"What is it?" she prompted, pulling the hamburger rolls from the oven. "Angie will be in here any second."
"It's a delicate topic, Maggie, one that I hesitate to broach."
"Oh, for God's sake, Alistair! Since when have you stood on ceremony?"
To her utter amazement, Alistair's tanned cheeks turned bright pink, and he cleared his throat. "I must warn you about becoming involved during the time before the Summit."
"I don't know whether to laugh or hit you with a spatula! The only person I'm involved with is Colleen at the bank. She gives me advance warning when a check is about to bounce."
"That's not the type of involvement to which I refer, Maggie."
"That's what I was afraid of." She arranged the rolls in two wicker baskets and covered them with linen towels. "I'm not involved with anyone, Alistair." Indeed she hadn't been physically intimate with any man since losing Rick. Interested, yes, but the need was outweighed by the risks.
"That may not be the case for long."
She leaned against the counter and stared at her uncle. "I've heard about being the last to know, but this is carrying the concept a bit far. Do you mind telling me what you're talking about?"
"I'm talking about Mr. Tyler."
Why did the mere mention of his name send currents of excitement zapping through her limbs?
Suddenly she was fifteen again and begging her best friend to recount a chance meeting at the water fountain. Tell me everything. Is it the way he looks at me? Did he say something to his friends? Do you think he'll ask me to the prom?
"What makes you think we'll become involved?"
"I watched you two on the back porch."
"Oh." The kiss. "That's incredibly rude, Alistair."
"And the porch is incredibly public," he shot back. "You're moving rather quickly, aren't you?"
"We're not moving at all." Angie had made certain to barge in on Maggie and John but where was she now that Maggie really needed her? "That was a social kiss. Nothing more."
She had no trouble translating Alistair's curse; this time it was pure Ango-Saxon. "Don't take me for a fool, Magdalena."
"And don't take me for a liar, Alistair. I only met Tyler twenty-four hours ago and, if you'll recall, it was hardly under the most romantic of circumstances."
"Obviously things have changed."
"And obviously you're becoming paranoid. I saved his life. He wants to thank me. End of story." Forget the fact that the air between them had been charged with something that went far beyond gratitude.
"How quickly you've forgotten," Alistair said, lighting a Gauloise. "Paranoia is central to my profession."
"One of the many reasons I was glad to get out."
"Be that as it may, the payoff for you, if the Summit comes off as scheduled, is great. All I ask in return is for you to abide by a few simple guidelines." His cheeks grew taut as he inhaled on his cigarette, then they expanded as white smoke encircled his face. "I hardly think that is too much to ask."
"Tyler is a businessman, Alistair. Nothing more." The look she gave her uncle was sharper than the knife on the countertop. "Don't tell me you think that whole incident at the Bronze Penguin was a setup." She shook her head in disgust. "The man almost died! That's carrying paranoia above and beyond."
"Your naivete is most unbecoming How many times did we see the other side sacrifice operatives to a larger cause?"
The question was rhetorical. In truth Maggie couldn't begin to calculate the number of losses she'd heard about during her time with PAX.
"He's been on the cover of Forbes and Newsweek."
"All true," said Alistair. "He's also shared the spotlight in Time with Maximilian Steel."
"There! You see? That should prove he's legitimate." Maximilian Steel was the jet-propelled businessman who'd burst onto the scene a few years ago and ousted Donald Trump from his position as financial golden boy.
Alistair, however, remained unconvinced. "My girl, Steel is one of ours."
She had to hand it to him; he was really pulling out all the stops this time. "That's like telling me Warren Beatty is celibate. Steel is richer than all of the Rockefellers combined. Why would he be mixed up with PAX?"
"Because nothing is ever as it seems. I would think, if you remember nothing from the old days, you would remember that." He watched her intently as she fumbled for her composure. "Steel is really a down-on-his-luck flight instructor who's a friend of Ryder O'Neal."
"But Steel has been in the papers for a few years now." Huge oil deals in Venezuela. Land in Brazil. Massive skyscrapers throughout Manhattan that put his rival, Trump, to shame. Steel had movie-star good looks, and the tabloids had been having a field day with him since the first day he appeared on the scene.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Alistair asked. "The setup has truly been a thing of beauty."
"Why are you telling me all of this?" It wasn't like Alistair to speak of sensitive topics this freely.
"I'm telling you because you must understand that in this world anything is possible. Mr. Tyler may be exactly as he appears." He took a long drag on his cigarette. "Then again, he may not."
A shiver snaked its way up her spine, and she did her best to dismiss it as the result of too much air-conditioning against the heavy August heat.
She pointed toward the boxes of fake money by the door. "I'm having dinner with him tonight," she said, aware she sounded more like a rebellious child than a woman of almost thirty-five. "If I don't, there's no telling what stunt he'll pull next."
"Have your dinner," said Alistair. "The last thing I want is for him to grow suspicious."
The first gorgeous single man she'd seen in ages, and her uncle had to think he was a communist spy. Rachel was right: There was no justice in this world.
"You don't really think he's in on something, do you?"
His shrug was eloquent. "Of course, I'll be running the usual check on him. We'll know soon enough, won't we, dear girl?"
Not terribly encouraging.
However, she couldn't follow up on that statement because Angie chose that moment to burst into the room.
"Horseback riding makes them ravenous!" Angie quickly piled the dishes and bowls and baskets on a huge metal tray, "You'd think they were the ones who did all the work."
Maggie saw Alistair out to the Rolls parked in her rutted driveway.
"Take care," he said. "Remember there may be more to Mr. Tyler than meets the eye." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "That is from Holland. We're leaving as soon as I get back to the cottage."
Maggie raised up on her toes and kissed his weathered cheek lightly in return. As always, he smelled vaguely of cinnamon and spice and, despite herself, she smiled. "That's for Holland. Give her my love."
He chucked her lightly under the chin the way he used to do when she was a child. "No fond goodbye for your aged uncle?"
"You're lucky I don't give you a flat tire." She gave the Rolls a gentle kick with the toe of her right Reebok. "Now I'll be seeing trouble around every corner between now and the Summit Meeting."
"Good," said her uncle. "We can't afford to drop our guard."
She watched him roar off down the lane that led to the main road, the silver Rolls a reminder of the world of privilege and danger that existed beyond the confines of sleepy East Point.
From now until mid-September, PAX would be hiding behind the bushes and lurking under the drainpipes. There would be transmitters in the vases and microphones behind the potted palms in her Victorian dining room.
And now that John Adams Tyler was under suspicion, there would probably even be a camera or two neatly tucked behind those infamous mirrored ceilings, eliminating a few of the more exotic fantasies Maggie had entertained last night.
But what did it matter? John Adams Tyler wasn't even her type.
Three-piece suits and silk ties and impeccable business credentials were commonplace in the world she'd once inhabited. Tyler was stamped out of the same WASPy, Wonder B
read mold of nearly every man she'd met when she worked for PAX.
He was every bit as –
She stopped dead on the top step. No, it was just too ridiculous to even consider.
John Adams Tyler couldn't be a spy.
Or could he?
#
Maggie scooped up her car keys from the end table near the reservations desk.
"I'm off," she said to Rachel, who'd come over to help with the dinner rush.
Rachel glanced at her watch. "Fashionably late. Aren't you afraid the gorgeous Mr. Tyler will be offended?"
"I'm a working woman, Rae. He'll just have to understand the burdens we peons carry." She pirouetted, the skirt of her buttercup-yellow dress swirling about her knees. "How do I look?"
"The dress looks marvelous," Rachel said, "and you know I'd kill to have your legs." She leaned back against the rolltop desk and shook her head. "But there's something wrong."
"I don't have time to change," Maggie warned her mother-in-law, "so don’t' bother suggesting that I slip into something slinky and black."
Rachel's hand flew to her throat in feigned surprise. "I wouldn't think of it, honey. There's something to be said for the Sister Mary Francis look."
"Very funny." While her silky knit dress wasn't exactly straight from the Fredericks of Hollywood summer catalog, it wasn't convent material either. She grabbed Rachel's wrist and checked the time herself. "You have exactly ten seconds to voice your complaints, then I'm out of here."
"I only need two. It's your attitude."
"My attitude?"
"Your attitude. You're going off to Hideaway Haven to have a romantic dinner with the gorgeous, single, rich owner of the place, and you look like you're going to Dr. Jay for a root canal. What gives?"
"Nothing." Oh, Rachel, do I have a story for you! "This is strictly business."
"No, honey. Lunch at the Bronze Penguin is strictly business. This is definitely extracurricular."
"Here!" She flipped her mother-in-law her car keys. "If you're so interested, why don't you go?"
Rachel laughed and handed them back to Maggie. "Because I'd hate to see the look on Mr. Tyler's face when I knocked on the front door. It's you he wants, honey. Let's not disappoint him."
#
Disappointing John Adams Tyler was the last thing on Maggie's mind when she drove through the ivy-covered gates and entered the world of Hideaway Haven.
She was more concerned with keeping her car on the road.
Bowers of roses, entwined on huge trellises, framed the roadway, which was beautifully lighted by old-fashioned gas lamps.
Road signs coyly painted with pictures of lovers strolling hand-in-hand warned drivers to watch out for Dear Crossing. To her right, a tiny covered bridge spanned a small stream. Kissing Bridge, said the sign, reviving an old Pennsylvania custom.
The old Pennsylvanians would be very surprised.
The Kissing Bridge was followed quickly by the Kissing Flower Garden and the Kissing Roller Rink, and as Maggie guided her car up the hill she wouldn't have been the least surprised if the Kissing Bathroom was right around the bend.
She stopped near a pitch'n'putt goft course while three laughing couples rode past on bicycles built for two. Two of the couples were obviously yuppies who, in the outside world, wouldn't be caught dead without their BMWs, while the other couple wore matching Mohawks and silver earrings and probably struck terror into the hearts of their neighbors back home.
To Maggie's intense surprise, they didn't seem the least embarrassed by their surroundings. In fact, they seemed to be having a terrific time.
Could it be something in the air? A special chemical Tyler mixed in with the bug spray that lowered a person's resistance to bad taste? Cautiously she lowered her window a crack and breathed the rose-scented air. It seemed normal enough, but then you could never tell about things like that until it was too late.
If this was a cover for some devious plot, then it was the most ingenious one she'd ever seen.
Alistair had to be wrong. No self-respecting operative would be caught dead in the middle of such all-American kitsch.
Well, maybe that was a poor choice of words, but it was hard to imagine dour socialist types reveling among the roses and canoeing on the lake.
Even at night – and despite the tacky trappings – she could see that the grounds of Hideaway Haven were extraordinary. Huge expanses of green lawn spread across the countryside like a mantle, dotted here and there with wildflowers that even an expert gardener couldn't tame. The buildings she passed were all freshly painted. Unlike the shutters at The White Elephant, the shutters at Hideaway Haven proudly flanked windows that most likely sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight.
The buildings were perfect.
The grounds were perfect.
The owner was perfect.
She thought of her hand-to-mouth operation at The White Elephant.
It was all too depressing for words.
Maggie pulled into the guest parking lot and settled her car into a spot nestled between a BMW and a vintage Corvette. A beat-up Jeep was parked three spots down, and a Ford Escort that had seen better days was near the door.
Apparently the appeal of the place transcended socio-economic barriers. It was getting tougher to maintain her preconceptions about Hideaway Haven.
She took her time strolling up to the main house, stopping to sniff the clouds of roses and marigolds and zinnias marking the path to the front door.
At least he hadn't sacrificed real flowers for fake. Spy or not, there was still hope for him.
The door swung open before she had a chance to knock.
Decked out in a grey silk suit and ruby tie stood John Adams Tyler.
"Come in," he said, opening the door wide and ushering her inside. "Welcome to Hideaway Haven."
Said the spider to the fly.
Chapter Eight
"Did you say something?" John asked as he closed the door behind her.
She made her eyes wide and innocent. "Did you hear something?"
"I thought so."
"Hello." She smiled sweetly. "For the second time."
"So, you did say something."
"Of course I did. A good guest always says hello when her host opens the door."
His eyes blazed with intelligence and humor, and she knew he didn't believe one word she was saying.
Score one for Mr. Tyler.
"I'll find out sooner or later," he said as he led her into the huge foyer that served as lobby for the main building.
"I doubt it." She ran her finger over the highly polished surface of an antique mahogany desk she would sell her soul for. "I won't be here long enough."
"Don’t be so sure," he countered. His fingers were lightly possessive at the small of her back as he guided her through a hallway lined with oil portraits of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century men and woman who all looked vaguely like Tyler himself. "You may be here longer than you think."
A voluptuous shiver began at the point where his fingers rested and rippled throughout her body. It would almost be easier to deal with him if he was a spy. She knew how to handle spies.
Men, even if they weren't her type, were another matter entirely.
She searched around quickly for another, less volatile topic of conversation.
"I'm sorry I was late," she said as he led her into a glass-enclosed room overlooking the lake. "We ran out of prime ribs, and I had to send Rachel over to –" She glanced up at him, a smile tugging at the right-hand corner of her mouth,. "Aren't you going to stop me?"
"I hadn't planned on it." He motioned her to the love seat facing the window, then crossed to the bar in the far corner. "Mumm's Cordon Rouge or Taittinger?"
"What?"
"Champagne." He held up two unopened bottles. "Mumm's or Taittinger?"
She thought of the bottle of Gallo Chablis sitting alone in her refrigerator. "Your choice." With due respect to Ernest and Julio, she doubted she could lose eit
her way.
"Taittinger," he said and reached for the cork puller. "You sent Rachel out to do what?"
Her mind was devoid of all but delicious anticipation as she watched him open the bottle of champagne.
"Why you were late," he prompted. "You ran out of prime ribs, and you sent someone named Rachel over to –"
Good memory.
Bad sign.
Operatives usually had superlative memories.
"You really don't want to hear the gory details, do you?"
"Sure." He handed her a fluted crystal glass of champagne. "Good business. It never hurts to hear about the competition's problems."
She made a show of inspecting the Chippendale side table to her right, the private lake beyond the French doors, the golden bubbly in her glass. "Why is it I feel you just don't have my kind of problems?"
"We all have the same problems," he said, sitting at the other end of the sofa. "It's only a matter of degree."
"Ah, yes. Perspective."
His smile told her he was pleased she remembered his words from that afternoon. She wondered if she'd made a tactical error, but the view was too alluring, and the champagne too wonderful to worry much about it.
She would just have to make a point to be more careful.
He lifted his glass toward her. "To dramatic rescues. I owe you."
She touched her glass to his, then took a long, luscious sip, sighing with pleasure as the bubbles tickled their way down her throat. "Consider the debt repaid in full. This is delicious!"
"Only the best." His eyes met hers.
"Is that one of your rules for business success?"
"For success in everything."
His gaze never wavered. An unnerving sensation of warmth spread outward from her chest. Back in her days with PAX, she would have known how to turn a moment like this around to her advantage, to seize the emotional energy and defuse a situation that grew more volatile, more dangerous with every second.
But she wasn't with PAX any longer. She was a woman who owned a run-down honeymoon hotel in the middle of nowhere. A woman who wore jeans and denim shirts more often than not.
Honeymoon Hotel Page 7
