Hoping to annoy her in return, he glanced deliberately at the couch, looked at her, and nodded toward it in unmistakable invitation. She responded with an expression of such cold fury that he was sure she'd have slapped him if he'd been standing within reach.
Having told her secretary to hold all her calls, Madeleine took a seat behind the walnut desk with brass inlays; she gestured for Ransom to sit down opposite her. She felt better with this ponderous piece of furniture between them. That beckoning look he'd given her had made her feel hot with shame, yet something inside her still longed to answer it, as she had once before.
Now that the moment of truth was at hand, they stared uncertainly at each other, not sure how to begin this discussion. The last time they'd seen each other, they'd been involved in the most intimate act possible between a man and a woman. Now that the shock was wearing off, the change in circumstances suddenly seemed incongruous.
She knew the feel and taste and heat of his body. She knew what he enjoyed in bed, how his back arched just as he climaxed, and where all of his scars were. She had seen him asleep and had slept beside him. But she knew nothing else about him. Not even, she realized with a start, his first name.
“Nice place, Maddie,” he said at last, needing to break the silence.
“Don't call me Maddie,” she said.
“Why not?”
She blinked. “Because no one calls me Maddie.”
“Got a better reason?”
“Because I don't like it.”
“Tough.”
“I'm employing you,” she reminded him.
“Your father's employing me,” he corrected.
“I'd rather you call me Miss Barrington.”
He leaned forward and spoke very distinctly. “I don't give a damn what you'd rather. About anything.”
She swallowed. He clearly had no intention of making this easy. “I take it from your comments in the elevator that you ... had no idea who I was. I mean, who Madeleine Barrington was.”
“I'm beginning to think no one has any idea who Madeleine Barrington is. Your father, your fiance, and your employees sure don't seem to know.”
To her horror, she felt her lower lip tremble. She bit it.
Ransom saw Madeleine's cool features crumble slightly. Her lower lip trembled, and he suddenly felt like a heel. Christ, he didn't want to make her cry. Or did he? Did he want some proof that she, too, felt a lead weight sitting on her chest right now? This whole thing had just gotten even more confusing.
“Look,” he said at last, his voice softening, “I just showed up for a routine assignment, okay? I had no idea until I saw that photograph in your father's office.” He smiled weakly, trying to understand how she must have felt when she'd seen him there. “Hell of a coincidence, huh?”
She took a steadying breath. “Perhaps not. I suppose there are a very limited number of people who have business in Montedora these days.”
“Apart from the CIA, the DEA, drug smugglers, the Red Cross, the Catholic Church, and UN Military Observers, hardly anyone has business there anymore,” Ransom said dryly. “Which could explain your father's concern for your safety. I take it you were alone there last time?”
“I can take care of myself.” Her chin rose a notch, just the way it had outside the door of his room that night.
“Oh, really?” Perversely, he said, “Do you know how crazy it was to go alone to a hotel room with a total stranger in Montedora City?”
“I'm beginning to realize,” she said stonily.
“Anything could have happened to you! And who would have been there to help you?”
“I regret my actions more than I can say.”
“You mean you regret going to bed with me?” he shot back. “Or you regret sneaking out like a thief while I was asleep?”
“I didn't steal anything,” she snapped.
“No, you didn't. After all, what could a poor slob like me have that a Barrington woman could possibly want? Besides a hard-on, I mean.”
She gasped and shot to her feet. “That's enough!”
“It sure seemed like enough for you at the time!”
She fell back a step, as if he'd slapped her. “You're fired,” she choked.
“You can't fire me.”
“Yes, I can.”
He shook his head. “My contract is with your father.”
“Then why don't you quit?”
He should, but he knew he wasn't going to. And since he didn't know why, he lied, “I'm just a poor working stiff, Miss Barrington. I need the money.”
“I'll pay you anyhow. I'll pay you double your fee if you'll turn around and leave now.”
Now he was the one who felt like he'd been slapped. She reached into her desk and pulled out a checkbook. He shot to his feet and grabbed her wrist. The force of his grip made her gaze fly up to his face in wary surprise.
“Put that away before I break your arm,” he growled.
Realizing that she'd pushed him too far, Madeleine slowly opened her fingers and let the checkbook drop to the floor. “Let go of me,” she said, summoning all her courage to stare him down. “Let go right now.”
Their eyes held for a moment. He had to hand it to her; she had guts, all right. She could have threatened him with the power of her family, the machinations of her lawyers, or the wrath of her company's security guards. But she simply stood there and dared him to disobey her. A reluctant smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. Sometimes, he almost liked her.
“Sorry,” he said, releasing her arm. “I didn't mean to rough you up.”
“Didn't you?” Her look was accusing.
“No. I'm nice to women. You of all people should know that.”
She lowered her eyes at that. Rubbing her wrist absently, she turned toward the window. All right, so he wasn't interested in her money. Now what? “If I can't fire you and you won't quit...”
“Yes?”
“Then I suggest we establish some ground rules.”
“Sure, Maddie.”
He saw her shoulders stiffen, but she had evidently decided to pick her battles, for she let the name pass without comment.
“There will be no familiar contact between us.”
“Familiar contact? Would you care to elucidate, Miss Barrington?”
She gave him a thoroughly impatient glance. “No touching,” she snapped.
“And especially no more wild, mind-blowing, frantic sex, right?”
“Exactly.” She turned to face him fully. “Do you think you can manage that, Mr. Ransom?”
“Let me elucidate this time.” He hoped she would remember every word he was about to say for the rest of her cheating, lying, superior life. “You fucked me and forgot me. And contrary to the popular misconception, men don't like that any better than women do. On top of that, you thought you were too good to tell me your name, or even say goodbye.”
“You do—”
“I lost my virginity twenty years ago, Maddie, but until I met you, no woman ever tried to make me feel cheap.”
“I nev—”
“And,” he added, raising voice to drown out hers, “it seems you were using me to cheat on your wimpy fiance, too.”
“He's not my fiance!” She looked surprised and added quickly, “And he's not a wimp. How dare you!”
“Me? How dare you! Because if one thing is glaringly obvious, it's that you were planning your escape from the moment you agreed to go to my room with me.”
She flushed with shame. At least, he thought with some satisfaction, she had the decency to be ashamed. “I ... I didn't plan to leave without saying goodbye.”
“Then why did you do it?” he challenged.
“Because...” She started breathing faster. “Because ... Never mind. It doesn't matter now.” She lowered her head and refused to meet his gaze again.
It mattered to him, but he'd jump off the roof of this building before he'd admit it to her. “So let me just clear up one point for you: when I found ou
t who you were today, I promised myself I'd cut off my right arm before I'd ever touch you again. Got it, Miss Barrington?”
“Yes, I think you've made your position quite clear.” He couldn't see her expression, but her voice was cool and distant. He realized with some surprise that he'd been counting on another shouting match. He had fantasized more than once about telling the mysterious blond woman from Montedora exactly what he thought of her. And now that he'd finally done it, he felt deflated and disappointed. It baffled him. But then, nothing in his life had made any sense since the first moment he'd seen her sitting alone in the Bar Tigre, waiting just for him.
“Ah, hell.” He turned and headed for the door, unable to bear her stoic demeanor for another second.
She finally looked up. “Wait! Where are you going?”
“Straight to hell.”
“What?”
“Home. A bar. My office. I don't know.”
“We still have a few more things to discuss.”
He studied her fragile but determinedly composed expression. “More ground rules?”
“Precisely.”
He sighed, pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, and said, “Let's get it over with.” He lit up without asking her permission.
She folded her hands. “When speaking to me, you will not indicate having a more personal knowledge of me than any ordinary employee.”
“Well, now, just how personal is their knowledge, Maddie? That guy by the elevator seemed—”
“That is totally uncalled-for and just the sort of comment I expect you to refrain from making from now on.”
Her voice was so even that it grated on his nerves. He felt pretty ridiculous for trying to annoy her again. They might as well do this as quickly as possible. “What else?” He took a long drag on his cigarette.
“You will not refer to that night in Montedora City again, under any circumstances, or in any way. Not when speaking to me, and particularly not when speaking to other people.”
That figured. Upon realizing who she was, he had guessed she was terrified he would talk. Well, some guys did, but he'd never been one of them. She had no way of knowing that, of course, and he wasn't particularly in the mood to soothe her fears.
“You don't seem to have a real close familiarity with the First Amendment, Maddie.”
“That hardly applies—”
“Oh, I think it does. You see, I think you have every right to tell me never to touch you again, and as I've already explained, I'm quite happy to cooperate. But nobody tells me what to say or not say. Ever. I say whatever I please, whenever I please, and to whoever I want to say it to. I thought you already knew that about me, but maybe you need reminding.”
Her gaze was frosty. “Then let me explain, Mr. Ransom, that I am a woman of considerable reputation and credibility, and you will only succeed in making yourself look ridiculous if you start bandying about stories which, quite frankly, no one will believe.”
“You don't think anyone will believe me?” He blew out a wreath of smoke. “Not even when I mention the birthmark on your butt? The one that's shaped like a sickle moon.”
Her eyes sparkled with that sharp flash of cold fire which had first attracted him to her. After a moment of tense silence she decided to ignore his threat and closed the subject by saying, “If you're through reminiscing, perhaps we should discuss the details of our trip.”
He nodded curtly. “Veracruz—”
“Yes, I know. Please inform him that I accept his gracious invitation. I never want to see the Hotel Tigre again.”
Ransom nodded again, then reached inside his jacket, pulled out an envelope, and lay it on her desk. “This is from our office. It's got our flight schedule in it, a list of recommended drugs and medical supplies for you, some safety guidelines, and an emergency number you can call anytime, in case something happens to me.”
“Something ... happens?” she repeated.
He shrugged. “You know, in case I get shot, killed, captured, that kind of thing. Call this number, and they'll help you get to a safe place and wait for my replacement.”
“What?” She blinked. He sounded awfully casual about it.
“Standard procedure. Unless, of course,” he added dryly, “you wind up shooting me yourself.”
Madeleine cleared her throat but didn't contradict him. “Why are you doing this?” she asked at last. “Just to get even with me?”
He scowled at her. “Protecting people is my job. And no casual roll in the hay with some nameless blond is going to stop me from doing my job.”
It was a brutal answer, but she had asked for it. “I see. Well, then, since neither you nor my father will relent on this, I suggest we at least try to be courteous to one another.”
“Courtesy isn't my strong suit.” Feeling restless and impatient, he rose to his feet. “Are we done now?”
“Yes.”
“I'll come by your apartment for you the day after tomorrow. Eight in the morning. Don't keep me waiting.”
“I'll be ready.” Her tone could have frosted glass.
“Right.”
He remained where he was for a moment, just looking at her, taking in the silk suit, the pearl earrings, the skillfully applied make-up, the smooth waves of her hair, and the closed, arrogant expression on her face. He had a sudden, vivid image of her lying beneath him, naked and sweaty, flushed with pleasure, her hair spread around her in a wild tangle, her arms and legs enfolding him as she gritted her teeth and begged him not to stop. His body tightened and his mind clouded. He wanted to see her like that again. He wanted to see her abandon herself to pleasure and to passion. To him. He wanted it more than he wanted his next breath, which he drew in shakily before turning around and leaving her office without another word.
CHAPTER FIVE
“You look tired,” Preston said with concern as he opened the passenger door of his Mercedes so Madeleine could get out of the car. The autumn wind was brisk, and she pulled the lapels of her elegant coat around her neck as she stepped into the night air.
“Oh, I stayed up late last night. So many things have to be finished before I left.” And half of them were still undone, because she hadn't been able to concentrate. She'd been nothing but a distracted bundle of nerves ever since Ransom had seared her with a hot, blatantly sexual gaze, then spun around and left her office without saying anything.
“You work too hard.” Preston took her elbow and led her down the stone walk toward the front door of Chateau Camille, the Barrington family home on Long Island.
“I like hard work,” Madeleine murmured, wondering impatiently if she would exchange these sort of banalties with Preston for the next fifty years once she married him.
Chateau Camille had once belonged to a mistress of the great nineteenth century French writer, Alexandre Dumas. Madeleine's grandfather had bought the chateau during a tour of Europe some sixty years ago. He'd then had it transported stone by stone to the North Shore of Long Island, where it was rebuilt and fully renovated. The hand hewn stones, the red tile roof, and the romantic turrets created a fairytale effect, particularly in this 10-acre setting of formal gardens and winding paths.
The house was lit up and welcoming tonight, for all three of the Barrington daughters were coming to dinner. Eva, one of the domestic staff, admitted Madeleine and Preston to the grand foyer, whose eighteenth century oak panelling was of museum quality. Eva took their coats and showed them into the green sitting room, the least formal room on the main floor of the house, apart from the kitchen.
Madeleine wasn't surprised that she was the first to arrive. Her rigid habit of punctuality had never worn off on her sisters. She embraced her mother, accepted a drink from her father, and caught up on some family news. The news, of course, all came from her mother; Madeleine's father was a workaholic who paid little attention to anything but his vast business empire.
Most of Eleanore Barrington's family news, however, was about herself. Madeleine was concerned to l
earn that her youngest sister, Caroline, had been arrested (again) during a protest staged against Randall Cosmetics. However, any attempt to elicit information about Caroline's welfare only sparked more comments about Eleanore's own reaction to the incident.
“How could she have done it?” Eleanore cried. “Her own brother-in-law is a Randall!”
“Well, she's never pretended to like or respect Richard,” Madeleine said wryly.
“I can't imagine what the girl was thinking of, Madeleine! You must talk to her. I'm so embarrassed! I mean, everyone on the North Shore knows about it. I'm surprised you haven't heard before now.”
“I don't live on the North Shore and haven't since I was eighteen,” Madeline pointed out. “When did it happen?”
“Last week. And your father and I were supposed to attend a fund-raising dinner at the Metropolitan Museum of Art that night, too. Well, there was just no point in going, not when I wouldn't be able to enjoy myself at all.”
“Caroline wasn't hurt, though?” Madeline prodded.
“No, of course not. I was prostrate for two days, but she was out covering a story the very next morning for that radical, hippy, left-wing, communist, downtown magazine she writes for.”
“I see.” Madeleine caught Preston's eye as he tried to repress an amused smile. Caroline Barrington's radical politics and social activism had long been the bane of her aristocratic family.
“And now she's late for dinner,” Eleanore added fretfully. “She never calls, either, even though she knows I sit here worrying that she's been murdered in that dreadful slum apartment of hers, or arrested again, or kidnapped by one of those political dissident groups she's always interviewing. What am I going to do with that girl?”
Deciding it was time to tactfully change the subject, Madeleine asked about her other sister. “And how's Charlotte? I haven't talked to her in almost three weeks.”
“She did call. The children's volleyball practice—or something—dragged on too long, so they'll be a little late. And Richard had to cancel.”
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