Their first date had been two weeks later. He’d already heard that she never, never dated coworkers, but she had agreed to see him.
It had been one of the best nights of his life. She’d cooked dinner; he’d brought the champagne. They’d gone to a movie and stayed up till dawn discussing the film, the situation they’d left behind them, the moon, everything and anything.
Two weeks after that they’d made love for the first time. As long as he lived, he’d never forget that night. Everything had been slow and easy. As much as he’d wanted her, he’d heard his own voice say that he didn’t want to rush her. But she’d been the one to shed her clothing in the dimly lit doorway, with an odd and beautiful little smile on her lips. And then she’d whispered that he had to do the leading because she wanted to follow….
After that everything had seemed to burst around him like colorful fireworks. It had been like the first time for him, too, because she’d been so exquisite. He’d never forget the sight of her, touching her, the wonderful, awed feeling that she was his and his by choice. He’d been her first lover—by her choice. There had been nothing since to compare with that feeling of lying beside her afterward, holding her. They’d been so close in every way. In time they’d grown completely uninhibited with each other; they’d learned to laugh, to play, to be so damned good together….
You don’t own her, friend, he reminded himself.
No, but he wanted her, wanted things to be the way they had been. And then he started wondering again just what really had gone wrong. If it had been so good, how had it fallen apart so completely, so fast?
“One more Scotch, Carly,” he said.
“Is that a good idea?”
“Probably not, but I’ll have one anyway.”
* * *
Somehow she had fallen into a doze.
Colleen had cleaned up quickly, paced the living room, then sat down on the couch to wait for Sandy. She’d lit a cigarette, but smashed it out immediately. Then she’d grabbed one of the throw pillows, clutched it to her and stared at the cold fireplace.
She pictured it with a fire burning, and then in her imagination, she began to see other things. A smile actually curved her lips when she leaned her head back to close her eyes.
She could remember that day so clearly….
Bret had jumped into the chopper right behind her. There had been others there, but there had been an empty seat beside her. He’d looked out the window, watching the ground diminish beneath them. Then he’d turned and looked at her, and she’d heard his breath catch.
“Are you all right?” she’d asked anxiously.
“I’ve never been better,” he’d replied, smiling slowly. She’d liked his eyes, the warm, haunting gray. She’d liked his grin, slow and crooked. “I’ve never been better than at this moment.”
Something touched her. His hand. On hers. She stretched out her fingers, and his curled around them, squeezing a little, strong and reassuring. She’d looked into his eyes again, and although she’d never been closer to death in her life, she felt the most marvelous, warm and exciting sensation sweeping over her. She’d seen him before, of course. She knew who he was. She knew she should have stayed a million miles away.
She could hear the frantic whirl of the chopper blades, thundering no faster than the beat of her heart.
She squeezed his hand back and smiled….
* * *
A frantic pounding on the door brought her wide-awake. Colleen leaped to her feet and flew to the door, throwing it open without a thought of danger.
And there was no danger, at least not a visible one. The woman standing there was about five-foot-six, but very slim and delicate. Even for this private meeting, Sandy Tyrell was…elegant. She wore a navy sundress with a skirt that emphasized her long legs. A floppy navy hat fell over her huge and haunted deep-brown eyes. Her makeup was perfect, as perfect as her intriguing features.
“Mrs. McAllistair?” she asked in a husky rush.
“Yes, yes, Sandy. Come in.”
As soon as the younger woman was in the house, Colleen carefully closed and locked the door, then turned around to Sandy Tyrell. Sandy was nervously playing with the strand of pearls about her neck. She stared back at Colleen.
“I’ve been so terribly frightened!” she said.
“Would you like a drink?” Colleen suggested.
“No. Oh, yes! Yes, I would. Thank you.”
Colleen tried to put her at ease. She spoke lightly as she fixed Sandy a vodka and tonic. Sandy prowled the living room and finally commented on the beauty of the house. Colleen thanked her, then managed to get her to sit on the couch without flying off it every second with nervous energy.
“Poor Rutger!” Sandy said after Colleen suggested she just say what came into her mind in whatever order it appeared. “He looked me up, you know. He’d been in hiding for so long, but his conscience was plaguing him so. He said he’d just had to find me to try, to try to ease my mind about my grandfather. But I already knew! My grandfather was no traitor! He might have been conned into the diamond thing with the others, but he would never, never have purposely betrayed his men!”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t have done so on purpose, Sandy,” Colleen soothed her. Then she paused for a second, trying to phrase her words very tactfully. “Sandy, forgive me for asking, if this is a personal question, but on the phone you said that your mother spent her life trying to clear your grandfather. If you’re Sam Tyrell’s granddaughter through your mother…”
“Why is my name Tyrell?” Sandy finished for her a little bitterly.
“Yes,” Colleen said softly.
“Because my father didn’t marry my mother, Mrs. McAllistair. He found out that she was the daughter of a ‘traitor’ and walked out long before I was born. I don’t even know who he is.”
“I’m sorry,” Colleen said.
“Oh, don’t be. It doesn’t matter to me anymore,” Sandy said with a nonchalance that touched Colleen’s heart; she could see that her father’s desertion still hurt the woman.
Sandy was off the couch again, walking around, sipping the drink she held in one hand, playing with her pearls with the other. “We became good friends, Rutger and I,” she said softly, sadly. For a moment Colleen thought Sandy would burst into incoherent tears, but she didn’t, and Colleen breathed a sigh of relief. “We talked about the diamonds. Rutger said he never wanted them found, that he never wanted to see or hear about them again. Then one day he told me that he’d called you, that he wanted to set the story straight even if it were forty years too late. He wanted to see Sam cleared, and then…and then he was dead!”
Colleen waited, and finally Sandy went on. “Mrs. McAllistair…”
“Sandy, please call me Colleen. I think it will make you feel a little more comfortable.”
Sandy flashed her a smile. A beautiful smile. Colleen thought she should have gotten rich modeling for Vogue.
“Colleen,” Sandy murmured, and she came and sat down on the couch again. “Colleen, I told Rutger I was holding the fourth piece to the puzzle. He told me that he’d already given you his. But I’m convinced he was murdered for that puzzle piece.”
Colleen carefully placed her own drink on the table. “You think that either Holfer or MacHowell is here, and killed Rutger?”
Sandy was up again. “No, no. I think they had someone kill him. You know, a, uh, a…”
“Contract?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Why do you think that?” Colleen asked.
Sandy’s lower lip appeared to be quivering a little. “Because,” she said a little breathlessly, then found her voice, “because Rutger had been putting out feelers to try to find the others. He’d made a Moroccan contact, a man who could tell him exactly where MacHowell was and who hinted that Holfer was in the vicinity, too.”
Colleen gasped out loud; her nerves seemed to be tingling. If she could just find one of the others…
She was crazy
. Getting into things she really shouldn’t, or so Bret would surely say. But then, if it had been Bret sitting here, he would already be making his reservations to go to Morocco.
She tried to remain entirely nonchalant. “Sandy, can you give me the name of this man?”
“What? Oh, yes, his name is Eli Alibani.”
Colleen moistened her lips. “And do you know how Rutger contacted him?”
“Yes, there’s a hotel. In Marrakech. Rutger would go through the proprietor and leave messages. Eli Alibani would get back to him.”
“Sandy, do you know the name of the hotel?”
“The B;afete Noire.”
Black Beast in French. Just the name of the place gave her the creeps.
But she knew she was going there.
* * *
“Damn! It’s six o’clock!” Bret said, wincing as he heard his words slur. He hadn’t drunk that much Scotch, had he?
Carly was up, staring at the clock. “You’d better get back.”
Bret rose with a groan as everything spun around him. “Drunk, Carly!” he muttered, swaying a little. He clutched his head between his hands, hoping to still the swaying sensation. “What a time to go on a binge!” he groaned.
Carly was laughing, and the sound hurt Bret’s head. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. Didn’t she conk out on you last night?”
“Hasss nothing to do with conking out,” Bret said indignantly. “I’m…protecting her.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right. You’ve grown purer than lust.”
Bret replied with an oath that clearly told Carly what to do with himself.
Carly laughed again. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll call the police station and see that someone watches the house. They owe us both some favors.”
“Oh, God!” Bret moaned. “I already arranged for someone. Now I have to meet a cop like this!”
“No, you don’t. I’ll put you in a taxi, and when you get there, you can just walk right up to the door. You’ll never have to see the cop. Just concentrate on walking. You’ll make it. I’ve seen you fake being sober before.”
Carly was already calling the taxi. “She’ll think I wrecked her car,” Bret said bleakly.
“She’ll know why you’re not driving,” Carly assured him. “And I’ll give her a call, just to be sure.”
Bret was on his feet. He gave Carly a friendly thump on the back that almost sent the older man flying.
“I gave her that car, you know, Carly. She tried to give it back.”
Carly saw the hurt in his eyes; maybe he’d go home and talk to Colleen the same way. And maybe, just maybe, she’d see his eyes the way Carly was seeing them now, and she’d realize how much Bret loved her.
“Yeah, she tried to give it back. I had to tell her that I didn’t want used things. That she could shove it into a canal for all I cared.”
“Let’s get you down to that cab,” Carly said.
Bret stiffened his shoulders. “I can walk!”
“Sure you can.”
Bret paused at the door again. Carly decided to walk down to the street with him. The cab was already there. Bret started to crawl into it, then turned back.
“Why the hell did you ever have to hire that woman, Carly?”
“‘Cause she’s a good journalist. And a sweet kid. And I might have hired her, Bret, but you’re the one who married her.”
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” Bret said. His jaw twisted, and he gave himself a little shake. It really did seem that he was capable of shaking off the effects of the Scotch purely by using his willpower.
He smiled up at Carly. “And I’m still married to her, Carly—for about a month, at least!”
CHAPTER 5
Colleen sat by the pool, her jeans rolled up, her toe drawing circles in the water, her fingers curled around a large cup of tea.
Sandy Tyrell had been gone for about an hour. Bret wasn’t back, and Colleen didn’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved.
She sighed, nibbling lightly at her lower lip and thinking about Sandy Tyrell. The woman had been very frightened. Colleen had told Sandy that she was welcome to stay, but Sandy had said it was unnecessary. The police had quizzed her after Rutger’s death, and they were keeping an eye on her town house.
“But I didn’t tell them about the puzzle!” Sandy said. “I was afraid to. I suppose that anyone could know it existed, but you’re the only one who knows I have my grandfather’s piece. Of course, you’ll have it now.”
And just like that Sandy had turned over her piece of the puzzle. The two of them had studied it. Colleen’s piece had a drawing of a mountain and the French motto N’Oubliez Pas. Do Not Forget.
Sandy’s piece showed a ski lift, and the legend was English: Earth Is the Mother.
They had mused over the fragments for a long time, and all they’d been able to come up with was that the diamonds were buried in a not-forgotten place in the earth, somewhere near a ski lift.
“I want it to be your problem, not mine!” Sandy had said with her lips trembling. And then she had looked at Colleen. “I suppose you’ll try to find Rutger’s Moroccan contact.”
“Yes, and I’ll find out what happened. You’ll be okay, Sandy, really you will,” Colleen had assured her with more confidence than she really felt.
It was then that Sandy had gone off on a tangent. “I hate to ask you personal questions,” she said at last, “but that man who answered the phone this morning, was it your husband? Bret McAllistair?”
Colleen had felt a moment’s hesitation. Sandy had given her a lot of trust; it seemed important that she respond in kind. “Yes,” she said.
“He’s involved, isn’t he?”
“Not completely.”
Sandy just nodded. She picked up a little porcelain piece, a Lladro maiden, from the coffee table.
“He’s a very attractive man,” she said lightly. “I’ve, uh, seen his picture. And he’s been on the news a few times.”
“Yes, he has a habit of doing that,” Colleen had murmured.
Sandy had turned to her then, not looking quite so nervous. “He’s just marvelous. If he’s in on it, I really won’t mind.”
“Thanks.”
“I’d heard you were getting a divorce.”
“Yes.”
“Oh?” One of her beautifully plucked brows had arched; then she’d blushed prettily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sandy, don’t worry about it!” Colleen had snapped. She immediately regretted the words, Sandy had appeared so crushed. She’d apologized and assured Sandy again that she intended to do everything in the world to see Sam Tyrell’s name cleared. She didn’t add that most of the world had probably already forgotten the man.
When Sandy left, Colleen had been absurdly relieved because, no matter how determined she was not to lose her battered heart to her husband again, she was certainly in no mood to watch another woman simper over him.
Where the hell was he?
Her brooding gaze lifted to the bedroom. All the sliding glass doors were open; she could see her bed and the drapes, drifting a bit in the breeze. She closed her eyes.
That was where it had all ended.
Bret had come back from a two-week assignment in London. She had been given a chance at the Middle East story in his absence, and when he’d come in, she’d been packing.
She’d run to embrace him, but he’d been as stiff as a poker. And when she tried to tell him about the Middle East, he’d interrupted her curtly.
“I’m going.”
“What? You mean we’re going together?”
“No. I mean I’m going. You’re staying here. I’ve already been through the whole thing with Carly. I’m going, you’re staying.”
For long moments she’d been dead silent, stunned. “Why?”
“My God, Colleen, sometimes you act as if you haven’t got a brain in your head! It’s dangerous over there!”
“You seem to forget,
McAllistair, that I met you in the midst of some very real danger. I’m not an idiot. I don’t fly off the handle. I don’t panic and I don’t scream!”
“You’re screaming right now.”
“I don’t believe this! You’re stealing my story!”
The gaze of contempt he gave her was horrifying. “Right, Colleen, right. I’m stealing your story. I’m doing any damned thing you think I’m doing, but you’re not going.”
She hadn’t been able to believe it: the shattering silver ice in his eyes, the total lack of regard for her feelings. And then all the other little fears that she could generally tell herself were ridiculous had come crowding in on her. He’d just come back from London. Not long before they’d met, he’d been seeing an Englishwoman. Lady something or other. Colleen had met her once at a dazzling reception she and Bret had been invited to in Washington. She was lovely, tiny, delicate—and the height of sophistication.
There was really no reason to suspect anything. No reason except for her own loneliness when he was away and her own fears that she couldn’t really keep a man like Bret.
She added that he had been away, that they were about to be parted again, and he’d barely touched her. He’d just hopped on the story like a jackrabbit, ignoring her and coolly and calmly beginning to pack.
“If you walk out of this house now, Bret,” she’d said, trying to be as remote as he was and not pitch into a real crying jag, “it’s over. I mean it.”
He hadn’t even glanced her way. He’d continued dumping his London clothes in the hamper before taking out clean things. The only response he’d made to her comment had been a tightening of his jaw, an action she’d long ago learned meant that he was determined in whatever course he’d chosen.
“Bret! I mean it and you’re not even listening to me.”
“Colleen, you’re acting like an emotional child.”
“You stole my story. It’s more important to you than I am!”
“What’s happening over there right now is more important than your petty feelings of jealousy, yes.”
“Petty feelings of jealousy! I’m not jealous, I’m furious!”
Double Entendre Page 8
