by Gayle Lynds
Sam hopped out. "Be right back."
"You'd better."
He liked the threat in her voice. He pulled out coins and dialed Tomáš Dubovický—his contact at Charles University in Prague. He made his voice hearty. "Tomáš na Hrad!" Thomas to the Castle!—an old joke between them echoing the rallying cry when Václav Havel was elected president of Czechoslovakia in 1989. A leader in the democratic movement, Tomáš had been a longtime Company stringer.
Hoping for good news, Sam asked, "What does our mutual friend Jiří have to say?" Jiří had been the source of the ledger sheets from Prague.
Tomáš's voice grew heavy. "Jiří was hit by a truck on Pařížská Street this morning. He died before I could get there."
Sam told himself he shouldn't be surprised. "An accident, of course."
"It looked like one, but who knows? Jiří never regained consciousness."
"Do you have any other sources you can check about the original ledger pages?"
"I am working on that." Tomáš hesitated. "What is all this about Douglas Powers and the U.S. presidential election? Why are you involved, Sam? Where are you? Are you all right?"
Sam sighed. He'd counted on Jiří to give him more details of the charges against Powers, if they were real or fake. But there was no way he'd make the mistake now that he'd made with Pink. "You don't need to know where I am, Tomáš. I'm fine. Just get me the real documents. I'll be in touch."
As they drove away, Sam told Julia about Jiří.
"I'm sorry. How horrible. An accident!"
"You think it was really an accident?"
She looked straight ahead. She had to forget all her basic trust in people. Especially the Redmonds. And the CIA.
"Of course not," she said. "Creighton again. And Vince."
45
Sam drove the Mustang around the corner and stopped in deep shadows. He turned off the headlights. "I might as well tell you the bad news."
"Swell."
"The radio in Mom's car is broken, so you probably haven't heard any newscasts or read any of the papers today."
"What have I missed?"
He described the new evidence that seemed to prove Douglas Powers wasn't just a career sex fiend. He was far beyond that: He violated children, and he might've committed murder. "The nation's riveted," he told her angrily. "The press is roping in every pundit, so-called expert, opinion monger, and person on the street to express a view. Douglas Powers's people are denying everything. Creighton Redmond's camp is staying above it all while hinting slyly they'd suspected something this bad all along. Representatives from both sides are starring on the big talk shows coast to coast. It's a media circus, and Creighton's the big winner."
"The Clinton sex scandals all over again." Julia grimaced. "Only much nastier and with a lot more raw edge. And there're less than thirty-six hours until the polls open. Creighton's timed it perfectly to win." With a sick feeling, Julia thought about her uncle reigning from the Oval Office. "Where did all this new 'evidence' come from?"
"Scotland Yard. A chief superintendent there. Geoffrey Staffeld. He claimed he flew over to save America from itself."
She felt as if the wind had been knocked from her. "Geoffrey Staffeld?"
"That's right. Why?—" And then by the appalled expression on her shadowy face he knew. "Is he the guy who handled the investigation into your mother's murder?"
"Yes." She nodded. Another piece of the mosaic. "The bastard. That explains so much. Why he didn't want me to go public with what I knew. Why I couldn't tell anyone I'd seen the killer. Maya Stern is Creighton's killer."
The significance seemed to suck the air from the car. Julia had the sense of the Mustang's steel closing in around her, that she'd never be free again, and now it wasn't just her . . . it was the nation. Creighton's talons reached everywhere. He'd bring his malevolence to the most powerful office in the land . . . in the world.
She leaned toward Sam. "We have to find my grandfather and Staffeld. If we can put the information together from both, we should be able to prove what Creighton's really doing."
"Finding Staffeld presents another problem." Sam flicked the headlights back on and drove warily out into the street. "He dropped his bombshell at a press conference at the Plaza Hotel, but buried in the stories was an unpleasant tidbit: Staffeld gave the reporters a room number in the Plaza for any further questions, and he was registered there. But when the reporters tried to contact him, they got no answer. His room at the Plaza hadn't been used at all. So he blew into town, ignited his pyrotechnics, and disappeared. Another newscaster said essentially the same thing. Staffeld apparently implied at the press conference he considered it dangerous to stick around."
Julia's voice was hushed. "You're making it sound as if Powers would've had him killed if he could find him."
"That's the way they're interpreting it."
"Creighton! What a slimy bastard. He hasn't missed a trick."
At the Holiday Inn, Sam carried in his bag while Julia waited behind the wheel of the Mustang. He checked in with his phony ID and paid with cash. He strode down the south corridor and held the side door open. Julia spotted him, parked, and slipped inside. They quickly entered their room. It was clean and utilitarian with muted colors and a big bathroom. Instantly Sam closed the drapes, and she double-locked the door.
"Ah, at last." Julia sighed and fell onto the bed nearer the windows. She tried to quiet the sense that danger seemed to lurk just beyond the small room. She longed for peace. For the constant tempo of music. For her Steinway and several hours of practice.
There were two queen-sized beds, but Sam's focus was completely on the one that held Julia. She lay in a relaxed crumple, her severe hair lost against the floral bedspread. With her hair pulled back and colored gray, the beauty of her face was emphasized—the porcelain skin, the fine bones, the incandescent blue eyes. Her full lips were slightly relaxed. A line of small white teeth showed. Her eyelids lowered until they were half-closed, as if inviting sleep.
He turned away. He thought about Pink's betrayal and that it'd almost cost Julia's life. His chest contracted. "I'll order room service. No point going into a restaurant and exposing ourselves."
As they waited for the food to arrive, Julia sat at the desk and dialed Franciscan churches from New York City to Buffalo, but each had the same response: No Father Michael with a German accent and a VW van was there.
"You're sure he's a Franciscan?" Sam had taken over the bed nearer the door, watching her as she sat, phone in hand, making the calls. She had a liquid grace, soft somehow. But beneath that was muscle and opinions. He found the combination tantalizing.
"I saw the priest drive out of Rolling Hills." She turned to look at Sam, stretched out on his bed. His hands were clasped behind his head, his ankles crossed. He still wore the learner jacket with the tight waist. His long body was a study in relaxation. But there was nothing peaceful about him. He radiated some kind of predatory alertness. She told him, "He was wearing the traditional habit."
"The long brown robe with a hood and a rope belt?"
"It's one of the order's symbols. They model themselves on Saint Francis because they believe he set an example for people to follow Christ perfectly. They take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, and they dedicate themselves to prayer and service. The habit represents all that. It's made of a simple, coarse cloth like the sackcloth in Isaiah, and it's cut and sewn in the shape of a cross."
He nodded. "You know a lot about it."
She smiled. "All my cousins are Catholic. I picked up some here and there."
"But you're not Catholic."
She shook her head. "If there's a God—" She hesitated. "This is going to sound silly, but I believe it. . . .If there's a God, colors are his laughter, and music is his heavenly breath. Or her heavenly breath. I have a spiritual life that's important to me, so I never bothered to join a church. I suppose you could say music's my intermediary with whatever force is out there. What abo
ut you?"
"I'm not the joining type."
Her mouth fell open. "You? Mr. CIA?" She laughed. "What a lie!"
He frowned. "Other than the Company, I don't believe in commitment." As soon as the words slipped out, he regretted them.
"Oh, really?" She laughed again. "Well, that makes two of us. I don't believe in it either."
He stared, surprised.
"Why the shock, Sam? I've yet to meet a man I'd be willing to spend my life with. Men are a pain. They don't pick up after themselves, and they fantasize about every woman who walks down the block. Men are ruled by hormones. That's why they're so illogical."
Sam was stunned. "You're saying I'm some hormone-driven idiot?"
She smiled sweetly. "I was just teasing. Besides, a man with as many girlfriends as you—"
"Girlfriends?" His eyes narrowed. "What makes you think that?"
"First there's the stadium blanket in the Durango—Chanel No. Five. Then while you were renting the car, I checked the Durango's glove compartment for another gun, since Reilly took mine. Amazing what I found—some woman's bra and panties. Very Victoria's Secret. Different perfume. Also there was a note with a couple of women's names and phone numbers. I do believe, sir, you're a rake."
Sam's eyebrows shot up. "And you're a snoop."
She grinned into his eyes. But her words caught in her throat, because just then something new passed between them that left her churning. Sight could do that. Right now it wasn't safe to talk. To think. To feel.
A knock sounded at the door, and the spell shattered. Sam could hear his own rapid breathing. He felt shaky. But he jumped up, pulled his Browning from his holster, and strode to the door.
It was a waiter with their dinner.
They ate on the walnut-grained, Formica-topped table next to the window. The food wasn't gourmet, but it was good—handmade hamburgers, plank fries, green salads, and beer. The mouth-watering aromas floated in the room. Sam had been hungry for hamburgers since he'd smelled them outside the Shell station in Armonk. In the ordinary scheme of things, his stomach was one of his higher priorities.
For Julia, it was a sensory feast. Food had never tasted better. The colors were alive—the bright green salad, the charcoal-black hamburger on the mounded beige bun, the crisp browned fries with their flaky white interiors. She marveled at the naturalness with which her gaze directed her hands to the meal. For a moment, the sense of impending danger that seemed to follow wherever they went floated into the background of her thoughts.
She smiled at him. "Say something in Russian."
He looked up. "Soodavolst'veeyem, Julia." Then he said, "That means, 'With pleasure, Julia.'"
He continued to speak in Russian, and she watched his lips form the strange, lilting words. They rolled from his tongue with the ease of English. His handsome face shone.
"What does it mean?" she wondered.
"It's something by Nikolai Gogol, a great nineteenth-century Russian writer." He translated:
Russia! Russia!
When I see you, my eyes
are lit up with supernatural power. Oh, what a
glittering, wondrous infinity of space. . . . What a
strange, alluring, enthralling, wonderful world!
"You love it all," she reflected. "Not just Russia, but the study of it. The study of a lot of things. That's why you have the PhD, and why you ended up in research. Yet you're this wild cowboy agent, too. Slamming your car wherever you want to. Crashing your fist into people's noses, like the guy you told me about at the kiosk to the nursing home."
"So?"
She laughed, enjoying his complexity.
After they'd finished eating, she stood up.
"Wait a minute!" His eyes were fixed on her trouser leg where the navy material showed two holes and dried blood. "How is it you didn't get around to mentioning you'd been hit?"
She looked down. "It's just a scratch. I'll go clean it."
"Right. Let's take a look at it and your hands, too." He took off his jacket. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt. Abruptly he seemed all muscle and sinew. His broad shoulders tapered down to his flat belly. He unsnapped his holster and peeled it off and laid it carefully on the bureau. The gesture was so male that she caught her breath.
She followed him into the bathroom.
"Sit there." He put down the toilet seat lid, and she sat. Gently he unwrapped the bandages on her hands. "Looks good." There was no infection. "Flex." She made fists and opened them. "You'll be back playing the études soon."
"You know Liszt's études?"
"Absolutely. I have your CD. We'll leave the bandages off now. The air will help. Let's see your leg. Take off your trousers."
She was too aware of him. The bathroom's bright light illuminated his hair and tanned skin. His male scent filled her head. She stood, unfastened her trousers, and let them drop.
He knelt. She felt his warm breath on her leg. She didn't want these emotions that were rushing through her in an endless tidal wave.
He could feel the sweat gathering on his forehead from being so close to her. It was almost as if a toggle had been switched in his mind and his memories of Irini had faded. Whatever guilt he'd felt seemed dated. Irini would always be in his heart, but maybe there was room in there for someone else, too.
His voice was husky. "You're right. It's shallow. You were damn lucky." He washed the wound with warm, soapy water. He patted the leg dry with a clean towel. Her skin was pale as moonlight, and it had the fine texture of silk. He was caught in a rush of emotions, gripped by the beauty of her long legs, enraptured by the small black bikini panties, ensnared by his fascination with her, her music, her strong will, her . . . everything about her—
He stood up. He looked into her eyes. "This is stupid."
"I know," she whispered. She lifted her chin.
He pulled her to him, and his mouth was suddenly on hers. Heat rolled through her, electric, demanding. She wrapped her arms around him and sank into him. His tongue searched, and she felt an explosion of desire that erased the world. Only him. Only them. Only now.
His hands slid up under her blouse, the fingers touching and exploring. She gasped, and he kissed her throat, her ears, her forehead, her eyes. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted any other woman. And he wanted her now. She moaned softly. He bent, ripped off her trousers, and he carried her to her bed.
46
Afterwards they lay entwined. Only the desk lamp was alight, and shadows filled the quiet room. Cool air seeped from behind the drapes. Somewhere far off in the motel Julia thought she heard the happy chatter of children. She felt deep contentment lying beside Sam, her length against his. Every time he moved, she was acutely aware of the power of his body and how much she liked it.
"Is that your arm or mine?" Sam asked.
She chuckled and raised her elbow. "Mine." She slipped her fingers through his. She turned the clasped hands back and forth, examining them. His fingers were only slightly longer than hers, but wider and stronger looking. "Look at how well we fit together."
"In all ways."
She chuckled again. "That, too."
"I suppose I've given you the final proof that I'm as hormonally driven as you accused." He kissed her ear.
"Thank God. I find it one of your most appealing attributes."
"You're no slouch yourself."
She smiled and rolled over onto his chest to look into his gray eyes. "You really have one of my CDs?"
"I have all of them." He loved watching her. There were so many aspects about women that fascinated him. Her movements were coordinated in a smoothness no man could ever achieve. "That's another thing I like about you. The way you play. The music you choose. Take Chopin's Twenty-four Preludes. A lesser pianist could bore the audience to death because they're such small, tight pieces. But when you play, they're an encyclopedia of mood and emotion—everything from anguish to contentment and an almost spiritual magnificence."
She smiled. He
knew and understood her music. "I'm particularly fond of them, too." There was a prelude for each major and minor key, and as was the habit of Chopin—perhaps the greatest pianist ever—many required demanding virtuosity. But she loved the challenge and the wonderful music. "What else do you like?"
"The Prokofiev Second Concerto. It's a real showpiece, of course. When you play it, it's the intonations you layer in. Your drama doesn't overshadow the color, and your emotion rings with lyricism."
He watched as she rolled off him in a single fluid motion, the long arc of her back a graceful curve. Her breasts swung free, the nipples pink and only half raised, as if waiting. Her hair had fallen thick and sweet-smelling. It was a gray-brown cloud that floated to her pale shoulders. He noticed then how small and delicate her features were. The perfect little nose. The full lips now swollen with sex. The flawless crescent eyebrows with tiny hairs aligned like petals. A flush suffused her entire body, giving her a rosy afterglow. He touched her belly and took his finger away. For an instant the skin was ivory white, but immediately the blood rushed back.
He leaned over and kissed the spot. Her musky scent reverberated in his brain. "Are you surprised I know your work?"
"Stunned. Delighted. And very grateful."
They talked about pianists and great conductors. About her education at Juilliard and the music they both loved. She studied him beneath her on the rumpled bed which looked as if a skirmish had been fought and won on its white polyester sheets. She was captivated by the way his jaw worked when he spoke. She stared as the muscles just beneath his ear bunched and flattened. She reached out a hand so that it was along his jawline without touching it.
He asked, "What are you doing?"
She could feel the words in her palm. "I'm listening to you with my hand."
He grinned and shook his head. "You're so strange sometimes."
"Did you know sex can be better when you're blind?"
"I don't believe it. What could be better than looking at you?"
She rubbed her hands together until the palms began to sting. Quickly she opened them in front of his open eyes. "Feel the heat?"
