Just as she was running past the switchboard, the phone began to ring. There was a dull buzzing sound, and a little red light kept appearing on the board. It was Bret; she knew that it was Bret. The buzzing seemed to echo painfully in her head, just as the red light seemed to be a reflection of the stabbing pain in her heart. Was she wrong? Was she walking out on what could have been a chance to salvage her marriage, her life with Bret, all the best things in existence?
She wound her fingers together in a tight fist before her, closing her eyes and suddenly gasping for breath. He had only come back for the story. There was nothing to salvage. And she wasn’t going to be robbed of her own work again. If she could just move her feet, she could get into the cab and then into the plane, and with each mile she traveled she would get a steadier grip on her emotions.
If she could just move. If she could just take the first few steps.
The switchboard kept buzzing. Colleen took another breath and then another. And then she turned, stepped out the door and carefully relocked it. Mechanically she returned to the cab, and forty minutes later she was in the air. Five hours to the East Coast, another six hours to Madrid, and then one more short flight to Marrakech. With the time change and layovers she would arrive to see another dawn, a full day in which to find the Moroccan.
Leaving her time to forget Bret. To forget the longing. To forget the horrible aching in her heart.
* * *
Bret swore softly when he caught the sheet in the door as he entered the house. His head was pounding with the most god-awful hangover he’d had in years. It wasn’t the Scotch, most assuredly not the Scotch. It was the wine. The wine with which she’d plied him, tricked him. The wine that he had drunk like an idiot, so enamored of the moment that he would have sold his own soul to hang on to…
His own soul. Not hers. What the hell was she doing?
Bret groaned as his head continued to throb. Where was she going? Didn’t she realize that this thing had gotten out of hand?
He grabbed his clothing and stumbled into his pants, then picked up the phone. He dialed Carly’s number. When his friend and employer answered with a groggy and annoyed voice, Bret realized that it was still short of 6:00 A.M.
“Carly, it’s me. Bret. Sorry, but I’ve got to know. Did you talk to Colleen last night?”
“Yes, yes. I called her.”
“Well?”
“Well, what? I told her you were on your way back, and I suggested she go gently with you. Why? Did you have a row?”
“No,” Bret said dryly. “She was as gentle as a lamb.”
“So what’s your problem?”
“She’s gone. Did you say anything to her? Tell her to do anything? Give her any messages?”
“No…oh, yes, I did. I said you should both keep your noses to the grindstone and that she had carte blanche on expenses. Why?”
“She’s gone.”
“Maybe she just went out shopping.”
“At this hour she couldn’t have.” Bret slammed his palm against the wall in a new burst of panic. If his head hadn’t been pounding so fiercely, he would have panicked earlier. “Carly, she left here with a suitcase. Where could she have gone?”
“Maybe just to a hotel.”
“No, she’s too devious just to be heading to a hotel. Oh, hell, I could wring her neck!” He paused, trying to think. Remembering the night. The fantasy he had been too willing to believe, the sweet ecstasy and the fireworks and the ridiculous pleasure he had felt at turning the tables when he had known she was up to something. “Sandy Tyrell,” he said suddenly.
“What?” Carly demanded.
“Find out where she lives for me, will you, Carly? Sandy Tyrell must know where Colleen is. I’m going to call the office, just in case.”
“I’ll get back in touch with you soon,” Carly promised.
Bret tried the magazine offices, but the phone rang and rang. At last he slammed the receiver down, realizing with a sick feeling that even if she were there, she wouldn’t pick up the phone. Not when she had left with a suitcase.
He moved into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. It would help, he hoped. While the coffee brewed, he wandered into the bedroom and sank to the bed. He could still see the impression of her body in the mattress.
“Colleen, you fool,” he murmured aloud, a pain constricting his stomach. God, what kind of a price had they both paid for their night together?
He ran his fingers through his hair, then clutched his head dismally between his palms. This room…they’d been in it together so many times, good times and bad.
He winced, suddenly remembering one of their arguments. Bret closed his eyes tightly against the memory that came to him so strongly. He could see it clearly, down to the details. They’d been dressing for a political banquet, he in a tux, she in a silver gown with black thread running through it. It had been backless, and the material had clung to her. With her midnight hair she’d been spellbinding. It had begun so simply. There had been a full moon; he could remember the way it had gleamed into the bedroom to dazzle off the small diamond pendant she had asked him to secure about her throat.
“Who are we sitting with?” she’d asked. Such innocent words.
“Senator Baker.”
“Oh, Lord! We’re in for another night of private questions. Senator Baker can’t understand why we haven’t produced a score of children yet.”
He could remember his fingers stiffening, the way he had suddenly felt so cold. “Well, what’s the problem?” His voice had come out reflecting that sudden chill. “We’ll just tell him that Ms. Journalist of the decade is way too busy.”
He could remember her spinning away from his touch, but it had been all right. He hadn’t wanted to touch her at the time.
“Why don’t we just tell him that your career is valuable and mine isn’t?”
“What the hell is the matter with you?”
“With me? I think you’re the one with the problems.”
“Really?”
Retrospect always seemed like such a painful thing, Bret thought. He could picture himself that night so clearly now, in a way he never could have seen back then. Little words, so easily said, so casually spoken. If he could only go back, he would have slowed down. He could have said, “Wait a minute. What are we talking about here?” And the outcome might have been different. Not that that night had been the end. But after seeing the look in her eyes the other day and after his rather sodden outbursts to Carly and Carly’s replies, he could see that he had been at least partly at fault.
He had coolly adjusted his tie and given her an offhand glance. “I haven’t got a problem in the world. Neither have you. Full speed ahead, all guns on deck. Ms. Colleen McAllistair will investigate and report from here to eternity. If I should ever come up with any rampant paternal urgings, I’ll just have to look up the maternal type for the next go round. I’d just as soon not see my children raised by a typewriter, should I get the urge for procreation.”
“Bret, you are one son of a—”
“Save it for later, can you? We’re late.”
“Damn you!”
“All right. Take your own car.”
He moaned aloud. God, he’d been awful. Just because she’d stunned him with her words, thrown a ridiculous scare into him. It had always been a vague idea to him, having a family. But he wanted one. It had never occurred to him that she didn’t someday want the same thing. Why was it that when people were hurt, they struck out so blindly?
By the next day they’d been speaking again. And a week later it had seemed that the whole thing had blown over.
But it probably hadn’t. Not really. Though their marriage had seemed to break up when he had stepped in to cover her story, he felt that time and a solid look at the truth were teaching him otherwise. Their marriage had not broken up because of a single incident. It had been a result of little incidents, incidents that might have been correctable—if only one of them had forced the issue a
nd really spoken.
Bret rubbed his temple miserably. He didn’t really know what to think anymore. For many long months he had told himself that she had never really loved him. If she had, she would never have been able to file the divorce papers. Papers to end it all. Because there had been so many good times, wonderful times, close times, to outweigh the bad.
Maybe, he reflected, it did appear that he had stepped back into her life to take something from it again. And maybe, as Carly had suggested, he hadn’t really given her much to offset any doubts she might have had about his love. Oh, he’d never been unfaithful. In a thousand years he didn’t think he would ever have the desire to be so. No one could offer him what she did. But didn’t everyone need assurance now and again? Especially someone like Colleen. Someone who didn’t talk too much, but had learned the devastation of loving and then finding herself totally alone. She’d been so close to her parents and so young when they had been killed together in an accident. And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as strong or independent or capable as she had always appeared to be….
No, he reminded himself dryly. She was capable. Very capable, and too damned devious. And none of it mattered now. None of it could be allowed to matter. Even if she never spoke to him again in all the years to come, he had to find her. He had to be a part of this thing—and he had to make sure she survived it.
“Damn it!” he swore aloud, angry again. What the hell was she doing?
He forced himself to go back to the kitchen. Coffee would help his hangover if nothing else. He entered the room just as the phone began to ring again. He clutched the receiver quickly, his heart thudding. Maybe she had just gone out. Maybe she was calling to tell him where she was….
“Colleen?”
“Sorry, it’s Carly. I’ve got Sandy Tyrell’s address for you. I’d go straight over if I were you, while it’s still early. Want me to come? I can pick you up in, say, ten minutes in the Ferrari and bring your clothes at the same time. I take it you’ll be staying at the house.”
“Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Carly.”
Ten minutes. Enough time to duck his head under a ton of cold water and consume a lot of coffee. Perfect.
Carly was outside in exactly ten minutes. He slid out of the driver’s seat and let Bret take the wheel. In another fifteen minutes they were in front of Sandy Tyrell’s attractive town house.
“This really is early for a call,” Carly muttered as they left the Ferrari.
Bret shrugged. “Unless Colleen was lying, Miss Tyrell shouldn’t be too shocked to see me. According to Colleen, Sandy said that it was okay for me to be involved. But then,” he added with a grimace, “Colleen also said she was going to get the three of us together today.”
Carly rang the doorbell. They waited patiently for several moments, and then Bret became defiantly impatient. He pounded on the door.
“Hey!” Carly warned. “She’s going to think she has a mad attacker out here.”
“She will have one in a few minutes,” Bret muttered. But just then they heard a soft, frightened female voice. “Who’s there?”
“Miss Tyrell? It’s Bret McAllistair. Colleen’s husband.” Nothing. “Listen, I know it’s really early, but I need to talk to you. I’m worried about Colleen.”
They heard the rattle of a lock; then the door eased open. Sandy Tyrell stepped back. She stared at Bret with huge, wary eyes, clutching some kind of chiffon wrapper to her. He was almost tempted to whistle. She was a stunning woman, tousled from sleep, but somehow totally elegant nevertheless.
“Oh! Who…who’s that?” she asked, indicating Carly.
“Carly—Carlton Fuller—our publisher, Miss Tyrell. He’s quite safe, I promise you.”
“Come in.” Her fingers fluttered to her throat and then down. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure,” Carly said with a reassuring smile. Bret shot him a quick glance, and Carly inclined his head with a slight warning. If they were going to get anything out of Sandy Tyrell, they couldn’t press her into a more nervous state.
“Yeah, coffee sounds great,” Bret murmured.
But he hated to wait. He apologized again for the early hour as she moved from the hallway to the kitchen, and he gazed casually about her place. It was all done in chrome and glass and white: immaculate white carpet, white plush sofa and deck chairs, and white walls offset with magnificent oils to provide color.
He leaned over the counter that connected the living room and kitchen and, with a friendly grin, complimented her on the town house. She responded with a quick warm smile, and he took a breath before he started to question her.
“Sandy, Colleen disappeared early this morning. I’m—”
“Earlier than this?” she interrupted.
“Very early. Listen. I can’t tell you how worried I am. Colleen is a bright lady, but I think she’s in over her head. I know about the puzzle pieces, but is there anything you know that I don’t? Any lead, any clue? Any idea of where she might have gone?”
Sandy Tyrell lowered her head, and her hair fell in delicate feminine profusion about her fine features. Bret thought she paled slightly.
“Do you take sugar, Mr. McAllistair?”
“No, thanks. Sandy…”
Her hands were trembling as she poured the coffee. Carly stepped around and gently took the pot away from her. “Miss Tyrell, please. You’ve got to help us. Colleen could be in desperate danger.”
She remained silent.
“Please!” Bret grated out hoarsely.
She looked up at him. “I think she’s headed for Morocco.”
“Morocco!” Bret and Carly chimed in stunned unison.
Sandy nodded unhappily. “I, uh, I didn’t think she’d do anything right away.” Her face was almost as white as her carpet; her eyes were enormous and filling with tears. “I’m so frightened.”
“Miss Tyrell!” Carly said softly, but with a stern force. “The only way you’ll ever live without fear is to get to the bottom of things. Bret and Colleen can make that happen, but right now Bret needs all the help you can give him!”
“Marrakech,” Sandy murmured. “I think she’s gone to Marrakech. To the hotel B;afete Noire. To find a man named Eli Alibani. He’s the man Rutger had been in touch with to find Generals MacHowell and Holfer.”
“Oh, God!” Bret groaned. She would probably be there hours and hours ahead of him. In Marrakech. A foreign place where she didn’t have friends or even acquaintances on the police force.
“May I use your phone, Miss Tyrell?” Carly asked.
Sandy nodded. Bret realized that even Carly was ahead of him, already calling the airlines, identifying himself and checking to see if Colleen had made reservations. Bret watched as Carly nodded slowly, hung up the phone and dialed again, calling the magazine’s travel agent for urgent bookings to Marrakech.
Sandy cleared her throat while Carly was talking. “Uh, make that reservations for two, please. I’d like to accompany Mr. McAllistair.”
Carly covered the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand.
“Sandy,” Bret said, stunned, “that isn’t necessary.”
“If you have problems, finding this man Eli or getting him to find you, I might be decent bait.” Her lower lip was trembling.
“You don’t have to do this,” Bret began.
“No,” she admitted nervously, her words very soft. “But I might have sent Colleen into something awful. If anything happens to her, I wouldn’t be able to live with it…and besides, Carly is right. If I don’t go out and get to the bottom of things, I’ll never be able to live without fear again.”
Carly looked at Bret, who nodded slowly.
“Oh, hell! I’m going on this one, too,” Carly said a little gruffly. He pulled his hand away from the receiver and made reservations for three. He hung up and looked at the other two. “We’ve only got an hour and a half to get to the airport,” he warned them.
“I only need a few minutes,” Sandy said, calmer than she had been
since they’d arrived. “Honest. Five minutes to pack, and five to make a phone call to cancel things. You know. I swear, just a few minutes.”
“You can have at least fifteen,” Carly teased gently. She offered him a faint smile and disappeared into her room.
“Marrakech!” Bret exploded. “Carly, when I get my hands on her, I’m going to—” Frustration and fury and his present inability to reach her made him break off with a growl.
“Tie her to a stake?” Carly queried lightly, reaching for his coffee cup and taking a long sip. “Actually, I suppose I’d rather like to see her lovely hide at the moment myself.”
Bret groaned. “Carly…”
“Bret,” Carly said with a long sigh, “you might as well get a grip on your emotions. We’ve got a long flight ahead of us. And there’s not a damned thing in the world you can do until we get there.”
Carly was right. It was going to be a long, long time till they just got there. They were going halfway around the world.
And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do for all that time. Not a damned thing except torture himself with worry and pray that she would be safe.
CHAPTER 7
Marrakech at last!
It was beautiful; it was exciting. It was a blend of color, of voices, of accents and languages. It was European businessmen walking the streets in three-piece suits; it was women heavily veiled and cloaked, hiding all but their eyes according to ancient Islamic custom. There were old clay buildings, and narrow, barely passable streets; there were scattered skyscrapers, and above all, there were the mosques. So many of them! It was known as the “city of mosques,” and Colleen could easily see why. Their enchantment and grandeur were all about her, their minarets touching the sky with constant fantasy and magic.
She was here at long last. And the excitement of the city was like a potent tonic after the endless hours in flight. Hours in which she had barely slept, thinking about the past, thinking about Bret. And even when she had managed to sleep, she had dreamed about him. Sweet dreams, dreams that recalled little snatches of their life together. Their wedding night. Staring at the mirror above their bed in the Poconos, looking at one another and bursting into laughter as soon as the bellboy had gone. They could be so alike, their thoughts traveling like a warm rush of waves, their laughter fading as they touched, and their kisses fusing with wonder and hunger….
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