by Anne Stuart
There was no one in the driver’s seat. Suddenly she was very wary. He could have stretched out in the backseat or he could be stretched out across the two front seats, but somehow she doubted it. Her instincts were screaming at her, and she crossed the last few yards to the Jeep at a dead run.
It was empty. No sign of Mack, no sign of the knapsack that held all their worldly goods. The only thing in the brand-new Jeep Cherokee was blood, all over the front seat.
Maggie moaned and sank to her knees beside the Jeep, clinging with numb hands to the door handle. Whoever had gotten Mack probably hadn’t gone far. Whoever it was would most likely return and finish her too. But she didn’t care. She’d failed him, and now she was more alone than she’d ever been in her entire life.
“What the hell are you doing, Maggie May?” Mack’s voice was heavy with irritation and exhaustion. “That’s very artistic, kneeling there, but not too useful. You want to help me cover the body?”
She didn’t move for a long moment, as relief washed over her with such force that she shook. She grinned down at the dust beneath her, releasing her grip on the door handle, but when she rose and turned back to Mack her expression was bland.
“Whose body?” she inquired.
Mack wasn’t fooled. He jerked his head toward the underbrush. “God knows. The rebels, the Liberation Army, maybe even CIA. I didn’t have any say in the matter—when I opened my eyes his knife was heading for my throat.”
“Is he dead?”
“Bodies usually are,” he replied. “Did you find us a pilot?”
“I found us a pilot. Clean-cut, sober, intelligent. Let’s just hope he didn’t send a friend out to investigate the Jeep.”
“I guess we have no choice but to find out, do we?” Mack said, hoisting the knapsack over his shoulder. “Come on, Maggie May. Let’s go.”
“Don’t we need to cover … ?”
“I just said that to get your attention. He’s taken care of, kid. You look like you could use a little taking care of yourself. I didn’t know you were so squeamish about death.”
Only when I thought it was yours, she thought. “It’s not something one should get used to.”
“You’re right. It’s also not something one should dwell on when there’s no choice in the matter,” he said, and she had to agree. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Sweetheart?” she echoed, stunned. The endearment came from out of the blue, suggesting all sorts of unexpected things like commitment and happy-ever-after.
Mack managed a white, shaken grin. “Sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”
“Good,” she said, lying. “See that it doesn’t.” And they headed toward the plane.
eighteen
Luis lived up to Maggie’s initial impression. He’d just finished his check of the engine when the two of them arrived back at the tin shack, and they took off immediately. The flight was peaceful, smooth, and completely uneventful. Maggie couldn’t resist giving Mack a look of smug satisfaction, but it was lost on him. He slept the short flight to La Ceiba, woke up long enough to be uncharacteristically surly while she made arrangements for a flight to take them to New York, and then proceeded to sleep during that flight too.
She sat beside him on the 727 sipping at her Bloody Mary and trying to concentrate on the clouds outside the window. But her glance kept straying to Mack.
He hadn’t shaved, and his chin was stubbled. His eyes, now as they lay closed in sleep, were still ringed with shadows that showed purple against his tan. He’d managed to wash his hands and face in the men’s room, but there was still no denying the fact that the two of them were incredibly grubby, covered with dirt and sweat and dust. And, God help them, dried blood.
The thought of her huge old apartment awaiting them at the end of their flight made her almost dizzy with anticipation. Not that it was necessarily awaiting both of them, she reminded herself. Mack was proving stubborn and withdrawn today—she wouldn’t put it past him to refuse to accompany her into Manhattan for the respite they both so desperately needed.
She leaned back against her own seat and crunched on the celery stalk from her drink. If only they hadn’t had to toss their guns, she thought wearily. She’d feel a lot better if she still had that heavy, nasty piece of machinery tucked in the waistband of her jeans. But they really had no choice in the matter—no airline in the world would let them on carrying that kind of hardware.
If they could just make it to her apartment, they’d be all right. She had two handguns there, with licenses, ammunition, the works. Though of course the problem would surface again—Swissair was unlikely to encourage armed passengers in this day of skyjacking.
Well, they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Right now all she wanted to do was get home and stand in the shower until she used every drop of hot water in her huge, prewar building. Maybe she’d leave enough for Mack, maybe not. Her own trip to the La Ceiba Airport ladies’ room had disclosed an impressive bruise on her strong chin. She almost regretted washing away some of the grime when it made the purple and blue stain so spectacular. She owed Mack one. And sometime, somehow, she was going to collect on that debt. He hadn’t had to hit her quite that hard.
She leaned back in the seat, wishing she could close her eyes and sleep as Mack slept. But her nerves were strung too tightly, too much was hanging in the balance. Mentally she went over the things she’d have to procure. New clothes again, tickets to Switzerland, more money and/or credit, the name of a contact in Switzerland who could get them guns. And somehow or other she was going to have to get in touch with Third World Causes, Ltd. and see how they were faring in the wake of Peter’s death. And she had to do that without running afoul of the informant. If there even was one, she thought wearily. It seemed as if it had been half a century ago when she’d walked in and found Mack leaning over his body, but in fact it had been only five days ago.
Van Zandt, the evil genius behind all this, was safe in Switzerland, awaiting them, but that didn’t mean all the other forces he’d sicced on them wouldn’t be lying in wait. They’d be doing well if they just made it safely in and out of the city without Mancini and his hoods or the CIA and the FBI closing in on them.
Mack stirred in his sleep, and she abandoned her worries to watch him. It was an indulgence, and one that she deserved, she thought, tilting the seat back and staring at him out of gritty eyes. Every now and then she could see a trace of Snake in the sexy curl of his mouth. It must be strange for him to have another identity hidden in his past, cropping up at unexpected times.
She’d been like most adolescent girls and experienced her share of pubescent passion for Snake. But when it came right down to it she preferred the man next to her, with his surprising gentleness, his quirky humor, his warmth and tolerance. Not to mention his quick mind, his bravery that was simply an accepted fact, not something he had to prove. She liked the way he teased her, the way he let her be when she needed it, and the way he helped when she needed it. She liked the way his mouth felt on hers, the way his body fitted to hers, and she liked the slow, deliberate way he made love. And the fast, savage way he made love, she thought, remembering those moments on the floor of the Holiday Inn and feeling her pulse race. What would it be like to make love to him in her own bed, a bed she’d never taken any man to?
She was looking forward to it. Hell, that was putting it mildly. The very thought of it made her heart race and her palms sweat. Right now Maggie felt that if Mack just touched her, she’d ignite.
Down, girl, she told herself. It’s a logical reaction. You’re finally, temporarily, out of danger, and your body’s just reasserting its natural prerogatives. With a sigh she turned away, looking across the aisle to the other sleeping passengers, to the clouds beyond. In a matter of hours they’d be back in her apartment. And then, whether he liked it or not, she would have her wicked way with him until they were both in a state of passionate exhaustion.
She shut he
r eyes, trying to ignore the gritty feel of the dust and too many disturbed nights. A few more hours, and then peace, God willing. She could hold out that long.
If she’d hoped Mack would wake up in a more cheerful mood, she was doomed to disappointment. It was a dark, gloomy day when they landed in New York, and the runways were wet with soaking rain. Mack awoke when the plane touched down, and his expression was abstracted, distant, and shadowed.
They sat there as the people around them rushed for the exits, neither of them saying a word. It had been almost a month since Mack had been in New York, longer than that for Maggie, if she didn’t count the short time at the airport when Peter had sent her off on her current quest. It was home to both of them, Maggie thought. So why didn’t they feel any relief?
“We’re going to my place,” Maggie said in a low voice.
“No.”
She ignored that. “Just long enough for me to make plans. We need more money, we need clothes, we need plane reservations.”
“Forget it, Maggie. I know what I have to do.”
“Don’t be a turkey, Mack. We’ve already agreed. We’re going to Switzerland and face Van Zandt.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“Mack …” Her voice held a warning.
“I’m going alone.”
“The hell you are.”
“You don’t have any say in the matter, Maggie,” he said wearily. “Too many people have died because of me. I’m not going to let you walk into danger again. This is between Van Zandt and me, and I intend to take care of it. Without your help.”
“Too bad, Mack. You’ve got my help, whether you want it or not,” she shot back. “I hate to remind you, but I’m in charge of this expedition and I—”
“Not anymore.”
“Listen, you macho pig, just because I’m not made of steel doesn’t mean that you’re suddenly the boss of the world,” she snapped. “I have as much right—”
“Maggie,” he said gently, “you’re fired.”
She stopped mid-tirade, too startled to do more than stare. “What?”
“I said you’re fired,” he repeated. “I hired the services of Third World Causes, Ltd., and I can fire them. You’re out of a job, Maggie. Go back to your office and help them out of the mess Peter’s death will have thrown them into. I can take care of the rest of this on my own.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Of course I can. I just did.” He unbuckled his seat belt. “The plane’s empty. Shall we go?”
“Not until we get this settled,” she began, but he rose and moved past her, starting down the narrow aisle, and she had no choice but to chase after him, feeling uncomfortably like a terrier snapping at his heels.
The winding tunnel was empty of passengers as she followed him off the plane and into the terminal. The flight attendants had even dispensed with their mechanical smiles, watching them go with undisguised relief. Mack kept marching, ignoring her as she hurried to keep pace with him, and for a moment she contemplated tripping him as she headed toward customs.
“Listen, you jerk,” she yelled at him, “if you don’t slow down and listen to me, you won’t have to worry about Van Zandt—I’ll kill you first. Damn it, Pulaski, will you stop for a moment?” She grabbed his arm, but she might have been a flea for all the difference it made. He just kept going, dragging her along with him with supreme disregard.
“Where do you think we’re going?” she demanded finally, when even using all her strength did little more than slow his pace a trifle.
“You’re going into the city. I’m putting you in a taxi and then I’m finding the next flight out for Switzerland,” Mack deigned to reply. “And I’m not about to argue with you, Maggie. This is nonnegotiable—you’re staying, I’m going.” They reached customs, joining the shortest line, with Maggie desperately wracking her brains for ways to defeat his sudden stubbornness. It wouldn’t take them long to get through customs, considering they had only the battered knapsack and not an ounce of contraband on them. And then Maggie had little doubt he’d do just as he said, bundle her into a taxi and send her off. She would, of course, order the taxi to turn around and drop her back off, but the maze of terminals at JFK wouldn’t help matters. And there were any number of airlines flying to Switzerland—she’d have to try each one before she found the one Mack was taking.
“Mack, listen to reason,” she said. “I have contacts, and I know Van Zandt a hell of a lot better than you do. You don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell if you go alone. For God’s sake, Mack,” she said, suddenly desperate, “I don’t want to lose you.”
That got his attention. He looked at her, their eyes almost level, and the stubbornness faded into the warmth she had become used to, and that sexy mouth of his curved in a smile that would have done Snake proud. “Maggie,” he said in his gravelly voice, and his hand reached up to gently touch her chin. She winced, and he leaned over and kissed her, first on the lips, then on her bruised chin. “You almost convince me, sweetheart. But I can’t risk it, I can’t risk you. And there’s nothing you can say or do to make me.”
“Do you have anything to declare?” the bored customs man demanded, and Mack moved ahead.
It took them only a few moments to pass customs, and then they were moving on down the wide corridors, heading for the gate that kept passengers from the rest of the world. Police and security guards were all around them, paying them not the slightest bit of attention, and Maggie’s hopes rose. At least they weren’t on the lookout for them yet. Maybe Van Zandt’s machinations had failed, maybe no one connected them with Peter’s death.
Suddenly Mack’s footsteps slowed. They were nearing the security gate, and hurrying passengers pushed around them as he came to a dead stop. Maggie almost barrelled into him, and she had opened her mouth to complain when she saw the expression on his face.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“Mancini.” His voice was flat, unemotional, and her gaze followed his.
He looked more like a stockbroker than a criminal, Maggie thought. Mancini was a beautifully groomed, beautifully dressed man in his mid-forties. He looked like any other rising executive, until you looked into his eyes. Even from that distance Maggie could see their cold, empty depths, so very like Willis’s, and she shivered.
There were at least half a dozen men crowded around him. Similarly well-dressed, similarly well-groomed, an army of yuppie gangsters. And they were all staring straight at Mack and his companion.
“What the hell are we going to do?” Mack said, more to himself than to her, and she could hear the ragged edge of desperation in his raw voice. It had been one complication too many, but it gave Maggie just the chance she needed.
“They’re not going to shoot us in broad daylight,” she said. “They certainly won’t want to make a fuss.”
“No. But with that many reinforcements he’ll have no trouble getting us out of here without anyone looking twice,” he said wearily. “And I don’t think customs is going to take us back.”
“No, I doubt it,” Maggie agreed. “So there’s only one thing we can do.”
Mack just looked at her as the crowds threaded their way around them. “And what’s that?”
She grinned. “Take off your clothes.”
“Maggie, in another time or place that would be a terrific idea, but I don’t think it’s going to help matters right now.”
“Sure it is,” she said cheerfully. “Do as I say. I’m about to save your butt.” And she began to unbutton her shabby, sweat-stained shirt and talk very loudly in Danish.
It took Mack only another moment to catch on. And then he began to undo his own shirt, never looking toward their reception committee by the security gate.
“This may or may not get us out of this,” Maggie said in the fluent Danish she used with her father, “but we stand a good chance of being arrested before Mancini can get his hands on us. And if we’re arrested, we may end up being stuck in jail on sus
picion of murder, but at least you won’t be heading to Switzerland on your own, my friend.” She dropped her shirt on the floor, then reached for her bra. Thank heavens for her Scandinavian blood, which didn’t allow for false modesty, she thought, then said it aloud in Danish.
Mack, not understanding a word of this, nodded sagely and said “Jawohl.” His shirt ended on the floor, and he reached for his belt. A moment later he dropped his trousers, to stand there in his glorious turquoise Calvin Klein briefs.
“Jeg ilsker dig,” Maggie said, laughter and tenderness suddenly overwhelming her. “Jeg ilsker dig, Mack.” I love you, damn it all. How did that happen? It must have been when I wasn’t looking, she thought, and continued to babble on.
The briefs were about to follow Mack’s jeans, and Maggie’s own pants were unzipped when the airport police arrived.
“Here, now, you can’t do that,” a very Irish-looking airport cop protested, scooping up the clothes from the floor and trying to drape them around Maggie’s nude torso.
She smiled brightly at him, babbling in Danish. “I happen to love that man over there in the Jockey shorts,” she said, looking innocent. “And if you don’t arrest us, there isn’t going to be much left of him to love.”
“Jawohl,” Mack said solemnly, tugging at the waistband of his briefs as another policeman was trying to pull them up.
The Irish-looking cop, Officer Ryan, his nameplate proclaimed, was sweating at this point. “Come on, lady, don’t you speak English?”
“It’s a slow death to be trampled to death by geese,” Maggie said in Danish, remembering her Scandinavian grandmother’s favorite saying. “Arrest us, for Christ’s sake.” Mancini was still watching, waiting.
Officer Ryan was still sweating. “Come on, lady, gimme a break.”
There was no help for it. Maggie threw off the shirt he’d been trying to drape around her and stepped out of her jeans, taking her underwear with it. Ryan gulped, threw the shirt back around her, and started cursing.
“Okay, lady, you and your friend asked for it. You have the right to remain silent …”