by Anne Stuart
“Aren’t you uncomfortable sitting up there like an undertaker?” she questioned idly, reaching behind her for the glass of wine she’d only managed to spill once, and that time on purpose. “Don’t you ever relax?”
“No,” he said repressively. “Pay more attention to the movie and less attention to my wardrobe, Maggie. We’re getting to the good part.”
“The good part?” she echoed in disbelief. “There is no such thing.”
“Well, the less horrible part,” he temporized. “When the potatoes eat the Empire State Building.”
“Randall, the special effects aren’t even that good. You can tell that Empire State Building is three feet tall.”
“Maggie, stuff your mouth with more popcorn or go to bed,” he said. “I’m trying to pay attention.”
Maggie turned to stare at the twin televisions. Big, puffy potatoes were rolling down a miniature Fifth Avenue, heading directly toward the Empire State Building. It had been mildly entertaining the first time around, but by the third it had definitely lost all its merit. Not even Maggie’s third glass of wine helped. She turned her back on it, scampering to her feet and crossing the darkened room to the sofa. Randall sat unmoving, looking up at her.
She’d had too much wine and not enough sleep. She knew that. She was playing with fire and was about to get burned—she knew that, too. But even with Mack’s shirt wrapped around her, she couldn’t resist.
“Randall,” she said, her voice teasing. “You’re such a stuffed shirt. Can’t you at least loosen your tie? Or would your head fall off?”
“Leave me alone, Maggie,” he said, his voice a warning—a warning she chose to ignore.
She squatted down beside him. Her bare knees almost touched him, but still he didn’t move. For some reason, the memory of Caleb and Kate wrapped in each other’s arms still haunted her. She imagined them right now in the king-size bed in Caleb’s apartment; The Revenge of the Potato People would be miles from their thoughts—if they were even thinking at that point. “Come on, Randall,” she said, a mischievous smile playing about her mouth, dancing in her eyes. “Prove that you’re human like the rest of us.”
“I’m human, Maggie. Don’t goad me.” The potatoes squashed the Empire State Building and neither of them noticed.
“Then loosen up.” She reached out to unfasten his tie, but his hand shot out and caught her wrist, stopping her before she could touch him. He was hurting her. Maggie didn’t say a word. She only stared at him, her eyes wide and waiting. They could both feel her pulse pounding through her slender wrist.
Somewhere she found her voice. “No, Randall,” she said.
He didn’t loosen her wrist. “Too late, Maggie. I warned you.” And slowly, inexorably, he pulled her to him.
His mouth meeting hers was a shock. The savage hunger, the demand, the need that swept through her at his touch horrified what small part of her brain was capable of thought. Six years might never have passed; he might never have betrayed and abandoned her. She was in his arms, half-lying across him, and she was desperate for more than just his mouth on hers, more than his arms holding her captive, more than his hands on her breasts.
There’d never been any question of not responding. She’d opened her mouth beneath his, moved when he’d pulled her, and then lay beneath him on the sofa, stretched out. Her long bare legs were beneath his trousered ones, her breasts were pressed up against his suit jacket, her arms were wrapped around him and holding him tightly against her as she kissed him back with a need that terrified her.
It had been six years since Randall; it had been two years since Mack or any man had touched her, and her body cried out for it. Maybe she could shut her eyes and pretend she was back in her bed in Boothbay Harbor, pretend it was Mack’s hands holding her face, Mack’s mouth traveling across her lips, her cheekbones, her eyelids. But the lips were harder, thinner, hungrier, and the hands were uncallused—the hands of a rich man who had never had to work for a living. It wasn’t Mack. Mack was dead. The man pressing her into the soft cushions of the sofa was the man who’d betrayed her.
“No,” she screamed, but his mouth was on hers, smothering the sound, and her hands were trapped between their bodies. She struggled, and he must have felt it. He reached down, caught her hands, and dragged them away from him. She was very strong, but he was stronger. It took him only a moment to pin her to the sofa; one hand imprisoned her wrists, the other held her face still. She could see his eyes glittering with rage and desire; then his mouth caught hers again, and he kissed her, long and hard—an insult of a kiss that still vibrated with the desire that had sparked between them. And then he pulled his mouth away.
There was blood on his mouth, blood on hers, and she couldn’t tell whose it was. He stared down at her for a long moment. “Don’t do that again,” he said, his voice rough. “You never were a cocktease before, you don’t need to start now. I’m not going to play little games with you, Maggie. Don’t start something you aren’t prepared to finish.”
She stared up at him. He was still on top of her, pressing her into the sofa, and he was still fully aroused. “I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” he contradicted flatly. “And this is the only time you’ll get away with it.” With a sudden swift movement he rolled off of her, landing on his feet with his usual grace. As she struggled to sit up, his hand reached out and caught her shirt. “And next time don’t wear Pulaski’s shirt.”
“There won’t be a next time,” she managed, thoroughly sober, thoroughly chastened. She didn’t even bother to wonder how he knew it was Mack’s shirt. There were times when Randall seemed to know everything. She shivered.
“Won’t there?” With swift, economical motions, he stripped off his tie and unfastened the first two buttons of his silk shirt. He tossed the tie at her, and unthinkingly she caught it. “Will that do?”
Even his hair was rumpled. For the moment, Maggie was safe, the danger had passed. She curled herself up in the corner of the sofa. “Fine,” she said. “I think we’ve got more important things to think about than your appearance.”
“I’ve already told you that,” he said patiently, turning his attention back to the movies with a calm disregard that she would have found insulting if she hadn’t been distracted by her latest discovery.
“Do you see that?” she demanded, moving forward to the edge of the sofa, her voice rising in excitement.
“What?”
“That’s how the information is being passed.” She gestured toward the twin television sets that had been running cheerfully along, ignored by the two of them. The two screens no longer matched. On one set, potatoes were rolling all over downtown L.A., squashing tourists. On the other, the scantily clad leader of the Resistance was perusing the operating plans of a potato satellite. The long, loving closeup of those plans had already lasted at least a minute, and they didn’t look like any potato satellite Maggie had ever seen.
“You’re right,” Randall said, suddenly businesslike. He quickly backtracked, staring at one television while the potatoes rolled on amidst shrieks on the other. The scene lasted a full five minutes. Three of those minutes were devoted to the blueprint while ridiculous dialogue was carried on in the background. Every nuance of the technical drawing was on screen for long moments, and even the legend “Potato Satellite” emblazoned on top didn’t detract from it.
“What do you suppose it is?” Maggie demanded when Randall finally turned from the machine.
“Not a potato satellite. Not a satellite at all, if I’m any judge. I think it’s the newest missile the Pentagon’s ordered.”
“The cruise?”
“Worse than that. This is one of those cute little ones that wipe out everything living while leaving buildings and anything worth money intact. They’ve had them before, but this one has a much wider range.” His thin mouth curled in disgust. “Damn them all.”
“Why would you care?”
Randall looked up, startled at her prosai
c question. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said,” Maggie said. “Why would you care? Your opinion of your fellow man is astonishingly low. Why would it matter to you if there were several thousand fewer?”
“More like hundreds of thousands,” Randall said. “And you’re right, I don’t care much about my fellow man. But I also detest needless waste. Wiping out half the population of a country has never appealed to my sense of efficiency.”
“By all means, let’s be efficient,” Maggie said with a yawn, but her eyes were sharp. “Can we turn off the damned machines yet?”
“Not yet. The movie’s almost over. We may as well hold out to the end.”
“May as well,” she said with a sigh, crawling off the sofa and stretching out onto the popcorn-strewn carpet once more, her head resting on her arms. “Wake me when it’s over.”
She was asleep before the potatoes had made it to the Grand Canyon. He could hear her deep, steady breathing, with the faint suggestion of a feminine snore, as her long, slender body relaxed into sleep. He sat watching her, watching the television sets, his hands clenched in fists.
He wanted to crawl down beside her and take her into his arms. He wanted to sleep in the popcorn with her, just holding her, listening to her breathing, feeling her warmth. But he sat where he was, watching.
The first VCR clicked off, leaving a fuzzy white television screen. Five minutes later, the second one followed suit. The darkened room was eerie in the flickering light of the television sets. He crossed the room on silent feet, turned off both sets, then moved back to the sofa to turn on the small lamp. She was afraid of the dark—Willis had told him that with great glee. She never had been before, and he had to wonder what had caused that uncharacteristic phobia. He knew it predated Pulaski, and it mystified him—as did everything about her.
There was no way in hell he was going to carry her into her room. She’d have to sleep on the floor and deal with the aches tomorrow. At least it would give her something to think about while she was cursing him.
And curse him she would. Because when she woke up tomorrow morning, he’d be long gone. Now that he knew how the information was being passed, he needed to find out who was receiving it. Who was the intermediary between Stoneham Studios and Red Glove Films? And once he found that intermediary, it would take a very short time to uncover the rest of the mess.
The easiest, fastest way to do that was to go to the source. Back to Eastern Europe, back to Gemansk. He still had more than enough contacts, and although his guilt over Vasili’s death had kept him away for six years, he knew it wouldn’t take him long to renew those connections.
He looked down at Maggie’s sleeping figure. Her thick blond hair obscured her face, obscured the eyes that would be blazing with fury tomorrow when she found he’d gone. He couldn’t figure out why the hell she’d started flirting with him tonight. She probably didn’t know, either, but it was going to make for a very uncomfortable few nights until he came back and found out why.
It was almost five A.M. Flights to Eastern Europe were notoriously poor, but if he were lucky, today would be one of those days when an airplane was headed in that direction, and he’d be in Gemansk and have the answers he needed before the weekend was over.
In the meantime, there was one last thing he had to do, just to prove to himself that he could, and then stop. He walked silently over to Maggie’s sleeping body and squatted down beside her. Very gently, he reached out and pushed the sheaf of hair away from her face. His long fingers caressed her so lightly, she would never feel it. And then he rose and moved away before he could think twice about it.
The door shut silently behind him as he stepped out into the hall. Maggie lay in the deserted apartment, her eyes wide open in the semidarkness. Her instincts were alert, her brain was wide awake. Slowly she pulled herself into a sitting position, shook her cramped muscles, and folded her legs underneath her. “What the hell are you trying to pull this time, Randall?” she muttered out loud. She already knew the answer.
She’d stake her reputation, her career, and her sister’s peace of mind that Randall had decided to fly to Gemansk. Leaving her behind, of course. Damn the man. Damn the sneaking, low-living, cowardly bum.
Well, she was going to take that bet. She was going to call the airport and book the first flight for Gemansk, throw everything she could in an overnight bag, and head straight for O’Hare. If Randall wasn’t there, if she’d overestimated his resourcefulness, so much the better. She could find the answers she needed just as easily as he could.
But he’d be there—and he’d be none too pleased to see her. The thought was absolutely delicious.
Slovak Airlines had a small, dingy corner in the northeast terminal at O’Hare. Business was far from brisk when Maggie arrived in the late afternoon—the only other customer was a tall, well-dressed gentleman with his back to her. She moved up on him silently and waited with all the patience of a saint as he bought a round-trip, first-class ticket on the flight leaving in just over an hour. He was completely oblivious to her as he dealt with credit cards and window seats with his customary efficiency. For a moment she considered tugging on his jacket like an importunate child, but she resisted the impulse. It would be much more fun to see the look of shock when he turned and saw her.
Trust Randall to travel first class, she thought with a grimace, hoping she had enough credit left on her Visa card to cover her costs. She just might have to suffer along with the peasants in tourist class while Randall swilled champagne with the nobility. Why the hell did a Marxist country have an airline with classes? she thought self-righteously.
Her patience was wearing thin as she waited for him to turn. It had been an endless day, waiting for the one flight O’Hare boasted. Kate hadn’t bothered to show up at home, and Bud Willis was nowhere to be found. The anonymous voice at Langley had told her he’d taken a leave of absence, but she didn’t believe that for one minute. When it came right down to it, she was just as glad she hadn’t been able to reach him. It wasn’t that she was adverse to taking information from him; she just wasn’t eager to return the favor.
Randall turned, and she waited with delicious anticipation for his eyes to widen with shock and annoyance and for his mouth to thin with irritation. He looked down at her, raised an eyebrow, and handed her her ticket.
“I got you a window seat,” he said.
She grimaced. “I shouldn’t underestimate you.”
“You don’t. Not by much, at least. And I shouldn’t underestimate you.”
She nodded. “True enough. Know thy enemy.”
“I thought we were partners.”
“For now, Randall. I’m only taking it one day at a time.”
He smiled that faint, wintry smile that seldom reached his stormy eyes. It didn’t reach them now. “That’ll do,” he said.
She looked at him, remembering the surreptitious caress in the darkness before he had left her. And she wondered if she dared trust him even for a day.
twelve
Gemansk hadn’t changed in the last six years; it was still the same depressing, gray industrial town, full of downtrodden, beaten people with lost eyes and pale faces. The moment Maggie stepped off the airplane onto the pitted tarmac, depression settled in around her. Randall strode beside her, and she spared a furtive, curious glance up at him. He was clearly lost in his own thoughts; his face was shuttered and closed. But that was nothing unexpected—he’d never been a man with open emotions. His blue-gray eyes were hooded, and his mouth a thin, grim line. She looked at that mouth, remembering the brief moment of hateful, unwanted passion on her sister’s couch the night before, and looked away, to the squat, cinder-block building that housed the airport. With every ounce of effort she had, she tried to bring forth the memory of Mack, with his smiling eyes and warm, laughing mouth. But he was fading, leaving her almost more bereft now than his actual death had, and she knew with a desperate certainty that there would be a time when she would r
each out for his memory and try to summon him back, and he’d be gone beyond reach, leaving her to Randall’s tender mercies.
“I don’t suppose you made any arrangements,” she said, her voice cold and cranky.
Randall roused himself from his abstraction long enough to smile at her. That smile wasn’t reassuring. “What caused this charming mood? You slept almost the entire trip.”
Actually, she hadn’t. She’d curled up into the cramped, uncomfortable seat that Slovak Airlines considered first class and had shut her eyes rather than have to make conversation with Randall. She’d drifted off for an hour or two as they soared above the clouds, only to wake up with her hand clutching Randall’s immaculate shirt-sleeve. She’d released him immediately, pulling back, and he’d said nothing; he’d merely brushed at the creased linen with an absent hand.
“Jet lag,” she said dourly now.
He nodded. “You’ll feel worse later.”
“Reassuring,” she muttered.
“I try to be helpful. May I remind you, Maggie dear, that you weren’t invited on this particular expedition?”
“Then why did you buy me a ticket?”
“I saw you lurking behind me trying to be inconspicuous, and I knew if I had you shadowing me, you’d be even more obtrusive.”
“Damn you, Randall! I know how to shadow someone!” she said furiously.
“You’re out of practice. And time and the current situation are too important to risk while you relearn your trade.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you are an unpleasant, condescending bastard?” Maggie inquired in a polite tone of voice.
“Many times.” Again that faint smile flitted across his face. “Among other, less complimentary things. My heart isn’t breaking.”
“You don’t have a heart.”
He stopped dead on the tarmac, just outside the door to the airport, and Maggie careened into him. His long, hard fingers caught her arms. There was no gentleness in him. His bleak eyes looked down into her defiant ones, and his thin mouth curled into what might have been contempt. But then again, it might have been something else. He started to say something, then thought better of it, and his painful hands released her.