Playing for Time

by Bretton, Barbara

  Next to her, Ryder took a gulp of Pepsi to wash down the pizza. Food and drink were the last things on Joanna's mind. How on earth did he manage to stay as cool and collected as Stanley Holt?

  "There he goes," Ryder said, his voice low. "He's heading into the bedroom."

  "Probably looking for more girdles," Joanna muttered, ashamed she hadn't believed Rosie's story the first time around. She was as guilty of ageism as anyone else and the thought rankled.

  This time, however, Stanley wasn't on a girdle hunt. Joanna watched as he first pulled out Rosie's bureau drawers and replaced them in reverse order. Next he emptied her closet of shoes and hid them beneath the bed, in the vanity beneath the bathroom sink, behind drapes and chairs and in the hall closet.

  Small things. Insignificant things to someone else. But to an elderly person aware of the many ways age chooses to manifest itself, these things could be devastating.

  Joanna watched quietly, so intent upon the screen that she felt as if she were being drawn into it. Stanley turned to leave, then apparently thought better of it. For a second he faced the camera directly, his lumbering frame poised in the doorway, and Joanna clutched at Ryder's shoulder.

  "He knows," she hissed. "Ryder! He knows."

  "He doesn't know anything," Ryder said, turning the audio up until they could actually hear Stanley's rapid breathing. "The bastard doesn't know a damn thing."

  Without the false good nature and the servile smile, the real Stanley Holt faced the hidden camera.

  After what seemed like endless moments, he walked straight over to the bureau, pulled open the top drawer, and took Rosie's favorite thirty-six inch string of pearls, the ones from her third husband, Sir Reggie Pembroke, the dissipated landowner from Sussex who had followed Rosie around the world until he convinced her to marry him.

  Joanna was ready to leap into action. "Come on," she said, heading for the door. "We can't let him get away with that."

  Ryder left his position in front of the monitors for the first time in hours and grabbed her before she could leave the room. "You're not going anywhere."

  She tried to yank her arm away from him but his grip was stronger than she was. "The hell I'm not. If you think I'm going to stand here and watch him steal Rosie's pearls –"

  "You're not going to stand anywhere," Ryder said. "You're going to sit down until I tell you to get up."

  The punch she'd been withholding for hours finally broke free and landed smack in the middle of Ryder's flat, hard belly.

  "The least you could do is groan," she said as he unceremoniously pushed her down into the chair near the monitors.

  "You're lucky I have good self-control. Punching back is a basic human response."

  She watched, horrified, as Stanley pocketed the string of pearls, then ambled back into the kitchen where he polished off the last of the bananas.

  "Call 911," she said, pointing toward the camera. "We can nail him right now."

  Ryder said nothing. They both watched as Stanley wandered through the dining room, the living room, then finally back to the foyer. He unlocked the door and, to Joanna's dismay, let himself out of Rosie's apartment without a backward glance.

  "It's not too late," she said. "We could grab him before he gets on the elevator."

  Ryder shut down the monitors and stretched.

  "Let him go," he said. "I know a better way."

  "There is no better way. Now that we have proof, the police have to listen to us."

  "Think, Joanna." Ryder leaned over her. "Think about what would happen to Rosie the second they let Stanley out on bail."

  Joanna pushed back her chair and stood to face Ryder. "Think about what will happen to Rosie if we don't try to stop him." She gestured toward the array of electronics equipment scattered around. "Why did we bother with any of this garbage if we were going to let him off scot-free?"

  "He's not going to get off scot-free," Ryder said. "I just know a better way. A way that won't backfire on Rosie."

  "What?" she demanded, stepping closer. "What way?"

  "Sorry," he said, shrugging his broad shoulders and flashing a smile. "You'll just have to trust me on this one."

  At that moment, sailing the Atlantic in her bathtub would be easier than trusting Ryder O'Neal.

  Chapter Seventeen

  From the start Ryder had known he couldn't turn the films over to the police the way Joanna expected. There would be questions to answer, identifications to cough up, an explanation for the sophistication and scope of the equipment stashed in his apartment.

  The thought of anyone messing with his work on detecting plastic explosives was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.

  There had to be a better way and finally he'd come up with it.

  PAX.

  Just once, PAX could forget about global terrorists and international intrigue and try something on a smaller scale, something that would help a few people in a medium-size building in New York City to live a better life.

  A simple request. And for PAX, an easy one to fill.

  Nothing fancy. Nothing earthshaking. Alistair would make a few phone calls and Ryder would deliver the films to the proper hands and this problem with Stanley Holt would be a thing of the past. Rosie and the other elderly residents of the Carillon would be able to live their lives free from harassment and danger.

  That was the very least an American could expect in his or her golden years.

  Besides, it wouldn't hurt the guys in the organization to be reminded that sooner or later even James Bond grew old, and a new James Bond, younger and stronger and more virile, waited to take his place.

  It just might keep them on their toes.

  Of course, the problem of Joanna still remained.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, although he damned well knew the answer. "Don't you believe I'll take care of things?"

  She had the most disconcerting way of maintaining eye contact and it took a hell of a lot of effort to keep from looking away. "I'd feel better if the police were taking care of things."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

  "You must admit you're mysterious, Ryder. Those stories about being a private investigator, those locked rooms in your apartment, Alistair's swearing that you're a computer whiz. You can't blame me for being wary."

  "You have my word. Rosie won't have any more trouble, but you'll have to trust me on this."

  Those blue-green eyes of hers seemed to see right into his heart and she nodded. "I will," she said softly. "God knows why, but I will."

  If the situation were reversed, he knew he'd be dialing 911 before he drew his next breath.

  He stepped closer to her, desire beginning to warm his blood, heighten his senses, charge his dreams.

  "There's no future to this," he said as she moved into his arms. "We both know that, don't we?"

  Her fingers trailed up his rib cage. "Life is too unpredictable." Her lips were soft against his neck. "Today is all that matters."

  "Tomorrow you could be in Timbuktu," he said, his hands slipping over the curve of her hips and waist. "Or back in Hollywood."

  "And you could be chasing wandering waives in Alaska."

  "A future would be impossible for us."

  She nodded. "Impossible."

  He found her lips with his own and her scent and taste and feel inspired a thousand fantasies. He would have sold his soul if one of those thousand fantasies contained the key to a happy ending, but unfortunately that happy ending seemed as impossible as before.

  "I shouldn't trust you," she said as they moved toward the bedroom in a fog of love and desire. "Nothing about you makes any sense."

  The words he'd held back refused to be contained any longer. "I love you, Joanna," he said, meeting her eyes and letting her slip behind his barriers. "I love you more than I thought possible. That's the only thing I can tell you."

  For the first time since he'd known her, that relentless gaze of hers wavered, and when she
looked away he knew – PAX or not – that he didn't stand a chance.

  #

  Words, Joanna told herself as she tried to regain her composure. They're just words. She was old enough and experienced enough to know that what was said in the heat of passion was often forgotten once the passion cooled.

  Ryder's words, beautiful though they were, couldn't change the reality of their situation and she would be wise to keep that thought firmly in mind.

  But, of course, it was difficult to think clearly when the man you love is sweeping you off to bed.

  And it was hard to make sense of his words when his hands and mouth and body were telling you secrets and showing you miracles you had never imagined.

  And it was impossible to keep from hoping that maybe, just maybe, he would turn out to be a high school teacher with a steady job, paid vacation and a great imagination.

  #

  Fireworks.

  Skyrockets.

  Waves crashing against the shore.

  Every single cliché devised by incurable moviemaking romantics to describe the main event fell pitifully short of Holland Masters's first night in the arms of Alistair Chambers.

  They were lying in his enormous bed. The only illumination in the room was the reflection of the lights in Central Park and the two glowing red dots from those wonderfully decadent European cigarettes Alistair carried and Holland adored.

  It was a scene straight out of The Way We Were, where the two mismatched lovers find their brief moment of bliss.

  And, of course, Holland got top billing.

  "More cognac?" he asked.

  "Love it." She extended her glass and he poured a generous amount into it. Even the cognac was exquisite. "I must say you were worth the wait, Alistair."

  His chuckle made his chest rumble beneath her head. "As were you, Holland. When you –" His words were low and intimate and so excitingly explicit that she spilled some brandy on her breasts.

  "Damn!" She sat up, pushing the Pratesi sheets down and putting her glass on the nightstand. "Get me some water, Alistair, please. I don't want to ruin your pricey linens."

  He didn't reach for the water or run for a towel or do anything Holland would have imagined. Instead, he flipped her onto her back and slowly, wildly, proceeded to lick the wine from her body.

  No struggle or coy protests from Holland Masters. Those were the tactics of naïve young girls who hadn't spent forty-two years searching for the perfect lover.

  Nineteen-year-old cuties believe a better man is always right around the corner. By the time you're forty-two, you've turned enough corners to know when it's time to settle down.

  Alistair Chambers didn't know it yet, but he would soon enough. She moaned as he did something particularly inventive. Ah, yes . . . soon enough.

  She wasn't about to let this one get away.

  #

  Ryder was true to his word.

  Before Rosie returned from her rendezvous with Bert Higgins, Stanley had been unceremoniously replaced by the Vincenzos, a husband and wife team, and the Carillon management placed under state investigation.

  No police showed up. No late-night visits from strange characters. No way Joanna could tell how Ryder had achieved his particular miracle.

  In fact, it was a good thing she was occupied at the studio the next week, because she might have given way to temptation and picked the locks to his secret rooms and rummaged through his belongings until she came upon the key to what made him tick.

  The first chance she had to talk about this with anyone was four nights after their successful filming of Stanley raiding Rosie's apartment. Holland finally had an evening free, and since Ryder was busy Joanna had her friend over for dinner.

  "My God!" Joanna said as Holland slipped out of her coat and sat down in the living room. "Tell me your secret. You're absolutely glowing."

  Not once in the ten years of their friendship had Holland ever looked more beautiful.

  "I'm in love," Holland said, smiling broadly. "It's better than a weekend with Elizabeth Arden."

  So far, love had given Joanna sleepless nights and permanent circles under her eyes. She perched on the arm of the sofa and stared at her friend. "Alistair?"

  The twinkle in Holland's eyes gave her away. "Who else? You wouldn't believe the super man hidden away beneath those Harris tweeds. Why, he –"

  "Oh no, you don't! If you start telling me his sexual secrets, I'll never be able to look the man in the face."

  Holland sniffed indignantly. "I certainly don't intend to share the intimate details of the man I love, Joanna. How crass."

  Before that moment, Holland had thought nothing of discussing everything from the size of a man's jockey shorts to what he liked to mumble in the throes of passion.

  "It must be serious," Joanna said, shocked. "When? How? Last I heard, you hadn't even made it to the first kiss."

  "Let's just say things have progressed nicely."

  "Nicely? What do you mean 'nicely'?" Joanna was finding the new, discreet Holland Masters a bit hard to take. "You look like Scarlett after Rhett swept her up the stairs. What's going on?"

  "We're getting married."

  "What?" Joanna leaped off the arm of the sofa in excitement and grabbed Holland in a bear hug. "I can't believe it! When?" Can I be your maid of honor? Where's your ring? He must be thrilled."

  "He will be." Holland smoothed her hair back in place and smiled serenely.

  Joanna's excitement deflated like a punctured inner tube. "You're not engaged?"

  "Not officially."

  "But he has brought up the subject."

  "Not in so many words."

  "What words did he use?"

  "You're very nosy, Joanna. I never realized that before."

  "That's because you were too busy baring your sex life to me before. I never had a chance to be nosy." She sat down on the cocktail table, right in front of her friend. "Are you getting married or aren't you?"

  "I am," Holland said. "I just haven't told him yet."

  Joanna groaned. "I thought so."

  "He'll be surprised," Holland said, inspecting the manicure on her left ring fingers, "and he'll kick up a bit of a British fuss, but I'm certain he'll see the wisdom of it."

  Holland certainly did.

  "So why aren't you with Sir Wonderful tonight?" Joanna asked. "Are you granting him time off for good behavior?"

  "Listen, Joanna, if I had my way, I'd be having my way with him even as we speak. It just so happens he was called away on business."

  An alarm tripped deep in the pit of Joanna's stomach. "Was he called away around seven this morning?"

  Holland shot her a look. "Have you added voyeurism to your many talents?"

  "Don't be evasive, Holland. This is important."

  "Yes, he was," her friend said. "Not that it's any of your business."

  "It is my business. Ryder was called away, too."

  Holland shrugged. "What's so unusual about that? They're business partners. It stands to reason that whatever affects one partner, affects the other."

  "Stockbrokers don't get called away at seven in the morning, Holland."

  "Maybe he's still on London time." Joanna made a face and Holland shrugged. "All right, so maybe that stockbroker story was a bit farfetched. So, they're private investigators instead. What difference does it make?"

  "Don't you think a relationship should be built on honesty?"

  "There's plenty of time for honesty later on," Holland, who had never been married, said. "Once the fireworks have died down, then we can get around to baring our souls."

  "You don't care what he does for a living?"

  "What is this?" Holland countered, sounding annoyed. "Twenty questions? What's wrong with you, Joanna?"

  "Nothing's wrong with me," she lied. "I just think we should both face the issue squarely."

  "Do you know something I should know?"

  Joanna shook her head. That was the problem. A dozen suspicions whirled aro
und inside her head but she was loath to give voice to any of them. Ryder owed her no explanations for his behavior. Hadn't they made it a point to declare their mutual independence? Hadn't the subject of the future been relegated to some far corner of their minds, never to be disturbed?

  "Ignore me," Joanna said finally "This is what happens when you grow up on a steady diet of Nancy Drew."

  "You're not keeping secrets from me?"

  "No secrets." Only questions and Joanna would spare her friend those.

  Ryder O'Neal was the only one who could answer them, and at the moment he wasn't talking.

  "Come on," Joanna said, standing up. "Let's adjourn to the dining room. I did promise you a meal, didn't I?"

  "That you did." Holland's lovely face relaxed and Joanna's heart went out to her.

  Maybe she was being too suspicious, her feelings colored by her disastrous marriage and her mother's peculiar brand of serial monogamy. If Holland Masters, world-class cynic, could bend with the winds of change, why couldn't she?

  When Ryder came back, she was going to give it her best shot.

  #

  The wind from the North Atlantic howled around the small cottage and shook the windows in their frames. Enormous pewter-grey clouds hung low over the rocky coastline and it wasn't hard for Ryder to understand how legend had it that the Isles of Scilly, off the southwestern coast of Cornwall, England, were the mountain peaks of the lost island of Atlantis.

  The rough beauty of the land spoke of Celtic legends and ancient glories, of druids and demons and things that went bump in the night. It was a place of other-worldly wonder and, now, a place of threat and danger.

  Ryder, Alistair, and six other PAX operatives were on tiny St. Margaret, one of the Isles of Scilly. The townspeople were planning a festival two weeks hence, which, for the first time in 435 years, would be attended by members of the royal family. It was a private, unpublicized visit, and only the townspeople and Scotland Yard knew that the prince and princess of Wales and their two children would be staying at Castle Dunellen during the two-day festival.