by Anne Stuart
She considered fighting, she considered turning and taking the next flight to Chicago, but in the end the numbness and exhaustion won out. “Understood,” she muttered, dropping her eyes again. “May I leave now?”
“Snotty as ever,” he said, but there was an oddly gentle note in his voice. “Yes, you can leave now. I’m presuming you don’t wish to share a cab with me?”
“You’re presuming right,” she snapped. “What time tomorrow?”
“I’ll call you.”
“I won’t be answering the phone.”
“It wasn’t that bad, Maggie,” he said softly.
“Go to hell, Randall.” She yanked her arm away from him.
“Are you going to be answering your door?”
“Not if I know it’s you.”
“Locked doors won’t keep me out, Maggie. Nothing will.”
She took a deep, steadying breath. “Not even the knowledge that you’re not wanted?”
“It might. But that’s not an issue right now, is it? Your problem isn’t not wanting me. It’s wanting me too much.”
It was enough to make her head shoot up again. For the first time since they made love, she looked into his eyes, and what she saw there shook her. His eyes were dark, almost pleading, in his weary, unshaven face. Randall Carter, the immaculate, impeccable, invincible, invulnerable Randall Carter looked hot, dirty, sweaty, and tired. And he looked as if he needed, wanted, nothing more than her arms around him.
A trick of the light, a trick of her own exhaustion. But one thing was no trick at all. In his scruffiness, with his shirt hanging loosely around his narrow hips and his grubby face, he looked so damned sexy that her wall of numbness began to crumble. And that was the last thing she could bear.
“I don’t want you, Randall,” she said, the lie clear and cold in her voice. “I’ll travel back to Chicago with you, and I’ll see this through to the end for my sister’s sake. But I don’t want you to ever touch me again. Do you understand?”
The emotion had vanished from his eyes so swiftly, she knew she’d imagined it. “I understand better than you think. Go home, Maggie, and sleep.”
As swiftly as the hot anger rushed through her, it vanished. She couldn’t even summon up the energy to form a snide retort. All she could do was turn her back on him and head out to the waiting taxis.
He watched her go, his face now showing his anger and threatening despair. She was so damned strong, walking away from him, her shoulders back, her tangled blond hair swaying slightly in the evening breeze. She was strong enough to turn so far inward that he’d never be able to break through. He’d seen it on her face this morning, and he cursed himself for an idiot not to have foreseen her reaction. She was pulling away from him, but there was no way in hell he was going to let her do it.
But right this minute, he had to let her be. He would find a shower and decent clothes, and then he had to track Bud Willis to whatever slimy hole he was lurking in. The first step in cleaning up this mess was stopping Admiral Wentworth and sealing the leak before the media discovered it. The American public wouldn’t take kindly to an admiral living off his fat military pensions and selling out his country. But what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
* * *
Maggie’s apartment had the dry, musty smell of a closed-up place. She wandered through it, stripping her clothes off and leaving them where they lay, turned on the air conditioner full blast, and headed for the shower.
She stood under the pounding streams of hot water for half an hour, letting them beat against her skin as she scrubbed every last trace of Gemansk—and Randall—off it. She thought of Francis Ackroyd lying in her sister’s tub and shuddered, then turned up the hot water until it stung her skin in scalding drizzle. And still she scrubbed her body, rubbing it raw, until finally she felt clean and turned the shower off.
The apartment was icy, thanks to her efficient air conditioner, and the blasts of cold air prickled her wet skin. She ignored it. She ignored the telephone, knowing she should call Kate and warn her about Alicia, knowing she should call Sybil and make sure everything was all right, and knowing she would do neither.
She ignored the front door and the second and third locks that she hadn’t bothered to fasten. If someone wanted to break in and rape and murder her, she wouldn’t stop them. They could be her guest.
She ignored the clothing on the floor, the overworked air conditioner, the lights throughout the apartment. She went blindly into her bedroom, found another one of Mack’s old chambray shirts and sank into bed with it. In moments she was asleep.
The sound in her living room awoke her. She glanced up at her digital clock and groaned. It was only five o’clock in the morning, and someone had clearly taken advantage of her unspoken offer to come and murder her. She raised her head off the pillow, then dropped it back again. She only hoped he’d be quick about it.
Her bedroom door opened, letting in a blaze of light. “Rise and shine, Maggie.” Randall’s hateful voice penetrated her mists of sleep.
She gathered enough energy to raise her head and glare in his direction. “Go away, Randall,” she muttered. “We aren’t going to Chicago until tomorrow.”
“It is tomorrow, Maggie. Five o’clock in the afternoon, for that matter. Get up, or I’ll come over there and get you up.”
There was no doubting the threat in his voice. With an immediate surge of energy Maggie rolled off the bed, only then remembering she was wearing absolutely nothing.
At least Randall was unmoved by her nudity. She was still clutching Mack’s shirt in her fist, and with remarkable aplomb, she pulled it on, buttoning it with calm fingers. “When’s our flight?”
“Later,” he said, his voice flat. “I’ll make coffee.” And he closed the door silently behind him.
She stalled as long as she could while getting dressed. She was chilled from the night in an icy apartment, and only with effort did she remember that it was probably steaming hot outside. When she finally emerged from her room, she was wearing faded jeans and Mack’s shirt still around her. She could hear music, faint and jarring, and she followed the sound.
Randall was standing in front of the television, absorbed in a videotape. He was dressed like Randall again, though his linen suit wasn’t buttoned and he’d dispensed with his knotted silk tie. Another time, another place, and she might have teased him about it. But with the numbness still on her, she took the cup of coffee he handed her and stared blankly at the television.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what tape I’m watching?” he asked her.
“I don’t give a damn.” She turned away from him. Hordes of brightly dressed gypsies wandering around a field didn’t interest her; the random, dissonant chords of music didn’t hold any fascination, even as they coalesced into the opening strains of something eerily familiar.
And then there it was: a voice, deep, rich, beautiful, and throbbing with life and warmth, singing a stupid song about being free. Slowly Maggie turned, her face frozen, to stare at the television set.
There was Mack, in his guise as Snake, lead singer of the Guess What, his blond hair hanging to his shoulders, his hazel eyes just the tiniest bit doped up, his mouth wide and sexy as he whirled and strutted, danced and pranced over the stage at Woodstock.
Randall was watching her. “Do you play this every night before you go to bed, Maggie?” he taunted gently. “Do you sit there in Pulaski’s shirt and masturbate, pretending he’s still alive? He isn’t. He died two years ago on a sidewalk in Maine. He’s gone, and you’re left behind, throwing your life away on a memory—on a dead man.”
She stood very still, watching the screen. The small, numb part of her that had atrophied since Mack had died came back to an aching, horrible life. She moved toward the television, mesmerized. Randall’s voice was only an irritating buzz in the background as she stared at Pulaski’s flying form.
Then Randall’s hands caught her shoulders and twisted her around to face him, and ther
e was no hiding from the rage and sorrow in his face. “He’s dead, Maggie,” he said again, his rich voice bleak, “and you’re alive.” His strong hands took hold of Mack’s chambray shirt and ripped it down the middle.
Something finally snapped. She hurled the coffee at him, screaming at him, rage and despair sweeping over her, washing away the self-control she’d always clung to. A red haze formed in front of her eyes, and she could hear the screaming voice in the back of her brain, knew it was her own but was powerless to stop it. …
Her voice was raw, her body ached, her hands felt swollen, and there were tight, crushing bands around her body. She opened her eyes, panting, and found that the tight bands were Randall’s arms, holding her. The screaming had stopped at last, and a deep, shuddering sigh left her.
In a matter of a few, mad minutes, she had trashed her apartment. The television was a blank screen of fuzz, the VCR smashed on the carpet. Furniture had been upended, books thrown all over the place, the mirrors and pictures smashed. She looked up at Randall, and there was a welt over his eye where she’d managed to connect. She looked up at him and began to cry.
eighteen
When she stopped crying, the living room was shadowed in twilight. When she stopped crying, she was lying on the littered floor in Randall’s arms, and his suit was rumpled and tearstained beneath her. When she stopped crying, his hard hands gently pushed the torn shirt off her shoulders, and he began to make love to her.
She was too exhausted, too drained to resist or protest. Besides, it made some crazy sort of sense to lie there in the mess and celebrate the life she’d tried to wish away. They made love in complete silence; his hands stripped the rest of her clothes away, and his mouth covered every inch of her body, soothing the aching flesh, claiming ownership with his lips. When his hands cradled her narrow hips and his mouth found her, she tried for a useless moment to squirm away. But his hands were firm, and all the fight was gone from her. She lay floating, removed, and then suddenly, shockingly, she was there—her body convulsed and her raw, torn voice called his name, pleading, demanding.
And he came to her, filling her with his passion, filling the emptiness inside her body, heart, and soul. He moved tenderly with her, giving her time to grow used to him, gently pushing away any lingering restraints until she was clinging to him, burying her face against his muscled shoulder as he drove deep into her.
This time, when reality returned, it wasn’t such a shock. The wool carpet was itchy beneath her bare back, his weight was holding her trapped without crushing her, and the buzz of the broken television warred with the hum of the air conditioner. The artificial chill was rapidly drying the sheen of sweat that had covered her body, and she turned her head slightly to look into Randall’s dark eyes.
Whatever she hoped to see, it wasn’t there. Slowly he withdrew, pulling away from her, his face closed and shuttered. And her face matched his as she watched him.
“What time is the plane?” Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact.
“There are flights leaving almost every hour.”
Maggie nodded, picked up her scattered clothes, and rose gracefully to her feet. “It won’t take me long to get ready.”
He didn’t move. “I’ll pick things up in here.”
“No!” It came out a strangled protest, and it took all her last bit of energy to continue in a smoother voice. “Leave it the way it is. I want to see it like this when I come back from Chicago.”
He looked at her oddly then. Something broke through his reserve, and he started to speak. She waited, but he shut his mouth again and turned away. “Suit yourself.”
They were heading out of the lobby when a figure materialized beside them, coming out of the shadows with stealth that was second nature to him. “Hi there, sweetcakes,” Bud Willis said, his hand connecting with her bottom.
Mack would have broken his arm, Maggie thought. But Mack was dead, gone from her at last, and Randall just watched as Willis made his sleazy moves.
Bud Willis hadn’t changed in all the time she’d known him. Whether he was fighting with rebels in a Central American jungle or sitting behind a desk in Washington, he still had that feral expression in his colorless eyes. His once-short hair was now carefully styled, his suit was almost as good as Randall’s—and at this point, it was in better shape—and his killer’s hands were perfectly manicured. Maggie twisted out of his reach.
“It only needed you to make this day complete,” she snarled. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Ask your friend,” Willis offered, and Maggie turned her outraged eyes to Randall.
“He’s giving us a ride to the airport,” he said calmly.
“I’d rather walk.”
“Honeybuns, you wound me,” Willis protested. “After all I’ve done for you?”
“What have you done for me?”
“Why, I sent you Randall, of course. What more could any grieving widow ask? She as good a piece of tail as she used to be, Carter?” he inquired affably. “She’s out of practice, but I’m sure a few hours in the saddle will get her back in shape.”
It took every ounce of her self-control to keep from fighting back. She stared at Willis in mute fury, biding her time.
“Willis, you’re being tiresome,” Randall said quietly. “Did you take care of everything?”
“Admiral Wentworth is being watched. The limousine is waiting.” He made an extravagant gesture toward the door. “And I’ve got another name for you: Caleb McAllister.”
Maggie heard the name with real dread. “What about him?”
“He’s got to be involved in this shit up to his neck,” Willis said. “His tracks are all over the place—the asshole doesn’t have enough sense to cover up anything. We’ll get him anytime we want him. Alicia Stoneham’ll be a harder nut to crack.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Listen, she may be one tough broad but—”
“No, I mean I don’t believe it about Caleb.”
“Believe it. It’s him or your sister, sweetcakes. Take your pick.”
“Someone was trying to frame Kate. Maybe someone’s trying to frame Caleb, too,” Maggie insisted stubbornly.
“Maybe. You making it with him, too? I woulda thought Randall would be enough for you.” He reached out and pinched her arm, pinched the bruises Randall’s hard hands had left. “You like it rough, don’t you? If I’d known, I woulda made more of an effort. I like a woman who appreciates pain.”
With a seemingly casual gesture, Randall draped a friendly arm around Willis’s narrow shoulders. He smiled a peculiarly sweet smile as Willis’s ferret-face whitened in sudden pain. “Don’t mess with my woman, Willis.”
Willis still managed his skeletal smile as the veins on his forehead stood out. “Your woman, Carter? You’re sounding human like the rest of us. Who would have thought we’d hear the great Randall Carter refer to a piece of ass as ‘my woman.’ ” He grunted. “Shit, man, cut that out!”
“I thought you were a man who appreciated pain,” Randall said gently.
“Not my own, man,” Willis protested. “Tell him to let me go, Maggie.”
Maggie only smiled.
A moment later, Willis was released. “Dammit, man, you don’t need to get so touchy,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “I was just kidding.” The colorless eyes that watched Randall above the smiling mouth were those of a cobra waiting to strike.
“When are you going to move on the admiral?”
“When you give me the word, man,” Willis said. “Not a damned second sooner, I promise. You going to wrap this up tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“You going to help him, sugarbuns? Or are you just going to be waiting with your legs spread?”
Randall reached for him again, but Maggie got in the way. “What do you think, Bud?” she said sweetly.
“Jesus, I don’t know,” he said. “You lie there and pretend he’s that dead Polack?”
Maggie moved closer,
pressing her soft breasts up against him as she repressed a shudder of distaste. “No, Willis. I pretend he’s you.” And then she brought her heel down on his instep.
He moved, but not in time. “Ouch, Maggie, there’s no need to be so sensitive! You’re acting more like a couple of frustrated spinsters than two people who’ve been fucking their brains out. We’re in this thing together—you don’t need to beat up on me.”
“Poor Bud,” Maggie said sweetly. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you and Randall take the limo to the airport, and I’ll get a taxi?”
“Have you got any more information for us, Willis?” Randall inquired with apparent courtesy.
“Nope. Just that we’re ready to grab the admiral when you get things sewed up in Chicago. Unless you want to bow out—”
“I’ll take care of things. I like to finish what I start.”
“Don’t let the merry widow keep you from nailing her sister if she’s involved. I want Stoneham and McAllister on ice by the day after tomorrow. If you get tired of Mrs. Pulaski here, you can send her back to me for a little discipline. Might as well spread some of the hot Danish around.” He reached out to pinch her again.
Maggie had had enough. She lunged for him, but Randall was faster. He caught her around the waist and held her while she struggled, muttering dire threats and insults.
“If I were you, I’d get the hell out of here, Willis,” Randall said with a cheerful drawl, his strong hands pressed against her middle as she fought him. “If I let her go, there won’t be enough left of you to bury at Arlington.”
“Hey, man, I’m going,” he said, backing away nervously. “Tell your mother I’m looking forward to seeing her again.” And he disappeared back into the night.
“Hell and damnation!” Maggie said. “Put me down!”
Randall obeyed immediately, dropping her onto the marble floor of the deserted foyer. She staggered slightly and stumbled into him, then she quickly righted herself. “Wouldn’t you know my damned mother would have gotten involved with a scumbag like him?” she demanded.