by Anne Stuart
Randall looked at her, then nodded slowly. “You’ve learned a lot in the last five—six years,” he corrected himself. His small smile did little to lighten his face.
She didn’t return the smile. “I had a little on-the-job training, trying to get out of Gemansk,” she said, turning her back on him. “Do you want to see if we can find anything in this mess?”
She could feel his eyes on her back, and she kept it stiff, upright, and waiting—for an excuse, for an apology, for some word of what had never been discussed. But now wasn’t the time.
“I imagine they’ve been thorough,” Randall said, his voice level. “Let’s go back to the party and see if anyone’s in a particularly frustrated mood. Apart from me.”
She turned to look at him then. “What are you frustrated about? We’ve learned something, at least.”
He was standing very still, his stormy eyes watchful, his face remote. “You’re the one who’s gotten so smart all of a sudden, Maggie. You think about it.”
“If that’s your twisted version of a come-on, Randall,” Maggie said, her face flushed, “then you have a hell of a lot of nerve.”
“Did you ever doubt it?” he countered. “Let’s get back to the party.” And turning his back on her, he strode from the office, heading back down the long narrow hallways.
She watched him walk away from her. Watched him leave her, without a backward glance, as he’d done so long ago in Gemansk. And closing the door lightly behind her, she followed him.
In the crowd, the level of noise and smoke and heat had risen appreciably in the ten or fifteen minutes they had been gone to check out Caleb’s office. Maggie peered through the mingling people, all dressed soberly in black and dark blue, searching for her sister.
“Oh, my God!” she breathed suddenly. “Mother!”
She could feel Randall’s start of interest. “Sybil Bennett? Where?”
“Look for the biggest crowd of men,” Maggie said wryly, “and Sybil’s in the middle of it.”
At that moment, Sybil Bennett caught sight of her oldest, tallest daughter, and her wonderfully husky voice, still with an enchanting trace of British accent, cut across the hubbub. “Maggie, darling!” she cried, and the hordes of young and not-so-young men parted like the Red Sea, leaving a narrow path between Maggie and her mother.
A wry smile lit her face as she surveyed her mother for the first time in almost six months. Sybil Bennett looked as glorious as ever, decades younger than her fifty-four years. Her perfect heart-shaped face was unlined, her raven hair was cleverly unmarred by nasty gray hairs, and her petite, lush figure was perfectly maintained. The famous aquamarine eyes looked up at her daughter’s matching ones, and a beatific smile made the angelic face even more beautiful. “Maggie, darling,” she said again, holding out her silk clad arms, “come to me!”
Ever the actress, Maggie thought, dutifully obeying her mother and crossing the crowded room. Everyone’s eyes were on her. Sybil knew how to set a scene to her best advantage, and Maggie’d learned long ago not to mind. Kate was a different matter. She stood on the sidelines, watching with a troubled expression on her face, then joined Sybil and Maggie.
“Sweetheart.” Sybil enfolded her into her scented arms. With a wave of her hand she dismissed her admirers, and they faded away reluctantly, leaving the three Bennett women alone in the crowd. Sybil drew back and surveyed her eldest daughter with a critical eye. “You’re too tired, Maggie. And that dress is an abomination.”
“Thanks,” Kate muttered.
“Is it yours, darling?” Sybil was instantly all charming contrition. “It probably looks wonderful on you. But Maggie needs something more … dramatic, more je ne sais quoi to go with her spectacular looks. I would have given anything to be a foot taller,” she added sadly, and Kate groaned.
“I think five feet one of Sybil Bennett is about all the world can take,” she said, and Sybil flashed her a brilliant smile.
“Do you think so, darling? You’re probably right. I can be a bit overwhelming. Speaking of overwhelming, Maggie dear, who is that magnificent man lurking behind you?”
Maggie couldn’t squash the laughter that bubbled forth at the thought of Randall lurking. She should have known he wouldn’t take his dismissal lightly. “Randall Carter, Sybil Bennett,” she said.
Sybil’s face lit up. “So you’re Randall Carter.”
“What the hell do you mean by that, Mother?” Maggie demanded, her tolerant good humor vanishing.
“By what?” Sybil said, taking Randall’s hand and gazing up at him soulfully. At least Randall didn’t appear to be taken in by her. He was smiling down at her. The cynical expression in his eyes showed that he saw straight through Sybil’s well-executed artifice.
“How did you hear about Randall?” she pursued, and Randall turned his attention back from her mother, his smile broadening.
“Oh, one hears things,” Sybil said innocently. Maggie wasn’t fooled for a moment, but now wasn’t the time to try to pin her butterfly of a mother down. “Can we leave this depressing party? I’ve always found cocktail parties loathsome.”
“Then why do you go to so many?” Kate demanded.
“They’re a necessary evil, darling. Let’s go pick up Chrissie and go back to my hotel. Queenie can’t wait to see her—she’s waited so long to be a grandmother.”
“Sybil, you’re the grandmother, not Queenie,” Maggie corrected her, before Kate could explode.
Sybil shrugged her pretty shoulders. “Do I look like a grandmother?” she questioned soulfully. “We all know Queenie’s been a better mother to you girls than I ever was. I’m sure she’ll be a better grandmother, too.” She battered her luxuriant eyelashes up at Randall. “I’m hopelessly impractical,” she cooed, and Maggie saw Kate’s hands clench into fists. “Why don’t you come with us, Randall? We’re going to have a late supper in my suite. Alicia and that charming young giant have promised to join us, and you’d be an admirable addition.”
“Charming young giant?” Kate echoed in dismay.
“The one with the wonderful Scots name. Caleb McAllister, wasn’t it?” She smiled her bewitching smile, and Kate met it stonily. “We’ll have iced champagne and cold salads, and we’ll figure a way out of this mess.” She leaned closer to her unappreciative younger daughter and said in a loud stage whisper that carried to Maggie’s waiting ears, “You can take a shower at my place, Kate dearest. I imagine you haven’t wanted to use your own recently.”
“Mother!” Kate moaned, sounding adolescent. “Please! Can’t you be discreet?” She cast a nervous look at Randall.
“I was whispering,” Sybil said, much aggrieved. “Anyway, discretion was never one of my strong points. You’ll join us, Randall?”
“Randall’s got a lot of things going on,” Maggie said hurriedly.
“None of which would interfere with me joining you for supper,” he continued smoothly. “What time would you like us?”
“Us?” Sybil raised an eyebrow.
“Maggie and I have a little business to take care of first.”
“I don’t think—” His hand clamped around Maggie’s elbow, with just enough pressure to warn her. “I don’t think it’ll take too long,” she continued smoothly. “We’ll meet you back at the Mandrake.”
Sybil’s eyebrow rose higher still. “Of course, darling. Kate and I have a lot to catch up on. Come along, Kate.” Her imperious wave was greeted with a stony look from her second daughter.
“Don’t take long,” Kate muttered as Sybil drifted away, and she followed in her mother’s footsteps.
“What is this business we have to conduct?” Maggie turned back to her unwanted companion. “Kate and Sybil don’t get along well. Or shall we say, Kate doesn’t get along with Sybil. Mother is so blissfully egocentric that she never notices when she infuriates people. Particularly her daughters.”
“Does she infuriate you?”
“Not anymore. But,” she added after a moment’s thought,
“that’s none of your business.”
Randall smiled his cool smile. “Of course not,” he agreed. “And our business is quite simple. We have to break into Caleb’s apartment, see if we can find the missing videotape or tapes, and get back out of there before he returns from Sybil’s party.”
“Oh.” Maggie said blankly.
“Would you rather I did it alone?” Randall asked.
She glared up at him. “We’re wasting time, Randall. Let’s go.”
His gray-blue eyes held the unexpected warmth of approval. “I’m ready when you are, Maggie.” And if that simple statement held endless implications, Maggie chose to ignore them.
They stopped long enough to check the phone book, and she breathed a sigh of relief that there was only one Caleb McAllister in Chicago. Kate’s unwelcome suitor proved to be a man of surprises. Kate had painted a picture of a stubborn, unimaginative man, and Maggie half-expected him to live in an anonymous cubicle in some large block of condos.
Instead, Randall drove them to a small brownstone that was clearly as charming as Kate’s aging apartment building. Each floor held an apartment, and Caleb’s commanded the third and top floors. The two tall, well-dressed sneak thieves entered the building and climbed the stairs without encountering even a curious glance.
“What are you going to tell Caleb if he finds out?” Maggie demanded when they reached the third-floor landing.
“That will depend on what we find in his apartment, won’t it?” he replied. “If we find something incriminating, we may not have to answer any questions at all.”
“How come we’re picking on Caleb? Do you think he was Francis’s partner in crime? Kate said they didn’t get along well at all.”
“That may have been a cover. We’re starting with Caleb because we have to start somewhere. Since Caleb’s office was searched, it seems as if we’re on the right track. Let’s just hope we’ve gotten here before they have.”
Maggie stood very still, staring at the door in front of her. “Nasty thought. What if they’re still in there?”
“I’ll expect you to rout them,” he replied simply, trying the doorknob.
Their luck didn’t hold the second time—the door was unquestionably locked. Meaning there was no one waiting, Maggie decided, forcing herself to relax.
Randall set to work on the lock and within seconds had it open. “How’d you do that?” she demanded, a note of envy in her voice.
“Tricks of the trade, Maggie. Behave yourself, and maybe I’ll show you later.”
“Maybe you won’t be around later, if I have any luck at all,” she muttered gracelessly, following him into the darkened apartment with only a start of nervousness.
“No one’s gotten to me yet. I have no intention of dying before my time. Haven’t you heard? Only the good die young.”
God, why did it still have the power to send shafts of screaming pain through her? She’d let go of Pulaski when she’d had no choice, loving him, missing him, mourning him, and then going on with her life. It was only at odd, unexpected moments when it came crashing in on her again.
“You take the living room, and I’ll start with the bedroom,” he said, flicking on the lights. “I don’t need to tell you what to look for?”
“No. I already told you,” she said.
“Couldn’t resist it, could you, Maggie?”
“I’m only human,” she said modestly, looking around the comfortable apartment with approval.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Randall muttered, and disappeared into the bedroom.
She was searching through the videotapes by the VCR when she heard the crash. She was at the bedroom door by the time the huge, black-clad figure emerged on the attack. She was flung halfway across the room before she had time to do more than blink, the breath knocked out of her. She lay sprawled across an upended chair, dazed, and watched the ensuing battle.
Randall had been on the masked creature’s heels and caught him before he reached the door. It was a short, dirty little fight, unbelievably savage. All traces of the perfect gentleman were gone from Randall’s pale, furious face. He connected more than once, a blow to the side that should have cracked a few ribs, a kick to the groin that should have finished the intruder. But the black-clad figure was seemingly invincible, twisting out of Randall’s iron grasp, impervious to pain. Randall slammed the dark figure up against a wall and pinned him there for a timeless moment as he reached up to rip the mask away.
And then the door opened. Caleb McAllister stood there, his face awash with shock and anger. The first intruder used the moment to wrench away, shoving Caleb out of the way and racing out the apartment. Randall was on his heels and disappeared into the night, leaving Maggie draped over the living-room furniture. Her face throbbed from its collision with the chair, and her breath shuddered through her body. He had left her to face a very angry Caleb McAllister.
He stood erect, closed the door quietly behind him, and walked into the living room. Looking down at Maggie, he reached out a large hand to her. She considered it a moment, took it, and he pulled her upright with far more courtesy than she deserved, considering the situation he found her in. Damn it, and damn Randall, too, for not having come up with a believable story in case they were caught. Caleb should have gone straight to Sybil’s for supper, but there were never any guarantees in this life. Apparently he’d found a reason to stop by his home between parties. Damn and damn again.
Caleb just looked at her, a long, steady look. “I expect you could do with a drink,” he said finally. “I know I certainly could. That should give you enough time to think up a plausible excuse. I just hope you’re a better liar than your sister. She always blushes.”
“Does she lie to you very often?” Maggie’s voice came out a little rusty as her breathing returned to normal. Her pulse was still racing and would continue to race until Randall returned in one piece. Not that she gave a damn about Randall, she reminded herself. She just wanted to know if he’d caught the intruder.
“Often enough. Scotch okay?”
“Scotch would be perfect. Straight, no ice. By the way, why didn’t you go to Sybil’s?”
“I had a funny feeling that something was going on here. I always trust my instincts.” He gave her the drink, dark amber and very potent, and waited until she sank down into the comfortable sofa. “Were you and Carter responsible for the shape of my office, too?”
“No. We’re much neater than that. I expect it was the man Randall chased out of here who trashed your office.”
“Do you have any idea what he was after? Or what you were after, for that matter?” He was unfailingly polite, almost unimaginatively so, and Maggie could see how Kate could underestimate him. The intelligence in those bright blue eyes belied his innocuous manner. Kate would be well advised to look further beneath his polite exterior—it might be well worth it.
“We didn’t know what we were after. Anything that might have some bearing on Francis’s death. Your intruder seemed to have zeroed in on videotapes.”
Caleb nodded. “Of course.”
“Of course?” Maggie prompted, taking a deep, soul-satisfying drink of the Scotch.
“I confiscated the tapes of Francis’s newest masterpiece, The Revenge of the Potato People, Part Two. He was ready to send them out to the packagers in Europe, and I wasn’t about to do that until he answered a few questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Simple ones. Like why they were so far over budget. Why several versions were filmed. Why, when Revenge of the Potato People Part One lost so much money, he had gone ahead with Part Two. Why his biggest customer didn’t have a phone, an address, or any record of payment when I tried to track them down.”
“Who was his biggest customer?”
“Red Glove Films. They’re supposedly located in a small industrial town in Eastern Europe that no one’s ever heard of.”
Maggie had a curious, sinking sensation. “What town?”
“
It’s called Gemansk. Why the hell they’d have a film distribution company is beyond me.” He shook his head, taking a deep sip of his own drink. “So you want to tell me why you and Carter thought you had the right to break into my apartment? And why you decided to suspect me? Or were you more interested in framing me?”
“Caleb, that man hiding in your apartment who Randall was wrestling with was the bad guy, not us. And, apparently, not you. We didn’t really suspect you, Caleb. We just had to start somewhere.”
“Why didn’t you start with your own sister?”
“Do you think she had something to do with it?”
Caleb looked at her. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “She knows more than she’s saying.”
“So do I.”
He smiled briefly. “You probably had something to do with Francis’s death, too. Am I right to assume The Revenge of the Potato People, Part Two has something to do with it?”
“It certainly seems so. In which case, we’re all involved, whether we know it or not.” Was that the sound of someone in the hallway? Her hands were shaking around the warm glass of whiskey. Caleb didn’t indulge in air conditioning, and the room still held the trapped daytime heat. That must have been the reason her palms were sweating as she strained to listen.
He didn’t bother knocking. The door was still unlocked, and Randall stepped into the apartment—alone. His perfect black suit was slightly rumpled, his hair was mussed, and there was the beginning of a bruise on his forehead. He looked more human than Maggie had ever seen him, and she took another gulp of her whiskey.
“Could I have one of those?” Randall inquired politely. “I need it.”
Without a word, Caleb rose and poured him a drink.
“Did you lose him?” Maggie demanded, wondering why she felt an odd sense of relief.
“I lost him. What a complete waste of time,” he said disgustedly.
“Not completely,” Caleb said. “I still have the videotapes.”