to grow up. For you, Maggie Bennett. You know perfectly well he wasn’t angry about the sex. He was angry about the excuses, about the lies. And he had every right to be angry.” The bright sunlight from the Zurich summer was streaming in the window, but Maggie shut her eyes, not even noticing. “Every right,” she murmured miserably. “Christ, Maggie, why are you so goddamned stupid?”
When she woke up the bright sunlight had turned dark and gloomy. She squinted at her watch, shook her head, and stared again. It was midafternoon—Mack had been gone for hours.
Where the hell could he have gone for so long? It took her less than two minutes to grab her shoes, her sweater, and the purse with the small, efficient gun inside it. And then she was racing down the empty corridors, her heart slamming against her ribs.
The clean wide strasse outside the new Holiday Inn Zurich was crowded with neat, prosperous-looking people. Tourists and native Swiss alike, all moved with quiet deliberation, heading toward their destinations. And nowhere in that crowd of people did she see Mack’s slouching, rangy figure.
She stood there for minutes, hours, at the edge of the sedate traffic, her eyes sweeping over the multitudes as she fought the panic that clawed at her insides. And then she saw him, moving down the sidewalk with that sexy walk of his, the Armani suit hanging on his wonderful body with negligent charm, and suddenly Maggie realized just how crazy she’d become. How could she have turned that down when, on top of everything else, she loved him? It was ridiculous to fight it anymore. She was going to go after him and tell him, and if all the straitlaced Swiss wanted to stare at her, let them.
The traffic lights were in her favor. She started across the wide street toward him, trusting in the obedient Swiss drivers, not quite believing when she heard the sudden squeal of tires, the horrified screams as the huge black Mercedes sedan bore down on her.
Everyone around her scattered, but Maggie was mesmerized, unable to move as the car headed directly for her. The windows were smoked, and she was unable to see the driver. Not that it matters, she thought abstractedly. Even if she knew who it was, she wouldn’t be in any state to tell anyone. Unless, of course, she were able to move. But her feet were still paralyzed, and all she could do was stand there and watch as the car headed straight for her.
There was a sudden, sickening crunch as flesh and bone and muscle thudded into her, flinging her to the edge of the road. The Mercedes bumper nicked her leg, but Maggie was beyond noticing. Mack had seen her standing there like a frightened rabbit; Mack had pushed the polite Swiss out of the way and tackled her, dragging both of them out of the way of the murderous Mercedes.
And suddenly the paralysis that had afflicted everyone but Mack broke, and they were surrounded by several dozen chattering, concerned bystanders. Maggie could hear the voices, hear the mishmash of languages, all expressing concern, but she couldn’t move. Her face was pressed up against Mack’s chest, and she could do nothing but shiver.
“Are you all right?” His raw voice was rough in her ear. She nodded against him, making an effort to stand up. She didn’t get very far, as her muscles trembled and her knees refused to support her.
Mack scooped her up in his arms, rising with an impressive amount of grace, considering his burden. “She’s fine,” he said in German and English to the chattering magpies around them. “Just shaken up a bit. I’ll get her back to her room.”
Half a dozen languages urged them to see a doctor, another half dozen suggested the police. Mack made no response, crossing the wide, deadly strasse and moving back into the Holiday Inn without a backward glance.
She hid in the shelter of his arms, using every ounce of her energy to calm the trembling in her limbs. She felt close to tears, and desperately she tried to push them back. She’d regain her self-control, and she and Mack could calmly figure out who had tried to kill her and why.
He managed the door to their room with surprising ease, kicking it shut behind them. With a great effort, Maggie lifted her head, willing her eyes to be calm. “I’m all right now,” she said evenly as he carried her over to the bed.
He looked down at her, his eyes stormy with emotion. “Are you?” he said dubiously. “Okay.” And he dropped her on the bed and turned away.
The shock of the fall left her momentarily speechless, her hard-won calm disappearing for a moment as she watched him stalk to the window. She could feel the tears edge up on her again, and she swallowed hard, pushing them back. She needed him more than she had ever needed anyone in her entire life. And she could do nothing but sit there and try to fight back the weak, sniveling tears that she hated and wait for self-control to return.
She waited, but it didn’t come back. Instead, the tears kept creeping back up, stinging the back of her eyes, so that her fingers clenched the thick bedspread in a vain effort of control. Her heart was pounding, her breath was strangled, and she was losing the battle. She was going to cry in front of him, she was going to break down completely, and her last defenses would be gone. And at that terrifying thought the last wall broke, and a loud, gulping sob broke the tense silence between the two of them.
Mack whirled around, startled, watching her as her face crumpled and the tears burst forth.
“Go away,” she said, weeping. “Get out of here. I don’t want you to see me like this.” God, it hurt. The sobs were ripping her apart, and she wrapped her arms around her body and curled up in a little ball. She’d stored up a lot of tears over the years, and they all chose that moment to stream forth. She lay there howling in pain and misery and aching loneliness, crying for every hurt that she’d hidden from over the years.
When Mack’s hands first touched her she tried to slap him away, but he was stronger than she was, and a moment later she was cradled in his arms, sobbing against his neck. He held her carefully, his warm, strong hands stroking her, his voice low and soothing. Slowly he rocked her, back and forth, as she wept against him. Her nose was running, and without a word he handed her his handkerchief. She s
tarted hiccuping and coughing and he pounded her back for her. And still she wept.
It was dark in the room when the storm of tears finally abated, dying away with a strangled sigh. The last ounce of tension left her body, and she realized she was lying in the cradle of Mack’s arms, stretched out on the wide bed, feeling limp and peaceful.
“You still with me?” he murmured in her ear. “Or did I lose you along the way?”
Maggie sighed, a loose, watery sigh, and snuggled against him. “God, Mack,” she whispered. “I feel completely wasted. This is almost better than sex.”
He laughed, a silent, gentle little laugh. “Nothing’s better than sex, Maggie. How long has it been since you cried?”
“A lifetime,” she answered. “I’ve destroyed your suit.”
“It’s supposed to look rumpled.”
“I’ve been an idiot.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
She lay there in silence for a long while, letting her body rest against his. Never had she felt so peaceful, so trusting. She could tell him anything, and it would be all right. She closed her eyes, letting her hands catch his. “I don’t want to be in love with you,” she said.
“I know that.” His voice held no emotion but acceptance.
She paused. “But it doesn’t seem to matter whether I want to or not, does it?”
“You tell me.”
“I love you, Mack. I can’t fight it anymore. I love you, I’m in love with you, and I’m in deep trouble,” she said gloomily. “I feel like a witch who’s lost her powers.”
“Maggie, how many times do I have to tell you—you don’t have to be strong all the time? You’re allowed to feel things like everybody else.”
“I don’t want to hurt like everybody else.” There was no disguising the fear in her words.
He laughed, a gentle, warm sound that almost reassured her. “Trust me, Maggie. Just trust me.”
